Around The World and Back Again

How I feel today

2011-08-02T12:31:00.001-04:00

I imagine many of you are wondering how I feel today, having read the statement that Brian Chesky posted yesterday on his Airbnb blog. I thought I might best explain my reaction here, in my own words.

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.

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.

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, as it is still ongoing. 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.

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.

Airbnb Nightmare: No End In Sight

2011-07-28T22:30:00.000-04:00

Somewhere around 1:00 am yesterday, my Airbnb.com horror story was picked up by Hacker News; 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.

Yet as I read through the numerous websites, blog posts, news articles, reader comments and the recent statements made by representatives of Airbnb, 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.

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: fear.

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.

I was - and still am - scared of saying something that could jeopardize the ongoing criminal investigation.

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.

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.

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:

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.

2. Other than occasionally sharing the link to my blog, I have made no statements to nor have I been interviewed by the press - yet. 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).

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.

Next, I would like to address the article written by Airbnb founder Brian Chesky, published on TechCrunch on July 27, and provide the following clarifications. Quotes in bold are taken directly from Chesky’s article.

“On June 22nd, we learned that the home of one of our San Francisco hosts was vandalized by an Airbnb guest.”

Based on the delay in their response time, I have reason to believe that Airbnb did not learn of my situation until June 23rd.

“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.”

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 for my case 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.

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.

“We have been in close contact with her ever since, and have worked with the authorities to help find a resolution.”

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 - as I stated in my June 29 blog post – 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.

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.

I blogged my story, and all these kind and supportive people just ... disappeared.

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”.

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.)

I have never met in person anyone from Airbnb. And I have not had any communication whatsoever with Brian Chesky.

“Once our host’s safety was secured, our attention moved to further strengthening our system.”

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.

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.

“We are upset that this happened but believe that our platform and staff were able to make a positive contribution to this unfortunate case”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Violated: A traveler’s lost faith, a difficult lesson learned

2011-06-29T14:39:00.009-04:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

What I Know

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 everything 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This was my home

I am reeling. How could this happen? Why 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.

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?

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.

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 ability 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, disallowing the exchange of personal contact information 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 implication 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.

Blame and violation

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

How would I find a place to stay?

****

SCAMMER ALERT - TRAVELERS BEWARE!

This is the contact information provided to me at the time the reservation was confirmed:

Dj Pattrson

withoutvirtual.noreality@gmail.com

971-217-7917

New Year. New Home.

2011-01-02T02:15:00.002-05:00

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.

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, home free (or more to the point, homeless) adventure became suddenly and completely unbearable.

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.

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 try 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.

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.

It's not all beautiful

2010-08-03T07:03:00.000-04:00

I 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.

(I considered adding a photo of the Forum here, but it's just too ugly. Search online if you need a visual.)

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?

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 is getting attention.)

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 questions I have found answers to - at times, simply through the art of observation.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

And with that, it's time for me to go. Paris, stay fabulous. I'll be back soon.

Bonjour!

2010-08-02T04:49:00.001-04:00

"In Paris, one does not smile at a passer-by or in general acknowledge a stranger’s existence; this is considered unnecessary – even idiotic".

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.)

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.

My stroll to class each morning, from chez moi 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.

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.

My smiles and greetings are eagerly returned, and the chorus of bonjour!s and bonne journee!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!".

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.

rue des Archives, before the rush.
(This would be my form of transpo if I lived here.
Who said I don't like pink?)

Morning light over Cafe Le Comptoir des Archives.

Breakfast, of course.

All things colorful and tempting at Aux 4 Saisons.
Just wait 'til the sliced watermelon comes out!

Metro station Rambuteau.

Centre Pompidou, before the crowds descend.

If I were French

2010-07-19T09:57:00.001-04:00

Today, we continue our lesson on use of the conditional verb tense.

The Hypothetical: Si j’etais francaise... If I were French.

1. I would speak French.

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.

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.

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.

5. I would have an adorable dog that would sit on my lap while I dined at a restaurant, and would share my pommes frites 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.

6. I would enter a PACS agreement (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...

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

13. I would be a Parisienne, 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!"

Excusez-moi, France. You want me to do WHAT?

2010-07-14T17:06:00.002-04:00

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 kidding me? Do you have any idea how old/lazy/boring I really am?

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.

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 night before 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 Bals des Pompiers, 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?

So far, no problem France. We are on the same page, you and me.

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?

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 again tonight!

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.

Excusez-moi, what is a preposition?

2010-07-13T10:18:00.003-04:00

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:

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!

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.

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.

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 is 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 really 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?"

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: um, excusez-moi, what exactly is the conditional tense?

Diary entry of a 6-year-old, learning to write in English:
What do you want to be when you grow up?

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.

(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.)

Homework assignment of a 36-year-old, learning to write in French:
Write a brief composition about what you would like to do in the next 5 years of your life, using the conditional tense.

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.

Oh man, I am exhausted! Writing this brief paragraph (in French, mind you) takes serious mental exertion. I wonder if it was this hard when I was 6?

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.

The octopus picked it

2010-07-12T18:28:00.000-04:00

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! Paul the Octopus wasn't messing around.

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 football:

And my personal all-time favorite, from World Cups Past... the great Zinedine Zidane:

And with that, we bring a joyful end to this edition of World Cup 2010.

Les Soldes - Part Deux

2010-07-12T15:03:00.000-04:00

Voila, a much more suitable photo for my blog post from earlier today:

Shopper's Rehab

2010-07-12T08:23:00.000-04:00

I am pleased to report the following breaking news: Along the shores of the beautiful beaches of Europe, the Speedo is on the decline.

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-please, 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.

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 is loose!)?

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 wrong 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 and the senior crowd, in fact – is utterly refreshing.

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.

Oh who am I kidding?! Other than my daily cup of coffee, there is 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.

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 banlieus, heatstroke... NO! I refer to NONE of these things. Rather, the danger comes in the form of two innocent little words: LES SOLDES.

I shudder at the mere thought.

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.

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!

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.

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...

Big Boys Do Cry

2010-07-05T02:07:00.000-04:00

Just when I thought it safe to take a 5-week vacation...

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...

Just when I thought I really had "nothing to do", the call of duty has come.

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.

To be fair, I knew this was coming, I guess I was just secretly hoping it would get postponed until après-vacances, or at the very least, après World Cup final.

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 weep uncontrollably like a big ol’ handsome baby at his team’s loss to my 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.

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.

Nothing can be everything

2010-06-30T17:34:00.001-04:00

I never before thought it possible to fall in love with a piece of luggage. But alas, it has happened to me. I am smitten.

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 literally 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.

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.

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...

Don't Rain On My Parade!

2010-06-19T09:24:00.000-04:00

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.

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?

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."

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.

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.

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":

"If you fall, get up, eh eh
When you fall, get up, eh eh"

I couldn't have sung it better myself.

Four Questions

2010-06-06T07:35:00.001-04:00

I 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: http://factsoptional.blogspot.com/

Now, on to my four questions. Number one: Why is this night different from...

Just kidding.

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:

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 inside the shower, rather than letting it spew all over the bathroom floor?

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?

3. Sex. (Now that 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?

And my fourth question goes to back to trying to understand why and how French children are so well behaved - see previous post. (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.)

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.

12 days and counting

2010-06-03T12:45:00.001-04:00

Chocolate 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.

Paris is an even worse 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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

Little (French-speaking) people

2010-04-29T11:21:00.000-04:00

Let’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.

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, eating 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 into the fountain, and the chaos continues.

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.

Don’t misunderstand: I do not wish to give the impression that French children are somehow creepy or robot-like in any way. Au contraire! 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 how 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.

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 experience of eating their meal.

Debra Olivier writes about French children in her book Entre Nous. 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.

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 having them would be less horrifying.

Words, words....

2010-04-27T09:57:00.001-04:00

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.

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.

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 not the answer he is looking for.

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. Mon Dieu, I think. This is going to take awhile.

Modern, to a point

2010-04-22T04:46:00.000-04:00

I 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.

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.

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 http://www.goisrael.com/. It didn't make sense.

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.

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”.

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”.

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.

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.

A crack in the cloud

2010-04-20T13:26:00.001-04:00

The 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.

"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.

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 shisha 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.

A Hookah pipe makes everything seem OK.

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.
The news was accurate: a flight back to Paris was scheduled and confirmed to depart in 4 hours. This alone was a miracle.

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.

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.

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.

Coming down through the ash

The departure board at CDG. I am one very lucky gal.

A legend in Dubai

2010-04-18T16:08:00.002-04:00

Apparently, I am a legend. This according to Raj, one of the new friends I have acquired amongst the many stranded travelers hovering around the Holiday Inn Express, Dubai Airport. Raj has spread the word amongst his new motley crew of friends that I – a solo American female traveler – have done the unthinkable: I rented a car, and have spent the past two days driving around Dubai.

"Legend" might be a bit extreme, but I can't help but laugh. I grew up in Southern California, where a life sans car just isn't a life. And further to that, I am a gypsy at heart. I thrive on movement. Having been brought to an utter standstill by one huge cloud of ash is driving me batty; being stalled in this "sandbox" (phrase borrowed from a friend) at an airport hotel, surrounded by nothing but abandoned construction projects – not to mention a lobby packed with cranky and anxious Brits – is downright suffocating.

So to me there was no question; renting a car was the only antidote to this feeling of "stuck". Early Saturday morning, before I could think twice, I was at the Budget counter, where a reservation agent handed over my keys to freedom. I splurged on a navigational device (possibly the smartest 20 dollars I have ever spent) and set off on a GPS-guided city tour in a spiffy little Toyota - with manual transmission, thank you very much. Despite the breakneck speeds, the confusing road signs, and the maze of freeways and construction zones, driving around the city is actually a lot easier than one might think. In fact, I find it absolutely exhilarating.

I do realize how fortunate I am that women are permitted to drive in UAE, although I have seen very few female drivers on the road. And just this morning I was warned by another new friend to take extra caution and avoid getting into a collision with an Emirati. (Seriously, I hate stupid warnings like this.) Reason being, supposedly their status as subjects under the Monarchy would make me, the foreigner, instantly and automatically at fault - no matter what. I don’t know how much truth is behind this, but of course the feisty redheaded New Yorker in me immediately responds with "Bring It". (To which you might respond, "whoa tiger!") But then I stop to consider where I am and who I am, and decide that it's probably best to keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the road, lest I get myself into all sorts of trouble.

While at the rental counter, I had informed the agent that I might return the car in Paris. The overland journey couldn't take more than a week or two, could it? Concern flashed across her face; she wasn't so sure I was joking. 48 hours later, as the minutes tick past, more flights get canceled, and the volcano continues to spew dirty ash with no sign of stopping, I assess the tires on this mighty little Toyota and wonder... could I do it? Now THAT would entitle me to "legend" status indeed.

Burj Khalifa on the right: currently the tallest building on the planet.

At the mall

2010-04-18T02:06:00.002-04:00

I can't help but stare. You would too. Inside the Spanish clothing store Desigual, known for its wild use of color and ultra-modern cuts, a woman dressed in traditional Muslim clothing – only her eyes revealed – picks ups a brightly-colored sleeveless sundress. She holds it up to her petite frame, trying to assess the size and imagine the fit, as any woman would do. The contrast of this wild and sexy print dress against her black burqa is nothing short of striking.

Her male companion watches her, and makes a face to indicate he doesn't love the dress. She puts it back and moves on, and as she turns I am surprised to see her black head-covering is adorned with beautiful, multi-colored beads. Over her shoulder rests a large Fendi bag. Her wrists and fingers are fabulously adorned with jewels, her nails polished to perfection. From the little I can see of her actual face, I know she is absolutely stunning.

Later, I am deep in conversation about culture and religion with a Pakistani security guard outside Garret’s Popcorn shop. I beg for him to explain to me the laws and traditions that govern this woman's dress, and to help me to understand when and where she will wear that sexy sleeveless number she was admiring in the shop... Inside the home? While on vacation? I am needy for information and facts, desperate to understand how religious tradition and the likes of Louis Vuitton can blend together so seamlessly here in Dubai. The guard simply can’t answer. A devout Muslim, he is dismayed that women have become "too much sexy" in recent years. And so I am left wondering, and fascinated.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I have made my way to a mall. But this is more than just a mall: the famed Dubai Mall is a shopping planet. For perspective, take this factoid: inside this one building, there are 15 – yes 15! – optical shops. More than 12,000 retail shops, a gigantic indoor aquarium, an Olympic-sized ice rink, an indoor golf course... this is a world onto its own. Anything and everything can be found here, from Gap t-shirts to Magnolia Cupcakes. One Red Velvet cupcake to go, please!

There is little I really need to buy, other than some toiletries and underwear. But when in Dubai, shopping malls are the place to be. It's Friday night, and this place is packed. The shoppers here represent every degree of religious tradition you could imagine: from ultra-conservative to none at all. Referred to as the (wealthy) melting pot of the Middle East, (almost) every walk of life, (almost) every ethnicity, (almost) every religion is represented in Dubai - and certainly they are all here in this mall tonight. The blend of culture reminds me of New York City, only cleaner – and without any Jewish delis.

I spend most of the evening people-watching. I realize that whether the Pakistani security guard likes it or not, there is no denying that the women here are incredibly sexy and absolutely stunning, even where only their eyes are revealed. Makeup, handbags, shoes, jewels... anything that can be seen on the outside is simply fabulous. Amongst all this extravagance, I feel plain. I make a beeline to Sephora and sit myself down in a chair at the Shiseido counter, requesting a makeover. For the next two hours I trustingly place my face in the hands of Rudy, a lovely Venezuelan-Syrian nomad who has made her way to Dubai by pure chance. Her English is limited, and she is relieved to discover I speak Spanish. We chat about Dubai as she transforms my eyes and face into a degree of gorgeous I have never known before. All around me, cosmetic-hungry Arabic women eagerly fill their designer bags with perfumes, eye shadows and lipsticks as their men patiently wait. Just when I start to think how normal this all seems, that I could be anywhere, the blaring music inside Sephora stops and all goes quiet, indicating it's time for prayer.

Delays and cancellations

2010-04-16T05:15:00.000-04:00

I am stranded in Dubai, without a single item of warm-weather clothing. No sandals, no bathing suit, no sunblock. Not even a pair of sunglasses. I have come here with a surprisingly small suitcase (surprising for me, anyway) packed with a modest assortment of dark-colored business attire. I thought I would be in and out of here, days and evenings spent indoors at work. Never did I imagine that a cloud of volcanic ash would anchor me to this bizarre place, with a brilliant sun shining overhead and more free time than I actually want to have.

Travel mishaps happen, and I have never been one to be bothered when they do. Cancelled flights, re-routes, whatever it may be, I have always been the sort of traveler who coasts along, believing that everything happens as it should, and that I will get there eventually.

But this time I feel frustrated. After all, it wasn't just anywhere that I was heading back to. It was Paris. And not only was I due to return, but I was ready to do so with a renewed sense of spirit, a rediscovered inner joy that had been temporarily lost. My timing was off when I first arrived in March. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I found it difficult to embrace the opportunity I had created for myself. But this trip to Dubai may have been exactly what I needed. Unexpectedly, the time away has hit my "restart button". It's as though I have been given a rare opportunity to start again, to begin anew my life in Paris. And with a busy week ahead planned for all sorts of adventure and new discoveries, I was eager to get back. But as I sit here at the Atlantis hotel, surveying the latest news and flights statistics – another flight cancelled, another airport closed – it looks as though "starting over in Paris" is going to be delayed for awhile.

En route to Dubai

2010-04-12T06:34:00.000-04:00

Is it too much to ask that the use of deodorant be an international norm? At the present moment, I am crammed into a suffocatingly long transfer line at Doha airport, trying to stay afloat in this sea of weary travelers. I have just stepped off Leg One of this journey into the Middle East; Dubai to be exact, where I will officially add another world region to "the list". So far, this corner of the world is as smelly as any other.

On board my Qatar Airways flight, I have passed 6+ hours numbing my overactive mind with the greatest selection of films ever on offer while in the air. Gaze fixed forward, I revel in one feature film after another, beginning with An American in Paris. It seems fitting.

Every so often, my attention is pulled from this movie stupor by the main screen overhead, where a flight map ensures that at all times, I am aware of the distance and direction of Mecca in relation to the aircraft. Mecca: due West, 781 miles. The screen soon fades, the plane touches down, and I step off the flight and into the warm, dry air, thinking to myself that this looks exactly like what it is: an airport in a desert.

Jeans and high heels brush past burqas and sandals; some heads are covered by the traditional Ghutra, others adorned with Armani shades. East meets West in this airport terminal; the modern and traditional so easily blend. I pass through security without having to remove, take out, take off, unpack, undo, open, search or show anything at all. I feel spoiled and lucky that my native language is the official language of Air Travel.

The frenetic activity inside the glitzy universe of the Duty Free mega-shop repels me; instead, I tap into a rare moment of desperately craving a cocktail, yet there is not one bar in sight in which to indulge this desire. An airport without a bar, imagine that. I can get an A&W root beer float, a cheeseburger and fries, or as many cartons of cigarettes as I desire, but no cocktail. The world is funny that way.

The Thinker / Le Penseur

2010-04-04T17:33:00.009-04:00

Madame Cotin leans over, her petite body dangerously close to falling off the tall barstool. She wants to pay for my drink, she tells me. Out of nowhere comes this kind offer. It would be her pleasure, she says. It would bring some happiness to her otherwise noir moment. This woman of 72 years, draped in lonely shades of grey, is seated next to me at the bar inside Cafe Mabillon. She is overcome with sadness today, she says. She is upset with her husband, who has once again delivered a large dose of disappointment. I understand all too well, I tell her. She tells me that on days like today, she feels alone in Paris. I understand that too.

Through broken English, bits of French, and morsels of Spanish, we communicate, and somehow we connect. Our conversation turns from dark thoughts to happy banter, and we speak of meeting again, so that we can instruct one another on our respective languages, and maybe for a moment or two, feel as though we have a new friend in Paris.

She throws back her glass of rosé, and with a seemingly lighter step, sets off on her way home, back to that impossible man she loves nonetheless. I watch her leave, then take in my familiar surroundings. Here at Café Mabillon, the feeling of "alone" of which we had spoken is quickly forgotten. I had first come to this spot in Le Quartier Latin two years ago, and I loved it as much then as I do today. The same staff are here, the same manager and his kooky love of American R&B. This is my Café Fiorello of the Upper West Side, my Cheers of TV fame. This is the bar where everyone does, or soon might, know my name. This sense of familiarity, of being known, of feeling so easily accepted, all this is well worth the metro ride across the River Seine.

