tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26458256722643593662024-03-05T22:32:37.290-05:00Around The World and Back AgainEJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07473889413565113710noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-54596989226417252592012-11-30T10:57:00.003-05:002012-11-30T10:57:58.925-05:00A Tale of One Legend<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s Monday night in Detroit, and I am in the presence of
two legends. On stage under bright lights and surrounded by pure musical
genius, the incomparable Leonard Cohen sings and sways for an
adoring, packed house. Seated next to me, smiling and swooning and falling in
love with the man on stage, is my gorgeous grandmother. Two legends in one
room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He dips his hat, drops to his knees and recites the words to "A Thousand Kisses Deep". He sings "I'm Your Man" -- directly to my grandmother, as she jokes. He returns for not one, but two encore performances. His fans are loyal and loving and in awe of one of the most iconic performers of our time. He does not disappoint.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But enough about Leonard. It’s Grandma’s turn to be adored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She is 94 years old. She reads the newspaper daily, stays up
on all the latest news and trends, sings and dances and goofs around as though
she is channeling both Lucy and Ethel simultaneously, and come hell or a
tornado or a blizzard, drives herself to the beauty shop to get her hair washed
and set every single Saturday morning as though her life depended on it. And
perhaps it does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have traveled to Detroit regularly throughout the past 10
years to visit my grandmother. I adore these visits. I revel in the time spent
curled up next to her on her uncomfortable couch, cozy in one of her scratchy
old nightgowns and bathrobe, groaning in agony as we watch Fox News, the
television blaring at an obscene volume (she insists she is nowhere near old
enough for a hearing aid) and listening to this tiny, fit woman in amazing
health complain about her pooching tummy as she polishes off a jumbo-sized bag
of low-calorie popcorn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She moans about the fuddy-duddies she plays cards with and
their suffocating lack of a sense of humor. She jokes about the two of us going
to a local Singles event and picking up on men to dance with, or opening a
bottle of wine (that she doesn’t have) and getting drunk together (she doesn’t
drink). She tells stories of my young and dapper grandfather wooing her into
marriage, and the street smarts and remarkable fortitude of her mother
emigrating from Russia as a young girl and making a life in America. She
explains the meaning of the many Yiddish terms I have heard over the years,
like “lech and shmech” and “kibbitzing”. She tells me to find myself a “mensch”
– a good, honorable man. Believe me Grandma, I am looking…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She jokes that I am a “pain in the ass” – which I am. We see
movies, sometimes two in one day, and eat salads at Greek diners named Leo’s or
Kirby’s. We argue over politics and how much of the Sanders Hot Fudge Cream
Puff Sundae I <i>didn’t</i> eat. We visit places I remember from my childhood:
Kroger’s, the Franklin Cider Mill, my old house on MacQueen, my best friend
Marietta’s house around the corner. She gives me advice about life and love
(“never talk to strange men, unless they are rich and handsome and love their
grandmothers”). She passes on <i>her </i>mother’s advice about life and love (“a woman should always
wear a sexy nightgown and perfume”). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I adore this woman, and cherish every second spent with her.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yet for reasons I can’t quite convey, this most recent visit
feels different. As she dozes on the couch, I watch her peaceful face and become
more aware of my grandmother’s mortality than ever before. I am struck by the
sad reality that these visits may not last much longer. I implore myself to
remember every detail of our time together, or to write down all that I might
otherwise forget. I take photos: the kitchen table lovingly set for our next
meal hours in advance. The hand-written note next to her ancient television set
that explains how to work the remote control. The freezer filled with just
about every candy known to man, all wrapped in reused plastic baggies. The
weekly television listing from the Detroit Free Press, carefully marked out
hour by hour with her favorite shows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She is still with us. She still drives herself to her hair
appointment every Saturday. She still reads and dances and sings and goofs
around. She is still as strong and sharp and sassy and spunky as ever. And yet,
illogically and without reason, I already miss her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NgJJY9x-SPCoySUn9qBA0zCZnFd0b5en66IiQiGxq0I262OyodaYKh9RywcsFRQo6l_T7RQi_eRAqStVsi3uX_7mhT4hdUns9Ydxqb55t6zAuZnvbJ-piSf7uHgYtpFYpe0oOOSimKM/s1600/IMG_1001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NgJJY9x-SPCoySUn9qBA0zCZnFd0b5en66IiQiGxq0I262OyodaYKh9RywcsFRQo6l_T7RQi_eRAqStVsi3uX_7mhT4hdUns9Ydxqb55t6zAuZnvbJ-piSf7uHgYtpFYpe0oOOSimKM/s320/IMG_1001.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The election is over (Thank God!) but the storm continues to
rage. Throughout New York and New Jersey, entire communities remain decimated,
powerless, and helpless in the unrelenting cold and dark. Homes remain flattened,
boats upturned, cars bashed in by fallen trees, people and pets gone forever.
The disastrous effects of Sandy are far from resolved, and will no doubt linger
for a very long time to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I too was once the victim of a <a href="http://ejroundtheworld.blogspot.com/2011/06/violated-travelers-lost-faith-difficult.html" target="_blank">very different kind of storm</a>.
The response was incredible: like victims of Sandy, I received offers of
goodwill and kindness from around the globe. One friend sent me a new pair of
Uggs all the way from Sydney, Australia. Another in D.C. offered to send out a fresh set of
sheets and bedding so I’d have a comfortable place to sleep. Countless others
offered me a place to stay or help rebuilding, and some even suggested a fund
be set up to assist me financially.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was then and forever will remain grateful. It is
incredible to see what can happen when a community comes together. But I was
merely one person. THOUSANDS have been hit hard by Sandy, and they need</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">help.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA6ka0y3TsbaxtRxsFJGynYXO1k7wNwPbgv3lf-_6AC7xb4BX65mPhPhhHLz0CYREofJZcTCu7EimJpkuAsjD1vTl3fRjrw1EeOQgmIVOgCBz8JY5dUm6ZvjEdUrvLIRTDz2fdxUXSn20/s1600/IMG_0984.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA6ka0y3TsbaxtRxsFJGynYXO1k7wNwPbgv3lf-_6AC7xb4BX65mPhPhhHLz0CYREofJZcTCu7EimJpkuAsjD1vTl3fRjrw1EeOQgmIVOgCBz8JY5dUm6ZvjEdUrvLIRTDz2fdxUXSn20/s320/IMG_0984.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All around my neighborhood in Lower Manhattan, generators
run power into buildings that remain damaged by floodwaters. Car doors hang open in a futile attempt to dry out their mildewing interiors. My dear
friend’s <a href="http://www.iprelief.org/" target="_blank">family home in Island Park</a> is unlivable. Another friend’s home in Long
Beach is being readied for demolition. These are traumatic times for so many, and sadly I know first hand how trauma can haunt, deplete and diminish a person for a long, long time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This time around, I was one of the lucky ones: after 5 long
days without heat or electricity, I was able to return home and get back to
normal, relatively unscathed. Eager to give back, I have wished I were a
contractor or an electrician, or drove a fuel truck, or had medical training,
or possessed <i>something </i>meaningful to
offer. Turns out, I am tireless when it comes to making peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches, and so I did just that along with a <a href="http://eastvillage.thelocal.nytimes.com/2012/11/06/goles-goes-door-to-door-building-by-building/" target="_blank">crew of volunteers for Lower East Side Recovers</a>. Turns out, <i>everyone </i>has
something they can offer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9XBwouOpJOnR82nk0cDE6WrOGNAQYdBbaaYgLrpqf19QSmik2GNcsROzvg_XrjI-S_gKU0Ve6x_AmKFwmzjgFE6jxM2omBOhXl6bphZIWObRpUzp1FW7fgRprIDchow1ZfYyy9muxYw/s1600/IMG_1011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9XBwouOpJOnR82nk0cDE6WrOGNAQYdBbaaYgLrpqf19QSmik2GNcsROzvg_XrjI-S_gKU0Ve6x_AmKFwmzjgFE6jxM2omBOhXl6bphZIWObRpUzp1FW7fgRprIDchow1ZfYyy9muxYw/s320/IMG_1011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Though supplies are urgently needed - diapers, blankets, flashlights, batteries, brooms - don't discount the power of your dollars! Several funds have been set up to assist with the recovery, and a quick search on the Internet reveals them all, though a really great place to start would be:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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Island Park Hurricane Relief: <a href="http://www.iprelief.org/">http://www.iprelief.org</a> or <a href="http://fnd.us/c/0NdBe">http://fnd.us/c/0NdBe</a></div>
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Lower East Side Recovers: <a href="https://lowereastside.recovers.org/#">https://lowereastside.recovers.org/#</a></div>
<div>
NYC Mayor's Fund: <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/fund/html/home/home.shtml">http://www.nyc.gov/html/fund/html/home/home.shtml</a> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Winter is coming; the violent Nor’easter that struck the
region on Wednesday was no small reminder of this. The recovery efforts will
just get harder as the days get shorter, darker and more frigid. As time moves
forward and we (again, Thank God!) put the 2012 election behind us, please don’t forget about our neighbors and friends here on the East Coast.
