gmonstering

Put your money where your mouth is

2010-05-01T11:07:00.000-07:00

Driving with my friend Laurie to the 5-spot this morning (home of the best salmon scram in the world) I was mourning the death of one of my favorite bookstores in Seattle, Bailey Coy Books. While it was the death of a tradition...back in the days when I lived on the "hill" I would eat at one of my favorite haunts (Paggliacci's pizza or Angel Thai) and grab a coffee at vivace before taking in the books at Bailey Coy. I would stroll among the new release and staff recommendation tables, pickup and turn over the books in my hands, read the jackets covers or the back of many, before carefully choosing the 1-2 out of at least 5-10 I wanted, that I would in fact purchase. Deceptive for its size, it was the only really small bookstore that had the selection I liked that was both current but seemed to keep some of the classics I wanted.

Beyond the sadness I feel that I can no longer lose myself for hours or parts of days among the few stacks at Bailey-Coy Books, is a rising fear for other independents I love. This year in the Bay Area where I now live I am struggling to come to grips with the loss of Cody's in Berkeley and Stacey's in SF. It harder now to get to an independent bookstore to spend my money, and if they disappear completely then I will need to transfer my affection to one of the giants or the behemoth Amazon which is now more of an online mall than just a bookstore.

I will give Amazon credit it blows the doors open for people who didn't have access to books before - so now if you have an internet connection and a mailing address or a post box you can get almost any book under the sun.This I believe is a good thing, especially if you live in a place where the censor books.

but I digress...

Driving to breakfast with Laur I shared an idea I've had to fundraise for independent bookstores. Public schools are doing it now - because the public money that used to fill the coffers is too thin to give every kid the current books and materials for learning, and in wealthier districts the parents raise even more money. They actually seem to want their kids to be able to have a library, history and physics classes - not just NCLB's math and English - and things like field trips - fancy that. Libraries are doing it too - in San Francisco we have the Friends of the Library Foundation - go figure.

So while I understand my idea flies in the face of most concepts of capitalism, I would've put down 100 or even 200 dollars last year to if it would've saved Bailey Coy - and I don't even live here anymore. Why you ask, would I do such thing? Because I think Bailey Coy made Capitol Hill, more interesting, it opened doors to knowledge and exploration, it started conversations and lines of inquiry. Its curators carefully selecting great books for people to not just buy, own, or turn over in their hands, but to experience, to take home, to learn from...to stop people in their tracks and exclaim in their heads (or sometimes out loud) "Wow, I never knew that!" I understand I have a deep and abiding love of books, which some - most - people do not share, but I have laughed out loud in the middle of Bailey Coy, and then usually had to explain myself to other shoppers, and more than once I've cried because a line or a subject so touched me, I've sat on the stairs in back, hoping passersby wouldn't notice, as I remembered a sadness, a love lost, a moment found, something beautiful enough to give me pause. Books move me, what can I say, except that they do.

So why wouldn't I pay money to keep a beautiful place like this in existence. If we live now in an economy where the "unnatural selection" that occurs through open markets and competition doesn't allow for places like this to exist, why not fundraise? I know its silly, they need help making enough profit, and capitalists would argue that their business model needs to be updated. I don't know much about that, but I know I love books and I hate thinking that in my lifetime I will watch all the good ones die. Like opera, symphony, ballet, art museum, are there no powerful benefactors that just want the model or a small bookstore to survive. There's something that happens to people when they walk inside, when they start the conversation about some book they see, its and experience worth saving, and frankly its one I'll never have online at Amazon.com.

I find myself now in the many varied stacks of another Seattle favorite - Eliott Bay Book Company - in its new location. When I heard they moved from their fantastic old location in Pioneer Square location, I thought "Oh no! there just one step away from their own demise...no way this can be good." but now that I am here I am less afraid. It feels like a smaller location, but I do not sense they have lost any of their books - there are still shelves upon shelves, section upon section, and I am now lost. I am astounded now by the number of books that have been published about reclaiming the food chain on the heals of the slow food movement and Food, Inc.

I sit now upstairs at a long table trying to decide which books to buy. I had said I wouldn't buy any books here, because I didn't want to have to shove them in my luggage and carry their weight home with me...but there is no good place for me to get them anywhere near my house or work in the Bay area. So as I ponder which Julia Child biography to buy, and whether I really want the latest installment from Tracey Kidder (Mountains Beyond Mountains being one of my all time favorite books) I remember my conversation in the car.

Some of my friends, those who know I have a "problem" buying books, would say I am simply rationalizing my next big purchase. I share my affliction with Nick Hornby (who has actually published three books on the subject) who puts it best: I suffer from buying far more books than I can ever read. Affliction, sickness, overindulgence, selfishness, or simply a love and passion for book - whatever you label it - I want these beautiful places to stay alive in the world. So today, I put my money where my mouth is.

In the spirit of Nick Hornby:

Books purchased this month (some in SF):
Strength in What Remains - Tracey Kidder
Julia Child: A Life - Laura Shapiro (gift)
My Life In France - Julia Child and Alex Prud'Homme
Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1 - Julia Child, Loisette Bretholle, Simone Beck and Sidonie Coryn
Overcoming Speechlessness: A Poet Encounters the Horror in Rwanda, Eastern Congo, and Palestine/Israel - Alice Walker
Mom: A celebration of Mother from StoryCorps - David Isay (gift)
Emotional Awareness: Overcoming the Obstacles to Psychological Balance - H.H. Dalai Lama and Paul Eckman, Ph.D.
The Cellist of Sarajevo - Steven Galloway
The Passport - Herta Muller

Books read the month:
If the Buddha Dated - Charlotte Kasl, Ph.D.*
The 9 Steps to Financial Freedom - Suze Orman*
My Life In France - Julia Child and Alex Prud'Homme*
The Cellist of Sarajevo - Steven Galloway*

air

2009-04-15T15:54:00.000-07:00

you know that feeling when someone you love is gone
like all the air has been sucked out of the room
and there are no words to describe the feelings
...despair, anger, sadness...
that accompany the loss

i think it was Steve Martin in LA Story who said
we never know precisely when love starts,
but we always seem to know when it ends

all i know is
it doesn't matter what city you woke up in
what continent you're on
even what time zone or season you're in
there's still no air
it's hard to breathe
and there aren't words for this

cosmic ping pong

2009-04-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

ideas cascade
conversations intersect
ideas, thoughts, inspirations
flow together like streams
ever widening towards the river
then the sea

my mind buzzes
with thought and feeling
color, like sky
wire, taking form
stones, like those small weighty
bits of ourselves that hold us down
when we might just float away

voices intermingle
with bits of each other
where your idea ended
and my thought began
is unclear
like cosmic ping pong
pieces of myself knocked free
bounce around the room
for all to touch before coming back to me
while others float or fall away
uncovering the mystery beneath

I am moved
past mere words
or thoughts or feelings
to a place simply connected
to the beauty that surrounds

----- ----- -----

I recently attended an art show of my long time friend Laurie Fronek in Seattle. I wrote this piece in response to the creative energy and sharing that resonated between the art and the people present at the show. I was inspired and the evening reminded me how beautiful it is when we can care for, foster and love the ideas and creative impulses we hold inside so that we bring them into being. Much like when a blossom breaks open, there is a sharing of the beauty and light we carry within ourselves, and it is both beautiful expression and a gift for those who are allowed to share in it. Thanks to Laurie, and all the artists in the show, for opening those windows into themselves and letting us peer, if only momentarily, inside. I am moved and changed by it.

in transit

2009-02-12T16:03:00.001-08:00

Buenos Aires didn't seem so different this morning as it did when I arrived, just past 5 am, the streets quiet but for a few stragglers from late night parties the night before. its a bit surreal actually - still dark, the streets seem to disown me - was I really here - coming and going in stealth while everyone was sleeping - I long to be home and yet stay at the same time - and don't feel quite like I belong in either place, but somewhere in between the two. between the north and the south - east and west - the summer and the winter - the known and the unknown...between the darkness and the dawn. it still feels so unknown, mysterious, barely seen - is this the city I walked in, dreamt in, sweat and drank coffee in or is this some surreal place in my imagination - not really part of the trip - like bookends, that hold the books together, but aren't really part of the library.

my head is fuzzy, from not enough sleep - much like when I arrived - what have I forgotten, left behind, and will I need it where I am going? as the countryside slides by in the warm morning air I remember thinking how often it is on journeys such as this that the internal journey we take is somehow further than the external one. still 5 time zone and opposite latitude - different hemispheres - in some small way this place became like home. a home. In many ways I am looking forward to being home. Currently without job and a number of things in flux - it will be nice to get started on things undone, and yet at the same time I know this afternoon I am going to miss the delightful girl at the hotel who would hand me my key always with a smile and buen dias...and the guys at the cafe on the corner - not know if I would have another coffee or cerveza. they were excited to hear even my english telling of the futbol game the other day - again for a minute I felt like a rockstar - they got something special out of talking to someone who was actually AT the game.