But I was in the neighborhood anyway. With Nina Simone crooning from my iPod, earlier today I had braved the Free Sunday crowds and took in a visit of the Musee Rodin near the Left Bank. Much like The Thinker (Le Penseur) in Rodin's garden ponders his own life, I sit at this bar now, and ponder my Parisian existence. I observe the women at the Café, and watch them light cigarettes in between apertifs and coffees. (As only Parisian men can somehow look studly carrying a baguette under their arm, only Parisian women can look stunning with a cigarette at their lips.) I observe their natural, effortless beauty, and contemplate the possibility of eschewing my California ways, my obsession with healthful eating, my need for yoga and exercise. I consider channeling Elizabeth Gilbert and her no holds barred embrace of Italy's edible delights; whether eating, praying or loving, Liz Gilbert melted into her surroundings, losing herself in whatever culture she was in at the moment. I wonder what would happen if I did the same here in Paris - if I were to take up smoking, fill my insides with espresso, wine, then more espresso, spend my hours shopping and socializing rather than jogging, spend my money on beautiful clothing and lingerie rather than running shoes and yoga classes. I balance these thoughts against images of Rodin's version of the human body - the muscular, chiseled, powerful forms he sculpted for both his male and female subjects - the body type I too have always considered beautiful.

I soak in this culture that is so foreign, so sensual, so French, and I wonder, what might I become if I were to melt into this place? Would I become effortlessly beautiful? Or would I evolve into a woman as dark as la petite Madame Cotin? Or both? Would I become a person I no longer know of as me?

Not likely. But something to think about nonetheless.

Pesach in Paris

2010-04-02T08:47:00.003-04:00

"My people" are ubiquitous in Paris; Jewish folk – particularly those of the Orthodox persuasion – do not go unseen in this beautiful city. The district of Le Marais in particular is an area teeming with Jewish heritage and history. I can't help but smile when I see yarmulke-capped families on their way to Synagogue during this week of Passover, or any other day of the year. Somehow, in one small way, it makes me feel connected.

Let me be clear: I claim no religious adherence to Judaism. To me, Judaism is my culture, my heritage, the common bond that unites me with my family, with my grandparents and great-grandparents, and their complex history of immigration, struggle and success. Rather than observe by attending religious services, hosting or joining a Pesach dinner, and adhering to the many religious rituals and dietary restrictions specific to this week-long holiday, I have chosen to show my faith in my own small way, with just one simple rule of observation:

No bread, or bread-like products of any kind, for these eight days.

I will admit this has never been a challenge in the past, since my diet is light on bread anyway. But in Paris, it’s a different story. Avoiding the many patisseries and boulangeries for eight days straight, rejecting that delicious loaf of olive bread, walking past that toasty baguette, turning a blind eye to the gorgeous chocolate e’clair... here in Paris, this is nothing short of torture. But I have made it this far, only a few more days remain. And instead, I am happily filling my belly with dinners of cheese, chocolate and red wine. No, I do not deserve any pity.

As I avoid bread, I also unravel at the hands of a near-fruitless and all-too-stressful apartment search. Thankfully, all is settled now, and although I have found a place that may not be my ideal selection, it is lovely and bright, and frankly I was growing desperate. I have learned one very important lesson from this experience: the Paris housing market is tough, and relying on Craigslist as the only source for real estate options is a very bad idea.

Due to lack of time, energy and a general interest in doing so, I did not visit many apartments this week. And the appointments that I did make were quick. I have determined that visiting an apartment in Paris (on a budget as slim as mine) takes all of 7.5 minutes: 3 minutes to glance around and decide that the place is either adequate or simply awful, and if awful, another 4.5 minutes of polite conversation with the owner, during which I feign interest and long to make a break for the door. The one place in which I found myself actually lingering, taking a second look around, maybe even a third... the place in which I stood by the large window, took in the view of trees and hills and cobblestone lanes, listened to birds singing and felt the soft, fresh breeze brush against my face... this is the apartment I was meant to take. I am very lucky I got it. And even luckier there is no boulangerie immediately below.

The search continues

2010-03-29T09:07:00.004-04:00

I ask you this: have you ever tried to find an apartment for rent in Paris?

This does not fall into the category of "easy". Which is probably why, instead, I am focused on finding a yoga studio and a language school. You see, my priorities are in line.

5 days and counting...

Living in Paris

2010-03-28T08:55:00.004-04:00

Mood Kill: street performers and their blaring hip hop music at the steps of La Basilique du Sacre Couer. There really should be a city ordinance against this. It's just so.... wrong.

(I should note that I seem to be the only visitor to these steps today who is not enjoying the show.)

On this blustery Saturday morning, I woke up in a lovely rented flat in Belleville, and decided I wanted to stroll around the village of Montmarte today. So I boarded le metro, and rode up to Montmarte. Such are the simple pleasures of being in Paris.

I recognize that the last time I posted here, I was in Vancouver. Snow happened, the Games happened, Medals were counted, Anthems were sung. From Vancouver to Whistler to San Diego to Hawaii, back to San Diego, then a stop in New York, I finally landed safe and sound - if not exhausted - in Paris. I think I will stay awhile. I am too tired not to stay!

To make "living in Paris" come to fruition, I still have many things to sort out. Namely, a place to live. But I am not concerned. I trust that something will fall into place. It always does. Because when I leap, the net appears. Every time. Yes, I have to keep reminding myself of this.

For today anyway, I won't worry about a thing. Instead, I will revel in the fact that I am here in Montmarte during my first weekend as a longish-term resident of Paris. I will try to block out the music, and instead gaze up into the sun's rays that eagerly try to poke their way through the billowing clouds. I will wander the same cobblestone streets made famous (to me, anyway) by Audrey Tatou as Amelie. What's there to worry about?

Freedom

2010-02-10T03:23:00.004-05:00

It appears that my initial tour of downtown Vancouver came one day too soon. Somewhere within the many hours that I was buried deep inside a hotel meeting room, the city transformed itself into one that is worthy of and ready for hosting the Olympic Games. This transformation literally happened overnight, as though a fairy godmother sprinkled magical dust onto the city... and poof! January 30, Vancouver is a typically sedate Pacific Northwest city. By February 1, it has become scene and setting for one Olympic-sized international party. Open-air music concerts, Katarina Witt on the Robson Square skating rink, splashes of green and blue Vancouver 2010 signs, sweatshirts, buses and uniformed volunteeers on every corner. Busy traffic lanes have been shut down to make way for lively pedestrian zones, and every street is overflowing with snap-happy tourists. Two days before the Games are scheduled to kick off, there is a buzz and an excitement in the air that tell me this: Vancouver is ready.

These Games, of course, are the hot topic and headline news of every local news source in Vancouver, be it in print or on television. But next in line for hot topic, and something that is garnering quite a bit of media attention, is the protest movement here in Vancouver. February 12 marks the official start of the 2010 Games, and this day may also bear witness to what could be a large-scale and carefully organized protest march on the streets of Vancouver. Apparently there is a strong anti-Olympics movement in this Canadian province, headed up by The Olympic Resistance Network, an organization which seeks to draw attention to the "social injustices perpetrated by the Games." The group is expected to gather thousands of people in the vicinity of BC Place Stadium on Friday evening, with the goal of disrupting both the Torch Relay and the Opening Ceremony.

In regards to this protest, I will not take a political stance one way or another; this is not the appropriate forum to do so. I mention this news, rather, to draw attention to the remarkable freedom that the people of Canada enjoy: freedom of the press, freedom of speech, freedom of assembly (you know, all those things we typically take for granted and never think twice about.) While in Beijing for the 2008 Games, there were whispers about an anti-Games demonstration there. Rumor had it that the government approved a small area of land where this event could take place, the time it could take place, and the manner in which it could be conducted, and in effect corralled the "dissidents" into a predetermined area far enough away from view and from the Olympic venues to have no real impact. I am not sure if the demonstration actually happened, because there was no local media coverage of the event. In fact, throughout the Games, there was no local media coverage of anything that leaned even slightly toward the negative. All newscasts (of which all channels in all languages were run by the government) aired shiny, happy, Olympic-bubble news. For 6 weeks, I was living in a shiny, happy Olympic bubble.

The not so shiny reality - one that is quite disturbing - is this: if the demonstration did happen in Beijing, the protestors were probably arrested soon thereafter. So whether I agree or disagree with the Olympic Resistance movement here in Vancouver is irrelevant. Whether I am slightly irritated that it may disrupt our carefully planned access route into the Stadium on Friday afternoon is beside the point. Regardless of all of this, I tip my toque to those citizens who are willing to organize themselves for a cause. I thank my lucky stars that I come from a country where we are legally entitled to such basic human freedoms. And I am reminded once again just how lucky I am to have been born on this side of the Pacific Ocean.

Will there be snow?

2010-02-03T23:50:00.007-05:00

The base of Cypress Mountain looks more like a construction site than a ski resort. A number of hearty Canadians are up here this morning, long before the sun has come up. Teams of construction crews are hard at work, building out the setting for what will be the snowboarding and freestyle ski events of the 2010 Winter Games. Tents and fencing, signs and security lines are being set in place. Concession stands will soon be filled with hot dogs, beer and steamy hot chocolate.

But will there be snow?

Vancouver is accustomed to mild winters, but 45 degrees and muggy is probably more than the official organizing committee had bargained for. Cypress Mountain has been closed to the public for weeks now, and snow-making machines have been running on overdrive in an effort to blanket the slopes in white. Deep inside the high-rise offices of those who will put on this show, I imagine there is plenty of sweating going on, and maybe a little yelling. Stress levels are definitely on high alert.

I for one am not concerned. Call me overly optimistic, but my guess is that a freak storm will blow through any day now, dumping buckets of snow onto Cypress. This is the Olympics, after all. The Weather Gods must be watching. And they wouldn't dare leave The Flying Tomato without a soft place to land his gold-medal ride.

Despite the strangely warm weather, the Olympic spirit is starting to creep in. With 10 days until showtime, Vancouver doesn't yet look or feel at all like an Olympic city about to host the Winter Games. But today's tour of the snow-covered venues at Whistler seemed to get everyone in the mood, and the excitement amongst my colleagues is infectious. After a hellish summer at the 2008 Games, I think we are all looking forward to an Olympic experience that will surely be more organized, more manageable... and all around more sane than Beijing. (Really though, anything would be.)

So now, if you could all please return to your snow dance, everyone here in Vancouver would be appreciative. As for me, I have some Weather Gods to pray to.

Whistler is ready!

View from a motorcoach

Campari on the rocks

2010-01-16T13:53:00.005-05:00

Here’s something to love about Europe: I can drink Campari on the rocks with lunch (or for lunch, for that matter) and this is considered acceptable behavior. Doing so is certainly not common practice on my part, but work has kicked my butt in recent days, and sometimes a girl just needs a break in the form of a tranquilizer.

Hours ago, I received a reminder from Vueling airlines that my flight "shall depart to Paris on Saturday, 16 January". Indeed it shall! This is easily the most exciting news I have received in weeks, leaving me with a sense of anticipation and relief that I have not felt in a long time. Anticipation, because I consider Paris to be nothing short of heaven. Relief, because - and I say this with all due respect and in no reference whatsoever to the wonderful friends who live here - one month in Valencia has been about 24.5 days too long.

Valencia is one of those cities that sounds like a great idea. Situated along the southeastern beaches of Spain, Valencia enjoys reasonably mild winters and sunshine nearly year-round. It offers all those wonderful things that Spain does best: Fiestas. Siestas. Espresso. Red wine. Manchego cheese. Inexpensive spa treatments in luxurious settings (recommended: Spa Del Mar). A good, albeit expensive, selection of organic and eco-friendly food products (check out J. Navarro). Cool music. Stunning architecture. Charming plazas. A well-preserved cultural heritage. A plethora of museums.

With all this to offer, a tourist could certainly enjoy Valencia for a few days.

It doesn't take long, however, to realize that Valencia's image of grandeur and beauty is all surface. This is an image that was – according to my roommate – bought by the conservative local government. Massive amounts of Euros exchanged hands in order to bring two international events here: Formula One and the America's Cup. Undoubtedly the objective was to put Valencia on the world map, give the impression that this is a modern, cosmopolitan city, and shine the spotlight on a city that has always been outshined by its neighbor to the north, Barcelona, otherwise known as the darling of Spain.

One cannot blame the government for their efforts; any city would do and has done the same. These two events have put Valencia on the world map, and they certainly have brought in a tremendous amount of tourism and foreign investment. As I type this now, spectators are pouring into town in anticipation of next month's America's Cup race. They will enjoy the city for a short time, and the international press will shine a very bright spotlight on Valencia. To the outside world, it will look like a fabulously exciting place to be.

But the race will end, the boats and spectators will depart, and the truth that lies under the shiny surface will be revealed. The truth being this: Valencia is one very big pueblo. One big, unimaginative, uninspiring... and dare I say it, boring pueblo. Apart from the handful of fascinating and kind people I had the pleasure to know, not much else was on offer here in Spain's third biggest city.

With all that said, my advice for you is this: if you are at all like me (someone who thrives in an international setting; someone who prefers to feel comfortable and welcomed regardless of nationality, religion or race; someone who longs for variety, and maybe at least one smoke-free setting other than Starbucks) and if you are traveling to Spain in search of all those aforementioned wonderful things that the country has to offer - tolerable winters, beaches, coffee, siestas, cheese, wine... if this all applies to you, then - as one dear friend wisely put it - you might as well just go to Barcelona. There is a reason, after all, that she is the darling of Spain.

Just another day in Valencia

2010-01-04T07:05:00.003-05:00

On one brilliantly sunny Saturday afternoon, I take a break from a busy day of doing nothing at all, and perch myself on a park bench in the center of Plaza de La Reina. Taking out my Blackberry, I begin to type an email message to my dad to tell him all about the beautiful Washburn guitar I have just seen at the UME music store on Calle Paz. (Truth be told, I sit for a moment in the vain hopes that the beautiful man I have just seen at UME might coincidentally walk by... but no such luck.) Within moments, a dark shadow crosses over me, and before I can look up to see what has so rudely blocked my sun, an older Valenciano gentleman, smiling the bright-eyed smile of a mischievous teenager, plops himself down on the bench next to me.

Now by older, I mean somewhere in the range of 88 to 94 years old. Not exactly my type, but I am open to conversation.

Despite the bench being otherwise empty, he positions himself within millimeters of where I sit, closing off all space between us. He leans toward me as he speaks, his breath hot against my face, and I try as politely as I can to back away and reclaim some air around me.

Where am I staying? he asks... how long am I here? He would like to show me around Valencia, he tells me. "You know", he says (I can almost hear the "wink wink, nudge nudge" in his voice) "I have been a bachelor all my life."

With one very wrinkled hand resting possessively on my knee, he leans in close – so close that I can count the unruly gray hairs bursting from his nostrils – and declares with eyes sparkling: "I could always get it up when I was younger, but now it’s not so easy!"

As if needed, this is my cue to extricate myself from that bench and head home. I laugh out loud, and can’t help but think this is one time I wish I couldn’t understand Spanish.

Finding family

2010-01-01T18:27:00.007-05:00

December 24, 2009: the downstairs neighbors join me and my roommate, Saul, for a Christmas Eve dinner among non-believers. We are all of either Mexican or US origin, and have somehow found ourselves here in Spain. Five otherwise displaced people - six including Lulu the Chihuahua – come together tonight, creating a family out of the basic human desire to not be alone on a holiday.

Loneliness is a funny thing. For some, it can be a debilitating disease that gnaws away at our insides and breaks down any ounce of desire or motivation we may have ever known. We lock ourselves up inside our homes – inside of ourselves – and accept "alone" as a familiar state of being. For others, loneliness can be the greatest source of encouragement, a heavy-handed push that forces us to step out into the world, become a part of the human race... become a part of something.

Just one week ago, I was sitting in the backseat of a dark sedan on an even darker pre-dawn morning, somewhere outside of dreary London. I was on my way to yet another airport to catch yet another flight. We had just left the hotel when, from somewhere in the front seat, came the statement: "I imagine it gets pretty lonely, traveling around all the time and living out of a suitcase." I mumbled some nonsense answer, trying to convince my driver and me both that it was all fine, that I was used to the lifestyle. And for once I felt grateful for England's dreary darkness; through the rear-view mirror, he would never see the tears sliding down my cheeks.

Fast-forward to Valencia. I am here, alone, surrounded by strangers. And it's Christmas. As with everything in life, I know I have a choice: I can let the disease tear me down, or I can allow it to shove me out into the world.

No doubt about it, I choose the latter. Thus when my roommate asks if we should host a dinner party on Christmas eve, I tell him Yes. Absolutely yes.

A quick run to El Mercado Central ensures we have all the ingredients necessary to destroy the kitchen. Every pot and pan is pulled from storage and prepped for a workout. Saul takes on the main course: an Indian curry with a fragrant basmati rice. I prepare a very American salad laden with dried cranberries and homemade caramelized walnuts. The neighbors arrive bearing 2 bottles of Spanish cava and a delicious German apple strudel. An international mish-mash of food will feed this mish-mash of people.

Conversation and cava flow. We battle over the laptop's keyboard, streaming Elvis, Tchaikovksy, French rap songs. Our neighbors' teenage daughter dances around the room, animated yet stunning, exuding a confidence at 15 that I – more than twice her age – have never known. I marvel at this gregarious child, marvel at the warmth and friendliness of her parents, at the unconditional kindness of my roommate. On this holiday, in this unknown place, surrounded by strangers, I feel part of something, part of a family. We talk, we laugh, we stuff ourselves with too much food, and torture our livers with too much cheap Spanish wine. The evening winds down and sleep finally calls. The kitchen remains in a state of destruction. But this is Spain. Nothing needs to happen today. We’ll clean it manana.

Choos, meet poos

2009-12-22T16:04:00.007-05:00

Look up: A stunning array of buildings unfolds before me, one architectural wonder after another. The structures that pave the cobblestone streets of all the great European city are like exquisitely-restored antiques, and the love with which these buildings were constructed is a testament to the greatness of an age-old civilization that values art, and aesthetics. Valencia is no exception; this small European city near the South of Spain is lovely. And it is here, as in most any European city, that the greatest visual reward comes with the simple task of looking up and basking in the sheer beauty that surrounds you.

Clear skies over Plaza de la Virgen: Worth stopping for a moment

Look down: A fresh smear of dark brown dog poo spreads across the sidewalk directly in front of me. This instinctual glance down has come just in time, as my shoe is about one millimeter away from meeting a very smelly death. Welcome to Europe, my feet! Across this continent - and Valencia is no exception – the sidewalks are a dog’s best friend, and the idea of cleaning up after one’s four-legged pal remains a frighteningly foreign concept. Fans of Sex and the City certainly can recall that laughable (and sadly, all-too-familiar) moment when Carrie Bradshaw’s Choos become intimate with Parisian poos. I make a mental note of this, and as I meander through the maze of streets in El Barrio del Carmen, trying to (once again) find my way home, my gaze remains firmly fixed on the ground below.

In doing this, I have no doubt that a visual splendor or two have been missed. But I arrive back home with shoes relatively in tact, and happy for that. See, I don’t know about the rest of you, but this is one shoe-loving traveler who has yet to master a skill that is downright critical for touring the great European cities on foot: the art of simultaneously looking up and looking down. If any of you have figured out how to do this, please, share your wisdom. In the meantime, and intending no disrespect for the builders of this beautiful city, I will err on the side of avoiding the poo.

By now it should be apparent to you that I am in Valencia, Spain. A mere two months ago, I was offered a 6-month contract working with some London-based clients. I was informed that the work would be remote, and that as long as I had an internet connection, I could live pretty much anywhere I wanted.

What was that, I said? Anywhere? As in... anywhere in the world?

