Normally, when you see someone walking down the street, limping, you assume that they are injured. A ski accident? Overexerting themselves in yoga? Maybe an old soccer injury flaring up? Yeah, not me. At least not this morning.
Ahh yes, for about 6 hours, I as one of *those* women. You know who I’m talking about. You know you’ve looked her up and down and thought to yourself – why would anyone put themselves through that? And more importantly, why would you wear those shoes if you can’t even walk in them? Because, let’s face it, while the look you were going for was more of the tall and slender and cute thing, what you really look like is a linebacker waddling down the street! Because despite that cute top, the silky skirt, the LV bag and your perfect hair and makeup, the fact that your legs are shaking as you teeter on your heels or the fact that you can barely shuffle your feet forward kind of ruins the effect!
Now, let’s get the facts straight, I can walk in heels. In fact, I’ve been known to run in said heels (across a street or to catch a train – not the marathon kind) or dance the night away without problems. But today, for a mere 6 hours, I became that woman. This morning, I decided that since I was wearing all black, I should dress it up with colorful tights. All in all, a great idea, except that this meant wearing black shoes: a scarcity in my closet, surprisingly. It all came down to two pairs: A pair of nine west shoes, which despite their 1.5 inch heel, are uncomfortable, and a pair of BCBG shoes that I bought in New York when I was there celebrating my 25th birthday because, simply, I had fallen in love with them. The BCBG shoes won based on the fact that I hadn’t worn them in a long time.
I easily made it to my car and drove over to BART, and as I took my first steps in my beautiful shoes, I immediately remembered why I had worn them so seldomly in the years that I’ve owned them: they were a size too big and mighty uncomfortable. So uncomfortable in fact, that after the first few steps, I debated getting in my car and driving back home to change, only to realize that there would be no parking if I did this, so I battled on. As I walked to BART, I assumed that everyone must be staring at me, because, well – if I were them, I’d stare too! Come on, a girl, trying to look cute, but barely able to take a step? Yeah, come on, it’s funny!
I honestly felt like I was hobbling, and then a light went off in my head! I could fake an injury! Yes, that’s why I was hobbling (should anyone ask), it’s because I hurt myself in yoga last night. Why didn’t I wear flats then? Simple, I don’t own any. Sneakers? Umm… I.. Stop badgering me with these silly and completely rational questions!
So I had my cover story, and should I fall randomly around the office or on my way to lunch, I could scream, for all those judgy people to hear, that I was injured!
By the time it came to lunch though, I couldn’t do it anymore. By the time I was half way to my favorite lunch place (which, by the way, is an entire block away), I was in such pain that I decided to walk an extra (painful) half a block and buy some new shoes. Yes, you heard right, I bought a new pair of shoes. In fact, not only did I buy a new pair, I wore them out of the store! As I sauntered over to my falafel place, I was so ecstatic to have a pair of shoes that fit, that I was doing (what felt like) the assertive model walk. I thought of the many ways that I could throw these awful, uncomfortable, yet pretty, shoes out, but then I just put them in the bag and figured I’d take them home, because, afterall, they are too pretty to throw out and hold dear memories of my 25th bday.
In other words, in a years time, when all memories of this awful and painful morning have faded from my brain, tune in to part 2 as I make the hobble of pain over to yet another shoe store to repeat this lovely experience
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Driving in the US
Anyone who knows me, knows that I love to drive. Not only do I love to drive, but I’m a darn good driver (though I fear now that I’ve said this out loud, err, written it, I’m jinxing myself and setting myself up for something bad, but let’s hope not). I take pride in the fact that I drive exactly like my father, who taught me to drive, but just less aggressively and possibly faster! That said, I know all the driving rules out there and follow them to a ‘t’, minus those pesky speed limit rules, because rules are made to keep us safe and I think that driving at 75, 80 or 85 mph is perfectly safe! ;)
I’m so happy to be back in the Bay Area, with like minded drivers, but having spent time and driving in Chicago, DC and Arizona over the last couple of years, I’m amazed by just how bad the driving in those places is! So bad and amusing, that I’ve opted to write an entire blog entry dedicated to the topic.
