last day paris

Not much time to write, this my last day in Paris, but there are stories still to post, from walking at Versailles and other museums, so I will try to catch up when I am back in London tomorrow (more curry!). Its raining here, still, so off to museums and shopping...

Happy Friday and happy anniversary critical mass - rock out for me!

Falafel!

By popular demand here are a few foodie tidbits from Paris:
First, almost everything I have eaten here in a pita, resembling mediterranean or north african food has been AWESOME, even the pita with shawerma and french fries (yes the little golden fried potatoes were IN the pita...though technically at that point I think I was eating Lavash). While odd it was alarmingly tasty. Maybe it was the garlic sauce they slathered on there?!

Second, I have had the BEST falafel ever! Sorry to Bongo Burger back home - your persian burger is still tops with me though - and nothing against the eggplant sandwich at Einstein's (is it still there by the way?) but the falafel et aubergine (ok I know a few CHOICE words in French such as the ever important eggplant) ROCKED MY WORLD! I hate to say it but I attribute it to a bit of the whole capitalism thing - because there's a corner here in the Marais district of Paris with 3 really good falafel places (probably more, but 3 big ones), and when you're up against that kind of competition, as opposed to another pizza place or cafe, I am thinking you have to be really good at what you do...actually all three are better than any falafel I've had back home.

Third, sorry to the vegetarians on the list, but I suddenly love shawerma and think we all just need more of it...yeah, don't get me started on how bad it must be for me, but anywhere that I have had the galette libanais, or the libanais sandwich, its always been good - and much cheaper and faster on the go at lunch than sitting down in a cafe/restaurant...the sitting is for later, when you're tired from all the walking and need more coffee or that cold beer at 4pm (yea for vacation!).

Fourth, I am unclear exactly on how the falafel and Lebanese places really expect a girl like me to walk around while eating one of these creations, dripping with sauce and overfilled with stuff...so yes, like trying to eat a Taco Bell crunchy taco (oh, did I say that? no, no, I've never been to taco bell on guerrero in the middle of the night...mmm, never!) I have ended up wearing about some variety of garlic sauce, hummous, cabbagey thing or bit of sandwich about. Maybe an argument for the sitting down to eat...or ask for more napkins, and watch your scarf.

Fifth, is there a really good Moroccan food restaurant in SF? The best Moroccan food I'd ever had until now was from this little joint near the center of Lisbon, but that has now been trumped by Paris. Both places were so good that I have to say I am converted, I think I can honestly say I like couscous.

That's about it for the foodie news for now...and I only hit on the street/mediterranean food...yea, sorry to the foodies reading, but there's not enough room to tell you about the coffee, the wine, baquettes, croissants, desserts, fromage (another VERY important french word = cheese!) and all the things they have here that I would place under the titles of either sauce or gravy. mmm - Paris IS yummy!

PS - the internet cafe has been blasting ABBA for the past half hour while I typed this

times its ok to point

Travelling always has its little tidbits - things that we have to unlearn, do differently, to move forward in a new place. I remember years ago, travelling with Romel in Portugal, he was outraged by my complete inability to point, to which I simply said "my mother taught me not to point," but I had to admit he had a point (god is that the WORST pun ever?!!) there are times it might come in handy. Over the years I have examined the pointing thing, and now back in a country where, well, my french sucks, I have been trying it out - so here's my very short list of times its ok to point.

On the sidewalk - to mark the dog doo for those following and/or not paying attention

While giving directions - to provide the bearing a person should go in
I should like to note here, however, that after they figure out I'm a) not French and b) can't speak French they rarely trust that I actually know where I am and can help them get where they want to go so the pointing here is a bit useless.

At the boulangerie/butcher/food or ice cream window - to indicate the baguette, croissant, flavor you want. A girl's gotta eat!

So, there's probably a lot more, but hey, I'm just getting started on this whole pointing thing, so please comment and list the occassions upon which you'd say its ok to point.

if snails could dream

a short note to my father - about (of course) the weather and rocks of paris

The weather here in Paris has been cold and rainy - reminding me of autumn at 9 Slate. Sunny in the morning, making one think they can go out without an umbrella, but with rain coming in the afternoon - I will not be fooled...again, anyway.

