Don't Worry, Be Happy

Before I left (and during my trip), people often told me that I was brave for going it alone around the world. As soon as I exited the port at Tangier, for the first time I suspected that they might be right.

Tangier feels crowded and dense, but in a stagnant way that contrasts with, say, dynamic Tokyo or New York City that never sleeps. I suppose it's a combination of Ramadan and the summer heat, but the city is absolutely teeming with men that linger everywhere. And they don't just notice you; they notice you.

It would be an understatement to say that I'm not used to being lavished with male attention, so what I encountered as soon as I stepped out of the taxi near my hotel in the old medina was unreal. Whichever way I turned I was greeted with "konichiwa" or "arigato," and sometimes shouts of "Hey, Japan!" followed me down the street. A Parisian friend had warned me about the yellow fever that runs rampant in Morocco, joking that I should shave my head and dress like a boy. After ten minutes of being out and about it didn't seem like such a joke anymore so much as a viable option.

Shop where I bought my scarf.

Wearing sunglasses brought a small level of comfort; the opaque lenses deflected the worst of the blatant stares and helped me avoid making eye contact, which I found only encouraged men to approach me. At the time of arrival I was wearing a sundress that covered my shoulders but left my arms and knees bare - a revealing outfit relative to how local women dress. So, taking a cue from them, I went shopping and bought some thin black pants and tunic tops - and a scarf for good measure. 

Back at the hotel I reorganized my suitcase, banishing all sun dresses, tank tops and shorts (i.e. the majority of the clothes I brought) to the bottom as the few pairs of pants, short sleeve and long sleeve shirts I had packed resurfaced. I felt better after I changed into pants and a loose short sleeve top, but the racial cat-calling persisted as I made my way towards the beach for dinner. No matter how hard I try, my stature and rounded nose and features make it obvious that I'm not from here. 

The new city feels spacious after the medina.

But in the wide boulevards of the new city outside the medina, I realized that it wasn't just my ethnicity that made me stick out like a unicorn among horses - women don't generally wander alone. They're usually in pairs or trios, and if they are alone they're probably not for long - they have places they're trying to get to, unlike me. And they seem to drive or take cabs, rather than walk. 

Whenever I hesitated at an intersection, a man would appear out of nowhere to offer directions. Maybe their intentions were good, but I had been warned of a common scheme before - you follow them, and then they demand a fee for their services. My reluctance to stay and talk (okay, a couple times I practically ran away) must have come across as fear, because then they backed away, saying, "Don't worry, be happy."

And, as it turns out, most of them are pretty harmless. Aggressively friendly, for sure, but above all just curious. 

St. John's Eve

As luck would have it I booked my trip to Porto the weekend of the biggest party of the year - the night before the Feast of Saint John (or São João in Portuguese). Beginning the evening of June 23, it's an all-night celebration with food, drink and some other (stranger) traditions that continues until the morning of the 24th. I've seen some fairly raucous celebrations in other places - the 4th of July at home, New Year's Eve pretty much anywhere, and Bastille Day in Paris - but never have I seen an entire community come together the way the residents of Porto do for St. John.

I awoke Sunday morning to find the city transformed; or rather in the process of transformation. The cafes neighboring my hostel had exploded out onto the plaza with dozens more tables and chairs than normal. Kegs were being rolled out and speakers set up. Later, as the afternoon wore on, the air became thick with the smell of charcoal as people prepared to start grilling the traditional sardines and green peppers right there on the sidewalks. I even saw a few pigs roasting on spits. Restaurants put out signs advertising special tapas menus.

With nothing planned for the day I joined a walking tour and the guide, a local, took us around the central part of old town, explaining in equal measure the history of the city and the preparations for the party that we were witnessing. As he took us through narrow alleys I saw that, just like outside my hostel, families had set out tables, chairs and grills outside their apartment buildings. Men sat back and sipped beers while women started to set the tables. It was like a giant, city-wide block party. Or tailgate, depending on how you look at it. And on every street corner was a vendor selling plastic hammers that emitted a loud squeak (like a dog's chew toy) upon contact. As per tradition these are to hit other people on the head.

