5 minute poem

If there's anything I've learned
from philosophy


it is to step
back.

The beginning of a love affair (with gelato)

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?

If only Adam was here.

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.

Taking Breath

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.

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.

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

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.