You, me, and the universe between.

Uganda Support Mission

2011-12-06T23:04:00.001-08:00

Visit my new blog, http://ugandasupportmission.blogspot.com/, to follow our medical team in Uganda!

Homemade Peruvian empanadas

2011-11-23T12:19:00.001-08:00

Studio Gourmet in San Francisco

2011-11-22T14:37:00.001-08:00

Studio Gourmet was another success on Tuesday with Chef Mark Dommen from Michelin-rated One Market Restaurant in downtown San Francisco.

During an in-depth interview, the Napa-based chef spoke candidly about his life growing up in the rural countryside of northern California and starting his "farm-to-table" mantra early on. From starting out at jobs like dish-washing during school summer breaks and a minimum wage internship at Hubert Keller's Fleur de Lys, Dommen went on to graduate from the California Culinary Academy and has since traveled around the world to cook, including Switzerland, where he owns a dual-citizenship. Now the Executive Chef and Partner at San Francisco's One Market Restaurant with over 20 years of cooking experience, Dommen has mastered contemporary, seasonal and fresh American fare, and stresses the importance of always taking care of his staff.

On the menu Tuesday night was a deeeelicious bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin stacked on a sautéed apple slice with a dandelion and mustard green persillade, followed by baked (not fried) Dungeness crab cakes.

Left: Brad Lev, Host and Founder of Studio Gourmet; Right: Chef Mark Dommenfrom One Market Restaurant

For all you foodies out there, here's something you might not know: Dommen was voted one of the "Hottest Chefs in the Bay" by SF Eater. Atta boy, Mark.

For the next Studio Gourmet event, visit http://www.studiogourmetsf.com/.

Walrus the wise.

2011-11-13T21:13:00.001-08:00

rnh, 3-13-11

—It’s sort of like a story, isn’t it? Of things coming together and coming undone.

—Shitty story.

—How can you be sure?

—There are other people to take care of that.

—Oh.

—So what now?

—Have we ever known? Does anybody know?

—Probably not.

—We’re mistaking this for something far less (or more) complicated.

—What do you mean?

—You know, love, or whatever.

—Love?

—Yes.

—I didn’t know that was in question.

—Don’t you remember how you were broken?

—How could I forget?

—Those walks. So long and heavy.

—You made me take my shoes off once.

—The night it rained.

—I didn’t understand.

—I know.

—Maybe if we had a compass…

—That’d be too easy. We should be desperate, raggedy, semi-coherent, wanting…

—Aren’t we?

—This—this intimacy; these fragments with no real organized continuity;this talk of who is going where and why and when and with whom—would never have continued, or, in the very least, started, had you—had we—not been so stubborn. So goddamn stubborn.

—We like it that way.

—I’m dead serious about all this.

—Absolutely.

—Talking about “potential” and “what ifs”—it was all talk and no action.

—Maybe.

—This is not what I envisioned.

—What did you envision?

—I don’t know. This is all far too…predictable. Or I guess maybe unpredictable. The way we are. All of the things we don’t speak about. It’s always the same thing. It’s always the same dead-fucking-end.

—Hah, yeah.

—Trying is out of the question.

—Right.

—And don’t even think about public engagement.

—Definitely not.

—I hate your stupid shoes.

—We used to joke about them.

—That was then.

Hills Like White Elephants

2011-11-13T16:58:00.001-08:00

By Ernest Hemingway

"The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went to Madrid.

'What should we drink?' the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

'It’s pretty hot,' the man said.

'Let’s drink beer.'

'Dos cervezas,' the man said into the curtain.

'Big ones?' a woman asked from the doorway.

'Yes. Two big ones.'

The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glass on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

'They look like white elephants,' she said.

"I’ve never seen one," the man drank his beer.

'No, you wouldn’t have.'

'I might have,' the man said. ‘Just because you say I wouldn’t have doesn’t prove anything.’

The girl looked at the bead curtain. ‘They’ve painted something on it,’ she said. ‘What does it say?’

‘Anis del Toro. It’s a drink.’

‘Could we try it?’

The man called ‘Listen’ through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.

‘Four reales.’ ‘We want two Anis del Toro.’

‘With water?’

‘Do you want it with water?’

‘I don’t know,’ the girl said. ‘Is it good with water?’

‘It’s all right.’

‘You want them with water?’ asked the woman.

‘Yes, with water.’

‘It tastes like liquorice,’ the girl said and put the glass down.

‘That’s the way with everything.’

‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘Everything tastes of liquorice. Especially all the things you’ve waited so long for, like absinthe.’

‘Oh, cut it out.’

‘You started it,’ the girl said. ‘I was being amused. I was having a fine time.’

‘Well, let’s try and have a fine time.’

‘All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn’t that bright?’

‘That was bright.’

‘I wanted to try this new drink. That’s all we do, isn’t it – look at things and try new drinks?’

‘I guess so.’

The girl looked across at the hills.

‘They’re lovely hills,’ she said. ‘They don’t really look like white elephants. I just meant the colouring of their skin through the trees.’

‘Should we have another drink?’

‘All right.’

The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.

‘The beer’s nice and cool,’ the man said.

‘It’s lovely,’ the girl said.

‘It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,’ the man said. ‘It’s not really an operation at all.’

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

‘I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s really not anything. It’s just to let the air in.’

The girl did not say anything.

‘I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.’

‘Then what will we do afterwards?’

‘We’ll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘That’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy.’

The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.

‘And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy.’

‘I know we will. Yon don’t have to be afraid. I’ve known lots of people that have done it.’

‘So have I,’ said the girl. ‘And afterwards they were all so happy.’

‘Well,’ the man said, ‘if you don’t want to you don’t have to. I wouldn’t have you do it if you didn’t want to. But I know it’s perfectly simple.’

‘And you really want to?’

‘I think it’s the best thing to do. But I don’t want you to do it if you don’t really want to.’

‘And if I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like they were and you’ll love me?’

‘I love you now. You know I love you.’

‘I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you’ll like it?’

‘I’ll love it. I love it now but I just can’t think about it. You know how I get when I worry.’

‘If I do it you won’t ever worry?’

‘I won’t worry about that because it’s perfectly simple.’

‘Then I’ll do it. Because I don’t care about me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t care about me.’

‘Well, I care about you.’

‘Oh, yes. But I don’t care about me. And I’ll do it and then everything will be fine.’

‘I don’t want you to do it if you feel that way.’

The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.

‘And we could have all this,’ she said. ‘And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said we could have everything.’

‘We can have everything.’

‘No, we can’t.’

‘We can have the whole world.’

‘No, we can’t.’

‘We can go everywhere.’

‘No, we can’t. It isn’t ours any more.’

‘It’s ours.’

‘No, it isn’t. And once they take it away, you never get it back.’

‘But they haven’t taken it away.’

‘We’ll wait and see.’

‘Come on back in the shade,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t feel that way.’

‘I don’t feel any way,’ the girl said. ‘I just know things.’

‘I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do -’

‘Nor that isn’t good for me,’ she said. ‘I know. Could we have another beer?’

‘All right. But you’ve got to realize – ‘

‘I realize,’ the girl said. ‘Can’t we maybe stop talking?’

They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.

‘You’ve got to realize,’ he said, ‘ that I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.’

‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you? We could get along.’

‘Of course it does. But I don’t want anybody but you. I don’t want anyone else. And I know it’s perfectly simple.’

‘Yes, you know it’s perfectly simple.’

‘It’s all right for you to say that, but I do know it.’

‘Would you do something for me now?’

‘I’d do anything for you.’

‘Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?’

He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.

‘But I don’t want you to,’ he said, ‘I don’t care anything about it.’

‘I’ll scream,’ the girl siad.

The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. ‘The train comes in five minutes,’ she said.

‘What did she say?’ asked the girl.

‘That the train is coming in five minutes.’

The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.

‘I’d better take the bags over to the other side of the station,’ the man said. She smiled at him.

‘All right. Then come back and we’ll finish the beer.’

He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.

‘Do you feel better?’ he asked.

‘I feel fine,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.’"

Upwellings, pt. 2

2011-11-13T16:54:00.001-08:00

rnh, 6-7-10

Memory: When I was eight, my family went to India for a month. My grandpa was an architect, and had been relocated to New Delhi for a construction project, where both he and my grandma would then live for over a year. I remember going to the Taj Mahal in Agra, witnessing one of the world’s wonders before I knew what that even meant. My timid feet explored its entirely white marble terrain, marveling at the beauty of its intricate designs, in awe of its grandeur and immaculate precision. A pinnacle of extravagance; an emblem of enduring love.

I wondered how humans could construct such a thing.

I did not understand the lifestyle of these people, nor did they understand me. I remember visiting the zoo one day and when my family would stop to rest in the shade, men and women would gather around us, stupefied by the appearance of these tall, fair-skinned foreigners—me in a yellow sun dress with painted toe nails, and my grandparents with visors and fanny packs. The passersby took pictures, gawking, as if we were yet another exhibit at the zoo.

I remember trailing close behind my mom and grandma as we walked through the slums of Old Delhi. I passed rusty bicycles carrying passengers and cargo, open grills roasting ears of corn, clotheslines like power lines, vendors displaying brightly colored saris draped along makeshift door frames under which entire families sprawled on torn blankets in reconfigured cardboard boxes to escape the blistering heat. Sometimes, I passed creeks where mothers gathered water while upstream, others defecated.

I remember peasant children crowding intersections, skeletal, naked, begging at the windows of stopped vehicles. Some groped my ankles; others held their faces in their hands.

I wondered how humans could construct such a thing.

And then there was...

2011-11-13T16:52:00.001-08:00

rnh, 5-22-11

Once, somewhere, I thought of what it might be like to feel. Always, everywhere, I swim in the myriad confusion of existence (with others).

It’s late, again. I’m drunk on cheap beer. Smoke rolls and twists and fades.

There isn’t much of concern, though the walls seem more out of reach.

I think of that Japanese girl who lived with us once, and wonder if she ever thinks of me. She was so young, and so small. She gave me a kimono as a gift. It sits in a drawer now.

Currently, I read: living from life, dying from death.

“I will record a story of love
in the heart of time,
and play it back softly
for the one who becomes mine.”

Isn’t it all so very lovely:

recollecting the depths of a winter’s chill,

sketching the promise

of a summer midday?

Artist Bio - Jack Barnosky

2011-11-13T14:30:00.001-08:00

Interview by Rachel Hammel, 9/21/11

Artist Jack Barnosky, whose photographs are dark and compelling, evasive and full of history, talks about his vision, his career as an art professor, his favorite city and his loving wife—the “enlightened zen master without a saphron robe.”

Describe yourself.

I’ve been told repeatedly that I’m a somewhat swarthier and more mature version of Johnny Depp. I’m a left wing secular humanist Democrat who has never voted for a Republican. Why? Because I work for a living.

When and how did you realize your artistic talent?

I still question the very notion of “talent.” What talent is required to make art? Did Jackson Pollack have talent when making his drip paintings? I really don’t have talent. I guess I just have a real blue collar work ethic. I was raised with no sense of entitlement. If I wanted something I had to work for it. That is still true today. Not trying to be self-deprecating, just truthful.

What is your preferred medium for creating art?

Uh, lemme see. Oh yeah. Photography.

Your photographs—why black and white?