I saw an evening rainbow over the Seine yesterday as the sun broke free from the clouds above to shine its long horizontal light on Paris just before setting.

You never told me about all the fantastic rocks they used to build Paris. I sat at a tiny cafe bar the other day, brass on top of marble, like some of the beautiful marbles at Versailles, with creamy green, maroon and white colors mashed and swirled together. Walking this morning on this granitic rock with large crystals behind the Musee D'Orsay I noticed large black inclusions reminding me of giant mudstones, but I know better for this rock was born in the heart of an old volcano, never touching river or ocean.

And the snails in the limestone that's everywhere - do you suppose if snails could dream, they ever would have imagined that they'd be here, with all their friends, lining the Seine millions of years after their death?

things I love about my friends

many of you have some light in your eye or a laugh that makes me feel light inside, or sage words in those key moments - so please forgive me if I forget to mention you here, but these are the handful of things I was really thankful for when I awoke this morning in my little north african themed hotel near Pont Neuf.

Ankur...for--via Deep--introducing me to Mika whose poppy piano tunes play in stores in Paris and on my pod keeping me company over here.

Isabel...for handing me that sweater saying "it's fall there , it'll be cold, you should find room for this in your bag"

Mike (& Alexandra)...for always reminding me that the truth is always kind...always, always...(thanks monkeys!)

Michelle...for sharing your stories, unsinkable spirit and that great smile - we will write and dance when you're home in SF

Charles-Henry...for sharing your friends, wine, and dinner in your garden under the stars

Jen...for opening the door to your piece of paris, filled with poets and literati - and letting me come inside, you are truly wonderful

Palak, Chris, Eric, Deep, Zabed, Kath and everyone else who sent notes, quips, jokes, dance updates and other bits of news from home - all of them like little guylines, bringing me back down to earth - you make me smile

Adrian and Laur and everyone who commented on and off the blog - for encouraging, pushing and daring me to write, post and write more.

Happy Autumnal Equinox

Sitting in the forum in front of Saint Eustache church in Paris, in the Jardin (park) near the Forum des Halles, there are a few Parisiennes still here from the picnics of the day, laughing with their friends, prolonging the weekend a bit longer into the evening, before the work of tomorrow begins. The sculpture in the forum - a giant stone head and hand - stares out past me up at the sky, where clouds, light lavender puffs in a bright sapphire sky, drift over, at once exposing the nearing full moon, then obscuring it.

There is a violinist playing somewhere in the trees, the music wafts out into the square like a rich smell from the kitchen. This is Paris, there is music and art and love and history and people all around. I walked here, through streets, past cafes, over Pont Neuf and through the park, and yet, somehow I am still unclear on exactly how I came to be here. The night is warm so in moonlight and shadow I keep walking, I can't not.

happy autumnal equinox to my friends and family!

a lot drunk and still in love

Having trouble writing something worth posting that isn't either too A.D.D. - jumping all over, but landing no where - or like a intoxicated person's wanderings - disconnected so as to never be understood. Honestly, I feel drunk all the time now, and have that quesy feeling in the pit of my stomach - like when I fall in love and am not sure of anything yet- can't eat, having trouble sleeping, it feels like love.

I capture my writing in bits and pieces as thoughts occur to me, on the metro, by the Seine, in a museum, my hand writing fast, trying to keep up with my thoughts, before an impression or idea is lost to the next. I feel overwhelmed, almost unhinged, by the experience of being in Paris, all I seem capable of doing is going out early, coming back late, walking and walking, looking and seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, and walking some more.

I am running out of words to describe it - and the words I have left seem weak. Like my friend Jen said "its hard to write novels about happy people, because they smile, and then they get together and smile some more, and then...well...they smile," then the grinning starts and it all goes down hill from there.

I wish I had more talent with words - so that I could do more than merely tell you that I love Paris over and over again; more than simply list the places I've seen, but help transport you there, but I do not seem to have a dictionary of words as great as the palette of colors Monet used in capturing the reflections of sky on water in the lily ponds of Giverny.

morning

i wake early
my head still foggy from the parties the night before

i pull on clothes
sweater and scarf
it's cool outside
autumn has come to paris, though the leaves have not yet turned

there is little time for sleep
more awaits outside my doorstep
even though i feel saturated by it
i am anxious, unable to stop exploring

i slip on shoes
and head out into the streets again

midnight

I keep finding myself here on little adventures in the middle of the night - unlike the taxi tour in London, or the scooter ride to l'arc de triomphe and tour d'eiffel that first night in Paris - I find myself tonight on foot, passing more places whose age and meaning I cannot fully wrap my tired brain around.