I'll miss their quizzical looks when I would attempt to ask something more complicated about the menu - and the way they always took good care of me.

From Lima - I have the briefest of notes about the croissant (I know - enough with the damn croissants already!) - it has been confirmed - while the Peruvian croissant is served warm and with a smile and good coffee - all good things - it is in fact just bready dinner roll dough hewn into a shape roughly resembling that of a croissant. hmmm - maybe I'll go to tartine in the morning for coffee (mmmmmmm cofffeeeeee) and one of their ham and cheese dreams.

Speaking of food - I now find myself in San Salvador - about to board a plane for the last leg of my journey home - and I miss La Taq, or better yet El Farolito....hmmm perhaps there is a midnight super quesadilla run in my future.

I did peak my head into a bar here in the airport - aptly called "The bar" and thought what the hell I'll have a papusa and a beer. not so great. but when is food you get INSIDE the airport ever that good anyway. maybe they have to irradiate or do something special to all the food that makes it past security so it just has no real texture or flavor.

what I for more than a proper croissant or a late night super quesadilla - is for the impossible - for my best friends to meet me at the cafe on the corner and then make our way to gran bar danzon, patagonia sur, miranda, sucre, or some other new foodie place in BA, and have a couple bottles of wine - a few good steaks and other things we've never tried before (and celebrate my birthday).

cheers to you all - I look forward to catching up with you soon.

departures

2009-02-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

today was my last day in BA - I went to the futbol museum - and finally made it to the Museo de Nacional de Belle Artes (MNBA) did a little shopping for last minute items and ate another delightful meal at Gran Bar Danzon - and am sitting here - having one last cerveza at the corner cafe next to my hotel - it has been my own little home base - for the past few days the guys in the cafe wave if I happen to walk past but don't come in. i'll miss seeing them for coffee in the morning- and while they may miss me too - one thing I'm sure they won't miss is the fabulous way that I butcher their language - every. single. day!

anyway - there's a lot more to write about - so I promise to try to go back and post things that are partially written - before I get all caught up in the goings on of home again.

I'll miss the summertime - I'll miss the good coffee (even in the worst cafes the coffee is still really good here), the desserts, the sommeliers, the medialunas (croissants), the beef (omigod the beef!), the fancy ladies always in their high heels and sparkly things (can you say bling? not better than a porteno lady) and so many other things I can't quite think of right now.

well, my taxi comes for me at 4:30 am tomorrow - so I'm off to finish packing and get a couple hours of sleep. the moon is beautiful on this my last warm and balmy summer night in Buenos Aires. Good night.

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's super--...no wait, its just dessert

2009-02-11T16:59:00.000-08:00

...well not any ordinary old dessert mind you, this is another mind altering - ass kicking - fantabulous - I am completely at a loss for words to describe what it is - dessert!

ok - so I have a few new food rules - which I promise to describe in more detail in another post - but 2 of them apply here.

1. If you are in a nice restaurant (in BA in particular) and you ask the waiter/host what he thinks the best thing, i.e. his favorite thing, on the menu is - and he tells you - just go with it. IT. WILL. BE. GOOD.

2. If you are in a nice restaurant (in BA in particular) don't load up too much on the bread (though the bread is amazing - and there's a whole post coming - I hope - about the wonderful diversity of bread baskets across the city) or appetizers and try every once in a while to save room for dessert. YOU. WILL. NOT. BE. DISAPPOINTED.

ok - so tonight - I was at yet another restaurant - Gran Bar Danzon - which Lonely Planet doesn't do justice - they make it sound like its just a great place to do some wine tasting - or have a good cocktail - but they make it sound like the food is just so-so. Well, perhaps they didn't vote Sebastian onto their island when they reviewed the place. Sebastian - as it turns out - not only knows the menu (though I am not sure how he is SOOOooo thin) - but has impeccable taste...as my friend Tauni would say (mom, please excuse the french I'm about to use) - this guy's not fucking around!

so tonight - I save room for dessert. {sidebar -last night I showed up at gran bar danzon for a caipirinha, or two, since they have GREAT 2 for nearly-the-price-of-one happy hour specials, and being tired (oh the blasphemy) of eating beef (i know, i know, what. is. wrong. with. me!) I opted for the salad Sebastian recommended - and then the pork loin (breaking rule #1 above, by not just going with Sebastian's first recommendation of the rib-eye, but instead, his admitted second favorito, the pork}

Sebastian recommends "the block" which, when I read the menu sounded vaguely like a foodie take on the brownie sundae...I resist...I think "how many times can this guy be right?"...and then I remember how good all his other recommendations were (EVEN the squid, yes, it was squid salad...don't ask...it too was one of the best things I've ever eaten - and I don't really like the squid!) and then I remember the new food rule #1 - JUST.GO.WITH. IT. (it. will. be. good.)

I.DO.
(and no that is not me agreeing to marry anyone...well the dessert maybe?!)

so - there is something else I should now confess - if you follow food rules #1 and #2, in Buenos Aires the result - based on my limited amount of experience, there is a very good chance that you will find yourself eating a dessert that is like having sex. Yes it happened again. and no - I am not talking about any run-of-the-mill, i-think-i-might-be-getting-a-headache-cause-i'm-not-sure-i-really-want-to kind of sex. I am talking about the world melts away, words are useless, you forget all rules of conduct and physics, thought gravity seems to still work - but everything else - wow, where did it go? - kind of sex. You know like when...ok wait, we're not talking about sex, we're talking about DESSERT.

I had one bite - the room began spin (and no I wasn't drunk - even on the perfect...no really, I do ACTUALLY mean "perfect" dessert wine that Sebastian recommended to go with the, sex...er the dessert, but at this point they're sorta the same thing and I am still fumbling about for words) and there was no more restaurant, I forgot my name and where I am from and what I do for a living - and who my friends were - it was just me - and this big white plate with 2 beautiful blocks of chocolate/caramel with peanuts inside, covered in dark chocolate...see the words just don't even come close to describing the perfectly sweet, smoky, nutty, caramelly, fudgey heaven that i experienced when it touched my tongue. (kind of like that scene in the movie "Ratatoille" where all these little swirling fireworks go off when Remy feeds Emile the mix of cheese and fruit and the tastes combine in a lovely explosion in his mouth.)

it was warm...and silky...and...and...does anyone have a cigarette?

futbol y jesus

2009-02-08T18:20:00.001-08:00

It being Sunday I decided to take in Argentina's two great religions: futbol (soccer) and jesus (er, catholicism)...actually I've been dying to go to a real game, and the jesus bit came in because my good friend Kerrin dared me to find the cheesiest landmark in Buenos Aires. At first I thought simply a picture of me at a Argentinian Parilla next to the giant sides of beef might get me by - but after thinking about it there's no way that Kerrin would fall for that so I'd have to up the ante. Then I thought the Palacio de las Aguas Corrientes with plumbing and toilets (yes, I went to the toilet museum - of course!) would do it but then I came across Tierra Santa, a religious theme park, and well I just knew that would be it...and it had everything to do with the animatronic Jesus who's resurrected (yes, he comes out of the mound of dirt, well plastic dirt) every 30 minutes or so, in a show for believers and non-believers alike...but I digress - first religions first!