Nothing—nothing—is more beautiful than a well made B&W photograph. Originally I just wanted to make beautiful photographs with the whole darkroom process. This ended about 12 years ago when film and paper makers began changing their emulsion formulas. All of a sudden, and I mean literally overnight, the whole process no longer worked. It was the day the darkroom died. I tried every alternative process you can name but could not get, on paper, the image that was in my head. It was quite frustrating. Three years ago I began digitizing my negatives and slowly the digital photography world began to show itself to me. Now I am virtually all digital. It’s like having to learn to read all over again. And guess what? There really is color out there and I’m using it.

What is your favorite city in the world and why?

Paris, followed by NYC, with Florence bringing up the rear. There is nothing like Paris. It is alive and still, after 5 visits, a bit exotic to me. Obviously the scenery is magnificent. Food and wine are great (I don’t like wine but I drink it in Italy and France), and the people are actually quite nice and, I might add, beautiful. Hard to turn a corner in Paris and not see something I want to photograph.

You said once that you spent a day walking around Florence “just making photographs.” Why “making” and not “taking”?

Interesting question. I do say “make” as opposed to “take” or “shoot.” I’m always thinking ahead. I see the scene in the viewfinder but I know it’s not done. I have to make something of the negative—now digital file. It is never finished when in the camera. Never.

When did you decide to teach?

I attended Brooks Institute from ‘71 - ‘74. This was an intensely hostile place for any talk of art or aesthetics. The moment I got there I knew I was in the wrong place, but I was already 24 years old and had to graduate from somewhere. So I plowed through it and did graduate. Towards the end of this time I realized that I did not want to be a part of the daily grind of making commercial photographs. I began sending out my cute little one-page resume to colleges. Can you say NAÏVE?

Actually, I got 2 interviews, but no jobs . So my wife and I (she was not yet the enlightened zen master without a saphron robe), thoroughly heavy with child, headed back to Philadelphia. I managed to get that dream job. For a year I made bricks during the day and did custom color printing at night. I don’t remember sleeping.

When the foreman handed me my pink slip, I was relieved, but my first thought was, “O.K., now how do I buy baby food?” In ’79 I began sending resumes again and by an amazing set of coincidences found myself teaching in what then passed for the Community College system in Indiana. Got an M.F.A at IU and spent 12 years there. This is the time I really learned photography. A Bachelor’s degree and an M.F.A and I still had to teach myself. Then on to Sam Houston State University in Texas, and now in my 20^th year there.

What music genre do you enjoy most? Are there any artists or albums you’re really into right now?

I have about 20 CDs. No more. They range from 50’s doo wop to Florence and the Machine. Dylan, Stones, Aaron Copland, Beatles—pretty eclectic. In class, someone asked me what the last song I downloaded was. When I said, “The Dog Days are Over” by Florence and the Machine, there was a dead silence in the room.

And I only listen to music in the car. Never anywhere else. We are weird. There are NO music listening to devices in our house. Even I think that is strange. My wife (the enlightened zen master without a saffron robe) listens to books all day.

What do you do when you’re not doing art?

I usually am making art. This new digital world is huge and challenging and I’m a slow learner. I do read—science fiction, long historical novels, biographies—again, pretty eclectic. I’m a sports fan and during football season on Saturday the television is mine. Do not touch the remote!

What do you order at Starbucks?

Double cappuccino with a shot of sugar-free raspberry. “That will be $14.00, sir, and have a nice day.”

If you could collaborate with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?

I would love to collaborate with the artist Richard Powers. He was my first and strongest visual influence. In a sense, I am collaborating with him today—I’m seeing a touch of him in many of my photographs.

Then there is: “How about it, Mr. Vonnegut? You write a book and I’ll make photographs to accompany your words.” Now that would be really COOL.

____

For more interviews like these, visit my art blog, Art Etc.

5 minute poem

2011-11-10T22:24:00.001-08:00

If there's anything I've learned
from philosophy

it is to step
back.

2011-11-05T15:10:00.001-07:00

Stay tuned for stories from my venture to Uganda, starting late November!

Darwin exposed.

2010-08-18T14:15:00.000-07:00

We are all just moths,

flapping appendages,

buzzing towards the light.

_

5 Minute Poem

2010-08-13T17:01:00.000-07:00

We drove to the reservoir
For a meteor shower
To fight sleep

Then, lying on top of your car
With blankets
And streaks of green and blue
Across the sky

We tossed back and forth
theories of space and time
And of the future
And of some obscure mathematical equations

That neither of us will ever know

.

5 Minute Poems

2010-08-09T16:59:00.000-07:00

Break

I saw a woman on the phone during an entire lunch date.

Afterwards, when the call dropped, she said to the other,

"So how do you like the soup?"

20/20

Caviar gleams
atop raw, purple flesh

and I think of fish
swimming in my bowels.

Consequences

Back cruncher,

Back huncher

.

Day 2

2010-07-29T14:08:00.000-07:00

Just bought my second Starbucks drink of the day:

Coffee frap with whip cream.

Whip cream because, when asked by the barista, I replied,

"Well I can't say no to whip."

Now I'm watching bodies move along
the pavement and gutters that
hold waste of those less fortunate.

I gather myself
for Danny
for a drive to Santa Rosa
over the Golden Gate

because life doesn't pause, wallow.

It continues, unencumbered.
Even after days of white walls
and empty corridors.

City Dweller.

2010-07-29T13:22:00.000-07:00

Photos by Scott Hammel--scotterpop.com

Traffic

2010-07-02T18:51:00.001-07:00

I handed a homeless man
a five dollar bill
just to see what he would say

The homeless man took
the five dollar bill
and said something
I can't understand

Meditative practices. And eating.

2010-05-20T15:12:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorite poems of all time:

The Orange

by Benjamin Rosenbaum

An orange ruled the world.

It was an unexpected thing, the temporary abdication of Heavenly Providence, entrusting the whole matter to a simple orange.

The orange, in a grove in Florida, humbly accepted the honor. The other oranges, the birds, and the men in their tractors wept with joy; the tractors' motors rumbled hymns of praise.

Airplane pilots passing over would circle the grove and tell their passengers, "Below us is the grove where the orange who rules the world grows on a simple branch." And the passengers would be silent with awe.

The governor of Florida declared every day a holiday. On summer afternoons the Dalai Lama would come to the grove and sit with the orange, and talk about life.

When the time came for the orange to be picked, none of the migrant workers would do it: they went on strike. The foremen wept. The other oranges swore they would turn sour. But the orange who ruled the world said, "No, my friends; it is time."

Finally a man from Chicago, with a heart as windy and cold as Lake Michigan in wintertime, was brought in. He put down his briefcase, climbed up on a ladder, and picked the orange. The birds were silent and the clouds had gone away. The orange thanked the man from Chicago.

They say that when the orange went through the national produce processing and distribution system, certain machines turned to gold, truck drivers had epiphanies, aging rural store managers called their estranged lesbian daughters on Wall Street and all was forgiven.

I bought the orange who ruled the world for 39 cents at Safeway three days ago, and for three days he sat in my fruit basket and was my teacher. Today, he told me, "it is time," and I ate him.

Now we are on our own again.

.

2010-05-20T15:04:00.000-07:00

Photo by Jillian Tamaki

.

reflections of salty seas and jellyfish and anonymity of past lives.

2010-05-12T10:00:00.000-07:00

i was brushing my teeth when i saw your soul. i stood barefoot at your bathroom sink, leaning on the tile edge as you walked up the stairs.

"you know, i can see your soul sometimes," i said.

"oh yeah?" you said. "what's it look like?"

it was the end of the night and you shuffled across the carpet towards me. i was drunk.

"mmm..." i spat. "it's more of a rhythm actually, i think."

"a rhythm?" you said.

"yeah. so i guess it's something i can hear. it's a nice rhythm. soothing--something i'd very much enjoy waking up slowly to. but also many something with dancing potential, but not like hip hop or electronic or anything. like, floating in a waltz, making giant shapes across the room."

you were brushing your teeth now, with that awful organic toothpaste. the dark of night calls for clean mouths. you stared at my reflection, watching me fumble words. you had a foamy grin.

you have such perfect teeth. they're already so white, aligned with immaculate precision. slightly narrow. delicate, but sturdy. charming. they could slice through flesh.

you probably don't even need to be brushing them.

"do you floss ever?"

"what?" you said.

"oh, i was just noticing your soul's teeth."

we fell asleep some time later with our hands intertwined.

.

2010-05-03T18:24:00.001-07:00

what grounds my faith is not that which grounds my reason

and so it is impossible, then, to believe something and to know it too.

.

and then the whale reached up and swallowed the whole pacific in one gulp.

2010-04-25T21:41:00.000-07:00

I remember one afternoon,
just before sundown.
We were tired and spent on
the sheets of a place that was not ours.

The noisy others' footsteps called
from down below.
I rolled over onto my stomach, hair draping off
the edge of the bed. You said,
"look."

There was the sun,
peaking through the open bay window in our room.
The deep blue
stretched boundlessly.

I could hear the breaking wave's edge rumbling,
slicing the sand.
The salty air in conversation with the unrelenting
fisherman, trickled up and down the coast.

You rested your hand on my back.
I crossed my ankles.
I thought of the sand in the crevices
of our bodies.
I could not remember
if I had showered the ocean out of my hair.

The sun loaned its final rays.
I held tightly to them, tasted
the colors of the burnt sky, purples and
greens and oranges.

I felt your palms, calloused and
forgiving,
tracing lines along
my spine as I drifted quietly
up and through clouds.

.

Jargon Jargon Jargon Jargon Jargon Jargon Jargon

2010-04-23T00:16:00.000-07:00

~~Political affiliation~~

What's taking

So damn long?

Mal/Un/Non Titled

2010-04-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

Some say this is a field of dreams. Well, baby, I'm a dreamer.

This road might carry you all the way through, splitting between the mountains and on past the trees. (And by you I mean you, all of you, not just you or you. Us. We. That is, if you choose to join.)

Or maybe you'll end up wandering, floundering astray. In the margins, peasant-like. Begging for a generous hand.

Well, to them I say that:

Not all who wander are aimless.

But I would also tell them that:

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.

Etc.

We Must Do Extraordinary Things.

2010-04-03T15:40:00.000-07:00

Also by Dave Eggers:

"And every day you'd start from scratch, and everyone'd get together and say, Hey, let's put some buildings there, and, um, over there, let's have a five-hundred-foot stuffed hippo, and there, in front of that mountain, a huge fucking, uh, something else."

"Sure, sure. But you'd have to be able to accelerate everything, have everything be a bit easier than it currently is, in terms of construction and everything: you'd need, like, huge robots or something."

"Sure, robots, of course."

"I'm dead serious about all this."

"I am too. I'm with you."

"We can do this."

"Sure."

"We have to get people interested."

"Everyone we know."

"Even the flakes."

"John."

"Right. Good luck."

"I know. You know what he was talking about tonight?"

"You saw him?"

"Yeah."

"I owe him a call."

"He was talking about how he had just taken some test, an aptitude test, to tell him what kind of job he should have, so he could be told what to do with his life--"

"Jesus."

"It's brutal."

"We need to change him."

"Inspire him."

"Him, everyone."

"Get everyone together."

"All these people."

"No more waiting."