You can only imagine the absolute hell this threw me into. Filtering through options: not my strong suit. Weeks of agonizing over where to go. Digging deep into Craigslist ads. Becoming intimate with the travel agents at STA, American, United. Twittering. Facebooking. IM-ing. Emailing. Skype-ing. Blindly spinning globes and pointing a finger (I ended up in the Atlantic on one too many an occasion).

(I imagine that watching me go through this would have been a frightening, frustrating, nails-on-a-chalkboard kind of experience, and to those of you whom I tortured during the process, I ask your forgiveness.)

Thankfully, just as I was about to walk away from the job opportunity altogether and commit myself to a mental institution, I was yanked back from the brink of insanity by some very good ideas. The options began to narrow, and one in particular started to reveal itself as the most... logical. Now there’s a word I don’t rally around very often.

And so I chose Valencia, and apparently I have chosen well. Now if only I could figure out how to keep the Choos out of the poos...

From samba clubs to spit-up: the adventure continues

2009-10-28T17:58:00.004-04:00

From dancing forro at a samba club in Rio, to working at a swanky 5-star in Southern California, to nannying full-time for a friend’s infant in suburban New Jersey... such is the random and ever-changing life of a homeless 30-something. Such is the life of me during these past few months.

Since returning from my South American sojourn, I have been non-stop on the go, living out of a suitcase and flying around the country to help manage various corporate events (my day job). In a period of two weeks, I slept in 6 different hotels. No, this is not an exaggeration. (And no, I am not a high-class hooker.) It’s been trying, to say the least, but I have been happy to rack up a solid number of air miles; I struck Gold with American and landed Premier with United, small perks that will lead to big payoffs (in the form of a free flight) when the time comes for the Next Great Adventure.

For the time being, this travel streak has reached a welcome and uneventful lull. And at this very moment, I am hiding out in a twin bed at my sister’s house in Bridgewater, taking a moment’s reprieve from her mad world of diapers, boogers, spit-up and toddler tantrums. In just a few days time, I will move to a friend’s home in New Jersey, where I will become the family’s temporary nanny to their newborn... which means yet another few weeks of diapers, boogers and spit-up. But thankfully, no toddler tantrums.

Yes, this is one Manhattan-ite single gal who seems to fit all too easily into the world of Mommyhood. I have been around kids and babies my entire life, and as Auntie Fabulous (self-named, obviously) to 8 young nieces and nephews, childcare comes naturally to me. In this hectic world, I can hang up my heels for awhile, pack away the mascara, maybe even forego the hair styling cream. None of these things are necessary when hanging with the little people. My life will continue as is for the next few weeks at least... but soon enough, I no doubt will find myself off and running once again. In high heels, of course.

Rio through the lens

2009-09-29T21:56:00.006-04:00

For those of you with curiosity and some time to kill, click on the country name to see complete photo albums from this recent adventure: Colombia and Brazil

And below, a sampling of Rio captured on film.

The man, the myth, the legend.

Never too young to become a futebol addict

Ipanema Beach on a beautiful day.

Locals at play. Always.

Precious faces.

Back to Reality

2009-09-27T05:27:00.002-04:00

I changed my mind. I have decided that the itsy-bitsy speedo-like bathing suit on Brazilian men is actually pretty hot. Only in Rio de Janeiro do they - and can they - wear it oh, so well.

Shameful exploitation. Sue me.

I have also changed my mind about Rio. It really is the Cidade Maravilhosa: a gorgeous city constantly at play, its people phenomenally kind, generous and welcoming to a foreigner like me. I am happy to say that with just 2 days of (finally) brilliant weather, my high expectations about Rio were met. Funny how everything looks better when the sun comes out.

Now, as I step aboard American flight 452 bound for Boston, I would like to send a special shout-out to all the kidnappers, hijackers, terrorists, rapists, thieves, muggers, pick-pocketers, scammers, con-artists and drug-dealers who left me alone during my travels. Before setting off I was feeling pretty scared of all of you. Thank you for letting me off the hook and passing me by. You have my utmost appreciation.

It would be easy to think of this flight home as heading "back to reality". But throughout my traveling life I have come to understand that just the opposite is true. To me, it doesn't get much more "real" than landing in a foreign village and having no clue where I will sleep that night; or driving past a slum filled with barefoot kids and swallowing my guilt for having just bought another pair of shoes; or searching for a functioning phone and a calling card so I can check in with Grandma; or sharing a filthy shower with 30 young backpackers and their pubic hairs; or trying to explain to a pharmacist exactly what is wrong when we speak two very different languages; or carefully eating around the bits of pork because in this particular country, "vegetarian" includes chicken, seafood, turkey - pretty much everything but beef - and I have no idea how or if to ask for what I really want; or constantly carrying around a wad of toilet paper in my bag, knowing that it would be a rare luxury to find any in a public bathroom... that is, if I am lucky enough to find a public bathroom at all.

You may disagree, but I don't think of this past month as a "vacation." Rather, to me it was just another (albeit very exciting) slice of the life I have built for myself. And it is a life I thrive on! Traveling tests me. It challenges me. It takes me out of my comfort zone and sets me on a path that requires and demands flexibility, spontaneity and one very open mind. Traveling reminds me of all that exists beyond my relatively neat and tidy world. For all of these reasons, I travel. And for all of these reasons, I am already contemplating what and where might come next.

Hey Evan, can you spin that globe for me once again?

It rains in Rio

2009-09-24T12:08:00.004-04:00

(September 21, 2009)

I don't know why I got off the bus. I knew it was turning onto the street on which I am currently living, Rua das Laranjeiras (sounds like larangitis).

My Portuguese is still pathetic, but with a little effort I could have mumbled through the words to confirm the bus' general direction. But I didn't ask for help, and instead stepped off and into a swarm of drenched Cariocas rushing home from their work day.

Now, I too am drenched, trudging, squishing and sliding through the flood that was once a street, soaked to the bone, my umbrella a useless shield against the evening's impressive downpour. My shoes have become heavy weights, filled to the brim with cruddy rainwater. My denim skirt is stuck to my thighs, riding up where it shouldn't. Wouldn't you know, I think to myself, it rains in Rio de Janeiro! And just then, I start to laugh out loud as the bus I was just sitting on passes by, and heads right past my front door.

It hasn't been all rain, cold and muck here in the Cidade Maravilhosa. The weekend was pretty nice, and in my first two days I was quite the tourist. Within hours of arrival on Saturday morning, I was whisked away for a jam-packed and carefully planned day under the direction of a local friend: right on schedule, he picked me up and generously treated me to a tour-by-car of Rio's hottest beaches, lunch of toasted sandwiches and frothy, blended Acai at one of the city's many amazing juice bars, then straight to the famous Maracana stadium for some futebol, passionately Brazilian style, then finally ending up at Salgueiro dance hall, a popular school and showcase for the fantastically wild sounds, rhythms and dance moves of Samba. It was my own personal Rio Highlights tour, and all this following the overnight flight from Bogotá left me more than ready for a good long nap. Or, for another glass of energizing Acai... which incidentally I have been trying to slow down on ever since learning that the magical berry is pretty darn fattening. Dammit.

Sunday I woke early and did what pretty much everyone does here on Sunday: I went to the beach. As seen on any postcard or in every guidebook, the beaches on weekends really do become packed to the gils with all of Rio's young, tanned, athletic and beautiful... plus everyone else. Intimidating for a white girl like me? Maybe a little!

It's fantastic, though. Endless miles of picturesque coastal roads are closed to traffic on Sunday, creating a virtual paradise for joggers and cyclists. These lanes become as packed as the beaches, and it would be impossible not to notice what an active and health-conscious bunch the Brazilians are. Every city block is home to a gym, a pilates studio, a natural foods market, a store selling exercise apparel, a juice bar or two. Needless to say I am loving how healthy this city seems to be. And I am relieved to have finally found a place - maybe for the first time ever! - where I can actually enjoy eating. Countless sushi restaurants, tons of fresh fruits and juice bars.... just drop in a Whole Foods Salad Bar and a jar of peanut butter, and I will have found culinary heaven.

The beach provides the stage and setting for exhibiting all the hard work and exercise that create these lovely bodies, and the vast population of well-toned and bronzed young men playing football and volleyball in the sand is particularly nice to look at. And believe me, these boys are plentiful! After so much time spent all week inside a gym, these perfectly sculpted dudes wouldn't dare stay indoors on weekends. I appreciate the spectacle, but I have to say that the itsy-bitsy speedo-like choice of bathing suit is somewhat of a distraction. No offense intended, but I grew up in California where a good pair of board shorts is considered sexy. Hey Rio boys, your bodies are hot but take a cue from those Cali surfers: leave a little to the imagination!

Despite all of this endless beauty and yummy eats, I have to admit that I haven't been as immediately wowed by Rio as much as I thought I would be. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe there has been just too much rain. Either way, I haven't really been feeling the essence of Rio just yet. I am thinking a change of scenery is in order, a break of sorts, a small journey to see some landscape, culture... and something different. Maybe I will head South for a day or two - or North - and give this great city a chance to dry out and warm up. I'll be back for the weekend, camera firmly in hand - and photos to share.

I Leave Colombia

2009-09-20T16:50:00.008-04:00

18 September 2009

I leave Colombia...

With a counterfeit 10,000 peso note. Not sure how it ended up in my wallet, but it has quickly become my favorite souvenir.

Maybe with a few extra pounds around the waistline, thanks to too many cold cervezas, freshly-roasted corn on the cob drenched in butter, sinfully yummy treats made of arequipe (basically caramel) and the arepas. Oh those damn arepas... imagine a big piece of corn bread in the shape of a thick pancake, lightly fried in oil and butter, and filled with a sweet white cheese that oozes out as you try to slow the speed of inhale. It's heaven on the go for a snacker like me.

With tremendous respect for a culture that is diverse, progressive and open-minded. I never once felt odd for being a solo female traveler. I was never stared at or made to feel uncomfortable or intimidated in any way, as I might be in many other corners of the world. Here's a secret for you: Women completely rule in Colombia. They are modern, educated, sophisticated and confident. Just don't tell the guys this. They would probably deny it.

Having made new friends from Montevideo to Asuncion to Alberta to Tel Aviv, not to mention every corner of Colombia. This is why I travel, after all.

With a few new excellent slang words to round out my Spanish vocabulary.

Waxed, manicured and pedicured for such little money that I felt compelled to give the gals a ridiculously large tip.

With immense appreciation for a remarkable country and its incredibly kind people. I have never before felt so totally welcomed or unconditionally accepted as a foreigner. In every respect, Colombia greeted me with open arms.

Equal parts grateful and annoyed that as a well-kept white girl from the United States, I generally breeze through security and Customs without a second glance. I recognize that I probably just jinxed myself.

So excited to finally be en route to Brasil that I might start jumping up and down and screaming with glee right here in the Customs line at the airport in Bogotá. But I won't. See previous mention.

With the knowledge that I can live and survive just about anywhere, all I need is a yoga mat, a decent pillow and an internet connection.

On my way to Rio but already wondering where the next adventure might take me.

Tourist-ita in Bogota

2009-09-16T00:12:00.004-04:00

I am cheating on my Portuguese tutor with another. Yes, I am a two-timer. Please don't tell. But the goal is a lofty one, thus requiring as much help as possible: learn Portuguese in the next five days. Can it be done?

After a two-week whirlwind tour around Colombia, I am now back in Bogota, and it was a formality that brought me here. You see, I rarely follow the path of most "normal" people - that is, plan ahead - and so it turns out that I need to spend a week in Bogota while my tourist visa for Brazil is being processed. Otherwise, I won't be getting on that plane to Rio come Friday night.

I hear the question in your mind right now... and yes, all American citizens need a visa to visit Brazil. A rather expensive visa, I might add. This is because the U.S. requires the same of Brazilians, so it's really only fair. And considering Brazil has long been at the top of my list of Dream Destinations, I have no doubt that it will be well worth the price of admission.

So I figure that while I am waiting around for the Brazilian Embassy to do their thing, I might as well try to learn the language. You may wonder how I managed to find two local Portuguese tutors within a matter of one day of being back here. I would tell you, but this is one girl who doesn't reveal (all) her secrets.

And anyway, I need both of them. Because the truth is I am nervous about being in a place where I can't easily communicate. Despite the rapid-fire pace with which the locals speak around here, Colombia has been too easy, and I have taken for granted my relative comfort with the Spanish language. Portuguese is a whole different, complicated but beautiful-sounding story, one I am trying my best to understand. The challenge though is that I fly into Rio on Saturday morning. Time is a-ticking.

In the meantime, I am making the most of this week in Bogota, and fully enjoying my time here. Despite the dodgy-by-night streets of the La Candelaria area (where my hotel is located), the cold weather, and the general consensus by other travelers that Medellin is a much cooler and more happening city, I like it here.

To me, Bogota feels more authentic than the heavily-cleavaged Medellin. Here there is a surprising degree of sophistication and elegance throughout the city, particularly in the way people dress. The new - global commerce, fancy cars and shiny high-rise buildings - seems to blend seamlessly with the old - a rich history, ubiquitous cultural institutions and well-preserved colonial architecture. The streets are easy to navigate, taxis and public transportation are plentiful, and every service you could ever need can be found here - including, I am thrilled to report, many, many yoga studios with kick-ass instructors. This is the kind of modern, interesting and fast-moving city in which I feel completely at ease - and if I can just manage to not get mugged during the next few days, it will be a very good week indeed.

Meanwhile, I have noticed something rather funny about Colombia - or annoying, depending on your perspective. (Editor's Note: This is not a wholly original observation, but one that was brought to my attention in a Medellin newspaper for gringos). In everyday speech, and throughout the country, there is this odd habit of "ito"-izing everything. For example, poco means a little. And it is super common in most Spanish-speaking countries to say poquito, meaning a little bit. But here in Colombia, everything is a little bit. The bank is cercita: A little bit close by. Pay the bill ahorita: A little bit right now. We are leaving in a media horita: In a little bit half an hour. I would make a good esposita. A good little bit of a wife. Um, ok....

In the spirit of this dimunization of absolutely everything, I have decided to be a tourist-ita while in Bogota. Meaning, I will probably spend more time sitting in cafes, drinking a warm canelazo and reading about all the things there are to do in Bogota, than I will actually spend doing them. Because more than anything, it feels great to stop moving, settle in a bit, and have time to just be here, doing all the things I would do back home - meet friends for coffee, take a language class, go salsa dancing, grocery shop... but do it all in Spanish. A "little bit" of living in Bogota feels like a great way to end my three-week tour of this amazing country. And although I am more than excited about Rio, come Friday I suspect I will be very bummed to leave.

Taking a break in Medellin

2009-09-13T10:51:00.005-04:00

Once again, a stranger's hands reach out and grab at my bag. I am startled, but quickly realize this is not an attempted mugging. "Te ayudo?" they ask, and without waiting for an answer, my heavy suitcase if lifted out of my hands and hoisted to the top of the staircase.

Such is the way of Colombia. Maybe I lived in New York and Spain for too long because – and how sad this is – I am repeatedly shocked by how consistently nice, helpful and welcoming everyone is here. This is not an exaggeration: I left a yoga class on Thursday night with email addresses and phone numbers for 5 different people: call me if you need anything. Let's get a coffee tomorrow. You must come eat a meal at my home. My cousin is in Bogota, contact her, she will show you around. Next time you visit Medellin you stay with me ok?... etc., etc. It took me 3 years to make any friends at all in my yoga classes back home, and yet all this in a matter of one hour. And it's not uncommon: I have received offers such as these throughout the past two weeks, particularly in Cartagena, and the offers always seem genuine. Within minutes of meeting, complete strangers have taken me for drinks and for lunch and for walks, and have thus become, at the very least, future Facebook friends.

And as for the bag-carrying, well if this is what a machisto culture means, then I will not complain.

I have already come and gone from Medellin. It was a quick trip but one that was well worth the visit. What a fantastically progressive city Medellin is (pronounced Meh-Deh-Yeen, or with the beautiful Colombian accent, Meh-Deh-Jeen). And compared to the rest of what I have seen in Colombia, the city is so... mainstream. It really could be AnyCity USA, with its numerous parks, wide lane roads, Japanese cars, gleaming high-rise buildings, huge suburban shopping malls and a fast and sleek metro system that runs the length of the valley. There is nothing colonial, quaint or "typical" about Medellin, and I think the local paisas want it that way.

Medellin sits in one long, narrow valley that extends north to south, with numerous homes snacking their way up into the surrounding hillside. At night, the entire city lights up; the view from above is spectacular. With its high-class art, fashion and restaurant scene, and numerous international festivals of all kinds, Medellin clearly has lofty goals of greatness, and the city's hope for making its place on the global – rather than the Colombian – stage is palpable... but is very much threatened to be held back by the pervasiveness of young men sporting mullet haircuts.

Yes my friends, I said mullets. I haven't seen this many tails since I last went to a zoo. If anyone out there can explain this strange phenomenon, I would be thrilled to know WHY.

Anyway, I treated myself to two nights at the zen-like Global Hostel in the Poblado neighborhood of Medellin, a leafy and residential area dotted with designer shops, art galleries, nail salons and funky cafes. And just around the corner, I spy a yoga studio! Here in Poblado I am in heaven, completely chillled out and blissfully unaware of the prevalance of (cheap) cocaine use all around me.

As the middle-upper class zone, Poblado is where the night happens – the five city blocks surrounding Parque Lleras are literally packed with a hopping bar and restaurant scene that is almost too cool for itself. With thumping music ranging from Coldplay to Son Cubano, every single bar is open-air with outdoor seating; a testament to the permanently perfect, spring-like weather this city enjoys. Locals are always dressed to kill (well, at least the women are), with curvacious, bodacious, surgically enhanced bodies to match. Guys are boring in jeans, t-shirts and mullets. But the female look is way more fun: high heels, tight jeans practically painted over enormous rear ends, and much-too-small tops held up by some of the biggest breasts I have ever seen. I have never felt so flat in my life.

But not all of Medellin is so cool or prettyfied. The center of town is a completely different story: hectic, crowded, bustling and overwhelming, this area is literally one huge marketplace – packed with people, traffic, and tons and tons of crap for sale. Think Canal Street in Lower Manhattan, times 20. I suppose if I were writing this piece for a travel guide, or hosting my own travel series, I would take you there. But I am not. So I won't.

Instead, come with me as I ommmmm my way through a hatha yoga class at Sati Yoga on Calle 10. Sit me with as I people-watch and enjoy a Cappuccino spiked with Bailey's at the uber-French Café El Bon. Chill with me as I devour a nutella and banana crepe in Parque Lleras. Sightseeing is oh, so last week. This is one girl who needed a break from being a tourist. I am happy to report that I found that break in Medellin.

The Mothership

Beautiful neighborhood of Poblado

Beaches and big lips and shopping OH MY!

2009-09-09T16:07:00.008-04:00

As the saying goes, careful what you wish for.

I have always thought it would be pretty amazing to look like Angelina Jolie. And wouldn't you know, this morning I awoke with lips so puffy and swollen, you'd swear I had been injected with collagen overnight. Only unlike it is for Miss Superstar Humanitarian Wondermom, big lips aren't looking so sexy on me. It must be a sunburn, unless some creepy crawly little thing bit me during the night... but let's not go there.

