Our Arabian Night

Sound track of the day:
Sharif don’t like it
Rockin’ the kasbah

Current Temperature: A desperate relief from the French gris

Culture clash: When people are hospitable here, you really have to consider that this is just how they are। No ulterior motives. Not always.



Our arrival into Marrakech was nothing short of magical. We caught a cab from the airport to the medina at a cost of 20 euros, which in hindsight seems like a rip-off but at the time was reasonable. It wasn’t until we arrived at our destination that we realized the price we paid for a 10 minute ride. However, budgets aside, I have no regrets.

Our driver was a gentl- seeming man, Arab, communicated with us only in French, but did his best to understand and be understood. He let us use his phone to call our host at the Dar Soukaina Riad. After I had reached our host he signaled for me to give him the phone. He would handle this.

Shortly after, ten minutes to be exact, we pulled up to Riad Larrouss square where our host was to meet us and walk us to the guest house. Our driver let us out and opened the trunk to retrieve our bags. The square was dark, indicative of businesses shut for the night and an early retiring old city. The corner where we had parked was dark, and shadows existed only by the grace of the yellow glow from a single street lamp.

It was quiet except for the sound of cars in the distance. This was the end point for vehicular transport. No cars allowed in the medina. A gang of small and gnarled cats crossed us staring with curiosity and then moved on. In the distance from beyond the street lamp a dark figure appeared wearing a black cloak, the only discernable feature the ember from a lit cigarette. The figure entered the circle of light cast by the street lamp. I was initially alarmed, but felt safe in the presence of our driver and was compelled to stare as he approached us. He greeted our driver, shook hands and then turned to me.

Bonjour. Welcome to Marrakech.

Our host was a handsome young man in a crisp gray linen suit with a mandarin style collar and sporting brown leather sandals. He was a beautiful sight to behold. His name was Ibrahim and would be taking us to our home for the next four days.

Through narrow alleys inhabited by a large population of stray kittens and late night loiterers we strolled. Colorful awnings and windowless walls lined the streets. Each home was assigned a single decorative doorway. Some had no doors at all. We gaped in amazement at our surroundings. Finally! Something truly foreign, meeting all my fantasies of this other world. A couple of suspicious characters were writing in chalk along the perimeter of a door, in Arabic, something I couldn’t begin to decipher. Was this Moroccan graffiti?

We were escorted through a low doorway made of carved wood, and lowered ourselves into the hearth of the house. The entire interior of the house was painted white with lavender adornments, shutters, curtains, and vases.

Our room is on the second floor of the riad and fit with its own balcony overlooking the centralized courtyard. The ledge of the balcony is of the same stone material as the rest of the house, with arched lookouts and thinly-veiled with lavender curtains. There is a table and three cushioned chairs. This is where I’m writing now. Clay pots sit on the ledge.

Our room has a double bed where Jen and I will be sleeping, and a twin bed for Jonathan. There are small, thoughtful pieces of art decorating the room like metal lamps, vases and picture frames. Everything is made of stone: the walls, floor, sink and shower.

I couldn’t ask for a better introduction.

On tonight’s menu:
14 (we counted) Moroccan salads: pumpkin, spinach, peppers, sweet onion, cucumber, eggplant, sweet tomato, carrot puree, and so much more
Lamb tajine
Crème Brulee

Moroccan red wine

Pomme Frites are not enough

Sound track of the day:
A golden bird that flies away
A candle’s fickle flame
To think I held you yesterday
Your love was just a game

Current Temperature: Sad, rainy, cold, empty

Culture clash: The people in Brussels are very nice, and much more forgiving and patient about my French।

Brussels.

There are two circumstances under which a non-EU Commission employee should visit Brussels.

1. If you have never visited a European city before and have no expectations and standards by which to judge
2. If you have visited every European city and have nowhere else to go, a free ticket, and love Morrissey

We had our agenda: fries and beer. Other than that we had very little ambitions for Brussels and felt like we should just keep an open mind and wing it. There had been very little literature about traveling to the capital of the EU.

Upon arrival at nearly noon yesterday, after riding a very cool and very smooth high speed train from Paris, Moonkey and I embarked on our first journey together. We looked for an information booth. There were a couple, which is more than you’d find in any terminal in Paris. However, being that it was noon, they were all closed. Working in shifts is a concept either foreign or rejected by the Europeans. Lunch is lunch and no one is going to fuck with it. Especially not some simple tourists on the hunt for fries.

So we went to Relay and I bought a street map, which turned out to be very helpful in the end. Jen had the name of a recommended place for fries so she browsed through some guide books for the address. Based on a metro stop and a street name we headed for Schuman Place. When we emerged from the train station, from which we rode the ghetto-ist and roughest trains I’ve experienced so far in Europe, into a giant (yes, another one) roundabout adorned with brightly colored tulips and many cars speeding through it during lunch hour.

Because I desperately had to pee and was also feeling nauseous and because we were unable to find the Place Jourdain Plein, we headed in an arbitrarily chosen direction toward a large park in hopes of finding a decent restaurant and a bathroom. We ended up at a café called Brasserie Merode near the tip of Parque Cinquantenaire. There we witnessed the consumption of a lot of boeuf tartare. Dude, call me a philistine but I just don’t get it. Yeah yeah, I have no problem with tuna tartare, or ceviche, or any kind of raw fish for that matter, but something about raw cow meat doesn’t suite me and watching is a study in human behavior. Take high quality (I hope) ground beef and mix it with mustard, olive oil, vinegar, and some other herbs and put it in a large mound. Then garnish it with salad and accompany with a side of fries. There you have it. A culinary delight. For me it’s a little bit like “gross me out the door.” To each his own, but I had a hard time not staring at each woofing down his own. Gag.

We headed back through to park in the direction from which we came and continued to observe that there were hardly any people on the street. It was ominously quiet. Add that to the gray skies, threatening rain, cold air seeping into your bones and an overwhelming sense of sadness and you’ve found yourself in a scene from the invasion of the body snatchers. The park was gorgeous but there was hardly any one there to enjoy it. Maybe the Belgians have more sense than the French and don’t like to hang out in the dank grayness. Maybe more Belgians work than French and therefore don’t have time to loiter around parks in the day. Or maybe there aren’t that many people living in Brussels and the city has begun its decline.

We finally found Place jourdain Plein which was just a couple of blocks from Parque Napoleon. After walking around the square and finding nothing resembling the pomme frites establishment we were seeking, we asked a nice woman sitting outside a bar who pointed across the street. Before our eyes was a food stand that, by the looks of it, could only serve fried foods. Maison Antoine.

Jen ordered frites with Bicky Ketchup sauce in tribute partially to Vicki and partially to her mother who has used this name for Vicki for years. I got the fries with tartare maison. Both were delicious and even better when mixed together. The fries were perfectly crispy, fried twice as required, and served in a paper cone. Then downed with a glass of Leffe beer. They were lovely, but very filling. And we needed to walk it off.

We headed alongside Parque Napolean toward a main center and found where all the people were. The Grand Place is a square scattered by cafés alongside grand buildings which looked like they were once of regal employ. I was elated. Finally, now here is the reason to visit Brussels. After about 20 minutes of staring in awe, attempting to capture that awe in photos, window shopping and people watching, that reason had met its end and I was again bored. According to our map, if we walked down a wide alley extending from the center of the square we would reach Manneken Pis, a sculpture of a naked boy taking a piss as part of a fountain. This fountain is found in an unassuming corner just beyond Violet Straat and is always surrounded by people.

I believe this is one of the biggest tourism public relations scams ever done.

The fountain is literally of a boy, very cherubic in design, peeing out of his little wee-wee into a small bowl, propped up on the corner of a building. No joke. This is what the fuss is about? You see this kind of thing in any city abundant in fountains. A boy peeing into a fountain? You could even see the water tube that ran into his back. How fucking original is this? Not.

I felt robbed.

This is when I knew I was done with Brussels. It was over.

We did some quick chocolate shopping at Pierre Marcolini and then sat at a café across the street to kill time until our train out. Three more hours.

We ordered a beer. I had a Hoegaarden. Didn’t feel like doing anything new at this point. I was saddened. Jen ordered a raspberry beer. We sat and talked and marveled at the city’s insignificance, the country’s inability to choose one language by which to conduct its official business, the death and catastrophe cause by this lack of conviction, and the weirdness of our experience.

The train ride back was quick although littered with loud conversations by a Portuguese group of friends, a woman on a phone who had a hard time sitting on the train without talking on the phone, and the woman behind me whose salad eating was so loud it was like sticking your ear up to a horse while feeding him a carrot. No joke. SO I turned on my iPod and tuned out.

I won’t be going to Brussels again. Not even for the fries.