Do whatever you can to show you care (<a href="http://www.wnyc.org/articles/wnyc-news/2012/oct/30/how-help-hurricane-sandy/" target="_blank">click here</a> for more ideas!), and to tell Sandy’s victims that they are not alone.</span></div>
<br />
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<!--EndFragment-->EJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07473889413565113710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-37016572079132673662012-11-04T08:44:00.000-05:002012-11-04T08:44:06.590-05:00Moo Shu Pork in a Storm<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Something I have grown to despise: people who order restaurant
deliveries in the midst of an impending hurricane. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On Monday afternoon, just hours before Sandy blew in and the
lights blew out, I ducked out for a quick walk around my East Village block. This was incredibly stupid
– the heavy rains had begun to fall, Mayor Bloomberg was practically screaming at all NYC residents to get and <i>stay</i> indoors, winds upwards of 50 miles an hour
were already whipping up the city, and as we would later learn, several people
died on this fateful afternoon, struck by fallen trees. But I needed a quick
breath of air before we were to be shut in by “Frankenstorm”, and though I myself
nearly blew away, I was otherwise fortunate to have lived to tell about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Anyway it was during this quick stroll I was surprised to
find a few die-hard restaurants still open for business, and even more
shocking, their delivery men, crouching beneath flimsy raincoats and bracing
themselves against unprecedented winds, coming and going with deliveries in
hand - <i>ON BICYCLES, </i>no less, because
this is how it’s done in Manhattan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now really, how much of an A-Hole does one have to be to
think that calling in for a pizza or Pad Thai delivery and subjecting another
human being to such dangerous elements is acceptable behavior? And then showing their appreciation for such extraordinary efforts with a measly two-dollar tip? I am
not a hater by any stretch of the imagination, but this calls for a bit of a
rant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I recognize that in some cases, delivery service truly is a
vital necessity for those unable to leave their homes due to illness,
disability and the like (and to such individuals I absolutely do <i>not </i>direct this anger). And I appreciate
that bicycle delivery service employs a large number of people in NYC, many of
whom are recent immigrants and may be struggling to survive in a city that can
be unforgiving. But even those who needed those last few hours of work should
have been granted the mercy - and maybe even a cash advance from their
employers - to scuttle home to their families and hunker down, just as their
customers were doing when they called in for their beloved Moo Shu Pork.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The dangerous and often thankless job of bicycle delivery was
highlighted earlier this year <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/04/nyregion/for-food-delivery-workers-speed-tips-and-fear-on-wheels.html?smid=pl-share" target="_blank">in an article published in the New York Times</a>,
and I hope that anyone who missed it will take a moment to read it
now. And to stop and think for a moment next time they call on someone to
provide a (typically) luxury service that could very well end a life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->EJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07473889413565113710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-47014847204553149592012-11-03T15:42:00.002-04:002012-11-04T08:09:57.851-05:00Dispatches from The Dark Zone<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If you listen closely you can practically hear the hum: Swarms of unkempt and unshaven creatures closely resembling human beings make their way in a northern direction, trekking up the darkened Avenues, arms outstretched, cell phones in hand: these are the Lower Manhattan masses struck by prolonged power failure; pale, lifeless zombies in search of two basic needs: a functioning electrical outlet, and cell phone service.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am among the disheveled crowd. Sitting at home in the dark and cold – without Internet, phone service, radio, television, or access to anything resembling modern life – was becoming unbearable. In what I now consider a stroke of luck, I suddenly remembered that my old iPod Nano has a built-in FM radio tuner, and thank GOD it was fully charged! Tuning in to hear Brian Lehrer’s soothing voice streaming on WNYC’s 93.9 was one of the greatest comforts I have known in a long time. If not for his nonstop coverage of Hurricane Sandy, I may never have known that power, light and all things relatively normal still exist above 39<sup>th</sup> Street. Thank you, Brian.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And so along with this crowd of unlikely comrades, I slog away from my sodden East Village neighborhood, where trees have come crashing down, streets and basements rot in standing flood water, car doors hang open as rivers of sewage stream out, and a handful of corner bodegas operate with a bouncer on line control and a flicker of candlelight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But the East Village neighborhood is an old community, one where people come together and help one another out when times get tough. As I toured the area earlier this morning, once the rains had passed and the winds died down, I was heartened to come across the Italian restaurant 11B, where a husband and wife team had opened the doors to their cold and hungry public, and were busily serving up slices of freshly baked, piping hot pizza… for FREE.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They moved fast and efficiently: he toggled quickly between tossing dough in the air, filling the massive gas oven with four to five pizzas at once, and telling a reporter from Spain “this is my neighborhood, my community, people need us right now and we have the ability to give back” – as his wife greeted every single customer with a huge smile, a jolly laugh and a warning: “It’s very hot, don’t burn your mouth!” They never stopped smiling and never lost their unbelievable attitudes, but kept those lines moving and their neighbors fed for several hours that day. Never before much a fan of pizza, I inhaled 2 slices practically without chewing. I will now be a dedicated customer of 11B for life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well fed and armed with multiple phone chargers, the first place I find a functioning outlet is about 2.5 miles away, where a 7-11 store on 5</span><sup style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Avenue has set up a makeshift charging station on the sidewalk, running about 8 power strips from inside the store for anyone to use. This will become a common sight in the long, dark days ahead: temporary power centers all over midtown, people huddled on floors and streets and anywhere outlets can be found, desperately charging devices as they try to make contact with friends and loved ones.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The eeriest part of this experience is witnessing a city quite literally cut in half: from 39</span><sup style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Street on down, Manhattan is none other than a blacked-out No Man’s Land. Above 39th, however - though Central Park is closed down, shops dwindle in their supplies and traffic is backed up for miles - life goes on as though nothing has happened.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Having grown restless, spooked and incredibly lonely, I have found temporary shelter with a friend on the Upper West Side. As I curl up on her air mattress, I consider how this experience feels all too familiar: it was little over a year ago I was similarly displaced by an uninhabitable home, bouncing to friendlier apartments in search of a hot shower and some companionship, and uncertain when this bizarre new reality would come to an end. But this time, I am hardly alone. And – considering the utter tragedy that my neighbors in New Jersey, Queens and Staten Island will continue to face for days and weeks to come – it really isn’t all that bad.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the Starbucks on 5</span><sup style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Avenue at 33</span><sup style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">rd</sup><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Street, the lights remain off and doors locked, but the café’s WiFi is miraculously still operating, and so masses of disconnected people press up against the windows to pick up the surprising signal. WiFi operating in a hurricane’s aftermath: the modern-day version of the Hanukah story…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I look like hell, I’m exhausted from troubled sleep and endless treks in search of power, and grow more agitated as time passes by and the hours feel wasted. But these long days of darkness and rotting dairy products in the fridge may be the worst I face in the otherwise horrific aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, and for that, I consider myself one very lucky zombie.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One of many fallen trees in the hard-hit East Village</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ouch</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Downed trash cans and newspaper stands</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Cars pushed around by flood waters on Avenue C</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">FDR Drive the morning after</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">NYPD takes on a flooded FDR Drive</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Almost doesn't make it</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje5QDP7QVoOZOWtLkBIMAPUByTzx3sPSxQoqsnYIKVdSJZed5yfB9hMjC4hzUkNgsBKPl2HYE7mQDlEJbAAyxDDaPbJInnVsC2sv6LcH1IlRa2SXE4gzSagY3IFSmannBxR6BHns_4w6g/s1600/IMG_0935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje5QDP7QVoOZOWtLkBIMAPUByTzx3sPSxQoqsnYIKVdSJZed5yfB9hMjC4hzUkNgsBKPl2HYE7mQDlEJbAAyxDDaPbJInnVsC2sv6LcH1IlRa2SXE4gzSagY3IFSmannBxR6BHns_4w6g/s320/IMG_0935.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Free pizza at 11B!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Serving up pizza by candlelight - and a massive gas stove</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A flooded garage on Avenue C</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fonda Restaurant serving drinks and guacamole by candlelight </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A Staples store becomes a gathering place for the power-hungry</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Manhattan streets looking like the countryside. Note: this isn't normal.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You said it, Spider Man!</span></td></tr>
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EJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07473889413565113710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-48337749408730245622011-08-02T12:31:00.001-04:002011-08-02T12:33:43.560-04:00How I feel todayI imagine many of you are wondering how I feel today, having read the statement that <a href="http://blog.airbnb.com/our-commitment-to-trust-and-safety" target="_blank">Brian Chesky posted yesterday on his Airbnb blog</a>. I thought I might best explain my reaction here, in my own words.<br />
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When I originally wrote my story, I did so as a personal account of a significant experience in my life, as a cautionary tale, and to help me process the emotions I was dealing with. That my blog piece has gone viral in the way that it has came as a shock to me, and was absolutely never my intention. But I am gratified nonetheless that the extent of public awareness my story generated has encouraged Airbnb to implement real change to its product, its service and its community of users.<br />
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I agree with Mr. Chesky's statement that Airbnb should have responded much more quickly to my urgent pleas for help, that they should have communicated with more sensitivity, and that they should have taken decisive action to help me feel safe during what has been a desperate time. Had they done so, and had these significant new policies been implemented from the very beginning, I could have been spared nearly six weeks now of disruption and displacement, and the hurt and exhaustion of having to face disparaging remarks, slander and harassment, my integrity being called into question, my character publicly trashed. I was at one time a victim of an awful crime, doing my best to cope. Today, in addition to that, I have unwittingly and unexpectedly become the target of an onslaught, being called a liar and much, much worse by both public and anonymous figures who have no first-hand knowledge whatsoever of the very decent person I am, nor any knowledge of what has transpired in the past several weeks. All of this has exponentially confounded the trauma I already felt, and has taken its toll both emotionally and physically, subjecting me to utter hell. So while Mr. Chesky's public apology to me is clearly a heartfelt one and certainly appreciated, and while I applaud the steps that Airbnb is taking to fulfill its commitment to safety and security, the reality for me is that the hardship continues. As will, no doubt, the nasty comments and unwarranted name-calling that have been thrown in my face.<br />
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Regarding the crime itself, I am taken aback by the amount of misinformation being spread and publicly stated about the criminal investigation, and I wish I could address it all. But at this time I am not comfortable sharing any further details about the investigation, <b>as it is still ongoing</b>. Believe me, I want resolution and criminal charges pressed more than anyone out there. If and when the justice process happens and comes to completion, I will write about it. I hope you will come back here in search of answers to the many questions that loom large. But most of all, I hope to get answers myself so that I can begin to move forward.<br />
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On a final note, I want to again thank everyone out there - my rock of a family, my loving friends, and the kindest of strangers - for their outpouring of support, love and encouragement throughout this ordeal, particularly those who have unsolicitedly spoken out in my defense. I couldn’t keep going - or writing - without you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com76tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-88383583500357136522011-07-28T22:30:00.000-04:002011-07-28T22:30:52.231-04:00Airbnb Nightmare: No End In SightSomewhere around 1:00 am yesterday, <a href="http://ejroundtheworld.blogspot.com/2011/06/violated-travelers-lost-faith-difficult.html" target="_blank">my Airbnb.com horror story</a> was picked up by <a href="http://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=2811080" target="_blank">Hacker News</a>; to say this story has gone viral in the past two days would be the understatement of my life. I sit here now, taken aback and utterly astounded as I witness the internet in action, and watch my own story unfold across the Web, and across the world.<br />
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Yet as I read through the numerous websites, blog posts, news articles, reader comments and the <a href="http://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=2811408" target="_blank">recent statements made by representatives of Airbnb</a>, I am struck by how much is being misconstrued from and stated about my story, and by the impressive number of doubters out there who are questioning the validity of my story – even the validity of my existence. <br />