Chicago drivers aren’t bad drivers, but they are rather aggressive. Now, I’m a driver who can find a way to merge where-ever necessary, but these guys put me to shame! The concept of merging is simply lost in Chicago, where people don’t let you in, period. You might have the right of way, but no-one plays by that rule! Most of the time you have to close your eyes while driving (now, don’t *actually* do this or anything…) and hope that everything turns out alright. Also, Chicago, what’s up with the unpredictable traffic? Yes, we have traffic in the Bay Area and the rest of the country, but it generally adheres to the rules of rush hour, where-as in Chicago, traffic can spontaneously erupt on any given day and at any given time and make planning (yes, I’m a planner…) very difficult.
Arizona drivers are a special bunch. While there were many things I appreciated about driving in Arizona, such as being able to get on the freeway and drive at upwards of 85 mph (without the fear of a speeding ticket) or having several signs posted to warn me of an upcoming speed camera, the city drivers don’t actually seem to comprehend rules. I was there during the summer, aka scary rainstorm season, when power and stop lights seem to get knocked out far too often. Normally, when you come to an intersection, and the stop light isn’t working, you are supposed to treat it as a four-way stop. In case you don’t know, that an honest to G-d rule. So when I came to a light that was clearly knocked out, I stopped, only to be met with people behind me honking furiously, thinking I had stopped simply for the thrill of it! There were also the cases where I would stop and have to inch out into the intersection rather carefully because other drivers, well, simply didn’t. Nevermind the fact that with the evening downpours, people would still drive like maniacs down the roads (not safe, hence, not ok!).
And now we come to DC. Where-as Arizona drivers seem to not know the rules, DC drivers seem to have a few rules mixed up. For instance, a yield sign means that one should drive carefully and keep an eye out for other cars, but really does not mean “Come to a full stop and wait until there are no cars within a one mile radius before going!” However, a red stop light (as well as a stop sign), do actually mean Stop! In case you’re curious, a yellow light most certainly does not mean speed up, nor does a red light translate into ‘if you can speed up and get through the light in the next few seconds (which can be 5 seconds at times!!!), please go on ahead’. Oh one more lesson for DC area drivers: a double yellow solid line in the middle of the road does not mean ‘feel free to U-turn’, in fact, it means the exact opposite! And funnily enough, for the number of cops that are out there patrolling the highways for people “dangerously” speeding over the 55mph limit (trust me, it’s as painful as it sounds!), I didn’t see a single person get pulled over for breaking the red light or stop or u-turn rules!
And now we come to the lovely Bay Area, home of the ‘California’ stop and crazy speeding drivers! Ahh, how I’ve missed you all! This is refreshing because people actually follow rules here! A red light, magically does mean stop here! A stop means, well, actually, a stop here means come to a leisurely stop and keep rolling through, but really, compared to the rest of the country, this is something I can put up with! Yay for the Bay Area where people drive fast and follow most rules! Yet another reason for me to have greatly missed the Bay Area and be so happy to be back!
I’m so happy to be back in the Bay Area, with like minded drivers, but having spent time and driving in Chicago, DC and Arizona over the last couple of years, I’m amazed by just how bad the driving in those places is! So bad and amusing, that I’ve opted to write an entire blog entry dedicated to the topic.
Chicago drivers aren’t bad drivers, but they are rather aggressive. Now, I’m a driver who can find a way to merge where-ever necessary, but these guys put me to shame! The concept of merging is simply lost in Chicago, where people don’t let you in, period. You might have the right of way, but no-one plays by that rule! Most of the time you have to close your eyes while driving (now, don’t *actually* do this or anything…) and hope that everything turns out alright. Also, Chicago, what’s up with the unpredictable traffic? Yes, we have traffic in the Bay Area and the rest of the country, but it generally adheres to the rules of rush hour, where-as in Chicago, traffic can spontaneously erupt on any given day and at any given time and make planning (yes, I’m a planner…) very difficult.
Arizona drivers are a special bunch. While there were many things I appreciated about driving in Arizona, such as being able to get on the freeway and drive at upwards of 85 mph (without the fear of a speeding ticket) or having several signs posted to warn me of an upcoming speed camera, the city drivers don’t actually seem to comprehend rules. I was there during the summer, aka scary rainstorm season, when power and stop lights seem to get knocked out far too often. Normally, when you come to an intersection, and the stop light isn’t working, you are supposed to treat it as a four-way stop. In case you don’t know, that an honest to G-d rule. So when I came to a light that was clearly knocked out, I stopped, only to be met with people behind me honking furiously, thinking I had stopped simply for the thrill of it! There were also the cases where I would stop and have to inch out into the intersection rather carefully because other drivers, well, simply didn’t. Nevermind the fact that with the evening downpours, people would still drive like maniacs down the roads (not safe, hence, not ok!).
