Neuf

Well, it's been a bit since I posted here.  That's because I'm no longer living in France.  Triste [(tree-st): sad].  Elle me manque [(el muh mahn-k): I miss her], but I'm living in San Francisco now and have a new blog.  Come check it out!

Vive la France!

Minuit à Paris

Paris is a magical city--yesterday, today, and toujours (too-joor: always), but especially yesterday.  I honestly figured  before moving here that I'd be spending my evenings rubbing elbows with Edith Piaf and F. Scott Fitzgerald--pre-fame--while we sipped absinthe and dined on escargot (s-kar-go: snails) before making a minuit (min-wee: midnight) stroll along the Seine.  

 So, you can imagine my utter shock at finding out that these famous chanteuses (shan-toos: female singers) and écrivains (ek-ree-von: writers) of the days of yore have long since died, leaving in their wake over priced croissants and watered down cocktails at the uber-touristy Latin Quarter joints.  Like the protagonist in Woody Allen's adorable newest film, I too wish for a older, more down-home and grungy Paris filled with the intellectual elite.  However, unlike Woody Allen's character, I would never be invited into the inner-circle of these geniuses.  I lack a certain je ne sais quoi (juh nuh say qwa: I don't know what)--or, you know, talent.

Unfortunately I still haven't stumbled across the magical time portal that brings me to the Paris of my choosing, but luckily there's still something magical about roaming the streets of Paris in the throes of nightfall even in the year 2011, imagining where it was that the people who made this city famous once puked their drunken guts out, passed-out, or simply engaged in other debauchery.  When the city is dark and the streets are more or less empty, it's easier to imagine this cultural capital in its heyday--whether that be la belle époque (lah bell ep-ok) or when Hemingway was practicing his alcoholism here.

 Sure, I may not be making history here like the many celebrities who have claimed Paris as their stomping ground, but it's enough for me to know that I've had the privilege of soaking up the leftovers.  Plus, David Sedaris (one of my personal favorite authors) lives here, and that means Paris must be in the process of a whole new age: that of the sassy, humorist writer with a penchant for being a lovable asshole. 

La famille

Sundays in France for the most part piss me off, not only because it means I have work the next day but also because most stores in France are closed, including many restaurants.  However, there is one Sunday ritual in France that I can't help but call mignon (mihn-yohn:cute) : that of the family Sunday stroll in le parc (luh pahr-k: the park).

The French tend to be very traditional as a culture, and the tradition I see them holding the most dear is that of la famille (lah fam-ee: the family).  Not only do old world child rearing standards hold firm in France (that of spanking children, corporal punishment in the classroom, and openly demeaning children on the street for spilling their ice cream), but the idea that family should stay close and spend lots of time ensemble (on-semb-luh: together) still has deep roots among the French.  This isn't to say that the French family is without it's obligatory dysfunction.  Oh non, au contraire (no, oh kon-trer: on the contrary):  French families are every bit as dysfunctional as the American ones, but at least in France they keep their fighting and backstabbing together under one roof or in a public park, where it belongs.

Sundays seem to be the day when the French famille puts their art of togetherness to the test.  It's the day when not only does the family hangout together during the afternoon in the park, but the entire extended family will often get together for a lunch or dinner.  And since it's still quite common for the college age Frenchie to live at home until some poor sap agrees to marry him, getting together for a meal isn't all too hard to do.  In a large country like the US, where families sometimes live a thousand miles apart from each other and getting the family together for some quality time usually just means sitting around the t.v. and watching American Idol while waiting for the pizza delivery guy, I have to say, it's refreshing seeing the families of France make a more concerted effort to stick together and openly argue about Dominique Strauss-Kahn and immigration while strolling along le Sein (luh sen: the famous river that runs through the middle of Paris), especially when this family includes a petit chien (puh-tee she-ehn: little dog) available for my patting pleasure.

Champagne

Yesterday my friends and I boarded a (I think Nazi-run) bright yellow tour bus and made our way to the northeastern corner of France blessed personally by God himself.

God decided to reach down his all-powerful pointer finger from the sky and say “I now dub these grapes as the most expensive grapes in the world, and they shall be called champagne grapes, and in a few thousand years the French people who shall inherit them –because the French are the most blessed and capable alcoholics of my creation--will charge $1,500,000 for a square hectare of land where these grapes grow and this will make Me, God, very happy. And yay, these grapes will rot in bottles for up to 50 years, and will make young married couples and rich people on their yachts very drunk and I will personally charge each person at least $50 a bottle to share in the joy of this, the most blessed of divine alcoholic nectar. And there will be much rejoicing. And I will be pleased. Amen to Me.”