Maybe the swollen lips are punishment handed down by the Gods of Self-Imposed Rules, because as of now I have officially broken all three of my own. The first: No Coffee. Well come on, I am in Colombia after all. Can you blame me? The second: No Blackberry. Impossible, silly rule for an addict like me. The third: No Shopping. What can I say? I am weak. Pathetic and weak.

But isn't it always the case that when traveling, you just never seem to have the right clothes with you? Or, more like my situation right now, you start to hate the few things you do have? I look back on my 6 weeks traveling around Europe, and wonder how I didn't burn the 8 pieces of clothing I wore during that entire time. Come to think of it, maybe I did.

In my defense, the shopping wasn't completely my fault. The boutiques in the high-class beachfront neighborhood of Bocagrande (think La Jolla) are just too enticing to pass by. They beckon me with their very reasonable prices and fabulously unique made-in-Colombia fashions. Shame on them, not me. Those damn boutiques turned "not shopping" into Mission Impossible. And I am Angelina, remember? Not Tom Cruise.

I spent most of the day on Monday snoozing on the beach in Bocagrande, Blackberrying under a shady blue carpa (rentable by the day for only $5... or $4 with a little sweet-talking). Feigning sleep became my best defense against the parade of vendors marching up and down the beach, selling everything from recently deceased fish to massages to plastic watches. It was a perfectly content afternoon of beach naps and shopping, meant to be topped off with a trendy sushi dinner at Tabetai - where one very sexy Colombian sushi chef (he studied in Venezuela under a Japanese master) mixed up some of the most amazing sea bass ceviche and spicy tuna that I have ever tasted. I am happy to report that the new dress I had just guiltily bought quickly paid for itself. What else explains the complimentary glasses of wine that appeared at my table all evening?!

Tuesday was much less of a perfect day, and all I will say is that those of you considering a day trip to the beautiful Playa Blanca on the Island of Baru, well, don't. Yes, the beaches are gorgeous and oh so Caribbean, with pristine turquoise waters, swaying palm trees and long stretches of sugary white sand. But make this trip only if you plan to spend the night sleeping on a rented hammock or in a tent - something I would have loved to do had I timed my visit a little more, and if I wanted to tolerate the mosquito attacks that would surely be a part of this experience (which I didn't).

Early on Tuesday morning, I booked a seat on a high-speed motor boat, thinking I would avoid all the big tour groups and head direct to the island. Not quite so. By the time the boat actually got going, then made various stops around the bay for who-knows-what, then dropped off some folks at the touristy Aquarium, then slowed here and there to give a talking tour around the archipelago, it was well after 1pm when we actually made it to shore. And we had to turn around and head back at 3:30! The cruise out was fun enough, but the ride back was so smashy, choppy, churny and whiplashy I thought my spine would crack into two. I think actually it did. And so I hobbled my way back to the hotel, popped a few Motrin, and began to wonder if it was all really worth it. The jury is still out.

Wednesday. Hot, muggy, tired, icky. I have given myself a day off, and apart from a luxurious $4 spa pedicure, I have done as close to nothing as possible all day. Later tonight, I will take my achy back, two hilariously puffy lips, some cute new clothes and a dwindling bank account, and bid farewell to the beautiful city of Cartagena. Medellin awaits.

Snoozing beachfront in Bocagrande

Floating by the dock of the bay

Cruising away from Cartagena

There was a time I would only eat Lucky Charms.

Fresh coconut water served beachfront on Playa Blanca

I was caught! Yes, I bought some fruit in return.

Happiness comes in the simplest of forms.

Cartagena, like no other

2009-09-06T22:31:00.004-04:00

Under the brightest of moons, with a cool breeze blowing through the plaza just outside the city's walls, the voice of Placido Domingo - live, in the flesh - rises up into the clear night. On the other side of the wall, just steps away, this magical sound is swallowed up by the heavy rhythms of salsa music pouring out of Donde Fidel Salsa Bar. Like you might find in any American sports bar, a large number of men fill the space in this legendary spot, staring intentedly at a big screen TV. Only tonight, they aren't watching any sort of big game, but rather videos of live salsa bands as turned by the resident Video Jockey. Swaying and rocking in their seats, they are enchanted by these native rhythms, completely oblivious to the famous tenor belting a tune just around the corner.

It must be Saturday night in Cartagena.

And lucky for me, I am here now, peering through the gates to catch a glimpse of Sr. Domingo, then strolling across Plaza de Los Coches and straight into Donde Fidel to join in the nightly rumba. There really is no where else I would rather be tonight, because in a matter of hours I have fallen completely in love with this city. Despite the overwhelming heat and the occasional nasty mosquito, Cartagena lives up to is reputation as the gem of Colombia. Hectic, hot and beautiful by day.... steamy, sultry and downright sexy by night. As far as cities go, Cartagena is everything and more.

I felt the city's charm the moment I arrived; it would be impossible not to. Imagine row after row of quaint colonial buildings in every color, old-world balconies draped with magnificent flowers, all overlooking a maze of narrow cobblestone streets that see surprisingly little traffic. Around every corner is a spacious plaza, or a lovely garden, or a bustling marketplace, or an ancient church, or a lone vendor selling plump avocados. A police officer stands vigil on every block, watching over the city as horse-drawn carriages trot by. An entire block of enticing candy stalls make up El Portal de los Dulces, adding more sugar to an already sweet atmosphere.

What makes it all so magical is that all of this life and ambience and beauty is trapped within the confines of an imposing stone wall that encircles the historic center, offering a striking reminder of the city's complicated past. As the LP guidebook points out, the city wall deterred pirate attacks and pillaging throughout the centuries, but in modern times it is no match for the tourist machine that flocks here daily. This may be true, but I haven't noticed the tramplings of tourism nearly as much as I thought I would. The crowds here feel much more authentically local than they do extranjero. Or maybe all the tourists are hiding out in internet cafes and coffee shops, wherever they can find air con and refuge from the sweltering afternoon heat.

I will admit that earlier tonight I was doing just that. In desperate need for a late-afternoon boost and some beloved cafe ambience, I broke down, made a beeline for the nearby Juan Valdez Cafe, and had my first cup of coffee in nearly 2 months. And damn was it good, right down to the very last drop of tinto. I must say, all that hype about the fabulousness of the Colombian roast isn't just hype... or maybe I was merely growing desperate. Regardless, it was worth the wait.

What's more, it seems my pattern of making new friends in cafes has followed me all the way to Cartagena: soon enough, a conversation was struck with a friendly father and son duo from Bogotá, and next thing I know this lovely family is inviting me to their beachfront apartment in the nearby town of La Boquilla. Happy to accept, I spent the afternoon lounging by their pool and completely enjoying the company. And, I was reminded that if making friends is what the cafe scene brings, then I need no other reason to start drinking coffee again.

And so here I am, totally at peace in Cartagena. After 10 exhausting days of traveling and constant movement, I have decided to stay put for awhile. I have completely settled in at a lovely little hotel in El Centro, and have no desire to leave. Why would I? For 20 USD per night, I have a large tiled room in a recently-renovated building, cable TV that includes English news channels, a private bathroom, access to a common kitchen, a huge living room area with free high speed internet, a wonderful staff with whom I have become friends, and a location in the historic center that could not be more safe or perfect for a lone traveler like me. I have groceries in the fridge and some photos on the public desktop. At least for the next few days, I am completely and happily at home.

Splendid balconies

Stunning architecture

Incredible interiors

Plaza de Los Coches

A city's fortress

Candy for sale along the Portal de Los Dulces

Ripe avocadoes for only 1 dollar!

A newfound friend (wearing my jaunty hat)

The central "courtyard" at my current home

Sevilla in Santa Marta

2009-09-04T12:47:00.004-04:00

Yes, I lie. And just like when with a group of 20-something backpackers I am 28 years old (end of story), my name when receiving unwanted attention from locals (mostly men) is now "Sevilla". It's a good one, don't you think? First of all, it's more easily pronounced around here than my real name; second, it offers a degree of anonimity; and mostly, I just love the way it sounds. So exotic.

So La Blancita Sevilla now finds herself in Santa Marta, staring at the biggest bowl of fruit salad I have ever seen in my life. Papaya, pineapple, banana and watermelon drenched in fresh yogurt and granola: Colombians certainly know what to do with fruit. Last night for dinner I had sliced mango from a street vendor and an ice cold beer at La Puerta bar. See how much fun it is to be a non meat-eater?

It feels great to have finally reached the coast, and the very long bus journey to get here was well worth it. Here in Santa Marta I am seeing some major contrasts to the pretty, organized city life in the interior. This is Caribbean territory: dusty, hot, chaotic streets packed with people and kids and dogs and construction projects, this town moves fast and slow at the same time. Although the city is apparently building up quite quickly, with big plans in the works to attract more visitors, there remains that chilled-out vibe typical to any beach town. I have noticed here some obvious disparities in income and maybe a lower standard of living than I have so far seen around Colombia. But again, it's nothing like the desperate, painful poverty I have witnessed elsewhere in the world. It's more like living contentedly within one's means - along a very long stretch of beautiful sandy shore. Not exactly awful.

This morning I took myself for a jog and swim along this beautiful sandy shore, introducing myself as Sevilla to the few folks who wanted to chat and cheer me on as I ran. I thought I might get this kind of attention as the only gringa jogging, but within minutes it was happily stolen from me: this kid, no more than 17 years old and clad only in tight little swim trunks and his MP3 player, took to the middle of the beach as though it were a stage, and started to dance. And I mean, DANCE! He was outrageous. Thrusting and grinding and shimmying and shaking - he looked like a backup dancer in a Janet Jackson video. Or Shakira's number 1 fan (she is Colombian, by the way). Literally everyone on the beach just stopped and stared - we really couldn't help it - and a group of giggly teenage girls nearby did their best to copy his every move. He either didn't notice or didn't care: he just kept on shaking it. It was quite a show, and I was glad someone took away all the attention!

I have been here for less than 2 days, but feel I have done and seen enough in this town. There are some Must See places close to Santa Marta, like stunning national parks and rewarding cultural hikes, but I am just not in the mood to see them. I am quite tired of being on the Gringo Trail and going where all the other travelers go. And anyway, I am itching to get to Cartagena (remember Romancing the Stone?), a city I expect to be beautiful and fun and full of things to do.

In addition to doing my laundry, feeding me this gorgeous fruit salad, and generally looking out for me, the wonderfully helpful owners here at Casa Familiar in Santa Marta have arranged a shared vehicle of sorts that will take me door-to-door (a four hour journey) to my next stop right in the center of Cartagena. As much as I don't mind the buses (see previous post) this will be a welcome and convenient way to travel.

And so, Sevilla goes to Cartagena... until then!

Inside Casa Familiar

Fabio and granddaughter Melanie, the management team at Casa Familiar

The Journey by Bus

2009-09-04T12:38:00.006-04:00

Let me tell you a bit about traveling by bus in Colombia (photos forthcoming).

First of all, we are not talking rusty old open-air trucks with caged chickens on the roof and 30 people packed into 10 seats. Hardly! These inter-city buses are super deluxe coaches with cushy seats, full power air-con and movies galore. And thankfully so, since the lack of trains leave little alternative.

Walk into a bus terminal, and you are immediately hounded by uniformed reps from the many bus companies whose purpose is to sell you a seat. Santa Marta? Cartagena? Para adonde vas? they all yell out to you. It's a bit dizzying, but if you can stay focused you know to go straight to the ticket counters. Check around before making any commitment: there is a lot of competition with so many companies taking the same route, so prices can be somewhat negotiated. But we are already in the cheap anyway (example: $27 for a 13 hour journey).

Waiting, backpacker style (yes, that is my wheely-bag in the middle)

Waiting for the bus, there isn't much to do other than eat some of the many sweets made of arequipe (caramel), watch one of the dramatic telenovelas that consistently blares from the TV, or use the loo. You may be shocked to hear that the bathrooms at these terminals can be surprisingly clean, but entry is guarded by a very bored-looking attendant. What a job. To enter the facilities, you must hand over a handful of pesos, average 25 cents. In exchange, you might get a smile, and you will definitely get a small stack of toilet paper. The San Gil bus terminal charged all of 35 cents to use their bathroom, maybe because the stack of toilet paper was sealed and stapled inside a little plastic baggie. 10 additional cents for the sanitation measure. Worth it.

Cuantos pesos para entrar?

Something I need to investigate is whether men are charged as well... And do they get toilet paper? Or even a smile?

Once the coach pulls in (right on schedule), bags are tagged and loaded securely underneath as everyone scrambles to get a good seat. A vendor or two walk through the aisle, selling cold drinks, snacks, sandwiches, empanadas, you name it. A movie starts to play, but to my dismay it's Taken once again. I love this movie, and of course love Liam, but I just saw it on the last bus ride and it's a tough movie to watch when traveling solo. So instead I pop in the earplugs, pop some Ambien, and lay back to hopefully sleep through the very long ride ahead. Destination? The beach.

Pretty teeth in Colombia

2009-09-02T16:05:00.006-04:00

Here's something you may not have known about Colombia: everyone has great teeth. Shiny, straight, white, beautiful teeth. For those of you who know me, and know how obsessed I am with straight, white teeth, you can imagine how much I am enjoying this discovery.

Apparently, dental work is very affordable here, and those who don't yet have perfect teeth have braces. In fact, I have seen more adults with braces in the past week than I have in my lifetime. Turns out it's only about $100 to have the metal put on, and about $25 per tightening once a month. This is outrageous! As you can imagine, I have already heard stories of budget travelers planning on getting their wisdom teeth pulled and fillings replaced while in Medellin. Maybe I should get some work done as well??

Rumor has it that Medellin is also the place to go for plastic surgery. Lots of fake everything. I will be in that city sometime next week; I promise to report back.

For now, I remain in beautiful San Gil, about ready to set off for the long journey to the northern coast. San Gil really is an adventurer's paradise, like Lake Tahoe or Colorado in the summertime: every mountain and river sport imaginable is on offer here. And everything is very affordable, so how could I refuse?

Paragliding yesterday was fun if not a little bit barfy. A group of us went up to a ledge overlooking the canyon of Curiti, and waited for the wind to be just right. Finallly it was my turn to fly.

Strapped tight to my trusty pilot, Jaime, we set off just as it began to rain, and a gorgeous rainbow appeared in the distance. Floating high above the valley far, far below was an amazing experience. Crazy Jaime was all too keen to freak me out though, with tricks and flips and turns and gliding down so close to the trees inside the canyon that my shoe actually brushed some leaves. I was terrified but loved it. As I said, it was a little barfy. But really fun.

And today - again, simply because I am here and it's THE thing to do in San Gil - I went river rafting with two couples from Bogota. Now, it is a universal rule that to be a rafting guide, you must be hot. Our guide Jason was no exception. So don't feel sorry for me, the lone female traveler sounding like a 5th oar. Quite the contrary: cruising the river with a gorgeous rafting guide and his perfect Colombian teeth.... Well, I was just fine.

When in Colombia

2009-09-01T13:21:00.002-04:00

The movie was in German and Turkish with Spanish subtitles. El Otro Lado, The Other Side. It was a compelling indie drama about race and political persecution: a great way to spend a sleepy Sunday night in Villa de Leyva. The real attraction though was the "movie theater", if one can call it that. Set up in La Patriarca Salon de Eventos, the screening room was nothing more than a large-ish meeting room lined with rows of over-sized, swiveling office chairs, set up theater style to face a screen in the front of the room. An attendant offered in-seat service of drinks and snacks to the three people in the room, including me. It was oddly cozy, and I thought, who really needs surround-sound and jumbo screens and extra-large containers of popcorn? This works just fine.

Which goes back to my previous observations about the Colombian people seeming to have everything they need, no more and no less. It's not about bigger, better, newer, shinier, more more more. It's about figuring out what's missing, or what's needed - like a movie cinema in this tiny town - and filling that space to the point of "just right".

As Andres said, si no tenemos, hacemos. Now I am starting to get it.

So today I find myself in San Gil, "adventure capital of Colombia" and 4 hours closer to the Carribbean coast. A fresh glass of papaya juice at one of the many juice bars inside the produce market seems to be the perfect precursor to my first experience with parapente, or paragliding, which happens in about 1 hour from now. I can just picture my dad now rolling his eyes, thinking what a nutcase I am. But as they say, when in Colombia...

Now you can picture it too

2009-08-31T22:53:00.010-04:00

It turns out that uploading photos to blogspot is a bit of a pain. But here are a few of my favorites for now, and I promise to upload the entire album upon return.

A garden for art in Villa de Leyva

Pal, the wonder dog and expert hiking guide

Stephanie, Ariel and Jordan, and our guide Pal

Andres and Venga, tour guides in Villa de Leyva

At the market: trust me, he was more excited about getting this dollar then he looks.

A Colombian wedding in Plaza Mayor, Villa de Leyva

A gorgeous send-off

Flying kites in Plaza Mayor

Beautiful San Gil

A lazy weekend in Villa de Leyva

2009-08-31T10:27:00.001-04:00

On Saturday afternoon, I stepped out of the lovely little La Roca hotel, and was greeted by Andres, a local guy hanging around the plaza doing nothing in particular. He and his rescued dog Venga escorted me to the weekend market, where I proceeded to go nuts over all the luscious fruits and veggies. Fresh produce: my idea of heaven. Andres introduced me to a variety of fruits I had never before tasted... including a sweet-potato thing best eaten drenched in honey and salt, with a tiny round of coconut fruit in the middle. Yum! Unlike I would do back home, I never once considered washing off the fruit before eating it. Maybe I am naive, but I couldn't imagine these fresh crops being drenched in pesticides.

Later, I sat with Andres and Venga, munching on crisp string beans while he gave me a good long lecture on the state of Colombian politics and the strength of the nations's export-based economy. He reiterated that the country, with its vast supply of primary resources, is not at all dependent on tourism or on imports, and this explains its relative success. "Si no tenemos, hacemos", he told me. If we don't have it, we make it. A pretty good DIY philosophy, if you ask me.

Later that day and still laden with bags full of fresh mangoes and mini plums, I ducked into a gold-plated church and happened upon a full-scale Colombian wedding. It was stunning; everyone was dressed to the nines, dark suits and elegant dresses. Of course I hovered in the back of the church and waited to take some photos of the splendid celebration as the wedding party exited the church. And I was not the only gringo to do so!

So now we come to Sunday. Having just returned from a bouncy, one-hour cabalgata through the surrounding hills on the back of a lazy little horse named El Principe, I am now happily stoned on Motrin, and will probably spend the rest of the day exploring the little town, snacking on local treats, and people-watching in the plaza. Maybe I will go see the indie movie playing tonight at the Salon de Eventos in Casa Quintero, not even caring what language the film is in.

Yeah, it's a tough life. But someone has to do it.

PS: I will upload some photos just as soon as I find the patience to do so. Stay tuned!

Hiking with Pal

2009-08-30T17:10:00.003-04:00

I woke early this morning to the sound of church bells clanging and roosters crowing. Glancing around the room, I sighed with relief and went back to sleep. Ahhhh.... I though, no roommates.