And now we come to DC. Where-as Arizona drivers seem to not know the rules, DC drivers seem to have a few rules mixed up. For instance, a yield sign means that one should drive carefully and keep an eye out for other cars, but really does not mean “Come to a full stop and wait until there are no cars within a one mile radius before going!” However, a red stop light (as well as a stop sign), do actually mean Stop! In case you’re curious, a yellow light most certainly does not mean speed up, nor does a red light translate into ‘if you can speed up and get through the light in the next few seconds (which can be 5 seconds at times!!!), please go on ahead’. Oh one more lesson for DC area drivers: a double yellow solid line in the middle of the road does not mean ‘feel free to U-turn’, in fact, it means the exact opposite! And funnily enough, for the number of cops that are out there patrolling the highways for people “dangerously” speeding over the 55mph limit (trust me, it’s as painful as it sounds!), I didn’t see a single person get pulled over for breaking the red light or stop or u-turn rules!
And now we come to the lovely Bay Area, home of the ‘California’ stop and crazy speeding drivers! Ahh, how I’ve missed you all! This is refreshing because people actually follow rules here! A red light, magically does mean stop here! A stop means, well, actually, a stop here means come to a leisurely stop and keep rolling through, but really, compared to the rest of the country, this is something I can put up with! Yay for the Bay Area where people drive fast and follow most rules! Yet another reason for me to have greatly missed the Bay Area and be so happy to be back!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Suburban Adventures
Today I got to see something I’d only heard rumors about, something that I was sure didn’t really exist, except maybe on Black Friday. But alas, there I was standing in line to get into Costco right with the opening bell at 9:30am on a Saturday. We arrived at 9:28 so we could secure the all important easy access parking spot and then grabbed a cart and waited in a queue that looked like complete disarray and reminded me of the “Parisian wedge”. I looked around and saw that young and old had gathered for their Saturday morning foray and desire to beat the dreaded Costco crowd.
Now let me tell you, if you’ve never been to a Costco in the suburbs on a Saturday or Sunday, take my word for it and don’t go. The aisles are full of people who’ve come to buy 5 lb mayonnaise jars and sample the chicken salad being offered up, pretending like they were really considering buying the 20 cans of chicken over their trusty ol’ friend: canned tuna. And if that’s not enough, the checkout line gets so long that no matter how much you were looking forward to the 20 muffins you bought or the 5 dozen eggs sitting in your cart, you’re tempted to just run away screaming and buy everything in semi-normal sizes at your local Safeway or Dominick’s.
Coming at 9:30am doesn’t sound so crazy now, does it?
I could see people arriving, with their Starbucks in hand, ready to tackle the shopping adventure that awaited. Some people came alone, others as couples and others even brought their children. At 9:33, when we still stood in the midst of a wedge, I heard a loud pounding. Apparently, one man had gotten so annoyed that Costco was not yet open (an entire 3 minutes behind schedule) that he decided to knock and remind them that there were people waiting.
As the gates began to open, the wedge condensed and people began trying to outmaneuver each other, because surely this had become a race. I saw a woman next to me, clutching her giant 2-pack of mustard, and trying to find some way to beat everyone inside and into the return line. Yes, she was there to return a giant 2-pack of mustard. Maybe she had come to her senses and realized that it would take her an entire lifetime to get through those 2 bottles, or maybe they were defective somehow. A part of me wanted to ask, but the more “rational” part yelled that I must focus on the line and not letting late-comers cut in.
And so, if you’re curious what it’s like to live in the ‘burbs, now you have a lovely picture and a practical suggestion: go to Costco early and you too may find a little bit of entertainment!
Now let me tell you, if you’ve never been to a Costco in the suburbs on a Saturday or Sunday, take my word for it and don’t go. The aisles are full of people who’ve come to buy 5 lb mayonnaise jars and sample the chicken salad being offered up, pretending like they were really considering buying the 20 cans of chicken over their trusty ol’ friend: canned tuna. And if that’s not enough, the checkout line gets so long that no matter how much you were looking forward to the 20 muffins you bought or the 5 dozen eggs sitting in your cart, you’re tempted to just run away screaming and buy everything in semi-normal sizes at your local Safeway or Dominick’s.