Camille Claudel's domicile (1899 - 1913) a simple building on Ile St Louis, my imagination stretchs to try to picture her here, working, creating her sumptuous sculptures. Past the oldest house still standing in Paris (circa 1346) tall and wornout, but still standing. Past the longest piece of the wall that Augustus built (circa 1190) to encircle Paris before departing for the crusade. The patron Saint Genevieve's statue in the distance, I wonder what it was that she did/said to Atilla the Hun so that he decided not to sack Paris back in 451, hmmm.

Pieces of history, art, love, past and present...the days and nights begin to blur together now. There is a way of being here that is different, hard to describe, it is old and current in the same breath. They preserve the past, but do not cling to it conservatively, but instead re-invent themselves. I am fighting becoming numb as I feel saturated by the art here. It is not merely in the museums (Chris et al, you were right about the D'Orsay!) it is on the streets, in the buildings, the clothes.

I feel this cultural gluttony, an overload of the senses, there is too much and I am full.

chopin et shakespeare

I wasn't going to post this story- something in it was too personal, too raw, didn't quite fit, and I wasn't sure it would mean anything to anyone except me in the writing of it and the handful of people reading who still remember him - but something in the night, after taking a long bath in my hotel, unable to sleep, or something in the way my friend Adrian, dares me to post things even when they feel uncomfortable, or something in a lyric from a song my friend Kunal gave me that plays in my head "its hard to take risks" makes me wonder and dare: is it the raw painful things that move us, that speak to us, that help us create - is it possible that these parts aren't always ugly, but can be strangely moving?

i am reminded of a poem, my friend Sophie wrote at Smith, about this kind of thing, and just because it doesn't fit neatly into a box or a category (like so many things), doesn't mean I shouldn't write it...so here goes.

events happen, bending the trajectories of our lives in ways that, at the time, we rarely understand and even with time may not fully comprehend.

-----

i am in a church a million miles away, and what feels like another lifetime since the day we met. i'm in paris and all day i have seen lovers on the street, holding hands, craning their necks to kiss, sitting staring into one another's eyes over coffee, and now in this church, listening to chopin, i think of you.

seeing all these young lovers, makes me long for the day when you find me again, i know that i will know the moment it happens, it will be in some crowded restaurant over lunch or dinner, and i will look up and you will be there looking at me, you will hold my gaze in your soft brown eyes and smile, like that first day. you'll walk over and introduce yourself, only this time the name will not be Jeffrey, it will be someone else.

the music fills me, ears, heart, soul
i remember how you loved chopin, i remember everything about you

i would have given myself to you
body and soul
if i had, we'd be married living in a giant farmhouse that you and your father built, we'd have children, and gardens, and fields full of hay and cows. i'd have spent years being barefoot and pregnant, in the summertime shucking corn and peas and eating watermelon, and in the winter we would curl up by the fire after skiing in the woods and shoveling snow.

i never would have made it to Seattle, i would have found myself by a different path, never travelled to the places i did, kayaked with orcas under the full moon, gone swimming with dolphins in LA, walked in the paths of bears and caribou in alaska, heard the sound of night fishermen singing in laotian through the fog and moonlight, and i almost certainly wouldn't be sitting here in a church older than our country, listening to chopin.

like all things of its kind we dread them when they happen, and it is for a long time afterwards that we curse them, curse god, and feel numb wondering how this could come to pass - we mourn, shout to the heavens and cry.

everything changed that day

i didn't see it at the time
i didn't see how it would be
but my life changed inexplicably that day

the day you died

------

i wander, my eyes wet
the music and memories brought tears to my eyes
i am outside in the twilight of paris
collecting myself

rounding a corner i am suddenly in a courtyard full of carts of books
i look up - it is shakespeare and company - anglo bookstore in paris

how lucky i am to trip across it like this
here
now

i look down to the cart and the first book my eyes light upon
small and purple
the title comes into focus 'inevitable'
could it be?
is it really?
inevitable?