The waiting game

Sound track of the day:
All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go
I'm standin' here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye

Current Temperature: Just perfectly in my range, high seventies

Culture clash: I still attest, as an outsider, that the Portuguese and Spanish languages are very similar languages with similar structures only varying in some pronunciations and minor vocabulary discrepancies.





The light in Portugal is golden and generous. The sky is pure sky blue providing a gentle but solid backdrop for actual white fluffy clouds overlooking a field of homes decorated in bright paints, vivid tiles and colorful clothes hanging on lines outside windows. Even when you don’t have a view of the sea you know it’s there.

But before I got to see any of this I had to wait.

In the morning, we had to get up earlier than I am accustomed to, even as the 9-5er I was just a couple of months ago. Our bags were packed and we simply had to get to the airport aware that our flight could be delayed or, worse, cancelled.

When we arrived in Orly, we entered a small and primitive-seeming airport terminal with low ceilings, lots of gray, and scattered airline counters with little information posted as to which airlines they serve. The first thing we spotted upon entering the regional airport was a long line. From our vantage point the line looked like it extended a good 150 people, or 300 feet, or 100 meters. Fortunately for us, another thing we saw upon entering the airport was the information counter. Now that’s where you put an information counter.

We were relieved to discover, after speaking to the kind bestower of information, that the long line was not ours. However, she told us we did belong to another line – the shorter one to the left overshadowed by those on the right going to Barcelona. Thankful for that little break, we patiently stood in the shorter line populated by several agitated people. After a few minutes we noticed that some people in front of us were leaving the line. At first I assumed they had simply lost their patience, had gone to complain and, as a result, had provided us with a better place in the queue. More for me, I say. But as more and more people left the line we realized something was up. While I held the fort, Melanie set off to find out the scoop, putting her Portuguese speaking skills to serious good use.

It turned out that our line was for people booked on previously cancelled flights, who were stranded due to continued ash expulsion from Iceland and looking for another way out of Paris, and any way back to Portugal. No wonder they seemed so impatient. And who could blame them? Being stranded in Paris with no place to stay, no compensation for lodging, with Portugal as my final destination? Not a chance.

We, however, did not belong in this line. We were members of an exclusive group of people who were scheduled to board planes that day. So we politely moved aside to a bank of empty ticket counters allowing those poor stranded souls some sense of priority in this ongoing saga of delayed flights, bus transports and unpaid hotel rooms. With three hours until our next flight we didn’t feel rushed.

In the meantime, Melanie had managed to engage in conversation with a group of travelers, all Portuguese, who were either on our flight or had been stranded. One woman had been stranded since the day after the eruption, bussed from some city out east to Paris to catch her connecting flight, all on her own dime, and had been in the outskirts of Paris for 5 days waiting for a flight out. I sympathized with her but thought, “couldn’t you have rented a car for less than the cost of the hotels and time waiting?”

The first group, a flock of Brazil and Angola seekers from previous flights, was finally escorted to a bus that was waiting for them outside. Then a group of Lisbonites, including the poor woman mentioned above, were given their pass to leave. Those people would be flying to Porto and given a bus transport from there. Finally they began calling the flights for that day.

The flight to Lisbon scheduled to leave an hour before us was called first. A couple of American girls scheduled to board that plane were originally told they could not board because Lisbon was not their final destination (in other words, they were not Portuguese). Fuck that. Internally, I willed them not to back down. They deserved to get on that flight just as much as anyone. And they did.

That flight took a while to check in. And so, by the time our flight to Porto was called and our fellow passengers pushed toward the ticket counters like hungry penguins for a fish, we were 40 minutes from our departure time. The LED board still listed it as on time, but we knew that was just a mistake. There would be no way for all passengers to be checked in, passed through security and on to their gate in 40 minutes. Not in this mayhem. And so we waited.

We finally checked in and were at the security gate about 30 minutes past our departure time. Needless to say, security was empty, given that there were hardly any flights taking off. We could hardly believe it ourselves, having already resigned to being cancelled and returning to Versailles. We were actually going to take off.

Not so fast though. Before taking off there would be a lot of waiting. Waiting for the flight before us to take off, and that didn’t happen until around noon, two hours after their original scheduled departure. Waiting while two flights scheduled to depart after us had taken off. Waiting and waiting.

But we finally took off. Six hours late, but it was worth it. More to come on that.

One more thing:
There was one person who, despite the stress and chaos permeating the terminal corridors that day, kept his cool, remained kind, and as I observed his demeanor taught me to remain calm as well. He was the one Portuguese counter employee of TAP airlines working at the Orly airport. He, knowing that passengers had already endured so much uncertainty and grief, listened to all of their issues and complains…in full. Even when he didn’t have a solution for them, and even when he was busy, he stopped to listen to each one of them and then tell them all he knew and assure them he would try to find out more. And he did.

Thank you Mister Nice Guy. We do appreciate you.

Spring time in Paris? Finally?

Sound track of the day:
I remember the letter wrinkled in my hand
"I'll love you always" filled my eyes
I remember a night we walked along the Seine
riding on the Metro

Current Temperature: Spring paid a visit, sorta

Culture clash: I still don’t know when to tip and not to tip. Is there some kind of expectancy by the French service workers of Americans to tip that they don’t have of their fellow countrymen?

Melanie’s time in France has been a whirlwind. On top of her brief visit to Paris she arrived late due to the eruption of the volcano in Iceland and the spreading of its ashes across Northern Europe, which shouldn’t have affected Melanie’s travels but did anyway – in the name of safety.

Her flight from Barcelona to Zurich was delayed by several hours. Throughout the day we were all concerned about the status of the Zurich flight to Paris given that she would be arriving too late to catch it and the news that Zurich airport would be closing as of midnight on the 17th. When she did arrive in Zurich the airport was closed and Swiss Air had to scramble to figure out what to do with their passengers. I think this airline did the best I’d seen any other airline do in this situation: they chartered busses to transfer passengers to their final destinations. Melanie arrived the next morning, after hanging out in Zurich for several hours and nearly not getting on the bus due to a strange lottery system based solely on seat availability. We were glad she finally with us and even gladder that she was safe.

Jen was knee deep in writing cases, submitting case studies, and taking her final seminars for her MBA program.
So it was up to Melanie and I to make the most of the little time she had here in Paris and tour. It was also an excuse for me to finally be a tourist in Paris. The weather has been pleasant, sunny and brisk.

We started out with the Arc de Triomph and strolled from there along the Champs Elysees. The Boulevard was crowded which easily gave me the willies so I picked up my pace from my usual stroll to “get the hell outta here” speed until we were clear of the shopping and dining area. Once we were clear of the mayhem we were able enjoy the tree-lined boulevard and to stop and smell the flowers, literally. There were impromptu gardens at every roundabout or intersection (as we like to call them in the US). We stumbled across a large, very communist looking statue of Charles de Gaulle, and found the royal palace surrounded by museums and other academic or literary buildings. Then finally we rested over dinner at Buisson d’Argent (burning bush) a restaurant I had wanted to try after having read an interesting review of it in one of my many guidebooks. A successful first day.

We spent the next day in Montmartre taking an Amelie walking tour that Jen provided us. It was a nice stroll. Featured sites included a windmill-turned-restaurant on Rue Lepic, Normandy style houses in a long cul-de-sac, lots of wisteria, several playgrounds, a statue of St. Denis holding his own head, Amelie’s grocery store, Place des Abesses, a merry-go-round, Amelie’s café, the Sacre Coeur Cathedral, a view of all Paris. We found a cute boutique a couple of blocks from Amelie’s grocery and bought a couple of things. Melanie got earrings. We also decided to look for the Moulin Rouge even though it wasn’t on the tour or even the original Moulin Rouge. One nice thing we discovered was a vineyard right in the middle of Montmartre. Very cool.

On another day we traveled to Butte aux Cailles in the 13th arondissement. It was listed as a bohemian neighborhood so we thought we’d give it a whirl. My final verdict: eh. There were some cute cafés that had a Williamsburg feel to them and some cool stencil graffiti but I wasn’t too moved. It being our last day, we had to move quickly to the items we still had not yet visited. We took a stroll through the Jardin des Plantes (botanical garden), and get this Brooklyn, it’s free. OK, not as awesome but come on. The one in Madrid is pretty rad and is only 2 Euros. After a sufficient amount of picture taking we proceeded to the Louvre to photograph the promenade surrounding the famous, and overrated, museum. We wanted to check out the Musee d’Orsay but did not have the time, so we hopped back on the metro and headed toward the Eiffel Tower.