For the sheer kick of paying only $7 per night for a place to stay, I spent Friday night in a shared dorm room at a backpacker hostel, the ecolodge Renacer Guesthouse. One night was more than enough. Especially since my roommate for the evening was Alistair from the UK. A lovely man, friendly enough, but it just felt really uncomfortable, especially when I came into the cramped little room wrapped in nothing more than a towel, and there he was. Awkward indeed. But maybe the first time always feels that way.

Needless to say, I like my privacy, and by the next morning I had reserved a private room at Hospederia La Roca, a charming little hotel that feeds directly into Plaza Mayor. A big comfy bed, private bathroom, endless hot water and a TV with cable. Plus, the location can't be beat, and the architecture and layout are stunning: like an old Colonial mansion set in an English garden, with 2 large, open air, hydrangea-filled courtyards in the center. All this for only $10 more per night. Is there any question?

My stay at Renacer wasn't all for naught. The lodge is very nice, immaculately clean (as actually all the hostels and hotels have been so far), and tranquily set up in the hills a good 10 minutes from town. Although a bit too removed for my tastes, the area is great for hiking, and the trails behind the lodge lead to trickling waterfalls and a birds-eye view of the town below. For this hike I joined up with a family of three from Canada: single-mom Stephanie, the adventurous Jordan (9) and the well-mannered Ariel (12). We were led the entire way by Pal, a local dog who clearly had taken this path many times before. Anytime we were lost or unsure in which way to head, the kids would insist we follow Pal. And every time, the kids - and the dog - were right. He was the most reliable guide I have ever known, and we couldn't beat the price for his services!

Now let me take a moment to speak about this family. Stephanie works in education in Canada, and through some clever program has been paying into a fund for the past four years that allows her to take the 5th year off of work - fully paid. So what does she do? She sets off on a 10-month backpacking tour of Central and South America with her two kids, who keep up with school via emails from their teachers. Her kids are smart, well-adjusted, adaptable and open-minded. Not yet teenagers, they have already been exposed to more of the world than most adults ever will be. And they seem to love it; the travel bug is permanently a part of who they are.

I have heard about people traveling with kids like this, but have never actually seen it with my own eyes. I have so much respect for Stephanie, and feel relieved to know that a nomad like me can continue being a nomad, even once children become part of the equation. I wonder though why this type of lifestyle has to be the exception? Why can't backpacking through developing countries with kids be considered normal? Why must our adventurous traveling lives end if we have children? Don't we owe it to them, to the next generation, to expose them to everything we possibly can? Aren't we doing them a huge favor? Stephanie certainly is. I would love to catch up with these two in 15 years and see where life has taken them. Jordan, he'll probabably be a world-class surgeon working for Doctors Without Borders in Ghana or Guatemala. Ariel, well she of course will be Canada's Foreign Affairs Secretary, or the Secretary General of the UN. All because their mom was smart enough to make the right kind of sacrifices and give them this amazing opportunity. Something I will certainly keep in mind as my own future unfolds.

So now, back to Villa de Leyva, the setting for this tale. I am in love with this little town. I am already thinking English teacher by day, yoga instructor by evening/weekend. I could open up a little yoga studio and cater to locals as well as backpackers looking for some exercise during their travels.... Hmmm.... Maybe get myself a horse to get around on...

And why not? Villa de Leyva is something like paradise, without a beach. This perfectly preserved colonial town is so picturesque, straight out of a movie setting. All the low-lying buildings are white-washed with dark orange roofs, and they line narrow streets paved with massive cobblestone (over which I am constantly tripping). The weather is perfect; breezy and cool but never cold. A good percentage of the 10,000 person population is children, who spend much of their days flying kites in the gigantic main square, Plaza Mayor, bigger than any plaza I have ever seen. The people are warm and friendly, and everyone seems to own and adore a healthy, happy dog (I haven't seen one icky cat anywhere!).

This town is so safe and peaceful, I would eat my shoe if I got mugged here. It's just not possible.

And so I continue to wonder... where is this scary, dangerous Colombia I keep hearing about?

Happiness is Colombia

2009-08-29T19:07:00.005-04:00

I recently read that in 2008, Colombia ranked the third happiest country in the world. From what I have seen so far, I have absolutely no reason to believe otherwise. And I am not referring to a "they have nothing but they are happy anyway" kind of situation. Quite the contrary: Colombians seem to enjoy a very high quality of life, and appear to have everything they need. There are no obvious displays of materialism or extravagance, and I also haven't seen much blatant or desperate poverty, as I did in India, or even in parts of the U.S. Services are plentiful and efficiently run, roads are paved, streets are clean. Everyone has shoes on their feet. It is a country that seems to be well-kept and cared for, and its citizens rightly take great pride in this. Colombians are doing well, and they genuinely seem to be happy.

I imagine things were very different not so long ago, when La Violencia held most of the nation hostage. And from what I understand, the violence still rages in vast parts of the countryside, leaving many civilians displaced and living in fear. But thanks in large part to the antiguerilla efforts of Presidente Uribe, this now seems to be the exception rather than the norm. And from where I sit at the moment - at a quaint outdoor cafe on the edge of Villa de Leyva´s impressive Plaza Mayor, enjoying a fresh-squeezed limonada and watching a number of children fly kites in the town square - Colombia seems to be a remarkably peaceful place.

This just goes to show how ridiculous our media can be, and how easily rhetoric can sway us into believing things that aren't true. I bought into it; before coming here I was downright scared. Now, I feel silly for feeling this way. One would think we could have learned a lesson about the media's fear-mongering skills during the buildup to the invasion of Iraq. But we don't learn, and as a result, we miss out. Take Cuba as an example: a lovely island nation floating in the Carribbean Sea, depicted as a communist torture chamber, its leaders demonized as hideous and evil dictators. I was there. It was hardly a horrible place to be. The only thing this nonsense has accomplished, is that the rest of the world has enjoyed the benefits of tourism and investment in this wonderful country, while we Americans have missed out. With all the media hype and ceaseless rhetoric, Colombia might fall into the same category. But I won't mind if the secret doesn't get out just yet. Traveling through a country unmarred by tourism and not yet blanketed by Starbucks and McDonalds is a welcome change of scenery. And maybe, just maybe, this is why the Colombian people are so darn happy.

Maniacs in little yellow cars

2009-08-28T22:16:00.004-04:00

My first taxi ride in Bogota involved a lot of fearing for my personal safety. Can you blame me? After all, I had just stepped off the flight, during which I had carefully read LP`s in-depth warnings to women (and related horror stories) about taking a taxi alone after dark. But my flight was delayed, and I was to arrive after 9pm. What choice did I have?

So the entire ride from the airport I am clutching nervously at my bag, steadily holding down the broken lock on the door, and staying more alert than I have ever been in my life. At every stoplight, I hold my breath, just waiting for someone to reach in and hold me up at knifepoint.

Well, I arrived to the hostel just fine, and in less than two days of taxi-ing around Bogota, I pretty much have gotten over all that silly anxiety. But now, instead of fearing for my personal safety, I just fear for my life. Not much better, I know. But the taxi drivers here are maniacs! Certifiably insane. I wouldn´t be surprised to learn that the first road-racing video game was invented by a Colombian cab driver. In their tiny yellow cars, they weave in and out of traffic, changing lanes with an inch to spare, screeching around turns and slamming on the brakes. The words speed and limit are likely not used in the same sentence, ever. I lurch forward more than a few times, and wish at least one or two of these cabbies would install functioning seatbelts in the back seats.

But once again, as so far every time, I arrive to my destination in one piece: this time, the bus station. I have decided to save Bogota for later, and this afternoon I will make the 4 hour journey north to a town called Villa de Leyva. As a female traveling alone, I can`t help but be drawn to guidebook phrases like "the area is completely safe". Words like these, and the description of this quaint colonial town are exactly what I am after: a small pueblo best explored on foot, bike or horse (sans money belt); tons of safe hiking trails; waterfalls, canyoning, rappeling, rafting, and more. Even better, this town - whose name which, if slightly intoxicated, could look just like my own last name - is located in the direct path of Cartagena, my eventual destination. After a hectic couple of days in Bogota, the fresh air and vast, open skies in Villa de Leyva might just be paradise in the foothills. Stay tuned and I will report back soon.

Poker face in Bogota

2009-08-28T09:10:00.005-04:00

When traveling, there are only two reasons a backpacker doesn`t go out to party at night in a city like Bogota: 1. He has no money. 2. He doesn`t want to get mugged. For me, the latter is most definitely true. Such is the reason I find myself deep in a game of poker with 7 guys at the youth hostel Destino Nomada, enjoying the relative comfort and security of being off the street, without a money belt digging into my pelvis bone. I can pretty much guarantee that these 7 guys are staying in tonight because they have no cash. But I don´t mind at all; their company is welcomed. And in the process I discover something very important about myself: I pretty much suck at poker. So much for beginner´s luck.

As for Bogota, I just have to say that all of you people at the State Department who write those scary travel advisories really need to step back and gain some perspective. Or at least, come here for awhile and see for yourself what´s going on. Because scary, dangerous, crime-ridden Colombia seems to be anything but. In fact, it feels no more scary or dangerous than say, the Bronx after dark. Even that might be a stretch. In fact, I would rather be here in Bogota than in downtown Los Angeles. Or in Yellowstone National Park, hiking alone. Which makes me wonder, if the State Department had to write a travel advisory about visiting the U.S., and foreigners actually read it, would anyone EVER come visit my country?

Now don´t get me wrong, street crime is most definitely a problem in Bogota, particulary at night. (But isn´t that the case in almost any hectic city, especially one that is relatively poor by international standards?) And the narrow, cobblestone streets do get pretty jammed with people, almost to a claustrophobic degree. But most of these people are students, I notice. In fact there are students everywhere! Apparently the Colombians take their education very seriously, and the system is top-notch here. Maybe Bogota is like Boston.... with Salsa dancing.

And there are tons of kids here. Happy little kids who laugh and play in parks, like kids do everywhere. In my so-far-failing effort to get a visa for Brazil, I had to stop by the American Embassy today to get more pages added to my passport. "Please come back at 3:00pm", the nice lady tells me with a big, hospitable, American smile. Three hours? For real? I don´t have to wait a week? I can`t help but wonder if this surprising lack of bureaucratic paper-pushing nonsense is Obama´s influence. Just let me think it is.

So anyway, to kill some time I taxi north to Parque Simon Bolivar. Supposedly, this park is bigger than Central Park in Manhattan. It is pretty fabulous, although I remain partial to its New York cousin. The park is a beautiful and peaceful place, a perfect respite from the smelly traffic and diesel fumes of Bogota´s main roads. And on this sunny weekday, it is jam-packed with adorable school children who are quite literally "frolicking", if I can use that word. Scary, dangerous Colombia???

But as a bible thumper reveres his own great book, I believe everything I read in my Lonely Planet guidebook. And I am warned by the LP authors to avoid walking on the streets at night in the center of town, exactly where I am staying. So I do. Instead - the book wisely tells me - get up early, sightsee and enjoy the city, and consider staying safely indoors at night. For an old gal like me who loves her sleep, this is so not a problem.

Speaking of age, whenever I do the youth hostel thing, if anyone asks, I am 28 years old. End of story. But have you ever noticed how innocently expressing love for a song can instantly give you away? Once again my cards stink. I fold. The radio starts blaring that soul-wrenching ballad "I need you now.... more than words can say I need you now....." by Alias, circa 1990. "Oh my god I LOVE this song" I exclaim without thinking. The game stops. 14 young man eyes are on me. They are confused. Dumb-founded. "How old ARE you?" they ask, practically in unison.

I just smile, and keep singing along.

Nothing but a hiccup

2009-08-26T10:24:00.000-04:00

Hiccup number 1: I arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare, and learn that my flight into Miami is delayed and I will miss my connection to Bogota. Sorry party people, but overnighting in Miami is not my idea of a good time.

I must look really sad and pathetic, because Brooke at the AA desk taps away at her keyboard and in no time has rebooked me on a Delta flight. (There is a lot to be said for keeping calm and not freaking out at the counter folks.)

If this is the worst that happens on this journey, I will be in pretty great shape.

Although it would be kind of funny if I become so enthralled with these final hours of using my BlackBerry that I end up missing my flight. Because yes, this is something I would do.

What was I thinking?

2009-08-25T11:12:00.003-04:00

I often wonder why my brain works the way it does.

Just one month ago, I altogether gave up coffee. Cold turkey. And I haven’t touched the stuff since. Tomorrow, I am flying into Colombia... a country that boasts one of the best coffee roasts in the world. In fact, my hostel in chilly Bogota offers free hot coffee service All. Day. Long.

What was I thinking?

Two weeks ago, I purchased a shiny new pair of Newton running shoes (which by the way are awesome). "If I wear these out the door now, can you donate my old pair for me?" I asked the salesman. Old Asics trainers, well-worn, comfortable, and absolutely perfect for trekking around South America, were thus left behind.

What was I thinking?

While hastily packing up my old apartment in New York, I was all too happy to minimize my possessions by donating or selling as much as possible. One casualty of the move: my trusty green Eagle Creek traveler’s backpack – the perfect size bag, the one that had molded to my frame and fit me perfectly, the same bag that had traveled to all corners of the globe with me during the last 14 years – was tossed into the "donate" pile without a second thought other than: I am too old to be backpacking!

What was I thinking?

In this gap between New York City and Location-To-Be-Determined, I hoped to go somewhere peaceful and calm where I could practice yoga – maybe take a teacher training course – do some writing, pitch some article ideas, prepare for the State Department exam, apply for a Fulbright... Instead, I find myself getting shot in the ass with a Yellow Fever vax, packing up a new wheeling duffel bag (it has backpack straps!) with every medicine known to man, leaving behind both my yoga mat and my laptop, and embarking on a one-month tour of South America.

When I booked this trip, I don’t know what I was thinking. But I am pretty sure that when all is said and done, I won’t have any regrets.

Tears in Havana

2009-08-24T18:06:00.005-04:00

(This is an old story, never before told.)

A small trickle of blood collected on my neck as I tried desperately to recall the Spanish for “stop humping my leg, you stupid dog!”

In all my confusion, the words failed to come, and that mangy mutt just kept doing its thing against my bare, sweaty leg. Its owner seemed to neither notice nor care, and she brushed me off despite my pleas for help. Where on earth were the police when I needed them?

Probably not the wisest idea, but in my desire to escape the deceptively pretty confines of Havana’s tourist district, I had decided earlier today to set off on my own and explore the streets of the old city. On this side of the invisible fence between foreigner and local, daily life beat to the rhythms of the raggaeton music that poured out of dilapidated, broken-down entryways. Groups of kids, shirtless and barefoot, kicked soccer balls around over the cracked earth beneath them. In these narrow alleyways, the air hung thick with smells of frying pork, beans and rice. This was Havana, I thought, real and raw.

I leaned into the shade of an old building, taking momentary refuge from the afternoon sun, and was struck by the sight of a splendid, elderly woman perched high on a balcony above. Her large frame rested heavily against the rusty bars of the balcony, and I feared the crumbling platform might give way underneath the weight of her soft, round body. Gazing out at nothing in particular, she cooled herself with a fan in the steadiest of rhythms. Her dark skin and bright red dress, long and flowing, were a striking contrast against the colorless, gloomy backdrop. With the greatest of stealth I reached for my camera, aiming to capture this breathtaking sight.

Seconds later, a young man came up from behind. I froze, stunned, as he locked his gaze with mine. In one swift move, my sturdy bag broke into two. The heavy yarn cut deep into my skin as the strap gave way, and the kid was off and running. Without thinking, I ran after him, screaming out in Spanish any expletive I could think of. People stared and laughed, shaking heads and tsk tsk-ing the silly white girl running wildly through their streets.

I tried in vain to catch up to my assailant, but my running shoes were no match for his bare feet. Exhausted and defeated, I slowed to a crawl and approached a woman standing nearby, hoping she could help. Her nasty dog had other ideas. Fighting back tears, I walked away, leaving the humiliation behind.

Sure enough, there were two police officers just blocks away near the touristy Malecon – the extended boardwalk that separates city and sea. I recounted my plight, and next thing I knew I was thrown into the back of a police car, bars on all windows blocking my view of the world outside. My mind started to reel with thoughts of Cuban prison cells and torture chambers...

To my great relief, the officers dropped me off in the waiting room of a crowded police station. There I sat for a good hour before a station officer took notice and approached me. Towering above me in his freshly pressed uniform, he glared down with blatant distrust in his eyes.

“Identificacion!” he demanded.

“Que?” What? I asked.

“IDENTIFICACION!” He now shouted, his booming voice ringing in my ears. “Show me your identification!”

But, but... I don’t have it! I blubbered in Spanish. My identification was stolen! I was robbed!

Not seeming to understand nor care, he pulled out his wallet, flashed an ID card at me, and in rapid Spanish yelled, “I have ID with me, why don’t you?”

I was wounded, filthy and scared. I was in no mood to be bullied. Looking up into his glowering eyes, I tried to speak, but instead broke down into a torrent of tears. As though a switch had been flipped, this monster of a police officer melted before my eyes, his guilt for making a woman cry etched so clearly on his face.

I was in that station for a few hours longer, filling out paperwork, waiting, and even translating for a French couple who had been scammed. All the while, this officer was putty in my hands. He eventually ensured my safe return to my guesthouse, where I was greeted with a hug and a mug of hot tea by the house mother.

Lesson learned? Havana, like everywhere, has its angels and its demons.

And, if I ever do get into a spot of trouble with the authorities, tears just might help.

Crisis of confidence

2009-08-22T22:54:00.007-04:00

Yesterday, while driving my sister’s minivan to the nearest Target store, I got smashed into by a car that had spun out of control on the freeway. Four cars total were involved, but thankfully that minivan is sturdy and everyone was fine. For over an hour, I was one of those people standing by the roadside being gawked at by slow-moving, donut-munching drive-bys, as though they had never seen an accident before.

I was annoyed, and in that moment, I wished I was in New York City taking subways and not having to deal with these incidents. And I realized this irony: I feel safer and more comfortable in big, hectic cities than I do in a suburban, strip-mall, drive everywhere because there is no other option, type of environment.

The irritation I felt helped me to overcome the nagging fear that has been haunting me for the past few days. In regards to my upcoming trip, I have been told by nearly everyone I know to be careful, be safe, bad things happen in South American cities, watch my back, pack mace, don't get kidnapped, etc. I get that this comes from a place of love, but it is really starting to get to me, and I have begun to drive myself crazy with doubts about my decision to travel alone.

But why? I lived in New York City for 5 years. Before that, Barcelona. Before that, San Francisco. I have traveled in Johannesburg, New Delhi, Istanbul, Havana, Beijing. In all these places, I was fine – in fact, I loved every moment of it all.

Cities, I get. Travel, I get. Hanging out in Suburbia... not so much.

Rio might be dangerous. Caracas might be complicated. Bogota might be challenging. The threat of malaria and yellow fever may be high throughout the region. But I think I would rather deal with all that madness then stand on the edge of a freeway during rush hour, somewhere in the middle of here and nowhere.