i can't quite believe it, and like exiting the metro to see the notre dame that first day
i look around, expecting any minute to wake up
i must be dreaming

i pick it up - it is the story of a woman in 1900
who against convention moves to a new life in Rome (ok, not Paris)
and "she discovers that Italy itself cannot bring her the consolation she seeks"
the book is tucked securely under my arm as i enter the store
it must be read

i wander through the stacks - finding nook and cranny filled with all manner of treasure
the back room, a desk with a tack board containing postcards from other bookstores
many favorites: Powells Portland, Moe's and City Lights by the bay
i feel a kindred spirit
connection
or perhaps just a shared love of books
and i linger

later
almost ready to leave i find myself in the fiction section
looking up i see it
bright red binding
with only the letter G marking it

a book called G?

i (of course) must look at it
i find stool, get it down
and in flipping it open i see the cover page in german
for some reason this doesn't stop me
I flip the pages to see if the book is really written in german,
but i never get to the text

instead the book slips from my hands
landing on the stacks below
the book lies open to its inscription page

this in english
by bob dylan

"forget the dead you've left
they will not follow you"

a little drunk and in love

I feel a little drunk and can't tell - is it the wine or the city? Probably way too much of both. I just had dinner that took 4 hours. When was the last time any of us had dinner that took 4 hours? when each time they brought the next course you thought you were falling in love AGAIN! and is it possible to love food THIS much?!

ok i get that I've been using the "L" word A LOT lately...but hey its the city of love right?

no, seriously - I loved the indian (excuse me, gujarati) tomato curry and all - but i just had three courses of heaven plus coffee (more heaven!) that went something like this:
- chevre w/onion and herb, wheat bread and fresh radish (a hopelessly beautiful combination, never before considered by moi, but awesome nonetheless)
- possibly the best salmon I've ever had (those of you who know me, and food rule #2, know that's saying a lot!)
- poulet something-something (yes, my french still pretty much sucks, see previous posts) which was essentially the best chicken leg this girl has ever had, perfectly marinated and prepared...I may never be able to eat the chicken @ chow again...sorry guys - this also came with a little cast iron pot filled with fennel au gratin...who knew there was gratin without potato?? holy s---! (sorry mom for all the swearing!)
- espresso with a little almond meringue...

ok, confession time - I have never tried meringue, thinking how good can a bunch of whipped sugar really be for more than a dollar? why didn't anyone tell me? again I find a little taste bomb, this time like a little airy crisp cloud of almond - so light I'd like to imagine it had no calories ;)

I finished the day, much in the way I spent it a little drunk and filled with wonder, the evening filled with flowing red wine and plates of food that arrived and disappeared at what was a delightful snails pace, and me not knowing what was going to arrive next, but pretty much expecting that I'd love it, whatever it was.

wandering / wondering

I walk now along the Seine, that border between the last little wild bit of river in Paris and the manmade city that comes right up to its banks. All thoughts of itineraries are lost, the frenetic energy of getting here falls away and I walk slowly now. It reminds me of being in Hawaii and letting go of time, realizing the ocean and the waves don't have an itinerary, and I can pedal slowly and get to the beach when I get there.

Paris has opened its arms and embraced me today. I have shed some anxiety, hurrying or confusion that somehow marked me as a tourist...or perhaps its just that today i decided to leave the guidebook back in the room and do like I did when I first learned my way around seattle - go out and see if I could get lost, and then find myself there.

I know something is different because 4 people have stopped me to ask directions. the first 3 were french and were quite dismayed when it dawned on them that they had been duped and "je ne parle pas francais" (the last lady didn't say it, but I could see it in her eyes "merde!"), the 4th person to stop me was an american asking me very slowly "Mc-Don-alds? Mc...Don...alds?" He was quite ecstatic and relieved to find out that I too was American and understood everything that came out of his mouth - then all his hopes were crushed when he realized he too had been duped because I had NO IDEA where the closest McDonalds was!

