Reality Check

It’s hard for me to see anything to envy in most people who travel. Because deep down that is what they are doing. Fleeing themselves and the lives they’ve created. - Ryan Holiday

If this is true, then coming home was like sprinting headlong into a glass window that I didn't even realize was there.  I was very fortunate to land a job less than two weeks after landing at SFO, but there are times when I've wondered if it was all a bit too soon.

It's not the hours, although I'm still adjusting - in at 4:30 am, out by 1 pm. My friends were collectively horrified when I first told them but, honestly, fresh-baked croissants don't grow on trees. Someone has to bake them. In the morning. Before the store opens. Besides, I knew what I was getting into when I entered the F&B industry.

The challenging part is the culture. As an intern in Paris it was kind of a given that I would be doing all the bitch work; that in the big scheme of things it didn't make a huge difference whether I showed up or not (although I always did); that I would make mistakes and that one of my superiors would step in and fix the situation, generally with many colorful uses of the words "putain" (fuck) and "merde" (shit).  Being a full-time employee in the new-wave foodie metropolis of San Francisco is different. I have real responsibilities. And no one has cursed me out for the occasional mess-up. 

But even though working in a French-speaking kitchen made me disciplined, obedient and somewhat impervious to harsh words, there are disadvantages. Some tools, for instance, I only know by their French names. I never thought it would be problematic to work in my native language but, there you have it, sometimes I don't know which items my co-workers are referring to.

While job hunting may have been a cake walk, so to speak, finding a place to live was much harder than it was in Paris. (I suppose I should use the present tense, since my current place is a temporary sublet). 

"It's all part of the process," my brother said sagely as he passed by the spare bedroom in his house that was my previous home. I barely glanced up from my afternoon/evening ritual - a full glass of wine (or two, or three...) and the housing section of the SF Bay Area Craiglsist page open on my laptop. The last time I drank so much so consistently was as a pastry intern, only then the stress was due entirely to work. 

I begrudged clicking on the rooms/shared subsection, because I knew I couldn't afford my own place, and I couldn't help but think about all the things that I would rather be doing than writing to complete strangers based on vague descriptors (hardwood floors! walk-in closet! great location!) and blurry photos, trying to convince them how awesome and responsible I am and that they should ask me to move in.

If my initial email was deemed sufficiently appealing, I might get a reply with a request to meet in person. But these were worse than job interviews. At least the latter is based, at least in part, on objective credentials. Interviewing to be someone's housemate is all about personality and vibe, so it's hard not to take it personally when I get passed over for someone else. I get it; I wouldn't want to let just anyone come live with me either. But I'm also an introvert, so by nature I make terrible, unmemorable first impressions.  

My family owns an apartment in Chinatown, but the most recent resident, my late uncle, was a hoarder. I've been told that I can move in if enough space is excavated from his vast media collection but, surrounded by a labyrinth of books, VHS tapes, CDs and vinyl records teetering in stacks piled higher than I stand tall, it seems an impossible task.

There and Back Again

I've been home for almost a week now, for the first time in over a year.

Well, "home" is a relative term. I'm staying with family a stone's throw from my university, the place I called home before I left for Paris, only now it feels strange and distant. Most of my things are with my parents in Seattle, at the address that I list on official documents, but I haven't really lived there in quite some time. But home isn't defined by objects, physical boundaries or even people; it's being somewhere that embraces you like a security blanket. And I don't feel that warmth, not yet.

I had a co-worker in Paris, an American expat who'd been living abroad for five years or so. We secretly made fun of him because he used insults like "your mom" and "retarded" that used to be popular at home but have since fallen out of style. Hearing him speak was like cracking open a linguistic time capsule - a throwback to my middle and high school years.

Have I become obsolete? In returning to Silicon Valley I sometimes feel like Rip Van Winkle awakening to a world changed almost beyond recognition. I updated my iPhone to iOS 7 and had to look up a tutorial for how to use it. My friends tell me to download this app and try that new online service. Last Friday night after a concert I used one to get a ride to the train station. Opening the app as I followed the throng out of the auditorium, I sent for a car while crossing the lobby; by the time I exited the building the driver was at the curb. I didn't have to negotiate a fare, demand the meter be turned on or pull up the location because he didn't know where it was. It was so easy. 

