A Seattle Girl at Heart

One of the things I missed most while living in Paris was being near the water. (Because, no, the dirty Seine and its annual tax-dollars fest Paris Plage don't count). It's not even that I particularly enjoy aquatic activities (my parents never owned a boat like other families we knew and I detest swimming because watching Jaws at an impressionable age left me with an irrational fear of sharks), but growing up in Seattle and driving past Puget Sound every day on the way to school and gymnastics practice made the water a constant presence. When I went away to university, it was reassuring to know that the bay was, traffic willing, only a short drive away. Paris, by comparison, felt oddly suffocating, and as though something intangible were always missing. I don't like feeling land locked, I guess.

When I've told people about my trip, both before I left and now that I'm on the road, I usually get one of two reactions. Either, "Wow that's so ambitious!" (11 countries in three months, yolo). Or, "You're doing this all alone? I could never do that." (Yes, I am). There are positives and negatives on both counts. It's liberating on the one hand, planning my itinerary based solely on what I want to do, but also tiring because I don't want to leave a city feeling like I missed out on something. And - there's no way around it - eating alone sucks.

Yesterday a group of us ventured out from our hostel to the beach, and as I lounged in my blue-and-white striped deck chair I was reminded of the last time, almost a year ago, that I had gazed out at the Mediterranean on a summer's day, the soft breeze dissipating the heat radiating from a cloudless sky, and enjoying the company of new friends. That was easily one of the more perfect days I've ever experienced. This time was a bit different. I was still in good company, but we had all participated in a pub crawl the night before and I, especially, was nursing a particularly nasty hangover. (Tequila and I don't mix well).

So I lay in the shade of a thatched umbrella intermittently sleeping, drinking water and, behind my dark glasses, being surreptitiously entertained by the other groups around us - a gaggle of English school kids on holiday and a European couple that purchased some questionable temporary tattoos from an itinerant vendor (pawprints that appeared to climb up the girl's torso from the general direction of her crotch; a hand giving the finger on the guy's abs).

But the longer we stayed others came and went, and it was then that I realized what I liked about the water was the nothingness of it. Hours passed with me watching the waves creep up on the sand like clockwork and everything else just fell away. No plans, no sense of urgency. Just me and the sea.

Alternative Modes of Transportation

About a month ago I signed up for a Vélib membership, granting me easy access to Paris' vast public bike-sharing system. Biking, along with having a private chef to prepare all my meals, is probably one of the things that I miss most about Stanford. I like that it's quicker than walking, less hassle for going short distances than descending into the subway, and physically stimulating enough to make me feel like I'm working out even though I rarely break a sweat. (Paris is relatively flat, but the weather is consistently chilly now that it's November).

Despite how frighteningly aggressive Parisian drivers are, the city is quite bike-friendly. On the main roads cyclists share the center lane with buses and taxis, and most other streets - even the small ones - have designated bike lanes. The biggest challenge is not getting lost, something I struggle with enough even just pounding the pavement on my own two feet.

Recently, however, I discovered the real use for Vélib bikes; the one that its founders probably did not intend but that which I shall probably use my membership for the most in my remaining time here.

You see, the Metro closes relatively early (about 1am on weekdays and 2am on weekends)*​ and taxis are much more trouble than they're worth. (Not only are they expensive but you can only catch them at designated stretches of the sidewalk. So on a Friday night in say, Bastille, you could be waiting a very long time for a ride).

But now, after a night out, I can simply bike home. I will admit from personal experience that biking in heels after a few drinks is not the easiest feat, but it can be done. There's also something quite refreshing about cruising down Boulevard du Montparnasse at 3am when it's practically devoid of cars with the cold early morning air whipping through my hair - a welcome respite from the sweaty, suffocating atmosphere of the dancefloor.

Many Parisians are game to simply stay out long enough for the Metro to reopen at 5am. In fact, I'm told that's the reason why they tend to go out later. But even after living here for almost 5 months I still haven't fully adjusted to their downshifted schedule. Whereas at home I'm used to eating dinner at 6, pre-gaming by 10 and going out by 11, everything in France happens a good 2 or 3 hours later.

Maybe it's a sign that I've already exceeded my partying prime, but I'm lucky if I can make it to 4am without falling asleep.

*I once read somewhere that this is for cleaning purposes, but quite honestly I don't know who they're kidding. NYC's subway system managed to operate 24-hours a day and still feel safer and cleaner than the Metro.