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I recognize that my silence thus far has perhaps fed this storm, and I am sorry for that. But I have not written anything new on the subject in the past month for one simple reason: <b>fear</b>.<br />
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I was - and still am - scared of the unsettling fact that there are still psychotic criminals and identity thieves on the loose who already know much too much about me. <br />
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I was - and still am - scared of saying something that could jeopardize the ongoing criminal investigation.<br />
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And I was - but no longer am - scared of Airbnb’s reaction, the pressure and the veiled threat I have received from them since I initially blogged this story.<br />
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Ironic that my own tag line reads “I leap, the net appears”. Fear has never gotten me anywhere, and there is so much more that I need to say - and that you have every right to know. So here goes.<br />
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First, I want to clarify a few things I have read online, and address some of the falsehoods that have been directed toward me and my situation:<br />
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1. I have released no photographs related to the burglary. Any photos that have been used in the various articles and posts online are not photos of my apartment. <br />
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2. Other than occasionally sharing the link to my blog, I have made no statements to nor have I been interviewed by the press - <b>yet</b>. Any references to me, the burglary or my current situation thus far have been construed directly from my original blog post by the respective author(s).<br />
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3. I do exist. I am a real person using a nickname my parents stuck me with long ago. I do not work for the hotel industry, though I admit I love a Four Seasons as much as the next girl. Oh and on that note, I am female.<br />
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Next, I would like to address the article written by Airbnb founder Brian Chesky, <a href="http://techcrunch.com/2011/07/27/on-safety-a-word-from-airbnb/" target="_blank">published on TechCrunch on July 27</a>, and provide the following clarifications. Quotes in bold are taken directly from Chesky’s article.<br />
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<b>“On June 22nd, we learned that the home of one of our San Francisco hosts was vandalized by an Airbnb guest.”<br />
</b><br />
Based on the delay in their response time, I have reason to believe that Airbnb did not learn of my situation until June 23rd. <br />
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<b>“While we are not at liberty to discuss the details during the investigation, we understand that with our help, a suspect is now in custody, and our information will now become important evidence.”<br />
</b><br />
As of today, July 28, I have received no confirmation from either the San Francisco Police Department or the District Attorney that any culprit is in custody for my case. One month ago an individual was apprehended, however as far as I know, this person was transferred to a neighboring jurisdiction for prosecution of previous crimes, and no charges or arrest warrant has been issued <i>for my case </i>within San Francisco County. If this has changed and Chesky’s statement is in fact true, I have not been made aware by city officials. <br />
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Word of caution to my fellow Bay Area residents: I have reason to believe that there were multiple people involved in the burglary of my home, not just one culprit. Take heed and be careful.<br />
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<b>“We have been in close contact with her ever since, and have worked with the authorities to help find a resolution.”<br />
</b><br />
If the “her” he is referring to is me, then the first part of this statement is false (the second I cannot attest to). During the first week of my nightmare, the customer service team at Airbnb was - <a href="http://ejroundtheworld.blogspot.com/2011/06/violated-travelers-lost-faith-difficult.html">as I stated in my June 29 blog post</a> – helpful, caring and supportive. In particular, one customer service manager - and the company’s freelance photographer - were wonderfully kind to me, and both should know how grateful I am.<br />
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On June 29 I posted my story, and June 30 thus marks the last day I heard from the customer service team regarding my situation. In fact, my appointed “liaison” from Airbnb stopped contacting me altogether just three days after I reported the crime, on June 25, for reasons that are unknown to me. I have heard nothing from her since.<br />
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I blogged my story, and all these kind and supportive people just ... disappeared.<br />
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And since June 30? On this same day, I received a personal call from one of the co-founders of Airbnb. We had a lengthy conversation, in which he indicated having knowledge of the (previously mentioned) person who had been apprehended by the police, but that he could not discuss the details or these previous cases with me, as the investigation was ongoing. He then addressed his concerns about my blog post, and the potentially negative impact it could have on his company’s growth and current round of funding. During this call and in messages thereafter, he requested that I shut down the blog altogether or limit its access, and a few weeks later, suggested that I update the blog with a “twist" of good news so as to “complete[s] the story”. <br />
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Since June 30, this co-founder has been the only person at Airbnb from whom I have received occasional contact regarding my situation, his messages directed primarily at my blog post and its activity on Twitter. (Note: a second co-founder did email me for the first time around 2am yesterday, suggesting we meet for coffee as he “would enjoy meeting” me. He made no inquiry into my current emotional state, my safety or my well being.) <br />
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I have never met in person anyone from Airbnb. And I have not had any communication whatsoever with Brian Chesky. <br />
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<b>“Once our host’s safety was secured, our attention moved to further strengthening our system.”</b><br />
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I am not clear here if Chesky is trying to convey the message that Airbnb was involved in securing my safety, but the company was not. My safety was secured by my own efforts. I arranged alternate accommodations, in the safety of a friend’s home. I arranged and paid for my own transportation while dislocated (with Airbnb's assurances that this expense would be compensated - which it has not been). I contacted the police, and insisted on a visit from CSI to dust for prints. I called a locksmith and had my locks changed. <br />
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I alone have spent hours on the phone with banks and credit bureaus, securing my identity, credit cards and bank accounts. I alone have spent hours with DAs, Victims Services and SFPD, trying to learn what I need to do to protect myself. It was suggested to me by the DA’s office that I seek restraining orders and do whatever I needed to do to ensure my own safety. I have been doing so ever since. Airbnb has not assisted me in securing my safety, if that is the implication being made in Chesky's article. <br />
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<b>“We are upset that this happened but believe that our platform and staff were able to make a positive contribution to this unfortunate case”<br />
</b><br />
The positive contribution mentioned in this statement might very well refer to the criminal investigation and communication with police; I can’t know for sure. But the staff at Airbnb has not made a positive contribution to me personally or my situation in any way, particularly since June 30.<br />
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Look, despite what some of you are saying, I am not an idiot. I understand why Airbnb called me and asked me to bring this story to an end; it is in their best profitable interest to do so. Unfortunately for me – 5 weeks and counting – there is no end in sight. Too much about this case remains unknown and unresolved, and according to both the District Attorneys and the police, it could be many more months before the criminal investigation moves forward. <br />
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In the meantime, I am still displaced, bouncing between friends’ homes, clutching my pillow and what’s left of my normalcy. I spend my mornings recalling nightmares and breathing through panic attacks, and my afternoons scouring the city’s pawn shops in the vain hope that I might recover some of my stolen treasures. I do not feel anything close to safe. I do not feel anything close to whole. Today I remain broken, but with the firm belief that in time, and with the support of friends, family, and a generally supportive public, this too shall pass and I will be made whole again.<br />
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For those of you who have offered (sometimes scathing, painful) criticism, I can do nothing but respect your freedom of speech, as it’s the same freedom that has allowed my own story to be heard.<br />
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For those of you who have expressed your sympathies and support, I cannot begin to express how much your comments have meant to me. Thank you. <br />
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And for those who have so generously suggested a donation fund be set up to help me recover, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and suggest that instead, you keep the money and use it to book yourself into a nice, safe hotel room the next time you travel. You’ll be glad you did.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com304tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-47674965866370643192011-06-29T14:39:00.009-04:002012-12-03T22:18:44.105-05:00Violated: A traveler’s lost faith, a difficult lesson learned<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am crouched low on the carpeted steps of my apartment building's old staircase, bent over into something resembling the fetal position. There is a skylight overhead; the sun's hazy glare makes me want to close my eyes, and not have to see for a while. But instead, I take this opportunity - with head resting heavily on the step above me - to record this moment in writing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am just half a flight away from the top floor, where my home is located. But I don't have the mental energy to take those last few steps into my apartment. It's too creepy in there anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Three difficult days ago, I returned home from an exhausting week of business travel to an apartment that I no longer recognized. To an apartment that had been ransacked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With heart pounding and stomach churning, I slowly swung the door open as both a pungent odor and the full realization of what had occurred washed over me: this wasn't just a random break-in. My home had been burglarized, vandalized and thoroughly trashed by a "traveler" I connected with via the online rental agency, airbnb.com.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I would be remiss if I didn’t pause here to emphasize that the customer service team at airbnb.com has been wonderful, giving this crime their full attention. They have called often, expressing empathy, support, and genuine concern for my welfare. They have offered to help me recover emotionally and financially, and are working with SFPD to track down these criminals. I do believe the folks at airbnb.com when they tell me this has never happened before in their short history, that this is a one-off case. I do believe that maybe 97% of airbnb.com's users are good and honest people. Unfortunately I got the other 3%. Someone was bound to eventually, I suppose, and there will be others. For this reason, I felt compelled to get my story out as soon as possible – as a warning to travelers and renters everywhere – even though this case remains under investigation, and the final chapter of this story remains unwritten.</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What I Know</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b>There is little I know at this stage, but I am slowly putting the pieces together. Someone named Dj Pattrson (was it a guy? A girl? I still don't know – but I have noticed much too late that the person misspelled their own last name) came into my home earlier this month (apparently with several others, according to witnesses) and set out on what I believe to be the carefully-planned theft and destruction of my home and my identity. With an entire week living in my apartment, Dj and friends had more than enough time to search through literally <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything</i> inside, to rifle through every document, every photo, every drawer, every storage container and every piece of clothing I own, essentially turning my world inside out, and leaving a disgusting mess behind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They smashed a hole through a locked closet door, and found the passport, cash, credit card and grandmother's jewelry I had hidden inside. They took my camera, my iPod, an old laptop, and my external backup drive filled with photos, journals... my entire life. They found my birth certificate and social security card, which I believe they photocopied - using the printer/copier I kindly left out for my guests’ use. They rifled through all my drawers, wore my shoes and clothes, and left my clothing crumpled up in a pile of wet, mildewing towels on the closet floor. They found my coupons for Bed Bath & Beyond and used the discount, along with my Mastercard, to shop online. Despite the heat wave, they used my fireplace and multiple Duraflame logs to reduce mounds of stuff (my stuff??) to ash – including, I believe, the missing set of guest sheets I left carefully folded for their comfort. Yet they were stupid and careless enough to leave the flue closed; dirty gray ash now covered every surface inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They did weird stuff too: moving things around in a spooky, psychotic kind of way - creepy little things that I am still discovering as I dig through the wreckage - like cutting the tags off my pillows, and hanging a painting of Paris on the wall that I had never hung before... probably while wearing my now-missing Ugg boots and Roots cap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All the while, Dj Pattrson was sending me friendly emails, thanking me for being such a great host, for respecting his/her privacy…. telling me how much he/she was enjoying my beautiful apartment bathed in sunlight, how much he/she particularly loved the “little loft area” upstairs… with an “lol” closing one sentence, just for good measure. It makes me sick to my stomach to think now of these emails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The kitchen was a disaster - the sink piled high with filthy dishes, pots and pans burnt out and ruined. Comet Cleanser was dumped everywhere; the kitchen counters, wood furniture, my gorgeous new bed frame, my desk, my printer… all were doused in powdered bleach. The death-like smell emanating from the bathroom was frightening (and still is) and the bathroom sink was caked with a crusty yellow substance. Various pairs of my gloves were strewn about – leather, dishwashing and otherwise – I imagine in a weak attempt to cover up fingerprints. Whoever these people were, they were living large and having one hell of a time for an entire week inside my home, unwatched, unchecked, free to do whatever destruction they wished. And damn, did they do a lot of it.