Coming at 9:30am doesn’t sound so crazy now, does it?
I could see people arriving, with their Starbucks in hand, ready to tackle the shopping adventure that awaited. Some people came alone, others as couples and others even brought their children. At 9:33, when we still stood in the midst of a wedge, I heard a loud pounding. Apparently, one man had gotten so annoyed that Costco was not yet open (an entire 3 minutes behind schedule) that he decided to knock and remind them that there were people waiting.
As the gates began to open, the wedge condensed and people began trying to outmaneuver each other, because surely this had become a race. I saw a woman next to me, clutching her giant 2-pack of mustard, and trying to find some way to beat everyone inside and into the return line. Yes, she was there to return a giant 2-pack of mustard. Maybe she had come to her senses and realized that it would take her an entire lifetime to get through those 2 bottles, or maybe they were defective somehow. A part of me wanted to ask, but the more “rational” part yelled that I must focus on the line and not letting late-comers cut in.
And so, if you’re curious what it’s like to live in the ‘burbs, now you have a lovely picture and a practical suggestion: go to Costco early and you too may find a little bit of entertainment!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Back to blogging!
I’ve decided to continue my blog. Why you ask? While I’d like to say that this is due to popular demand, I’m fairly certain that my only true ‘follower’ the last time around was my mom, so that’s not really a valid excuse. So I’ll just go with wanting to document anything and everything mildly amusing in my life. I’m not sure that it’ll be nearly as interesting and captivating as my commentary on all things French and Parisian, but life in the suburbs has got to be somewhat amusing, right?
For those of you not in the know, I recently moved to the DC area (Rockville, MD to be exact) to stay with my parents until I figure out what my next endeavor will be. I decided that given the amount of “crap” I’ve managed to accumulate in 2 short years and my desire to see the countryside, I would drive from Chicago to Rockville: a 12 hour 11 minute trip that I broke up in 2 days. I looked up the car prices and given the amount of stuff I would have to pack up, realized that I would need either an SUV or a minivan to be able to transport it all. However, who in their right mind really wants to drive a minivan? So I quickly settled on an SUV.
However, when I showed up at the Thrifty counter at Midway, the clerk looked at me, looked at his cars and I could immediately tell that my trip would not start off well. He didn’t have an SUV for me, but upon learning that I was moving my stuff 680 miles, he offered me “the perfect solution”… a Dodge Caravan a.k.a. my nightmare: a minivan. No, I don’t think that nightmare is the right way to describe it. In fact, a nightmare seems light and fluffy compared to this. This was more like my own personal version of hell, or hell freezing over? No, more like an ice age hitting hell. Now, maybe this was the perfect solution, because in reality I actually would have needed to accumulate twice as much stuff to have filled the car up, but it was a minivan, and in my world, minivans are horrific inventions full of loud children that are driven by soccer moms at 50 mph on the freeway (in a 65mph zone).
I took a deep breath and got behind the wheel of this animal and decided that really it couldn’t be so bad. In fact, I have to say that the car itself was not so bad and drove quite nicely with me often catching myself nearing 90 mph. However, the one thing that I was quite amused by was the camaraderie that Caravan drivers seem to feel for one-another and the hatred that other people feel for this car (me included).
Now, maybe it was the fact that at my speed it’s really hard to compete, but even when I did slow down, other Caravans would not pass me. They would get behind me and ride my happy speeding wave. The creepiest moment though, was when, another Caravan driver actually waved to me. Yeah, seriously, he waved. I think if ever there was a case for Caravan drivers being weird, that would be the cherry on top.
However, I will say that other people are quite mean to Caravan drivers. Even when I was going 80 + mph, people would still give me dirty looks. Now, maybe soccer moms in the left lane going 50 mph might deserve a dirty look or five, but me, in the right lane, cruising along at 80… I think not! Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to pass Caravan drivers and have no interest in ever owning one of these things no matter how decently it happens to drive, but it does make for amusing observations.
For those of you not in the know, I recently moved to the DC area (Rockville, MD to be exact) to stay with my parents until I figure out what my next endeavor will be. I decided that given the amount of “crap” I’ve managed to accumulate in 2 short years and my desire to see the countryside, I would drive from Chicago to Rockville: a 12 hour 11 minute trip that I broke up in 2 days. I looked up the car prices and given the amount of stuff I would have to pack up, realized that I would need either an SUV or a minivan to be able to transport it all. However, who in their right mind really wants to drive a minivan? So I quickly settled on an SUV.