Defining 'Home'

Yesterday after class, with the help of a couple friends, I made the inevitable move from my apartment in the 15th to my new home for the remainder of my time in Paris in the 5th. For the days leading up to the move I had been battling my dislike of packing with my yearning for the ability to finally settle down and fully nest; trading my awesome roommate for a host family; being able to walk to school in 10 minutes versus...well, I still haven't figured out how I'm going to get there from the new place. In short, there were and still​ are many mixed feelings. 

The new neighborhood seems a lot more lively, and I'm not just saying that because when I moved in there was a police barricade around the corner. ​There's a better Sunday farmer's market, more brasseries and bars, and of course the mosque down the street that serves excellent mint tea. But, as a creature of habit, I don't like my daily routines getting interrupted and having to find new ones. 

This summer when I logged into Facebook I felt a small pang of jealousy ​each time I saw someone post pictures or a status about moving into their new studio/apartment/house. I wish I had that stability of permanence and the independence that comes with having one's own place. Not to mention the fact that many of my school friends live relatively close to each other and get to hang out and do "grown-up" things like go to happy hour together. I think one of the hardest things about living abroad is that, no matter how much fun you're having, there are times when you can't stop thinking about everything you're missing out on at home.

As I write this I'm sitting in an American-style bakery/coffee shop, the type that serves brownies, cupcakes and coffee in to-go cups, and that I used to spend hours at with ​friends while allegedly writing papers and studying for exams. I've missed the people from home since, well, maybe week 2 of class. But it's only now that I'm beginning to miss the other things, even those that I usually took for granted. 

An Australian friend recently asked me if Starbucks is much of a fad at home.​

Being from Seattle, I replied, "It's not a fad. It's a way of life."​

My peers at school sometimes make fun of me for shelling out €4 for a tall soy latte, but I say you can't put a price on nostalgia. And anything that keeps me awake during an 8:30am class is a worthy investment.​

Celebrating 22 at the Mojito Lab, Paris

On Saturday I turned 22, and for the second time in a row celebrated my birthday away from home. Last year I was at the Toronto International Film Festival, so I went out for drinks with some newfound film buddies. This year, I went out with my French roommate and some friends from LCB.  

The main event of the evening was a visit to the sleek Mojito Lab in the Bastille neighborhood. As the name suggests, the bar exclusively serves mojitos (20 variations on the menu, I believe), grows their own mint, etc. But we weren't there just to drink - for €35/person, the Mojito Lab offers mixology classes for small groups. So after a harrowing taxi ride from the 15th (during which our driver nearly hit and subsequently swore at every cyclist we passed), the four of us descended to the basement 'lab' below the normal lounge and bar area.

So for the next couple hours our bartender and instructor for the evening, Florian, taught us how to make classic mojitos, a virgin passionfruit variation, and a syrupy raspberry-based version. Having gotten my bartender certification last summer, I already knew the basics of free pouring and what not, but it was a treat to play with the lab's fancy barware and ingredients - particularly the wide variety of pre-made fruit syrups that I haven't seen stateside.

And because it was my birthday, Florian concocted this lovely strawberry basil mojito and some shooters. A good start to a great night.

One of the other bartenders stopped by to give us a juggling demonstration. Video below.

bartender at the Mojito Lab in Paris shows off his skills. all goes well until the end. unfortunately i didn't catch it from the beginning, but you get the idea...

 

Burgers in Paris, Part Deux

Les nomz

Just when I was starting to get used to living in a French atmosphere I went away to Scandinavia, where everyone speaks nearly flawless English. In some ways it was almost like being at home, except that they use strange currencies and everyone is very blonde and blue-eyed...

Okay, so I guess it was more like being in an alternate universe, but the point is that I could communicate with people without wildly gesticulating and looking like an idiot. And then I returned to Paris, where my brain now struggles to form simple sentences in French. 

If you asked me during my first week here whether I would ever want go to back home, the answer would probably be no. But now that the blinders have come off a bit I'll definitely be ready to leave by next summer. There's no denying that Paris is a beautiful city, but one tends to spend most of the time looking down at the ground avoiding piles of dog poop - seriously, it's worse than Manhattan.

Le camion. Probably easier to spot by the long line that forms at lunch time.

For these reasons and more I've been feeling a little homesick, which is why I decided it was time to seek out Le camion qui fume - one of only two burger-grilling mobile food joints in Paris. Whereas Cantine California focuses more on...California/Mexican-influenced street food, Le camion qui fume is all about straight up burgers. Oh, and their fries are better than In-n-Out's.

Yes, I went there. Come to Paris and prove me wrong.

For more objective assessment on the cultural significance of food trucks in Paris, I suggest you read this NYT article.