Hello, La La Land

Check out my new fancy banner for the blog! My lovely friend Sandra made it and I’m just as obsessed with it as I am with her. She’s an incredible artist and hilarious and beautiful and sassy and smart and was also my first friend in Paris. She helped me with directions, the language, to the clubs, etc and in return I would take her e-cigarette, the kind that smells like hazelnut, and hide it in my purse to freak her out. She put up with a lot. Check out her other awesome artwork here.

I hopped on the plane, Miley!

Of course I Frenchify my blog NOW, just as I’ve left France and officially moved to Los Angeles, but let’s just say it’s a part of my past that I ain’t letting go (plus it’s just so darn pretty!). I used to walk those winding cobblestone streets of Le Marais, climb the hill up to the Sacre Coeur, bike my way down le Canal St. Martin and take in the beautiful buildings and people. Now, I live my life in a car.

It’s been just over two weeks now in la la land. I’m still here. I’m still alive. It’s funny, in all of the interviews I’ve had so far (trust me, not THAT many) I keep getting asked, “how long are you planning to stay this time?” And I kind of wanna be like “you don’t know what I’ve been through!!” but it’s nice to be able to honestly answer, “this is where I want to be.”  And then I get the rejection emails or worse, no response, and I cry and think, “why oh why did I leave you, baguette land? You had such delicious baguettes!”

The rain stays mainly off the plain

But it’s been exciting. And HOT. I feel like my sweat glands and B.O. have strengthened since Europe (or maybe with age!) and I need deodorant constantly. Or maybe it’s the nerves that I’ve just bought a car and signed a lease and will soon be lacking health insurance… ALL while being the U word. No, not Uranus, UNEMPLOYED. Shocked emoji!!!

It’s not so bad. I haven’t quite freaked out yet, perhaps because I’ve laid out a general game plan of all the steps I’ll take and how desperate I’m willing to get before I’ve achieved wealth and stardom, and while I won’t bore you with the details it will involve a lot of crying and home cooked pasta. But people smile a lot here, and it’s quite encouraging. I’ve reached out to friends, acquaintances, even strangers and been surprised by just how many strangers are not really strangers at all. As well as how many strangers are on drugs. Speaking of awful things you consume, vegan options are literally everywhere. It’s like Forever 21 for herbivores… there’s almost too many options that you feel nauseous and all you want is a juicy steak but it’s nowhere to be found. Fear not, there’s In & Out around the corner. All life problems solved.

the Mecca

I still get pissed off about some things like increased car insurance or paying double in rent what I did in Paris or $15 dollar parking for my one hour doctor’s appointment and generally all things concerning money, but money can’t buy you love, right? But maybe it can buy me a job with benefits? Or a pool? Honestly, if probably could buy me love if I had enough. It’s fun to dream, ain’t it.

Like I said, I'm excited to be here. I've been a little Dora the Explorer and vamonosing my ass around to the different hoods. Culver. Westwood. Beverly. WeHo. HoWe (it's fun to say!). Spoke a little Francais here, a little Español there (and a little 'konichiwa!' at the ramen shop!) There's tons of diversity if you look for it, not on screen, but in all the little pockets that make up this massive suburbia. And I'm excited to Dora my way around some more. 

I can't wait to share more with mom and Cynthia and whoever else reads this. I’ve already got enough material for many a blog post to come, many a giggle, many a tear. I’ve brought up crying quite a bit in this rather scattered post. It is 2:30 in the morning (PST, biatch!) and I just finished off my roommate's quart of ice cream. I guess you could say I'm on a roll. With my writing. With my move. That ice cream. And with this page: I just scrolled up again to see my friend’s artwork and wow, what a pretty place I called home. So far away now. I feel you, Carole King. But now I'm here. Home is where the heart is. A very hot, expensive home. 

My Kind of Town

Chicago is the city of 20,000 leagues under the C (C=construction) and I’ve played soccer in just about all of them.

