Hostel Life in Paris

This last week, everyone in France was on holiday for All Saint’s Day which meant two things:

1. Paris was majority French-speaking for once; and
2. The strikes magically disappeared.

The strikes in the news of course had been exaggerated in the news.  Occasionally, I’d pass by a previously lit pile of trash, but otherwise things were back to normal.  I mentioned to a French hostel-mate that I’ll probably be 70 by the time I retire as things are going, so I’m taking a year of retirement while I’m young.  “What’s the retirement age in the U.S.?” she asked.  “Sixty?”  Oh the French are cute.

While there, I stayed in a hostel close to the Pere Lachaise cemetery.  Hostels are an amazing way of experiencing a city - you can meet travlers from all over and get suggestions on what to see or avoid.  They aren't for the weak of stomach, though, as they usually involve at least four beds and communal bathrooms and showers (still, nothing as bad as in the movie, from what I gather).

Taking a shower in this hostel in particular was an endeavor – although it was quite clever in forcing you to make it quick.  Once you push the “on” button, the shower only runs for 15 seconds at a time.  And while you can push the button indefinitely, the water gets little by little more scalding.

Noise is another issue.  My room was right next to the bathroom, so like it or not, I woke up to slamming doors and showers.  On top of that, my 50-something bunkmate snored like a steam train.  After two sleepless nights, I woke up to find her packing her bags.  “Are you leaving?” I asked.  “No,” she said, “I’m switching rooms, this one’s too loud.” 

But in the end, I was in Paris, my old stomping grounds, which involved a lot of catching up with some dearly-missed friends of the macaron variety.  I know I’ve talked about these too much and haven’t made enough to pass around to everyone yet, but they are just about the most delightful treats I know: crunchy meringue-based shell akin to cracking crème brulée with a soft, sweet ganache in the center.

Seeing as the Cordon Bleu wouldn’t let me into the day-long “Secrets of Macarons” course, even when I went in and tried to be as pathetic as possible (“but I came from the U.S. to take this course!”), I decided to make amends by eating as many as possible. 

Some people are into designer bags or clothes; I, on the other hand, am apparently into designer macarons.  By far, my favorite was the Ispahan macaron by the famous pastry chef Pierre Hermé: rose-water-flavored cookies about the size of my palm with a lychee cream filling and raspberries lining the edges.  Pure bliss…

The award for most original macarons goes to Fauchon, which I got after nearly 3 hours straight of bicycle-riding around the city (I had to burn off those carbs somehow): lemon-mint, raspberry-basil, and vanilla-rum (the other patisserie in the picture is a tiny éclair filled with caramel.. yum).  I think I ended up spending more money on pastries than actual food.

Luxembourg Gardens (yes, cliche)

One of the first things that struck me about Paris was how much it had changed from my vantage point.  Three years later, I still can’t help but love this city, but I’m no longer fascinated to the point of being absorbed by it – the culture, the clothes, and the foreign-ness of it all.  Apparently, it takes going back to somewhere from your past to realize that you’ve changed.

I never realized, too, how friendly people can be here – I was always too busy in the past trying to meet people instead of letting it happen.  Of course, there’s the usual curmudgeon (it seems like everyone comes away from Paris with at least one experience of an unpleasant conversation, but then I wonder what it would be like for a French person to come across a redneck in the States).  I decided to spend an afternoon in the Luxembourg Gardens, reading and people-watching.  I talked with a number of passers-by, one of whom was curious about the cake (or, rather, the enormous macaron) I was taking pictures of.

Since my days started to revolve around my meals and snacks, I filled up the time in-between with picture-taking during my walks.  My dad mentioned a photographer who, to show how light and the time of day affects the quality of a picture, took a picture on the hour for 24 hours.  I decided to try this on a smaller scale at Notre Dame, taking pictures on the half-hour (I stuck them at the end since I already have too many pictures).

My last night in the city, after visiting in St. Sulpice and getting dinner in my old neighborhood, I walked over to the Eiffel Tower.  And what should have been obvious is that it makes for the ultimate in long-exposure shots in Paris.

On a different note... I read once about, after losing someone close, it’s common to have a “grocery store moment” – a moment in time where the loss of the person hits you (and usually not in the most convenient situation).  Maybe it's happened to one of you, too, for anyone you've lost.