The Eiffel Tower is among the most stunning man-made structures ever created. I know it’s cliché to marvel at the Parisian landmark that has been splattered across countless postcard racks, photography books, photo albums, and a multitude of other pop culture pieces but it can’t be helped. Dimunitive in size in comparison to other architectural accomplishhments, the Eiffel Tower does not share that same description in terms of its power to move through its beauty. If you are someone who is drawn to the beauty of geometric tapestries and mathematical poetry, you must make an effort to visit in person before your life ends. I don’t have the lyrical talent to put it into words, and can only encourage you to see for yourself how the beams weave through each other like soul mates linking arms, and how curved iron provides logical flourishes along the titan pillars reaching for the sky. Or set your eyes on the glimmer of light from the sun as it winks off the rivets dotting the tower’s surface. And no matter how many people have tried, I don’t think anyone has succeeded in capturing its awesomeness in photography. At least I haven’t seen it done.

Whew! Long day. Time for Portugal.

Things to do before leaving France:
Visit the Chateau Versailles completely (for real, I still haven’t gone inside)
Visit the Musee d’Orsay
Go up the Eiffel Tower
One week left (approximately) so I better get moving

A letter from the disgruntled American

Sound track of the day:
I took a little nap where the roots all twist
Squished your rotten peach in my fist
And dreamed about you, woman
I poked my finger down inside
Make a little room for an ant to hide
Nature's candy in my hand or can or pie

Current Temperature: Back to the gloom and doom, and extreme humidity.

Culture clash: don’t get me started on the language



I’ve decided that, while France may have inspired the godlike Hemingway, and the righteous Steinem, she is not for me and will never be my muse. She’s a fickle bitch, unforgiving in her judgment and temperamental in her nourishment. And she hates me.

It all started my first week here a month ago. She didn’t even take the chance to get to know me, before her wet claws dug her way into my skin and seeped her cold fingers into my bones and nerves and wreaked havoc on my sinuses and bronchial passageways. The stuffiness and coughing held strong for a good two weeks, at which point I bailed and headed off to Spain.

Spain provided me with perfect health. The sun was shining, and my lungs were free.

Upon my return to Versailles I immediately suffered from a fever, body aches and extreme sluggishness. A couple of days later that subsided only to be replaced by a strange hunger that could never be satisfied. Did I catch a tapeworm? An hour or two after eating I would feel an emptiness in my stomach that water wouldn’t fill.

Then there was the pick pocketing. Ok, it didn’t happen to me, but it sucked. Fucking gypsies man.

Meanwhile, I’ve begun to develop swollen gums. For the record, I am brushing, flossing and exercising all the proper dental hygiene recommended by the American Dental Association (America, the land of good teeth). Still tender. On top of the fact that I’m still sneezing a few dozen times before noon I have broken out into some kind of hideous zit beard with the star of the show appearing front and just right of center where my clef would be if I had a butt chin.

But yesterday, last night to be precise, was when I finally got the message.

Despite the return of the soul-permeating grayness, like something out of the foggy rolling cliffs of a Charlotte Brontë novel (and no, that’s not freaking romantic, at all), I decided to venture into Paris to meet my friend Siddarth and stroll as well as pick some essentials – a video cable for my PC/TV connection (it’s important to watch LOST on full screen). The sun also decided to make an appearance offering a reprieve from the cold, but only long enough to stroll the Luxembourg gardens. As I waited patiently for Siddarth to finish his meeting with a curator, the clouds rolled back in and the wind picked up, kicking up dust into my eyes sticking to my gas permeable contact lenses causing me to tear. Unable to open my eyes, I couldn’t find my tissue quickly enough and the tears blended with my mascara causing a sick mixture of sand, tears and Mabelline.

Instead of returning to Versailles after my short day in the city, I took a detour and traveled with Siddarth to Jouy en Josas, where he lives with wife Sonali, and Jen goes to school for her MBA program. I wanted to get a look at the campus, size up this mammoth hill climb I’d heard so much about (a story I will save for another time) and say hello to the good people I had met through Jen. Bad timing or bad luck but graduate house was dead. A lot of students were away on some military executive training and people were just out of it. I should have gone straight home because...

The rain had come down and washed the streets thoroughly.

I would have to call a cab to get myself home, but no cabs were answering. Typical French. If they feel like working, ok they’ll work. If not, you’re shit out of luck and can go screw yourself.

Luckily someone mentioned that there would be one more, final train from Jouy en Josas to Versailles. That was my last resort just short of crashing in Tomo’s room, which is empty because he is away in Brussels until next week (not an option).

The girls insisted that the boys take me to the train, and worried about my walk home from the Versailles train station. With my wild imagination, you shouldn’t suggest such things, unless you’re dead serious. Immediately, I developed a heightened sense of paranoia and envisioned a half dozen scenarios which involved me being mugged, clobbered, or worse.

As the train pulled in at Jouy and I bid my friends farewell, I noticed that in my car there is only one other person, a shady looking suburban youth wearing a white puffy jacket with faux fur trim. He appeared to be sleeping. My heart beat fast and small levels of adrenaline pumped through my veins, my fight instincts were locked and loaded. I sized him up as someone I could probably take with the help of my giant old lady purse and the video cable it housed. I remained keyed up until we pulled to the Versailles station 8 minutes later.

In Versailles I hoped for a cab to be waiting outside to take me home, but the only cab available was being reserved. Rather than wait for another cab I decided to book it home. And that I did.

My head swiveled in all directions as I sprinted home trying to appear as calm as possible, mostly to convince myself. Versailles, an affluent suburban town was very quiet. The wind occasionally picked up a littered trash bag, or blew a can across a driveway. I dodged dark doorways and cars with dark windows.

Finally I reached my building, fumbling with the keys. Stay calm, stay calm. Door, elevator, fermeture le porte, deuxieme etage, ouverture le porte, keys, door, lock, breathe.

Home. Jen wasn’t home, but I was safe from predators.

Wrong.

I had been in the living room not 5 seconds when a spider the size of a gold US dollar scampered across the carpet and stopped dead center. As if wanting to taunt me, with his furry legs and yellow polka dots, he stood there and for a moment there was a stand-off. The shock at his size and the sheer disgustingness of him paralyzed me, and I didn’t know what to do. My eyes panned the room and there, next to the trash bin, sat a tall aerosol can of carpet cleaner.

Quietly I lunged for it, whacked hard. And missed. Spider is disoriented, scampers some more, but now in jagged circles. Whacked again.

Dead.

Here I was faced with a glob of insect corpse on the carpet. I’m thinking the carpet cleaner will come in handy now.

I stared at the glob for a good 10 ten minutes. I alternated between contemplating disposal techniques and making my move on Lexulous. Avoidance. I tried, but the dark patch throbbed out of the corner of my eye. I had to get rid of it. So with a paper towel folded multiple times I picked it up and in the toilet it went.

As I flushed, thoughts of his ghost’s vengeance washed over me. I considered the family he left behind and how they may come to punish me for their loss.

I couldn’t wait for Jen to come home.

So…

Dear France,

I know we have our issues and the chemistry is pretty bad. But I have another month here. And half of it I’ll be traveling abroad anyway, so in that time would you please bless me with a meager amount of kindness by leaving my health alone, sharing some good weather and, if you feel like being generous, grant me the ability to speak your language so I don’t get blank stares from your citizens?

That’s all I ask. I won’t ask for inspiration, romantic sunsets, I won’t even ask for a wild time. I hope you can heed my simple request and I will do my best to treat your people righteous.

Your humble guest,
Fadedpaperdoll

On tonight’s menu:
Caramelized fennel, shallots, green beans, and pancetta salad
Chicken wings
Potato wedges

Rosé

Jota Luna and the Gypsies

Sound track of the day:
In my eyes,
Indisposed,
In disguise
As no one knows.
Hides the face,
Lies the snake,
And the sun

Current Temperature: Sunny days finally chasing the clouds away

Culture clash: uh, gypsies।

The sun had finally won its battle with the darkness of the clouds spreading from the gloomy British Isles. And although we had our sights ambitiously set on a day of touring Montmartre and shopping the Marais, we took our time in our suburban apartment preparing for the day. Jen was exhausted after a week of test prep and actually completing her final Corporate Finance exam. I was recovering from travel and yet another system imbalance (which I’m investigating and hypothesizing has something to do with my possible aversion or allergy to France – or maybe the couch).

After some coffee and more daily rituals we were human again and ready to join the world. The sun was shining brightly across a pale blue sky kindly speckled with milky clouds. On the kind of Saturday afternoon where it’s the first nice day after weeks of gloom and rain, Parisians crowd the Metro flocking to various points of interest and the trains burst at their seems disguised as rickety old manual doors with families, tourists, lovers, vagrants and gypsies.