And thus, the Champagne (shamp-on: champagne) region was born.  And God saw that it was good. 

Yes, this really happened. Just look it up. It's in there, right above the chapter about Lady Gaga.

The French take champagne very seriously, and even copyrighted the term “Champagne” so that only sparkling vin (von: wine) of this region can be called “champagne”-- all other sparkling wines of every other less magical place on Earth must be referred to as “using the champagne method”.  Champagne cellar tours start with very high budget promotionalpropaganda about how magical and divinely-inspired the fermentation of their grapes are, with Moët & Chandon (the creators of Dom Perignon) one-upping everyone else by having Scarlett Johannson herself narrate their five minute clip in her best smoky, post-coital seductive rendition of “drink me” possible.

The tours of the cellars take you 12 meters below ground into cold, dark, mold-invested cellars (but "expensive mold" the tour guide ensured us, "the mold they make Roquefort cheese with!"), where the labor and time-intensive details of champagne fabrication (re: rotting grapes in bottles) are explained—how the bottles have to be turned and held at varying 20 degree angles every day for three weeks.  Ensuite (on-sweet: then) depending on the quality, these bottles must be stored between 3 and 20 years before they're ready to be labeled and sold. All in all an educational experience, especially when it came time for the tasting, my favorite part.

In the days leading up to my much-anticipated tour of this, the most béni (behn-ee: divinely blessed) region of France, my excitement seemed best summed-up by the scene “The Night They Invented Champagne” from the Colette novella-inspired musical Gigi, which you can watch if you click the link below (YouTube embedding links are not working for me right now). I feel like singing this song every time I open a glass of bubbly, even though my bottles are usually Korbel and cost $10. Whatever, when it comes to alcohol my motto is: who cares where the alcohol was made when you're drunk?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JMiCGOZVkgQ

Un clin d'oeil

If I could hand down one piece of advice, it would be to keep your yeux (you: eyes) wide open, because everything seems to change with a clin d'oeil (kleen d-ow: blink of an eye). The bleak grey ciel (see-yell: sky) of a Parisian winter suddenly turns into blossoming, muggy spring days and before I know it those blossoms have disappeared and l'été is only a month away. Beloved animals slip away from my life, friends disappear to corners of the globe to maybe never be seen again, and in a little over a month, my current life in Paris will be a distant memory.

Time has a stubborn way of continually moving forward, and for some reason this year is no exception. Yet I'm somehow always shocked—SHOCKED--when I find myself at the end of yet another year, trying to get myself into a bargain with Father Time to roll back the les horloges (layz or-loj: clocks) a bit, even offering to sell my soul for an extra few days of weekend, but Father Time is a stubborn old fool and never gives in.

So, here I am, at the end of another printemps (prawn-temp: spring). I've got to start packing my valises (val-eez: suitcases) and say my goodbyes to Paris. Sure, I still have a little over a month left, but if past experiences have taught me anything, it's that as soon as there's a clin d'oeil, it will all be over, but that's alright: it just means a new adventure in San Francisco is about to begin, and knowing that Andrew and my family will be waiting for me when I get home makes the impending goodbyes a little easier.

My Neasa

There is a great emptiness in my life.  On May 3rd, 2011 at around 8:40 pm California time, my Neasa was put to rest by her vet.  Since Neasa loved adventure and the outdoors, no one was able to see what exactly happened, but on Monday my Neasa struggled to get from her injured spot outside so that she could make it home, and waited in the bathroom with a badly damaged face for my dad to see and help her.  She was rushed to the vet purring but scared, and the vet first believed that she was going to make a full recovery but would have to lose her left eye.  But as the doctor started surgery he realized that a massive infection had built-up in Neasa's head, and that she wasn't going to make it.  She was then put to sleep, and is now being mourned by all who knew her.

Please read below if you would like to know more about my beloved Neasa.  I know that Neasa meant a lot to a great many people, and I would love it if you could share some of your favorite memories about her in the comments section, or if you didn't know Neasa, I would also love to hear stories about your own beloved cats.  Neasa adored cats, and I'd love to celebrate her life by sharing all the wonderful stories about the joy they give us.