I. River v. Colon

So, being told that it was likely unsafe for a tourist, let alone a single female traveller, to attend a futbol game - I followed a friend's advice and booked a ticket with a tour agency. You pay a little more, but they pick you up and return you to your hotel in B.A. and even better you attend the game with an english speaking guide, which was an added bonus, because on the short van trip to the stadium he told us a bit about argentines and their beloved futbol (everyone routes for a team) about some of the rivalries in the city (over 70% of the country routes for either River Plate or Boca, the two bit BA teams) and their nicknames (River Plate's stadium is in an upper class neighborhood so while people through Argentina route for them, they are called the "millionaires" whereby Boca Juniors fans are called the Spanish equivalent for "smell like shit" because their neighborhood is near the river that is now polluted and therefore smells like s---) and he gave us our instructions: We would be routing for River today - that means there is no clapping or cheering for the other team - even if they score - no way, nada, nothing, we are River fans for the day.

One of the most interesting tidbits I learned was that the River fans are called, roughly, "the drunk ones" and yet - there is no alcohol served in the stadium, that's right - no beer, nothing - you can get coca-cola, and ice cream or frozen fruit bar, and hamburgers - that's it. and there's also apparently a moratorium on the day of the game - no alcohol within a 5 or 10K radius of the stadium on game on game day. Now I am even more curious where the nickname comes from.

So then the game...wow!

I mean the futbol itself was great- being like 10-12 rows from the field in the middle afforded an incredible view of the pitch and all the action - almost making up for the fact we were in the direct sun all - not good for a pale girl from Vermont - so I must admit to going to find a seat in the shade for a while. That was funny, because I sat next to a couple older gentlemen there by themselves - and I could tell they didn't know quite what to make of me - a lone female - what? I followed our guide's direction and ONLY cheered for the home team- so I think after a while they tolerated me, because at least I liked their team.

But seriously the very best thing about the game is the crowd and the singing. I mean I've watched all kinds of world cup games on the tv (sorry that's "tele" for you british loving fans ;) and I've been to live baseball games - so I figured I knew what it'd be like - of course there'd be cheering. Nothing prepared me for this though...well, except for that bit Santiago mentioned on the bus ride over - about how the local fans, "hooligans" take their jobs very seriously, and they must sing and jump up and down throughout the game..."oh it is very serious, they would consider it unmanly if they didn't sing and jump for the whole time - it doesn't matter if they feel like it or, if their team is losing, if its raining, no matter what, they must."

and they really do.

we got to the stadium about an hour before the game started - and they had banners up along the edge of the upper level - but as the crowd built they threw these long banners from the top of the stadium all the way down to the pitch, and when their team took the field just to warm up - it started - singing and chanting in Spanish. it was amazing - one whole end of the stadium (like a third of the people) were singing - it would ebb and flow with the excitement of the game and at times like when River scored - the whole crowd was jumping up and down at the same time. I have always been fascinated by how a large group of individuals can morph in a crowd to be a single organism. It was beautiful in a way that I cannot describe the excitement - the love you felt they had for their team - and watch thousand of people jump up and down in unison - you can't plan that, its is just wonderful synergy.

I am sad to say, but I think now watching soccer on the tv, with just the announcers is going to feel like drinking flat soda :( I will miss the singing and jumping - that doesn't stop until their last team member leaves the field.

Am I allowed, I wonder, to give props to the other team's fans on my blog? Oh well, I'll tempt fate - first of all - there are these areas of the upper deck of the stadium, opposite where all the jumping and singing was happening - with high cement walls topped with razor wire. This is where safely cordoned off, the other team's fans were all 1-2 thousand of them in total, all with the banners and flags, doing their own jumping and singing, though in a more subdued fashion...but I have to say when their team finally scored they were almost as loud as the river fans who outnumbered them at least 10 to 1.

If you ever make it to Argentina - or any other futbol loving country outside North America - go to a game, even if you don't like the soccer. Its just SO FUN!

II. Tierra Santa

I have witnessed the resurrection! Ok, it was a re-enactment, but seriously. I was sitting next to a little old lady who only spoke spanish and she cried when the giant jesus closed his eyes and turned his palms to the heavens...oh but I seem to have started in the middle - sorry.

Tierra Santa, is a religious theme park, and while there's a lot that's just funny and odd (can I say weird without offending any of the christians reading here?), but I have to say - as religious theme parks go - I know I've only been to one - this one seems pretty tastefully done. An attraction for visiting Catholics - since there are so many in Argentina (and South America for that matter) - that boasts being both the first and the largest in the world is a life scale model roughly of Jerusalem. And for me was strangely reminiscent of those old plastic sets they'd have on star trek - you know the ones where they beam down to the planet and the stryofoam rocks fall and "crush" some poor character with no name (ensign #9?).

I have to say I chuckled a lot inside while walking around, and it started before I even entered the park out front in the grove of lovely, plastic palm trees. Inside there were all manner of camels, donkeys, and the occasional cow all sprinkled in and among little houses and shrines with differing religious figures, and while its mainly about the course of Jesus' life from birth (yes they have a nativity) through his life to his death (all the bloody stations of the cross) and the highlight of the tour, and the park is his resurrection where a 40 ft. tall animatronic Jesus rises right up out of the cavalry mound.

I have to give them points for including other religions- there is a small tribute to Ghandi, there's a synagogue and a mosque, and near the town square is a replica of the wailing wall, replete with plastic statues of Jews praying. It's strange and funny all at the same time. One of my favorite bits were all the staff walking about in a variety of arab clothing, from the woman at the front booth, right down to the girl I ran into the bathroom - with headscarf and all, she pulled on a pair of bright orange plastic gloves to begin cleaning the toilets. Who knew?

But like all religions what would it be without the contradictions and at Tierra Santa the contradictions are baffling and perhaps more baffling than the park itself. Every 2 hours there is an "arab dance" show in the town's main square i.e. belly dancing - to drums and synthesized music pretending to be "authentic" some of the tunes sounded vaguely like they had strains of tango - or strip show music in them. But that's not the funniest part - the dancers - while wearing typical head scarf, bikini top, flowing skirts and jewelry, they also wore leotard of white lycra, that actually covered their bellies. When I first saw them walk by I thought how very funny it is - let's admit that the arab's had dancing and sex - but we can't really show bare skin - so let's have it, but not have it.

...it gets better. the white lycra - was see through! what does THAT mean????

I was sitting next to a row of men - all faithfully videotaping the entire dance performance - it was like the only dance show they'd ever be allowed by their priests or their wives to see, and damn if they weren't going to capture every last second of it! I myself was astounded at how spectacularly bad the dancing really was - and was left yearning for the hirschman sisters to come kick some belly dancing ass! My head hurt trying to figure out how and why they came up with the idea for this show and the outfits, when I was saved by a cute little girl. She was standing at the very back with her little jean skirt, white tank top and little purple ribbons in her hair - probably not even 4 years old - doing her very best to imitate every dance move from the stage - and sometimes with astounding results that looked nothing like the belly dancer's move, but was some fantastic little dance move for someone her size. She was a delight to watch and I have to say, something inside me was relieved - as we had the next generation of belly dancer, right here in the mix.

Perdon...

2009-02-08T18:04:00.000-08:00

in other words excuse me - things got busier here and I am behind on the posts. but do check back in a few days, as there are many great - mostly foodie bits - from Argentina. Including, but not limited to, some of the following adventures:

Miranda - not a planet where reavers were created - as many Joss Whedon fans would have you believe- it is near the center of the carnivore universe, with one of the best steaks I have ever eaten.

Patagonia Sur - not a place with rugged mountains and smelly trekkers, instead it is an enchanted little place in La Boca, where I was lucky enough to enjoy the best meal of my lifetime...the dessert (flan) was like having sex - and not, I'm talking about the I'm a college student and don't quite know what I am doing sex - I'm talking about good sex. very, very good, s - e- ...er I mean flan.