When I went out shopping on Sunday I first checked the store hours because, in other parts of the world, shops are closed from time to time. Not so in America.  Likewise I felt overwhelmed by choice when I stepped into a supermarket - the bright lights, the million iterations of every product that probably only differ by a few chemical structures. 

Maybe it's post-trip depression, or just the drastic shift from waking up eager to see what the day would bring to making endless to-do lists and running errands. There are plenty of things I "should" be doing, but instead I can't help but fantasize about leaving again. Whether it's getting a work holiday visa or volunteering overseas, I'm plotting my next move after I've worked a bit and saved up enough.

One adventure ends, and the next begins. The only question is: where to next?

Falling for Chiang Mai

Despite being Thailand's second-largest city, Chiang Mai has a wonderfully friendly, laid-back vibe with a historical center full of Buddhist temples, coffee shops (with free wifi), delicious street food (a meal will set you back 1-2 USD) and a surprising number of vintage and second-hand clothing boutiques. Call it quirky, hipster, offbeat or whatever other alternative synonym, but the more I wandered around, the more I was reminded of the film Last Life in the Universe.  (Which, if we're being entirely accurate, was actually shot in Bangkok, but whatever it was still my first glimpse of Thailand).

It's the general atmosphere, I guess - a strange serenity beneath which lies a hazy malaise. (Dare I say it's vaguely Lynchian in that respect?) But even years later, I can't think about that movie without also remembering the boy who introduced it to me; who I harbored an all-consuming crush on for much of middle and high school, and who also turned me on to other films that I would later count amongst my favorites. I haven't been in touch with him for quite some time, but I often wonder what he's up to now. (Confession: thanks to Google, I sort of know the answer).

I've never been the type of girl to constantly chase after potential boyfriends, but the amount of wedding and engagement updates polluting my Facebook newsfeed in recent months has got me thinking or, to be perfectly honest, feeling slightly anxious. I thought your (early) twenties was the time to figure yourself out and start a career, not a family.  But to each their own priorities, I suppose.

And yet, these days I find myself reflecting on the last few guys I felt any kind of connection with; the one that I met my last night at Stanford; the platonic friend in Paris who surprised me with a kiss when we said goodbye; the one that I came to know during my last hours in India. (If there's one generalization I can make about my personal life it's that the timing is always suboptimal). I know that it's dangerous to spend too many thoughts elaborating on the words "what if," but sometimes temptation wins out over logic and reason. 

What if I hadn't left when I did? Where would we be now? 

*** 

If you go... 

Enjoy coffee and unpretentious health food at Bird's Nest Cafe. 

Take a class at Yoga Tree (drop-ins welcome). 

Get a massage, meal or both at the Chiang Mai Women's Prison Massage Center, which equips inmates with vocational skills.

*** 

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.

Adieu

Of all the expats I know, I was the only one who, as the expiration of her visa drew near, was not scrambling to find a way to stay longer. Don't get me wrong - I loved Paris, especially in the beginning, but after a while my feelings started to change.

"It's okay to be 'over' a city," a friend assured me over dinner when I met up with him and his girlfriend back in February.

"But what makes you say that?"

A lot of things, I guess. I previously confessed how upset I was after my phone was stolen, but what I omitted from that account was that I spent the next ten minutes crying on my friend's doorstep as I waited for her to return. As unabashedly attached as I am to my iPhone (0:28 and 0:49 if you're impatient; 0:40 is my dearest brother who tricked me into being on camera) that was just the final straw in an emotional breakdown that had been brewing since my family had departed a day earlier, leaving me with a stronger sense of homesickness than ever before, and since my Facebook newsfeed was starting to feel less like keeping in touch than being constantly reminded of everything I was missing out on at home. I was beginning to feel irrelevant, because no matter how many apps you have you can never be in two places at once.

As I sat there crying in the middle of the very residential 15ème, people kept passing me by with that uncomfortable side glance and quickened step normally reserved for panhandlers and public drunkards. In other words, no fucks were given. (My psychology-expert friend later told me that this is more of a human nature thing than a Parisian thing). Fortunately I had only been pickpocketed, but what if it had been worse? What if I had been assaulted? No one bothered to ask me if I was okay or needed to call the police, so instead I sat there stewing in my own self-pity until my friend came home and made me a cup of tea.