Women’s leagues. Men’s leagues. Work leagues. Charity leagues. Gay leagues. Indoor leagues. Beach leagues. Let’s drink and have fun leagues. Win or go home extremely angry leagues. Bitch, you ain’t on the roster leagues. Where is the referee? leagues. Even out of my leagues. Name it, and I’m probably a substitute on at least six of them. It’s an awesome way to meet new people, and if you can actually put the ball in the back of the net, you’d be surprised how many hopefuls start asking for your digits. Or in my case, for money, as I’ve yet to pay my membership fees (>.<).

I started my career in intramural stardom back in college, recognized as that one loud chick at soccer meetups who harassed all the debutants and ball-hogs to GTFO. Through my commitment to mediocre pick-up, consistent presence at the local dive bar and having a cute/equally sporty blond roommate, I got to know the soccer community in and around Chicago pretty well. These connections, plus my unemployment status, have made me the perfect candidate to last minute sub for various teams. I’ve stepped onto the field without knowing a single other player but a competitive spirit plus a common love for sport and beer are enough for high fives and invitations to post-game outings. And that’s where I’ve found myself these past 6 weeks, playing games and celebrating from rooftop to rooftop, soaking in summertime Chi.

Ask anyone from, around, or currently in the city: there’s no better place to be than Chicago in the summer. When those first dandelions burst out from under the snow (around mid-may), it’s off with the NorthFace and hello crop tops. Drinks on the roof, on the terrace, along the river, at the festival… every square inch of this spankin’ city is a reason to celebrate. It’s like one giant block party and everyone’s wearing an “I’m proud to be from the Midwest” pin on their cubs t-shirt. It’s the best of both worlds, right? That small-town feel squeezed in between big freakin’ buildings. Go to any party and you’ll meet someone from a nearby suburb, someone from a nearby state, and some rando from New Jersey who you don’t really need to see again. We like our hip-hop, we dig our jazz, and if you’re country folk we got some overpriced cellars just for you and your white friends who own a boat. Happy hours. Whiskey flights. Honky tonk. Watch me whip. Concerts. Cook offs. God Bless Chicago, my home sweet home.


So here’s a little trivia for the beer pong break: in this same city last Labor Day weekend, 9 people were killed and 46 wounded in shootings. Most of the murders occurred in the south and west sides of Chicago, but one just a block away from my old hood, Evanston (which, like Chicago, is geographically segregated: walk a mile north from high crime rates and you’ll arrive to our beautiful ivy-glazed campus and its surrounding high class establishments). Chicago has now seen over 350 homicides in 2015, likely to exceed 500 by the end of the year. This is the same city, right? The one that I call home? (Technically I’m from the suburbs so if you want to dismiss this entire post then FINE. But good luck surviving without our ikea!).

Pride 2014

So is it fair to call Chicago “home” when the city I know only encompasses certain demographics, certain neighborhoods, certain colors? The Chicago I know is college educated, employed, often involved in charity work for great causes like autism, abandoned animals, cancer research. My Chicago hosts movie screenings, gay pride festivals, free trial yoga classes. My Chicago thinks it’s cute that I’m biracial, but basically white, and invites me after being away to come live in Lincoln Park or Wicker or the loop and enjoy all the wonderful things these neighborhoods have to offer.

This is my Chicago, one I am not ashamed of (actually proud of, I could say) but I know it is not HER Chicago, the mother of one of last weekends’ victims. Not HIS Chicago, a Lawndale resident who feels unsafe in his own city of black-on-black crime. Not THEIR Chicago, the gunshot wounded who walked by the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know their city, whether summertime feels anything like paradise, but we do call the same city home, and something about that irks me. In Paris the segregation pushes outward, into the suburbs, the crime rates rising the further out you go. Here it’s based on directions, S, W, ones that I’ve never set foot in. But I come across these heartbreaking stories of crime and death buried between concert schedules and pro-sports gossip and I wonder how many eyes in my bubble of the city actually read them. Ignorance is bliss, but it’ll lead to no progress. How can we, I, you, help Chicago? Maybe all lives will matter more if it wasn’t so easy to circle the ‘no go zones’ on a map. I haven’t the answers, any evidence besides what I’ve read, and with two weeks left I haven’t really the time, though perhaps that’s everyone’s excuse. But I love my Chicago, and I want to share it with the entire city. How can we get more people involved in our 20,000 leagues?