With the intention of doing some leisurely shopping at the Marais and then picking up a PC to television adapter at FNAC, we ventured into Paris to join the herd and revel in the glory of a spring day in France’s great capital. As if, having relived the 40 days and 40 nights of Noah’s day, the people of central France were given a cleansing and chance at a new start, we also were going to celebrate in that glow. I was optimistic because I haven’t yet had a fully sunny and warm day in France and had just returned from picturesque Madrid only to find France still submerged under a sheen of sadness and chill.

We had just transferred on the Metro at Châtelet to the one (1) line heading toward St. Paul and, being that the train was full, we stood near the sliding doors. Just before the doors closed two young girls entered, one too young to really be anywhere without adult supervision, appearing to be no older than 12 but dressed in a tube top and cornrow braids as if trying to disguise herself as an adult but not pulling it off. The older girl, around 14 years, entered and stood very close to the door. The second, younger girl entered behind her and headed straight toward me with her hand reaching out toward my shoulder, at which point I dodged her allowing her to grab hold of the pole for stability. As she slid into the center of the car’s vestibule I inched toward the door closer to the older girl.

The car proceeded to its next stop, Hôtel de Ville.

Only a moment later I glanced toward the little girl, astonished at her slight frame and its ambitious attempt to fill out such a womanly top and then shifted my eyes toward Jen and mouthed “looks so young.” Jen didn’t seem to make the interpretation and when I glanced back at the girl I realized she was not holding the pole at all but seemed to be using Jen for stability and was very close, if not clinging, to Jen.

I started to watch her more intently unsure if I should alert Jen to the situation but Jen already had her eye on the little demon by then. My stare must have been very obvious because her friend, who until then hadn’t been clear of her association with the gypsy adolescent, just then crept into my line of vision, preventing a clear view. I made cold eye contact with the intruder and said to myself, “if I were to describe the facial features of a grifter, I would describe someone with stereotypical Romanian features and this bitch had them.” (Sorry Nadia.) I leaned over toward Jen and said audibly “Hey, watch your shit.” I hoped, but doubted either understood me.

At that point the train had reached its next stop and both girls exited the train. As the younger derelict made her departure, either in an effort to divert Jen’s suspicions or to be funny, she gestured toward Jen showing enthusiastic approval and admiration for Jen’s well-endowed upper region. We both glared at her to get away.

It was a bad call on both of our parts to shoo her so quickly. In fact, we should have pinned her down on the spot. Because just as the doors closed and she headed away from us down the platform Jen checked her bag and found that her planner had been taken. Despite the clear bad vibes I got from these girls, it was hard to belief that we were right, that they had pick pocketed Jen right in front of her as we both watched.

I was disappointed. I was troubled that I watched it all happening, and didn’t say a word for fear that I was wrong. I doubted myself more than I doubted them. I told Jen to watch her shit, instead of screaming at the tramps to “WATCH YOUR SHIT!”

Jen took it a lot better, even though it was her property stolen, her person violated. She reminded me, and herself, that things could be worse. And she was right. The theft of petty property has nothing on physical damage or even dignity. This was simply a personal diary with some appointments and other daily details. Still, the oldest child part of my ego that wants to protect people was bruised.

After taking a quick inventory however, Jen realized she did have some minor banking information on a card in her planner. It contained password information to an account that didn’t do much. It also contained her Social Security card. Can you say identity theft? Our concerned then shifted over to the ingenuity of the thieves.

Are gypsies that tech savvy?

We had to ask ourselves and the answer was: anything is possible. And even if they aren’t, in this day and age it isn’t hard to find and partner up with someone who is tech savvy. Even if you’re a vagrant, untrusting nomad willingly living on the fringes of society, only to join it disguised as a happy participant meanwhile sucking what you can from it before you move on to your next locale.

No, seriously, I have nothing against gypsies.

On tonight’s menu:
Pho at Bambou

A little red wine at Cyber Cafe

I just want to know why

Sound track of the day:
Come gather 'round people where ever you roam
And admit that the waters around you have grown,
And accept it that soon you'll be drenched to the bone,
If your time to you is worth saving,
Then you'd better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone,
For the times they are a-changing!

Current Temperature: Going strong.

Culture clash: The streets are empty on match day. You can get a seat any restaurant.



Emilio Morenatti was the 2009 winner of the Fotopres award for photography and his work is displayed at the Caixa Forum in Madrid. His portraits of women whose faces and bodies have been permanently and severely disfigured by acid brought me – a woman on a long holiday from a life she considers highly stressful, a women who’s never been physically harmed by a man, a woman free to choose what she’ll do tomorrow – openly to tears.

I didn’t care if Ines thought I was overly sensitive, or if the Spaniards visiting the exhibit considered me a delicate American. I had no way to truly knowing the anguish these women faced at the moment where their lives changed for good, and I have no way of feeling the fear they endure knowing it could happen again. I don’t ever want to know.

The Pakistani women, subjects of Morenatti’s work, who were abused in a way that is unthinkable to me, are a small sliver, a meager example of the cruelties exerted on women throughout the world. As alone as I feel in this world, as desperate as I am constantly for a true and lasting connection, I became paralyzed at the knowledge that these women look in the mirror and are reminded of life’s slap in their face, literally, and that they must float through it alone and try somewhere to find hope.

My eyes couldn’t rest too long on their images. They were ugly, brave, hurt and angry. I couldn’t. So my eyes lowered to where they often drift when viewing art, to the stories. A girl, sixteen, was deformed by her father when she was five years old because he didn’t want any more women in his household. A man threw acid on his cousin’s face because she wouldn’t marry him. A woman deformed because she refused one marriage proposal over another. Three men, after raping a woman, weren’t satisfied until they destroyed her face, creating not only the memory of the violation, but ensuring it will never be forgotten.

So many questions: Where do these men get this acid? Do they just have it on hand? Do they get it at The Store for Angry Men? Why do these men hate women so much? What pleasure do they get from such violence? There is nothing rational, nothing to gain. Permanently defacing a woman does not ensure she will marry you, and you no longer want her anyway, so you make her unwantable by others? Why? Why? Men who didn’t get their way, whose weak characters couldn’t make the most of their precious gifts, the women in their lives, resorted to the acts of a child, threw tantrums and destroyed their toys.

As I walked away from the exhibit to the next display, I withdrew for a few minutes staring blankly at the next artist’s biography, trying to put an emotion to each tear shed. I wondered if I could survive that kind of fate, or if my spirit would quietly die awaiting my body to follow. How could I? – a woman whose heart quivers at the site of a mouse running across her apartment floor, or whose soul sighs when the sun won’t come out to play. I’m here asking these questions that don’t have answers, like a child watching adults doing things that don’t make sense, and I feel too naïve. Why do people treat each other this way? Don’t they know it hurts? Why won’t anyone help these women? In societies where these things are allowed, are the victims merely objects, baby factories that can be bought, used, thrown away and kicked when they don’t meet the terms of the warranty? Why? I just want to know why.

On tonight’s menu:
Chinese, I had to

Water to wash down the MSG

Post Office Blues

Sound track of the day:
It don’t have to be so exciting
Just trying to give ourselves a little bit of fun
It always looks so inviting
You ain’t as green as you are young

Current Temperature: Sun is getting stronger during the days

Culture clash: Spanish people may be warm and fun, but damn they do not care about your personal space। I need at least a five inch perimeter of nobody.





I’ve never had much luck with the US postal service. As soon as I enter the hallowed doors of the disgruntled somehow the words “jerk” must etch themselves across my forehead, because I almost always have a bad experience: smirks, neglect, even yelling directed at little old me who simply wants to mail a package. Fortunately, the USPS provides many self service options so that I might avoid personal contact. If I don’t know how to use something, there usually is a nice security guard who seems to know how to use all the machines.

The Spanish Post Office, main branch, is located in an elegant building of immense proportions boasting a granite or limestone façade and various external tiers demonstrating its magnificence. I even think at some point it must have been a royal residence or official building.. Inside it appears to transform into a pinnacle of modernity with LED screens, florescent lit numbers for counters. In other words, it looks pretty classy.

Despite the appearance this building gives the centuries old agency, the Spanish Post Office turns out to be not so different from the USPS. My new friends and I were trying to mail post cards and buy additional stamps for post cards yet to be purchased. After being told to wait in a line, and then waiting in that line for 15 minutes, a woman cut in front of us saying that she had the next number. Number? We were supposed to get a number?

The kind woman, sympathizing with our plight, offered to buy our stamps for us, asking what we needed. With grateful smiles on our face we asked for “7 postcard stamps to the US please.” But when she asked the cashier for those very things on top of her own purchase, he wouldn’t give them to her. He didn’t even acknowledge the request. He simply gave her what she wanted and stated the price simply for that. Cold and unkind.