I suppose that marked the beginning of the end of the honeymoon period. In the weeks that followed two of my friends, on separate occasions, were mugged. (And, mind you, they were guys of a stature that doesn't really scream target). I traveled to the Loire Valley, Brittany and Normandy, and for the first time interacted with non-Parisian French people, discovering that they were so much kinder and more generous than their capital-dwelling countrymen. In other words Paris no longer felt as safe or welcoming.

Things that had previously seemed charming became frustrating, like the open-air markets that I admired because they so exceeded farmers markets back home. Yet as the weeks wore on I came to hate Sundays because grocery stores (and virtually all other businesses) were closed, and I was often too hungover to go to the market and shop before it shut down for the day. (Yes, it was my own goddamn fault, but recovering from an all-night bender has the unfortunate side effect of being irrationally angry with the world at large). The Metro, once so friendly and convenient, became less inviting when I began to notice all the men trying and failing to discreetly urinate in the tunnels connecting the platforms. (I'm told that the walls are slightly slanted such that the consequent splashing will deter this behavior, however the persistent stench indicates that the effort is unsuccessful). And the sidewalks dotted with dog poop shifted from a comical nuisance to an irrevocable scourge on the reputation of a city that, to me, was gradually eroding before my eyes.

Oh, Paris, in one year I've only just brushed the surface. If there's anything about living abroad that I might have remorse for later it's that I never really integrated with the local culture; in fact in a lot of ways I cheated. During my first few months I lived with a French girl who occasionally invited me out with her friends, which was a nice gesture but difficult for me because by the time I had thought of something to contribute to the conversation, it had already moved on. Twice. The international student body at LCB introduced me to friends from around the world, and my food truck coworkers, for the most part, likewise consisted of expats. Part of why I struggled so much with the social aspect of my internship was that it was the first time I had spent a significant amount of time around Francophones, and by that point I had become accustomed to living with one foot out the door, so to speak. I knew kitchen vocabulary but I was far from being conversant in the language, which is why during breaks I tended to pull out my phone and catch up on my Twitter feed because even making small talk was a challenge.

Were there things I would have done differently if I had the chance? Absolutely. But I don't really believe in regret, and besides, for all of the little setbacks and disappointments there were just as many - probably more - pleasant surprises and unexpected opportunities.

When I look back there are certain images that will likely forever be branded unto my memory, like watching fireworks light up the Eiffel Tower on Bastille Day, opening the door of the food truck for dinner service and seeing a hundred hungry faces already lined up, or biking home in the silent hours of the early morning after a night out. But I think more than any particular thing I did while I was here, it's the people I met and befriended that really shaped the experience. I hope to see all of you again soon, but until then...we'll always have Paris.

À la prochaine, chers amis.

Bisous,

M

Unpacking the Meaning of Objects, Stuff and Other Things

For the past few weeks I've been living under constant fear that my roommate will tell me a prospective tenant is coming by to check out the room (i.e. my current room, but only for another ten days). It's an absolute mess. And not in the "just give me a few minutes while I tidy up" sort of way; no, I'm talking legitimate disaster zone. Because I'm not just packing to leave, I'm also sorting through what I want to take with me on my upcoming three-month trip.

I came to Paris with two large suitcases and two carry-ons - altogether more than my own body weight worth of clothes, shoes and bags. When my brother helped load the car to drop me off at the airport he scornfully said that one should never take more than she could carry by herself. Now, especially since I've accumulated even more things, I'm beginning to think he was right. 

Of course there's always a way to get things somewhere else, but it's a question of how much you're willing to pay. The sender and receiver both pay taxes, for instance, and if you want the parcel picked up at your place of residence that's even more in fees. Filling out forms at the post office this afternoon, I found myself staring at the empty space for "declared value (€)." How much was my box of school recipes and slightly stained chef uniforms worth? Apart from the obvious (I paid a pretty penny for those white jackets and took a lot of notes on recipe procedures), in this instance I think personal value exceeded any remaining commercial value. And yet it still cost me 109€ to send them back to the states.

Towards the end of my college career I took several classes that dealt with signaling theory and its social applications, which got me thinking - why do we feel compelled to accumulate so many things in the first place? I was reading a lot of Marx at the time, and was particularly fascinated by his theory of intrinsic value via commodity fetishism.  