My mom always wonders how this happen - I go to a strange place and seemingly fit right in - saying "how do you blend in so fast?" I don't think I blend so much as once I get my bearings and have looked at a map I generally know where I am - and even if I don't I still kinda walk around like I know where I'm going. It is apparently quite dismaying for others, especially for french people who are lost and americans looking for mcdonalds :)

My feet take me through small alleys and streets - galleries filled with all manner of paintings, porcelain, antiques, tile etc. I enter a narrow studio, where if I stretched I bet I could touch my fingertips to each side. Meeting a french woman from Brazil there who paints pictures of wind and sea that capture the essence and spirit of them, without being them. Funny struggling with french today, wrestling bits of it on my tongue, to make known some small piece of how her art moves me - something in her eyes and her embrace of my hand tells me she understands. I speak more slowly and carefully today and it seems to be working.

I pass a woman in pink cargo pants and hat with Paris emblazoned in silver glitter on it. I have to give her props for the bling and the pink, but I feel I am not like her today, as she stands there discussing the map with her husband. i have slid into a different place. somewhere in between, not as foreign, but still different.

I finally find another thing I have been seeking - a hole in the wall cafe with only people speaking french - no fancy chairs and tourist out front - and just in time as it starts to rain again. i have a beer and write until my hand hurts. I am humbled again, this time by the sheer artistic talent all around me. Yesterday, I was thinking, what would my life have been like had I dared to leave science and pursue art? if I had given artistic creativity the time and dedication I gave to the study of math and science - chemistry, biology, and paleontology? but today I wonder - perhaps being a public artist is not for me and it is more like what my friend Elga, used to say, "we are happiest when we live with our (own) art" making it, hanging it, letting corners and pieces of it be seen by family, friends, and making more.

Mostly, I continue to walk around Paris in a state of nearly complete awe and am reminded of one of my favorite DMB songs:

its crazy, i'm thinking
just knowing that the world is round
i'm here dancing on the ground
am I right side up or upside down?
is this real, or am I dreaming?

that loud thwacking sound you hear...

is NOT the sound of me running into a pole while staring at Chiwetel, as Adrian's comment might suggest. Nope, it is instead the sound of Gretchen banging her head against the wall that is the french language - as the girl in the the movie the Bourne Identity says "my french sucks" - though some of the people here would say "vous francais en terrible..." oh god no!

so I am struggling...I should have studied, prepared, worked harder...this is that moment in the trip when I feel lame, like I didn't do enough, etc. (yes, Alexandra, I am having a Calvinist moment!) Instead of just sitting around being hard on myself I've decided, however, I'll just keep trying...this much to the chagrin of a fair number of french people.

many embarassing moments later (yes that was me yesterday who asked a french person "parlais vous francais" forgetting at the last moment to insert "anglais" - oh god!), and after many french people looking at me as if I must be crazy, I think I may just be getting the hang of it. The only real evidence I have of this is that after many gesticulating hand gestures in english, and a bit of french thrown in to really muck things up, I have a new SIM card for my phone (the number is 06.14.70.20.33 though no voicemail, sorry), and the guy was really nice to me as I left...but that could just be that he was really happy that the crazy americaine was finally leaving his shop.

i feel humility being pounded into me, and wishing I could be better at this part...but I didn't study or really prepare, I just jumped right in and this is part of the price I pay for that.

diversity

I had fresh 'bow today. I was walking along and saw a sign for tango down a long thin alley, so I enter, and find myself suddenly in a chinese block. little chinese boys playing in the street yelling at each other in french, I don't know why I was shocked - we are in France after all - but even in Chinatown, SF they yell and play in Chinese...it surprised me. After checking out the tango hours and eating a steamy pork filled delight, I walk back to the metro, passing an African woman (from Ghana maybe?) covered head to toe in brilliant yellow and orange garb, a baby tied to her back in the traditional way, talking in the street to a muslim woman in covered head to toe in nearly full burka, only her face uncovered. They laugh and part, and as I pass them and round the corner I am nearly run over by a Jewish man peddling his bicycle with a little boy riding behind him on the seat.

the world whizzing by, different and the same, fascinates and mystifies me.

arrivée

It's raining in paris tonight - so i've been catching up with posts. It was hard finishing the stories from london - as fun as they were, I feel like they have lost something in the distance between then and now...but hoping you won't think so. There are others stories too, but I can't wait any longer without writing something about Paris.

Half expecting to wake any second to a friend pinching me, I was wandering aimlessly near the Notre Dame yesterday, and without seeking anything in particular, I was presented in succession with things I was planning to look up and find while I was in Paris, but hadn't yet.