And so we got our number to buy our stamps.

And then we got another number to mail the postcards.

On tonight’s menu:
Grilled mushrooms
Fried eggplant
Fried calamari rings

Sangria
(I‘m so full)

Sunday Serendipity

Sound track of the day:
There’s a black man with a black cat
Living in a white neighborhood
He’s got an interstate running through his front yard
You know, he thinks he’s got it so good

Current Temperature: Sunny and bright, perfect skies, outlook is positive

Culture clash: Bale, is a simple word for “ok ok”. I’m liking it.

Today, the weather was something out of a romantic’s painting. The skies were true blue with perfectly placed puffs of happy clouds scattered across the crisp cyan canvas. It was the kind of day you create for an Easter Sunday made for pretty yellow dresses, big-brimmed hats, Easter egg hunts, bunnies and daisies.

The park, Parque del Buen Retiro was packed with families, couples, lone strollers and pretty much anyone who wasn’t in church or at a restaurant. Around the lake picnic blankets were laid out, and along the staircase near the eastern edge of the lake I sat facing the sun, my eyes closed and listening to conversations and laughter. A small fountain sprayed water into the lake to my right and amateur boaters could be heard yelping as they tried to avoid getting wet. Couples took self portraits, kids splashed water onto their parents. It was an uneventful day in the park, but pleasant and relatively peaceful.

Tonight I finished the Master and Margarita and even got some insight by reading the commentary at the back, a section I had avoided while reading the text in order to maintain my own perception of the novel. As I read the final chapters, the closing scenes, I realized that I was finishing the book on exactly the same day but in a different year as the Moscow storyline and the Yershalaim storyline. Not a majorly profound realization but a significant one at least simply because of the coincidence.

On tonight’s menu:
Shrimp in garlic oil
Asparagus grilled
Grilled mushrooms w/ garlic
Spanish Tortilla
Mixed salad with tuna

Sangria
(I did not eat all of this alone)

Holy Saturday, the day of the resurrection

Sound track of the day:
The performance deserving a standing ovation
And who would have thought it’d be the two of us

Current Temperature: The rain found me

Culture clash: Vendors sell beer on the street at night. And police arrest you with open containers. And still there’s vomit everywhere.





I had a hard time sleeping last night and decided to sleep in until 11am. The girl in the room next to me came home stumbling and banging on everything around her path at, what I’m guessing was, around 3am. She’s traveling with her mother and must have ditched her for a night of partying. My room is by the kitchen and I can literally hear everyone coming in for the night, and going out for the morning. I heard this girl slam cabinets and drawers in search for something which I later deduced was tea, based on the water running, microwave heating, the fact that Europeans seem to drink tea at all and any given time of the day. The other give away was that she stomped quickly into her room after this task was complete and proceeded to spend the next 30 minutes vomiting. Then she spent the next few minutes arguing with her mother. If I were her mother, I wouldn’t have bothered my precious sleep with trivial arguments. I would have waited until the next day when I was fully rested and alert and gave her a piece of my mind, and then toured Madrid on my own. This morning they continued their argument, after I had already been woken by several loud guests as they prepared their breakfasts and checked out. And there are kids here, so there was a lot of shouting and laughing on their part.

Needless to say, I’m exhausted.

Museo del Prado was open today. As a consequence of being closed yesterday, the line to get tickets was impressively long. An intricate system of lines and sub-lines, and new lines were managed by several museum employees on walkie talkie. It took me almost an hour to get to the ticket booth. I considered leaving and waiting for another day as did many families in front of me, but I wasn’t willing to do this again. To my slight disappointment the Prado was nothing spectacular. I have had my life’s fill of classical painting, and only found myself awed by some Ruebens, Singer-Sargent, and Velasquez work. With any luck there would be a substantial sculpture collection of classical work. On the first floor, what they call floor 0 here, accompanying the paintings as if they were an afterthought and placed to fill in empty space were several pieces of classic marble work. After my fill, I decided to leave. I think the Met is better.

I started to rain.

Without a hair dryer or any product, my hair started out pretty bad in the morning, so I wasn’t too worried about thwarting any styling efforts by prancing around in the rain, so I walked toward my street and visited my neighborhood internet café to check in on the address of a tango class I was going to take. The class was taught in Spanish, naturally, and in the accent of an Argentine tango master and after 10 minutes of attempting to follow the steps, and another 30 of plain watching I gave up. I normally pick up dancing quickly but I just wasn’t feeling this.

The tango classes are held at a makeshift bar/community center called Patio Maravillas and is run by several people, but I suspect there are some kind of political or altruistic forces behind its existence. Amateur photo exhibitions line the walls, one begging to end apartheid, another appearing to document a world party. I chatted with Sharif and Ali the bartenders as I waited for my Couchsurfing connection who majorly flaked on me: literally didn’t show up, call or pick up her phone. So after about two hours of what I felt was bordering on loitering I bailed.

I had every intention at that point of grabbing a quick bite to eat and heading home for some rest, but just like my first trip to Florence, as I passed through a major square, fully aware of my direction, I got sucked into a vortex of light and lost my bearing. I just kept walking down a street simply because I was already headed in that direction, not paying mind to whether or not it was the street I needed to be on. Within minutes I was lost and had to stop and consult my map. I could not find my location on the map and kept walking to find a street that showed up on the map somehow. After nearly giving up and wanting to turn back I heard two soft English speaking voices, one male and one female, behind me and crossed my fingers before asking them if they knew where Calle de las Huertas was. Luckily the woman knew the city well, and since they were heading in that direction, invited me to join them. As we walked I learned that her name was Ines and she is from Bogota and he is Ben and just graduated from UC Santa Barbara and is originally from Marin County. It was the first full conversation I had had in days with fully English speaking people and it felt like silk, smooth and easy.

Instead of keeping to my original plans I actually joined them to the Modena, a beautiful cathedral near the edge of Madrid. It was lit on the outside so the limestone and/or marble glowed giving it an appropriately ethereal presence. Inside, the faithful arrived early to get the good seats for the Passover ceremony. Ines would be attending service and we would meet her back there later.

While Ines was worshipping, we went to the Mercado de San Miguel, a food market that serves the most amazing choices in food at spectacular prices. I got a piece of salmon on toast, sardines on toast, and pisto (bacalao) on toast, all for 1 euro. We grabbed a glass of wine and walked to a corner where it wasn’t crowded and chatted a bit. I learned that Ben graduated a quarter early and would be spending his quarter touring Europe, and his next step was Lisbon. Next, over an oyster, he tried to talk me into joining him in Lisbon on Monday. It makes a lot of sense. Melanie would be there at that time and I could add a third to our motley crew and perhaps get Ben in touch with other travelers so he could have companionship for the rest of his time, and I thought, how much can I do in Madrid anyway?

This is yet to be determined.

After some of the best jamon I’ve ever had in my life, we headed back to church and joined the service. What should have been done in 10 minutes (around 12:30 after midnight) lasted until 1:45am, at which point Ben, a Jew, was completely dulled. I could see his eyes glazing over as I, myself, whispered soothing words to my poor feet that had decided to burn for punishment of abusing them. The cathedral was magnificent in its light and glory and anyone would be proud to be able to renew their faith in this sanctuary, as did at least a dozen people which is what dragged the service out as it did. I knew that Ines would want to take communion, because who goes to service this late on a Saturday night if they’re not going to do that? So as soon as the “peace be with yous” were said I knew ines would have to move her ass to the alter and take some bread. I assured Ben that then we would be dismissed.

Time to bust out the ear plugs.

This is the most exhausted I´ve made myself in my time here. Every bone, muscle and tendon in my body is aching, burning, sobbing and refusing to serve me in any more task unless I let them rest.

In my time in Madrid I’ve consistently been in my room by midnight. Tonight because of church I was in bed at 3am. My dad would be proud.

On tonight’s menu:
Slice of salon
Slice of sardines
Bacalao
One Oyster

Crianza

Good Friday in Madrid

Sound track of the day:
When I met you I was all alone
Cold and hungry crying on the phone
You baked me brownies and said don’t you cry
You gave me a coat off your back, Suzanne

Current Temperature: Today was the most beautiful day I’ve had in weeks. My mood and outlook has changed entirely.

Culture clash: Attention all travelers – do NOT visit a catholic country on holy week unless you too are a devout catholic.



Even though all sites and museums are closed today, it turned out to be a very nice day. My first stop was the Museo del Prado, the city’s most prestigious museum, based on a recommendation from Miguel Sanchez of HEC. However, it was closed for the holiday. Figures.