"Means through mass."

"It's criminal to pause."

"To wallow."

"To complain."

"We have to be happy."

"To not be happy would be difficult."

"We would have to try to not be happy."

"We have an obligation."

"We've had advantages."

"We have a platform from which to risk."

"A cushion to fall back on."

"This is abundance."

"A luxury of place and time."

"Something rare and wonderful."

"It's almost historically unprecedented."

"We must do extraordinary things."

"We have to."

"It would be obscene not to."

"We will take what we've been given and unite people."

"And we'll try not to sound so irritating."

"Right. From now on."

2010-04-03T15:25:00.000-07:00

Dave Eggers, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius:

"

That must drive you insa--

Oh please. What would a brain do if not these sorts of exercises? I have no idea how people function without near-constant internal chaos. I'd lose my mind.

"

Adrianne Nicole Alusha, Broken Embraces; 2009

Together, again.

2010-04-03T15:04:00.000-07:00

Today was a good day. It was a day of half-fantasy, half-jerking the mind out of the clouds, lasso style, and re-attaching it to things that are real and simple and tangible--things that mean something. Like family. And cheese. All in a home is where the heart is sort of way.

Mom and I skipped the morning workout we had planned for 8:30 because it was raining and we don't like to walk in the rain. (Walking, that's our workout. Followed by a seemingly spontaneous, yet always scheduled stop at Peet's coffee and tea. We only drink coffee here, nowhere else).

I scrambled eggs in the kitchen in sweat pants. Mom had a hair appointment. She offered that I join.

"But I'm making breakfast."

"Skip it.We'll get lunch."

"...But I haven't eaten..."

She didn't press me. She knows how I get when I miss breakfast.

I met mom at Barnes & Noble on North Main Street. I had to get a book assigned for a new class in the spring, the class being "Telling your story: Discerning Vocation," and the book being "Hannah Coulter" by Wendell Berry.

I could spend hours in a bookstore. The scent is intoxicating. Just walking around there makes me feel smarter, makes me want to run my fingertips over every paperback on every shelf, sift through cookbooks, novels, sit in the aisles with my legs crossed and flip through Ernest Hemingway's short stories without looking at the clock. Everyone knows that smell.

I, of course, upon mom's recommendation, ended up instead purchasing a book called "Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes."
_________

Mom and I sat for lunch in a booth next to a window. We ate gourmet pizza and drank iced tea with lemon. We talked about her Bible study group, though she isn't particularly religious. She told me about the other ladies in the Bible study group and how they pray for her, how they set up a "prayer list" and my mom's sadness and regrets and frustrations are on that prayer list. She told me how she prays for them too, the other ladies, and I thought that was lovely.

I told her about old friends I had in highschool, and how some have babies of their own now, and how they wear diamond rings and wait around for TV programs and ovens and telephones. I told her how I don't want to be like that, how I want to be like the women who say how things are going to be, who say how the world is going to be.

The pizza was very good. Mom's earings bursted in the light. She is beautiful.
_________

Mom and I stood at the counter at BevMo, planning a French dinner. BevMo, at that time, reminded me of Parisian markets, the way the food displays wrap around the worker's station in a box shape.

"We'll have fondue!"

"Oh, yes, fondue!"

"And crepes--strawberries, bananas..."

"Crepes. Definitely crepes."

"White wine, or red?"

The displays were cheese displays. The cheese smelled phenomenal. Soft cheese, or hard? Camembert? Mimollete? Goat? No, no, mom hates goat cheese--the smell makes her want to vomit. A traditional Brie? There was nobody else in the store--we were all alone, conjuring up our authentic meal. The world awaited us two--what would they choose? They would ask. There is just so much cheese. We were the greatest chefs who ever lived. We had so many ideas--imagine the possibilities!

Mom and I eventually went with quiche because, well, we like quiche, and because dad is on a diet again, so he probably wouldn't fully appreciate a giant dipping bowl of bubbling milk fat and a loaf of thick bread. Nor would he enjoy thin pancakes smothered in chocolate, we assumed.

Imported Gruyere and Bavarian Emmentaler. They would taste very good together. 2008 Sauvignon Blanc, Edna Valley Vineyard. We decided unanimously, and the crowd's whispers silenced, contented.
__________

I followed a recipe from the cookbook I handmade for Mom (written in French) after I went abroad--a compilation of meals prepared and served by my host mom, Beatrice Jacqmin, among other things I encountered on the road of different cities and countries. Like pastries, escargot, moules frites, Alsatian Baeckeoffe, chocolate souffle, and hot wine.

Mom was out picking Becca up from soccer practice.

Lay the pie crust in the pan. Whip 4 eggs. Chop 1/4 cup white onions. Dice 1/2 cup ham. Slice 1/4 cup artichoke hearts. Grate cheese, cheese, cheese.

Dad sat on the couch.

"This is the longest you've ever been in the kitchen, you're becoming so domesticated!"

"Oh, please. Can you come set the table?"

Salt, pepper, basil, parsley, etc. Oven. Salad (lettuce, mushrooms, avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, vinaigrette). Etc.

They all went for seconds.
________

Later we watched a movie in the family room, mom on the couch at the head of the coffee table, Becca and me on the other. Wet sat, huddled under the blanket mom sewed last summer. She was practically on my lap. My leg fell asleep but I didn't move it.

I stayed up in bed reading till very late, till I could hear dad downstairs grinding coffee, still dark outside. I fell asleep with the lights on.
________

2010-03-23T17:21:00.000-07:00

Can you see what's in there, seeping through the cracks?

Or hear what's out there, beyond the ships, bellowing and beaming?

Twist me. Electrify my bones.

Thought Food.

2010-03-04T17:10:00.000-08:00

At a table outside a Mexican restaurant. The sky is warm . A couple sits and eats.

“Are you a feminist?” Woman asks.

“What?”

“Are you a feminist?”

Man pauses, swallows a bite of burrito. “I’m not an anti-feminist.” Man takes a bite of burrito.

“So, you’re a feminist?”

Man chews. “A feminist?” he asks.

“A feminist.”

Man pauses. “I’m not an anti-feminist.” Man takes another bite of burrito.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m not an anti-feminist.”

Woman stares, brows furrowing. “What is your understanding of feminism?”

“Like, women, um,” man swallows, “wanting more rights.”

“Feminism,” she interrupts, “is a movement advocating for equal political, social, and economic rights and legal protection of those rights.”

“Yes,” he says.

“ Are you an advocate of equal gender rights, then?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“So you’re a feminist.”

“No. No, I’m not a feminist.”

“How do you figure?” Woman is not enjoying her own burrito.

“You know,” he says, “I never liked the word feminism. They should call it, the movement for equal gender rights. Or, the gender equality movement. Something along those lines.”

“And why is that?” Woman asks.

“Well, calling it feminism sort of defeats the purpose, right? I mean, how can you say you want equal rights when the own name of your cause excludes males? Even still, that doesn’t matter. Women and men can’t have complete equality. Like, in sports. Can you imagine a female quarterback? Some things are just made for men. Think about the workplace. More and more women are getting high paying jobs, but look at what’s happening to home life. Children need to be taken care of.”

“What about the men?”

“What about them?” He chews. “How’s your burrito, babe?”

2010-03-01T02:02:00.000-08:00

Jessie Trinchard

Jessie Trinchard

Scott Hammel; San Francisco

Kaitlin Peterson; Rome

Jessie Trinchard

Kaitlin Peterson; Rome

Le Jardin du Luxembourg; Paris

Jessie Trinchard

Are you a dreamer?

2010-03-01T01:57:00.000-08:00

"On really romantic evenings of self, I go salsa dancing with my confusion."

Also:

"Man is only a reed, the weakest in nature. But he is a thinking reed." – Pascal

Please watch/touch/smell/hear/taste the following, if you enjoy living:

"Waking Life," directed by Richard Linklater.

It's a new day, today.

2010-02-25T18:38:00.000-08:00

things change. grow, i guess. sometimes diminish, sometimes die and disappear. but mainly grow.

i'm making choices. well, i'm starting to. or at least i'm thinking about starting to. i will start with certain lobes in my brain. first, the motor. the one that buzzes constantly, itching, probing. so how about this: i will start by enriching my creative aura, if you will. my magic maker. my whirlwind. my batshit insanity.

i will broaden the scope of what is and what can be. kind of like a vitamin boost, or a back massage, or throwing the soul into the pit of existence and watching it swim about, floundering. eyes gaping. lungs gasping.

that sort of thing.

i want to start by knowing that i'm not the only one alive out there. i want to know what others think, what others feel. what others want so very much to say, but cant ever find the words. words are funny like that. they always seem to trip us up, to taunt us with their permanence, their simplicity, their mystery.

i want to know what keeps the world spinning in orbit; although, i probably wouldn't understand. i definitely wouldn't understand. perhaps someone, anyone, could explain it in simple terms, with symbols, diagrams--maybe pictures. like how in children's books everything is so easy, so beautiful, so simply formulaic--unraveling life's most profound qualities in a single stanza.

that was then.

but was it?

Memoire

2010-01-27T19:03:00.001-08:00

I'm missing Paris. A lot. So I thought I'd sift through some pictures and find my favorites from the time in my life where I learned the most about myself and the rest of this crazy, beautiful world.

Impromptu encounter

2010-01-26T18:50:00.000-08:00

My head is filled with rocks. Not the smooth sorts of pebbles that you find layered beneath placid waters, but sharp, jagged, moss-infested rocks. The ones that cut your feet. The ones that you throw to break windows of abandoned houses. Those kinds of rocks.

I write in my notebook the order in which I will do things today, underneath this quote:

May you build a ladder to the sun
And climb on every rung

The list looks as follows:

Go to the library and write to Brianne, Liam, and Professor Smick
Put the framed Paris photos on your wall
Bake a chocolate cake
Go to mission church and sit

I get off work at 5pm. Channing wishes me well as she sends me on my way, spinning around and off down the other hallway. It is raining lightly outside. I don’t bother pulling out my bright green raincoat. I think about all that I promised myself I would do, troubled at how quickly the day’s hours dwindle when we allow them to. But my feet lead the rest of my body towards the church, through winding paths lined with sharp grass edges and cradled by weeping willows.

The colossal entrance confronts me for the second time in my undergraduate career.

“Do they ever lock churches?” I think seriously. I would not have known.

The doors reveal rows and rows of empty wooden seats, a muraled ceiling stretching towards the sky. I sit. Silence fills my chest.

My hands lay folded in my lap. Minutes pass. My eyes drift slowly under my lids and my neck stiffens. My head pulls backwards, floating on a threshold of storm and stillness. My breath calms. My limbs lock. The tip of my nose fixes upward, almost detaching itself from my body. The rocks tumble, agitated, searching for escape.

I am not smothered in demands or sounds or words on lined paper. I am not crushed hope, mangled and exhausted. I am not good or bad intentions.

I am not a mother who weeps alone, longing for the warmth of a hand, or a sign of life. I am not catastrophe sweeping through impoverished nations, murdering. I am not a broken cell phone or unread books stacked neatly on a dresser.

I am not chipped nail polished; I am not neglected messages. I am not a brother, burdened with the fear of revealing secrets. I am not hurt because I know them already.