I’ve clearly digressed from my original thesis of “why sports leagues should require attractive men to give out their phone numbers” but I felt a bit ignorant for gloating about this city when my experiences only range between 10-15 neighborhoods out of what, 77? (and the more I dig, the more uninformed I feel). I wish I had more time to discover and learn but I'm taking off, so realistically I’ll only make time for discoveries of the tummy and tastebuds. Those are the best kinds of discoveries, after all. Exploring restaurants, bars, fests... might even be a great way for those staying or stopping by, to step out of your neighborhood, your bubble, and visit more of the 77 than I’ve been able to this summer. Just a thought.

Sick Day

Sorry for the not-topical photo... 
it was this or my bleeding tonsils

I’m at home with strep throat, something I thought only children get but I’m young at heart and at throat apparently, so boo hoo and a whole lot of guck. I took a couple days off to rest and it hurts too much to talk or eat so I try to do a bit of writing, but that’s the thing about being sick: you've got the whole day free but really you’re so weak that just getting up to pee takes up every ounce of energy, forcing you to go back to sleep to conserve enough for the next potty break. So I give up and put the laptop away, cozy into the couch and finally get aboard the Game of Thrones train (better late than never!). I’m nearly done with season 1 but let me guess… EVERYONE DIES.

I started getting symptoms on Sunday at which point I followed my usual “freak-out-when-my-body-does-something-slightly-abnormal” routine: go onto WebMD, search every fatal disease I could possibly have, narrow my diagnosis to either aids, cancer or scarlet fever, write a eulogy for my parents and friends, decide what I’ll do with my remaining money, and end with going through facebook albums to determine whether “I’ve lived life to the fullest.” From there I’ll waste another hour or two online, thinking how lucky these people have it to be alive. And my mother says I need to be more cautious.

this is the waiting room...

I got my actually diagnosis today at my pediatrician’s office. That’s right, pediatrician: doctor for KIDS. His name's Dr. H and he's a pretty cool dude. He’s the same guy I’ve been seeing since elementary school and for some reason I’ve never managed to find or need a doctor after turning 18 or he’s just nice enough to keep me as a patient. So there I am in the waiting room, sitting beside a mother and her five-year old playing with action figures. The only reading material consists of highlights! magazines and picture books (both of which I am a huge fan) so I get down to word play until the doc calls my name. Yada yada symptoms, yada yada tests, yada yada knick knack and he prescribes me the pills. Only this time, assuming that I’m of age to be “off of my parents’ insurance,” he asks me if I’m on a good enough plan to afford the medicine. Excusé-moi?

At times like these I miss the good old days of socialist France. I’d go to the doctor, pay my 23 bucks, get a laundry list of medications, take that to the pharmacy, not pay a cent, then get the 23 bucks reimbursed back within two weeks. Pas mal, pas mal. For specialists like ophthalmologists and coochi clinics I might not get the full refund but still it was a no brainer to pay a visit at the very moment I felt a bit ill.  

Now back home and at the prime age of “almost 26,” I need to pay attention to things like PPO, HMO, HBO and other things that can seriously stack up my bills. At the time Obamacare became a thing I was already abroad, and from an external point of view it’s like “well no shit, Sherlock. Everybody should be able to afford healthcare.” But now as I dive into my new life as a “freelance artist,” picking out plans, determining coverage, and paying for it out of pocket each month directly applies to ME, and I am not at all excited to be dealing with that. Especially coming from a country where month-long (paid) sick days can be issued simply because you’re feeling triste (that, by the way, means "sad," and people use that to get paid to stay home). 

