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!)

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.