I took a bus over to meet the mother of the family I will be staying with in Geneva, passing through the Champs-Elysées and around the Arc de Triomphe.  Just then it hit me, a memory so vivid that it threw me off-guard: waiting for a bus and chatting with my mom close to that intersection.  Sometimes it takes having a memory so real, even such a trivial one, of someone that it really sinks in how much you’ve lost.

So now I’m in Geneva, where I’ll be an au pair and volunteer in my spare time.  I've met the mom and her boyfriend and will be meeting the kids soon...  Oh and Happy Halloween everyone! :)  I almost forgot - it doesn't seem to be so common here.

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The American Returns to Paris

Before starting this trip, I bought lots of multi-purpose clothing – purple water-proof jacket, pastel blue sun-proof shirts and hats, khaki pants with zip-off legs to make capris … All with the common theme of being feminine but functional.  I’ve long seen traveling backpackers, typically with scruffy beards and beat-up shirts – and that wasn’t going to be me (as long as I avoid frogs’ legs – right, Dad?).

Mad Men dolls at FAO Schwartz.. go figure

I rushed around my last day in the city… I hung out with Kathy, eating at E.A.T. on Madison Ave, perusing high-end department stores, gawking at the Trump Tower and Apple Store, and finishing up by checking out the super-clean (still existent) version of FAO Schwartz.  I also managed to get in some last-minute photo time at Grand Central.

Then I rushed back to Rahul’s place, threw together my stuff and got my turtle on.  I don’t know what travel motto you all have, but I think that travel is most memorable when something goes wrong… and something invariably goes wrong.  Yet something will always go amazingly right, too, perhaps just to balance things out.

I think back to all those family vacations and the parts that stand out, and I can think of all the accidents, near-accidents, injuries, getting lost, and crying because we accidentally drove into Illinois when I was finally going to be one state ahead of my brother!

Playing with shutter speed in Grand Central

With my long coat on in warm weather, I got to line 4, transferred to line A, rushed around the hectic Penn Station, until someone finally told me that all New Jersey-bound trains were cancelled due to a derailment.  I joined the mob of general confusion, and, with great luck, I managed to catch one of the last trains heading to Newark Airport.  I sat down in my seat only to find that my cute ¾ -sleeve top is drenched in sweat.  Well, with the general stench of Paris, I shouldn’t stand out too much. :P

Semi-fashionable traveler tip #1: Wear black.  I guess in some sense travelers are like married couples, looking more and more similar over the course of a trip.  I'm slowly giving up on this nice-clothes thing.  Practicality can only be so attractive.

But, as luck would have it, security was fast (would they really want to pat me down?) and I ended up having all three seats in my row empty.

And now I'm in Paris!  I've gotten so used to having GPS on my phone that (of course) I didn't write down the address or even the full name of the hostel I'm staying at.  Oy.  While I daydreamed about have a bolognese panini for lunch on the long train-ride in, I ended up going to "Chez McDo" for a chicken ranch wrap and internet.

But now I'm here in one of my favorite cities and I can't wait to explore it with my new camera!  On the agenda: macarons, paninis, more macarons, gelato, perhaps going into the Cordon Bleu and begging them to let me into that macaron class...  A respite before my life is taken over by two pre-teen boys.

First order of business: pain au chocolat (chocolate croissant).

Some more pictures of NYC...

Some arch..

Fall colors in Central Park

My photographic partners in crime

My Turtle Year

I’m off on the first leg of my journey around the world!  First stop: New York City.  Time to visit friends and family, get some photography practice in Central Park, and figure out how practical (or impractical, it turns out) my packing situation is.

I arrived in NYC late last night, trying to figure out the subway system with half my weight in luggage on my back.  I hobbled over to the airport tram, which took me to the subway, where I waited for another half-hour, watching the rats play tag on the tracks with scraps of refuse.

But as I reached ground level at the World Trade Center stop and saw the skyscrapers, I couldn't help but smile (which for the amount of security around here must've been suspicious, especially with the huge backpack).  Even seeing the remains of the WTC couldn't take that away from me.  And after a day of hanging out with friends and casually taking pictures while walking around, I can't help but love this city.