Today's affair was relatively painless, with a co-pay here, and a co-pay there (and a cotton swab all up in there). I won’t be getting that 23 bucks back in the mail this time, and in a few months time when I’m no longer covered by mommy and daddy, it’s gonna be more like “here a Co, there a Pay, everywhere a pay! Pay!” Until then, expect to be seeing a LOT of me, Dr. H!

LESSON LEARNED: Always wash your hands. And don’t kiss strangers. At least not strangers who might have mono. Or if you must, do it while you're properly insured. Or just do it in France. 

Welcome Home, and Cheesy Fries

So I thought I was feeling nostalgic Saturday on my last walk through le Marais, baguette in hand and another in the other, enjoying the slow paced, boutiquey quaintness/richness/gayness of my favorite neighborhood in Paris. But ever since I stepped off the plane at O’Hare, the real sensation of “OMG I’m not in France anymore” has definitely hit. Multiple times. Like a cannonball. Or wrecking ball, as Miley Cyrus is on the radio here. Holey Moley I’m back.

Can I get some cheesy fries with that?

Suburban America is… BIG. Big portions. Big driving lanes. Big… people. Walking around in Europe I mostly noticed the clothing worn by passersby and judged accordingly, but returning back you can’t help but notice the size of people. The corridor leading to the plane was lined with wheelchairs not simply for the elderly or handicapped but those who just don’t… walk. Motorized scooters in malls, and lines at the drive-through pharmacy when there’s no wait inside… doesn’t anybody walk? And the portions… boy I love me a Portillo’s cake shake but a medium-sized drink is bigger than a large anywhere else in the world. None of this is new information, of course. It’s just, back in France I didn’t have to worry about portion control because the portions were just… already controlled for me. But you know the American way… more, more, more!  

Also, screens are EVERYWHERE. In restaurants, in stores, even in the library. At my 8am dentist appointment (no problem, as I was up by 4am), I get seated in a chair with an HD television screen in my face showing Good Morning America. I can’t help thinking of that episode of Black Mirrors I recently watched and suddenly feel claustrophobic about the screen and noise and just want it to be turned off but at this point I’ve got sharp objects dancing away at my gums so I just hold my tongue (away from the sharp objects). It’s a stark contrast to my French doctor, who operates out of her apartment living room, no thrills or frills (I wasn’t even allowed to use the bathroom).

Now lean back!

Some things have changed, at least in my little suburbia. We have a new Trader Joes and the cutest family moved in next door. I went to the movies yesterday and the seats are literally armchairs with adjustable footrests that are more comfortable than my couches at home. And there are the sweet things that I’ve missed. People say thank you ALL the time. And it always feels good. I can call a cellphone provider and a human answers. 2pm appointments actually start at 2pm. And there’s frozen yogurt galore!

So now it’s day 2 of being back, and I guess by now the shock factor has faded. I feel myself sinking back into old habits. Hummus and pita bread. Ice in my water. Coach purses. I haven’t even worn black all week! And if feels great to let it all go but at the same time, I’m a bit scared, afraid that those layers of my French years I’ve built up are beginning to peel away. Walking through the same mall I went to back in high school, I got a sort of vile feeling that I’ve landed back where I began. I used to be that girl that was just home for the holidays, off again in 5 days to her exotic life in France, where they don’t even speak English! I’d say “oh stop, it’s really not that great” but it was still cool to be that somebody that did something different. Now I’m back to being the American girl living in America and following her American dream. Just like any other American girl. And it’s not so exotic but it’s what I want. And I don’t think I would have been this sure about it if I’d never gone away. But still… I wish being the girl who “used to live in France” sounded just as cool.  

Saying Goodbye

Hello, goodbye. Let's keep in touch. Until we meet again. If we meet again. 

