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!)

A Fortuitous Fashion Affair in Budapest

I arrived to Budapest in a cardigan on a brisk Saturday afternoon, the final destination of a 10-day Central Europe excursion. Aside from Harry Potter references of Hungarian dragons and wizards, I had no knowledge of the local language or culture. Over the course of a weekend, however, I came to learn three valuable things: “szia” (pronounced see you) means hello; “allo” means goodbye; and the city’s fashion-minded people have a style sense that’s anything but backwards.  

Parlement Building

After slipping on a sweater at the hostel, I embarked on a self-guided city tour, a quick dip past the major attractions then off to the fun parts of town, the shopping and nightlife districts. Having visited the fashion capital Milan at the start of my trip, I had little expectations for the fashion scene here. But it became clearly evident that these Hungarians know more than a thing or two on style. Barely 50 degrees out and they've united statement skirts with knits, sweater vests with shorts, and it all looked AMAZING. While the Champs-Elysee equivalent Adrassy Avenue displayed the latest collections of Prada, Dior, Gucci and the like, what impressed me more were the little gems hidden around the corners. Taking a right on Kiraly Street I stumbled upon the hype eyewear store Orange Optica that showcased a collection of frames entirely carved from tree bark. I then peeled off toward the underground bar scene on Kazinsky Street and stepped inside Kék Ló Fashion Pub, a combination boutique and bar. Beer in hand I perused the handmade felt jewelry and sequence-sewn sweaters, all reasonably priced and so very chic. My bill came out to two Heinekens and a leather braided headband, though I gladly would have bought the whole collection had I the money or room in my suitcase.

The end of Kazinsky Street led me to Erzsébet Tér Park, a stomping ground for local artists, musicians and designers to show off and sell their work. As it was getting late many were packing up to leave, so I approached a brunette woman wearing the most deliciously dap watermelon pink sneakers.

“I love your shoes!” I said. She thanked me, explaining that her friend had made them. She then asked if I liked making clothes and wrote down an address, suggesting I come by tomorrow afternoon to see her friend’s show. “It will be fun!”

Confused but more than intrigued, I arrived the next day to find a grungy apartment building, the ground floor a vacant pub still unkempt from the night before. I hesitated, the survival instincts of a girl traveling alone pushing to turn around and leave. But the traveler in me, the “you only live once” part of my mind, overruled and thus I crept through the bar and followed the arrow-signs up a back staircase to the fourth floor. There I discovered a room of about 30 people grabbing at an enormous table piled high with strips of cloth, leather scraps and all other imaginable fabrics. A beautiful blonde woman stood before them, demonstrating how to handle a leather puncher on a pair of navy ballet slippers crisscrossed with black straps.

Two things came to mind. First, that I had found the magician of cloth who made the heavenly shoes and second, what am I doing at her workshop? Just then the brunette I had met the night before approached me, placing scissors in my one hand and gently grabbing the other.

“This is Anna,” she said, introducing me to the designer. “She is opening her beauty school, so today is the party.” Anna, about to stitch a velvet wallet, stopped to give me a hug. Not even asking if I lived in Budapest, let alone had an interest in her school, she generously showed me the different tools I could use to piece together a purse or hat or anything I liked.

“I’ve, um, never really….” My cheeks turned pink, intimidated by all the creative energy flowing around me.

“This is your first time? Perfect!” she smiled, and guided me over to the fabric table. “Pick your favorites, and see what happens.”

I stared at the table for a good three minutes before finally closing my eyes and picking two at random. A thin blue leather strap and a sheet of teal satin. Okay, inspiration, I thought, come hither! Of course, no sparks, so I instead went about the room hoping to extract ideas from my fellow novices. Turned out that I was the only novice. Everyone else clipped and snipped away at their wallets and belts and shoes, mixing and combining the strangest of materials to make something totally original. I felt in awe, watching them handle the textile glue and sewing machines with such finesse, yet I knew in terms of creativity that I could come up with something just as fun. 