***
PS: for those still in doubt, Richard McColl writes an excellent and concise article for Matador Travel - with gorgeous photos attached - Why Colombia is Not as Dangerous as You Think

Spin the globe

2009-08-21T09:15:00.008-04:00

“Hey Evan, how about this” I said. “Next time you go to your dad’s house, spin the globe. Wherever your finger stops, that’s where I’ll go.”

He looked up at me with those big brown eyes, and a knowing smile lit up his face. He seemed to understand: my life is wide open at the moment. The possibilities are infinite. That blank page before me is, to steal a line from a song, unwritten.

Two weeks later, a telephone call and a sweet 10-year-old voice reveal my potential destination: “Auntie, I spun the globe! You are going to… (hey Adam, what was that place called? Oh yeah)…. Ecuador!”

Ecuador. Hmmmm..... this sounds rather appealing. Can I do it? A quick perusal of my near-empty calendar reveals that the next 5 weeks of my life involve obligations amounting to zero. I am technically without a home (although my sister in Mass has been awesome). For the next 2 weeks, she and the kids will be in California visiting the family. I will be alone in Suburbia, in a big house with a pool, a minivan and cable TV. All this for a gal fresh off the boat from Manhattan. If I don’t make some plans soon, it frightens me to think what might become of me.

Maybe Evan is onto something? Apart from two short trips to Buenos Aires, South America remains one of those continents I have managed to miss for the past 13 years of traveling. And I speak Spanish. No, since you might ask, I have no solid income and very little savings. But I have the time. So if not now, when?

And so it is. Decision finally made. Based purely on economic practicalities, i.e. the cheapest flights available, I now have a semblance of plan. In 5 days time, I will fly into Bogota. One month later, I will return from Rio. Everything in between remains a mystery.

Ecuador itself may or may not happen this time around, but at least the kid got me pointed in the right direction.

Hot

2009-08-12T10:50:00.004-04:00

Tell me this: what on earth is the point of bathing during the month of August in New York City? Seriously, what a waste of time. I shower, I get dressed, I put on some makeup and do my hair... I am clean and primped and ready to go. Moments later, I step outside into the afternoon heat, and all that effort has pretty much gone to hell. Sweat happens, and a whole lot of it.

Hot in Manhattan is a hot like no other. Billows of thick steam rise up out of the ground and become trapped among the skyscrapers. Thousands of sweaty bodies rush past one another, trying in vain to find space where there is none. Not a single breeze dares blow through. The muggy air stops, unmoving. Walking down the streets on an August day in New York is like wading through a bowl of chunky beef stew: it's murky, stifling. It's impossible.

Descend into the subway and you might as well walk straight into hell. "Hot" can't even begin to describe the smelly dead air that hovers underground. Waiting desperately for the train, I am quite sure my face has melted down the front of my chest. To no avail, I think of January, of blizzards, of popsicles. I somehow survive the longest 8 minutes of my life, and the train whooshes into the station. My heart begins to race at the mere thought of the painfully freezing A/C blowing on board.

But wait: why is everyone inside the subway car fanning themselves? Why are they sweating? Oh god, the A/C is broken? At the height of rush hour? Hundreds of sticky people pressed up against one another, trapped inside this death box?

Without a thought, I turn around and race back up the stairs, out into the blazing hot sun. Screw public transportation. Forget saving money. To hell with efficiency. Get me a damn cab, and get it now.

Cheers

2009-08-09T13:19:00.008-04:00

No plans on a Saturday night? Feeling bored? Why not go to a place where everyone knows your name? Or at least, where everyone knows your face? That place for me is Cafe Fiorello, my own personal Cheers right here in New York City.

Along with my friend Mitsuko, I discovered this fantastic Italian-style eatery as recently as June, following the first in a stunning series of American Ballet Theater performances at Lincoln Center. Giselle left us hungry, and this enticing antipasti bar located just across Broadway called to us. Who knew it would become a second home in just a matter of months? Mits and I have faithfully returned on a regular basis since June, and each time we are greeted by the staff with hellos, smiles, glasses of Prosecco... and sometimes even a hug.

On first glance, I assumed Fiorello was a tourist trap, grabbing theater and concert-goers. But the more I have spoken with the people seated around me, the more I realize that nearly everyone here is a regular, a local New Yorker who has discovered their own sense of comfort here in this friendly place. Seated at the bar, I have met an endless array of fascinating and sophisticated people from all over the world. The location, the crowds, the food, the scene... it's all so very "New York".

So last night, with no place to go and no one to see, I took myself to Fiorello. Cozying up to my favorite spot at the bar, I spent the next 5 hours reveling in how totally comfortable I felt here, enjoying good food, bottomless cocktails, and great conversation with friendly strangers and the now familiar restaurant staff.

For as long as I am in New York, and anytime I come back, Fiorello will be a must-visit.

And if I am lucky enough - and if the manager's promises come through - my presence will soon be forever memorialized by a small plaque secured to the edge of the bar:

"This Seat Reserved For..."

Unrequited love

2009-08-08T16:47:00.004-04:00

I am in love with a city. I realized this yesterday as the big ol’ Peter Pan bus lumbered its way into the Port Authority Bus Terminal and delivered me smack dab into the smelly, noisy, dusty madness of midtown Manhattan. For all its disgustingness, I can’t help but love New York. If only I could be so forgiving with the men I have dated over the years.

Why do I love it here? For one, I love that anything can be had or done within seconds. I can walk one block through Hell’s Kitchen, take cash out at the ATM, pop into an optometrist’s office to get my eyeglasses adjusted, grab a Slurpee at 7-11, buy tickets for West Side Story, then duck underground to the subway and be whisked across and uptown... all in under 38 minutes. People, ideas and feet move as fast as the taxis racing up Park Avenue. New York moves, and I get such a rush moving along with it.

I am pretty sure, however, that my love is unrequited. The city is hard on its inhabitants and visitors. She never lets up. She plays games, teasing us with a stunning moment, or a breathtaking evening, or a spectacular experience, then in a flash turns against us and stirs up a storm. This city wants to know how much we can take, how badly we want to be here. She tests us and takes us to the brink.

For a long time, I wanted it. I was willing to put up with just about anything - rats, roaches, blizzards, sweaty summers, ceaseless noise, endless crowds - to stay. A few months ago, I thought I had finally reached my breaking point. I thought I was done. Yet now that I am back after only a week away, I am quite certain I could take a whole lot more of whatever New York wanted to dish out. The question is, do I want to?

I have returned to the city after a short reprieve in Bridgewater, Mass, a Desperate Housewives-esque suburban town somewhere south of Boston. The homes in Bridgewater are large and spacious, neatly arranged side by side but not too close to one another; lawns are expertly manicured. Summer evenings bring the entire town out to the soccer fields, where overbearing parents shout at their 4-year-olds to play harder. Everyone in Bridgewater – really, everyone – is white. It's borderline creepy. My sister and her family live here, and I am actually enjoying the weirdness of this sleepy little town, the large open spaces, the trees, the fresh air. I am grateful my family has taken me in and welcomed me so easily into their home. I am loving the huge swimming pool in their backyard. And most of all, I am utterly relieved any time the very demanding 2-year-old takes a nap.

New York and Bridgewater. The two cities could not be more different. Yet strangely, I look forward to going back to Bridgewater next week. It is not my home, any more so than the apartments I am surfing this week in New York. But the thing about family is that with no one else, even with our closest of friends, or even sometimes when we are alone, can we be so totally ourselves. Despite the wonderful network of friends I have here in the city, and despite missing them when I am away, I often feel disconnected and lonely when I am in New York, as I do now. The city has a way of separating people and shrouding them with a degree of anonymity that can feel downright depressing. When I am around my family, especially my sister and her three crazy kids, I never feel alone.

So although I know I can handle just about anything that New York throws my way, I wonder... can I continue to put up with the loneliness?

Home

2009-08-05T19:44:00.003-04:00

Shivers run down my spine and tiny hairs stand on end as I watch the long-awaited homecoming of Laura Ling and Euna Lee. What an incredibly moving moment, a reminder that diplomacy isn’t just a bunch of cranky old men sitting around, talking in circles, drinking cocktails and wasting our tax dollars. Diplomacy actually works. Conflicts can be resolved. Happy endings are indeed possible, even when dealing with what appears to be an impossible situation.

Or maybe it’s just the sweeping star power of Mr. Bill Clinton... in some parts of the world, this former president still reigns supreme.

Whatever the case, it was an absolutely amazing thing to watch these two previously condemned women return home, freed from their nightmare, and fall gratefully into the awaiting, loving arms of their families. I have no doubt that all of us following this case breathed a collective sigh of relief when we heard the news, and when we witnessed such an unbelievable homecoming earlier today.

As I watched, I began to think more about the concept of home, particularly at this time when I find myself without one. The idea of "home" certainly means something different to everyone – for some it’s a physical place, for others a spiritual connection to self and spirit – but I think the common thread for all is that home is a place that feels safe. Home is a place in which one can feel secure, comfortable, at ease and utterly themselves. Home is where one can be exactly who they are and who they want to be, with no pretense or falsification. Home is family, roots, connection.

For Laura Ling and Euna Lee, I imagine that today, home represents all of the above... and also freedom.

I am reminded by the plight of these two amazing women how completely free I am, and how very precious that is. No, I don’t have a physical home, but I have never had more freedom than I do right now, in this moment. Freedom to decide where I go, what I do, how I live my life, the path that I carve out for myself. I answer to no one, I am bound by no chains, and I am responsible for not a single soul other than myself. This is an incredibly overwhelming yet powerful realization, and a truth that I am reminded of on days such as today.

Thus, although the decisions I have made recently leave me feeling frightened and unsure, I am also grateful. Grateful to be free, and grateful to feel safe and secure in myself, even though I lack a physical sense of home.

At least, I am trying really hard to feel that way...

Shutting off the lights

2009-08-02T21:41:00.004-04:00

I will admit, there were tears this morning. I arise before the sun, and in the pouring rain go for a walk around my neighborhood. Taking in the familiar sights and smells, and seeing many familiar faces out on the streets and in the cafes, I can't help but wonder if I have gone mad. Why am I doing this? Why am I leaving all this, everything I know so well, behind? Why am I rendering myself without a home?

A tearful phone call to a cherished friend reminds me: I am making things happen. I am inviting change and experience into my life. I am beginning a new chapter, and it is an exciting, pivotal moment. I should feel proud of having made this decision, proud of what I am now doing.

I try to believe her.

There is life beyond New York! she assures me. A life of quality, fun times, interesting people, exciting experiences... and without all the financial stress that comes with living in this very expensive city.

A fulfilling life with much lower expenses... that sounds pretty great. I guess I have some rather smart friends.

And, I apparently have some amazing people in my life. A selfless brother-in-law and a generous neighbor (again, someone I barely knew before today... why is it always the strangers that come through for us?) take to the stairs, up and down, over and over again, soaked to the bone from both sweat and rain water, and expertly load all my furniture and essential belongings into the van. Miraculously, everything fits, even the gigantic couch.

Exhausted and finally ready to head out, I shut off the lights, glance around my now empty apartment, and say a quiet farewell to that which was home and abode for nearly 5 years. With one last load of possessions in hand, and maybe for the last time, I descend those rickety old stairs. And wouldn't you know, the tears come again.

Help comes in surprising ways

2009-08-02T09:54:00.001-04:00

Yesterday began Round 2 of the now famous 3rd Avenue Stoop Sale. A garage sale without a garage. A yard sale without a yard. Crazy the things we come up with here in Manhattan.

With some Upper East Siders strolling past and looking down their noses in disgust, and all the other un-snobby people stopping to chat and take a look, last week myself and two neighbors spread our unwanted belongings all over the sidewalk in front of our building. The first round was fun, hectic and incredibly successful. We met neighbors, made friends and brought in some hard-earned cash. Without the company of my neighbors this past weekend, Round 2 was much less exciting, but worthwhile nonetheless. Because the more I sell, the less I have to pack.

It's ironic, really. I began to realize yesterday that as much as New York can pull friends apart, it certainly brings strangers together. (I think there have been many examples of this, both in big and small ways.) Handling this move-out as a single gal has been quite an intense and exhausting experience, yet help has come from the most surprising places. Barry, the guy I share a wall with yet never spoke to until yesterday, quietly spent the morning by my side, keeping me company and selflessly watching over the sale so I could occasionally step away. He even offered to help me move some furniture down the stairs. Two neighbors who were utter strangers before last week came by repeatedly throughout the day to check on me, asking if they could bring me a cold drink or a coffee, or just to hang around, chat with me and keep the day light. Even my yoga teacher and fitness trainer offered to help move whatever was needed!

I am truly touched by this display of support, and it comes as all the more surprising because some of my oldest, dearest friends have pretty much gone MIA on me and haven't shown much interest in this experience. I suppose I can't blame them, everyone is busy in their own lives.... And yet, total strangers have banded together to show support, and have ultimately made me feel less alone throughout a lonely process.

My emotions are mixed and I don't really know what to make of any of it, but I am eternally grateful for the angels that have come my way recently. I couldn't have done all this without them. Thank you, New Yorkers. You never fail to astound me.

Get smart

2009-07-30T18:09:00.004-04:00

The moral of this story is: grow up, get smart. Learn how to pay professional service providers to help you out. They are there for a reason.

This move has physically broken me down. I already have a weak back, and the packing, and up and down stairs, and pushing boxes around my apartment has done me in. Even yoga has become difficult. I find myself popping Advil and wishing I had a very strong friend who would offer to help me out. While complaining about this to my wise grandmother, she gently asked: aren't there people you can pay to do this kind of work for you?

Oh, right...

Within minutes I was scouring Yelp for a recommendation, then on the phone with Rob of "Rob The Mover" fame. He offered an amazingly reasonable quote for "a guy with a truck" and was able to provide service exactly when I wanted to make the move. This morning, bright and early, the phenomenal Barry showed up at my door, all friendly and smiling. Without a word of complaint, he proceeded to carry my 15 or so (perfectly organized and neatly labeled, of course) boxes down the three flights of stairs and into his awaiting truck. I hung around inside my air-conditioned apartment, waiting and feeling rather useless.

Did I mention that today was one of the hottest, most humid days of the summer? Barry was completely unfazed.

He then drove me to Manhattan Mini Storage, chatting about his family along the way (he has a wife and two babies) and being as happy and friendly as anyone could be in Manhattan. He patiently waited (and even walked me through the fine print) while I filled out the paperwork for my storage unit, then took on all the dirty work of loading up and pushing the dolly. My new hero then climbed a rickety old ladder, and one by one neatly arranged my 500+ pounds of belongings in the third-story locker. He took the padlock from my hands, skillfully locked it up and handed me back the key.

Did I mention that I didn't lift a finger?

Oh, Barry then drove me back home - which definitely was not part of the contract. I was so completely and thoroughly impressed with this service, and would highly recommend Rob The Mover to anyone and everyone moving themselves and/or their belongings around this crazy city.

Barry seriously rocked. And I finally got smart. Pay someone to help you. Duh.

It's never too late

2009-07-22T16:14:00.004-04:00

You know by now, based on my last post, that my life is about to change drastically. Then how strange it is that just now, at this very moment, as I am tearing off sheets of newspaper and packing away my favorite coffee mugs, the following full-page ad in an old NYTimes catches my eye:

It's never too late, or in my case too early,
to be whoever you want to be.
There's no time limit.
Stop whenever you want.
You can change or stay the same.
There are no rules to this thing.
We can make the best or the worst of it.
I hope you make the best of it.
I hope you see things that startle you.
I hope you feel things you never felt before.
I hope you meet people with a different point of view.
I hope you live a life you're proud of.
If you find that you're not,
I hope you have the courage to start all over again.

--Eric Roth, from the screenplay of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"

I Should

2009-07-20T10:14:00.007-04:00

I hate the word "should". It really is a dumb, useless word.

If I listened carefully to the loud Chorus of Shoulds around me, it would sound something like this:

I am a 35-year-old woman. I should be married. I should have children. I should be a home owner. I should have a substantial savings account. I should live in the suburbs and drive a minivan and be helping my kids with homework tonight after their soccer practice. I should be utilizing my expensive education toward a successful career that I return to now that my kids are in school. I should be settled. My life should be all figured out by now.

Here is the reality:

I am 35 years old. I am single. I am not dating anyone seriously. I have no kids (that I am aware of). I rent an apartment in Manhattan. I spend ridiculous amounts of money to live in this city, and therefore have a quickly-diminishing savings account. I am slowly paying off my expensive education but not really using my degrees... yet. I never want to drive a minivan or live in the suburbs. In fact I want to live in about 10 different places during this lifetime. I want to travel everywhere and anywhere. The word "settled" as we traditionally use it doesn't sit well with me. I have been in the same apartment for a mere 5 years, and I am already bored and feeling stagnate.

So I decided to do something about it. I will be moving out of this apartment, my home, in just two weeks. I will sell most of my furniture, store the bulk of my possessions, and carry with me as little as possible. I have no idea where I am going next, what I will be doing, where I will be living, or sleeping, or staying.

I should be freaked out and scared and nervous about this drastic change. I should be planning out all the logistics and carefully thinking through this next step. After all, I am 35 years old. I should be more responsible. And this move is coming up fast: less than 2 weeks away.

The reality is: I am free as a bird. I am not accountable to anyone but myself. I have all the support I need, both inside and outside of myself. I trust in the universe to provide everything I need to maintain a life of joy and adventure.

I am uprooting and setting myself free. I should feel both excited and at ease about the upcoming change. And I do.

On war and peace

2009-07-20T10:11:00.002-04:00

Yoga master Lisa Matkin opened class last week speaking of the relationship between fear and separation. She asked us to start noticing whenever we felt afraid, particularly in the presence of another person. Lisa believes that this fear is a reflection of separation: feeling separate from that other person, feeling disconnected. Which of course is completely disjointed with yoga, the essence of which is union: union of mind, body and breath. Union of self and other.

So Lisa asked us to start by noticing whenever (and how surprisingly often!) we feel fearful. And she encouraged us to try and sense the union, the sameness, the connection between “us” and “them”... which by default would lead to acceptance, feelings of peace, and a natural diminishing of fear.

All this got me thinking about war, and how easy it is for most of us to look away and claim no involvement in a war that rages between two peoples far removed from the rest of us. War between Israel and Palestine. War between Russia and Chechnya. Between The West and Islam. Many of us have nothing to do with these conflicts, right? Why should we feel involved with them, or responsible for their existence?

OK then, what about the war between you and your husband/wife? You and your neighbor? You and your boss? How do you really feel about that stranger who seems to be so unlike you, maybe because they have a different religion or different skin color, or because they have less or more money than you do? Do these supposed differences make you feel scared or afraid or even just insecure around that other person? Do you have any thoughts of racism, or elitism, or just mild irritation toward another? Is it possible that you are at war, even if only through your thoughts, with any other human being?

And how about the war inside – that war that rages between you and yourself?

I ask this, because I have come to understand that this is where and how the big wars starts: small, with you. With me. And if this is true, which I wholly believe it to be, it carries with it a whole lot of implication… and responsibility. Because it just may be that every time there is a person (or situation) we feel separate from, different from, fearful or hatred or anger or annoyance toward, this is an expression of war. A small one, yes, but this is where it all starts. And it may seem insignificant to you, but when multiplied by the near 6 billion people on our planet, it starts to become unbearable. Next thing you know, we are at war. We are killing one another.