However, when I showed up at the Thrifty counter at Midway, the clerk looked at me, looked at his cars and I could immediately tell that my trip would not start off well. He didn’t have an SUV for me, but upon learning that I was moving my stuff 680 miles, he offered me “the perfect solution”… a Dodge Caravan a.k.a. my nightmare: a minivan. No, I don’t think that nightmare is the right way to describe it. In fact, a nightmare seems light and fluffy compared to this. This was more like my own personal version of hell, or hell freezing over? No, more like an ice age hitting hell. Now, maybe this was the perfect solution, because in reality I actually would have needed to accumulate twice as much stuff to have filled the car up, but it was a minivan, and in my world, minivans are horrific inventions full of loud children that are driven by soccer moms at 50 mph on the freeway (in a 65mph zone).
I took a deep breath and got behind the wheel of this animal and decided that really it couldn’t be so bad. In fact, I have to say that the car itself was not so bad and drove quite nicely with me often catching myself nearing 90 mph. However, the one thing that I was quite amused by was the camaraderie that Caravan drivers seem to feel for one-another and the hatred that other people feel for this car (me included).
Now, maybe it was the fact that at my speed it’s really hard to compete, but even when I did slow down, other Caravans would not pass me. They would get behind me and ride my happy speeding wave. The creepiest moment though, was when, another Caravan driver actually waved to me. Yeah, seriously, he waved. I think if ever there was a case for Caravan drivers being weird, that would be the cherry on top.
However, I will say that other people are quite mean to Caravan drivers. Even when I was going 80 + mph, people would still give me dirty looks. Now, maybe soccer moms in the left lane going 50 mph might deserve a dirty look or five, but me, in the right lane, cruising along at 80… I think not! Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to pass Caravan drivers and have no interest in ever owning one of these things no matter how decently it happens to drive, but it does make for amusing observations.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Last day in Paris!
Per wiki, my source of all information: Grief is a multi-faceted response to loss, particularly to the loss of someone or something to which a bond was formed. Although conventionally focused on the emotional response to loss, it also has physical, cognitive, behavioral, social, and philosophical dimensions.
I would like to amend this definition for myself as being “the loss of the bond I have developed with Paris.”
As we all know, grief has 5 stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. And I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing all five.
Denial
I was supposed to be leaving this coming Sunday to go back to the US. So, I’d been telling myself that this time was far far away and that I still had plenty of time to soak in Paris and its beautiful sights, streets, food, nightlife and people (both French and non-French – aka my lovely new friends). Unfortunately for me, lovely British Airways has decided to strike. Now upon learning the news that my flight could be cancelled and that my best option would be to re-schedule and leave earlier, I refused to internalize this option and instead went for a walk and ended up climbing the Arc de Triomph.
Anger
Upon my return home, I angrily called BA and cut my trip short. My poor roommate had to deal with my complaining (as well as the entire facebook community) over cutting 3 days. But damn it, those were 3 days during which I was going to go to Mont St. Michel, do some overdue shopping, throw in some more night outings, meet up with new and old friends explore more of Paris, oh and finally find my French boyfriend… Stupid BA! I don’t want to leave Paris this early. It’s unfair. Stealing 3 days from me is just not nice!
Bargaining
Ok, so now instead of nine full days, I only had 6. When does the strike end again? Half way into week one of classes in Chicago? I wonder if I can come back then? I don’t really need to attend week 1, do I? I could stay in Paris, in the apartment until the 31st? Right? No? Why not? Ok, so all silly ideas aside, I’m heading home 3 days early. 6 days. How do I cram everything in. Loire Valley? Check. Climb Notre Dame? Check. Walk to Eiffel Tower and back? Russian Saints exhibit? Louvre visit #4? Check and check again. Who wants to go to L’As du Falafel? Cassoulet? Dinner with friends? Drinks? Foie Gras? Last minute presents? Check and check and… As a good MBA student, I made a list. I then prioritized said list into must do’s and only if there is time. I then worked out the best walking routes to optimize my time… Ok, so I wasn’t that thorough… (well no, I was, I just don’t want you to think I’m crazy…)
Losing three days? I guess I don’t have time to go to the gym. I must make use of the time I have, so I’ll just walk around the city!
