Etching smiles into tombstones

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.

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

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

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.

Home, sweet home.

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

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.

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?

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

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...