I finally decided to make a bracelet. After 90 minutes of intense focus and the help of Anna’s skillful hands, I managed to create a double tour trinket totally worth wearing. I stood for a photo alongside the designer, proudly showing off my final product. I know full well that it cannot compare to anything she or any other fashionistas in Budapest sell in their stores, but this bracelet I fabricated from a pile of scraps contains my own energy, my ideas, and my memories of this vibrant, inviting city, which to me makes it a piece of art. 

Goodbye Glorious Globo Gym: The Horrors of Fitness Feminine

So this concept called 'the lady gym' seems to be a big fad here in French fry country.

"Salle de sport pour femme EXCLUSIVEMENT!" one ad reads.

"Fitness 100% Femmes" says another.

As if my workout experience will be significantly improved by removing all the sexy shirtless men with raging biceps and instead replacing them with post-labor moms and yoga freaks. But I decide to try it out anyway, because the goal of my second year here in France is to immerse myself into the culture, to see life through the eyes of les gens français (and I found a Groupon deal for a one month membership trial).

So the gym's called Lady City. Okay, I get it. Ladies in the ville can get their groove on too! With its location in the city centre, I figured the establishment would be no LifeTime Fitness or anything, but I tend to only stick to the treadmill and freeweights anyway so a small gym would suffice. Even better, google maps says it's only 10 minutes to walk there from my apartment, meaning I can easily reincorporate working out into my daily schedule. This is turning out to be the best idea ever!!!!!!!

And then I remember that I'm in France.

My trip begins with a humiliating 10 minute hussle through the city streets in which every passerby, men and women alike, shot me the death stare for sporting tennis shoes out in public (Imagine if I had dared to wear sweatpants!!). I finally arrive, and the women at the desk is all but excited to see a new face. Apparently as an interested client you cannot just walk in and sign up, but rather have to take a rendevous, preferably set for weeks later. Insisting that I am only free to sign up now, the women rolls her eyes and inputs my information, appalled that I would dare take two whole precious minutes of her time (and wearing sneakers at that!)

Having passed level 1 (judgement on the streets) and level 2 (evil receptionist), I proceed to check out the gym I just signed my life away to for the next 30 days. The room before me, slightly bigger than my apartment flat, contains 8 elipticals and 4 bikes, above which hang two small tvs playing MTV's finest.

Features Not Included: treadmills.

Also no towels. Not even a water fountain, as if the idea of people possibly sweating hadn't occured to them.  But maybe French women don't sweat. I peak around to the "salle de musculation" in case they simply hide away their running clients, but no. Treadmills must not be lady-like enough. I DO look very much forward to sharing the ONE set of dumbells, the weight of both not even reaching 10kg. And with the 7 pretty machines for arm and leg toning, none of which have the ability to add weight, it seems that my dream of achieving the strength of an 8-year-old girl can finally come true!

I did like the fact that the place wasn't crowded, with only two other girls my age occupying the cardio machines. I took the eliptical farthest away from the TV and tried to concentrate on my own pace, but I couldn't help but notice just how little effort my fellow meufs put into their workouts. To paint a picture on their exertion, the one had her curls down to her butt (none of which moved), and the other had on those massive Dr. Dre headphones. Neither wore a sports bra (you don't have to be a perv to notice when shes got an extra bounce there). Were their heart rates even going up? In college I witnessed my fair share of sorority-type stringbeans hogging up the good machines, flipping through Cosmo and occasionally increasing the speed to 3mph. But those girls didn't WANT to look tired, especially if so&so from Sigma Epsilon might walk by. Here, though, I have this sense that people don't actually know what sweating is. It's true that the girls are thin, but they certainly are not fit. They may gawk at my New Balance sneaks, but at least I've actually gone miles in mine. 

On the brightside the place smells perfectly odorless, the only possible benefit I can think of for a women's-only gym. And now I don't need to feel ashamed for not having run in the last week or two or six, since French girls don't do that kind of thing. As I walked out I wanted to tell the evil gatekeeper that they should consider adding a treadmill, but I don't know the word in French and I didn't bring an extra pair of shoes, so who was I to say anything. Instead I shuffled home in my sneakers to the safety of my sheltered apartment, where clothed in sweats and armed with nutella I sat down to write my rage about fitness feminine.