But wait, if I’m losing 3 days here, I’m gaining 3 in Chicago. Fine. I’m losing one day with friends here. Well then, I’m going to line up breakfast, lunch and dinner plans for when I return. One day less of sightseeing here? Well, it’s no Tuileries, but the park north of the river in Chicago will just have to do for a walk. Maybe I’ll even rent a bike and ride it all the way to Kellogg ;) Maybe that will be my new Eiffel Tower.
Depression
While I was walking down the river Seine, I was overwhelmed by my love and passion for all things Paris. But as I went to my favorite places for a last time (as the Russian superstition says, never say last time, just last time during this trip) I was overwhelmed by a new thought. I was going home. And as happy as I am to be seeing my friends, this is the last time I’m eating L’As du Falafel, or having cassis Berthillon ice cream, or… you get the picture. And as I walked down the Pont des Arts, I even got misty eyed about not seeing couples making out everywhere once I’m back in Chicago. Even walking up to the 5th floor of my apartment (this is the French 5th floor…) I got… oh who am I kidding, this is one of the things I am super excited! Elevators here I come!
Acceptance
I’m going home. Paris, this has been one of the most amazing experiences of my life and I’ll miss you, but I have amazing memories of the last 3 months. While it’ll never be the same, it’s not my last time here. And in Arnold’s words, “I’ll be back”. I’ll bring my friends and I’ll take them to my favorite spots. Someday, I’ll bring my husband, and we’ll put a lock on the Pont des Arts, throw away the key and make out (on the metro). And, one day I’ll bring my kids, and I’ll show them where their mom used to walk and introduce them to L’As and Berthillon, and make them climb up Notre Dame to see the gargoyles (and of course, I’ll dress them in adorable French clothes!)
I have to bid au revoir to my new friends (in the French style, with kisses, of course!), but I can’t wait to hug my wonderful friends back home hello and catch up with them about the last three months and make more memories in Chicago! I guess it’s time to leave this magical forest and return to the rest of the fairy tale.
I would like to amend this definition for myself as being “the loss of the bond I have developed with Paris.”
As we all know, grief has 5 stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. And I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing all five.
Denial
I was supposed to be leaving this coming Sunday to go back to the US. So, I’d been telling myself that this time was far far away and that I still had plenty of time to soak in Paris and its beautiful sights, streets, food, nightlife and people (both French and non-French – aka my lovely new friends). Unfortunately for me, lovely British Airways has decided to strike. Now upon learning the news that my flight could be cancelled and that my best option would be to re-schedule and leave earlier, I refused to internalize this option and instead went for a walk and ended up climbing the Arc de Triomph.
Anger
Upon my return home, I angrily called BA and cut my trip short. My poor roommate had to deal with my complaining (as well as the entire facebook community) over cutting 3 days. But damn it, those were 3 days during which I was going to go to Mont St. Michel, do some overdue shopping, throw in some more night outings, meet up with new and old friends explore more of Paris, oh and finally find my French boyfriend… Stupid BA! I don’t want to leave Paris this early. It’s unfair. Stealing 3 days from me is just not nice!
Bargaining
Ok, so now instead of nine full days, I only had 6. When does the strike end again? Half way into week one of classes in Chicago? I wonder if I can come back then? I don’t really need to attend week 1, do I? I could stay in Paris, in the apartment until the 31st? Right? No? Why not? Ok, so all silly ideas aside, I’m heading home 3 days early. 6 days. How do I cram everything in. Loire Valley? Check. Climb Notre Dame? Check. Walk to Eiffel Tower and back? Russian Saints exhibit? Louvre visit #4? Check and check again. Who wants to go to L’As du Falafel? Cassoulet? Dinner with friends? Drinks? Foie Gras? Last minute presents? Check and check and… As a good MBA student, I made a list. I then prioritized said list into must do’s and only if there is time. I then worked out the best walking routes to optimize my time… Ok, so I wasn’t that thorough… (well no, I was, I just don’t want you to think I’m crazy…)
Losing three days? I guess I don’t have time to go to the gym. I must make use of the time I have, so I’ll just walk around the city!
But wait, if I’m losing 3 days here, I’m gaining 3 in Chicago. Fine. I’m losing one day with friends here. Well then, I’m going to line up breakfast, lunch and dinner plans for when I return. One day less of sightseeing here? Well, it’s no Tuileries, but the park north of the river in Chicago will just have to do for a walk. Maybe I’ll even rent a bike and ride it all the way to Kellogg ;) Maybe that will be my new Eiffel Tower.