I am not labor’s sweat; I am not unguided or crude. I am not frustration or laziness or inhibitions. I am not a father buried under scars, slipping twenties for consolidation.

I am not a sister who tears at foreign skin. I am not schedules; I am not dirty clothes heaped on floors. I am not a lover whiplashed by selfish deceit. I am not choices of what to eat, when to sleep, what to say.

I am not a grandmother standing in her bath robe in the kitchen in the middle of the night. “This family is falling apart.” She whispers. “You have to do something.”

I am not without love. I am not alone.

I am.

I simply am.

My neck loosens. My head straightens, resting steadily on my shoulders. I don’t know if I’ve been breathing, or if the life within me simply halted and has resumed again. I can feel red blood cells swimming to my fingertips. Colored light from the windows floods the room, washing gently over me, unlocking my knees.

"I have a meeting," I remember. I rise and gather my belongings. My bag is lighter.

I walk out onto the steps. An enormous pink cloud envelops the darkening sky. And I think:

Well, God, it’s nice to finally meet you.

L'histoire d'un moment; Un moment de l'histoire

2010-01-18T21:23:00.000-08:00

The sky is clear as we walk towards my car, parked lonely by the broken sidewalk. It smells like campfire. I step to avoid puddles, but my laces fall victim to mud and debris from the storm.

“Baby,” you say. You smile at my tired face. You don’t mind that our plans rearranged; I don’t mind that we’re miles from home on a damp Sunday morning.

You hurry forward and spin around, like you have something pressing to reveal. Your hand meets my cheek. The other tucks a strand of hair behind my ears as I stand, hunched.

“I love you.”

I taste your words. I close my eyes. You sink into me. The warmth of your mouth is like nothing else.

Cognitive flooding.

2010-01-14T18:06:00.001-08:00

Studying Moral Epistemology can be mentally draining. That's why we invented day dreaming:

It is you
yes, very much you
and it is me.

Rock and roll, yes, roll
thick rock, raw, unending roll.
Oceans roll.

Slide up spines
where solace lies,
tumble in deepest pits

Tainted with mud, perhaps. Or salt. Sea salt.
The kind that flushes out wounds
and harbors jelly fish.
Oceans roll.

Lush
lush like cotton candy
or Victorian extravagance, suffocating
liberating.

Grooves of palms
carve ribs
sweet, raw.

Hold me paralyzed
with your fingertips
like puppet strings
like fire.
like ice.

Melt into me
roll through me.
Oceans roll.

I am your jellyfish.

Frenzy Refined.

2010-01-11T22:09:00.000-08:00

Dec. 23, 2009

I thought the other day about a phone conversation I had with my aunt Gina a few days before I left for Paris.

I stirred lentils in the kitchen. I told her I was going to come back a different person.

“Yea, I believe many things about you will change. But you, Rach, will never change who you fundamentally are."

I wondered about this word for a long time, fundamental.

My knee jerk was supported by a philosophical perspective, of course—that it all boils down to identity. And by that I mean whether “I” is contained in the flesh of my body, the neurological functions in my brain, my memory, my mind, conscience, consciousness, my will, or (and this is my favorite) my soul. Ignoring the rigorous philosophical debate on identity and memory loss, comas, etc., I specifically questioned whether or not one can actively manipulate, by the drive and direction of the will, the formation and transformation of one’s own identity--or whether its composition and evolution is necessarily contingent on environmental and historical factors (because though “identity” is an idea, it is an idea that manifests itself within the human across a certain fragment of space and time.)

The body is the most obvious indicator of the self aside from one’s own name. But let’s take it from a physiological perspective, in case you’re hungry for some thought food. Fact: The human body’s cells completely regenerate every seven years. So if the physical particles of my flesh and bones are in constant flux and transformation, I can’t ever be exactly the same person at any given time. If not my body, what exactly remains constant? What keeps me me if not my mane or gangly limbs?

But then I figured I’d take the fundamental question from a different approach. Maybe strictly linguistic (which, of course, is inherently linked to all philosophical investigation). What does “fundamental” really mean? Original, primary, vital, essential. Sure. But these all mean different specific things. By definition, I cannot change my origin: I was born a female into the Hammel family in Berkeley and grew up in the San Francisco suburbs. If you trace my family heritage far enough, you’ll see that I am of Northern European descent, mainly German, Swedish, Norwegian, and Irish/French/English. Oh, and keep an eye out for good ‘ole Abe on the family tree.

My essence—what is essential for my being—is my history and background, my physical appearance or figure, and my internal states (personality, worldview, tendencies, mannerisms, ideas, opinions, likes/dislikes, ambition and drive). I suppose the questions is where it’s all situational, depending on constantly fluctuating external contexts like age, living conditions, resources, events, opportunities, etc., or if it’s engrained in the very blueprints of my makeup, transcending the thresholds of purely external limitations.

I don’t know the answer to these questions, but I will say that as far as identity is concerned, there is surely room for variation.

All this thinking about identity led me to examine my own self, making me wonder whether or not my aunt Gina was right. In Paris, I spent my days speaking a different language, living with a different family, indulging in a different diet, learning different rules and adopting different habits, delving in to different academic dimensions, and observing radically different forms of life. So where was the line of constancy preserved during my four month experience of cultivating a lifestyle that directly threatened the status of my pre-existing fundamental? I wondered if I really was still the same old Rachel, or if maybe it was possible that I had tapped into my fundamental and done a bit of maintenance work.

None of the perspectives led me directly to the answer, as you can see from my aimless ramblings. But, as a budding writer and a sucker for art, all messy smart crap aside, I thought I’d close the final chapter of my travel journal with one last perspective. None other than: the poet.

The word fundamental followed me to France and stayed stuffed inside my pocket for many months. The edges, rough, but the surface, flat and smooth. The colors, fading and illuminating. Sometimes it froze in the cold weather, or melted under the heat of the sun. It indulged and it created and it felt sorry for the homeless child on Rue Daguerre. It got angry and frustrated and threw belongings at the wall, shattering them into pieces and staining pillows. It smiled at the rising sun of a new day and reflected about its blessings. It didn't care too much about material things. It laughed off its inhibitions and trusted the intentions of pure strangers. It sat at the old piano in the living room of a new family and lay in bed awake all night, listening to rain drops hitting and sliding off the roof. It balanced on the threshold of awkward and inviting and it helped a blind man across the street. It asked far too many questions and didn’t ask nearly enough.

It climbed hundreds, thousands, millions of steps. It took panoramic snapshots of rusty chimneys and stories untold. It snuck food into the bedroom and spilled coffee on the carpet. It marveled at the wonders of the world and the timeless deliciousness of a rustic baguette.

It wondered and it loved and it learned about the secret workings of the soul.

It cried tears beneath le tour Eiffel on a sober Tuesday night. It cried tears of loss, a second mother. It cried tears of the simple joy of existing.

It learned to look back and it learned to never look back.

Is it the same? Yes, very much indeed.

Is it different? Yes, very much indeed.

Another night.

2009-12-23T05:08:00.000-08:00

Dec. 20, 2009

New York Erin with red hair was a gem. One of those quick-wit types who wears fur coats and bulky vintage rings and doesn’t give a shit about what you think of her cigarette addiction. We sat at the Violon Dingue bar, our group of friends downstairs, and talked about law school, unofficial “man friends,” and absinthe binges. I flirted with the Irish/Berkeley, CA/NY/French bartender who gave us each four complimentary drinks, probably because we were there for so long. We laughed the hands right off the clock and she told me everything was going to be alright.

We made our way to the lower level after trying to ignore the cross-eyed man who sat closer to us than we would have liked. I didn’t buy anything. I sat with a business man and boasted about my brother’s artistic talent and how he’s going to be famous one day. The business man gave me his information and then rattled off inspiring life quotes in two different languages, like he’s done it all before.

"It's you that's important, not what you have." His words hung in the air, dripping with cliche. I wrote it in my notepad, the one I take with me everywhere.

"Come on, you're twenty. Anything's possible."

I liked that one.

The friend group parted ways by 5:15am and I said goodbye to the business man. Red-haired Erin and I meandered in the street and caught rain on our taste buds. Then I said goodbye to her, too. I would never see her again. I didn’t have money for a cab so I walked home.

Atelier de l'artiste, Rue de Rivoli

2009-12-23T04:47:00.000-08:00

Dec. 22, 2009

“L’artiste n’est jamais pauvre”

The artist is never poor.

The beginning of a love affair (with gelato)

2009-12-22T17:45:00.000-08:00

Lesson #13: Always be the first to act. Also, you need to live in Florence.

I single-handedly organized a week-long trip to Italy with a group of friends for fall break. I mean, sorry to toot my own horn for a minute, but it was a pretty incredible trip (minus a few minor setbacks, like the dangers of long island ice tea and being indefinitely banned from a hostel after the humiliation of getting caught sneaking one extra person into our room, etc.). I ate enough pizzas over the course of the vacation to…well, I don’t even really want to think about that. New Year’s resolution: DIET.

Here is a sparknote’s list of the highlights:

PISA -

Leaning tower (equipped with the ultimate tourist picture)

Cemetery (where members of the Medicci family were/are buried)

Gelato

FLORENCE –

Ponte Vecchio

Strolling through the Bobili gardens

Galleria Uffizi – “Birth of Venus”

Duomo (the 13th century Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore is the historical center of Florence, known for its impressive architecture and elaborate facade. I was too broke to climb to the top, though)

Academia - Michelangelo’s “David” (illegaly snuck a picture)

Secret bakery and an impromptu slumber party…at Danny Kahle’s host mother’s house?

Gelato (I learned what real gelato is here, thanks to GROM)

Champagne at sunset on the top steps of Piazzale Michelangelo

(*Note - this makes the list of top 5 abroad moments, trailing just behind riding bikes in Amsterdam and climbing the top of the Arc de Triomphe at night with Anton, followed by the above secret bakery/slumber party and the last three hours of the Oktoberfest weekend huddled at a table outside Hofbrau with the Maples crew + Michaela).

ROME –

Throwing a coin into the Trevi fountain (Alex, get ready for half of your gift :)

Spanish steps and the Berlin wall exposition

St. Peter’s Basilica

Vatican and the Sistine Chapel (where a guard caught Divya sneaking a picture of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam” on the ceiling, which was breathtaking, I might add)

Pantheon (where I listened to a beautiful choir and learned the history behind the red, green, and white of Margherita pizza)

Coliseum and the Ancient city (one word: awesome)

Did I mention gelato?

Etching smiles into tombstones

2009-12-22T16:25:00.000-08:00

Exerpts from personal journal entries/ramblings

Oct. 1, 2009

I sat on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg to watch leaves fall. An old, crippled man shuffled towards the end of the gravel path and a mother helped her new baby with his first steps

A joy of life renewed

...

Do you paddle past an eddy,
Pull through a lull? Why not
Pull in the paddles, spin,
Stretch your arms wide
And touch the edges of this moment?
-Kay Satre

Oct. 26, 2009

Extreme tension
Surging through my wrists
Grinding behind my eyes
Clenching between my teeth
Carving out the insides
Of my mouth

But my heart is beating

Nov. 1, 2009

Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait

Lesson #12: Don’t waste your life waiting

Nov. 6, 2009

Tell me, baby
Are you still on the stoop
Watching the windows close?