The thing about saying goodbye to friends abroad is that you're never sure when you're going to see them again. It's the same for anyone who's ever made a big move, but across continents to lands with different cultures and languages and rhythms, it feels extra heavy. More concrete. More like goodbye. Of course, those memories will remain close at heart, in a glass ornament brought out once in a while to reminisce the good times of that epoch in Paris, or wherever. But man, I'm really going to miss some of you.

Oh yeah, so some context. I'm moving back to the states in four days. For good (for now). OMG. Apologies for the lack of posts as of late, but this decision has consumed me and I've been traveling and... and... and you know how it goes. Anyway, this marks the end of my life in France, this pretty little thing that came and went so unexpectedly, so abruptly. Am I a changed woman? Perhaps. I drink sparkling water now, and am open to eating raw meat. I speak another language, and don't wear sneakers out in public. Though I doubt these habits will follow me home. Really, all I can think about at the moment is gorging my last croissants and what I'll be doing next. And prolonging the goodbyes.

People keep asking how I feel about leaving. Truthfully, I'm just excited for what's to come next. Sure, I'm nostalgic and will miss things: it's been glamorous, no doubt. I've seen places and eaten foods and experienced things that I never would have back home. Things that have opened my eyes to new ways of understanding people and governments and it's certainly changed my attitude towards America. A lot is wrong with the US, no doubt, obvious things like gun control and healthcare, and the amount we waste on food, light, litter, gas... it's really shameful. And needs to change. Some things are much better, more secure, in Europe, and I've appreciated them in my time here. 

But if I'm being honest, as a feminist who's loud and competitive and prefers smiling but loathes cigarettes and people who wear scarves when it's not cold out... France has been a terrible fit. Cheating ex aside, I've never been so frustrated with people as I have been here. To all the chauvinists who have told me girls can't play soccer, or that I'm too pretty to wear sweatpants, that I'm too ambitious professionally or that Americans are all racist... fuck you. Seriously.The doctors who prescribe without listening, those who hang up or close doors because my French accent isn't perfect, and everyone leaving problems unsolved because it's time for the two hour lunch break... I despise you. This country has a stigma for being unfriendly and cold and after three years I can't say I disagree. You're beautiful, France, no doubt, but the echoes of the complaining on every street corner can be a real drag. 

So thank you to all those, in spite of the debbie downers, that have still made it worthwhile. Made it fun. Made me happy. It's a little bit the baguettes and the cheese. The cheap wine and cheap flights. The chateaus and terraces. But mainly it's you, my soccer team, those special colleagues, roommate and friends of friends, and random encounters here and there on dance floors in metros at markets and over drinks... you are my Paris, my years abroad, my early twenties, my days and nights of not knowing what the hell it all means but moving along anyway. France was never in my agenda, but life throws curve balls like attractive men and job opportunities, and so I decided
to go for it. It's been a remarkable chapter in my life. I mean, I speak French now! I've visited over a dozen countries. I even dated a model (which I will be bragging about forever). And mostly, I've made friendships that are in for the long haul. And I'm truly thankful for that.  

It's come to an end now. Endings are sad, and I still have some goodbyes left that will no doubt be tear-filled and hard. You know who you are, and I'm writing this for you. It's funny how your excitement for me and what's next to come makes it that much harder to leave. Wish you could come away with me, along with all the things I love about my life here. The camembert and the fois gras won't make it past airport security, but I'll do my best to safely carry that little glass ornament of memories with me wherever life takes me next.

The Paris I Don't Know (though I should... and you should too!)

I decided to take a break from my usual self-centric posts and write something about PARIS, this amazing city I live, breathe and pay tons of taxes in. Like TONS. As in, hey there, Mr. Salary. Allow me to dismember you and offer up your legs to social taxes, your arms to residence taxes, and that nice thick hair to income taxes. De rien. Then throw away your core to cost of living so that your poor head is left alone to ponder those student loans you still have to pay off. Youch. But the croissants are to die for! 