Olsen - yes Scandinavian -right in the middle of one of the best foodie-lands the continent - and perhaps the planet has to offer. the furniture - the music - even the damn salt and pepper shakers scream of some of the best design from Sweden? and the eggs and bacon laced potatoes make for one fantastic brunch - and did I menntion that it cost about $13?

Then there's the day long immersion into the two great religions of Argentina!

to be continued...

lovers on the subte

2009-02-05T12:07:00.001-08:00

Some of you may remember the short piece I wrote about 2 young lovers on the tube in London (http://gmonstering.blogspot.com/2007/09/lovers-on-tube.html), well I was witness to another public display of affection, this time on the subte the subway here in Buenos Aires, their passion no less palpable, so I thought they deserved a post.

I have to admit I didn't notice them at first, one shorter than I, both in black, two goth teenagers, both with died black hair and matching streaks of magenta. Tattoos, piercings, black rubber bracelets, white skin, black eyeliner, silver belts, big black boots, utterly goth to a T. And yet both of them lovely and delicate, kissing by the door of the train.

Tucked barely out of the way, they kiss as if none of the rest of us are there. There is no train, grit, underground, noise from the tracks, darkness whizzing through the tunnel. There are no stations, stops, bumps, jostling people in their world. Ensconced with one another they kiss. softly gently, she leans over brushes the hair aways from her face, and kisses her again, this time pulling gently on her hips as if to bring the other girl closer to her, they are beautiful, and almost lonely in their own little world.

The train car comes to the next stop, jarring me out of my undoubtedly entranced gaze, I look around the car - and have to laugh, all the women near me seem to be purposely looking away, as if they don't see it, there's nothing to see. But right there in the middle of the car are two young army officers, in full uniform, sitting up straight as if at attention, but with their mouths agape. They can't take their eyes off them - no jarring stop or whistle or bustling business person or tourist can stop their stares. I want to dare to snap my finger in front of their eyes, or yell like Cher in Moonstuck "snap out of it!" but alas all I can do is laugh a little inside.

I gaze once more at the two girls as I exit the train at my stop. they have a tender young love that simply is beautiful.

pie, pie, er...ah...PIE!

2009-02-05T12:06:00.001-08:00

Ok so, first for all of you that I have come out to as an openly discriminating pie eater....ok, I don't like pie! I'd bet you'd never expect a title like that...but all joking aside - that was when my entire pie universe consisted mainly of lemon meringue, mince meat (what is THAT anyway?!?) and a variety of pies with squishy fruit.

Well, like so many other times when one is on trips like this, my horizons have been moved, because now I am a lover of the meat pie. (homer simpson moment: aaaaarrrrrhhhhhh, meeeeeeat piiiiiiiiiiiee, arrrrrrhhhhhhhhh)

Ok, so as many of you may, or may not, know I have for a long time been in search of the perfect shepherd's pie - while working to perfect the one I make at home, I almost always try it if its offered at an irish pub, because to me its a good sign - that and the fish and chips - of the quality of their kitchen...mind you, not that a good irish pub has to even have a kitchen - with the first 2 qualifiers of "good" when it comes to irish pub are beer (preferably guiness flavored) and whiskey...but I digress. I may not be a lover of the pie in the American sense, but I am a long time lover of the shepherd's pie.

So would any of you other shepherd's pie lovers (Kirsten you know who you are!) believe it if I told you I had something even better the other night? They didn't call it "meat pie" that's me, they call it cazuela, Spanish for casserole, but it was beef and onion covered with potato and topped with a thin crust of cheese that I can only guess was something like asiago or romano, making the top of the mashed potato crispy, golden and yummy. Did I mention yummy?

So, besides the wonderful cazuelas and beef in general (more posts on the wonderfulness of their beef to follow), there is another food item here i would also classify under meat + pie: the empanada. They aren't the deep fried diet bombs they are in the states, but instead they are savory meat pockets (DO NOT think of hot pockets!!), much like the calzone only smaller. meat and cheese, meat and onion, just meat, sometimes no meat just cheese or vegetables, but the meat ones are especially good (do we have time for another homer simpson moment here?). I do have to wonder why there aren't empanada joints all over the mission? Are there and I have just been missing them? hmmm will have to look harder when I am home. Here, they are cheap- even cheaper if you buy them to go at the counter - and I mean like less than a dollar (US) each, and 2-3 with a soft drink (can you say orange fanta?) is less than $5 altogether.

Anyway - I continue now on my adventures both gastronomical and others - my apologies to those of you reading that are dieting - most of the most notable and interesting experiences I have had so far have involved eating.

go iceland!

2009-02-02T15:13:00.000-08:00

so I found this out by accident, but have to say I think its great: yesterday, Iceland made Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir their prime minister. Check her out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J%C3%B3hanna_Sigur%C3%B0ard%C3%B3ttir. Not only is she a woman, but she is now the first openly gay head of government in modern times. To which I'd like to just re-state my earlier sentiment.

GO ICELAND!

no moon in my sky

2009-02-02T15:05:00.000-08:00

their strains of tango float to me
on the summer night's air
heavy and warm
as if to call forth a forgotten time
a long ago lived passion
sitting now outside the cafe
there is no moon in my sky
and I feel faraway

Unknown quotes found today

2009-02-02T14:45:00.000-08:00

I found this great tea shop today - Tealosophy - great name too. Among all the great tea flavors they have, the counter has some great photos of the owner travelling the world - even one with the Dalai Lama - that's where I found these 2 quotes - both seeming relevant to my day.

a few said they'd be
horses. Most said they'd
be some sort of cat.
My friend said she'd
like to come back as a
porcupine.

I don't like crowds,
she said

*** *** *** *** ***

I like geography best,
he said, because your
mountains and rivers know
the secret.

pay no attention to
boundaries.

When the going gets tough...

2009-02-02T13:54:00.000-08:00

...the tough, er, ah, go shopping??!

OK, so things haven't exactly been tough, but I have had a bit of writer's block - feeling a bit, pedestrian as it were. Not to make a pun, but my niece put it well when she visited Paris and after a few days whined "oh, do we have to spend another day walking places and looking at things?" well, to be honest I haven't yet undertaken the truest gastronomic adventures (sorry Sean, and Peat&Amy its coming though so stay tuned) instead I have been, much like Emily walking about looking at things. And well, given the prevalence of great weekend markets here in BA, have done more than my fair share of shopping. I'd like to think my sisters would be proud.

First is Feria Artesanal - an arts fair, right in my backyard of Recoleta, much like the vendors on Telegraph in Berkeley - many hippies and all - except situated in a park, so a little nicer going
around.

Many vendors selling mate cups and straws (for those of you new to this Mate is a drink made from Yerba mate and in Argentina, and I think South America as a whole its drinken communally in turn, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mate_(beverage) ), woven shawls, leather goods, jewelry and cheap touristy items along with a handful of painters and photographers. Given the dearth of books in English, there's not much else for me to buy, so I had to buy some jewelry and a few rocks. What else is a geologist's daughter supposed to do?

Feeling tired and weary after a day of walking...and shopping...I decided to try the ice cream (more like gelato, a wonderful leftover from BA's Italian heritage). Licking my ice cream cone (chocolate and mint chip, of course), I sit watching the moon to the singing and guitar of Gardalito, who I call tango man. I passed him earlier, dancing tango and waltzes with an invisible partner to the delight of a string of old ladies sitting on the benches nearby. Now he has his guitar and is singing some slow sultry tango tune, and I find myself wishing (again) to know castellano so I could follow along on this, yet another beautiful summer evening, still light at 9pm.

Sunday I made my way to Feria de San Telmo - which to me is the grandaddy of BA's street fairs, if I do say so myself. Among the even more vendors - and hippies - selling their wares are street performers - mimes, I saw a fantastic Charlie Chaplin, who I watched for a long time trying to figure out what was off about him, only to realize it was because he was in color and I had only ever seen him in black and white. There were dancers doing tango -and a variety of tango musicians who would dance, play guitar and sing - and voila, I ran into tango man again. A couple corners have live band on them - one I remember passing and thinking, these guys would be out here on the stoop playing their guitars, drinking beers and singing along even if this street fair wasn't here, it was there thing to do.