I bought a train ticket to Marseille. I had no plans to take anyone with me, or to meet anyone there. I traveled to southern France alone to breath in the salty air of the sea and taste the colors of the sunset in blissful solitude. The strange place that welcomed me sat beside me by the harbor without asking any questions.

I made a friend with a gentleman named Paul, a native New Zealander, but who grew up in London. His accent was spectacular. His words lingered between us and I grabbed them with my fingertips. We laughed about how dirty Marseille was as we followed the boats at the dock.

“Did you know this is one of the oldest cities in France?” He offered.

“How exactly do you determine the age of a city?” I asked.

He shrugged. I didn’t press him. We continued walking.

Later we drank coffee and listened to rap and played poker.

Nov. 6-8, 2009

...And now, writing this, I’m on a train to Barcelona with an empty seat next to mine and a bag of trailmix and applesauce at my shoeless feet. The window reveals boundless miles of compacted red rooftops punctuating rolling, quiet hills. A disgruntled infant kicks my backrest, screaming for his mother. I’ve showed my passport more times than I should have, and I don’t entirely know how to get where I am going when I arrive. But I watched the seaside pass, finding nothing wrong with this moment.

Maybe we could forget everything and
You could come and steal me
And we could freeze time

Though you’re far away from me now
There’s something you should know:
My hands have not forgotten yours

If only Adam was here.

2009-12-20T09:59:00.000-08:00

Mid October, and I found a way to ace nearly all of my midterms. So, I thought it would be appropriate to embark on an hors Paris exploration. You know, set my feet out into the real world a bit.

Now, admittedly, my entire European travel agenda was not a product of extensive thought or planning. I had originally anticipated visiting as many countries as time and money allowed for, but what countries I actually ended up visiting were chosen at pure random (except for Munich; Oktoberfest was a given). Imagine spinning a globe blindfolded and materializing a decision with the stroke of an index finger-- my first finger landed on what would prove to be one of the best places in the world. What other way to start off my Euroventures than by officially transcending adolescence on an overnight party bus to Amsterdam? I understand why one would ask such a question, because really, there is no other way.

Destination #1 : The Netherlands

Or Holland. Or Nederland.

In French, the name is none of these--a fact that would've proven helpful during my 3-hour online search for a bus ticket.

WHERE THE HELL IS THIS COUNTRY? I SWEAR TO GOD I'M GONNA...

*Note to self, cursing at a computer screen makes the computer less likely to want to help you buy a bus ticket to a name-less country.

The French name, that was so kindly introduced to me by Frederic during a family dinner, is translated as Pays-Bas, which means literally “the country below.”

COUNTRY BELOW WHAT? GERMANY? DENMARK? THIS IS BULL...

What I learned later is that the country is situated significantly below sea level (think the bowl that is New Orleans), so they had to build a barricade of dams around the city (amsterDAM, originally Amstellerdam, indicative of the city’s origin: a dam in the river of Amstel). Hence, the canals.

Pays-Bas kindly and eagerly welcomed about 20 IES Paris American students over Halloween weekend--a weekend that, by the end, made every one of these 20 IES Paris American students boast about future plans to live there permanently. I shared a part in this consensus--it really was and still is the most beautiful, charming, and friendliest place on the planet.

But as I said, upon my decision to travel to this country in the first place, I had no idea what I was doing. Well, I did have an idea. An idea that is shared by probably the majority of people who have not been to Pays-Bas: legal and excessive pot-smoking. And stripper girls. This, of course, was not the motivating factor to venture north. The pictures on the tourist website just looked cool.

Amsterdam, Euroventure #1:

After a tumultuous bus ride, during which one of our girl friends nearly escaped aggravated assault by a large Arab man, and someone (Dru Attkinson) projectile vomitted on the stairs and almost got our entire group thrown off the bus and possibly into jail, we arrived safely in Amsterdam at around 6am. It was still dark outside.

While the other students huddled in the train station, floundering in a haze of confusion, sleep deprivation, and possible intoxication, I began my Amsterdam adventure, packet of guides, tickets, maps, and paperwork in hand. And yet, despite my mountainous progress in map-reading, Bridget and I absolutely could not find the hostel for the life of us. (But if you, dear reader, can navigate your way through a foreign country following a map with no street names, my hat is off to you.)

So we stopped for coffee. The barista was from San Diego. Go figure. His coworker unloaded boxes and smiled at us.

We resumed our search, to no avail, until a large white windowless vehicle honked at us, a vehicle one might term as a “raper van.” I don’t blame the raper van man; we looked like tourists. He pulled over.

Oh, fantastic, I’m about to be kidnapped. And I didn't even get to see the stripper girls.

It was the barista’s coworker, who in fact was not the barista’s coworker, but "the delivery boy," he said through the window. He exited his vehicle and kindly turned our map rightside up, and after many English and Dutch words were butchered and battered back and forth, he invited us into his raper/delivery van to "take us directly to our destination."

Now, I suppose the “taken” theme is an inevitable reoccurence for two young, American, broke, relatively attractive females traveling Europe by foot. I discriminated between the pros and cons quickly in my head, which were evident: it was cold outside, our backpacks were as heavy as lead, and I hadn’t eaten in over 12 hours. On the flip side, I was seriously contemplating supressing my universal distrust of strangers driving large white vans because my intuition said so; there was something so honest and safe about this man. I opened the back door of the van and inspected for weapons, victims, or whatever evidence of criminality I could find. He was, in fact, a delivery boy.

We were dropped off at the hostel door step within 3 minutes.

Lesson #10: Trust Dutch delivery boys (but probably be careful trusting all white windowless van drivers, just to be safe).

Lesson #11: Actually, trust all Dutch people, especially ones who you meet at the grocery store and invite you and your friends to their house in Rotterdam and cook you a 3-course dinner.

And on a more metaphysical note, have faith in the power of your instincts.

_______

A friend recommended that I go on a bike tour in Amsterdam; I’ve always wanted to go on a bike tour. There are many reasons for this: 1) you don’t have to walk, 2) you see twice as much in half the time, 3) you get to ride bikes, 4) you get to ride bikes.

It was either that, or sit at a coffee shop and pass the time smoking weed with a bunch of Santa Clara boys, whose mission it was to become as lazy, quiet, paranoid, and unresponsive as possible--one of whom, after hearing me express my frustration with the choices of certain individuals, informed me that I am "in the wrong city, babe."

But then I remembered that I live by my own rules, and that,

It is our personal duty to actively pursue what we want in life.

Amsterdam, Euroventure #2:

Less than 24 hours into my Amsterdam journey, now 20-year old Rachel was mounted on a bright red bike, handle breaks and everything, followed by Bridget on her bright red bike, and Jamie on his bright red bike. I found a better map—a map with words—secured my backpack and camera strap, and embarked on a bike route.

You know those hand signals they teach you in driver’s ed? The one’s you never use and always forget? Well, people use them in Amsterdam because EVERYBODY rides bikes in Amsterdam. In fact, it is estimated that more people in the city ride bikes than drive cars, which I imagine does wonders to the environment, and to the collective well-being of the population.

We had a pretty good system going: I rode in front, and Bridget and Jamie followed, single-file style. At times, I would stop and ask,

"Where do you guys want to go now?" To which Bridget would respond,

"Just keep doing your thing, Rach."

So in between directing myself and two others with my right/left/stop hand signals, manning the map-navigation and street name pronunciation (like "we're gonna head straight down Klaveniersburgwal until we hit Binnengasthuisstraat), steering, breaking, and taking pictures, it is a wonder that I didn’t crash into something, or that something didn’t crash into me.

We passed bridges and museums and landmarks and windmills and I pointed to things listed in my guide book. For hours, we traced our way through the major sight-sees with the wind in our hair and air in our lungs, not paying mind to the numbness in our fingers.

It wasn’t until we wound our way around the tip of the city near Central Station and stopped to look out into the harbor that opened up to the rest of the world that I realized not only was I taking a bike tour,

I was leading one.

Footnotes

2009-12-15T08:02:00.000-08:00

We rolled around in a sleeping bag with our shoes on
Our friends drinking whiskey beneath us in a cloud of smoke
You were afraid to say the things you wanted to say
I knew what you wanted to say

We played our guessing game, my knees bumped into yours
but you didn’t move them
You bit my lips with your teeth
under a sea of stars on a cloudless night
and I wondered if we would get married one day

Over the phone
I told you, "You’re my shining sun"
Scratched the words right into the sky with my tongue
I wasn’t old enough to drive yet

You pressed your chest against mine
in the heat of endless summers
when you'd run your fingers through my veins
and smile the way you always did

I pealed my freckles when the trees lost their leaves
in another city
where the streets don't connect

You always loved my freckles

Taking Breath

2009-10-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

Lesson #9: Embracing the risks and rewards of the world's unknowns--the ones so easily forgotten by the comfortable soul--requires little more than a backpack, sturdy shoes, and some extra pens and paper for the road.

____

"Taking Breath" was published in the Santa Clara Review, Fall/Winter 2010

____

Brianne and I arrived at the St. Denis metro in the 2nd arrondissement at 9pm Monday night, after I had eaten with my host family and decided against studying. I often, if not always, find good use out of the "you only live in Paris once" excuse when needing to justify lack of academic motivation. This night was no different.

Brianne, a fellow student from Virginia and my newfound travel companion and adventure seeker, met Adam a few nights prior at a bar in London. Adam, an American vagabond in his late 20s, was meeting us for some company. For what specific purpose this group of people was meeting at the St. Denis metro in the 2nd arrondissement at 9pm on Monday was beyond my knowledge.

She waved her hand through the air, and I turned to see a tall, burly man with wavy blond hair and blue eyes approaching us, grinning eagerly. Without hesitation, this man dove towards my face. His lips met my cheeks suddenly, almost knocking me over. He pulled back and grabbed me by the shoulders, arms outstretched, and boasted "Enchanté!" which loosely translates to "Hello, my name is Adam. And you must be Rachel! Pleased to meet you, Rachel." I thought for a moment that I had met this tall burly man before, perhaps in a previous life, and we were becoming reacquainted after many years of separation.

"This is such a great part of town. You've got to look around when you have the time." We followed him. "That right there is the Arc de la Porte Saint-Denis, built by Louis XIV to commemorate his military victories." He spoke with his hands and his knees and his chest.

Adam, I learned, is a Chicago native and has been living in Paris for eighteen months as an English-speaking bike tour guide. I have always wanted to take a bike tour with a bike tour guide, but did not insinuate that he issue me a personal invitation, as I speculated that Adam would not have appreciated such boldness so prematurely in our relationship.

He led us down various streets until we were interrupted by a perpendicular dark alley lined with prostitutes. "Don't take pictures. They can get aggressive." We followed him. This was the street of his apartment, which I then learned was our destination. My imagination stirred boundlessly and I could only think of the movie Taken and how I was about to be, in fact, taken. My apprehension grew as Brianne and I were led up eight flights of a narrow spiral stair case, and on the way passed a section blocked off by caution tape with a sign that translated as “undergoing investigation.” If we were going to be killed, I thought, which at this point seemed likely, I suppose the very top floor of an old apartment building on a prostitute street is the best place to do it. Brianne chattered casually with her new friend who had not stopped speaking with his hands. I was planning my escape.