Imagine what the planet would look like if no one ever saw the other as an enemy, as someone to fear or distrust? What if we were all able to see in the other a true connection to ourselves? If we never felt separate or different from any other? Can you imagine what that would look like? (Are you hearing the John Lennon song?)

if we really do want world peace, which I think most of us do, shouldn’t we start by making peace with the guy who is talking loudly on his cell phone in the theater? Or the friend who flaked on dinner last night? Or that kid on the subway who looks just a little scary? Shouldn’t we clean up our own thoughts and relationships before we can start cleaning up the mess on Earth?

Look inside yourself. Who or what are you at war with? Can you recognize it? Can you make peace with it? Can you forgive, accept and feel grateful for the lesson learned?

I am not there yet, but I like to believe I’m a work in progress.

Mountain Views

2009-07-10T22:46:00.003-04:00

Maybe I was a bit harsh in my earlier post about Vegas. In addition to the phenomenal people-watching, I must admit there are some pretty great restaurants here, and lots of amazing sushi. Sushi Samba (and its Chu-Cucumber Saketini) hasn't disappointed for two nights in a row now.

And, I was fairly impressed tonight when I finally drew the shades - by remote control, of course - in my room and took in the view. This picture doesn't quite do justice, but the mountainous landscape surrounding this cultural abyss is quite stunning, and surprisingly serene.

Proof positive that every place has its own uniqueness, its own value. Sometimes, we just need to draw back the shades to see it.

Vegas Sucks

2009-07-10T16:10:00.004-04:00

Work has landed me in a pit. Las Vegas to be precise: The Tacky Capital of the World. I simply can’t stand it here. On the plane ride over, packed as always with barely-dressed, big-boobed vacationers and drunk-before-the-plane-departs bachelor party crowds, I told myself to keep an open mind. Maybe this time around, Vegas would reveal to me some of its mysterious allure that draws millions to its Strip every year.

48 hours down and I can pretty much confirm that my long-standing opinion holds true. Vegas sucks.

I will never understand why people spend (and gamble away) precious dollars and time to come here when there are a million other - better - destinations out there. This morning I saw a young couple wrapped up together, gazing out at the fake canal that winds through the fake piazza in the fake exterior of the Venetian Hotel. Isn't this just beautiful? she asked him. She was serious. And I am thinking, if you want to see Italy, why not just go to Italy? Flights are cheap these days... wouldn't it be more interesting and romantic to just go see the real thing? It probably works out to be about the same in cost, when all is said and done.

Am I nuts? Can someone explain to me what it is about this place?

Maybe it's the people-watching, for which Vegas is hands-down the best spot on the planet. An Idiot's Guide to Dressing Like a Hooker could be written from here. In fact, casinos should build in viewing booths for people to sit and watch the freak parade cruise through the halls. I for one would pay for a seat!!

Baggage Claim and Other Tales

2009-07-01T08:44:00.005-04:00

Being able to see airport baggage handlers do their job has to be THE most frustrating thing about air travel. Can anyone empathize?

I step off the plane at San Jose del Cabo airport and into the baggage claim terminal, a crazed New Yorker all in a tizzy to get going and get to the business of relaxing. The walls that separate inside from out are made of glass, which means I can watch the bags come off the plane and make their way to the conveyor belt. And there it is. My bag. Buried deep under about 50 other bags on the third of 3 piled-high luggage carts. I am relieved it wasn't lost in transit, but dismayed when I see what's going on out there. It seems one lone baggage handler is responsible for sorting through that pile of mess. Under a blazing afternoon sun, I can almost smell the sweat pouring into his eyes as he works, slowly sorting through hundreds of overstuffed suitcases. One by one, each bag is gently, deliberately, almost lovingly placed on the belt and sent off to meet its master. Two colleagues sit idly nearby, and just watch.

Are you kidding me? This could take all day! It takes everything in me not to climb onto that conveyor belt, crawl through that little window, grab my suitcase and go. Instead, I take a deep breath and recall that meditation experience I had just days ago. How quickly these lessons fade from our memory.

Along these lines, I have created some of my own New Rules for Air Travel:

1. Getting stuck in a middle seat does not entitle you to take up both armrests with your oddly-large elbows. Don't make your neighbors suffer because you do. Next time, go online and request an aisle or window seat like the rest of us.

2. If the flight attendant asks you to shut off your phone and stop talking, shut it off and stop talking. The rest of us want to take off. Your call cannot be that important. And if it is, you should have thought of that before you scheduled this flight.

3. If you are brave enough to use the airplane toilet, please lock the door. It's not difficult: just slide that little thingy all the way until it clicks and the light comes on. Outside, the door will read "occupied", and I won't walk in on you while you are doing your thing. It's really getting old.

4. Please don't ask the flight attendant to list out all the beverage options when he/she finally comes around. I am thirsty and you are taking too long to decide. You had plenty of time to peruse your choices in the in-flight magazine. Soda, juice, coffee, water... why is this so hard?

5. Regarding baggage claim: if you are a family of three or more, there is absolutely no reason you plus mom plus dad plus grandma plus your 10 kids plus your crated dog need to all wait by the conveyor belt for your luggage. Seriously folks, step back. Make room for others. And pull that luggage cart out of the way while you are at it. Try sending a willing representative from your own Brady Bunch to collect the bags instead. (Dad is usually a good one).

6. If the wall between outside and the baggage claim terminal is made of glass, please, draw the shades. This is one impatient traveler who doesn't want to know why it takes an hour for her bag to finally come around.

7. Savvy travelers: send me your own rules via comments below. I know you have some!

It's there if you look for it

2009-06-18T22:59:00.005-04:00

Tonight, finally, it all clicked. And oh what a feeling!

My heart raced, my breathing sped up, and I felt this crazy burst of energy spread throughout my entire body. I felt tingly and alive, everywhere! No, I didn't take drugs. And No, it wasn't that other thing that you are all thinking of right now (sick minds, people)...

After a draining, mat-drenching asana class at Jivamukti Yoga Center in downtown Manhattan, I decided to stay on for the Thursday Evening Meditation class. (By the way, this class is totally free.)

I was nervous, to say the least. I was always scared of meditation. Scared that I wouldn't be able to focus, or chill out the incessant thinking that I lovingly refer to as That Damn Voice In My Head, or that my back would hurt and I wouldn't be able to sit still for more than 2 minutes. My experience at an Ashram in India last fall was exactly that - all about the brain, the pain, the fear. That time, in India, it never clicked, and I just felt anxious and frustrated.

I don't really know what was different about tonight. Maybe it was the warmth of the room. Maybe it was the confident voice of Ganesh, the meditation leader. Or maybe I was just ready. And when it did happen, when I tuned in, turned down the volume on my brain, and stopped thinking about how much my back DID hurt; when I finally got still and quiet and truly, totally present, well.... Wow. There it was. Lightening bolt. Rush of energy. Inner Presence. Inner Being. The Inner ME that I have heard about and read about and totally understand on a cerebral level... but have never quite been able to grasp in the non-logical sense of the word. Until tonight.

After the class I shared my experience with Ganesh, and he kissed my cheek and wrapped me up into his huge arms as though he was welcoming me into a secret society for Those Who Get It. I left feeling totally high, and now I want more. I can see how meditation is something like a drug - an addiction - a natural high that sends you soaring. No wonder people do this! It's a feeling of utter joy. Pure bliss. And the cool part is, it doesn't cost a dime. Because it's right there, within me. And I am empowered and amazed to know that such a feeling can be accessed anytime, whenever I need it.

Maybe someday I will be able to reach for it and keep it with me all the time. Live in the bliss every moment of every day. For now, I got a taste of what pure joy feels like, and it's pretty darn incredible.

The crazy thing is, you can to feel it too. It's there if you look for it. If you can get still.

I want to be a dancer

2009-06-16T11:21:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, while riding the 103 bus headed uptown, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation taking place close by.

A young girl, maybe no more than 5 years old, sat with her father. She was apparently coming home from school and he from work. With the air of a typical (not yet out-of-work) Ivy League educated Wall Street guy, or maybe an attorney, he was perfectly dressed in a dark suit, carrying a dark briefcase, dark hair combed neatly into place.

Together they sat as she chomped away on a cookie. She looked up at her dad, her huge brown eyes reflecting pure innocence and complete admiration for this man.

"Daddy?" she said. "Do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"

She gestured for him to bend down so she could whisper this revelation into his ear. He leaned in close, but still her childlike whisper was loud enough for me to hear.

"I want to be a dancer!" Excitement spread across her little face.

Dad quickly sat up and straightened up, then launched into what became a lengthy diatribe on her future: the importance of attending a proper university; explaining the structure of higher education (undergraduate, graduate, etc); the number of years she should plan to go to school; his desire for her to become a socially-acceptable "professional" such as a doctor, or a lawyer. She sat, listening quietly, her 5-year-old dreams of being a dancer and doing something beautiful with her life vanishing before her young eyes...

I think my jaw may have hit the floor of the bus at some point during all this. It took everything in my power not to jump up and shake this man out of his own misguided ignorance. She is 5! I wanted to scream. Let her dream! Instead, I bit my tongue, turned away and tuned into my iPod. I simply couldn't listen anymore.

The official start of summer

2009-06-12T23:44:00.003-04:00

Have I had my head buried in the sand for the last few years? How is it possible I have never before heard of Josh Ritter? Better late than never, I suppose. And what better time to discover this ridiculously talented artist then tonight, at the Central Park SummerStage kickoff event.

The charismatic Josh Ritter -- backed by the iconic New York Pops -- accompanied by guest violinist Hillary Hahn -- a gorgeous poem read by author Mark Strand -- and the icing on the cake: a surprise appearance by my favorite contemporary artist, the great Glen Hansard.

Forget Summer Solstice. In my book, the opening of the SummerStage concert series marks the official start to summer. As if on cue, the skies cleared tonight after a long and dreary week of rain. The park filled with adoring fans. Josh and company rocked the stage.

And as I have done so often in the past, I began to wonder how I could ever consider leaving this great city.

Below, the poem read tonight by Mark Strand (accompanied by The Pops):

Black Sea
by Mark Strand

One clear night while the others slept, I climbed
the stairs to the roof of the house and under a sky
strewn with stars I gazed at the sea, at the spread of it,
the rolling crests of it raked by the wind, becoming
like bits of lace tossed in the air. I stood in the long
whispering night, waiting for something, a sign, the approach
of a distant light, and I imagined you coming closer,
the dark waves of your hair mingling with the sea,
and the dark become desire, and desire the arriving light.
The nearness, the momentary warmth of you as I stood
on that lonely height watching the slow swells of the sea
break on the shore and turn briefly into glass and disappear ...
Why did I believe you would come out of nowhere? Why with all
that the world offers would you come only because I was here?

On The 6

2009-06-09T10:41:00.005-04:00

I approach the Astor Place subway stop, headed uptown. It is late, near midnight, but the station is as crowded as always. I descend down multiple flights of stairs, treading slowly as the stairs are cracked and flooded by recent rains. I clutch the rickety banister, praying it doesn’t give way.

Waiting on the crumbling platform beneath rusty signs and broken tiles, I get a whiff of Eau d’Subway: a subtle blend of mildew, trash and urine. I wonder if people actually pee on the subway platform, or if the smell has wafted through the vents on sidewalks above. I have seen a dog or two relieving itself directly into these vents. Breathe through mouth, I think to myself. Think happy thoughts.

I want to look away, but like a train wreck (no pun intended) I can’t pull my eyes from the family of fuzzy rats skittering expertly across train tracks flooded in a sea of rain water, dejected soda cans and candy wrappers. They look perfectly at home.

An express train shrieks by, sending a gust of wind through the tunnel. Hair blows in my face as I plug my ears, trying to block out the piercing sound of metal scraping against metal. The mildly-drunk couple next to me eagerly explore the inside of each others' mouths, blissfully oblivious to their surroundings.

Finally, a 6 train pulls into the station. As I step inside, an empty bottle comes flying through the car doors, whizzing right past my head and landing on the platform. The thrower of this bottle sits casually inside the train, laughing; he seems to find this hilarious. I am annoyed, but one good look at him and I decide to keep my mouth shut. He is enormous – at least four times my size. A black Raiders cap sits backward on his oversized head, his jeans hang loose around his gigantic knees. He is a kid, a punk, probably no more than 18 years old. If I were my mom, I would say something witty and cutting to make him feel bad about what he did. But I am not my mom. And I really don’t need to get body slammed tonight.

I glance away, taking in instead the scene around me, the trash that blankets the sticky floor of the subway car, the streaks of dirt on the car doors. Most everyone who is standing holds tight to the metal bars that run overhead. I watch one guy diligently explore the inside of his left nostril, then reach back up to grasp the bar with the same finger that was just inside his nose. The woman next to me is devouring a slice of pizza, grease dripping down her chubby chin and onto the floor of the car. At the far end of the train, a man without a home is stretched out on a bench, sound asleep with his dilapidated old wheelchair sitting at his side. I can smell his urine-stained clothing from the opposite end of the car. It makes me sad.

The brakes squeal for mercy as the train pulls into the next station. A glittery 20-something in stretch pants stands at the door, ready to step out. As she waits to exit, the giant in the Raiders cap utters some sleazy, sexual comments to her, then cracks up at himself as she walks away in disgust. The doors close and the train lurches forward once again. Still laughing, he pulls out a miniature Bible and gets lost in its words.

Visit The Cloisters. Take food.

2009-06-07T23:53:00.004-04:00

Take the A Train to 190th Street. Walk about 15 minutes through the gorgeous Fort Tyron Park, following the path that winds along the Hudson River. Your reward: The Cloisters.

Today, after five years spent living just a few miles away, I finally made the trek to visit The Cloisters, a branch of the Metropolitan Museum located in northern Manhattan. And it was certainly worthwhile – particularly on a day as gorgeous as today happened to be. The museum, in all its medieval glory, is nestled inside Fort Tyron Park in the Inwood neighborhood of Manhattan. The park itself is gorgeous and immaculately maintained, and with sweeping hilltop views of the Hudson River, lush gardens, chirping birds and minimal crowds, you might for a moment forget what city you are in.

Now, I do not claim to be a lover of 12th-15th century medieval European art, which is the prized focus of The Cloisters. In fact, I know little about the subject and admit to have neared boredom after about 30 minutes inside. But as someone who is all about ambience (call me shallow) this stately structure does not disappoint. The medieval architecture (of the same time period, for those who are interested) is truly remarkable, offering a potent reminder of how enterprising and creative our ancestors were, and how completely lazy we are today… Ikea, anyone?

The maze-like construct includes a number of striking examples of unfathomable architectural ability, and the building is designed around a series of intimate courtyards – also known as cloisters, funny enough – that house trickling fountains, singing birds, plants in bloom… and the occasional child-on-a-leash. Beautiful and quite peaceful, The Cloisters is a smartly laid-out space that provides a welcome reprise from the frenetic pace of pretty much every other museum in Manhattan. The colorful gardens boast everything from medicinal herbs to poisonous flowers to your everyday root vegetable; listen in on one of the daily Garden Tours for details on how to cook up a mean veggie pottage, medieval style. If this lecture gets your gut growling, as it did mine, you might want to pop on over to the adjacent Trie Café for a more modern selection of café cuisine.

Or, maybe not.

Traveler’s tip: Before heading to The Cloisters, pack a picnic. The café inside the museum is anything but; on this busy Sunday afternoon, the café actually ran out of food. Nothing left but a few oranges and some slices of pound cake. Rapidly diminishing blood sugar levels brought an end to this museum visit, and so my friend and I ventured hungrily back into Fort Tyron Park in search of sustenance (but not without first considering that prized vegetable garden just around the corner).

Well, it seems as though the always-there-when-you-need-‘em hot dog and pretzel vendors that blanket New York City do not dare venture north of 125th Street. No food to be found in this park. Anywhere. We were nearing desperation, seriously contemplating whether we could crash some kid’s birthday party, when suddenly we spotted it up ahead. Like a beacon in the night, a lighthouse pulling us out of the starvation-induced fog… there was the Mister Softee truck.

Anyone who has spent a decent amount of time in New York City knows about Mister Softee: that ubiquitous white van that seems to sit on every corner of the city, playing creepy music while serving up overpriced ice cream sundaes and chocolate-dipped cones to overweight kids. I am not a huge fan of ice cream in general, and had not yet experienced Mister Softee personally. But clearly, today was the day.

As far as ice cream goes, a Mister Softee cone leaves much to be desired. In fact, it kind of sucked. But beggars can’t be choosers, and as I polished off that last miraculous trace of ice cream-drenched cone, I was grateful to acknowledge one simple and utterly reliable fact of life: when in Manhattan – anytime of the year, in any part of the borough – there will be a Mister Softee truck somewhere nearby. And it will be playing that creepy music.

And so my friends, the moral of the story is this: Visit The Cloisters. And if you dislike bad soft-serve as much as I do, take food.

KOOZA!

2009-06-07T19:55:00.006-04:00

It’s Friday night in New York City. The heavy summer rainfall that began early this morning shows no sign of letting up. Just like New Yorkers, rain in this city is no laughing matter; it is full of energy and alive with purpose. Each raindrop bounces off the hot pavement and clings to the bottom of your pants, soaking your ankles, flooding your toes, and sending your shoes flying from your slippery feet. (Fashion tip: wearing rubber flip-flops on a rainy day in this city is a very bad idea).

So, what to do on such a day? Option: hunker down, stay indoors, stay dry. Better idea: don sensible shoes, head out to Randall's Island, and step inside the fantasy world of musical and visual delights that is Kooza.

Cirque du Soleil's production of Kooza might just be the most fun I have ever had in a tent. (This from a girl who has spent a good deal of her life camping). Overshadowing the bleakness of Randall’s Island and compensating for a cruddy day of weather, the gigantic blue and gold-striped structure transforms its dreary surroundings into a happy and colorful place. The tent itself is a marvel, and from the moment I step inside, I am transported to another world: that carefree, circus-like world where reality disintegrates to make room for pure fun. Rain-resistant fun.

The performance itself is phenomenal. The story begins, thunderous music strikes, and the tent is brought to life as a sea of performers flood the stage, costumed in rich shades of red and gold. What ensues is purely amazing, and somewhere around 10 minutes in, I realize my face is frozen into an expression that is half stupefied grinning, half jaw-dropping awe.

Time and again, a thick red curtain set toward the stage’s rear is drawn aside, revealing one tremendous act after another: a duet of contortionists, two young women who might be triple-jointed if there is such a thing. In perfect unison, their bodies twist and curl into ridiculously impossible shapes that make my five years of yoga practice seem like an absolute joke. The bare-chested unicyclist, who never misses a beat (or a peddle) as he lifts and flips his lithe partner over and onto his head. There she stands tall and erect, her feet firmly planted into the top of his skull. The tight-rope walkers, the juggler, the high-flying trapeze artist, the crazy dude who climbs a ladder of chairs... one after another, an endless succession of impossibly fabulous acts unfolds, interrupted by silly interludes that call upon audience members to volunteer for some harmless public ridicule.