Depression
While I was walking down the river Seine, I was overwhelmed by my love and passion for all things Paris. But as I went to my favorite places for a last time (as the Russian superstition says, never say last time, just last time during this trip) I was overwhelmed by a new thought. I was going home. And as happy as I am to be seeing my friends, this is the last time I’m eating L’As du Falafel, or having cassis Berthillon ice cream, or… you get the picture. And as I walked down the Pont des Arts, I even got misty eyed about not seeing couples making out everywhere once I’m back in Chicago. Even walking up to the 5th floor of my apartment (this is the French 5th floor…) I got… oh who am I kidding, this is one of the things I am super excited! Elevators here I come!
Acceptance
I’m going home. Paris, this has been one of the most amazing experiences of my life and I’ll miss you, but I have amazing memories of the last 3 months. While it’ll never be the same, it’s not my last time here. And in Arnold’s words, “I’ll be back”. I’ll bring my friends and I’ll take them to my favorite spots. Someday, I’ll bring my husband, and we’ll put a lock on the Pont des Arts, throw away the key and make out (on the metro). And, one day I’ll bring my kids, and I’ll show them where their mom used to walk and introduce them to L’As and Berthillon, and make them climb up Notre Dame to see the gargoyles (and of course, I’ll dress them in adorable French clothes!)
I have to bid au revoir to my new friends (in the French style, with kisses, of course!), but I can’t wait to hug my wonderful friends back home hello and catch up with them about the last three months and make more memories in Chicago! I guess it’s time to leave this magical forest and return to the rest of the fairy tale.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Attacked...
So last week, I was attacked on the streets of Paris. I had just walked all the way to the Tour Eiffel, and was walking by the pedestrian bridge near-by when I saw her. Yes, her. Or at least I’ve decided it was a her. Now, I’ve had plenty of situations where someone pegged me as a tourist and tried one of the old, generic tricks to rip me off. There’s the ever so clever ladies who walk around touristy areas asking if someone speaks English, or the men who come up to me asking for directions, while showing me a piece of paper (I’m assuming in an effort to get me to pay more attention to the paper than to my bag). And then there is my favorite trick - the one where I laugh at the person trying to swindle me – the ring drop. Yes, I’ve had this happen to me a dozen times, and at this point, I literally just laugh in the person’s face. In fact, last time I ad-libbed a “Sérieusement?! C’est très drôle!” – though I think the perpetrator was not nearly as amused as I was at my humor. It has come to the point where I’ve joked that I want to take these people aside and tell them that everyone knows this ruse and they need to think of something different!
So maybe I should be careful what I wish for and maybe it is my desire for a different type of attack that God decided to answer. No, my attack did not come in the form of being ripped off by any of these expected perpetrators or in any of the expected forms you are likely thinking of. Meet my perpetrator.
She looks cute enough. When I saw her, I pulled out my camera and began snapping away. Like a good little cat, she sat down on the steps, looked directly into my camera and proceeded to do cute things and pose. When I asked her to act like a tiger and make love to the camera, she did. I felt like a cat-whisperer as she obeyed my direction and I hoped that I got some great shots.
I then decided that I would try to reward her efforts by petting her, if she would let me. I was surprised to feel a collar around her neck and further surprised by her rubbing up against me and my hand, as if asking me to pet her! Truly, I was a cat whisperer! I had finally mastered the connection that I’ve rarely found with other cats.
Ahh, yes, how deluded am I?! At this point, the cat, mistaking me for a toy, decided to sit up on her hind paws, wrap her front paws around my hand and dig in! Yes, she bit me. And then, as I pulled my hand away, she scratched me. But then she decided to rub against my hand some more. Odd, were we playing? We must be. Either that, or I’m a glutton for punishment, as I decided to pet her some more. The thanks I got? Another “love” bite. After three or four attempts to reclaim my cat-whisperer status (apparently, I’m slow), I finally gave up, snapping one last picture of said cat and leaving to lick my wounds.
So maybe I should be careful what I wish for and maybe it is my desire for a different type of attack that God decided to answer. No, my attack did not come in the form of being ripped off by any of these expected perpetrators or in any of the expected forms you are likely thinking of. Meet my perpetrator.
