Allez Les Bleus!

The spirit in the air here is good, much needed, for all that's happened as of late in Europe, around the world...

I'm back in Paris, this time as a tourist, but it really feels like I've never left. I get off the plane, on the bus down the streets up the stairs and arrive to my old work office like I did every morning at 10am to start my casual 35 hrs a week. Im greeted by my good friend Joao, 6ft3 and in his typical pastel dress shirt and blazer and it's hard not to cry because it's so good to see him, to be back, knowing I'm about to stuff my face with buttery pastries and see the faces that were once my familiar. 

I'm here for a brief visit, spawned by the news of my sweet friend moving and also a ticket to the Euro Cup final. To you sad soccer virgins this is THE (other) cup you should know about: European national teams battle each other once every four years for the crown and bragging rights of being the best in Europe, a pretty big f-ing deal to at least those who have heard of it. And the finals are happening right here in my sweet bitter Paris, so wins all around. 

In other awesome timing news, it's the SOLDES!!!!!!! What are the SOLDES, you ask?!!!?????

jambon fromage!!!

Well you know about Victoria Secret's biannual sale? You do, because you like the boobies. Well think that (the sale, not the boobs) but every store in the entire country. France doesn't do markdowns for every holiday like we do, but twice a year for four weeks straight the stores take an axe at the prices and chop them down, sometimes by half or more, and it means two things: an influx of Chinese tourists and overzealous shopping sprees that contradict my pay slips. I've only brought one suitcase but the material angel on my shoulder whispers "buy one get one free!" And she is the only angel there, so of course I'm gonna listen! 

I arrived on Wednesday after lots of hours on the plane: departing from Cali rather than Chi added a significant chunk of time, made bearable thanks to the Big Short, Spotlight and Zootopia (fine, I admit I hadn't seen them yet, I do work in television). A delayed flight made me miss an opportunity to pick up Garrett's popcorn from the o'hare airport as the go-to gift: luckily I had bought extra boxes of double-stuffed Oreos that I hadn't yet demolished. 

I arrived exhausted but the rule to overcoming jetlag is making it 48 hours sans nappy time and so I fought through and went straight for my old office in the city centre. I hadn't really announced my visit and so many past coworkers were surprised to see me, or at least the huge zit on my face. A lot of new faces, who still recognized me as the high-pitched one from the company recruitment videos (my only dabble in stardom) but overall, as I said, it felt like I had never even left. Now that I think about it, they were definitely most surprised by the zit.

Monet's water lily garden

I've managed to stay (mostly) awake for the past two days, having drinks with friends, biking to the Claude Monet Gardens (a real treat!) and watching France beat Germany 2-0 in the semi-finals! Germany definitely deserves the win and had way more scoring opportunities, but I'll spare you the futbol commentary and just say that the post-game ambiance is untamed joy throughout the city. Cars honking in the streets, drunk Parisians also honking in the streets, it reeks of beer and piss but the spirit is sweet. Last time France hosted a major soccer event was the 1998 World Cup (THAT cup), which they ended up winning, so if all goes well this weekend could also end with a big fat W. Who else won tonight? Monsieur Jetlag, as I'm writing this post at 4am, which means tomorrow is gonna suckkkkkkkkkkk. Thank god for croissants. 

The big final game is Sunday, France v's Portugal, and I am PUMPED! I've never been to a sports final game before (other than junior year IM intramurals for my dorm... which we won, BTW). I'm going with three girls I used to play with back when I lived here, and we will wear face paint and jerseys and look ameeeezing and cheer our hearts out for the country we love to bitch about love so much. It will be my second time seeing Cristiano Ronaldo play (saw him play in Madrid a couple years back) which will satisfy by sex appeal quota, making it a sure win of a night. Though I can't help but feel a tingle of fear to be at a major European event with herds of people jammed into one space in a city that's had two horribly violent incidents in the past year and a half... It's a shame that excitement is often clouded with a dark filter these days... But I am still SO excited. DUH. You know how much I love this sport. And such a big game beside good friends in my old 'hood... A win would be EPIC, much needed for a city still suffering from loss. And for a spoiled girl who is enough of an arsehole to brag about it on her trivial blog (Mind you I was recently jobless and have developed adult acne, so let me have this!!!) 

Okay the sun is coming up and I need to try to steal some z's or else I WILL suffer. But apparently travel is the one thing that inspires me to write, and I've got a cool trip planned, so expect some more words of the wisecrack in the coming days! And I'm asking you all to chant along this Sunday: Allez les bleus!!  

Midnight Plane to Georgia

Spontaneity is like that old fling that drunk dials once in a while to get sum’, and you know it’s probably not the best move to cross town at 1 in the morning but you’re already self-loathing for finishing that pint of B&J and you DID just buy that new sexy thang, tag still attached. So you shave those legs and go for that high, telling yourself that life is short and you’ll worry about the costs (financial, emotional, psychological) at a later date. Live a little, amiright?!