Throughout the show, the global blend of music is otherworldly – sometimes sensual, other times heart-pounding, always thrilling. Raised high above the stage is a small orchestra, and the lead singer, a beautiful Indian woman, has that kind of mesmerizing voice and presence that lifts you up and out of your seat. With her powerful voice as background, I remain transfixed on both her and the performance: one part horrified (how on earth did he do that?.... Oh god, please don’t fall!) and many parts amazed. Time and again, I find myself clutching at my face, squealing as though I were a teenager at a Beatles concert. By the end of the show, my neck hurts from looking up, my jaw hurts from laughing and my throat hurts from screaming. The lights come up and I step back outside, the smile planted firmly on my face. I barely notice it’s still raining.

No Problems in Jamaica

2009-06-03T23:04:00.010-04:00

Something funny happened on my way through Jamaica: I fell in love. Not with the dude in the photo above (sorry, mom) but with Jamaica. It’s true what they say: it always happens when you least expect it.

Jamaica had always fallen very, very low – to the point of nonexistent – on the long list of places I want to visit in this lifetime. When a business trip was scheduled to the island I wasn’t overly thrilled, but decided anyway to make the most of the experience and create a mini vacation out of it. After all, Jamaica does have sun and beaches, and I had a friend willing to meet me there. So I proceeded to plan the long weekend with low expectations; little did I know I would be blown away.

Nestled among the colorful family of Caribbean Islands, Jamaica stands out from the rest like a middle child: without too much effort, as though it was meant to be different. With deep roots in slavery and a rich African heritage, Jamaica presents a tapestry of individuality and flair unlike any other island culture I have witnessed. The people, the food, the music, the landscape... all go hand in hand with the often-spoken phrase “No Problem”, which may as well be the island’s national anthem. Jamaica is the land of no problem. Of seemingly untroubled souls. Of gleamingly bright smiles. Jamaicans are kind, considerate, hospitable, informed, and totally laid back. Maybe it’s the almighty herb that contributes to this general state of “whatever”. I'm not judging.

After a week of Luxury Imprisonment behind the concrete walls of The Ritz-Carlton Rose Hall in Montego Bay , I returned to the madness of the Montego Bay Airport to join up with my incoming friend. Together we boarded a Jamaica Tours Ltd. bus bound for Negril, and at the precise moment that bus pulled away from MoBay, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief for having escaped 5-star, culture-less, white-washed glitz. The oversized, overly-air conditioned bus was packed to the gills with eager tourists, but at $25 per person it was perfectly convenient. And with Derek as our driver and guide, we were treated to a 2-hour comedy routine and lesson on Jamaican culture, history, food and language. (According to Derek, a woman with a very large rear-end is said to have a “Wicked Bumper”. I still don’t know if this is a good or a bad thing).

As the bus inched slowly toward Negril, I watched Jamaica's stunning landscape unfold before me: forests of lush, green trees giving way to long stretches of white, sandy beaches; tranquil ocean waters as translucent as glass, glistening like diamonds in shades of turquoise and emerald green. I had arrived in Jamaica expecting nothing. Ten days later, I departed having discovered a glittering gem floating in the Caribbean Sea.

Below are the highlights – plus a few lowlights – of my experience in Jamaica. Content edited to be suitable for all audiences.

Xtabi on the Cliffs: Heaven on the Cheap
I fell in love with this quaint little resort, with its spotless rooms, inviting swimming pool, friendly service, and the airy, bright octagonal bar and restaurant overlooking the sea. As proof of my love, I devoted an entire post to this resort.

Rockhouse Hotel: Heaven on the Not-So-Cheap
This resort, just down the road from Xtabi, is all it’s cracked up to be and more. Maze-like stone paths wind through lush gardens, leading to sleeping cottages that sit precariously on the cliff’s edge. A gorgeous bar and restaurant space creates an intimate dining experience, and the on-property spa offers a full list of services at decent prices. Maximum peace, quiet and privacy are what you will be treated to at Rockhouse, not to mention unbeatable sea and sunset views… and a healthy dose of luxury.

Yoga Negril Center
A large, open-air yoga studio built of gleaming wood sits proudly amidst the tranquil gardens and cottages of this small hotel on Norman Manley Blvd. The Iyengar yoga class led by Fanette is slow-moving and of low intensity, but perfect for loosening up achy muscles after a long plane ride or one too many pina coladas. The “café” serves up a healthy menu of freshly-made treats including vegetarian omelets, yogurt and granola, and soy vanilla shakes. The Yoga Center is an adorable and homey place located right across the street from the glorious seven-mile beach, making it the perfect option for yoga buffs and solo travelers who want to feel safe and sleep beachside on the cheap.

Rick’s Café
Yes, it’s touristy and crowded and borderline cheesy. But this expansive, cliff-top bar and restaurant draws hundreds of people nightly for a reason. Blended cocktails, live reggae bands, a swimming pool and the daredevil antics of well-toned (read: incredibly hunky) cliff divers all work together to create the perfect atmosphere for watching the afternoon sun drop into the Caribbean Sea. The view is spectacular, the scene is lively and the drinks are reasonably priced, making Rick’s Café the perfect setting to kick off an evening of antics in Negril.

White Sands Negril: Where it’s all about the beach
This beachside hotel is less than spectacular, leaving much to be desired other than near-heavenly access to the seven-mile stretch of sand and sea that make Negril an incredible place to be. A lengthier review can be read at Virtual Tourist .

A few others worth the shout-out:

Patsy: A lovely lady blessed with the hands of a man. If you are lucky enough to discover Patsy resting idly on the seven-mile beach, you are in for a treat and one hell of a fresh-aloe foot massage. $8.00 and 20 minutes under the spell of this uncommonly strong woman will leave your feet and legs limp and bruised – in a good way.

Scotchies (MoBay/Rose Hall): Open-air Jerk Joint with three menu options scratched on a chalk-board: Jerk Chicken, Jerk Fish, Jerk Pork. Lively bar scene, good food, tons of flies, stray dogs, even a stray rat or two. A truly local experience.

Native (MoBay, on the Hip Strip): Amazing local cuisine, gorgeous open-air setting. Possibly the best meal I had in Jamaica. Go.

Cosmos On The Beach (Negril, Long Bay): Bad food, uninspiring ambience, lots of mosquitoes. Don’t go.

Shark’s Seafood Restaurant and Natural Juice Bar (Negril, West End): Overshadowed by the nearby and popular Alice’s, and so small you might just pass on by, this fairy-lit mom and pop establishment is 100% operated by mom and well worth a visit. For fantastic local cuisine with a serious kick of flavor, request your jerk cooked with “two spice” spiciness.

Bar 237 (Negril, Long Bay): Hoist yourself up onto one of the ridiculously tall benches at this spacious bar on the beach, and you won’t be disappointed. Blended cocktails, reggae tunes, beachfront location. Chillaxing…. Jamaica style.

Heaven On The Cheap

2009-06-02T15:05:00.005-04:00

For travelers who want to soak up the bliss that defines Negril but not spend a fortune on accommodation, Xtabi on The Cliffs in Negril, Jamaica is the ideal place to stay.

Nestled among the jagged cliffs that line Negril's West End, Xtabi is a small, intimate and rather quaint resort that boasts a nice variety of clean and spacious rooms to satisfy all budgets, and efficient, friendly service from the receptionists, management, and restaurant staff. Half of the property is located across the road from the sea, where standard but comfortable sleeping rooms are set against lush gardens and a well-kept swimming pool. If you are budget conscious, book a standard room in this area of the resort. The upper floor rooms are splendidly airy with high ceilings and balconies, some with views of the sea. Lower floors all have verandas that step out into the resort's gardens. This feels remote at first, but once you cross the road and get a glimpse of the view, you probably won't be spending much time in your room anyway!

The cliff-front side of the resort is freckled with funky, colorful cottages that sit atop the island's ledge, all surrounding an appealingly mellow bar and restaurant space from where you can lazily waste away the entire day, then enjoy a banana daquiri as you watch the sun spectacularly fall into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea. Sturdy ladders are built into the cliffs, offering an easy path to climb down into the cool water and explore the many sea caves and reefs below. If you are feeling adventurous, you could just dive right in - as long as you are given the "OK" from Andrew, Xtabi's hunky, daredevil watersports and diving guru, that it is a safe point from which to dive.

I was with a friend, and as two female travelers we felt completely safe and secure at Xtabi. We would often leave our personal belongings on lounge chairs when off snorkeling or swimming, and never once feared that something would get stolen. We felt as though the entire staff was looking out for us, and was helpful and kind if we needed anything at all.

As well, we appreciated being able to walk nearly everywhere we went. West End Road is not nearly as dangerous as some have made it out to be; from Xtabi we walked with ease to many of the surrounding resorts, food stalls and restaurants - including to the gorgeous Rockhouse Hotel. Of course, as you would anywhere, be safe and look both ways before crossing the very busy road!

All in all I loved Xtabi, and would highly recommend it to all future visitors to Negril.

Hawkish rants and raves

2009-05-31T13:13:00.008-04:00

A friend recently posted an extensive rant about North Korea's nuclear testing, with the advice to President Obama that he "go gansta" and "mafia style" and assassinate the DPRK leader: quinseyblog.blogspot.com

Below is my response.

With all due respect to your articulate and thoughtfully-worded rant, your advice for Mr. Obama is not only frighteningly extreme, hawkish, and reminiscent of disastrous Bush-era foreign policy, it is wholly and completely out of touch with the reality of the globalized world community in which we live today.

Today’s community of nations is one that is ruled by more than the internet and capital markets. In fact, even these two higher powers conduct themselves within the framework to which I refer: that of international law. Now, I recognize that for many disbelievers and cynics out there, “international law” invokes images of liberal, overly indulgent, United Nations-loving, human rights-preaching idealists who might climb or even hug trees in their spare time. But in reality, international law is a whole lot more than that (and I have a 1,700 page, 10-pound book to prove it). International law seeks to monitor nuclear activity among errant nations (I said “seeks”); provides a framework for the cross-border trade of goods, services and people; protects artists and researchers from piracy; streamlines foreign direct investment and multinational expansion; establishes laws against the sexploitation of children and provides refuge for internally displaced peoples; ensures the oceans remain independent yet protected territory. In a nutshell, international law is a good thing.

And without it, without the global rule of law that we consider so essential on a domestic level, the world order would be something like, well, Somalia. And while lawlessness and piracy on the high seas looks like a whole lot of fun in the movies (thanks in part to the brilliance of Johnny Depp) I don’t think this is the type of world we wish to live in, or one in which you want to raise your children.

The reason I mention all this, is because the advice which you offer to President Obama, beseeching him to “go gangsta” on the “commie ass” of Kim Jong-Il and assassinate him, would be none other than a blatantly illegal use of force, in complete and utter violation of the international laws that, for more than a century, have guided the manner in which nations enter into and conduct war. As a typically decent nation, we have for the most part (torture scandals aside) respected these laws, and have long recognized their value in protecting our own national security and the lives of our servicemen and women overseas. (I can hear your protest now… but just because one nation’s leader doesn’t follow the rules, that doesn’t mean we should all follow suit. I think we have learned that lesson time and time again.)

I will avoid commencing here on a diatribe about what the laws of war state, and what are the international laws and treaties that have long governed the use of force and the right to national sovereignty. I assume you know the basics, and thus can recognize that entering the territory of a sovereign state and assassinating its leader isn’t exactly justified under these long-standing rules.

And I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the U.S. is no longer a superpower that can act alone and in its own interests without consequences. Even Tom Friedman gets that we are just one member of a vast network of states on which we are reliant, and to which we are vitally and intricately connected. It is naïve and misguided to think that U.S. Navy Seals can parachute into the DPRK, kill its leader, and return home unscathed and without any repercussions to the global community. The world in which we live today is not a Hollywood movie, thankfully so. It is a lawful society, yet these laws will only work if we all abide by them – just like at home, within our own borders.

International laws aside, do something Bush/Cheney/Rumsfeld didn’t do: think about it. Setting aside the domestic havoc this would create within North Korea, as well as the likelihood that an extended post-Jong-Il occupation by the U.S. Army would be deemed essential (after all, not only is there not a single viable successor to the Jong-Il throne that we know of – apart from a potential puppet tied to US strings – the North Koreans do not exactly have substantial experience with the democratic process) there is no telling what kind of ripple effect such a belligerent move would have on the global community. China for one would not exactly be thrilled; one can only imagine the potential reaction of this highly significant and militarily capable nation.

And in any event, I ask you to name one time in history when taking out a dictator – or the leader of any nation – turned out to be a good thing for the United States. Recent history certainly proves otherwise, and I am pretty sure that a thorough review of all such historical events would reveal similarly disastrous results in the short or long run.

Finally, while your “fuck those guys” sentiment indicates an utter lack of compassion for the North Korean people, I would like to remind you that they are nonetheless human beings who just happen to have been given a dose of bad luck. And while they may be far away on a distant shore, they are nonetheless part of this human race, no better or worse than we Americans are. Two things we do have over them is wealth and freedom, and if these two gifts allow us to help a little by providing food aid to people that are starving, then this is what we as a decent society should do.

In essence, despite being a “neophyte” president with little foreign policy experience, Obama is a wise man. He recognizes the tremendous potential of our nation’s ability to wield soft power, and I for one voted for him because I had faith that he would conduct diplomacy as it was meant to be conducted: diplomatically. Free of threats and free of scare tactics that have proven to be futile and demoralizing to both us AND them, particularly during the past eight years. Therefore I am counting on this President to avoid such rash and hawkish moves like the one you suggest. And while I find your post amusing and mildly entertaining, I will sleep well tonight knowing that our President is not taking your advice.

thx 4 da tips

2009-05-27T22:47:00.004-04:00

My nephew has an email account. He is 11. This shouldn't frighten me, but it does - just a little. In part, it frightens me because it means I am old; old enough to have a nephew with a cyberspace presence, anyway. Scary indeed.

So yesterday, I sent him a long email message about his noble attempts and efforts to wear contact lenses. My message was written in proper letter format, as I learned to write long ago: salutation, introduction, body, concluding remarks, and a friendly sign-off. It was a thorough and thoughtful message, filled with encouraging sentiments on his ability to overcome any obstacle and succeed in getting those little pieces of plastic to comfortably stick to his eyes.

His reply came soon thereafter: "thx 4 da tips"

That's all. Nothing more.

This, my friends, is the future of written communication. Now I am really scared.

Pelosi-Gate

2009-05-18T16:31:00.002-04:00

Once again, I find myself in stunned awe of the national media’s ability – certainly with the help of the always-clever Republican Party – to so deftly toss, turn and flip an issue as though it were a pancake in a frying pan, until it’s completely clouded over by a storm of controversy, until our brains are so scrambled that we have completely lost sight of what truly matters.

Headline news: Nancy Pelosi. Inquiring minds want to know: What did she know about the CIA’s use of certain interrogation methods (a nice way of saying “beating the living you-know-what out of someone”), and when exactly did she know it?

Of course, these are important questions to ask and are worthy of further discussion and investigation. But this latest firestorm seems to be happening at the expense of the real issue here, the one issue that truly warrants – and desperately calls for – an extensive, soul-searching and truth-baring national conversation: the illegal, unsanctioned, immoral, and utterly abhorrent use of torture at the hands of official representatives of the good ol’ US of A.

Have the Democrats forgotten this? Has the media? Has our entire country? As usual, the lazy and poorly organized Democratic Party is missing a golden opportunity to turn the tables and shove this issue right back into the faces of their rivals (no, I am not condoning partisanship… ) – easy to do, no genius required. The torturous acts in question were conducted under the Bush administration; this we all know. And Nancy Pelosi was not alone when this supposedly “misleading” CIA briefing took place – Republicans and other Dems were present as well (though I can’t seem to pinpoint the names of exactly who was there). If the Dems were at all savvy, and for once would step up and go on the offensive, they could swiftly counter Pelosi-Gate with a reminder of what we are really talking about here. Instead, they collectively roll over and play dead in a painfully weak game of he-said-she-said.

The issue here is not Nancy Pelosi. The issue is, how on earth could the US engage in such criminal and despicable acts of torture… and get away with it? Where and how have we as a nation gone so very wrong? And what are we going to do about it?

Inquiring minds want to know.

A shout-out to PIT

2009-05-17T17:42:00.002-04:00

Clearly I must be bored if I can be so inspired and impressed by an airport.

But seriously, Pittsburgh International Airport just might be the most civilized airport I have ever seen. Coming from someone who spends more time in airports than in my own home, that is saying a lot. Multiple security lanes, no lines or backup or cranky TSA workers. Brightly-hued flight status displays every which way you look. Full service post office with friendly clerk. Decent range of food outlets, and a multitude of shops reminiscent of your favorite mall – Gap, Victoria’s Secret, Nine West and more. And the icing on the cake – free wireless throughout the airport… which you can take advantage of once you are done shopping, ladies.

I am returning home from a quick overnight trip to Pittsburgh, PA. As soon as I land back in NYC, I have to re-pack my bags, and turn right around to head to Jamaica, mon. Traveling is fantastic when it’s not for work. If only I could figure out how to make that happen… traveling for fun, that is, rather than for work. I am thinking a lottery win might do me good right about now.

Welcome, my loyal reader(s)

2009-04-29T22:38:00.017-04:00

EJL: Around The World and Back Again has officially relocated. To here. Welcome to my new home. I am so glad you have found me.

Some of you (read: very, very few of you – mom, best friend, possibly grandma) may know me from my now 1-year-old blog housed elsewhere. This blog started out as something of a casual experiment, a lazy way for me to share with friends and family back home (read: mom, best friend, possibly grandma) the tales, adventures and photos of one long, hot and sweaty summer spent working at the long, hot and sweaty 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing.

I never intended to make anything more of my entries, but I did leave the site open for public view and was surprised by the comments and feedback received from total strangers. At the same time, I couldn’t help but notice – confirmed and encouraged by, whom else, my folks – that I was beginning to develop a travel writing “voice” of my own.

So for the past year, based on this blogging experiment and rather biased opinions from the two people who birthed me, I have begun to daydream about the idea of becoming that elusive yet ubiquitous type of road warrior: The Travel Writer, that unsung hero who crafts the gorgeous words found inside my numerous travel guides, my bibles. I have marveled at the notion that I could actually get paid for doing the two things I love most: traveling and writing. Yeah I know, not paid very well… but paid.

One year is certainly long enough for daydreams, and I have decided that it’s time to take action. Time to take some risks, throw out a first pitch, and see if I have what it takes to make it as a writer. Foolishly perhaps, I have set a goal of getting something – anything – published by year’s end.

I had better get to work.

In the meantime, I will continue to hit the road and share my tales and adventures with you, my loyal reader(s). And as long as that damn pig flu doesn't slow me down, I will share all the mishaps, madness and mayhem here, at blogspot - which I believe to be a friendlier, easier-on-the-eyes format. I hope you agree.

I am thrilled you have found me here. And now that you have arrived, I invite you to sit back, make yourself comfortable, and take part in the adventures brought to you by me, one rather aimless yet adventure-hungry road warrior.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

PS: Feedback, comments, criticism kindly requested and greatly appreciated.