The Feria San Telmo is billed as an antiques market - and true to this title the area it stretches passes many antique shops - and the epicenter of the market itself, Plaza Dorrego, was filled with the best seller, their booths overflowing with all manner of antique items that you would find at a really good estate sale or thrift store. Among my usual rock buying (yes, there were more rock vendors here - they have some beautiful rocks in Argentina - and yes, um, I bought more rocks...hey, one's bag doesn't need to be light when you check it on the way home! plus if I can't weigh down my bag with books I have to do the next best thing! right?!), I bought some old pins and buttons, a t-shirt, trinkets for friends back home and a beautiful old bike bell (watch out for it on Valencia when I get home! now I ring up a storm while riding in critical mass http://critical-mass.info/ when I'm back in SF!) brring, brrring!

Aerobics y Borges

2009-01-30T15:07:00.001-08:00

I went on a little bit of a literary adventure today...but first some fun with the gay guys I met at the cafe. For those of you not interested in aerobics and general gay-ness (oh wait, who are you and why are you reading my blog?) and only interested in the literary-ness of the day can skip to part II - Borges below.

I - doing aerobics in Recoleta

It rained in Beunos Aires today, which was a relief to me, cooling things off a bit and making me glad for carrying that umbrella I purchased in Seattle for the trip (thanks Laurie!) no longer a useless bit of weight in my bag. I sat in the cafe longer than usual this morning - watching the portenos (term for the people who live in the port of Buenos Aires) run by in the rain with no coats (summer) or umbrellas - I was about to remark that I thought it funny none of them have them when of course an old lady with a little blue and red plaid umbrella walked by as if on cue.

While hanging out at the cafe, the waitress asked me where I was from and I said America and when she questioned me further I told her I was from San Francisco. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I had 2 new friends, the well appointed men from a nearby table, who overheard and came to ask where in the city I lived. Marcelo and Serge had been there last year for pride and thought it was the greatest thing ever. I said I thought Buenos Aires seemed like a nice city too, but, well they were not swayed and regaled me with some of their pride filled debauchery from the year before.

Anyway, oddly enough in the course of talking, I ended up with an invitation to go to the gym with them and since it was raining I thought what the heck. Now I thought I'd just be lifting some weights and spending sometime on the treadmill...little did I know what they had in store for me. what seemed like an innocent trip to the gym - me thinking "this is great, before I head off on some gastronomical adventures involving too much beef, I can work some of it off" - turned into something completely different. Imagine aerobics - think circa 1980 - with ten to twelve sweating, screaming, adorable, lycra-clad, (I'm pretty sure they were all) gay men (yes one of them even wore a pink headband ala Jamie Lee Curtis) and in the center of it all me, kinda out of shape, decent dancer, girl from small town Vermont, suddenly like Madonna or something.

Like many other moments in my travels, if you had told me when I was 15 or 20 that this would be happening to me one day, I never would have believed you. Anyway, we sweat, danced, sang and generally shook our collective bootie to all manner of American and Latino pop songs ( I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd played Olivia Newton John's "physical"...but they didn't...but you can imagine the great dancing that ensued when they DID play Madonna's like a virgin) and all the while I was oddly the guest of honor simply because I hailed from that strange epicenter of the gay universe, San Francisco. Like my midnight taxi ride in London from the Iraqi Kurd who drove me - this may in fact be the highlight of this trip, and unless Deep gets on a plane to have a flashdance down here in B.A. I am not sure the dancing will get any more fun. It IS fun to be a star for a day.

II - Borges
So, now for what will undoubtedly seem like a boring adventure to many of you...especially the lycra-wearing aerobicists...but I share it because I know a handful of you might like it, plus, secretly - all the fun of the aerobics class aside - this is even more my kind of rainy day fun.

First off - I hit the largest English language bookstore in BA. It was about the size of ritual coffee (for those of you who live in the mission) and about the size of two rooms from front to back, butt interesting none the less. I went hoping to pickup a volume of Jorge Luis Borges' work, he being the best known author from Argentina, and one of the foremost writers of the twentieth century. I have never read him until now, but thought, when in Rome...

The bookstore - always a good idea to hang out in one on a rainy day - also had some wonderful English editions of books that I had never seen - all the Haruki Murakami books here have these very tasteful, arty black and white covers some with photography - and not the strange designs of all the editions I have on my shelf. Additionally, I picked up a copy of Graham Greene's the Quiet American with the most splendid cover. (yes, I know I didn't have to add any more weight to my bag, but well...I did - and what better way to do it!).

Anyway, after departing the bookstore and grabbing a quick bite (more of those yummy toasted ham and cheese sandwiches) I successfully crossed the world's widest street, Av 9 de Julio, which really does have 12 lanes to arrive at Borges last residence. I had hoped for something poetic written on the wall of a very old building - like the domicile of Camille Claudel in Paris, but instead there was just a simple brass plaque with his name and a short note on it, next to a ladies shoe store. Confronted with this juxtaposition of new and old, I continued on.

I wandered past many tourist attractions I plan to come back and visit next week - the Museum of Arms, the Plaza San Martin, Tango street performers - and reached my destination - Cafe Florida a known hangout of Borges and famous Argentine painter Perez Celis. I am sure this is not the cafe of Borges time - situated on the pedestrian thoroughfare of Florida Street - now a busy upscale walking mall of sorts with business people and lots of tourists. Whenever I picture a cafe or bar hangout of some author I always seem to think of dark, sticky floored hole in the wall places like Vesuvio in SF, but alas Cafe Florida is no such hovel. It is instead a slick, clean, well lit cafe with copper covered columns and many bustling shoppers and businessmen. That said, I can report, however, that the Argentinian cafe culture, much like that born in France so long ago seems to be alive and well, as 8 businessmen, only a couple in suits are having quite a serious discourse a few tables away. It is another moment when I wish I knew the Spanish so I might understand what they are talking about.

I sit reading Borges, from my new volume, and wonder if my science fiction reading friends (yes that's you Adrian, Liz and Deep among others ;) have read the bit about Tlon? I must admit that while he's a bit hard to read (and that's before the cerveza) with so many thoughts and ideas packed into few, and many big, words - I find his stories oddly captivating. The tidbit I like the most about him is that he apparently was more a reader and lover of books than he was a writer...not to mention the dedication of his first book of fiction, "Universal History of Inequity" is simply beautiful.

Perhaps I will read more tonight...I had hoped to find a good dj and go dancing somewhere for this my first Friday night in BA, but with my booty-shakin' friends off to holiday in Montevideo for the next two weeks I am left with no good suggestions for places to go, and frankly a little bit sore. I think the aerobics class may have been enough dancing for one day.

Estoy en Buenos Aires

2009-01-29T13:58:00.000-08:00

So after a trip that included not one but two overnight flights I have arrived in Buenos Aires (sorry, I love E.M. Forester so much I had to borrow, and bastardize, one of his great lines from a Room With a View). The first thing I notice is that its hot, even at 5 am when I exit the airport. It is not until I get downtown and off the freeway that I realize why people say its like Paris, passing a church that looks like a replica of one near where I stayed in Paris, I am taken back in time...and place.

It has taken me a few days to get my sleeping and eating to resemble anything normal, but I have managed to get out and about, find good things to eat and drink and familiarize myself with the surroundings. I am in the land of the macchiato – except here it is called cafe cortado – and it is excellent!

I am now settled into cheap, but delightful digs in the Recoleta neighborhood. I am staying in an old converted mansion, with exquisite marble spiral staircase, old fireplaces and high vaulted ceilings, now divided into much smaller rooms, but friendly staff, firm bed and very clean. And there is a very nice – and air conditioned – cafe, cafe Pacheco, on the corner with wi-fi. They haven't quite figured me out yet, but I give them another day or so before they bring me coffee in the morning and midday, and ask me if I want an orange fanta or cerveza in the afternoon.

