Sundays in Paris

Probably two times out of three that I come to a café to write, the bartender (usually male, old, balding) will ask me “where are you from?”  I always answer “America” and they tend to pause for a moment, unsatisfied because that doesn’t explain my ambiguous features, but they rarely press me. Instead they smile and say “very nice!” and I thank them and they test out the few English phrases they know and I smile and they wink back. It’s always a pleasant exchange. They bring out my coffee and even though I’ve done it plenty of times I’m always surprised by how tiny the cup is. I used to milk the thing for four or five sips but that’s just ridiculous so now I gulp it down in one take. Then I sit back and breathe in the lovely smells of the bakery next door for just a moment before the French couple adjacent to me blows cigarette smoke in my face. I do my passive aggressive eye roll (two full turns) then eventually accept that they won and go about my afternoon. This is what my Sundays look like.

I think I've already used this photo, oh well. 

There’s something quite sexy about jotting notes in a journal out on a café terrace that you don’t get back home on your laptop in Starbucks. Sure, it’d be much more romantic if I were sharing my coffee with someone else and that someone else was kissing my hand and whispering sweet nothings in French in my ear like that damn couple next to me, but hey, at least the bartender likes me. The ambiance in French coffee shops revolves around relaxation rather than productivity (much like most things in French culture), and I find this actually makes the whole experience much more enjoyable. When I first arrived it bugged me that none of the neighborhood cafes had wifi but now I prefer to work at ones with the absolute basics (chairs, tables, and a toilet). There’s no fighting over outlets or complaining about shabby internet connection, and certainly a lot less facebook stalking and hashtagging. Instead I switch off between people-watching and daydreaming, staring into my empty cup and debating whether or not to get up to pee, and finally writing down a paragraph to justify the three euros I just spent on an itty bitty coffee. And ironically (sadly), that’s usually a more productive writing sesh than when I’m in a Starbucks.

I have a love/hate relationship with Sundays in Paris. For those of you unfamiliar with France, stores, banks, pharmacies and many other establishments are closed on Sundays. Not for religious reasons as might be expected in the states, the French feel they deserve Sundays as a day off because they’ve already accomplished so so much in the 35 hours they worked during the week. LOL.

Sure, it makes sense. Who likes to go shopping on their day off, when they could try to squeeze it in during the middle of the work week? People don’t ever have money issues so why have the bank open… in fact, let’s keep it closed on Monday too! (#truelife). Nobody ever gets sick on Sundays, so no need for a pharmacy to get medication (okay that’s not completely fair… probably a dozen stay open in a city of two million).  We should be thankful for the grocery stores kind enough to stay open until noon on Sundays, because why would we need to buy food in the afternoon when we can wake up early and do it hungover in the AM? 

That, in case you couldn’t tell, was the hate. Now here’s the love.

On Sundays, I actually relax. There’s no fretting about getting things done because even if I had to, I can’t! The errands can wait. It took me a good two years of living abroad to detach from my type A personality and finally accept that weekends are supposed to be spent bumming around. At least that’s the mentality here and I must say I don’t mind it. When no expectation is set to accomplish anything productive, that meager paragraph I actually did write back at the café suddenly feels like a major accomplishment. The pace of my days and my weeks has slowed down drastically, and I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. It’s all about perspective I guess. It feels completely un-American and completely French and I’d rather not pick sides right now.

I wonder how Hemmingway and Fitzgerald and Stein and all the other greats who lived in Paris back in the 20’s spent their day off. I’m sure their pens just gushed brilliance constantly, page after page any day of the week, but I’d like to think that they too found it ridiculous that you can’t buy aspirin on a Sunday. Or at the very least they had to have wondered why the coffees are so damn tiny.

Running of the Bulls

Pamplona, Spain

I didn't think anything could rival last year’s Carnival festival in Galicia, Spain, where Saturday night's drag-themed dance party lasted from midnight until 9am, followed by a parade in which ants dosed in vinegar are hurled at the crowds as masked men in white dresses chase you with wooden sticks (just reading that exhausts me). But after celebrating San Fermin in Pamplona this past weekend, I think Mardi Gras has finally met its match.