She looks cute enough. When I saw her, I pulled out my camera and began snapping away. Like a good little cat, she sat down on the steps, looked directly into my camera and proceeded to do cute things and pose. When I asked her to act like a tiger and make love to the camera, she did. I felt like a cat-whisperer as she obeyed my direction and I hoped that I got some great shots.
I then decided that I would try to reward her efforts by petting her, if she would let me. I was surprised to feel a collar around her neck and further surprised by her rubbing up against me and my hand, as if asking me to pet her! Truly, I was a cat whisperer! I had finally mastered the connection that I’ve rarely found with other cats.
Ahh, yes, how deluded am I?! At this point, the cat, mistaking me for a toy, decided to sit up on her hind paws, wrap her front paws around my hand and dig in! Yes, she bit me. And then, as I pulled my hand away, she scratched me. But then she decided to rub against my hand some more. Odd, were we playing? We must be. Either that, or I’m a glutton for punishment, as I decided to pet her some more. The thanks I got? Another “love” bite. After three or four attempts to reclaim my cat-whisperer status (apparently, I’m slow), I finally gave up, snapping one last picture of said cat and leaving to lick my wounds.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Paris je t'aime!
Many of my friends back home, when asking how my stay in Paris is going, make remarks about my love hate relationship with Paris. Fair enough since Paris and I have definitely had our ups and downs. The biggest down being the stupid and rude French bakery person, which happened to coincide with the day before I headed to London (hence, leaving on a low note here meant a really high review of London, not that London wouldn’t have been great otherwise, I’m just sayin’). In any case, since I’m now facing my last week in Paris, I’ve been walking every night and day and just taking in the “I live in Paris” feeling that one can only get by leisurely strolling through the streets and on the river bank.
It’s sad to think that I’ll be leaving in a week, when I feel like I’ve only now gotten my bearings. When lost tourists ask me where something is, I can actually tell them! Even when the French ask me where something is, I can normally tell them, in French! In fact, I swear, I think my French is finally starting to pick up, better late than never I guess (though it is causing issues in my poor brain, which is fighting to keep Russian, English, and French straight)! I guess I will just have to keep practicing until I come back to experience it all over again!
Yesterday, I decided to walk along the river to Pont Alexander III and noticed all the lovely couples and people hanging out by the water, so on the way back, I decided to walk right on the river! And that’s when it hit me. It was like a wave washing over me. I love Paris. Now, this may seem silly because I have proclaimed this before. But, I really and truly love Paris. Before Tuesday, I loved Paris because it was a beautiful city and had lovely landmarks and such, but after that stroll, it truly hit me that I just love Paris for its “ambience”. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s finally spring, and the city is alive, but just being able to walk on the river and see kids hanging out and people bustling all around me, I just felt like I was almost seeing Paris for the first time again.
I’ve talked to many a Parisian (and others as well) who says that Paris is so romanticized, when in fact, it’s not nearly that romantic. But really? How can you say that? Have you ever walked on Pont des Arts and seen the couples picnicking? The locks symbolizing eternal love? The trees on the bank that have lovers’ initials carved into them? Sure, maybe it’s hokey and silly, but it’s also romantic and sweet.
And so this feeling of absolute love washed over me. But in that same walk, I felt a bit of a panic because my time here is drawing to a close. It’s like realizing you’ve met your soulmate and then realizing that you have one week left with him. I know, I know, I sound hokey and sappy, but that’s what Paris has done to me (for better or worse). The time I have spent in Paris, thus far, has been amazing and knowing that I am about to be separated from my ‘love’ makes me want to spend every waking moment with it. And so, I shall. My list of sights now includes the Loire Valley, climbing Notre Dame and checking out Invalides. But the most important things that I intend to drink in will simply be the walks along the Seine and through the gardens and little streets. My favorite walk (which I’ve done each of the last two days) is from Bastille, to Hotel de Ville and Notre Dame, along the river to the Louvre and the Tuileries gardens to Concorde and up to Champs Elysees, then to Palais de Tokyo, over to the other side and then back across Pont Alexander III, then taking the steps down to the river and walking all the way to Pont des Arts, where I cross back to Rive Gauche and walk back to Notre Dame and then through Ile St. Louis and then back to Bastille. So if you’re looking for me in Paris, this is where I’ll be every evening of the next week, drinking in every Parisian moment that I can
Paris, je t’aime.
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