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This was my home</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am reeling. How could this happen? <i>Why</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>did this happen? Despite it not being in New York... I LOVED my apartment nonetheless. It was my own private retreat, my sunny, bright, cozy loft that I would melt into on those rare occasions when I wasn't traveling. The space was simply decorated, minimalist enough to reflect a home life that was all mine, a place that was peaceful, and safe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was several months after moving in that I finally felt ready to try renting it out while I traveled. (I had rented out my apartment several times while living in New York, through Craigslist no less, and always with exceptional results). Now, I convinced myself that anyone would love and respect this lovely space as much as I did. It seemed silly to let a perfectly good apartment sit empty while I traveled, when there were so many visitors to San Francisco in need of a place to stay, who wanted to experience a city as I preferred to: in a local’s home, outside the tourist bubble of a hotel. Anyway I liked the idea of someone being there, looking after my thirsty houseplant, and of course the opportunity to earn some extra cash was more than appealing. I live in an expensive city on an inconsistent freelancer's salary. It isn't so easy to get by every month, and when someone is willing to pay what amounts to half the monthly rent for a one-week stay, well... who could resist?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then along came airbnb.com, with its accolades in the media and great reviews, and it seemed like the perfect solution! Certainly it's a brilliant idea, offering a controlled and seemingly low-risk environment in which travelers and hosts can connect and exchange - the Facebook of couch-surfing, so to speak – that appears to eliminate all the insecurity and randomness of using Craigslist. In exchange for using the site, the service fee of only 3% is a small price to pay for access to such a large inventory of great apartments worldwide. I first gave it a try as a “traveler”; the exceptionally positive experience renting an airbnb.com property in Sydney last month was all I needed to sell me on the concept, and I soon thereafter listed my own place for a week of upcoming travel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yet now I ask myself this: for what, exactly, did I pay a service fee to airbnb.com? What did I get in exchange for my 20-something dollars? What was the advantage of using this service over Craigslist, which is free? Ironically airbnb.com’s site states “the promise of our site is that it is entirely transparent” when in reality, it is not. And therein lies the fundamental, though not immediately apparent, difference: on Craigslist, I am warned loudly and repeatedly that use of the site is at my own risk. I am encouraged to take certain precautions, and I have the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ability </i>to do so by gaining quick access to the email addresses, phone numbers, and other identifying information of the person(s) I am communicating with, all of which can be researched and at least somewhat verified by means of basic internet searches. Alternatively, airbnb.com tightly controls the communication between host and traveler, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">disallowing the exchange of personal contact information </b>until the point in which a reservation is already confirmed and paid for. By hindering my ability to research the person who will rent my home, there is an <i>implication</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>that airbnb.com has already done the research for me, and has eliminated the investigative work that Craigslist requires. In effect, the friendly, community-based site with its Golden Rules creates a reasonable expectation that some basic screening of its users has occurred, and speaks little to the risks involved, primarily within the very small print of the lengthy Terms of Service. Thus by the time this reservation was confirmed and I was given Dj’s email address and phone number, I was on a plane heading East, and he/she was armed with my welcoming instructions on where to pick up the keys to my apartment.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-weight: bold;">Blame and violation</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My first call was to 911. I stood by, horrified and hysterical, as 2 officers from SFPD checked every corner, every closet with guns wielded. My next call was to airbnb.com - I tried their "urgent" line, their email address, their general customer support line. I heard nothing - no response whatsoever - until the following day, 14 sleepless hours later, and only after a desperate call to an airbnb.com freelancer I happen to know helped my case get some attention. (This has been my most urgent request of the agency: that they immediately institute a 24-hour/day customer support line. A 24-hour/day business absolutely needs this in place.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I later watched CSI dust for prints, I knew that my time in this apartment was over. Although I had the locks changed (the creeps still have my apartment keys) I feel exposed. I stand on my balcony watching people walk by, wondering if "that person there" could be one of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can't stay here much longer. The feeling of having been violated is overwhelming. The apartment’s energy - once light and airy - now feels thick and disquieting. I've had the place scrubbed and sterilized, every inch of it. I've burned candles and white sage, repotted my (near death - they didn't water it) houseplant, and bought myself some bright flowers. I've tried, but I can't settle back in. I can't use a water glass without thinking it was used by them. I can't put on a pair of underwear without picturing their filthy hands rifling around in my dresser drawers. I can’t ever be comfortable here again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Despite this very fresh trauma, I can still recognize airbnb.com to be a brilliant concept that fills a much-needed hole in the traveler market, and based on their amazingly kind, caring response and support throughout the past few days, they have proven to me that they are an honest company with pure, good intentions. But I do think theirs was a concept that was executed much too quickly, and that some basic screening and security measures must be instituted as soon as possible, that some basic efforts be made to help prevent this from happening to another unsuspecting host.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I certainly cannot and do not blame the agency for what has occurred. If anything, I blame myself. In retrospect, and as I read through my initial email exchanges with Dj, I recognize now that something was “off” in his manner of communication, that I trusted too easily, and probably did not do my due diligence to properly protect myself and my home. And so I am frustrated with myself, and dealing with feelings of guilt and self-doubt, wondering how I could have let my guard down. But if we are going to go down that path, if we are going to turn the blame on me, then a woman who gets raped may as well blame herself for wearing a short skirt and heels. Victims don’t ask to be victims, and pointing fingers back at them is less than helpful. I am struggling now to not do this to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And perhaps similar to the feelings of a victim of rape, the hardest, and maybe saddest, part of this is the recognition that whoever disappeared with my grandmother's bracelets, my hard-earned dollars and pieces of my identity stole something else, something that cannot be replaced: they stole my spirit. I get angry when I realize I will never again be who I've always been before, someone who lived strong and free by the creed that people are essentially good, that if you think optimistically, trust others, and have faith in the world around you, it will take care of you in return. Those who know me have witnessed the way in which I have always lived: with a belief that if I live my life in the best and most way honest way possible, everything will be ok. Yet in the breath of a moment, that just... disappeared. I have no faith anymore. I don't trust anymore. I don't know if I ever will again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't know how this will all turn out. I am trying now just to maintain momentum, to keep up my energy and work closely with the incredible investigative team at SFPD. I've picked through gallons of garbage, searching for bits of evidence and clues. I've spent hours on the phone with banks, credit card companies, the credit lending bureaus. I'm taking all steps necessary to prevent the likelihood of identity theft, a crime that will linger and affect my life for years to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've had to miss several days of work and essentially put my life on hold. I haven't slept or eaten properly in days, and I'm exhausted. My strength is gone, and as I pick through the wreckage, clean up this mess and try to piece my life back together, I realize the only thing that sounds appealing now is to go spend a few months near a beach, somewhere calm and sunny. Somewhere like Mexico, or Bali. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But ideas like this, adventurous and enticing travel ideas that I've had so many times before, are now plagued with a question I've never before had to worry too much about: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">How would I find a place to stay?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">SCAMMER ALERT - TRAVELERS BEWARE!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is the contact information provided to me at the time the reservation was confirmed:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dj Pattrson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="mailto:withoutvirtual.noreality@gmail.com"><span style="color: #1436a5;">withoutvirtual.noreality@gmail.com</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">971-217-7917<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com449tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-12328225669046038302011-01-02T02:15:00.002-05:002011-01-02T02:16:50.921-05:00New Year. New Home.<div style="font-family: inherit;"></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;">As 2011 sets in, I find myself curled up on a new couch in a new apartment in a not-so-new city, reading today’s (and yesterday’s) New York Times, and listening to the rain fall against the skylight overhead. A Duraflame log burns in the fireplace, a bar of dark chocolate sits half-eaten on the counter, and a lull of soft music whispers from the stereo. I am cozy, comfortable and perfectly content. I am home. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;">If you had asked me on this day one year ago – a day spent nursing a mild hangover in a chilly apartment in Valencia, Spain, following a random night out partying with the America's Cup crowd – I never would have predicted I would return to San Francisco. But somewhere around August, one very long year of footloose, fancy free, <i>home</i> free (or more to the point, home<i>less</i>) adventure became suddenly and completely unbearable.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;">In desperate search of something that resembled roots, I found my way back to a city that I know well and had once loved. A wide network of friends and colleagues made the return uncommonly easy, and to all of you who are reading this now, I thank you for welcoming me back with open arms. I quickly rented a place of my own and began to settle in – unpacking dusty boxes, unloading suitcases and scouring the internet for furniture. Something along the lines of a home began to take shape, and with it came that invaluable feeling of being at peace.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;">The first half of 2010 was spent trotting the globe from Valencia to Vancouver to Paris to Dubai, then back again. My passport and suitcase were my most prized possessions. A mere few months later, an apartment of my own became the one thing I needed most. As I reflect on this now, I am reminded - once again - of the simple truth that LIFE HAPPENS. We don’t always know what’s ahead, and we shouldn’t always <i>try</i> to know. Unexpected and unanticipated paths unfold before us, and if we are willing to take notice and walk along, they may just lead us to the one place that is exactly where we are supposed to be.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;">No... it's no Manhattan. And it certainly isn't Paris. The weather generally sucks, there's no proper subway system, and good luck finding anywhere to eat, anything that's open (or anyone who's awake!) after 11:00 pm. But San Francisco is a special place, and for the time being anyway, it is where I am supposed to be. For the time being anyway, it's my home. And - surprisingly or not - a pretty great home it's turning out to be.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-44920835823857226062010-08-03T07:03:00.000-04:002010-08-03T07:03:20.780-04:00It's not all beautifulI have discovered something ugly in Paris. Not that I was trying. It just kind of happened, somewhere around 1971, when a certifiably-insane architect built Forum des Halles. It was at this time that the city of Paris decided to demolish the traditional, wholesale marketplace Les Halles, and convert it into a massive underground shopping mall, which today is packed with cheap clothing stores, movie theaters and greasy fast food chains. Above ground, the Forum is a displeasing tangle of iron and steel. Below, it's a frightening tangle of teenagers wielding skateboards. Not only is the whole thing ugly to the eye, it's an utter mess of a design and a concept. Multiple levels, directional signs leading to nowhere... enter the great labyrinth at your own risk, and be prepared to fight for your escape. After-hours is particularly complicated, when the shops close, the teenagers go home, escalators and exits are sealed off, and the lost and confused (like me) get trapped inside. More than a few times, I have inadvertently exited the Metro into this underground horror, and have spent upwards of 20 minutes desperately trying to get out. I wish I were joking.<br />
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(I considered adding a photo of the Forum here, but it's just too ugly. Search online if you need a visual.)<br />
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In sum, Forum des Halles is a giant hell that doesn't belong in Paris. At least the fool who approved EuroDisney had enough sense to ensure the theme park was far from the city proper. How on earth did this mess of a shopping mall squeak past whatever government ministry is charged with preserving the city’s beauty?<br />
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There is another very ugly thing I have discovered in Paris: homelessness. Lots and lots of homelessness. I am not sure if it's gotten particularly worse in the past decade, or if summertime gives greater presence to people sleeping on the streets, but the amount of homelessness in the city right now seems almost relentless. It's certainly heartbreaking. I will leave social, political and economic theories aside for now. I just wanted to point this out as being a pretty major problem facing the city – and one that doesn't seem to be getting much attention from the local government or aid organizations. (But then again, I can't exactly understand the local news very easily. So maybe it <i>is </i>getting attention.)<br />
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As my 5-week moratorium on airplane travel comes to an end, and I begin to stuff my snazzy Spinner suitcase with shoes and French cosmetics, I reflect on the experiences I have had over the past several weeks, and some of the <a href="http://ejroundtheworld.blogspot.com/2010/06/four-questions.html" target="_blank">questions I have found answers to </a>- at times, simply through the art of observation.<br />