Leith (in Turkish)

I had written this whole long-winded post about Türkiye (Turkish for Turkey), including everything from where Andrew and I stayed, to the food we ate, to the places we visited, but after reading over the post I found it didn't do the trip justice.  İstanbul is one of those rare gems that not only unites Europe with Asia and Africa (yes, the country sits on three continents!), but it also seems to embody the rare splendor of many a yesteryear, when the metropolis was the seat of an empire hellbent on exuding extravagance but now is a solemn reminder that empires crumble as easily as the concrete buildings used to decorate the now modern skyline.

Palaces and camiis (mosques) dating back over 1000 years are sill decoratively painted with extravagant gold leaf Byzantine devotions to the Virgin and furnished with delicate crystal chandeliers and the hand-woven Turkish carpets that the region has always been famous for.  Yet standing right alongside these shrines to former prestige are derelict apartment buildings with hollowed-out window frames and missing roofs, standing in perfect homage to what seems to be the outlook of Istanbul: build around history, and forget that you were once great .  There are so many ancient monuments, aqueducts, palaces, and hidden treasures beneath Istanbul's soil bringing reminder to a tumultuous past that it seems that the city dwellers have made a conscious decision to build over and around history with modern skyscrapers and nargile (hookah) bars with bright, twinkling lights, leaving history buried where, it seems, the Turks prefer it to be.

Every Istanbul morning starts with a 6am call to prayer from what must be over a million minare (minarets) throughout the city of over 16 million inhabitants.  Shopkeepers at every çarşı (bazaar) and fruit stand call out to every passing tourist, commanding them to take a look at their wares, which range from everything to hand-ground spices and finely woven cashmere eşarp (scarves) to cheap imported imitation Dior sunglasses.  In front of a centuries-old Roman fountain construction workers stand around sipping çay (tea) for the eighth time that afternoon, content to just people watch and gossip.  And there's plenty of people watching to be had.  The city is a maze of twisting streets and crumbling brick walls swallowed by a storm of both native Turks and Nike-clad tourists.  
 
It's easy to feel lost and overwhelmed, but admittedly--to me, at least--this overwhelming feeling is part of the city's charm.  For a few lira (Turkish money), the Turks are more than happy to share bits of their culture with you, be it an intimate hour-long bath, banana tea, one of their hundreds of different pistachio and honey pastry concoctions (delicious!!!), or simply the story behind the Turkish love of the game of tavla (backgammon).  Having mostly traveled within Europe and North America, everything in Turkey felt new and even being there for a week I felt as though Andrew and I barely made a dent in everything the city had to offer.  

Not only does Türkiye bridge continents, but it also has the heavy task of linking the past glory of forgotten empires with the present reality of a less glamorous economic situation, and modern-day Turks are left trying to choose an identity that fits in with a decidedly more homogenous Europe that Turkey just isn't.  Turkish days are dictated by prayer, spices roasted into every kebap, intimate bathing rituals, whole lives and legacies buried underneath it's eyesore of modern buildings.  The people of Turkey may be reserved, and quite honestly ambivalent about their country's past, but it's clear to me that there is a cultural identity among the Turks that is unique: some parts of their cold cultural exterior may be as drab and interchangeable as their charcoal gray houses, but a much more integral part of their country is as ornate and steadfast as their mosques and music and beautiful though tumultuous Bosphorus Strait, a confusing waterway with two currents running in different directions.

As I stood with Andrew at the bow of our day cruise ship on this Bosphorus during our last afternoon in Turkey, staring off into the Black Sea far away from the busy smog-filled streets of the city, it occurred to me that I could never sum up in just a few words what Istanbul is exactly.  Like the opposing currents running beneath me, so to did the city seem to be pulled.  On one hand the people in Istanbul seemed desperate to modernize every building to please a more streamlined and capitalist Western Europe, yet around every towering hotel and supermarket sits another monument, mosque, or stray kitten or dog that have long been a historical presence on these city streets.  How am I supposed to sum up such a striking dichotomy into a blog post? 

It's no mystery to me why Istanbul was the seat to such greatness, and why--who knows?--it may be again.  The hard part is distinguishing the genuine beauty among the rubble and knockoff designer handbags, because to be honest there's plenty of both.  But if you're patient enough to put up with being swindled from time to time, I can't recommend Turkey highly enough.