San Fermin, oh San Fermin. Sounds like a Texan ballad. It's actually the festival of the corrida (bull fights) and the encierro (the running of the bulls, which I’ll get to in a moment), and the Spanish celebrate by indulging in wine until the wee hours of the morning. I’ve wanted to go ever since reading Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises, the plot of which revolves around a group of Americans who travel down from Paris to get drunk with locals for a week straight. And we pretty much did exactly that. 

A friend and I arrived to Pamplona around midnight, after an 11-hour car trip to San Sebastian followed by a bus ride full of horny teenagers (the biggest downfall of the festival is that Pamplona is a major pain to get to). Tired but motivated we got out of the bus terminal and in front of us… pure madness. Masses of drunk, happy, dancing, chanting people rushed by in all directions. I’m not exaggerating; the energy of this place was an instant sensory overload. Marching bands and folk artists contested with the main stage rockers, convenient stores competed for the cheapest liters of sangria (we got 3 for 5euros) and the entire city reeked of sandwiches and urine. Everyone, literally anyone between the ages of 6 to 66, ran around sporting matching ensembles of white tee’s, white pants, red neckerchiefs and a cup of wine in their hands (maybe the kids had grape juice… maybe). We checked our bags, bought our vino, and dove right in.

The next day was rough. But we made sure to fit in all my Spanish favorites, including bocadillos de jamon iberico (the best ham you’ll ever eat), tortillas españolas (thick omelets filled with potatoes) and some mean croquetas (cheese-filled fritters). Most of the rowdy voices on the streets belonged to the French and Spaniards and surprisingly not Americans and Australians who typically earn the award for “Most Boisterous.” I’d eventually see my fellow Yankees the following morning, the wackos actually running with the bulls. When speaking with a few locals, the conversations went as such:

Local Spanish chick: are you going to run tomorrow?

Us: Hell yeah!!

Local Spanish chick: Where are you from?

Us: America!!!!

Local Spanish chick: Ah, okay. Of course.

Us: What do you mean, of course?

Local Spanish chick: The Americans are the ones locos enough to run.

Us: But it’s so cool!!!!

Local Spanish chick: Yes… if you survive.

All weekend I kept going back and forth as to whether I would actually do it. After watching highlight videos of participants getting gored and trampled on earlier in the week, plus the constant reminders that people actually die in this thing, I felt myself swaying towards spectating instead. That phone call asking mom to wire money to a tiny Spanish hospital because I have a bull’s horn through my thigh didn’t seem worth it.

red, white and wine!

It was finally a 48-year-old mom who convinced me to suck it up and do it. My friends and I arrived at 6am, two hours early to scope out a solid starting point with the least likelihood of getting joust. Just our luck, it started to rain to make the course nice and slippery for extra suspense. I saw no other girls on the track except this tiny American woman, smaller than me, standing with her son next to one of the few fences along the path (most of the run consisted of just walls with no place to climb if you got a bull coming at you). She said of course she would run, that we could just start up on the fence, make sure the bulls go by, then chase after. If the bulls came in our direction, we could simply hop over and they’d run by, no problemo. Sounded innocent enough.

Then the police troops came in, 10 minutes before the run, and told us we couldn’t stand along the fence. Errr… what? My two guy friends appeared fairly unfazed, but the thought of a 1600lb bull going for my 125lbs with nowhere to escape… man did I have the hot flashes. Even reporters asked to interview us ladies, asking if we knew how big these wild animals actually were. Oh boy oh boy was I scared!

Thankfully as a tiny girl I managed to find two fine gentlemen behind the fence who let me stand right at the corner where I could still hop over (the police kindly pretended not to see me). When the gunshot went off, signaling the bulls’ release, they each grabbed my legs from behind the fence, ready to toss me up and over if necessary. We couldn’t see the bulls yet around the corner, but heard the approaching jangle of the bells around the beasts’ necks. It was terrifying.