Trick or Treat, Sentent Mes Pieds; A French Halloween

I'm happy to say that Halloween DOES exist in France. Throughout the day I pleasantly greeted vampires, monsters and other déguisements with a nod of recognition, satisfied that my home country's commercialism had safely made its way overseas. In my city with only two metro lines, I managed to find 3 different costume stores, not to mention the witchy and catty accessories available at the 2-euro shop, Claire's and other Americano establishments. Even the supermarkets clad cash registers and cashiers alike with orange and black balloons, plus occasional cobwebs dangling in shopping carts (or at least I presume those were purposeful embellishments...). I might even go as far as to say that the Europeans do it BETTER by casually making the Nov 1st All Saints Day a national holiday so that zombie-clad teens can party on a weekday night without any grave repercussions (muahaha). But I take that back, because they still don't sell Reese's here.

The notion of French zombies running around everywhere marks the biggest difference between

Why so SERIOUS?

Halloween here and in America (and no, they don't run around in berets!). At first I understandably assumed that every costumed-participant I passed was just a huge Simon Pegg fan, each coincidentally decked out in fake blood and gore in his honor. But on closer inspection, it appeared that I, and only I, had drawn on whiskers and a red bow without the accompanying nail pegged through my forehead. When I reached our friend's apartment with my Halloweenie treats, the party hosts gladly accepted the cookies but disconcertedly looked me up and down. They watched me remove my coat, in hopeful anticipation that  perhaps I had just been waiting for the right moment to reveal my true identity: Hello Kitty RoadKill. Oh, the disappointment.

"But you're the American here!" One of the guests reminded me. His tone, amongst the other foiled eyes, was loud and clear... we expected better.

"But, but, in America we don't have to be scary on Halloween!" I tried to explain. I couldn't accept that the perfect white eared-hat I had found was clearly dismissed.

Makes you hungry?!

"Of course you can dress scary, but you can also dress up as something clever or cute!" My explanation sounded desperate, which just made my attire even more lame. "Or as a slut!" I squealed. It seemed that disapointment had already settled in, that the crowd had moved on instead to the thankfully scary bloody extremity cookies I had made for the occasion. Thank you for saving my ass, I silently prayed before chomping up a big toe.

While I personally did not see any trick-o-treaters throughout the day, word has it that many a cute little witch and ghost had gone door to door seeking bon bons in their paniers. I also was able to find some large citrouilles, the things themselves labeled "Jack-o-Lanterns" rather than pumpkins, in order to get in a bit of carving tradition.

Of course, Europe cannot match the excessiveness of decorations or the self-induced stomachaches we always connote to this time of year in the states. I missed most the pop culture references and witty word-play costumes that friends and I would painstakingly spend weeks preparing for back home (can someone share all the Miley sitings for me?!). But even without a scary movie marathon or the excuse to wear just a bra out in public, the accompanying three day weekend left plenty of room for devilish fun that certainly included a competitive share of tricks and treats.

Nutty for Nutella: The French Breakfast

I have a sweet tooth, a fact one quickly discovers when I suggest Yogurtland or Dairy Queen as a meeting spot to study or have lunch. Like a smoker to his Marlboro, I crave the sugary rush of a hot fudge sundae or a stack of Thin Mints after every meal, my mouth watering at the very mention of the word 'Scoop.' Yet the other voices in my head, reminding me of those jeans that no longer fit, or that diabetes runs in the family, limit my dessert intake to just once (or twice) a day.

In France, however, the people understand the importance of sweets to one's self-being. They do not judge one's chocoholism or the whipped cream on their crepes. Rather, they embrace sugar, celebrating it as the main ingredient for the most important meal of the day: breakfast.