That didn’t sog my cheerios, because the grounds of the museum were a site all on their own. Surrounded by immaculate landscaping and outdoor sculptures I had enough to tease my eyes, and my camera. Out front of the museum is part of an installation (I didn’t take down the artist’s name) in which giant metal statues are seated playing flutes or clarinets. This part of the installation had two of those statues positioned back to back. They appeared to be made of copper, maybe bronze. I’m no expert on metals, but they were made of some copper or bronze colored metal.

Around the corner at the side of the museum is another entrance up a short case of stairs. That climb gave me a nice view of the square around me and I could see across Paseo del Prado to a huge fountain at Plaza de Neptune. Upon closer examination I concluded that the fountain had a large statue of Neptune with his army of sea horses. Does every major European city have this? Would that mean that the one in Athens would be the most grand?

To my pleasure the Botanical Gardens were open. As soon as I heard there was a botanical garden I knew I’d visit. After paying a visit today with an entrance fee of 2.5 euro (take that Brooklyn!) I decided I would visit this place every day during my stay in Madrid, weather permitting.

Back to my nugget of advice above: other than restaurants and the internet café around the corner nothing was open today. No museums or public offices, no banks or schools. So after an afternoon of site seeing, I took a break at a local restaurant called Café Cervantes on Calle de Leon. I sat in the bar area, ordered a glass of red wine and salmon tosta and pulled out my note book and did some writing. What else could I do right? One glass turned into two, each accompanied by a cigarette. Smoking indoors is well and alive here in Spain, and if you have to endure it why not enjoy the vice? In Spain, they give you a snack (tapa, I suppose) with every drink you order. So with my two glasses of wine I had a serving of prosciutto and tomato and a plate of olives. Odd that they served ham on good Friday, no?

Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE (except restaurant employees) was out on the streets today. They strolled along very leisurely or stopped into bars and cafes for refreshment. So after a late afternoon nap, when I decided to go for a light run, I found myself taking a slow walk instead. Between the crowds of people, old and young, meandering down narrow streets and families lined up along barricades waiting for effigy of Christ on a cross to be marched past them the attempt to run turned out be futile. Back on my own street the procession had already begun and I decided to join the crowd. How I wish I had my camera.

I am not Catholic and only know some traditions of faith through my Catholic father and friends, but I have always been moved by the level of devotion displayed by those who are true believers. As I watched the giant statue of Jesus float by over the crowd a brass band marched behind playing the most beautiful and dramatic songs I had ever heard a marching band play. The sounds were a delicate massage to my ears, gently weaving their melodies in the air around us. I have NEVER heard such emotion come from a marching band. Pushing through the crowd to get to my hotel doorway I finally caught up to Jesus and stood watch as 24 priests held him up on a platform that rested on their shoulders. Their solemn expressions and the attention of the crowd took my breath away, as did the immense layer of incense being tossed around by altar boys. If only I caught the name of that marching band, I’d really like to look them up. I’m sure they belong to a church and therefore don’t do public events but I’d like to be able to give them some credit.

Things to buy tomorrow:
Comb
Wash towel
Toothbrush because I accidentally took Jen’s (no farmacias open today either!)

On tonight’s menu:
Spring rolls
Pork loin
At Mezklum on Calle Principe, I do not recommend

Cucumber cocktail – however stop by for this drink

Hablo Espanol, si

Sound track of the day:
Take a breath and hold on tight
Spin around one more time
And gracefully fall back to the arms of grace

Current Temperature: I don’t think I’ll even need a coat, but with my luck I should bring it anyway

Culture clash: I feel must more at home here. It must be that I´m allowed to pronounce all the letters in the words here.

I learned one very key fact while waiting for my delayed plane out of Charles de Gaulle. If you hate children, do not take EasyJet. They are everywhere. No joke, everywhere. And as I’m watching a Scottish family with four children, and offer a quiet prayer for the parents, I am amused. The children are funny, silly and very cute with their pasty Scottish skin and pale blue eyes. The family to my right is English and I’m dreading that the hyper two-year old squirming in his mother’s lap will eventually kick me and I’m going to have to drop kick him. In any case, I’m not annoyed in the least. What I am, is concerned that my subdued state of mine will be altered once I get on the plane and am trapped for two hours with these angels.

I arrive at my place of lodging wary that the pictures posted online has been doctored and the place will end up being a disaster, or a zoo like the hostel I stayed in with Susie and Jeremy in Buenos Aires that resembled more of a frat house than a traveler’s sanctuary. Traveling alone and a couple of years older, I’m not sure if I’m up to that kind of fun.

There is no elevator. I should be used to that having spent the past two years hauling ass up four floors in an old New York City walkup, but I’m not. I’m not because for the past month, I haven’t had to use stairs very much at all. Vicki’s apartment is on the ground level with just one flight to the bedrooms. Jen, God bless her, has an elevator. At the entrance to the hostel I find Norge. Not Jorge, that’s his partner. Nope it’s Norge. He quickly checks me in, shows me around the kitchen where I have access to breakfast at any time of the day, complete with an espresso machine and juice.

He spends five minutes showing me the neighborhood on a map and how to get to Museo de Prado, which I fully intend to visit tomorrow. It’s Spain’s most important museum, so how can I not? He showed me great neighborhoods in which to eat and drink. He showed me the gay section, which I suspect he frequents, and notes that it’s great for shopping and cocktails. And then he shows me my room.

I’m in the green room. A modest space with a full bathroom and vanity. It might even be bigger than my apartment in Manhattan, although those who don’t live in the city can’t understand the profoundness of that statement. He explains that I use my room key to turn on the lights, and then excuses himself as he steps out for a moment. I tour the room taking 3 seconds turning to the left, the right and popping my head into the head. That’s the bathroom.

Within seconds, Norge returns and in his hand is a cute and welcoming bottle of Spanish sparkling wine. I am so happy. What a warm welcome after a day of delays and children screaming and crying on the plane. Norge is my new best friend, and I will make sure I am a good guest.


On tonight’s menu:
Seafood paella
Tomato and oregano salad

Vino Tinto – Ribiera
And lots of second hand smoke
Bienvenido a Madrid

Bonjour Madame

Sound track of the day:
He was the baby of the class, you
He really didn’t know that one and one was two
And two and two were four

Current Temperature: I’m off to Madrid and the rain looks like it’s going to finally let up. You’re welcome France.

Culture clash: The name of the school near us is called Lycee de Jeunes Filles. Doesn’t that sound lovely and so French? Well the translation of that into English is School for Young Girls. Now isn’t that just a big advertisement for pedophiles?






The antique market at Marchee Notre Dame is a lie. Antiques were nowhere to be found. Scattered sparsely and sadly across the market grounds were stalls of fake designer hand bags, variations of blue jeans, and random basics like socks, and belts Imagine if someone rounded up all the vendors in Herald Square and said, “guys, why don’t we just band together and create a market so we can trap people all in one place and confuse them with the word marchee.” Needless to say, I scanned quickly and moved on.

On the bright side, as a result of being in the square I learned that les halles, or the markets inside the surrounding structures, selling daily essentials such as bread, olives, wine, meats and cheese are open later than the outdoor food market. I still haven’t yet figured how to ask for olives. I’m working up my nerve to say “Je veux deux cent milligrams d’olive.” I’ll know by the facial response if it’s right or not.

People in France have a very nice sense of propriety. Sometimes that can seem insincere or pretentious, but on an everyday basis, it’s lovely, charming and it makes you feel connected in a way. When you pass your neighbors they will actually say hello bookended by an appropriate title. Upon entering the building or elevator you may receive a “bonjour madame,” “bon soir madame,” and after making a purchase at the bakery the counter girl will say “merci, au revoir madame.” These minor pleasantries do just that, make your life pleasant. The elderly gentleman on our floor, after departing from the elevator says, “bon nuit madame.” I flash an inner smile, and maybe sometimes outer, at these encounters and respond the best way I can, mostly by mimicking the greeting. That is, until I realized that the days of mademoiselle are over. I’m a fucking madame now!

On tonight’s menu:
Spinach tortellini with olive tapenade and pine nuts
Chicken wings
Roasted zucchini

Chateau de Grauzils Cahort

Digging Through Archives

Sound track of the day:
Do you remember once upon a time
When there were open doors
An invitation to the world
We were falling in and out with lovers
Looking out for others
Our sisters and our brothers

Current Temperature: Rain threatened all day but the sun prevails

Culture clash: Still raining more than New York City June 2009





This morning, I decided to get to business. In bed (couch) last night I pepped talked myself into getting my act together.

Stop living in fear Lynn. Write the book, live your life. What happens will happen and even if bad shit goes down, at least you’ll have done it all.