The door creaked open to reveal a 2-bedroom flat dimly lit by hundreds of small white candles, jazz music lingering in the musty air. Another young gentleman sitting comfortably on a leather couch rose to greet us. He did not lunge at me with his mouth, which I was thankful for. He offered us slices of a rustic baguette with Camembert and poured 4 glasses of red wine. Adam retreated to the kitchen, and Brianne and I sat and talked with the new man whom I believe was very nervous, as he stuttered frequently. Mitch was currently studying in Paris at an institute for technology and architecture and living a few blocks up the street. We sipped wine slowly, letting the record player occupy gaps of silence, and he began to point out and explain the artwork scattered on the walls, which I had not noticed until this point.

A blonde head appeared.

“How do you guys feel about chopsticks?”

“What're we having?” Mitch chimed from his position on the couch. I was only waiting to hear a response along the lines of, "our guests," but the sizzling of a frying pan had drowned out Adam's ability to hear the question.

“Adam is an artist and this, this one is a painting of a woman with her left leg crossed ninety degrees across her right, but most people, when they see this one, think she is riding a camel. This was one of his first paintings. These are views from various places in the city—like that, obviously, is Sacre Coeur. See Montparnasse in the background? And this one I think is in the 14th. And this one here, this is an imitation of Van Gogh’s famous piece, but I forget the name.” Starry night, I thought. That one, I admit, was very good.

I began to smell aromas of Thai cuisine and my mouth watered.

The hundreds of vanilla scented candles, I found, were a gift from Adam’s mother that had resurfaced while cleaning out boxes, and were not intended for any specific purpose tonight other than getting use out of hundreds of unused vanilla scented candles. I quite enjoyed them.

We emptied the three bottles of wine that lay before us, our hosts assuring the ladies’ glasses were never short of half full, and finished two jazz records. Mitch brought out another loaf of bread, accompanied this time by a saucer of salted oil and vinegar. Moments later, a plate hot with steam was slid in front of my view—a well-portioned chicken dish liberally marinated in an orange tangy sauce (a recipe Adam had brought back from Bangkok) neighbored by seasoned potatoes, peppers, grilled onions, and tomatoes. And chopsticks. It must have been near 11pm when we began to feast, laughing and gulping and trading and pointing.

Brianne encouraged Adam to tell stories of his travels—the ones he had shared during their first encounter at the London bar when they spoke for hours over cocktails. The ones that had aroused in her the enduring fascination that gave us reason to be sitting and eating Thai food in the travelling man's apartment on a late Monday night in the 2nd arrondissment in the first place. And so he did share stories of his travels, and how he has known the corners of the world with his own eyes and ears and feet. He told us how he lived in Morocco with a man who worked as a fisherman trader and spent months perfecting the art of Italian cuisine at a cooking school in Rome. He shared stories in the most amusing way, often with his hand rested on his chest to control the frequent bursts of laughter, hunched over his knees, pulling us in closer. He told us about his nights dancing in Spain (he enjoys the company of Spaniards out of any other people), meditating in Bali and countries lining the eastern coast of South America, and how he learned to speak Chinese in Shanghai. He used his tongue to push mangled chicken to the side of this mouth and spoke in between gulps about his loathing for Australians, helping the helpless in Iran, feeling the sand of the Sahara between his toes, stories about couch surfing, dumpster-diving, and Parisian bike tour guiding…

My legs had turned numb when I realized I was sitting on the edge of my seat.

He told us, finally, about his plans to leave Paris—a city he has fallen in love with—and how he recently bought a one-way train ticket to Germany where he plans to rent a 5-bed room apartment in Berlin, to which he plans to invite anybody and everybody to join him and do art. And he left it at that and continued chewing.

Yes, I am safe with you, Adam. And now it is all clear to me.

I will come with you to Germany, Adam, and I will live with you. I will live in Berlin in your apartment and we will transform it into a studio and we will do art and invite others to do art. We’ll set easels up in various rooms and maybe we’ll cover the floors with tarp or maybe we won’t care enough. Some will draw and many will sculpt and music! Oh, we’ll have music. Guitars and saxophones and a piano—I will play the piano. We will spend our days there and let the light from the windows flood the white walls and I will write and you will paint and we will learn from each other. And perhaps people will come to the studio art apartment and want to live there with us and we will let them. And when everyone is done with their art I will tell you of the times when I thought I knew things and you will tell us of your weeks in Greece and Holland and Dubai and we will laugh about the seriousness that poisons human thought. And then we will admire our art and eat day old bread and cheese and maybe you can cook Bangkok orange chicken if you’re not feeling too tired and we’ll always have one extra wine bottle in the cabinet and we will live there until we don’t want to live there anymore.

I had dropped one of my chopsticks. Brianne kicked my foot and I looked up to see empty plates and the American traveling men perched on the balcony clutching glasses, waving at us to join. My chest heaved. I hadn’t been breathing until now.

The taste of pleasure.

2009-10-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I found myself among an overwhelming herd of people--a colorful blend of eager tourists, locals, spectators of all ages, and connoisseurs of nearly every ethnicity. Grandmothers, sons, uncles, nieces, friends, lovers, infants, French, Americans, Belgians, Chinese, Japanese, Russians, Moroccans, Algerians, British, Germans…

We waited together, stifling our anticipation--my excitement equaled by the 4-year-old standing at my side, who stood on her tip toes, neck protruding, gripping tightly to my leg—until we were finally assembled under one roof, united by one thing, and one thing only:

Chocolate.

Yes, chocolate.

Paris’s Porte de Versailles Expo recently hosted the 15th annual Salon du Chocolat, a festival celebrating one of earth's greatest (and most delicious) creations. Paris, one out of only SIX major cities worldwide to put on this chocolaty production, attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors each year, who all come to witness and enjoy the marriage between innovative cuisine, creative artistic expression, and shameless gluttony.

For a 12 Euro entry fee, the public could explore the two-story, 14,000 square meter arena lined end to end with hundreds of booths overflowing with specialty chocolate from top chefs from select European regions, along with recipe demonstrations and an educational timeline of the manufacturing process from the cultivation of cacao beans to the distribution of candy bars on store shelves.

They even had a musical performance. But that was nothing compared to the fashion show of chocolate dresses.

The most important part of all this, and one of the main motivating factors in my attendance of this festival, was the FREE SAMPLES. Samples tended to every palate, spanning along the entire spectrum of the sweet tooth's imagination. Some of the ones I tried ranged from the more mainstream treats--fudge, ice cream, truffles, éclairs, and fondue--to the more experimental creations: chocolate covered jelly beans, chocolate liqueur, etc. *Note to self--chocolate is good and liqueur is good. But the combination of the two is a disatrous mix. Chocolate covered jelly beans, on the other hand...magical.

Despite the inevitable stomach cramps, it was quite the experience--a true chocolate lover's paradise. Which gives me even more reason to believe that Paris knew I was coming.

Lesson #8: Your soul loves chocolate.

Will power.

2009-10-20T02:21:00.000-07:00

Weekend mornings are lazy mornings. Everybody knows this. The pace is slow, the motivation is thin and weak, the sweats and slippers remain on, homework may or may not be accomplished, and sense of time is distorted-- nothing really "begins."

But this particular Saturday morning began differently, when Bridget burst frantically into my room to wake me up with an urgent message:

"I had a dream."

That's wonderful, Bridget. I'm in the middle of one. Goodnight for 3 more hours.

"No, no. You don't understand. Wake up."

In my delerious sleep rationality, I absolutely could not arrive at any line of reasoning whatsoever that would influence me to abandon my warm haven of pillows and blankets. What on earth, then, Bridget, could be so important?

"Ranch dressing."

...

I am showered and dressed within 15 minutes.

Despite its apparent initial triviality, to even sleepy Rachel, this is a serious issue that deserves undivided attention. Evidently, a significantly large sector of our lives has been lacking--the sector being, of course, comfort food (also referred to by us as "medicinal" food. Including, for example, iced coffee). This sector had gone relatively unnoticed until this particular morning, when the Ranch Dressing dream was elaborated in finger-licking detail.

So, since it is our personal duty to actively pursue what we want in life, our weekend morning had thus begun, and had begun with one single mission: find us some Hidden Valley.

This is not an easy task in Paris, France. As many will know, typical American food (peanut butter, Easymac, oreos, etc.) is not appreciated by the French. But what the French don't know is the power of the will. And, as the proverb suggests, where there is a will, there is a way to the American food store.

After 45 minutes of frantic and intensive internet and travel guide research, we armed ourselves with reassuring comfort and the giddiness of 5-year-olds. We know the store. We know the Metro stop. We're going to be eating Ranch dressing today.

Two hours later, we found ourselves as close to perfection as perfection can get--with two bottles of wine and two large, liberally Ranch-drenched Italian pizzas, seated picnic-style watching Le Tour Eiffel illuminate the darkening night sky.

Which leads me to another educational life experience.

Lesson #7: Don't take the little things for granted.

La vie quotidienne

2009-10-08T05:07:00.000-07:00

If you know me, you undoubtedly know my laugh.

If you know me, you also probably know that I frequently suffer from a serious, rare, undiagnosed case of:

The giggles. 　

And for some reason, this strange malady has decided to heighten its frequency and severity overseas.

The giggles, in case you are unaware, is both a blessing and a curse, characterized by an episode of sudden, uncontrollable, stomach-crunching laughter that can cause euphoria, dizziness, or sometimes even collapse. Strange looks and/or judgments and/or confusion from outside observers is not uncommon.

It begins with the slightest trigger: usually a random thought or memory, but sometimes a brief moment of objective self-reflection, like a snapshot of my body from a bird's eye view accompanied by a gentle reminder that--hey, Rachel, you know you're in PARIS? And then, of course, the giggles come, crawling up on me unnoticed with a force so undeniably powerful that no matter how tight i purse my lips or bite my tongue, I cannot suppress its wrath. A wave of laughter comes pouring out of my lungs like a tsunami and I have to stop and rest my hands on my thighs until it passes, waving along concerned passersby and in between gasps of air,

"Oh, no no. It's just the giggles."

There is no other way to explain it--especially not in French. And there definitely is no way to hide it--nothing in a fake text message or phone call could be that funny.

Upon much reflection, I have concluded that the reason for these frequent occurrences in Paris is because, well, I'm in Paris.

I'm happy here. Very, very happy.

How couldn't I be? When I have the opportunity, no, the blessing, to be able to do things like:

Tour Montmartre's Sacre Coeur--one of the most famous churches in Europe.

Stroll through Le Jardin du Luxembourg in between classes

Attend a cooking class at the Guy Martin cooking school (yes, I made these)

Lesson #5: During a cooking class in Paris, when instructed by a professional French chef to slice carrots vertically, do not accidentally chop horizontally, as you will be scolded in incoherent, angry French.

Lesson #6: Don't publically display your severely limited cooking skills anywhere, just to be safe.

Visit Claude Monet's former house and gardens and witness the site where one of the world's greatest impressionist artists drew inspiration for his landscape pieces

Cross off an item on my bucket list by j-walking the Champs Elysees

Think San Francisco's LoveFest fused with Bay to Breakers, and you have Paris' annual Techno Parade.