So I booked a last minute trip to Georgia over the weekend. Never a great idea because a middle seat on a redeye can actually cause mental illness, but the idea of waking up to barbeque pulled pork and that sweet southern twang was enough to keep me sane for the 3 hour time zone change.

The south is an animal I’ve had limited interaction with, especially as an adult. My grandma lives in Arkansas and so I used to visit a fair amount, dreading the two-hour hilly drive from Little Rock to Hot Springs that always involved severe nausea. When we’d finally arrive, I’d get out of the car, give fragile Grandma Ann a gentle hug and then run (give or take a stop to the bathroom) to my favorite spot in the house… the downstairs ballroom. Grandpa Dick, who passed way too soon, had built a large dance floor with a full wall mirror and bar because more than anything my grandmother loved to dance. I have vague memories of watching her waltz around in a bright red skirt that matched her bright red hair. She’d twirl and the skirt would flair up, and I would giggle each time I caught a glimpse of her underpants. I was like 6, okay. No one had any idea that 15 years later I’d be the one ballroom dancing in college, but I guess we never know what goes around and comes around until it does.

Just outside the dance room is a porch leading around the house, and my grandparents would take my brother and I out there in the mornings to put peanut butter in the birdfeeder. Then we’d eat our oatmeal and wait for the hummingbirds. The house rests on the top of a hill with a view out back that’s perfectly picturesque, an endless grove of trees rising and falling, painting the landscape with the greenest of green. I’ve always been impatient but the birds would eventually come, and if we stayed quiet enough we could hear their little wings flapping a million miles a minute as their beaks kissed the feeder. I enjoyed that, killing myself to stand completely still, only to watch and listen. At night we’d go to the Shack, a local diner a few miles away that to this day makes the best banana milkshake I’ve ever had. I never noticed that my mother and brother and I were the only Asians in town and that we didn’t discuss things like politics and religion because we would be in contention with literally everyone around us. All I knew was that finishing the entire shake meant an upset stomach, but that “deal with the costs later” mentality is innate and so I’d do it every time.

on nom nom nom nom!

Fast forward two decades and this time I’m in Georgia on a two-hour ride from Atlanta to Columbus, equally gorgeous and green and hilly and nauseating as the trip to Grandma Ann. Only now as an adult, post-socialist Europe and identifying as anti-“people-who-think-having-more-guns-will-save-more-lives,” I can’t help feeling irked by all the things around me that go against my ideologies. Billboards for gun sales. Baptist churches with borderline racist mantras. Trucks that murder the environment. Not that these observations kept me from gorging myself on sweet tea, barbeque brisket, baked beans, and mac & cheese all for less than a parking spot in LA. Followed by stacks of French toast, grits, and deep-fried anything and everything the following morning. Everyone I interacted with was extremely friendly and respectfully listened as I pulled a Reese Witherspoon and asked questions in a fake Southern drawl of my own. I guess two days really isn’t enough time to make any fixed opinions about a place, though I could go on for hours about that chocolate chess pie. 

I had an afternoon to do nothing/something, and so I looked up hot spots in the vicinity and took off towards Providence Canyon State Park, this depot of red canyons and trails that look nothing like the rest of Georgia’s marshland terrain. I know my parents will tsk tsk at the idea of me driving to some random place all by my lonesome. I’d traveled alone plenty of times before but I always took public transportation, surrounded by other people, with the destination marked on the ticket in hand (and often someone waiting for me at the other end). But the independence I felt in the driver’s seat, where I could choose the speed, the music, the turns on nobody's agenda but my own… maybe that was the “American Spirit” I’d been missing for so long.

Don't be a victim!

Often times I was the only car on the highway, and so yeah, I put the pedal to the metal and yeah, it felt pretty great. I started with the windows rolled down and listened to classic rock and felt like a BAD ASS but it got way too windy real quick so I toned it down. I even tried a little country music, switching stations for every Baptist church I passed (which was more than many) and felt alright, up until I passed an abandoned truck on the side of the road and wondered, “well what the hell happened to that guy?” Then my thoughts turned to True Detective and In Cold Blood and bears in general and I suddenly became hyper aware of my aloneness. Less like the liberation I felt starting out and more like a security concern. Maybe driving and hiking by myself in a place I have no idea about isn’t the greatest idea. But the girl in Wild did it, and I could definitely sprint faster than her… right?

Long story short, I didn’t get kidnapped or murdered. I actually had a super nice hike and met an older couple from Tennessee who I bet if I had asked would not agree with my views on abortion. But they did tell me about the one friend they had from Chicago who once sold tye-die skirts in Florida, who may or may not still be living but seemed to do well for herself. I listened and asked questions, not caring so much about the answers but appreciating their attempt to find common ground. I mean, we were literally standing on the same ground, this earthy red dirt smack dab in the middle of all this green, and so that in itself connected me with these strangers who, given a different context, I might have tried to avoid.