So that’s my nightly and morning mantra. I can’t do more than sit my ass in front of the page every day and give what I have. If what I have is 700 Hemingway worthy words, or just a spattering of thoughts, at least I sat there and put it down. The other deal I’ve made with myself is to write forward not back. Not to dangle over participles and break myself over clauses. The words come and they’re not mine. So just put down what I’m told and walk away at the end of the day.

I toss and turn at night running scenes through my head, debating ways to express the psychedelic experiences of my heroine, replaying transitions from reality to fantasy and I toil and toil over her thoughts and her personality. She’s adventurous and fearless. She’s ten. So no, she doesn’t have worries. So, I need to remember when I was that girl. I walk in her shoes through my sleepless nights wishing I had asked Brian for some Ambien before I left the states.

But in the morning, I plop myself at the table with the blank page in front of me, and nothing. Instead, I tour Facebook, check my email, chat, play music, even do pushups on the table as I stare at the blank screen. Eventually I walk away, decide to go to the market, check out the gardens at Chateau Versaiiles, watch a movie or just wander. I do everything but put to the page everything I considered the night before. It’s a pattern I’ve successfully burned into the carpet over the past couple of weeks.

So today I did something different, not entirely fruitful but more productive.

I finally looked at the manuscript. I really looked it at and got to know my characters, my heroine, all over again. I remember things that I still think are good. And I’ve noted changes where, in my naïveté, I once thought those ideas were brilliant.

I’m still relearning but I’m getting reacquainted, and that’s a start.

On tonight’s menu:
Caramelized fennel and pancetta salad
Sliced Baguette
Beaufort and Ossau Iraty cheese
Pear Jam
Berries for dessert

Monoprix Chardonnay

For every pound of stinky flesh, can I get a milligram of gold?

Sound track of the day:
With every day that passes I fall nearer to the ground
It seems that I’ve been searching for something that won’t be found

Current Temperature: Although still slightly brisk, it’s a glorious bright spring day in France. Even the daffodils are gracing us with their glow.

Culture clash: No CrestToothpaste in France? Mon dieu!



What the hell am I doing? The shit I spew out is pure crap. Even that statement is redundant. I cringe at every sentence, every poorly chosen word and watch as it smears its ugly face across the page. Life is too short and time is so precious and here I am producing worthless garbage. I know why I want to do this, my purpose is staring at me in the face each unproductive day and here it is again telling me I will fail myself if I don’t get something good going.

[and scene]

I had spent the day, exploring Versailles. It’s all starting to make sense to me now. So far I’ve only been following Jen around but the streets and stores are starting to make up a story. Strolling along Avenue St. Cloud is gorgeous with its wide promenade with bright yellow daffodils along its embankment. A flower market bustles just outside Passage Clemenceau, an underground walkway that gets you across St. Cloud halfway through the boulevard without having to walk to the end to find a cross walk. There’s a small Tabac at the entrance of Passage St. Phillipe that I think I’ll go back to after an hour spent there over a glass of wine. It seems that at any time, people will walk into the Tabac and order a pack of cigarettes, a glass or wine or an espresso and idly contemplate the weather. No one is rushed. I realize it’s Versailles, not Paris, but I get a sense that there’s nothing that is so urgent that it can wait for the rich cup of coffee to be fully experience. I thought the Italians had cornered the market on pleasure. I think the suburban French might give them a run for their money.

A Little Drop of Sunshine

Sound track of the day:
We’ve got tonight,
Who needs tomorrow?
We’ve got tonight, babe
Why don’t you stay?

Current Temperature: The veil hath been lifted…sorta

Culture clash: The Lycee de Jeune Filles is just a few doors down and is, duh, a girl’s school. And all the long locked laddies seen out front cradling the young girls in their arms are trespassing! Ah young love.





The sun made a brief and coy appearance today, as my well-being struggled the surface. I promised myself I would step out today even if it required bundling up in an unseasonably rigid fashion, even if only for a while to breathe uncontaminated air cycled from the French countryside. The promise I didn’t keep myself was that I would be up early. Nope, after a night of strange dreams, legs in and then out of the covers, sweater on and then off the shoulders, making the twelfth cup of tea for the night, checking Facebook for the umpteenth timing in the hopes that Rose took her freaking Lexulous turn, after all those exhaustive attempts at sleep just short of reading Jen’s case study I did not feel the need to pressure myself to wake up with the sun.

Instead I let it linger and tease my slumber until nearly noon when I heard rustling from Jen’s room, my signal to get the java brew started. Still, it was a struggle. Coffee in my PJs, pouring over an email from Mom who hadn’t quite yet made up her mind about whether or not to come visit, and morning glories still snuggling in the corners of my eyes (Jen is in the shower so I hadn’t washed my face) – these little bits of joy are what my morning was made of.

We hit the pavement just after noon, our reusable grocery bags in tow. It had been decided that today would be a shopping day to shake off the depression we’d accrued over a rainy and dank weekend. And so, we aimed for Rue de la Paroisse.

We started with lunch at La Cantine (the cafeteria), a modestly-sized café decorated like a children’s classroom, with mini-backpacks lining the walls and cartoons of little French children wishing what they’d like to be when they grow up (quand je serai grand, je ferai la gréve comme papa or when I grow up I will strike like my father – satire or a true aspiration? You can find more examles here.)I ordered a gargantuan salad topped with bresaola and green beans garnished with fresh parmesan. The food here, although it can be boring and redundant (for lack of variety), is fresh and colorful and so pleasing to the eye. Jen, after being here for over a year opted for the burger and fries. But leave it to the French to add an oeuf (egg).

At Sephora, despite my success at finding a perfect and mature lip stick, I was unable to ignore the fact that a man in a sterile black tunic kept his eyes closely watching my hands as I sniffed, sampled and all but tasted their products. In a town like Versailles where many of the country’s young elite live and train to be properly groomed, sufficiently educated and aptly cultured, I wonder if there is much of a shoplifting issue. Or is it simply the Asian tourists, having saved up their life’s efforts culminating in one fairy tale trip to France, that fall subject to their suspicious eyes? In any case, I couldn’t spend too much time pondering his doubting glances.

Rue de la Paroisse is a quant street with boutiques selling fragrances, shoes, home gifts. There is also the cobbler, dry cleaner and pharmacy. I was able to find some adorable wine glasses at Thym et Romarin for Jen’s apartment. If displayed along a windowsill, these glasses will reflect the sun in such a way that I know will take me back to my childhood and the days of crystal stained glass crafts and colorful friendship beads. If it doesn’t happen while I’m here we’ll try again when they’re in New Jersey where, I can’t believe I’m saying it, the sun will be more likely to shine with conviction.

Today, because the Marchee Notre Dame is closed on Mondays, we did not get fresh beets. No borsch. Instead, we got supplies to accompany the Vietnamese pork roll (cha lua) we bought on Saturday in Paris. A good end to a somewhat productive day. Hopefully tomorrow will be just as bright before the forecasted week of rain. God help me.

Hazy Shade of Winter

Sound track of the day:
Time, time, time, see what's become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to please
But look around, leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Current Temperature: Definitely have a cold

Culture clash: Jen was right. The French urban youth are much like New Jersey suburban youth. Harmless. Just annoying in their desire for street cred.





There seems to be a permanent gray sheen over the backdrop of Versailles, or is it all of France? Or is it simply the season? The sun is out, shining and brightly bombarding my pupils with its unavoidable power. Even with sunglasses (Lunettes de soleil, as they say en francais), I’m forced to squint a little. Yet with this pervasive presence the skies are filtered through a gloomy gloss which seems to have permeated my very soul, keeping me nicely snuggled with my blues.

To shake the dust off I took a walk to Helios Pub, which is really a brasserie, where I had lunch of calzone and a glass of wine. I ate and read another chapter of The Master and Margarita before proceeding to my walk to the Chateau de Versailles. There I circled around back toward the garden hoping the landscape would inspire me.

I was right. However, it inspired me into a state of melancholy. The ornate residences of the glamorous Marie Antoinette and her rowdy entourage stood lifeless, abandoned. They seemed to whisper of the shame of generations. Rather than a lavishly dressed crew frolicking through the gardens as envisioned by Sofia Coppola, oddly dressed tourists with children in tow sauntered through the landscape, out of place. The meticulously manicured lawn emitted a fragrance of pine but stood cold and unwelcoming. The fountains ran still, deprived of movement, their waters flat and only occasionally flirted with a stiff, cool breeze. The walkways were dusted with loose white gravel that covered my suede boots with each step. I will now have to get these cleaned.

I took pictures, trying to capture the melancholy but found my heart heavy, falling deeper into a spell of sadness.