We wish you a Merry Breakfast

Oh, how I LOVE French breakfast. All that pish-posh our American cereal boxes tell us about starting the day off well-balanced, rich in whole grains and fruits and other heart-healthy things.... France wants none of that. Here in baguette land, bread reigns supreme. Crispy croissants (au chocolat or plain... as you like), crunchy toast biscuits, moist galette cookie cake thingies, and fluffy brioche. Or for the more daring, go straight for the gâteau au chocolat and vanilla cookies... no one's telling! Select from any of these delicacies for your petit dejeuner, which even the word's translation, "little lunch," will have you giggling with delight. 

I forgot to mention the best part... NUTELLA. The greatest invention on earth, this conglomerate of hazelnut, chocolate and artery-clogging palm tree oil is lathered (in large quantities I might add) atop one of the choices above to start the morning off ever so sweetly. If born with a nut-allergy or some rare impairment that makes you somehow NOT like it, there's this other dream called Speculoos, a spread literally made of crushed gingerbread cookies and butter, to prove that God really did put things on this earth worth dying for. Though typically for the morning, these heavenly spreads by no means limit themselves to a.m. appearances: try hazelnut chocolate bars for le goûter, snack time, or Speculoos cookies to accompany coffee breaks (remind me later, once I actually figure out the answer, how the French stay so darn twiggy).

Though a big fan of their breakfast choices, it does strike me as odd how the French go about serving it. In contrast to a previous post detailing the exhaustive list of silverware necessary for a proper evening meal, in the morning it seems that anything goes. By anything goes, I mean everything goes away, including the plates and mugs. I remember arriving to the kitchen of my boyfriend's grandmother one morning to find a lone cereal bowl at my seat. A loaf of brioche with jars of jam and nutella lay arranged at the table's center but no flakes or muesli in sight. Assuming the glass bowl was left there by mistake, I put it away and searched the cupboard for a plate to use instead. No sooner had I done so when his grandmother entered, quickly pulling the plate from in front of me and replacing it with the bowl I had just returned to the shelf.

"Pour cereal?" I asked, picking up the bowl and demonstrating the motion with a spoon. Instead of answering, his grandmother dropped a tea bag inside it.

"Est-ce que tu veux du thé?" she asked, and as I nodded she grabbed the kettle and began pouring steaming water inside.

She smiled and watched as I strugged to hold the brim of the burning bowl between my fingertips, spilling nearly half of it onto the table (and of course, my lap) while attempting to bring it to my lips.

"C'est pas grave!" she chirped, dabbing the spill with a wash cloth then proceeding to toss a piece of bread on the bare, now damp table.

"Ça, le confiture de figue, et l'autre..." she went about explaining the various jams as I stared in confusion at the naked slice exposed to the table without the comforting barrier of a plate, not even a napkin. Heck a paper towel would have sufficed, but directly on the table?

Beginning to think his grandmother may suffer from slight dementia, I smiled and nodded, allowing her to scoop some orangy goo onto the bread before me. My hopes that she would disappear soon so I could at least grab a mug with a handle didn't last when my boyfriend walked in with his cheerful Bonjour.

Drats, I thought, now we'll both burn our fingerprints off.  But like clockwork, he poured himself a bowl of steaming hot tea, simultaneously grabbing the brioche and slicing it directly on the table. Crumbs everywhere, he grabbed his piece and began to layer it with butter and jam, again directly on the table before him. Then dipping a corner into the bowl and taking a bite, he and his grandmother commenced a conversation about the orange tree out back. They did not acknowledge the stunned look on my face, how I intently observed his every move to figure out the whole drinking-out-of-a-boiling-glass-bowl puzzle (apparently, you just wait until the drink cools down a bit before actually drinking it. Who would have thought?).

After the meal, the bowls and knives go in the sink, the spreads and bread in the cupbroad, and an ultimate wipedown of the crumbs takes place (sometimes onto the floor if time allows for a sweeping of the kitchen floor). Volunteering to wash what little dishes the meal produced, a part of me began to appreciate this plate-less practice, especially having spent four years of college without a dishwasher. Yet to this day I still feel a bit, unsettled one could say, when reaching for my tea and finding no handle there. 