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Just yesterday, almost to my great relief, I witnessed a small child having a tantrum at a playground. Granted, the tantrum didn’t last for more than a few seconds; his mother shut him down before he could take it any further. But it was a tantrum nonetheless. And the child was French.<br />
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I have discovered that a handful of pharmacies do in fact open their doors on Sunday. In the rarest of cases, there are even a few which remain open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. (The pharmacy at Place de la Republique comes to mind.)<br />
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I have learned that not all French men have or need multiple lovers. And if they do, the French women in their lives, upon discovery, are most likely to walk away – or come up with an arrangement that works in their favor. Because if there is one thing a French woman is born with, it’s a remarkable degree of self-possession. Limitless integrity. An inherent belief in self. The French woman, practically by birthright, respects herself too much to put up with a man’s blatant, philandering ways. And her man knows it.<br />
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As for the showers missing curtains and wall mounts? Well, this all remains a mystery. But worst case scenario, should you find yourself in a rental apartment with an impossible shower setup, just call dad back home and ask him to send over a removable wall mount for the shower hose. It worked for me. Kind of.<br />
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And with that, it's time for me to go. Paris, stay fabulous. I'll be back soon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-83543650261292001482010-08-02T04:49:00.001-04:002010-08-02T12:04:27.844-04:00Bonjour!"In Paris, one does not smile at a passer-by or in general acknowledge a stranger’s existence; this is considered unnecessary – even idiotic". <br />
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And so it is written in the Lonely Planet guide to Paris. Whether or not it’s true, I find it to be particularly funny. Ignoring passers-by in such a manner would never, ever fly in California – or in most parts of the U.S., for that matter, where greeting strangers on the street is practically part of the national religion. In Southern California, gleaming, sometimes-forced smiles are typically followed by exclamations of "Hi!" "Good evening!" "How are you?" (This last one? No, we don’t wait around for the answer, because honestly we really don’t care how you are doing.)<br />
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But Paris is an efficient place, and the French are an efficient people. Aimlessly greeting passers-by may seem friendly, but it is not an efficient thing to do, so it’s just not done here. Unless, of course, you are me. The girl from So Cal. <br />
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My stroll to class each morning, from <i>chez moi </i>to Lutece Langue language school on Boulevard de Sebastopol, takes approximately 20 minutes each way. I could hop on a Velib bike to get there, or perhaps even take the Metro. But the walk itself is lovely, and it’s something I look forward to every day. At 8:30 in the morning, Paris isn’t really awake yet. The sun is inching high into the sky, yet the streets remain calm, and traffic remains light. There is a gentle quiet at this time of day, a softness that allows you to hear and feel a different side of the city that you might otherwise miss. Down rue des Archives, turning right onto rue Rambuteau and heading straight past the imposingly magnificent Centre Pompidou museum, the pigeons and street cleaners are in charge of Paris at this time of day. Cafes are sprinkled with the particularly eager early-risers, seated outdoors and taking in the daily paper, a smoke and a coffee before their workday begins. The smell of freshly-baked heaven pours from the upscale boulangerie-patisserie Huré, at 18 rue Rambuteau, where a line has already begun to snake its way through the door. The stunning produce market Aux 4 Saisons at 24 rue Rambuteau is busily setting out its magnificent assortment of fruits and vegetables, splashing the street with colors in every shade of yummy. This walk is so charming, so quaint, I practically skip all the way to school.<br />
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These produce vendors, the café owners... I see the same faces every morning, and although I know none of their names – although they remain strangers – I greet each one nonetheless with an effervescent, California style "bonjour!" I can’t help myself.<br />
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My smiles and greetings are eagerly returned, and the chorus of <i>bonjour!</i>s and <i>bonne journee!</i>s which follows is so melodic, so borderline movie-like, that I half-expect the entire street to break out into a lively rendition of "Be Our Guest" from Beauty and The Beast – costumes and all. Or at least, for a director somewhere to call out "CUT!".<br />
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But neither happens, because this isn’t a movie set. Nor is it a stage on Broadway. There is no director making this all happen, laying out this scene. It’s just... Paris. Simply, naturally, beautifully Paris. I know, kind of nauseating. But I love it nonetheless.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkiDdjbS8CNMif6fTI7SrqqDTmXELZQZn3YElKNKHZqkeRUTShcCgmnV9DYvCTICQ4jBW8ZpmVINm6J5bXAoOe6AB7B4-DIifGvjf0Mv4yUSVZlJIScNWifnjSi2X12cTY2JsV9w8Yjk/s1600/Scooter1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkiDdjbS8CNMif6fTI7SrqqDTmXELZQZn3YElKNKHZqkeRUTShcCgmnV9DYvCTICQ4jBW8ZpmVINm6J5bXAoOe6AB7B4-DIifGvjf0Mv4yUSVZlJIScNWifnjSi2X12cTY2JsV9w8Yjk/s320/Scooter1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>rue des Archives, before the rush.</i><br />
<i>(This would be my form of transpo if I lived here. </i><br />
<i>Who said I don't like pink?)</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Morning light over Cafe Le Comptoir des Archives.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Breakfast, of course.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFCGHHn36u-ydEAk9lO8kEkMDnzJ0-YVOwaU6-wLVnZepxLzw2qSY8TlbDxhGr2nv34G5mtz54lgVXXgPlqrjrmLN4q4ZqkbXuAso-3Cle42T6cUVI9bCPnrgQ2uQHwTbjyPS1cTa8raA/s1600/Fruit1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFCGHHn36u-ydEAk9lO8kEkMDnzJ0-YVOwaU6-wLVnZepxLzw2qSY8TlbDxhGr2nv34G5mtz54lgVXXgPlqrjrmLN4q4ZqkbXuAso-3Cle42T6cUVI9bCPnrgQ2uQHwTbjyPS1cTa8raA/s320/Fruit1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>All things colorful and tempting at Aux 4 Saisons</i>. <i> </i><br />
<i>Just wait 'til the sliced watermelon comes out!</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Metro station Rambuteau</i>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQlrNA4oLsylnpJhz3QQfjz2QEab6sNGEU5CZpUAahSK7jW0m23_3YF4DqN3Iqc7yCNm297BRLhNG6zq1SaF9ZL-XK9FZqglSgqxZydimjWy1SOc5KxB8Am_9yvSY74c2EhIyqXWW3UA/s1600/Pompidou.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQlrNA4oLsylnpJhz3QQfjz2QEab6sNGEU5CZpUAahSK7jW0m23_3YF4DqN3Iqc7yCNm297BRLhNG6zq1SaF9ZL-XK9FZqglSgqxZydimjWy1SOc5KxB8Am_9yvSY74c2EhIyqXWW3UA/s320/Pompidou.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Centre Pompidou, before the crowds descend.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-40049653086030204532010-07-19T09:57:00.001-04:002010-07-19T10:00:24.206-04:00If I were FrenchToday, we continue our lesson on use of the conditional verb tense. <br />
<br />
The Hypothetical: Si j’etais francaise... If I were French.<br />
<br />
1. I would speak French.<br />
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2. I would bear a striking resemblance to Marion Cotillard. It would be uncanny, in fact. I would get mistaken for her ALL the time, and people would stop me on the street asking for photos and autographs. It would be exhausting. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvtELY0LYS77z2iHhk-ZjqKpnFestlEz2pgNhakErbMJju87zNYtYyU3idmOyklUXyEgVKCGKK6qRRJHShTb1cIp8-u8qL_8eBKxrve_g5pdl0n_B17VL7dZj2Z3w4HnnpIRpZLj6w_EI/s1600/Marion-Cotillard-Oscars2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvtELY0LYS77z2iHhk-ZjqKpnFestlEz2pgNhakErbMJju87zNYtYyU3idmOyklUXyEgVKCGKK6qRRJHShTb1cIp8-u8qL_8eBKxrve_g5pdl0n_B17VL7dZj2Z3w4HnnpIRpZLj6w_EI/s200/Marion-Cotillard-Oscars2.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><br />
3. I would have long, luscious hair that I could carelessly throw up into a messy knot on top of my head, and still manage to look perfectly put together and effortlessly stunning.<br />
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4. I would smoke cigarettes and look beautiful doing so and not give a damn about those silly warnings of the Surgeon General, or whatever he/she is called in France.<br />
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5. I would have an adorable dog that would sit on my lap while I dined at a restaurant, and would share my <i>pommes frites</i> with me. Silly American girls jogging past would stop to stare for a moment, and would wish they had their camera on them to take a photo of this "bizarre" sight.<br />
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6. I would enter a <a href="http://www.livingfrance.com/expert-advice-living-in-france-entering-in-a-pacs-agreement--164629" target="_blank">PACS agreement</a> (Pacte Civil de Solidarite - unmarried couple with full legal rights under French law) and live with a beautiful dark-skinned man of North-African origin (relax dad, this is only hypothetical) and together we would have/adopt a brood of kids so diverse and awesome-looking, they could make up a Benetton ad. Oh wait, maybe this last bit is more suited to my "If I Were Angelina" hypothetical...<br />
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7. I would eat freshly-baked bread with every meal, and follow a delicious dinner with an assortment of fromage or chocolate (or both) and never feel even a twinge of guilt, or have a moment’s thought that I am splurging and must work out tomorrow to make up for the rich caloric consumption.<br />
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8. Work out? As in, voluntarily put your body through a torturous exercise routine and sweat profusely? And for what purpose, exactly, do you do this? To these questions, I would seek explanation from young American women...<br />
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9. I myself would never consider such nonsense of "working out" yet my body would be naturally fit and healthy, simply because I (was one lucky be-atch who) ate really good foods, had amazing genes, and lived a naturally healthy lifestyle. My form of exercise would probably be walking in high heels all over Paris... and perhaps regularly enjoying some other activities that I won’t mention here.<br />
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10. On that note, I would never be embarrassed or ashamed to discuss or reference sex, nudity or anything of the sort. It would be normal for my Benetton-ad children to see bare boobs and butts on TV, but never bloody shoot-outs, murders or gun violence.<br />
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11. I would never worry about any member of my family getting sick and not being able to afford to see a doctor, nor would I worry about my parents or grandparents being able to live comfortably in retirement, nor would I worry about being able to afford an excellent education for my Benetton-ad children.<br />
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12. I would grow old gracefully and graciously. I would be one of those stunning older French women who is always put together, wears her gray hair with pride, shuns plastic surgery, and maintains an unwavering faith that the plethora of creams and beauty treatments which line pharmacy shelves will keep me looking magnificent until the day I die.<br />
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13. I would be a <i>Parisienne</i>, of course. But a rare breed of Parisian who actually stayed in Paris during the month of July, because I would know what no other Parisians seem to notice: that July is the most amazing, beautiful, weather-perfect time to be in the city. "Let them have their Coast!" I would declare - as though I were Marie Antoinette. "As long as I can have Paris!"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-1091782494021004942010-07-14T17:06:00.002-04:002011-06-30T19:18:38.806-04:00Excusez-moi, France. You want me to do WHAT?Seriously? You want me to go out and party late into the wee hours of the morning for TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW? Are you <i>kidding </i>me? Do you have any idea how old/lazy/boring I really am?<br />
<br />
Clearly not. Or if you do have an idea, you simply don’t care. Which means you are a little bit evil. That's right, I said evil.<br />
<br />
You take this thing called a National Holiday and you let it fall smack dab in the middle of the week. And you give me a day off from class because of it. And you plan accordingly by throwing all these fabulous parties at fire stations all over the city on the <i>night before</i> my day off, so I can be sure to enjoy them. This is all well and good, and I really appreciate your benevolence. Because these fire station parties, the <i>Bals des Pompiers</i>, as they are known, are just too much fun to be missed. I mean, where else in the world is there an annual tradition in which all the fire stations city-wide close off their surrounding streets, open their doors, and welcome with open arms anyone and everyone, of all ages, to join them for an all-night neighborhood dance party? With the firemen themselves working the bar? <br />
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So far, no problem France. We are on the same page, you and me.<br />
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But then you have to go and MESS IT ALL UP by throwing all these great Bals des Pompiers for a second night in a row. Why must you do this? Is one night not enough? Do you have any idea how much you are torturing me?<br />
<br />
I did my duty last night. I was out all night at Fire Station 27 in Montmarte, drinking champagne and dancing to cheesy cover-band music 'til about 4am. I had a great time, ok? But clearly this isn't good enough for you, because if it were, these Bals wouldn't have to happen <i>again </i>tonight! <br />
<br />
And to make matters worse, you now tell me that the most happening/hopping/awesome Fireman’s Ball of the entire city is going off tonight within about 8 minutes walking distance from my apartment, on Rue Sevigne in Le Marais. Hot-as-anything firemen. Serving me champagne. Cover bands. Gay boys. Straight boys. Beautiful people. And me, all I want to do is get into my pajamas (which technically would be really easy to do since I am still wearing them) and crawl into bed and stay there for the next 24 hours or so. But no. You have to tempt me out of my state of blissful laziness with hot firemen throwing block parties. France, you are a tease. An evil, torturous tease.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-18537371721713194632010-07-13T10:18:00.003-04:002011-07-31T10:44:02.564-04:00Excusez-moi, what is a preposition?A few years ago, I discovered my journal from Mr. Petty’s first grade class. It was buried deep inside a box labeled "My Memories. Don’t Throw Away!". The entries were hilariously simple, along the lines of:<br />
<br />
<i>Yesterday my grandma came to our house and she gave me a doll. It is pretty and it has a red dress and long brown hair. I want to bring her to show-and-tell at school but I can’t because Oscar chewed off her leg. My sister thinks it’s funny. She is mean. Oscar is my dog. He is so cute but now I am mad at him. Then my mom let us eat ice cream for dinner. Wippie hippie! </i><br />