Anyway, a friend from high school reached out to me and asked if I had any recommendations for her upcoming trip to Paris. I love giving recommendations, or rather I love showing that I know more about something than others, and so I fervently listed dozens of sites and restaurants and neighborhoods in her three day trip. When I finally stopped to take a breath, I read through the exhaustive list and realized that I hadn't even been to half of them. Why not? I could blame the taxes, but it's mainly due to laziness. I thought, well that's dumb to suggest places I don't actually know are any good, which made it the perfect topic to share over the world wide web. So don't take my word for anything on this list, although I highly recommend each of them. To be fair, all have been backed by tripadvisory, yelpy, lonelyplanety reviews, so it's not like I just pulled them out of my arse. And if I had, more reason to try them out. I'll follow this up with a list I actually HAVE experienced and recommend (very soon, je promets!), but for now:

Places in Paris I recommend without the authority to recommend them: 

- Catacombs - It's a super cool ossuary (yeah... I had to look it up) where the remains of nearly 6 million people have been dumped throughout history. Apparently this huge labyrinth located several meters below ground leads you through spooky dark passageways lined with human skulls and bones. Might not be the best for date night with your claustrophobic boo. 

- Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise - Another happy place for dead people. It's the largest cemetery in Paris that is the resting spot for some "kind of" famous people like, oh i don't know, Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Edith Pilaf, to name a few. I've heard there are also really impressive WW1 memorials. 

La Durée

- La Durée - So after you're all zombied-out, try something on the sweeter side. This pastry house (I believe there are three of them around the city) is known for making the best macarons… period. I have no problem with the ones sold at McDonalds but hey, when in Rome... errr Paris.

- Musée d'Orsay - Many say it's the best museum in Paris. Located in a gorgeous ancient train station along the Seine River, the museum houses the world's largest collection of Impressionist Art. Impressionism is pretty awesome. The museum's not too far from where I work. And it's also free for me. Now I feel ashamed that I haven't gone...

- Boat ride on the Seine - You see it in all the movies, the romantic dinner on a boat listening to some flapper-dressed singer belting out "La Vie en Rose" as you cruise past the Eiffel Tower. I'm not saying that I'm above these kinds of mushy gushy, overly priced tourist traps. I'm also not saying I wouldn't go if someone were to invite me. I'm just saying I've never done one. 

Hey sista, soul sista

- Moulin Rouge - Speaking of overly priced tourist traps… Roxanne! While I've taken a million photos in front of the iconic red windmill (those wearing skirts be weary: the huge air vent on the platform in front of the building will lead to some unwanted Marlin Monroe shots), I've never actually paid the 100 euros or however much to see the show. Spoiler: you do get to see boobies!  

-Place des Vosges - I was supposed to go on a date here once, but then it rained and so we rescheduled but then the guy left and I was like, seriously dude, but then he had a good reason and- ANYWAY, it's the city's oldest and most beautiful town square, built in the early 1600's. Just a couple blocks from the very popular Bastille statue, its green space is highly sought out for picnics on sunny days (NOT rainy days… I'm not bitter...). 

- Rosa Bonheur - So this bar is located smack dab in the center of my favorite park (I'll get to that in my next post), and I run past it all the time but never saw what the big deal was. Apparently on sunny days, you're warned to arrived before 6pm if you want any chance of getting in. They have a great terrace with lively communal tables and play great tunes inside the pavilion. My friend met her awesome boyfriend there. The bar also sponsors the soccer team that kicks our asses at every tournament. Again, I don't see what the big deal is. 

*DISCLAIMER: I just went there last night... and it IS a big deal!

I'd love to hear your recommendations for places you've never been... because the best advice is the kind you can't defend! 

p.s. Again, i promise to follow up with a post listing places I truly love and frequent in Paris!