Its summer here and that, as much as the time change (6 hours ahead of SF) is as much a shock to the system...I keep thinking its like 5pm dusk like winter back home, when I look at my watch and realize its 9pm! Its only mildly sticky - not like the undauntingly sluggish humidity of Boston or New York in the summertime, and every evening around dinner time the wind seems to blow as if its about to rain, but until this evening it hadn't.

It is like Paris - only dingier and everyone is walking around speaking Spanish. The city is filled with many fashionistas, and they seem to have a collective shoe fetish to rival Imelda's...or my sister's. Even the older ladies at tea are wearing their little strappy silver high heels, the variety of flashy bright footwear is simply astounding!

And yes they have tea in the afternoon. I haven't figured out if its formally a leftover from the British or not, but business people and old ladies alike, can be seen at any manner of cafe in the late afternoon sipping, tea, coffee, mimosas, or soft drink alongside crustless toasted sandwiches (these are simply FANTASTIC, and no I don't think they use the George Foreman grill, but they are wafer thin), petit fours, alfajours (for those who haven't had them these are a delightful little sandwich cookie of two thin biscuits with caramel like dulce de leche inside all sticky and sweet) and all manner of other cakes and pastries.

I know most of my blog so far has been punctuated by food. Mostly I've been figuring out logistics and getting the lay of the land, figuring out how to get around the neighborhoods Retiro, Recoleta and Barrio Norte, all near where I am staying, so the one notable thing I've done so far is eat some interesting food. It is a strange mix of meat - great steaks from the ranches of Argentina - Italian - there are more people of Italian descent in B.A. than Spanish, despite it being a former Spanish colony - and strange re-formulations of french items (ala the croissant!). I am told its quite a foodie city, so expect more gastronomical adventures!

I'm off to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes tomorrow, let the site-seeing begin!

p.s. about the croissant (a post-script from Peru)

2009-01-29T13:52:00.000-08:00

Again, I am not sure what they're playing at but I've had another near miss croissant...its what they brought me when I asked for croissant, but I'm not quite sure it really IS a croissant...but at least here in Lima what I got was warm, buttery and quite yummy in fact...perhaps it is just that it was served by a nice, young, smiling, peruvian woman along with a decent espresso – good service and good coffee go a long way. While I'm fairly certain it wouldn't technically qualify as a croissant (hard to tell until the FCA gets of the ground and defines what is and what is not a croissant), it was shaped more like one from France and with the accompanying jam (and coffee) it really did hit the spot. BTW - “muffin” doesn't seem to translate.

A note about the coffee – I have messed up my coffee order twice now, and am sure that I am frustrating my poor waitress – but I think I've got it figured out now, which is a very good thing. I may not be able to negotiate for a room or find the right street but damnit I'll be able to order coffee in Argentina!

Adventures with Croissant

2009-01-29T13:30:00.000-08:00

I remember my last foray abroad, I remember noting the quality of food (or lack there of) that humans would consume merely because they were trapped in an enclosed space – on a train or an overnight flight – and it was the only thing edible offered to them. One leg of that trip saw me on a train from London to Paris, where I was treated to what I thought would stand as the worst croissant I'd ever consume.

This is not meant as the definitive essay on the croissant, but rather the next disturbing chapter in my adventures with this usually, delightful pastry.

I now find myself on an overnight flight en route to San Salvador – the first leg of my journey to Buenos Aires – and as the sunrise paints a dark orange band along the eastern horizon to the left of the plane I am presented with what I can only describe as a baked good wrapped in plastic with the label “croissant.” Now for any of you who've been to France or the Tartine bakery in San Francisco you know some of the best form and flavor a croissant has to offer. What I now hold in my hand, I am sure, even before peeling back the wrapping, is sheer blasphemy by comparison. I am simply astounded at the notion that someone thought fit to label what I now hold in my hands as a "croissant."

I had thought that the British version of the croissant – which I dutifully tried on the train from London to Paris – was bad. I remember naively thinking “how bad can it be? I'm on my WAY to France. Surely they pick them up there - they wouldn't think to try to make them here.” I literally had to eat my words, when the thing I was served was more like a mere bun - shaped to vaguely resemble a croissant.

I am hoping that much like the British croissant foreshadowed the excellence that would follow my arrival in Paris - this experience will bring me the same and I will find pastry that in Buenos Aires that rivals old world quality I've tasted before, but this in my hand – well in short it is both an atrocity and a curiosity.

There are people somewhere that actually try to make a croissant and it turns out like this? What are they playing at? It looks strangely like a croissant- seeming oddly pressed in to that shape as if there was a mold in a factory somewhere that stamps the dough into their best approximation of what a croissant should be. Upon opening the package I notice there are little bits of layered dough on top that seem to defy my theory of the molded croissant, but ultimately bely what's inside.

I dutifully eat it – in part because I'm starving and it seems vaguely edible – in part because it and the jam are the only things I've been given – and well, because like I mentioned previously that bit about eating whatever you're given when trapped in an enclosed space travelling somewhere...and it was there...but please, not in the way people seek out mountains to climb. It is light, fluffy and homogeneous inside, much like a cheap dinner roll – except strangely as if it had been left out from the holiday dinner the night before – oddly stale and dry. I doubt I'd think anything of it if the package had been labelled stale dinner roll.

I'm not usually one to be so picky (ok, sometimes I am!), but seriously – don't the french have some rules about what gets to be called a croissant and what doesn't? And if they don't – well, for travellers the world over I kinda wish someone would start. I know silly idea when we have war and poverty in the world, but come on, we have the FDA, couldn't they save the world for proper croissant eating by having the FCA (French Croissant Administration)?

Alas – I hope to meet nicer more croissant-y croissants when I arrive at my destination.

untitled

2008-03-30T00:13:00.000-07:00

the music you make is magical
the rhthym moves me somewhere inside
you are so serious, concentrating, focused
and i know some of the torment behind your eyes
i am sure you don't realize, quite
how you light up the room when you smile

perfect turns

2008-03-10T20:38:00.000-07:00

my sisters ski in front of me
they have nearly the same big gentle turns
like they are braiding an invisible thread

i learned this turn from them
before my turns short and scalloped
or like slalom, unturning, just straight down

the sun in the trees
white bark against sapphire sky
i make big fast turns

wind whipped hair
soft powder under skis
i feel exhilaration

the rhythm here is different
long undulating turns
the end of one flowing into the next

endings flow into beginnings
the memory of your kiss lingers and fades
creating this space in my heart

Confronting the future through windows of the past

2008-02-18T16:06:00.000-08:00

Old friends
console us
always holding for us
a better picture of who we are
like a window into our hearts
in case we forget

Friends come home again
reminding us
with their memories
of what we meant to them
like a window into your home
when you return to it from a long time away

New friends float into our lives
we discover them
only to realize
we already know them
for they bump into who
and what we already are

Sitting here at the cafe
remembering all my friends
who fill my heart
wondering how I move on from here
confronting the future
through windows of the past

Special thanks to my friend Kunal - for the beautiful photo of the same name - his came first and was the inspiration behind this piece!

For more great photos of India and beyond check out Kunal's Flickr pages: http://www.flickr.com/photos/anarchytecture/

What do project managers do in their spare time, you ask? The Great San Francisco Pillow Fight, 2008 that's what!

2008-02-14T23:16:00.000-08:00

I've fielded this question a bunch of times in the past week, not quite knowing how to answer - but tonight there was a truly interesting answer- and my colleague Kerrin has the video footage to prove it (please destroy the tapes, please?):

The Great San Francisco Pillow Fight 2008

http://laughingsquid.com/

I am having trouble describing this spectacularly surreal event - in the dusk near the embarcadero in San Francisco where, just before the stroke of 6 on this valentine's day - the pillows flew. Crashing through the crowd - there are singularly great opponents that one ends up dueling with almost like its a swordfight rather than the blatant childlike bedroom pillow throwing fun that this is. My stress dissipates as I imagine the most frustrating people at work, and pummel them with my pillow. Pillows begin to be ripped open and the air fills with feathers - swirling like new snow.