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As I struggle through French class each and every morning, trying to comprehend verb tenses, pronouns, prepositions and sentence structure, I can’t help but envy that 6-year-old kid who had it so easy. As kids, we learn languages without even thinking about it, without realizing what the heck we are doing. We speak and write in the present tense, past tense, future tense, conditional. We use pronouns and possessives and prepositions, and we don’t even know we are doing it.<br />
<br />
As an adult, it’s a whole different story. Learning a language is an exhausting process – one that can be humbling, painstaking, and at times, downright humiliating. As I try desperately to learn French, I feel like a child again. Only one with a severe learning disorder.<br />
<br />
It’s hard enough trying to comprehend exactly where to place the pronoun or the preposition in a French sentence, but to make things worse, I am sitting there in class thinking... what exactly <i>is </i>a preposition, anyway? Mr. Petty never covered that. He didn’t have to, because we didn’t need to know. Well Mr. Petty, it may have been a GOOD IDEA to teach us kids these minor details, because I would <i>really </i>like to be able to speak French in a way that doesn’t get the response of blank, confused stares and questions that translate as "HUH?" <br />
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My homework assignment for the day: use the conditional tense to describe what I want out of the next 5 years of my life. This type of question came often as a kid, only less time-specific: "what do you want to be when you grow up?" But as an adult learning French, my immediate response is: <i>um, excusez-moi, what exactly <i>is </i>the conditional tense?</i><br />
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Diary entry of a 6-year-old, learning to write in English:<br />
What do you want to be when you grow up?<br />
<br />
<i>When I grow up I want to be a truck driver and drive all over and talk into the cb radio to other truck drivers. I would stop at truck stops and eat apple pie with ice cream every single night. I think it would be really fun. When we go on trips in the car my dad talks into the cb to other truck drivers and it’s really funny. They all have funny names. My sister is mean. She never lets me sit in the front seat. I hate her.<br />
</i><br />
(Note the above use of future tense, conditional tense, present tense, and probably a whole bunch of prepositions and pronouns and other things I can’t identify in English.)<br />
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Homework assignment of a 36-year-old, learning to write in French:<br />
Write a brief composition about what you would like to do in the next 5 years of your life, using the conditional tense.<br />
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<i>In the next five years, I would like to do many things. I would like to learn to speak French perfectly. Also I would like to learn another language, maybe Portuguese or Arabic. I would like to spend some time living in Buenos Aires, and I would like to travel throughout all of Brazil. If I earned more money, I would buy two apartments, one in New York and one in Paris, because I want to live in both cities. Also, if found the time and motivation, I would write the history of my life so far and I would be a very famous writer.<br />
</i><br />
Oh man, I am <i>exhausted</i>! Writing this brief paragraph (in French, mind you) takes serious mental exertion. I wonder if it was this hard when I was 6? <br />
<br />
Well, lucky for me, I am not 6 anymore – nor am I about to get back on the road to drive my truck route tonight - which means I get to reward my hard work with a big ol' icy cocktail. In the present tense, not conditional on anything.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-42718838524392912412010-07-12T18:28:00.000-04:002010-07-12T18:28:48.331-04:00The octopus picked it<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_tV__tnc2Fx1cF6GgpYbFs5xL9sAkJri2sAUi2hYp-zlCm2Dgo0Cwkz_NYnLYHyfRZXqa-ul8K0cBiMGYkVeOc1EoKNGNou2do3n4cya09qIuf-OxVgb7kFrTzeJMUDWru0354SrxCCQ/s1600/paul2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_tV__tnc2Fx1cF6GgpYbFs5xL9sAkJri2sAUi2hYp-zlCm2Dgo0Cwkz_NYnLYHyfRZXqa-ul8K0cBiMGYkVeOc1EoKNGNou2do3n4cya09qIuf-OxVgb7kFrTzeJMUDWru0354SrxCCQ/s320/paul2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
In case you somehow missed the front page of every major newspaper worldwide today, I thought I would share the news of the day: Spain won the World Cup! <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/06/paul-the-octopus-stuns-ge_n_636118.html" target="_blank">Paul the Octopus </a>wasn't messing around. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimim_jzcLg1w6krnrkYUXE_ZigwGa5qJuS4lnuq0gZAFpTGgIhrwI3xuImS187nyAH4ogYvWlzG6pTsXtk1tyDQXk5Ov57nsyaZNuD65uFqiQqz5TENpeQrnRgP0lBJDWd5dA3Qc44-Bw/s1600/SPAIN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimim_jzcLg1w6krnrkYUXE_ZigwGa5qJuS4lnuq0gZAFpTGgIhrwI3xuImS187nyAH4ogYvWlzG6pTsXtk1tyDQXk5Ov57nsyaZNuD65uFqiQqz5TENpeQrnRgP0lBJDWd5dA3Qc44-Bw/s320/SPAIN.jpg" /></a></div><br />
In honor of this major victory - and in lieu of completing my French homework this evening (conditional verb tense and simple pronouns, yuck) - I thought I would take a moment to share with you, in case you just cannot understand, why I am such an avid fan of that fabulous sport otherwise known as <i>football</i>:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvY5ygqu2aLwE8S-_RQnOtdH4BnTvcVBy5bogT-ejrDrkjJDj3JtRzgDCOEqptxSripDZA3bIELGy3T0FrRka-oQom2unjdYF1oUog8ECDoP6_ma3ET9YcB9NNrAGwUIrgZMJnKZZZv4/s1600/Oguchi-Onyewu-World-Cup-2010-PHOTOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvY5ygqu2aLwE8S-_RQnOtdH4BnTvcVBy5bogT-ejrDrkjJDj3JtRzgDCOEqptxSripDZA3bIELGy3T0FrRka-oQom2unjdYF1oUog8ECDoP6_ma3ET9YcB9NNrAGwUIrgZMJnKZZZv4/s320/Oguchi-Onyewu-World-Cup-2010-PHOTOS.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bBZwdOSKN55afpiQxH8R-cQfSRr8V-BFlhcSZNzIUOCSlWKIQcoi_UWOXZoKlqPVvvc3iQMXvgiYUXg2hiuxp7qh6fMewmP7FNv7woihB-t0noRWBKo6cXzC39bA_qHOO_vOg9Kjk48/s1600/Gourcuff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bBZwdOSKN55afpiQxH8R-cQfSRr8V-BFlhcSZNzIUOCSlWKIQcoi_UWOXZoKlqPVvvc3iQMXvgiYUXg2hiuxp7qh6fMewmP7FNv7woihB-t0noRWBKo6cXzC39bA_qHOO_vOg9Kjk48/s320/Gourcuff.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbX8HlzeeQBwO6nD4IkeAu6iT10dICDnt7cyjZFVTOOlXPcoeuR4EvcCt406DQfx1ppLoztbU5ukwe0yeRP-gCbUrePXIcVlrSW3aafnU_2gA9NZqhQG3EqHycQDGBgXDJ14oYbyLRbEQ/s1600/Carlos-Bocanegra-World-Cup-2010-PHOTOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbX8HlzeeQBwO6nD4IkeAu6iT10dICDnt7cyjZFVTOOlXPcoeuR4EvcCt406DQfx1ppLoztbU5ukwe0yeRP-gCbUrePXIcVlrSW3aafnU_2gA9NZqhQG3EqHycQDGBgXDJ14oYbyLRbEQ/s320/Carlos-Bocanegra-World-Cup-2010-PHOTOS.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilm6Ea_CFtkOOFKkaR6Fk2XV8S7afuT6WgRPlC3D2FM0Pe8uXoacPlWkV5F8wJyhuzrUCttDGjpf7oTBckdmmGgaFB864Bc2a6sUpY-pFRhiIRpy7pdJDNxO4_e2YrF97I3QenvEOh6Jo/s1600/sergioramos1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilm6Ea_CFtkOOFKkaR6Fk2XV8S7afuT6WgRPlC3D2FM0Pe8uXoacPlWkV5F8wJyhuzrUCttDGjpf7oTBckdmmGgaFB864Bc2a6sUpY-pFRhiIRpy7pdJDNxO4_e2YrF97I3QenvEOh6Jo/s320/sergioramos1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_WZ2fXT918LSSMm0BK5kuUz92m-s8hVfBdtAv0A3gpuMAFyVvTddQhOJNFCpoBc_zGazyI-jHp0RX4NWk5s0ZiFGywhk7lOzbbcex1mpgbY6GxfDzMWPLgBsERlHDDoWtJBtZVzCvnU/s1600/cesc_fabregas_551406a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_WZ2fXT918LSSMm0BK5kuUz92m-s8hVfBdtAv0A3gpuMAFyVvTddQhOJNFCpoBc_zGazyI-jHp0RX4NWk5s0ZiFGywhk7lOzbbcex1mpgbY6GxfDzMWPLgBsERlHDDoWtJBtZVzCvnU/s320/cesc_fabregas_551406a.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27qRz6kbYCeRRGzwtb4UppgQoLLwYflAFhKkfDo3EiTdaBkJ5AkVE0EXJe9YwOz5BPstMcPb9eC8oFf0ysSCnkoHIdY24FT2T9tmuv_oabFk6RLOJEB1KA6gRWpXC5hWsZpqNJlyVn0Q/s1600/forlan2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27qRz6kbYCeRRGzwtb4UppgQoLLwYflAFhKkfDo3EiTdaBkJ5AkVE0EXJe9YwOz5BPstMcPb9eC8oFf0ysSCnkoHIdY24FT2T9tmuv_oabFk6RLOJEB1KA6gRWpXC5hWsZpqNJlyVn0Q/s320/forlan2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And my personal all-time favorite, from World Cups Past... the great Zinedine Zidane:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkX8Qel4xEJ5zoirjMn1XgqXhosREBEimZ11HxwUKH7Tr81TvEUYKA42WbpRPsNPgrb-zu_g7GiZMfzfnnz9x9ow6MxcpBV4AmBrMrD3S-lrZNfjcGsCiAC8HoG61CV8n_fXXtBEAynA/s1600/zinedine_zidane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkX8Qel4xEJ5zoirjMn1XgqXhosREBEimZ11HxwUKH7Tr81TvEUYKA42WbpRPsNPgrb-zu_g7GiZMfzfnnz9x9ow6MxcpBV4AmBrMrD3S-lrZNfjcGsCiAC8HoG61CV8n_fXXtBEAynA/s320/zinedine_zidane.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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And with that, we bring a joyful end to this edition of World Cup 2010.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-83626790514122983382010-07-12T15:03:00.000-04:002010-07-12T15:03:32.718-04:00Les Soldes - Part DeuxVoila, a much more suitable photo for my <a href="http://ejroundtheworld.blogspot.com/2010/07/shoppers-rehab.html" target=_blank>blog post</a> from earlier today:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38qT_bjO5fP3la1GH3EzuOIWpW8BxxjbMzLIeTHK1ltEKoYPWiY0k2Srq-N9cm6HGFRgt2JvLp3S3_a-IgKy602E4Ygh6fgIu4F1XA_gDIjY2Jf3xJgMIw8pqcGFSREzoxRu91WRe6dM/s1600/IMG_5620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38qT_bjO5fP3la1GH3EzuOIWpW8BxxjbMzLIeTHK1ltEKoYPWiY0k2Srq-N9cm6HGFRgt2JvLp3S3_a-IgKy602E4Ygh6fgIu4F1XA_gDIjY2Jf3xJgMIw8pqcGFSREzoxRu91WRe6dM/s320/IMG_5620.JPG" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-16361827717620335222010-07-12T08:23:00.000-04:002010-07-12T08:23:32.205-04:00Shopper's RehabI am pleased to report the following breaking news: Along the shores of the beautiful beaches of Europe, the Speedo is on the decline. <br />
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That’s right, my friends. Based on extensive observation over the past two days here in Cannes, I can confirm that European men are now wearing swim shorts to the beach. Standard-length, thigh-covering, leave-a-little-to-the-imagination-<i>please</i>, swim shorts. No more bulging out all over the place, so to speak. Surfer-wear, skater-wear... it seems European men are now taking their beach fashion cues from the likes of SoCal's Manhattan Beach. I never thought I would see the day.<br />
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Of course, there are exceptions to this surprising new fashion trend. The over-65 set, for one, who cling tight (pun intended) to their Speedo-wearing ways. These guys have been letting it all hang "loose" for as long as they can remember, so why change their seaside style now (especially now that everything about their bods really <i>is </i>loose!)?<br />
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And of course, the Italians. God love ‘em, those Italians will go down fighting for their right to expose their every curve for all the world to admire, no matter how <i>wrong </i>the entire look turns out to be. Well, admire is probably not the word I should use, but I have to admit their complete lack of self-consciousness – that of both the shameless Italians <i>and </i>the senior crowd, in fact – is utterly refreshing.<br />
<br />
So here I am, lolling at the beach, blissfully wasting away the hours slathered in sunblock, flipping through French gossip magazines (which for the record cover the same trash as their American counterparts, but in French)... This weekend in the French Riviera is just what I needed to recharge, refresh, and escape the daily grind of life in The Big City.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh who am I kidding?! </i>Other than my daily cup of coffee, there <i>is </i>no daily grind in Paris! So far, my summer has been one ridiculously easy-going holiday. As the heat settles in, everything and everyone seems to have slowed down. But a weekend away to the French Riviera? Guaranteed to offer the most excellent people-watching opportunity of the entire summer? And, I don’t need to take an airplane to get there? Sign me up.<br />
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I suppose it’s a very good thing I did get away, because it just so happens that July is a Very Dangerous Time To Be In Paris. Terrorist attacks, train bombs, civil unrest in the <i>banlieus</i>, heatstroke... NO! I refer to NONE of these things. Rather, the danger comes in the form of two innocent little words: LES SOLDES. <br />
<br />
I shudder at the mere thought.<br />
<br />
Every July, across the entire country of France, every single shop – clothing, shoes, bags, jewelry, even chocolate – slashes their prices and announces that the Sales Are On for the month. (This is so unlike the place where I come from, where sales happen on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis, for any and every reason whatsoever.) The July sales in Paris, subsequently, are the event of the summer. And we are talking deep, deep discounts (-40%! -50%! -60%!) on some of the most gorgeous shoes and dresses I have ever seen.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLnsEREE_-ZT4XpwF8gTBTl8tqv0hRYaGmnWL-6KT9mNtxVJmNFZ-koWqRZ5bJBP0saLOGUTlDM8stMb8lycZZkUQWFe2f8-etjarbTifwMDz02LaaWeCRQbJrqB9Ng3dVVSffK5x6lE/s1600/soldes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLnsEREE_-ZT4XpwF8gTBTl8tqv0hRYaGmnWL-6KT9mNtxVJmNFZ-koWqRZ5bJBP0saLOGUTlDM8stMb8lycZZkUQWFe2f8-etjarbTifwMDz02LaaWeCRQbJrqB9Ng3dVVSffK5x6lE/s320/soldes.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Adding to the DANGER of it all is the Euro’s sudden resuscitation in recent weeks, steadily on the rise, crushing the fragile ego of the US dollar... not to mention my own spending power. Somebody make it stop!<br />
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Better yet, somebody stop ME! I had no choice, I needed to be sent away to the Coast for a long weekend of Shopper’s Rehab. Yes, yes, LES SOLDES do extend all the way into Cannes, but I have been far too busy sleeping in sand to pay much attention. And anyway, shopping in Cannes – in the form of Dior, Balenciaga, D&G, Yves Saint Laurent – is way beyond my bank account.<br />
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In any event, on my way home from the beach today I did stop by an active-wear store – just to have a look. And wouldn’t you know, the entire line of Men’s Speedo bathing suits were on sale...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-54625249938103507092010-07-05T02:07:00.000-04:002010-07-05T02:07:27.707-04:00Big Boys Do CryJust when I thought it safe to take a 5-week vacation...<br />
<br />
Just when I thought I was clear to spend my mornings napping, my afternoons mastering the art of walking on cobblestone in high heels, and my evenings cheering Spain all the way to World Cup victory...<br />
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Just when I thought I really had "nothing to do", the call of duty has come.<br />
<br />
No, not from the Foreign Service. As if! Other than having to give up copious amounts of blood for medical testing (and with the blood, a whole lot of tears) nothing is expected to happen in that part of my world for a long, long time. Rather, I was offered the opportunity to write – and get paid for doing so. It’s nothing fancy, just drafting content for a corporate website. But for a gal like me, who on occasion has ventured to consider herself a "writer", this is an opportunity that cannot be passed by.<br />
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To be fair, I knew this was coming, I guess I was just secretly hoping it would get postponed until <i>après-vacances</i>, or at the very least, après World Cup final.<br />
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But maybe this came in the nick of time. Truth be told, walking on cobblestone in high heels is painful. And after watching Paraguay’s Oscar Cardozo <a href="http://elcomercio.pe/noticia/504937/heroe-infierno-lagrimas-paraguayo-oscar-cardozo" target=_blank>weep uncontrollably like a big ol’ handsome baby</a> at his team’s loss to <i>my</i> team last Saturday, head buried with shame deep inside his jersey, I am starting to wonder about the whole competition thing – and thinking I am too much of a sensitive wuss to ever be a true sports fan in the style of the European Footballer. As he fell to the ground in sheer agony, every single player on that field - Spanish and Paraguayan alike - offered hugs and soccer love, trying to console an inconsolable Cardozo. It was heart wrenching to watch, so much so that I wanted to get on a plane, fly to South Africa, make all the players form one huge circle, and holding hands, sing "Kumbaya". After which of course, I would inquire as to who was single and interested in joining me for dinner.<br />