In an effort to rejoin the living world I turned back and headed to the Monoprix for dinner fixings. Tonight I would make borsch. Armed with my list, I entered with confidence, found a shopping basket and proceeded to the produce section. At this point it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know with all certainty what a beet looked like. I’ve seen them before: cooked, canned, sliced and diced. I’ve even seen them in their original state, but so infrequently that I was afraid I’d end up picking up a jicama or some other root vegetable and produce a disaster for dinner. Scouring the produce I couldn’t quite figure out how the French would say the word beet, and there on the shelves with the leeks, cabbage and celery I saw a package of what I know was cooked beets. Betteraves. But no, there were no fresh, raw betteraves. Because the recipe I had did not allow for cooked beets, I changed my plan. Dinner will be pork chops and string beans.

Getting Settled In

Sound track of the day:
Tell me no secrets, tell me some lies
Give me no reasons, give me alibis
Tell me you love me and don't make me cry
Say anything but don't say goodbye

Current Temperature: another chance for a brighter day

Culture clash: Jen’s tub must have been made for titans. I practically have to hurdle over the edge to get in. Or am I really just that short?




My first full day on Tuesday started with a breakfast of coffee and morning news. Jen was already at the desk plugging away with school work when I woke up and probably engaging in a game of Lexulous.

Just after noon, we walked to a local café whose name I don’t remember. Jen doesn’t even remember, but she frequents this place for their large salads. I ordered a salad with duck. The French love their duck. And they love to share it. I’ve never had a salad so generously piled with meat: thinly sliced duck breast, smoked duck breast, and roasted dark meat on the bone, accompanied by some bib lettuce. Accompanied with sancerre it was a great culinary start to the day: simple and savory.

Our next stop was the Orange store, where I purchased my first European cell phone with 10 minutes for starters. I felt human again.

Next we shopped for groceries at Monoprix, the French version of a Super Kmart, except I didn’t see any auto or garden supplies. But the cheese, oh the cheese section was so enormous, so vast and divine I had to turn away my eyes. However, through the pasteurized glow I did not find one ounce of the best and most versatile cheese, cheddar. Not one wedge. Even in Italy, the land of parma, ricotta and asiago, there where small selections of cheddar. I decided I should probably search a specialty shop for that variety.

I tried not to go overboard in my grocery shopping as my eyes glazed over the new options and foreign packaging. After all, it wasn’t a quick walk back to the apartment, however gorgeous the trek. There were various selections of sardines from which I chose the store brand packaged in olive oil. As is customary for a LynnWinShopping experience I had a comprehensive list of items that should have gotten me through the next couple of days: yogurt, milk, eggs, arugula, pasta, sardines, Brussels sprouts, compte cheese, bread (oh the bread!), and wine. Check, check and check. They had all of these things. I suppose I would have to shop elsewhere if want to make Jen some Mexican tacos. All the tortillas were made from flour. Blasphemy!

When we finished our list, it was time to check out. This is the part I dread each day. Conversation. I have so little skill in French that every ounce of confidence and self possession I express in my everyday life has been stripped from me and I’m left a puddle of question marks and shoulder shrugs. For the time being I had Jen, but I knew that wasn’t going to last long. And so I paid attention, asked Jen lots of questions and hoped to retain as much as possible.

Another cultural observation: In France they charge you for grocery bags. Their very progressive approach is an attempt to reduce paper waste and I’m all for it. And I’m glad my home state of California has started to do the same in some places.

I tried to buy contact solution at the Pharmacie but they don’t seem to service people with gas permeable lenses. Luckily Jen’s friend is in the US and she has asked him to bring some back for me when he returns in three weeks. My current supply should last that long. Fingers crossed.


When we returned home I used the rest of the day to settle in. I unpacked my clothes into the cubbies and closet space Jen generously provided for me and placed my toiletries in her bathroom trying to take up as little space as possible and keep my belongings in a neat corner. Even still, you can definitely tell that two females live here with all the products lining the shelves and counters.

I tried cleaning my soiled but beautiful MZ Wallace bag according to the instructions the woman at the store in the West Village gave me but managed simply to spread the dirt thus rendering my bag a brownish orange rather than the original vibrant hue in which it came. I became crestfallen, because I love that bag. It really did give me such joy. But I chose to shake off the sad feeling and decided it was simply an excuse to buy a new one. I have tasked Jen with finding me the next perfect bag. I have the fullest faith that she will succeed.

When it was well past time to eat I met my part of the living arrangement by cooking dinner. The first home-made dinner in France was a first dish for me altogether. With Jen’s careful but not-overcrowded instruction, I made my first spaghetti carbonara. It was beautiful, if not slightly bland. Next time I’ll know to cook the bacon and onions a little bit longer, dash a lot more black pepper, and place the pasta in the sauce hot. Otherwise it wasn’t half bad for a first try. But live and learn.

Bienvenue a Versailles

Sound track of the day:
Hey kids, plug into the faithless
Maybe they're blinded
But Bennie makes them ageless
We shall survive, let us take ourselves along
Current Temperature: a gray day in the French countryside

Current Temperature: a gray day in the French countryside

Monday afternoon I arrived at Orly Airport which is in the suburbs of Paris. Jen and I had agreed to meet outside baggage claim and look for each other the old fashioned way. Without cell phones. I was skeptical, not for lack of faith, but for lack of practice. It’s been years since I’ve had to meet someone at an airport, other than my siblings who pick me up from SJO. At a strange airport I’ve always had the benefit of a cell phone to contact the subject of my rendezvous. Even more recently I’ve had my trusty Blackberry to guide me through the complexities of life such as airport maps, directory information. On Monday I had none of those things. Nor did I have Jen’s French number.

But here I was on a chilly Monday afternoon, surrounded by much signage in a language I hardly understood except for what my poorly abused mind could recall from 3 years of French in high school. Retrieving my baggage, I thought how quick and easy the process was compared to some recent travel experiences, but I was even further impressed by the fact that I no longer had to cross through Border control. Arriving in Dusseldorf and transferring to Paris I did not have to fill any customs or immigration documentation. I did not have to pick up my bags in Germany and have them rescanned. And, although less astounding, I didn’t have to cross through borders again in France. So when Jen told me to meet outside baggage claim after border protection I was slightly disoriented because this border protection place was missing. I simply walked from baggage claim and was outside in France. I wondered, “Am I so tired that I forgot to go through border control?”

So I waited a few minutes using the logic that if I stayed in one place eventually she would find me. Ten minutes and a cigarette later I told myself, “Lynn, that logic only works if she isn’t also following your logic by staying in one place.” It was then that I decided to start walking. I placed my bags in one of those giant shopping carts for luggage and proceeded to walk, swiveling my head left to right and occasionally around the back. I had my Asian girl radar on as I strolled slowly down the length of the airport willing myself to be as visible as possible so Jen wouldn’t miss me. I walked up on the outside length of the airport and walked down on the inside. After two laps, I was starting to think maybe I followed Jen’s directions poorly.

I sat down. I got up. I moved to a more visible section. I moved back outside. A nice man asked me if he could help me, but unless he knew my friend Jennifer and her phone number, there was nothing he could do to help me.

I strongly considered finding a computer, logging onto Facebook and messaging all of Jen’s HEC friends and telling them, “Can you call Jennifer Moon and tell her that her friend Lynn is waiting at Orly Sud outside smoking a Camel? And she’s cold.” I decided to reserve that plan for later, when I’ve absolutely run out of other ideas. I tried in vain to use my Blackberry to call Vicki and get Jen’s number, knowing full well that a) my cell phone doesn’t work internationally and b) I put the account on hold for three months. I contemplated hopping into a cab and going straight to her apartment. After all, I had her address.

Immediately I rejected the idea of trekking alone to Versailles. For starters, how stupid would it be if we both ended up in opposite ends of the trail? No, the important thing was to stick to the plan, stay where I told her I would and leave it at that. Not having mentioned the fact that we still wouldn’t have been able to reach each other via phone and I didn’t have her key, it was best to stay put. In hindsight, however, the idea of staying patiently at Orly was even further reinforced by the fact that the cab system in Ile de France isn’t quite as straight forward as the Taxi and Limousine Commission in NYC. There are Paris cabs, and there are suburban cabs, and each suburban cab has an assigned number on its license plate identifying which suburb it services. So you can’t just take any cab.

Even when Jen finally found me disoriented and lost like a stranded orphan and we searched for a cab, we were shown back and forth between two different taxi stands. A couple of numb nuts at the suburban stand told us we can get a Versailles cab at the Paris stand. After being rejected at the Paris stand we returned to our original location, at which point Jen said a few words to the two liars that I didn’t understand. But you don’t have to parlez-vous francais to be able to understand when Jen is telling someone off.