"Hey, that's not a pillow, that's your laundry man!" I hear someone shout as I get clocked in the head.

I feel tired, yet exhilarated, alive...I think this was even better than the mosh pit when Pearl Jam came home to Seattle in 92 - which is saying a lot.

I am so happy and lucky that I live a train ride away from wacky, interesting, fun, magical things that happen somewhere every day in this city.

ukulele magic

2008-02-04T00:20:00.000-08:00

I was at amnesia tonight thinking that every once in a while magic happens, but in fact, magic happens all the time, we just don't always seem to notice it. I was having another one of those quintessential SF moments when I am left standing there thinking "hmm, I've never seen anything like this!"

tonight it was three blonde ladies, with glittery makeup, in hot pants and fishnet stockings strumming away like rockstars on their ukuleles to 80's tunes - the cure and cyndi lauper mashed together. It reminded me of being in love, and I thought of you, wishing for a minute that you could be there with me, holding hands, dancing next to me, enjoying the music.

...and I wondered, how do i close the distance between your heart and mine?

French Toast SMACKDOWN - 2008 Otherwise known as the Great American French Toast Off (GAFTO) 2008

2008-02-03T16:38:00.000-08:00

So it is hard to describe exactly how we got here, but through the imagination and ingenuity of some of my dearest friends, not to mention their love of french toast, competitive spirit and fanastic humor, my stomach is now very full and I have today finished one of the best adventures I've had in a while.

What is a french toast smack down you ask?? Originally named GAFTO (not to be confused with NAFTA, and yes you can still hear the "giant sucking sound" if you listen carefully), it stands for the Great American French Toast Off.

Originally conceived by my friends Jen and Deep, who have very different view of what makes a perfect piece of french toast, they thought it would be fun for a bunch of us to get together, go to brunch at their favorite french toast places and decide which was truly better.

It started off innocently enough, with a group of us nodding at brunch before the holidays, thinking that would be interesting and fun to have an excuse to try some new places. Little did any of us know what a delightful adventure it would turn into when Jen emailed us this week to invite us all to brunch on Saturday and Sunday...well at least until the trash talk started.

So as the fateful weekend approached our email boxes filled with little poems about how great their french toast was:
My toast? It's the most!
Your toast? It shouldn't boast!

Toast Smackdown!

...and then came the contest itself!

First up - Fattoush - a lovely mediterranean restaurant, that I am sure must have decent falafel, but is apparenlty known for its brunch. Nestled in Noe Valley near the corner of Church and 25th, it serves Deep's favorite cornflake french toast, the menu even boasting "the one and only."
http://www.fattoush.com/Home_Page.php

It was quite tasty and crunchy - unlike any french toast I'd ever had, and after 7 of us had scarfed down every bite of french toast that would fit inside us, I was thinking to myself how can Jen be so calm. Was it food coma? How could any french toast be better than that? What did she know that we did not know?

Well, she knew about La Note, which we all found out about on Sunday.
http://www.lanoterestaurant.com/

So with passports and visas in hand we easily gained entry into the tiny east bay enclave known as the People's Republic of Berkeley (PROB). We were greeted by a native on the train with political flyers in hand, but otherwise went unnoticed even though none of us was wearing the international shoes of PROB - the birkenstock.

After a long wait for our table, which included a coffee run to peet's, an hors d'ouevre pumpkin muffin, a Scharffen Berger chocolate bar and one hail storm, with musical accompaniment, we were finally seated.

Deep looked concerned - he'd seen plates of the tasty french toast go by - and there was doubt in our hero's eyes. I myself, knew he was in trouble as soon as I read the menu - because not only did La Note have 2 types of french toast, but one of them was brioche french toast. I tried to resist getting too cocky on Jen's behalf, but I couldn't resist. My "Deep, you're going down!" was met with Deep's squinty-faced grimace. (sorry man - but you just can't take corn flakes up against brioche! can you?)

Well, there we were, on Super Bowl Sunday, taking part in a much different competition at La Note as they ran out of cinnamon brioche french toast, one plate short at our table. No worries, we all donated one of our slices, and everyone still got MORE than enough of the delightful, sticky, soft, warm, yummy goodness, with butter and lavender honey.

While we all agreed that it was hard to compare the two - they were SO different - now I understand exactly why Jen went toe-to-toe with Deep on this one - can you say:
SMACKDOWN!

I am still chuckling at our lovely mix of high brow and WWF, and give more than an honorable mention to the cornflake french toast at Fattoush - but the clear winner of our contest is the cinnamon brioche french toast at La Note. So dig out your passports, don't forget to get a visa, strap on your birks, splash on some patchoulli and jump the bart train for some rockin' good french toast.

Stay tuned for our next gastronomic adventure: the bao down!

p.s. check out the official t-shirt of GAFTO:

what's that blue thing doing here

2007-12-13T18:13:00.000-08:00

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewAlbum?playlistId=79029259&s=143441&i=79029221

the sky was this fantastic irridescent sapphire tonight
I was reminded of evenings spent in Seattle
laying in the grass after the sun had set over the olympics
watching that blue thing happen

lovers leaving the park
the attraction they came for finished
in the shadow of the black hole sun
ours was just beginning

the edge of the mountains afire
with the last bits of orange from the setting sun
the sky would deepen and darken
developing into richer and richer blue
moving through sapphire to indigo
as the sparkle of planets then stars
would dot the sky

we'd pick them out one by one
as they appeared
huddling in the chill night air
sometimes calling them by name
cassiopea or the twins
orion with rigel and beteljeuse
the horns of taurus and aldarbaran
other times making up our own names
laughing at our silly interpretation
of pots and pans in the sky

walking in the mission tonight
sutro tower was lit by a thin band
pale orange, the vestige of sunset
the rest of the sky doing the blue thing
cerulean to azur to teal
on through royal to cobalt
skipping navy going straight to
ultramarine, deep dark like the ocean
on a clear blue day

i can't tell if the sky is getting bluer
developing like a photo
in the finishing tray in the dark room
or am i just more and more moved
as i experience it
a curtain of color, lit from behind
almost electric

the thinnest crescent from the new moon
cuts like a beacon in the blue
i stop in my tracks
in awe at this stretch of sky
unmoving on the sidewalk
as if swimming in the blueness above

The New Rules by Dave Eggers (reposted here for your information)

2007-12-09T17:49:00.000-08:00

THE NEW RULES

I don't know why it came down to me to tell you about this, but anyway, here goes: if you don't buy at least ten books a year, you'll be struck by lightning, or maybe a bus. It's the new rule. Yeah. You'll probably be sent a more official notice in the mail pretty soon, but for now, you're hearing it from me. Ten books a year, or the bus or lightning, each of them very painful and likely deadly. Is the rule a bit harsh? Well, maybe. Some people might think so, but then again, those people won't be with us very long, because anyone who complains about the rule will be disemboweled by bears. Again, not my idea--I am just the messenger here!--but that's the way it is. I don't know why you're worried, though. just buy the ten books a year, and don't whine about it, and you won't be struck by anything or have your insides ripped out by a grizzly. Doesn't seem so complicated, really. Also, make sure you buy the right kinds of books, or else someone in a cardigan will push you off a building. Again, nothing to worry about: just buy the best kinds of books, not the bad ones, or else you'll be looking over your shoulder pretty much forever. And you can't read that way, anyway, so it all works out.

-DE

midnight poets

2007-11-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

"give us a poem!" they shouted from their bench in front of Dosa
turning to look, i recognize the cute guy from a cafe i used to frequest
he'd long since moved on to pursue his "art"
I say "hey" and as he says "hey" back they shout again
"Give us a Poem!!"

I stop, my mind reeling
I couldn't even consider doing this a few months ago
but for some reason i've been devouring poetry lately
so my mind searches
for any bit that stuck
a line or stanza big enough to grasp onto
can't think as the booming voices assault me again
Give. Us. A. Poem!

so i default to the old and known
to recite a bastardized version of Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese"
the only poem commited mostly to memory
there is scattered applause
as they hand me a beer and make space for me to sit down
as i slide onto the bench and crack open the beer they boom
"Give us a song!"