Attend a Mass service at Notre Dame conducted by the Archbishop of France

Enjoy a jazz concert at Parc de Belleville while admiring a view of the entire city of Paris

Hop over to Munich, Germany and participate in the world-renowned Oktoberfest festival, also referred to by some as "Disneyland for Adults" -- a nickname that, after my last weekend's experience, I can personally fully attest to.

Etc.

I think you'd get the giggles too.

Home, sweet home.

2009-10-08T02:05:00.000-07:00

To keep accurate track of my study abroad experience, and since you already know all the many things I've been thinking, it's only fair that I relay the many things that I've been DOING.

I will begin with where I live. Hint: I don't actually live in Paris. In fact, the humble abode which I now call home is situated slightly southwest of Paris in a small city called Vanves. Vanves is located in Ile-de-France, which is the term coined for the entire surrounding area of Paris composed of 26 different regions. There are approximately 2 million residents in Paris itself; in Ile-de-France, there are 12 million.

The area in which I live is quaint and very quiet. There are some great Italian and Japanese restaurants and a handful of patisseries that line the main street, and often times a flea market is set up in the main square that sells everything from fresh produce to children's toys to high-heeled boots.

My house lies on the top of a very steep hill, which, by the way, has contributed to significant quad muscle building over the last month.

Through the front gate of the house is the garden, an outdoor table set, and flower pots perched outside every window. The house is white walled with two stories; on the main floor, a kitchen, dining room, and a living room with a piano, and a bathroom. Downstairs, the laundry room, office, and the parents' bedroom, and the basement.

Upstairs are 2 bathrooms and 4
bedrooms, 2 of which are mine and Bridget's. Quite the lavish pad, you might say. But don't be fooled, because remember, everything in France is on a smaller scale--meaning my bedroom here is about the size of my family's stove at home.

But this house is considered big, especially for the French, whose homes are typically smaller than those in the United States.

The family are some of the kindest people I have ever met, and have been hosting foreign students every year since 1987. The mom, Beatrice, is a highschool teacher, a singer in a nearby church choir, and a mean cook. The dad, Frederic, is an engineer at IBM who travels frequently all around the world. They have 4 children: the oldest, Camille, is married with a 4-month-old daughter named Charlotte, whom I unfortunately have not had the pleasure of meeting/playing with yet. The second eldest daughter is also married, though I forget her name. The 25-year-old son, Thibeau, is a physicist and a singer in a professional choir who half lives a home, half lives in an outside appartment. I often hear him humming cheerfully around the house. And the youngest, Hermance, is my age who lives in a dorm at her university during the week and returns home for the weekends to relax and enjoy her mother's mean, mean cooking.

Speaking of food (again, of course), this brings me to

Lesson #3: Familiarlize yourself with cultural customs before eating in a foreign country.

After some awkward experiences during family meals, I was kindly introduced by my host family to traditional French table manners. This, if you know me you will know, was very hard for me to internalize, as I am inherently (and very stubbornly) American manner-orientated.

First, your bread NEVER goes on your plate; it belongs on the table cloth, regardless of how many crumbs it produces--a rule that dates back to the Middle Ages when the bread WAS the plate. In the U.S, after family dinners are finished and all the plates are cleared, upon examining what remains, my family members always get a good chuckle at the significantly more noticeable mess my eating habits have left behind compared to anyone else. So this new rule is quite relieving to me.

Second, your hands NEVER go in your lap; they belong in sight at all times.
...

If I can't put my hands under the table or in my lap...where do my arms go? On the TABLE?

Yes.

Each time I am forced to do this, a familiar tune rings in the back of my head--one that my grandmother created when I was about 8 years old that has, throughout my entire life, served as a reminder every single time I sit down to eat:

Rachel, Rachel, strong and able
Get your elbows off the table
This is not a horse's stable
But a decent dining table.

I can understand why slamming your elbows on a dinner table is considered rude and slightly barbaric so this new rule, even after so many formal meals, still seems silly.

Another strange custom: the French don't take naps.

In fact, they don't even have a word for nap.

Coming from a person who, since as far as her memory stretches, has reserved at least one hour out of everyday for some snooze time, this new way of life is difficult to get used to. When 3pm rolls around and I find myself disorientated, confused, aimlessly and ineffectively searching for a pillow, I'm reminded again that I am in PARIS, and that mid-day sleeping is not only a waste of precious time to be spent elsewhere, but literally doesn't exist.

Lesson #4: You can't feed the hunger of your soul when you're sleeping.

Rue Daguerre, 8:56am

2009-10-05T13:47:00.000-07:00

A shop keeper rearranges his display of tomatoes.

Merci, and an exchange of brief kisses.

A fair-skinned lady in a dress far too snug for her backside fixes strands of hair in a store window reflection and the light turns from red to green.

Poor man, you sit patiently on your rug under your doorway in your rags and I have nothing that would satisfy you.

A butcher in a soiled apron stands behind a glass enclosure of slaughtered fish, exposing missing teeth with his head cocked back in a hearty chuckle.

Two small, elder Asian women wobble in stilettos and a boy races home with baguettes cradeled tightly in his arms.

A sturdy man of business holds his briefcase pacing quickly eyes turned up and doesn't notice the change of unforgiving pavement.

A deep voice barks LES CREVETTES, IMBECILE but the shrimp is already overcooked.

Free samples for early risers and lovers meet for cigarettes at the corner cafe.

In floral print and tassled bangs a wife helps her hunch-backed elder grandmother and she knows her time is near.

A careless hand flicks ash on my shoulder and aged cheese and fresh bread warm the crisp morning air.

8:57am

"...That to learn gives the livliest pleasure..." Aristotle, 350 B.C.E.

2009-09-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

I have been living here for almost one month, and above all, I have realized but one thing:

There's a lot that I don't know.

In fact, there's a WHOLE lot that I have absolutely no idea about, nor do I possess the capabilities to ever be able to imagine, conceptualize, or understand on any level whatsoever.

A glimpse of this became apparent the first few days when I, regrettably, was forced to admit wholly and honestly to myself that:

I cannot read a map.

My family will find much humor in this, as they have known for quite some time now (perhaps even before I knew) that I have absolutely no sense of directional awareness. I am a smart person and I have many good qualities, but if you ever find yourself lost and desperately trying to find your way and I am the only one to ask for assistance, good luck, because you will 9 times out of 10 not end up in the right place.

This particular slice of reality has become a solid 10 out of 10 fact since the night I decided to go home alone at 1:00am after clubbing with friends on the Champs Elysees. After traveling what was supposed to be only 2 miles between the club and my house, I arrived at my doorstep 4 hours later, map in hand, barefoot and crying.

*I'd like to take a moment to put into the spotlight Paris' public transportation system. Because the metro closes every night at around 12:30am, night-goers are left in a sticky predicament when returning home: take a taxi, which leaves a significant dent in your wallet when taken regularly, walk, which can be impossible when needing to travel long distances, or take the Noctilien--a word that strikes a bittersweet cord with nearly every American studying in Paris. The Noctilien is the all-night bus system that runs all over the city, stopping at every major transfer station at 30 minute intervals.

Although I should take all the credit for the disastrous mishap previously mentioned, from a purely objective standpoint, the Noctilien map and schedule is one of the most confusing and disorganized transportation systems for any normal, competent person to navigate--even more so for those crippled with the inability to distinguish between north and south.

But, I did make it home. And I continue to make it home every night safely because my map- reading skills ARE improving with time.

This is the type of thing you learn when you live in Paris, France.

Speaking of learning, someone recently asked me what I want to gain out of my study abroad experience. I frantically fumbled for answers like "To be a better person!" and "To have a grrrreat experience!" But really, I hadn't ever thought honestly about this question. Perhaps upon my decision to study here, I was hoping to get away from a life dominated by monotony, schedules and alarms, safety and comfort, boy drama, etc., and spend 4 months frollicking merrily through the cobblestone streets and eating crepes by the Eiffel Tower without a worry in the world. Of course, this wasn't the real reason--just a perk.

I soon ended my efforts in finding the "right" answer, assured that my real motivation lurked somewhere within me--I just didn't know how to articulate it. Until yesterday. When I was walking to the metro to go to school, snacking on my usual "pain au chocolat" (more on this later), the answer suddenly became quite clear. To learn.

Well, duh.

This is called study abroad.

There are 2 dimensions of this: I'm studying--learning about philosophy, the French language, and exploring the history of French art, cinema, and music--and it just so happens that these academic pursuits are taking place in another country. And I'm also studying--perceiving, examining, internalizing, interpreting, valuing, judging, fearing, loving, providing meaning for--Paris. France. Europe. The eastern hemisphere. The world outside of the suburbs of San Francisco and the sheltered borders of Santa Clara University. And of course, it is only natural that I come to learn about myself in relation to the place in which i am situated, and furthermore, to discover what I find truly fulfilling without the help of a constant crutch to steady my balance.

In everything we as humans do, we seek to be fulfilled--we seek some sort of pleasure (bear with me while I get philosophical for a moment). Pleasure, I think, consists, of different levels organized in a hierarchical structure of rings around the body, let's say. The widest ring is the furthest from the body, in whose reach are things within sight, smell, and hearing--for example, admiring a painting or landscape, smelling fresh baked bread, or listening to a symphony. This ring, arguably, produces the least amount and quality of pleasure. The next is a ring tied directly to the senses, which produces purely physical pleasure like touch, and also sight, sound, smell, and taste. Another ring is that of the ego, motivated by purely selfish social needs, another ring tending to emotion, and so forth. At the core is a ring wrapped around the soul--the innermost part of the human, elusive and mysterious in its wants and needs, its capacities, its purpose, and its functions. The degree of pleasure that surpasses the outer rings and reaches the center is the most profound, the most valuable, and consequently the most sought. These pleasures--the "pleasures of the soul" as I call them--are what keep us living and striving to reach our full potential (also referred to by some psychologists as self-actualization).

By this time I have finished my chocolate pastry and can be found sitting on a nearby park bench scribbling in my notebook, forgetting altogether about the metro I have just missed. And by this time I have provided an answer for my dear question-asking friend, who so easily probes so deeply into my conscience. It is now my mission, from my Paris days through my Paris nights, to feed the hunger of my soul. And that hunger is to learn.

To learn in my classes, to learn in museums, to learn on the streets, to learn at my homestay, and with all of this, to learn how to live on my own. Now this, obviously, is a BIG thing to learn--something that doesn't come easily or suddenly. Abroad, it begins with the little things: how to time manage, how to coordinate a 5-day trip to 3 cities in Italy with 6 people whom you've never met before, how to ask for directions and order in a restaurant, how to not blow through 15 Euro worth of cell phone minutes/text messages in only 2 days, how to choose the best restaurant for a certain occasion, and most importantly, how to budget the 5-letter word that makes me cringe: money. It has become evident that perhaps I only brought 1/3 of the amount of money I should have, so because of my limited budget (aka I'm quickly nearing poverty), I avoid 30 Euro meals and 5 Euro 1-ounce espresso shots and stick to the very bare essentials: school supplies, metro passes, cell phone minutes, pains au chocolats, etc.

And so i have decided, from here on out, to organize my travel journal entries into a numerical "lesson" form. The first lesson, informally, I have deemed: Learn how to read a map.

Lesson #2 : There exists an infinite unknown waiting to be enjoyed.

Ou est le Starbucks?

2009-09-17T03:26:00.000-07:00

I am in France.