Belgium made, sold in France, though Speculoos spotings in California exist

There will always be customs in other cultures that you come to appreciate, and others you never fully understand. While I wouldn't dare attempt to eat bread off a table in my own mother's kitchen, I will certainly risk paying overweight charges for my luggage on my way home next spring by stuffing it full with jars of Nutella and Speculoos.

A Letter to L'il Wayne

Dear L'il Wayne,

I had the joyous opportunity of seeing you perform live in Toulouse, France last Saturday and I must begin by applauding you for one heck of an entertaining evening. While back home I’d likely swap tickets to your show for a pack of gum, I wouldn’t miss the chance to witness a crowd of your non-English speaking, chain-smoking fans for anything in the world.

At least with a half-full concert I got to get up close n' personal!

It was well worth the wait, after your poetic opener Mac Miller, to stand in the half-full concert hall for an hour in the toxic fumes of my fellow rap lovers for you to then come on and do a 40 minute show. Whoever said 'big things come in small packages' must certainly have seen you perform live, because the price was indeed big.

I will be honest; other than admiring your genius use of abbreviation in A Milli, or the symbolic representations in “lick me like a lollipop,” I admit that I am not very well-versed in your repertoire. Therefore, I sincerely appreciate that you simplified your lyrics to the words  'f*** y’all,' ‘b****’, 'p****' and 'n*****,' chanting them repeatedly so that new fans like me can easily follow along. A brilliant strategy I must say, for the foreign crowds especially, teaching them English through song in a fast-paced yet manageable way.

About that last word I mentioned. You know the one I'm talking about. At least the Frenchies certainly know it because they showed no shame in exclaiming it, like a children's sing-along, in the same repetitive, audacious manner as you did. I am curious to know how you feel about their open expression of this taboo word. Perhaps they are not quite as globally aware, their brains so full with pastries and cheese. Do not hold it against them.... their accents are quite adorable. I, on the other hand, a fellow American born in a nation or no prejudice or racial divide, could not bring myself to echo such words that could potentially connote racial slurs. Therefore please understand, Mr. Carter, that my choosing not to sing this word found in nearly every line in every song, was a sign of respect rather than complete bewilderment that I actually live in a world where such songs could possibly top the charts.

Dear petit Weezy, you may have noticed a lack of energy in the crowd. This, I can assure you, has nothing to do with your skills as an artist, but rather serves as a demonstration of 'The French Way.' When you said 'Jump!' and nobody jumped, it was not that they didn't want to but rather it is not customary for them to do so. When you shouted 'put yo hands in the air' and everyone simply took photos on their phones, they merely intended to express their approval of your words and actions. And when you asked "if anyone who's out there came here tonight with their homeboys say yyyeeeaaahhhh" and no one responded 'yeah'... well perhaps just try slowing down and enunciating.

Although the entirety of the show proved overwhelmingly loud, I can recall two favorite moments. First, during the ten minute intermission while you changed aka just took off your shirt, the DJ played snipets of all your legit features in tunes ("Swagga Like Us," "Mrs. Officer," "Soldier") which brought me back to my youthful teen years blasting them in my minivan on the way to school.  The other greatest moment, I remember very clearly, occured when you finished your last song. You ran off stage, the lights blared on, and the cleanup crew went right to work, saving the audience from the anticipation of an encore. And what better way to end than a cigarette burn from the guy to my right who, kudos to him, managed to finished 6 drags throughout the smoke-free concert. Rather than yell with rage, however, I smile, thanking him for the scathed mark on my forearm that will serve as a permanent souvenir of the night and a reminder as to why I tend to skip concerts with artists who sing "Ask dem hoes about me" and "I feel like f****** sumthin."

XOXO,

Ashley



P.S. Props to the lighting and design crew... the display actually looked really legit!

P.P.S. Forty minutes.... seriously man?

Romania Part Two: Twilight Ain't got Nothin on this Bad Boy

The thing taking the longest to adjust to since my European installment is trying to decipher this whole 'celcius' thing. I've gotten a pretty good grasp on meters from running track, and I learned kilograms pretty quick as a kid when my Japanese aunt would have me weigh myself to report how many more I should lose. But something about attempting to figure out the weather in celcius just makes me want to vomit. I admit, the fabulous Fahrenheit isn't very useful outside the home of the brave, but still, Ray Bradbury said it right when he wrote, “If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you'll never learn.” But I digress.