A pod of the city's rental bikes, bright, shiny and new; street dancers, that put Deep and I to shame (and I am NOT kidding here); a piano concert in a church, how did they know how much I like Chopin (well, doesn't everyone?), an english bookstore par excellence...I was reminded of that Julie Andrew's song from the Sound of Music - all my favorite things. It was like dreaming, when around every corner is something else that sweeps you away until you round the next... and I was already numb, in disbelief from when, coming up out of the metro, I glanced over my shoulder, looking for a street sign or something to tell me where I was, when there, BAM, I see the Notre Dame and I know exactly where I am.

I have arrived...

Paris!

Adventures in Curry* - Part 1**

I was told when in london (like "when in rome...") one must have a curry...so I decided to embark on a little curry adventure to find the best curry london has to offer...and as some of you know, when I really decide I'm gonna do something there is nothing half-assed about it...or as my friend Tauni says "that Gretchen, she's not f-ing around!" (hi T). So, after reading a bit and asking a few people, I decided not to go to brick street, though I hear they have some very nice curries, instead I decided to find out where this infamous Tooting place is that I have heard about.

It turns out Tooting is off the central london tube map for a good reason - its NOWHERE near central London - being way out in the 'burbs - charming, interesting 'burbs filled with peoples from the middle east, africa, india, sri lanka, bangladesh and probably a few other places.

Coming above ground in Tooting is in someways like entering another world - part london, but part developing country - strangely reminiscent of my neighborhood at home - with its fresh produce markets that roll out onto the street, but here with indian sellers, not latino - the streets are sticky and have that unique mix of smells, much like Bangkok and the Mission - part urine, part car exhaust, part street food and spice. I am instantly glad I came to Tooting - and though I am trying to find a recommended vegetarian restaurant, I kind of lose my way...dazzled by the sari store - the colors, the glitter - i can only think this store must have the sari of my indian soul sister, Palak's, dreams (if you're reading don't worry man i took pictures!). I eat sweets that I know not the name of - except they are oddly chewy and reminiscent of cardamon - i am fascinated, yet so distracted by it all that I walk past my destination 3 whole times...yes, 3 (I guess I was kinda f-ing around).

Finally I collect myself and find it: Kastoori, vegetarian restaurant serving gujarati curries by way of africa. I feel the need to give a shout out to my gujarati friends - especially Palak, sorry man, but if you hadn't made me repeat how to say your nationality over and over and over and over again - this in part because I was kinda slow, but also because you are soooo amazingly persistent (which is MOST excellent in this case!) - then I never would have remembered it and might not have ever found this place.

Ahh, Kastoori - it may be love - yep, love love love in the form of tomato curry!

I could write more - about the green plaintains in curry, that were like sweet little potatoes and spice - or the special dessert drink of sweet lassi, warm yogurt and pistachio - or the puri that were like little taste bombs in my mouth...but then I'd be here all night writing and you'd be there all day reading and we'd all be getting hungry.

Let's just say the curry adventure was a fantastic success - most excellent curry was eaten AND the adventure took me to a part of london that I wouldn't have found otherwise...thanks again to P "gujarati, gujaRRR-AH-ti!" got it!

my curry disclaimer:
I am, quite obviously, NOT indian, nor did I grow up eating curry - so in reality have NO IDEA (am hopelessly ignorant of) what makes a great curry, so I get that my recommendation may not hold any weight with my indian friends, or indians in general. That said, to any of my friends, especially the vegetarians and non-indians/sri-lankans I say this:
If you ever find yourself in london with a little time on your hands and you're hungry: take the tube (Northern Line, heading South...yeah, a bit of an oxymoron there) to Tooting, exit at Tooting Bec Station and walk down Upper Tooting Road. A few blocks down (6-8) you'll find Kastoori, an unassuming little spot on the righthand side with a pink sign...unless you're still in that sweets shop 3 blocks up, chewing on that delight you bought, in which case, dust the powdered sugar from yourself and walk, don't run, down the street already!