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But instead, I will write. And get paid. And take some time out on Wednesday night to throw on a pair of heels, trot across the cobblestone street to Café La Pierre, and settle in to watch Spain kick Germany’s footballing ass. Just please boys, no tears this time. I can’t handle it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-33199684957191044322010-06-30T17:34:00.001-04:002010-06-30T17:35:43.868-04:00Nothing can be everythingI never before thought it possible to fall in love with a piece of luggage. But alas, it has happened to me. I am smitten.<br />
<br />
Last weekend I brought utter joy into my life with the purchase of a top-of-the-line Samsonite Spinner Silhouette 11 26" Expandable in blue (on sale at Macy's, bien sur!). I figured that since I am <i>literally </i>living out of a suitcase, I might as well go all the way and get a great one, right? This bag was worth every penny. Sturdy, lightweight, and zero effort required - with four nifty little wheels, the thing practically moves itself. Even the American Airlines agent at the check-in counter was impressed. She felt bad putting stickers on it. I gave her my blessing.<br />
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Meanwhile, I have found a nice little home to store this fab new purchase and empty out its heavy contents for awhile. For this next round of Parisian living - aka Paris Part Deux - I (somehow) landed myself a gorgeous, spacious and impossibly affordable apartment in Le Marais, my dream neighborhood in Paris, in the center of just about everything - at least, everything that is adorably "Paris" to me. And as of this very moment, I am on vacation. Yes, a real vacation. Today marks the start of 5 entire weeks of doing nothing at all. 5 weeks blissfully free of airplane travel. 5 weeks of not coming within 10 feet of an airport. 5 weeks free of stress, void of any complications whatsoever. Other than daily French classes, there is absolutely nothing on my agenda. I have convinced myself that after an insane year, and after the surprising success of having passed the FSOA, I deserve this. Thus I offer sincere apologies in advance to my loyal readers, but my goal for the next 5 weeks is to be totally boring.<br />
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Although knowing me - and as many of you know me - something nutty will happen. So consider keeping your expectations low, but stay tuned nonetheless. Notice I haven't ruled out travel by train...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-472814361512286462010-06-19T09:24:00.000-04:002010-06-19T09:24:42.178-04:00Don't Rain On My Parade!Somewhere around 5pm Central Time this past Tuesday, while in an utter state of shock over what was happening, I was congratulated, and advised that it was time to make an addition to my "List of Future Career Options": Foreign Service Officer. <br />
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Well, it seems I have passed the FSOA. One of only two candidates to do so, out of 11 total to test with me that day. Now how on earth did this happen?<br />
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I tribute the unexpected (but very welcome!) success to a few things: the FSOA Yahoo Group and its wealth of excellent prep materials - particularly the files and documents; friends and family who let me whine or obsess or simply just left me alone to my studies; my sister's awesome editing skills and unwavering assurance that "You will pass - like, duh."<br />
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But most of all, I have to thank that mighty little TV show "Glee" for providing the day's soundtrack. My morning-of, listen to while getting dressed and while en route to the testing site, fire-up, go-get-em song was this: Lea Michele's fab rendition of "Don't Rain On My Parade!". Yes, I realize this may make me the biggest nerd ever, but who cares. It worked! I went in feeling good, feeling ready, and feeling as though nothing - not even bad news at the end of the day - would get me down. In the center of the table of the candidate waiting room was a tourist brochure for Chicago, with the words etched across "Feel Magnificent". All day long, at every opportunity, I meditated on that brochure and its excellent bit of advice. I knew that no matter what the outcome, I was giving it my all. I couldn't ask for anything more from myself. I felt magnificent all day long, knowing that nobody, not even State, was gonna rain on my parade.<br />
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And so I offer this advice for future FSOA test-takers: on the morning of the test, relax. Breathe. Do some yoga if you need to. Whatever it takes to kill the nerves and go in feeling calm. Be yourself, feel magnificent. And trust that whatever the outcome, life absolutely will go on.<br />
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But perhaps most importantly, find your own theme song for the day to get you fired up. You are welcome to borrow mine. Or if it's too nerdy for you, check out Shakira's World Cup song "Waka Waka":<br />
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"If you fall, get up, eh eh<br />
When you fall, get up, eh eh"<br />
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I couldn't have sung it better myself.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-12691537881166361292010-06-06T07:35:00.001-04:002010-06-19T11:11:43.955-04:00Four QuestionsI have to give a shout-out here to what could be the funniest blog and writer I have come across on the internet. Laughing-out-loud 100% guaranteed: <a href="http://factsoptional.blogspot.com/" target=_blank>http://factsoptional.blogspot.com/<br />
<br />
</a>Now, on to my four questions. Number one: Why is this night different from...<br />
<br />
Just kidding.<br />
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My questions relate not to Passover, but to French culture. Truth be told, I have many, many questions about the culture I am currently living among. But in the interest of time, I have narrowed them down to four general topics that have left me dumbfounded. They are as follows:<br />
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1. The French Shower. What’s the deal? Why is it the norm here in Paris to install a shower hose, but without a wall mount to hold the hose in place? Or a shower curtain, for that matter? Don’t the French get how much water and time can be saved by a hands-free shower? Maybe I am all too heavily influenced by my "Conserve Water! California is facing a drought!" childhood, but France is a progressive society, all about saving the Earth and whatnot. Imagine the efficiency that would result if I were able to wash my hair with two hands, rather than one? Shave my legs without having to hold the shower hose with one hand and try to balance with the other? And imagine the amount of conservation if there was a shower curtain that kept water <i>inside </i>the shower, rather than letting it spew all over the bathroom floor?<br />
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2. Pharmacies. In all fairness I have never thoroughly read The New Testament (go figure) but I have to wonder if somewhere along the way, God granted France the right to perfect health on Sundays. This would be the only sensible explanation to the fact that on Sundays, along with everything else (from grocery stores to my beloved Sephora) pharmacies are closed for business. How can this be? Are the French fortunate enough to never get sick on a Sunday? Do sneezing allergy attacks, stomach flues and splitting migraine headaches only occur Monday through Saturday?<br />
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3. Sex. (Now <i>that </i>got your attention, didn’t it?) We have all heard the stereotype about the French man who has more than one – sometimes many – lovers simultaneously, whether he is married, single or otherwise. (And let's remember that stereotypes exists for a reason.) So here’s what I want to know: do French women put up with such nonsense because they are totally OK with it? Or do they feel they have no choice, as though it’s some cultural norm they simply need to accept? Or do French women and wives have many lovers of their own? (Which would at least be fair!) Or none of the above?<br />
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And my fourth question goes to back to trying to understand why and how French children are so well behaved - see <a href="http://ejroundtheworld.blogspot.com/2010/04/little-french-speaking-people.html" target=_blank>previous post</a>. (Additional note on this topic: last night I attended a dinner party in a beautiful apartment in the 19th. The hosts have a three-month-old baby. They put her down to sleep around 9 PM. When I left the party, somewhere around 2 AM, she was still sleeping. Apparently she sleeps through the night, already at 3 months. More proof that French children are perfect.)<br />
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Without a doubt, my four questions require further investigation. Which is why I will be returning to Paris after the FSOA in Chicago. Inquiring minds want to know, and there is research to be done! Check back here as answers unfold to these pressing questions.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-11264039829722689242010-06-03T12:45:00.001-04:002010-06-19T11:12:09.410-04:0012 days and countingChocolate éclairs, croissants, goat and feta and camembert cheeses, nutella banana crepes, pommes frites, full-fat cappuccinos, red and white and rose wine... Paris is a bad place to be on a diet. But we know this already.<br />
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Paris is an even <i>worse </i>place to be when the mind is expected to be elsewhere. Something – or someone – beautiful, charming, fascinating, or utterly quaint can literally be discovered around any corner here. Paris, for lovers of all things lovely – from a bustling sidewalk café, to an artisan fragrance shop, to an outdoor marketplace, to an empty wooden bench resting peacefully by the River Seine – is easily one of the most distracting cities in the world. <br />
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This is particularly true today, June 3, when a frustratingly lazy sun has finally decided to join us here on this side of the Atlantic. Along with it comes the sundresses, sandals, sunburns, tourists, sidewalk musicians, outdoor festivals, picnics in the park, cold beers and beautiful barely-dressed people... basically, every reason in the world to be outside. So what is the problem, you ask? Simply put: my mind is expected to be somewhere else.<br />
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In a matter of days – 12, to be exact (but who's counting?) – I will be in the midst of what just might be the toughest experience of my life thus far. The Foreign Service Oral Assessment. Oh dear.<br />
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Until I (much too recently) joined the Yahoo Group dedicated to the FSOA and began to comb through the thousands of files and messages posted there, I admittedly had not yet comprehended the significance of this experience, or the astounding fact that I was invited to the assessment in the first place, or the extent of painstaking preparation I will need to put into this. As I come to terms with all of this nerve-wracking reality, I realize that I have a total of 12 days to comb through my entire life history: to recall and reflect upon 36 years of one life; 20 years of work and educational experiences; a decade of travel adventures and the many places I have been, seen and lived; people I have known, those who have known me. As I try to remain calm, I can’t help but hear a clock ticking oh so loudly, practically screaming in my ear, warning me that I had better disregard Paris and the hot summer sun and invitations to picnic on the edge of the Canal. There is work to be done, after all!<br />
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I hear that darn clock – it would be impossible not to. But it's so pretty out today, and I find myself wandering aimlessly and lovingly through the district of Le Marais, window shopping, people watching, mentally perusing the long list of all the many things I want to do here. I round a corner, and there before me is the splendid Hotel de Ville, rising up against a deep blue sky. I remember there is a photography exhibit here that I am curious to see. It's on my list. As I approach the entrance, I take a deep breath and think to myself: could another hour of procrastination really hurt?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-45900354352639223092010-04-29T11:21:00.000-04:002010-04-29T11:21:37.164-04:00Little (French-speaking) peopleLet’s take a moment to talk about children, shall we? Spotted today, within the splendid courtyard of Le Palais-Royal: a small child, of no more than 4 years, seated on the edge of a large fountain. He is sandwiched on both sides by his mother and father who, along with the hundreds of barefoot sun worshipers around this courtyard, are dining outdoors and taking full advantage of the unseasonably warm afternoon. The boy sits quietly, nibbling on his lunch and patiently listening to his parents’ conversation taking place above his head. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t cry for attention. He just sits, like the lovely little person he probably is, and allows his parents to enjoy their meal and the beautiful afternoon. <br />
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Now let’s cross over to the other side of the Atlantic. Similar setting, somewhere in North America. It’s a lovely day, and mom, dad and child eagerly take to the park for a picnic. They take a seat; mom hands the four-year-old his sandwich. He takes a bite, then throws it onto the ground. He starts to run around the park, chasing pigeons, torturing dogs, throwing handfuls of sand, <i>eating </i>sand, screaming, yelling, and eventually runs off toward the street, where cars whizz past. Mom (or maybe dad) jumps up to run after him, frazzled, exhausted, her barely-touched meal left to the birds. The boy turns around, runs back toward the fountain, falls <i>into </i>the fountain, and the chaos continues.<br />
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OK, so I exaggerate. Somewhat. But it is undeniable that there is a noticeable difference between the behavior of French children, and that of their American counterparts. I have been in France many times now, and not once can I recall seeing a child throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store – or anywhere, for that matter. Not once have I seen a child running up and down the length of a metro car, a bus or a train. I have yet to witness a meltdown, a scream-fest, or any similarly out-of-control behavior whatsoever. French children are... different. They are dignified. Civilized. Delightful.<br />
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Don’t misunderstand: I do not wish to give the impression that French children are somehow creepy or robot-like in any way. <i>Au contraire! </i>They giggle, they laugh, they play – just like children anywhere. As I sit in the park now, a group of schoolchildren walk past – maybe 15 in all, around the age of 6 or 7 years old. They stop at the fountain, reach in to touch the cool water, their innocent faces full of delight. But they don’t yell out, they don’t splash any water, nor do they bother any of the adults who are here on their lunch break. These children clearly know <i>how </i>to be children, but at the same time, understand that there is a time and place for everything, and a proper way to behave - especially when in a public setting. <br />