After the tour I returned to the hostel for a shower and a nap, and when I reemerged at 9 the party was in full swing. I looked out from the balcony and the plaza below was full of people eating, drinking and dancing. Meeting up with a girl I had met on the walking tour that afternoon, we made our way toward the waterfront to see the midnight fireworks. Everywhere there was a dull buzz of squeaking as people brandished their hammers. I, growing tired of getting attacked, bought one so I could deliver some retribution.

Me with my hammer.

Now that the sky had darkened people had taken to lighting paper lanterns - the kind that are propelled upward by the flame and eventually become bright yellow specks in the night. Securing a spot near the water around 11, we watched as the crowd around us became rowdier and denser. They bopped newcomers on the head who tried to push their way forward for a better view, and cheered for those attempting to light lanterns, egging on the fragile paper things on their quest towards the sky. Then, finally, the street lamps went out and with a flash and a bang the firework display began.

Making our way back downtown after the music and light show was less fun. While I was ready to climb into bed and call it a night, for everyone else the party was just starting. The drunks were getting drunker and sloppier, the music blared louder than ever before from speakers erected seemingly on every street corner, and hits from errant hammers rained down more frequently.

My tour guide from the wine excursion said that, according to tradition, people are supposed to follow the river to the ocean and take a dip in the water. But as I lay in bed, lulled by the music and laughter drifting in through my fourth floor window, I wondered how many people had made it out to sea. Perhaps, like me, they simply gave up, laid down in the sand and closed their eyes.

See more of Porto and St. John's Eve here. 

On Food, Photography & Food Photography

My personal favorite type of website has got to be the Single Topic Tumblr (STT). Whether it's the classic Kim Jong-il Looking at Things (RIP Dear Leader), the short-lived Teenage Mutant Ninja Noses, the esteemed Humans of New York, or the occasionally educational I Love Charts, STTs are perfect for me because I have a short attention span. Sometimes I think my heavy usage of the internet has given me ADD. When reading a page or article I often find myself opening new tabs while I wait for the previous one to load, and before I know it there are a dozen tabs and I've already forgotten or stopped caring what the first one was about.

Recently a new STT popped up on my dashboard that hit a little too close to home. It's name? Pictures of Hipsters Taking Pictures of Food with the tagline, "Documenting the phenomenon of people taking pictures of food they did not themselves cook." I laughed as I scrolled through the photos, but inwardly cringed because I am totally one of those people. In my defense I'm not that hardcore about it, but even so, iPhoneography is not that subtle. ​

There are two issues at play here. One is why bother taking pictures of food in the first place? My Instagram feed is dominated by food photos, but for the most part they're all things that I made myself in class. But, hell, I was taking pictures of food long before I owned an iPhone and before smartphone cameras were even respectable. Call me a hipster, but back in the day (i.e. high school) I was taking pictures of food on 35mm film to make prints that I developed in a darkroom. I once heard it said on the Food Network that you first eat with your eyes. And now that I'm in cooking school being graded on presentation, it's become well-ingrained that food should look good. Pretty people get their photos taken all the time, so why shouldn't a nice cake or intricate latte art get the same treatment?

The other issue that POHTPOF pokes fun at is social media and technology, because you just know by looking that all of the photos of the meta-subjects will inevitably end up on Instagram. I use the photography app quite a bit myself to post pictures, but the reason why I don't use it much to follow others is best summed up by a deliciously snarky open letter to people who take pictures of food with Instagram.

Just because the picture looks artsy doesn’t mean you are. I get it. We all went through our creative, experimental stages. There is a period in all of our lives where we think we can probably make money off our pseudo-artistic talent of choice. And now, you think you are a photographer because Instagram does the work for you. - Katherine Markovich

Apps like this allow users to slap nifty-looking filters on otherwise bland, badly composed and/or out of focus pictures.​ But for a generation of humblebraggers artistry is not paramount; Instagramming and checking in are just about proving that you were there.