Also, I found this review of Kastoori - humorous for its jabs about vegetarians:
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/magazine/story/0,,901010,00.html

*not that kind of curry ;-)
**a note about the numbering - i will no doubt have further adventures in curry and didn't really want to be like armistead maupin and have to go with "more" then "further" etc.; others of you will point out I HAVE had curry adventures before, but this is the first instance on me blog, so I thought I would start with the #1...well, also because I can't remember how many curry adventures I've had exactly

lovers on the tube

riding a long escalator down to the platform to the Northern line I notice them
his hands up under her thin white sweater
one hand wrapped up over her shoulder
the other caressing the back of her neck
whisps of her short brown hair at his finger tips

besides his hands, all i see of him is the top of his face - eyes closed - lost in the kiss
he pauses, opens his eyes, smiles, looking at her sideways
plays with the hair on her neck
closes his eyes and kisses her again

their passion is palpable - almost magnetic
i can't quite pull my eyes away
i remember love like that - consuming - gentle - beautiful
being lost - the rest of the world melting away as he kissed me on the MUNI in the middle of the night - no one else mattered except us - his lips - our love
now i have to look away

i question myself - can a love like that come again - or will it forever be different
and does different mean better - or never quite so alive
is it only possible to get lost like that when you're young - the first time
and does one want to get lost like that anyway?

i want to believe - so i choose to
but being confronted with the image of that kind of passion
only a few steps away from me
the raw power of the two of them together
gives me pause

Chiwetel!

I was just walking in Regent's Park(way beautiful btw), London (yes, still here) and brushed past none other than the fantastically talented CHIWETEL EJIOFOR! (yes, yes, for real Chiwetel!)

For those of you who are like wha--? who's Chiwetel Ejiofor??

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0252230/

IMNSHO his best roles were the operative in Serenity and the Nigerian Dr. opposite Audrey Tatou in Dirty Pretty Things. I might add that he's pretty close to Clive Owen in my book, but then I'd have to explain who Clive Owen is...so let's just say this - I think he's a great act--he's HOT!

So I get that this will tag me as an adolescent girl at this point (I can see Deep shaking his head now as if to say "you were already there girl - you were already there!"), but...omigod! he's just as beautiful in person as he is on the big screen - and right now I am thanking my lucky stars that he was walking arm and arm, enamored with a lovely blonde woman so didn't really notice me...silly american girl, mouth agape, doing a complete double take.

wow! wow! london! wow!

Our guys may not be @ MOR but there's funk in London on Friday night

I have had several surreal moments today - I am not sure if travel is just like that or is it that I am running on about 6 hours of sleep and all I had to counter it was the normal airline coffee-scented-hot-water.

I was thrilled getting off the plane in Heathrow and standing with all the different people in the passport line - there was this family of seven that looked Indian or Pakistani, that was squatting just outside of the passport line, much the way I imagine they would do by the side of the road waiting for a bus, but here they were waiting patiently for the father to fill out everyone's entry cards. There was a little boy who looked right through me and I had to wonder how different this place must be for him - what brought him here, where will they land, is he like me afraid or excited to be here? Does he know?

My meandering thoughts were brought back to earth by the british passport agent - complete with pole up his ass (or is that arse?) - who was seething with anger at America - my interview ended with him letting me in to the country but only after I had to endure the "this is OUR country not YOUR country" lecture. eeek...what have i done!

after much ado (and the Tube) I found myself in a nice little club on Friday night - madame jo jo's for some funk...and breakdancing (yes, breakdancing!) replete with crazy british people...and yeah, they were pretty much CRAY-ZEEEE on the dance floor! Wish the dance minions coulda been there it was great, sweaty, frenetic fun! black-white-gay-straight kinda like home but different.

My taxi ride back was similarly surreal - my driver, a Kurdish man, became so dismayed at hearing that I might leave London the next day and not see the sites - he took me on this late night, driving tour of parts of central london - it was fascinating and beautiful being shown all these bastions of wealth in the dark by a man from a small tribe in northern Iraq, living in Europe, who spoke simply about history and the present - a ride i won't forget any time soon.

I end my night (or I should say I begin my morning) watching the youtube link sent by Chell (thanks!) of Keepon (Peep?) dancing (in case you haven't seen it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3g-yrjh58ms
and must say that I find it funny and oddly soothing.

Hope you kids had fun Friday night and that nickel bag of funk finds a new spot soon.

bonne nuit

the beginning

just printed my boarding passes - i guess this is really happening!
the sun will be up soon and i have all kinds of butterflies