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Their restaurant etiquette is particularly strong. Dining in France is an art form in and of itself, an essential part of French culture, and children growing up here quickly learn how to fully experience the pleasure of dining. These little (French-speaking) people sit at tables and eat with their families (most likely consuming wholesome meals made without any chemicals or preservatives). And they wait to be excused before leaving the table. While staying with friends in the south of France, an afternoon snack of tea and freshly baked brioche was served. My friends’ two very small children sat with the adults at the table, quiet and unobtrusive, and enjoyed their own brioche along with everyone else. They never demanded attention. They didn’t get up and run off – nor did they ask to leave the table – until given permission to do so. The French children I have witnessed seem to take pleasure in eating their meal, while respecting the cultural importance and the <i>experience </i>of eating their meal. <br />
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Debra Olivier writes about French children in her book <i>Entre Nous</i>. She observes Parisian family life: homes that are not overwhelmed by toys; a family dynamic in which the parents dictate the schedule and the rules, not the child; consistent bedtimes that children actually adhere to. Olivier writes that children in France are brought up with the understanding that they have a distinctive place in the family and in society; they are something like little adults, and their parents set the example and expectations early on as to what constitutes adult-like manners and etiquette. Steve Fallon and Annabel Hart echo this in Lonely Planet’s guide to Paris. They write, "France treats its children as adults until they reach puberty – at which time they revert to being children again". Rather than overindulged and spoiled, French children are "corrected and disciplined", and are brought up understanding what proper behavior means. <br />
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A Parisian friend has invited me over for champagne and cheese in her home. She has two small children, and she tells me they will be asleep at 8:00pm, so I should come over right around 8:30pm. Based on what I have seen, read and heard, I have no doubt that when I arrive, her house will be neat, her children asleep, and we will enjoy an adult conversation over delicious champagne. My friend Anne tells me that my view is glorified; she doesn’t want to burst my bubble, she says, but times are changing, and French children are not nearly as perfect as I make them out to be. Maybe she is right. Nevertheless, I tell her that if I could somehow guarantee that my own children would come out to be so lovely and dignified, just like these little French-speaking people are, then maybe the idea of actually <i>having </i>them would be less horrifying.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-73950568723016287242010-04-27T09:57:00.001-04:002010-04-27T09:59:19.191-04:00Words, words....It doesn't seem to matter that it's a stunning day outside. Or that the time is nearly 9pm, and the sun is still - magically - bright in the evening sky. It's springtime in Paris, finally. And springtime in Paris is so far everything I imagined it would be. The days are long and easy - warm, sunny... perfect, in fact. There is every reason in the world to be outside. Nevertheless, on this beautiful evening, the dark interior of this cramped little café is wall-to-wall packed with people.<br />
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As it should be! It's Monday night, and Spoken Word is on. An eclectic group of expat poets and storytellers gathers every week in this funky little artists' nook for Open Mic Night, writer's style. With a breath of courage and a confidence than I have yet to muster, one by one they take to the stage and share their tales, their poems, their rhymes, their randomness - in French, English, Italian... anything goes. So far, I only listen. But the energy is strong, and the beer cheaper than water, so maybe, eventually, I will find the courage to share my own words among this crowd of friendly strangers.<br />
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In this period known to me as PPD - Paris Post Dubai - my world has become completely consumed by words. Open mic nights, writers' workshops and the blissful discovery of wonderful little bookstores go hand-in-hand with my so-far flailing attempt to learn French. Thankfully, my language class at Lutece Langue has finally begun, and just in the nick of time. Because so far, in terms of learning French, I haven't been doing well. Regular visits to the Gerard Arnaud yoga studio have helped along my ability to comprehend, but strictly within the limits of a particular vocabulary set I will refer to as "yoga french". Sure, this is good progress in its own right, but hardly practical when out and about, enjoying the streets of Paris. I now know the French for "bend your legs" ... "hug your knees into your chest" ... "turn your face toward the sky" ... But when a homeless man on the street approaches me and asks for money - something, I might add, which seems to occur on an hourly basis - I stumble over myself and can't think of a proper response in his language. Instead, silence prevails and I just smile apologetically, as I am quite certain that telling him to fold into downward dog and press his heels toward the floor is <i>not </i>the answer he is looking for. <br />
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And so it is that with each day that passes, French is looking more and more like any great love: complicated, mysterious, utterly unattainable... the less of it I understand, the more I want. Hours later, I am standing at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee, nibbling on dried figs, and intently studying my French dictionary. Just as my sleepy veins willingly absorb the caffeine, I beg my brain to absorb these French words. Behind me, the radio plays – another source of words, another source of comprehension. But after some time, I realize the station that is playing is in Portuguese. <i>Mon Dieu, </i>I think. This is going to take awhile.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-85136975006464840912010-04-22T04:46:00.000-04:002010-04-22T04:46:19.829-04:00Modern, to a pointI have decided that I would make a really bad prisoner. Today I am in Paris, gazing out at the smoggy ash that hovers over the city and listening to the local news. The hot story on the news is about a young French national named Florence Cassez. The 35-year-old has been held in a Mexican prison for the past five years on questionable kidnapping charges; today the effort was renewed to fight for her release. I was in Dubai for 5 days longer than planned, with access to all the creature comforts I could possibly need: a bed, a hot shower, a treadmill, lip balm, peanut butter… All this, and I couldn’t handle it. After only 5 days, I snapped.<br />
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Yes, I would make a very bad prisoner indeed. Which is yet another reason I need to always maintain a low profile while traveling, and do my best to stay out of trouble.<br />
<br />
Dubai was an interesting, confusing place: modernization permitted, to a point. Open-mindedness encouraged, with limits. All walks of life welcomed, with exceptions. The internet was relatively open, but many sites were blocked, for reasons that seemed contradictory and inconsistent at best. I could stream episodes of the (borderline pornographic) TV show Gossip Girl, but I couldn’t access Skype. I could read Wikipedia’s page on Israel, but couldn’t reach Israeli’s official tourism website <a href="http://www.goisrael.com/" target=_blank>http://www.goisrael.com/</a>. It didn't make sense.<br />
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On the second night of my “imprisonment”, I was at dinner with a work colleague. He is Irish, and has lived in Dubai for 15 years with his wife and two small children. He is Western in every sense of the word: lifestyle, dress, religion and tradition. He seemed to be a typically cool and easy-going guy, and so I began to pick his brain for suggestions on how to spend these days, how to make the most of my time here. More than anything, I wanted to go to Israel for a few days, at least until the ash blew over and I could return to Paris. I asked him about this, if traveling to Israel from here was an option at all, or if there would be any repercussions. I had just learned that the Israeli delegation were denied visas to attend our conference; I wasn’t sure what a fresh Israeli stamp in my passport might mean if I needed to return to Dubai to catch a flight home.<br />
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And so I asked him this simple question; any and all expression on his face disappeared. He looked back at me without a hint of recognition or comprehension, as though I was speaking Hebrew. His response was brief: “I don’t know what you are talking about”.<br />
<br />
I asked again: Can I fly to Israel from here? Again, his response: “I really don’t know to what you are referring. We don’t use this word here [“Israel”]. It means nothing to us. It doesn’t exist”.<br />
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The mood quickly turned from lighthearted to creepy. I didn’t have much to say to him after that; instead I tried to fathom how such an open-minded dude from Ireland could be so ignorant. The next day, I visited a travel agency at the mall, and asked the travel agent - a young woman from Delhi, India - about the option of popping over to Tel Aviv for a few days. She literally looked away and ignored the question, and instead tried to sell me on a package deal to Sri Lanka.<br />
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I tried to give them both the benefit of the doubt; perhaps a requirement of gaining UAE citizenship is to never recognize Israel’s existence? Regardless, I was spooked. I returned to the hotel, gave up on any thoughts of visiting Israel, and settled in to stream another episode of Gossip Girl. Luckily this didn't get me arrested.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2645825672264359366.post-61925319221063447282010-04-20T13:26:00.001-04:002010-04-20T13:28:35.999-04:00A crack in the cloudThe P.A. system squeals to life, and the 500 travelers sprawled around Gate 202 fall silent, so silent that I can actually hear the sound of 500 people holding their breath.<br />
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"Attention passengers traveling on Emirates flight 73 to Paris..." The 2-second pause that follows feels like 2 thousand years. "We will be boarding the aircraft by zone. Please check your boar..." We stop listening; our collective sigh of relief causes a wind tunnel effect across the gate. I have no doubt that everyone around me is feeling exactly as I do: hesitant. Not one of us will dare believe that this is really happening - that an aircraft will depart Dubai and fly into Charles de Gaulle Airport - until the plane touches down at its intended destination. <br />
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By pure chance, luck, coincidence – whatever you want to call it – I just happened to be awake and watching CNN at 3:00 AM this morning, when the news broke that airports around Paris would begin to resume service today. I had just returned from a night of debauchery, Dubai-style: drinking cocktails and puffing on hookah pipes at Jambase <i>shisha</i> bar, and later salsa dancing with an Egyptian named Samir at Trader Vics. The evening was planned as a farewell party of sorts for one of the lucky travelers at the Holiday Inn who had secured a flight out the next day. We were 11 in all - a group of virtual strangers that I was perfectly happy to bail on in favor of staying in and sleeping. But had I done so, I wouldn’t have had such a wild night out. I wouldn't have been awake at 3 AM. And I certainly wouldn’t have been one of the first to learn that a sliver of hope had broken through the dark cloud over Paris. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGJKkzBRdMpohJbr1cBN9JLP6J5NH85OUNLVgkYlhhpP5V8wN1pDXins3RDvIPst4CYxnnfyqLoAmAe451fibPUYpne3YHr-2pVPHOBYLfAJ8wWsMujUtRijgtqpK7vl9dDC_RQc1XNFo/s1600/Photos+Loaded+March+11+2010+267.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGJKkzBRdMpohJbr1cBN9JLP6J5NH85OUNLVgkYlhhpP5V8wN1pDXins3RDvIPst4CYxnnfyqLoAmAe451fibPUYpne3YHr-2pVPHOBYLfAJ8wWsMujUtRijgtqpK7vl9dDC_RQc1XNFo/s320/Photos+Loaded+March+11+2010+267.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A Hookah pipe makes everything seem OK.</i></div><br />
At that very moment, I decided it was time to get out of Dubai come hell or high water; this much-awaited easing of restrictions in France provided an opportunity to do just that, and I wasn't about to let it pass me by. With the encouragement of mom and the financial blessing of my employer, by 4:00 AM I was packed, checked out and on my way to the airport. <br />
The news was accurate: a flight back to Paris was scheduled and confirmed to depart in 4 hours. This alone was a miracle.<br />
<br />
The airport was still reasonably quiet as word about Paris had not yet spread. Regardless, I knew that securing a seat on this flight would involve a battle, and I was prepared for the fight. The reservation agent confirmed what I had expected to hear: he wasn't authorized to sell any seats; I would have to stand by for this flight, just wait and see. With determination and relentlessness as my guides, I put on an Oscar-worthy Damsel In Distress performance – tears, messy stories, little white lies - and quickly won over the handsome Emirates Airways supervisor. In exchange for one outrageous charge on my Visa card, he approved the sale, and handed over a boarding pass for the first and possibly only flight out that morning. Holding this precious document in my hand, I felt a strong urge to kiss it. I think I did. Maybe I should have kissed the supervisor instead.<br />
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And so it is: I am on my way! But as I sit at the boarding gate now, I can't help but think how anti-climactic this will all turn out to be. As the hopeless hours grew into hopeless days, I had begun to envision all the fabulous adventures I could create from this otherwise irritating situation. Hopping on a flight to Destination: Anywhere; road-tripping with strangers across the continent; taking trains through unknown cities and beautiful landscape. Or blowing off Europe altogether and venturing toward Israel, Bali, Nepal, anywhere but here! I felt unreasonably envious upon hearing of other peoples' adventures and crazy travel plans to get home. It all sounded fabulous, exciting, and utterly complicated. <br />
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But alas, the end of this story for me will be a drama-free one. Direct flight back to Paris, 30-minute taxi ride from there. Believe me, I know how lucky I am right now. I know I struck gold by getting on this flight. But as much as I cannot WAIT to get out of Dubai and be on my way back home, I can't help but feel a strange sense of let-down. What can I say, that's just me.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOHAFyyEtpx9qPp8M3wu7-dZVJPksxGSZb5OEcDkEUCvc4dUO4o5O9OwxDJb3cKQ3my27lN3EvGgfds1deYO5FGTAGJ5OwHGlu5XS8Rsy_cm7hIHWvRfNKBwtl9oxKOjS-6FSp9D1WWk/s1600/Photos+Loaded+March+11+2010+288.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOHAFyyEtpx9qPp8M3wu7-dZVJPksxGSZb5OEcDkEUCvc4dUO4o5O9OwxDJb3cKQ3my27lN3EvGgfds1deYO5FGTAGJ5OwHGlu5XS8Rsy_cm7hIHWvRfNKBwtl9oxKOjS-6FSp9D1WWk/s320/Photos+Loaded+March+11+2010+288.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Coming down through the ash</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCEZouqGufbc_HX4cWvphv2iOKaIgGi0xBXP8MIWcZF6XPiujNvqRsz9WmzpPoEOj-K7uTZhKnYYIh7NdMNrHsEyuU9rmberzOCTYSNN_5IJlxrAwpZzTE7mswMeliCWtJL1voTRlAIg/s1600/Photos+Loaded+March+11+2010+301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCEZouqGufbc_HX4cWvphv2iOKaIgGi0xBXP8MIWcZF6XPiujNvqRsz9WmzpPoEOj-K7uTZhKnYYIh7NdMNrHsEyuU9rmberzOCTYSNN_5IJlxrAwpZzTE7mswMeliCWtJL1voTRlAIg/s320/Photos+Loaded+March+11+2010+301.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The departure board at CDG. I am one very lucky gal.</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0