Of course this is all really just a long-winded introduction to ​say that on Friday night I had one of the best dinners thus far in Paris at Les Papilles. In a nutshell: four-course set menu that changes daily and surprisingly isn't too expensive. The portions are considerable (I've definitely paid more and gotten less at other restaurants) and served up family-style, like classy comfort food. There's also a great wine selection (not that I'm an expert or anything but they had a lot of really cool-looking bottles and let's face it that's generally how I judge my wines). Your waiter will tell you that a bottle for the table is 7€ than a bottle to go, but obviously it's meant to be paired with the meal so chances are you'll pay up anyways.

I hesitated to photo-document the meal because POHTPOF has made me slightly self-conscious about doing so, but...​it was such a good experience I suppose I didn't want to only have memories of it after. Here are pictures of what I ate there.

Wino

​That entire wall is filled with shelves of bottles.

Entrée

​In French the entrée is the appetizer. Here we have a creamy sweet potato soup with chorizo.

Boeuf au Vin Rouge

​The main dish was beef slow-cooked in a red wine sauce with vegetables. I don't know if the meat was actually cooked "all night" as the waiter said, but it was so tender I'd believe it.

Fromage

​I love that the French have an entire cheese course between the main dish and dessert. Here we have a blue variety with a candied prune.

Dessert

​Banana panna cotta with caramel sauce.

As much as I complained in the beginning I don't really have a solution because I think the problem is at least partially rooted in narcissism, but I suppose every photo is meaningful...if not only to the photographer herself. So for the sake of your followers and friends, Facebook or genuine, make each picture count. Don't be ashamed to pull out your phone at the brunch/lunch/dinner table, but please take a few extra seconds to do it right. When I see the finished product I want to drool with envy, not roll my eyes and click 'unfollow.'

The Geography of Taste

A topic that inevitably comes up in relation to homesickness when I talk to my expat friends is the food. Paris, of course, has a lot going for it (that's why we're all here to learn the culinary arts!) but I miss the familiarity of the foodscape at home. In Seattle (my hometown), the Bay Area (my adopted home for the four years before I came for France), and even New York City (where I spent the summer of 2011), I had an eclectic rotation of trustworthy restaurants, bars and cafés that I knew I liked. And by "eclectic," what I really mean are various kinds of ethnic cuisines.

The expats I know who hail from so-called countries of immigrants - Canada, Australia, and the good ol' USA - ​all say the same thing. Paris is culturally and ethnically diverse, but even when you dine in immigrant-run restaurants it feels...Frenchified. In some instances it's a matter of being used to the Americanized version (especially for Chinese food), but it's definitely disconcerting to see menus written only in French and a foreign language. But I suppose no matter the quality of the food, not knowing what you're eating is always an adventure.

However, there's no denying that certain products and dishes are just engineered differently in France.​ Recently I had pho in the 13th arrondissement, a neighborhood known for its many Asian restaurants, and while the noodle soup itself was fine, I was sorely disappointed that the Sriracha sauce did nothing. Given the amount I added to the broth, if this were at a restaurant at home in the states I would have been in tears by the end. For my friends and me, that's kind of the point - to go in on a cold winter's day, and put just the right amount of kick in the soup to clear your sinuses and make you sweat a little. But in Paris, no matter how much you put in your bowl it remains a stubborn combination of sweet and salty.

​I had a similar experience when a friend from Mexico took me to try out a new Mexican restaurant. The food was authentic enough, by his standards, but the salsa was so bland it seemed to be just for looks. No wonder people bring back bottles of Tapatío sauce after visiting home.

The more I've talked to other chefs and people who have lived here longer than I have, the more I realize that traditional French cuisine is very mild, and so those who enter the restaurant industry here have to work around the local preferential tastes if they want to succeed. The most obvious examples are branches of chains like McDonald's and Starbucks, whose menus are quite different from the ones I'm used to seeing at home.​

When I heard that Chipotle was to open its first location in Paris, I scoffed, thinking, "Typical expansion of American corporatism." But I've been so homesick lately maybe I will try it. (After my next paycheck clears; I've heard it's expensive). I don't really expect the salsa to be spicy, but I hope it is.

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​If you're in the northwest any time soon, here is a compilation of my favorite places to eat in Seattle.