Commodity fetishism is the process of ascribing magic “phantom-like” qualities to an object, whereby the human labour required to make that object is lost once the object is associated with a monetary value for exchange. Under capitalism, once the object emerges as a commodity that has been assigned a monetary value for equivalent universal exchange, it is fetishized, meaning that consumers come to believe that the object has intrinsic value in and of itself. The object’s value appears to come from the commodity, rather than the human labor that produced it. 
- Patricia Louie

Having spent practically my entire life surrounded by middle/upper-middle class America, I was so accustomed to the sort of behavior that commodity fetishism breeds that it took reading Marx, Veblen and other scholars to see the folly of it. Prime example: conspicuous consumption, or rather the acquisition of material goods in order to display economic power. In high school and college I was guilty of "label-whoring," i.e. buying things more for the brand than any other particular reason. From True Religion jeans to London Sole flats and Marc Jacobs sunglasses, you can try to argue that the price is justified by the quality, but it probably isn't. And denim, especially, is susceptible to arbitrary price setting. 

If it's not about the quality or the little to non-existent intrinsic value, accumulation of material goods emerges as a great symbolizer, sending signals to others about our "quality" (economic power and status, in this example, but signaling theory has many other applications). So why is it that the middle class tends to be the biggest consumers? I suppose it goes back to the old wealth/new money divide à la Great Gatsby. Those of us still trying to climb the socioeconomic ladder feel compelled to engage in flashy, runaway displays of conspicuous consumption while those at the top don't; in fact in some cases the elite prefer not to signal their status.

Now that I'm sorting through everything I brought with me (and the sad thing is that it's not even a fraction of what I own), I find myself wondering why I have many items in the first place. I suppose if I looked hard enough I could find the French equivalent of Salvation Army to donate to, but it would have been so much easier if I had simply not purchased them in the first place. I'm sure I thought it mattered when I pulled out my credit card, but being surrounded by so much stuff leaves me feeling decidedly unfulfilled. 

I felt inspired reading this op-ed about downsizing, not only because I identified with how exhausting it can be just to keep track of all the things you own, but also it's my goal to lead a more meaningful life via experiences and interactions with others rather than filling it with inanimate objects.

My space is small. My life is big. - Graham Hill

For once I'm actually looking forward to living out of a suitcase. 

A Redaction

Having been a relatively heavy internet user for the better part of my life, I like to think I'm pretty savvy at keeping track of what gets shared in my public and private domains. This is to say that while I don't take self-portraits, ever, I also never tweet, reblog or publish anything that couldn't later be rationally justified. ​

The weekly entries I've been posting about my stint as an intern in a French pâtisserie have provided catharsis and helped keep me sane for what has undoubtedly been two of the hardest months of my life. But now that it's over, I'm beginning to realize that some of the content was a little too personal to be shared so freely. As always, my writing abounds with sarcasm and hyperbole but it's always rooted in honesty. So while I stand behind everything that was previously published and is currently in limbo, I also recognize that some individuals who might have stumbled upon the site could have misinterpreted where I was coming from at the time of writing. (But just to be clear - I never singled out any person, entity or activity that caused me particular distress).

Here's how I would summarize the experience:

I was, at times, completely miserable for reasons both within and beyond my control. I was constantly pushed to the limit - mentally and physically. I often thought (perhaps "fantasized" would be more appropriate) about quitting but I didn't and I'm glad I stuck with that decision. The internship made me reconsider a lot of things about myself and my life goals, which is part of the reason why I have removed the entries.​

Perhaps I've read and listened to too much David Sedaris, but I believe that even the shittiest of situations has the potential to become a great story later on. Exactly how much later? Only time can tell. There were weeks when I wrote what I did in order to get myself to laugh at the absurdity of it all just so that I wouldn't cry instead. When I've had more time to reflect on the past couple months and my future plans, perhaps some of the texts will resurface under another guise. Because, for better or for worse, I can't deny that I'll be taking a lot of memories with me. So, for now, I'm redacting. Not recanting.

***​

Since I started blogging about my internship I've noticed some trends in new viewership thanks to some curious search queries. Now, I won't pretend to be an expert, but if you have any questions about my experiences with culinary school or interning in a real French kitchen feel free to drop me a message via the contact page. I'd love to hear from you!