Then the bulls came charging down the path, ten of them followed by four steers. My two friends ran up ahead, daring the chase, but I backed up against the fence and waited for them to pass. A breeze ran through me as they shot past, then a moment of relief and I chased after them. The crowds already started to close in and it became impossible anyway to keep up with the speed of the animals. By the time I reached the Dead Man’s Turn (where the bulls often collide and lose track of their herd, causing them to go ape shit and start attacking people), the road had been closed off. Apparently one of the bulls got off on its own and wounded three runners pretty bad, so they prevented anyone else from reaching the arena. We watched the gorings afterwards on the jumbo tron and felt simultaneously sick to the stomach and relieved that it wasn’t any of us at the end of the bull’s horns. You can watch the run we did here (we’re not in the video sadly).

fireworks on July 14th, Bastille Day

It’s not like any of us actually write down a bucket list of things to do before we die, but running with the bulls certainly felt like a big fat checkmark in my book. After another long route back (bus, train, two planes), I arrived to Paris in time to see the Bastille Day fireworks over the Eiffel Tower from my company’s rooftop terrace… which in itself is another do-before-you-die kinda thing. All in all, a pretty freakin’ cool epic weekend.

San Fermin, oh San Fermin. Until we meet again.

Ninjas in Paris

As I embark on chapter three of the French trilogy that’s been my post-college life, I’m feeling less like a king or a jedi and more like a kindergartener starting her first day of school. Or rather a kindergartener who’s been held back two years but finally stopped wetting herself and can now function in a classroom setting. I guess I thought by the third time going that the attachment issues would go away, but the truth is that it gets harder each time I kiss my America goodbye.

Love Locks Bridge in Paris. 

Leaving home is hard. First you’re stuffing animal crackers in your bum without a care in the world and suddenly you’re expected to sit at a desk and cooperate with others who don’t give a damn that your parents nicknamed you ‘Dali’ for your exceptional finger-painting skills. You’re in the wild now. The things that once brought comfort are no longer accessible, and mommy won’t be there to cheer you up when no one wants to be your friend.

While none of that actually happened (I was very popular in kindergarten), my first two years abroad have made me realize how good I had it back home. Where I used to receive praise for good grades and good hair, I’m now aware of the areas I’m not so strong at, such as speaking other languages or chewing with my mouth closed. Being funny doesn’t count for nothing if the jokes aren’t in French, and even when they are, with such a heavy accent you’re never sure if they’re laughing with or at you (and honestly, French people don’t laugh all that much). Plus, no one knows how to twerk over thurr. And everyone smokes. And they’re all so damn skinny. Gross.

But, but, but… it’s also really not so bad.

Tour Eiffel (in English: Eiffel Tower)

So I’m in the airport now, finishing off deep-dish leftovers and feeling nostalgic and yada yada yada, and there’s this part of me that’s getting kind of pumped to take off again.  That same part that decided to head out 2 years ago, that’s led me to 13 European countries, and will take me running with the bulls in two weeks. THAT part of me is hella ready to start my new adventure in the City of Light.

Oui, oui, this time around I’m doing France the RIGHT way, à la mode, and living the dream life (for everyone other than Sedaris and myself) of working at a hip company in downtown Paris. That’s right, I’m moving to PARIS! It's that one with the tall phallic looking building where Moulin Rouge takes place. And what’s even better is that I’ll be doing what I actually went to college for (cool) and getting paid to do it (even cooler) and it’ll all be in English (wow that’s the coolest)! I’ll be writing story scripts of murder mystery cases for a popular computer game, which is the absolute perfect job for a Japanese girl who studied scriptwriting in the murder capital of America.  

They say that third time's the charm, and I finally believe after two years of language setbacks, relationship hiccups and mad stomach pains from the cheese, that this time around I’m going to do it right... and do it well. Suck it, le France, I’m back.  

Stay tuned. (and come visit!)