I look up to see who their next victim is
and realize they're looking at me
i laugh, take a long swallow of beer
and smiling back, say
"i know its halloween and all,
but it might be too much of a fright,
'cuz you've never heard me sing"

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

- Mary Oliver
from Dream Work

***** ***** ***** ***** *****
If you like this poem, the book Dream Work is filled with other great poems Mary has written. This poem also reminds me of a short story by Linda Hogan, called Walking that was publisehed in Parabola magazine and is part of a collection "Sisters of the Earth" edited by Lorraine Anderson.

from the shore

2007-10-22T21:44:00.000-07:00

the sand
wet
like a mirror
reflecting
sea stack, sky
we walk for a long time
at the water's edge

where the rocks are
dropped, polished
by sea and sand
some glow like marbles
others egg shaped
smooth and oblong
still others
jagged & rough
not yet finished
by the tides

we walk further on
at the water's edge
where the rocks are
dropped, polished
until the surf comes for us
pushing us, running
onto dry sand
as if to say
take no more of me
you have enough
take no more
of me

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

walking hands full of pebbles
like when i was a little girl
wanting my hands to be bigger
longing for my mother's pockets
to hold more

i can't pick up another
without giving up one of the
treasures already found

i open my palms
perusing the tiny gifts
searching
maybe there is one
i can give up
leave behind

to fit this new one in

like the little girl
i am troubled by the choice
wishing
wanting for my mother's pockets
for longer fingers, bigger hands

why can't i just hold more i think
stretching my hands to try
several rocks fall away

too much
too far to stretch
too much to fit in
too much to give up

i place the new one back on the sand
pick up the others
closing my hand
walking on

they are enough
they are the extent of my reach
and that's
enough

what makes a really good Saturday

2007-10-20T18:05:00.001-07:00

Being home
good friends that love you
being outside
sunny skies and beautiful weather
free ice cream
coffee
dancing
musical trike rides with Stevie, Micheal, Prince and Madonna
and the promise of good times to come

reconciliation

2007-10-19T17:23:00.000-07:00

Recently, I spent one of the best weekends I have ever had, with my best friend, Laurie, on a little strip of beach on the Washington coast that we go to every year. Besides always being blown away by the sheer rugged beauty of the place I was astounded by some of the journeys Laurie and I have taken this year to heal the past and live healthy and whole in the present...mostly I was confronted with something I wanted to share with my friends and anyone still reading here - and that is that, regardless of the bumps, bruises, scars we all carry from our pasts, we - she and I, everyone - have so much love inside of us. We all have this power to forgive, to reconcile with those who have hurt us, to rise above, and give up being right long enough to just be with the people who are important to us.

I was reminded of a piece of writing that I first saw right after gulf war v 2.0 started:

I only learned last year,
That I can stop whatever violence
starts with me

I only learned last year
That love is infinitely more
interesting and more exciting and
more powerful than really
winning or really losing a fight

I only learned last year
That all war leads to death and
that all love leads away from death

-June Jordan

swimming under stars

2007-10-19T17:20:00.000-07:00

can't sleep
it's like i am still on pacific coast time
the timezone with the seastacks and bald eagles
where the sunsets turn the sky and ocean on fire,
orange mirrorlike water, surrounding rocks covered
seastars, anemones, limpets and mussels, clinging
to life for one more night, for one more day

my face, dry from sun, wind, sand
warms now from the glowing fire
darkness falls, bits of spark float towards sky
leaving orange trails behind them like little comets
the big fat milky way fills its band in the sky
and we feel again like we are very very lucky
and very very small at the same time

my body is too warm by the fire
longing for the chilling cold of the water
toes, then knees
cold, then numb
running in the surf
diving under the tallest wave
coming to surface with a scream
the cold biting my torso and stomach
the beauty, strength of my body in turbulent water
i swim back towards shore
my legs still underwater lose feeling
my arms out in the wind are equally cold
but the middle, still in the frothing water
is strangely warm, my blood shunted to the core
pumping, i feel my heart beat strong and hard in my chest

i am running now on sand, longing for the soft dry towel
and the warmth of the fire
i stretch out next to it
bathing in its warmth, feeling my limbs relax, my heart slow
adrenalin still pumping
i am alive
all i can think is
i am alive
lovingly, beautifully, spectacularly
alive

-----
written 10/14 upon my return from my annual backpacking trip to the Washington coast.

getting your groove back

2007-10-14T21:06:00.001-07:00

Upon returning it took me a week to get my groove back - thanks to Deep and Ankur, my moonwalk will never be the same :) and DJ Shooey. Some of you are already fans, but for those who aren't let's get together and go dance to her sometime soon: http://www.jennyshu.com/dj.html

and for those of you wanting the first moonwalk ever:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCt1BwWE2gA

er, I meant the dancestep - here's its debut:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8NA-IgKKvY

this is a great collection of MJ moonwalking and will save you hours of sitting in front of youtube looking for the best footage :)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_3v-_p3ESo

Our Friday nights at Make Out Room are no longer, but the boys are due at a club in SOMA, Etiquette on Friday Nov. 2 in a monthly format. So we search for a new great place to go in the 'hood, but even with the distraction of Honeycut (http://tinyurl.com/32ls56), and tripping back to the 80s at beauty bar - I miss our nights on stage at MOR with Nickel Bag of Funk with whatever dance minions would grace the club's landscape. Everyone keeps telling me change is good, but I haven't found it yet in this case, so until Shooey starts playing the bar around the corner every Friday night, please forward me any fun dancing distractions you might have!

Last tidbits from travelling

2007-10-14T19:29:00.002-07:00

So much has happened since I left Paris. I had hoped to finish writing stories about my travels and keep the blog going, but there has been little time - so for now, hopefully everyone will just be fine with some of the highlights!

First was the train back to London via the chunnel. If you ever have a chance take the train, and if you are then afforded a chance to ride in the luxury class - take it! The croissants with raspberry jelly and coffee are some of the best I've had.

In London, there was more curry (of course) and the Tate museum. Can I just say that I love this notion of going to the museum in the evening having visited both the Louvre and the Tate at night. For those of you interested here's my little list for SF:
MOMA 8:45 pm Thursdays
Asian 9 pm Thursdays
de Young 8:45 pm Fridays
Legion of the Palace of the something of honor...no late hours...but their name is too damn confusing anyway...who needs them! except for the rodin reproductions!
(oh how I miss evenings at the ansel adams museum)

If you're ever in London I would recommend the Tate (and I didn't even get to see the Turbine hall). Its a very different feeling art museum...and even if you're not a fan of Rothko, you have to check out the Seagram's paintings (if you don't know the story: http://arts.guardian.co.uk/critic/feature/0,1169,931796,00.html), housed now in one big room. All I can say is that I was a fan of Rothko (not sure why) long before seeing them, but was completely blown away by the awesome power and depth of the giant red canvases. Familiar shapes - windows, doors, beds, boxes - yet unlike all of them, in dark maroon, red, brown...essentially I can't describe them so you have to go see them for yourself.

Like the starlit flight to Toronto was the bookend at the beginning of my trip that all these stories were piled and leaning against...my sitting for a long time in the Seagrams mural room was like the bookend on the end of my trip, finishing the shelf and holding the stories together...everything thereafter was travel detail and logistics.

last day paris

2007-09-28T02:17:00.002-07:00

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!

2007-09-27T09:34:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-26T16:47:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-26T16:01:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-26T15:23:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-23T15:28:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-23T14:04:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-21T03:39:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-21T03:22:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-18T17:52:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-18T15:15:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-18T14:45:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-09-17T16:06:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-17T16:06:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-17T15:39:00.001-07:00

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**

2007-09-17T12:17:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-16T13:30:00.002-07:00

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!

2007-09-15T07:04:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-14T18:44:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-13T06:27:00.000-07:00

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