What state am I in again?

I eventually moved on ahead to burn off the brisket, taking a few more trails before heading back up north to ATL. I arrived early enough to waste time riding the airport subway from terminal to terminal, because that’s how desperately I miss being in Europe. My plane back home was filled with men in suits who’d been to Atlanta on business, who likely had no idea (or cared) that there were canyons in Georgia. I know about them, about the drive down there, about the random tye-dye vending lady from Chicago who may or may not be dead. All trivial facts that, like most things, will soon be forgotten. But who knows, maybe that couple will meet a Californian and recount about a girl they met in LA who hasn’t sold screenplays and may or may not be dead, but seemed to do well for herself. I’m sure somebody out there (maybe that dude who abandoned his truck) could relate to that. Things have a funny way of coming back around again. 

26, Feel the Burn

Today is my 26^th birthday and I woke up at 6am with a UTI. My morning is spent in the waiting room at Planned Parenthood and I can’t help thinking “boy, it feels good to be alive!”

Every year on my birthday, I feel deserving of freebies, endless compliments and favors. Lately that sense of entitlement has extended to all the days in January leading up to the 14^th, and even the few days after. “I was born this month. MOVE ASIDE,” I shout out to the other cars in traffic. “Yes, I’ll have extra whip cream and no, I shall not pay for it!” So far it’s working: the nurse gave me one of her tamales and some rando let me take a left turn in front of her (in LA, this is the greatest gift). I’d like to think there’s a certain glow, an aura that I carry to make others notice the prominence of this day, but it’s probably more that I’m being extra obnoxious and they just want me to go away.

But I do feel special today. Facebook comments make me all warm and fuzzy with reminders that people do, or at least at one point, have appreciated something I did enough to bother writing. Going through my inbox, you can believe it or not, but Starbucks offered ME a personalized free drink. Even my online medical portal sent an email with tips to stay healthy and safe on this special day! Isn’t technology wonderful?

Among those encouraging emails was one from a screenwriting contest I applied to last spring, announcing my selection to the semifinal round. Which in the grand scheme is trivial but still nice to get a positive response for once. I’ve gotten so used to rejection from these things that I’ve learned to completely erase any memory of ever applying to avoid constant disappointment.  So that was an extra cherry on top to my morning of burning pee… someone out there liked what I wrote, and thinks it’s worthy of a second read. Not too shabby. It’s really all that we crave, isn’t it? Chocolate cake and a slice of validation? This word has taken a new, grimmer meaning since trying to find parking in Los Angeles, but it’s something that I, and most creatives, constantly struggle with.  Am I any good? Will I make it? And today, on the anniversary of my birth, I expect you all to tell me, “Yes, yes you are and yes you will!”

It would be dickish of me not to mention the passing of Alan Rickman this morning, the second great Brit we’ve lost this week. I’d lie if I said I knew a lot of Bowie but Rickman was certainly someone I admired. I won’t dwell on his death because, heck, I barely knew the man and it’s my birthday, damn it! But even when he wasn’t Snape he was true perfection on screen, in some of my favorite films. He will truly be missed by this industry and movie lovers worldwide.

OKAY. BACK TO ME. Me, me, me! I haven’t shared much of the surprises and joys and horrors of living in Hollywood yet, which is a bit unfair and lazy on my part because there are a boatload of stories to tell. Some I am not allowed to because I have signed a non-disclosure agreement. Which is excruciating because I am TERRIBLE with secrets. But I promise to knock your socks off another day. Tonight, though, I just wanna be away from my laptop and dance, and will do so in Mexican fashion with killer tacos and salsa music. Because I like to live life with a bit of spice. And guacamole.

I feel extremely fortunate as a recent west coast transplant to have friends to share my day with, but I also get a bit tingly inside when I receive bings from friends far and abroad. Chicago, you and your beautiful people will always be home, though I'm so content to not be in your freezer. And Oh Paris, my loves in Paris, I miss you so much. Nobody thinks I’m loud or too smiley here, or that my colorful clothing and jolly way of speaking are off-putting. Since leaving you I have realized one of my biggest fears, and that is that I merely blend. It’s not such a bad thing, really, but I crave that extra validation, particularly in the form of credits and dollas. I’m gonna work my ass off for it this year, and the next. And the year after that. And I hope with each proceeding birthday that the good vibes increase and the UTIs decrease and that eventually I stand out in the way I imagine or at least find the joy in blending. That’s okay too.

To my fellow '90 babies, let’s make 26 sexy, and good health to those who share my sitch (ha!). Over two decades of playing soccer, and I’m still wearing the jeans I bought at age 16… it really does feel good to be alive!