So the title of my blog page is a little deceiving.  Technically, I won’t be gone for a year.  My plans got started later than I wanted (thanks to some unfortunate leads I later gave up on), so I’m planning to be gone for 8-9 months.  But "My Turtle Year" sounds better than "My Turtle 2/3 of a Year".  Although that does appeal to my nerdy, literalist side.

Then there’s the turtle part.  I was going for the idea that I’m going to be wandering with my (green) house on my back, but I probably should’ve gone with better imagery since I’m not swimming or kayaking à la Google the whole way – a tortoise, perhaps?  Or is there a turtle-like creature of the land and air?

I’ve felt guilty for a long time at the thought of taking this trip.  There are so many more deserving people I know who could use this time off.  After spending an awfully expensive year at Cornell, I'm doing this.  And I could definitely be doing something more productive and resume-building over the next few months.  

To my credit, on my flight from San Jose to Salt Lake City, the guy sitting next to me (who would not stop gabbing for the life of him) gave me his business card and told me to send him my resume when I'm more situated.  I’m not sure how I feel about the biofuel industry when it takes food staples away from an under-nourished world  or when part of my job description would require me to smile and nod at my boss (and can I get back to my crossword now?) but I’m already building my network.  Done and done.

But to some extent I need this.  For the last 3 years, I have been going at it non-stop, first undergrad, then grad school, interning over the summer or volunteering.  I don't deserve it, but I have the opportunity to relax a bit and travel, so I'll take it.

So welcome to my blog and I hope that it's interesting enough for you all.  I'll keep you all posted on my plans for Europe, since at this point I'm flying into Paris before heading over to Geneva...

3 years

A hummingbird was fluttering outside my window this morning when I woke up, looking at me occasionally as it sifted through the flowers.  I know the bird is a symbol for melanoma - not quite a positive image - but it's one that's popped up a number of times since my mom passed away.  Several people have noticed them hanging around more and it's hard not to find significance in that.

Three years ago, I drove up from Cal Poly for a Pink Beret reunion weekend at Nancy's.  On Saturday, all the ladies that had joined my mom in visiting me in Paris got together to share pictures, eat Flower Flour cakes, and sit around and talk all day.  Her friends were all so selfless in caring for my mom, helping her move around since at this point the tumors in her brain limited her movement.  I had never seen my mom so helpless or friends so committed.

The next day, she was exhausted, laying on Nancy's guest bed and nursing her throbbing head.  I was so confused by the whole situation - I wasn't sure if I should stay or not, so I guiltily head back to Cal Poly.  After I left, she apparently told the ladies "I want Val".  Little did I know that was our last weekend together.

Three years ago exactly, my dad called me in a panic, saying I should come up as soon as possible, seeing as Mom's condition was rapidly deteriorating.  I told Emily about the call and she immediately threw my stuff together and drove me up to San Jose.  We pulled up to O'Connor Hospital after-hours and we rushed in.  As I walked into the hospital room, I saw my family and loved ones all huddled around this person that surely couldn't be my mom.  Less than 15 minutes after I arrived, she passed away.  I guess she really did want me to be there.

Three years ago, I started a cycle of regret for not being there for her more, denial about her condition and then her death just to get through the next few years of school, and latent anger.

Three years later, it's still so surreal.  When I wake up in the morning, I half expect to hear her footsteps on the hardwood floors, breaking the silence of the morning.  Whenever I come across her old emails, I'm incredulous that someone so vivacious and loving isn't here anymore.  Where does all that energy and life go? Is human life like a match, burning to the irreversible end?

I am so thankful for everyone in my life.  For Emily, for driving me home that night, for talking to all my professors the next day to extend my midterms, for not letting me be alone that year.  For my roommates, close friends, and Relayers, who both understood and tried harder for me, whether by flying up to visit or patiently listening to my complaints.  For all the people who went out of their way to touch base and provide me with some sort of stability.

My dad and I visited Mom's grave this afternoon and discussed how no one talks about my mom anymore, which is understandable given how early she passed.  While I'm planning on making my blogs in the future more uplifting, I'm hoping this space can be used for thoughts or memories about my mom, in addition to whatever you feel like posting.