This means I am in a country with a world-renowned museum, cathedral, or monument on nearly every street corner.

Even more, I am in Paris.

This means I am in a city with more light, more love, more taste, more hair, more smells and sounds, and more people than anywhere I've ever been before. Bustling with rich history, diverse culture, and alluring, mysterious beauty, Paris, France is truly one of the greatest places in the world (and that's not just my opinion. It's fact).

Despite the grandeur, the wonder and awe, and the countless unimaginable experiences I've had thus far, it is only natural that I, Rachel, begin my travel journal with my favorite (and arguably the most important) topic.

Food.

When I initially declared my decision to study abroad in France, nearly everyone I knew expressed serious concern for my health.

“Rachel, have you ever eaten a French meal?” Followed by, “What on earth are you going to do?”

My overwhelming response:

“No. And that is a very good question.”

In between visits to the Musee d'Orsay, Le Jardin du Luxembourg, and le Sacre Coeur a Montmarte, I often find myself wondering to what lengths I would go for a Chipotle burrito.

I can tell you with confidence that it’s not as far as I'd go for a Peet's large iced lowfat latte machiatto with 2 Splendas and a dash of half n half. To go, please.

Speaking of iced coffee, there is none in Paris, France. Speaking of “to go” coffee, there is none of that either. This, needless to be said, has been a serious obstacle in my daily routine.
As hard as I have tried to fully immerse myself into French culture and blend in as a true Parisienne, at around 1pm on Monday the 14th, a whole 9 days into my 4 month trip, I found myself doing homework and listening to my pink iPod in a booth at Starbucks. And yes, that large iced latte was heavenly.

But despite my minor slip back into American comfort, I have done quite well so far. I sip hot, black espresso out of tiny tea cups at the street cafes in my boots and peacoat, gossiping with close friends while watching passersby, and can’t help but think, Ahhh life is good.

After living in Paris for about 2 weeks now, my eating habits have already significantly changed. From growing up on homecooked meals by my mother, whose motto is, "Most people eat to live. I live to eat," to living in a dorm about 200 yards from my university's cafeteria, I am conditioned to having plentiful amounts of food readily available at all hours of the day, everyday.

When I sat down for my first French dinner at my homestay and saw the first course (which I thought was the entire meal), I thought seriously to myself,

"Oh my God. I'm going to starve."

Beatrice, my host mother, cooks simple, heathly, traditional French 4-course meals. For dinner, which I eat at home nearly every night, we typically start with a small vegetable dish--a fresh tomato or mushroom salad, or dark leafy greens dressed tossed in a light vinaigrette. Last night we each ate an entire avocado...with a spoon. Then she clears the table and brings out the main course--either beef and seasoned potatoes, a baked tomato and cheese tart, or an egg and ham quishe, etc. Then she clears the table again and brings out a baguette, an assortment of cow, goat, and sheep cheese from northern, western, and eastern france, and a variety of "pates" or spreads--usually either a type of mustard or a green olive, garlic, and onion spread, or sometimes a mysterious brown substance that looks like a thin block of butter.

*To note, it is respectful and polite to try everything your host mother puts in front of you. If you don't like it, you don't have to continue eating it. Also, you must clear every morsel of food and sauce on your plate. What do you think all that bread is for?

Upon seeing this particular pate for the first time, I hesitantly spread it over my sliced bread as I eyed Bridget curiously. As I lifted it to my mouth I asked, "qu'est-ce c'est?" Immediately after the bite entered my mouth and I began to chew, Beatrice timely responded, in English,

"Ground up liver."

Our eyes locked and I tried with every ounce of my politeness not to spew the mangled liver and bread out of my mouth and onto the table and throw my arms up in disgust.

I swallowed with a smile, and continued eating everything but the mysterious brown substance that looks like a thin block of butter, that I now knew and will forever know is an animal's organ.

These are the types of things you learn when you live in Paris, France.

And finally, dessert. We'll have either yogurt, a fruit salad with fraises, framboises, and peches (strawberries, raspberries, and peaches), or some sort of pastry.

So although in the United States the French have a reputation of eating very small portions and of eating very gross things (i.e. snails, or liver), it seems to me that this perception is not entirely accurate. They don't normally eat gross things and though they don't eat as frequently as we, when they do eat, they eat A LOT. Which for me, feels just like home.

Except for breakfast. In the States, it is not uncommon that approximately 30 minutes after waking up, I've already devoured a three-egg omlette, bacon, a bagel and cream cheese, and a large iced coffee. In Paris, continental breakfasts are slightly lighter.

I'm still learning to adjust on this one.

Despite my intitial pre-judgments and skepticism, indulging in authentic french cuisine is not only healthy and delicious, but also teaches me to learn to appreciate the taste and quality of simple foods. In fact, in Europe, France is known for its unique gastronomical culture. To the rest of Europe, and to me, the French seem to have perfected just that: "the art and science of good eating."

In case you were wondering, yes, i do eat the notorious baguette sandwhiches and pastries. Frequently.

And let me tell you, nutella crepes taste a whole lot better when you're walking along the Seine.

Le debut: Paris, France

2009-09-09T09:10:00.000-07:00

Thursday September 3rd; 4:55pm

Scheduled flight from San Francisco to Paris. We should drive into the city a few hours early because the Bay Bridge is closing tonight for construction, and the traffic will be horrendous.

There is no traffic.

2:00pm

Arrive at the San Francisco International Airport and stand in line for check in. 75 lbs of luggage. What? Oh, my flight has been delayed util 6:40pm? I suppose I can get some writing done and make a few goodbye phone calls.

6pm

Board flight 284 SFO to Heathrow aircraft after much anticipation. Two lovely ladies greet me eargerly in seats 45 B and C. Both from the East bay, traveling to Rome to visit relatives. Sandee and Barbara will be my only life support for the next 24 hours.

There is no air conditioning.

7:10pm

Flight 284 leaves the gate 30 minutes behind schedule.

7:20pm

Flight 284 returns to the gate.

"This just isn't our day, is it?"

Says the pilot. Technical problems. Engine 3 blowout. We're working on fixing it and should be leaving shortly.

9:24pm

"We're trying to reach the engineers in London...it's gonna be another hour or so until...Immigration laws forbid passengers to exit the aircraft after...while you wait, our complimentary beverage and meal service..."

There is no air conditioning.

12:09am

One movie, two meals, and three pounds of sweat later. The flight is cancelled.
We will be reclaiming our luggage and receiving hotel vouchers for a nearby Hyatt until the next available flight, tomorrow at 3pm.

(A word: Sandee and Barbara paid for the van from and to the airport, let me borrow their cell phones for emergency phone calls here and abroad, and kept my spirits above the tiring frustration of it all. For them I am eternally grateful. We even took a picture together. They're in their sixties.)

Friday September 4th; 3pm

Flight 284 SFO to Heathrow has been delayed.

4:45pm

We board. Flight 284 SFO to Heathrow leaves the gate, and does not return to the gate.

Saturday September 5th; 10:30am

Flight 284 arrives in London 2 hours behind schedule. Flight officials at the Heathrow terminal 5 security gate redirect me to the reservation kiosk to reschedule the connecting flight to Paris that I've just missed.

2:30pm

I readjust the shoulder strap of my 40 pound bag.

2:31pm

Scolding hot coffee seeps into the fabric my new 70$ peacoat.

2:45pm

(Re) Rescheduled connection flight from Heathrow to Charles de Gaulle.

Saturday September 5th; 5pm

My arrival in Paris, France. I contemplate running off this godforsaken, cursed steel machine of death and kiss the French soil and hug everyone in sight, but decide against my wild, delirious, sleep deprived impulse as I've been traveling for a total of 24 hours now and I probably smell and I definitely look like shit.

I sit in the back of the bus to Montparnasse and recite words of reassurance.

And so, the adventure begins...

At a glance

2009-08-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

March 2008

I was flipping through the pages of my chemistry book on my walk home when I first saw her, sprawled out on a pink lawn chair in her front yard, as if no one was watching. I peered behind and around me, feeling almost embarrassed to be in the presence of such seemingly indecent public exposure. And yet, I must confess, I had never seen such a beautiful woman.

I hoped she didn’t see me standing there across the street in my tacky orange sweater, untied shoelaces, and faded blue jeans like some love-struck teenage admirer lurking through bushes. I nearly dropped my book bag hurrying home.

After school the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, I took a left down Rover Avenue and saw her there. She lay, basking, on that chair sipping a martini with two olives, fumbling the buttons of a cell phone in the other hand, unbothered. Sometimes, given the severity of heat, she clutched the bottleneck of a Corona (with lime) or playfully toyed with the twisty straw of a peach daiquiri. I would continue up the block towards my house thinking about what I could’ve said to her, going over all the ways I wouldn’t say “Nice day out, eh?”

I didn’t mind the walk. In fact, I sometimes waited with an almost impatient urgency to find an excuse to escape the gruelingly mind-numbing school routine. I would stroll casually, periodically shooting anxious glances up from the page of a book I was not actually reading to see her across the street. It was a strange obsession, seeing her, observing a form of life that was so foreign to mine.

Every day for months I saw her rosy cheeks and oversized sunglasses, and her long brown thick curls draping over the edge of the headrest. Her legs, long, smooth and golden, glistened in the afternoon sun as she chattered merrily with passersby. The supple skin of her bare stomach clung to the curves of her hipbones. Her jutting clavicle rested above perky breasts and an unpierced naval. A bent leg, symmetric shoulders, timid hands and fingers and manicured nail beds. My eyes danced, tracing her lines, her angles, her hair follicles, every cell that made up her entire body and made her human.

I began to wonder if she was even real. Was she perhaps just a figment of my imagination—an attempt, catalyzed by shallow mindedness, to transform mediocrity, to project a physical entity so capable of achieving constructs of perfection that even I couldn’t turn away? Maybe she was a girl just trying to get a tan, and I had nothing better to do.

Perhaps I would ask for her name. It must be something smooth and classy and womanly like Adrienne. How old was Adrienne? Did she like to play tennis, did she sing in the shower, did she ever wonder how far and how long the bounds of outer space stretch into the unknown? I imagine her being more of a hands-on kind of worker, and who still goes to church on Sundays because that’s what she grew up doing. She no doubt prefers extra whipped cream and nuts on her ice cream sundaes.

My tangential and sporadic stream of consciousness was dizzying, consuming me with an undeniable urge to know her.

I finally mustered the confidence to make my walk down the other side of the street. Taking a heavy breath, I approached her.

“Hello.”

She looked at me, tilting her sunglasses up. “Good afternoon.”

Was she an animal lover, a Republican, a stamp collector? Did she sleep on her side or on her back or on her stomach? How old was she when she lost her first tooth? Could she read a trashy romance novel cover to cover in a single day? Had she been to the Louvre and stood in line to see DaVinci’s Mona Lisa, only to discover how tiny it really is? Did she sometimes eat chocolate before bed without brushing her teeth? What was her favorite color, 80’s band, shampoo brand? Did she fear failure, or clowns, or maybe seaweed? How many siblings did she have, and what was her least favorite flavor candy? What did she want out of life?

“Hot day out, isn’t it?”

“Sure.” She smiled, adjusting her lenses, and continued sipping her drink.

“Have a nice day,” I said, and continued up the block.