Celcius or not, getting off the 90 minute train from Bucharest to Sinaia, Romania, the degrees dropped like it's NOT hawt. At all. In fact, freezin' ma buns off cold. Apparently this whole temperature dropping thing happens in every mountain range, but I'm from Chicago, so it blew my mind to need to change from tank to fleece when traveling for less than the time of a full-length movie.

Sinaia Castle

Luckily, a pretty, pretty castle awaited at the top to make me feel like a princess again under my three layers of cardigans and the other ill-suited articles of clothing I packed. I've seen many a castle and church and temple and monument and cheeses that would knock your socks off by the smell, but this hunk of glory was the most beautiful thing I've seen, the prettiest girl at the ball. With mountains and streams in the backdrop, the sounds of chirping birds and French tourists complaining about the weather, it was literally like falling into the storybook of Beauty and the Beast (Gaston oh he's so cute!) Apparently this shining property was just one of dozens owned by Charles I, the first king of Romania, but clearly he would have passed around invites to this crib for show and tell.

Hot tea in our hands, Georgia on our minds, Alla and I get back on the train up to Brasov, a cutsy little town in the region of Transylvania. Contrary to its ridiculous sounding name, Transylvania is an actual place, a region with a rich history involving Hungarian war lords and the Ottoman Empire. But the only reason we've actually heard of the darn place is not because of our European History professors (though you did a fine job, Mr. Phillips!) but rather some Irish bloke by the name of Bram Stoker.

Bran Castle

With no particular roots in Romania himself, the writer of Dracula still managed to turn some random structure in the woods into the country's most visited tourist attraction (actually we can thank the film directors for that).  Like the nerdy older sister who never got asked to prom, Bran Castle (about 30 minutes from Brasov) cannot compare in looks to her charming sibling we visited back in Sinaia. Yet perhaps it's the mystery behind this dark enchantress that gives it so much appeal. The stone structure with rustic circular roofs concealed by shady trees, cold pale walls marked by wont and decay, and stairwells leading every which way into hidden chambers, leading further to your slow and painful DEATH.  

Bahaha okay that's enough. But whether you're Team Edward or Team Jacob, you'll still get a kick out of these fun facts learned from the tall, dark and handsome tour guide for the group of British senior citizens I tagged along:

• The name Dracula derives from Dracul, which means the Devil. Dracula therefore connotes the Devil's Son.
• Stoker likely drew inspiration for Count Dracula from a man named Vlad the Impaler, a duke back in the day who, as one can gather from his name, prefered torture and excruciating deaths over blueberry scones.
• This Vlad dude also happened to be a member of the Order of the Dragon (take that, Phoenix!), its symbol a dragon practically choking itself with its own tail. Dragon. Dracul. Things are beginning to click.



Brasov, Romania

• Hey fellow feminist! Turns out a woman actually spured some creative energy for our blood thirsty vampire: 16th century countess Elizabeth Bathorym, best known for murdering dozens if not hundreds of young women and girls, would bathe in her victims' blood to soak in that rejuvenating virgin blood. Hmmmm.
• The tour guide was not happy to see me sneaking into his group.

Though one can never feel Vampired-Out, it did feel nice after the excellent tour to descend the castle's hill for a Kürtös Kalács, basically a tube of hot stove-cooked dough sprinkled in sugar and nuts. Off the chain amazing by itself, though imagine stuffing scoops of Ben & Jerry's into that little sucker. Oh boy.

The rest of Brasov presented to us a gorgeous church (blackened from a fire centuries ago) a history of political divide (mainly between the Ottomans, Saxons and later the Communists), and a cute little market where I found this gem:

 

If you've never seen Up, don't read my blog. Just Kidding! But go watch it NOW!

Handmade, Leather-bound, and likely exceeding the Ryan Air baggabe weight restrictions, I cannot wait to fill it with all the photos and stories I've gathered thus far!