Candles at Longshan Temple.
Songshan Cultural Park.
Rush hour traffic near Taipei 101.
See the rest on Flickr.
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Categoriestravel diary
I arrived in Taipei on a red-eye from San Francisco. Exiting the airport in the early morning, I was met by warm air heavy with moisture that occasionally burst into showers and, on the following day, torrential rain. Inclement weather = museum day.
En route to the National Palace Museum, the home of what is widely regarded as the finest collection of ancient Chinese art - which may be true but [SPOILER ALERT] contains limited English translations and is more overcrowded with slow-moving masses than SF Chinatown on a nice day, I spotted signs at Shilin station for a cake and pastry museum. So, intrigued and unsatisfied by the jaunt through Chinese history, I doubled back in search of the latter.
The Kuo Yuan Ye Museum of Cake and Pastry grew out of the family-owned bakery founded in 1867 as a way to commemorate the traditional methods and recipes that the business is founded upon. Or at least that's what I think it's for; again, little to no support for English-speaking visitors.
A semi-English speaking docent explains the role of funny hats in engagement ceremonies.
Since by this point in the afternoon the rain showed absolutely no signs of letting up, I decided to kill some more time by taking part in what the brochure referred to as the "Creative Pastry DIY Experience." The nice man who helped me sign up for the class warned me that it was in Mandarin but, I figured, after being berated by French people in culinary school, how hard could it be? I wish I had taken a picture of the sign-up sheet, because I felt pretty lame writing the anglicized version of my name (M-i-s-a) underneath rows and rows of characters.
It wasn't difficult copying the instructor to make the pineapple-filled cookies, but I found myself unable to communicate with the other students at my table, which included two mothers and their young children.
My classmates.
Now that I've moved on to Japan, I am still experiencing locals speaking to me in their native language and expecting me to understand. But, alas, I don't.
More thoughts on not speaking the language of one's ancestors in a previous essay here, and no doubt there will be more to come.
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Categoriestravel diary
In addition to boba, the famous milk tea drink served with famous tapioca pearls, Taiwan's gastronomic reputation rests heavily on the traditional open-air night markets. What is a night market, you may wonder. And the simplest answer that comes to mind is: complete, utter sensory overload.
Food stalls at Ningxia Night Market.
Metal carts outfitted with varying cooking tools (grills, steamers, deep fryers) line a narrow path where locals and visitors jostle past each other, pausing at eye-catching displays like whole squid (for the equivalent of $1 each), or tens of different types of meat and fish skewers, some recognizable and some not. The air is thick with steam, grease and the smell of hot street food waiting to be devoured. It's mostly delicious, except for near the stinky tofu vendors. And if you don't speak or read Mandarin, ordering is always an adventure.
Once you've made your pick(s); some dumplings here; a spring roll there; an assortment of grilled meat and fried chicken (bones-in, Chinese style); it's time to find somewhere to hunker down and reward your taste buds. Little metal stools and folding tables are nestled in and around some of the vendors specializing in for-here options (rice dishes, noodle soup or garlic shrimp), and if you're lucky you can score one.
Food trucks at home attempt to recreate this atmosphere, but they are too sterile; lacking the vibrancy and grittiness of authentic street food while failing to deliver on good value for the money. For after being able to spend the equivalent of $1.50 for an entire meal in Taipei, how could you ever go back to tiny $10 lobster rolls?
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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.
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The following incident occurred on my second to last night in Paris, according to the best of my memory. Italicized dialogue was spoken in French.
***
Stumbling out of the bar at 3:30 am, approximately three-and-a-half hours after I was planning to be in bed, I set off in search of the nearest public bike-share station. Bikes were my preferred method of getting home after a night out, because taxis were expensive and I always got too tired to stay out until the metro re-opened at 5.
After passing several empty stations (I'm not the only one who favors drunk biking, it seems), I finally found one just up the street from my apartment. As I swiped my card and dislodged the bike from its post, I sensed someone behind me. Turning, I came face to face with a twenty-something bearded hipster who looked like he came straight off the set of Portlandia (denim cut-offs, plaid button-down shirt, tattoo on his forearm - I think it was an animal - you get the idea) - except he was French.
He was trying to get home too, and asked if we could share the bike. I knew what he had in mind: one person (me) sits on the seat, legs held out to the side, while the other (him) stands and pedals. What the hell? I only had a short distance to go.
"Okay," I consented, inching back on the seat to give him more space.
Although I had seen this done many times, this was the first occasion I'd ever actually tried it. It is probably not the best idea, even when sober. I'm not sure whether my co-pilot was just really intoxicated or whether he expected me to steer, but I recall a lot of swerving and me yelling, "You're going to kill us both!" There may also have been some screaming on my part. Thankfully the early hour meant that the street was empty.
With my face pressed against his back, my field of vision was limited to the narrow gap between his torso and arm braced against the handlebars, but shortly I came to recognize my building.
"Stop!"
Dismounting from the bike, I realized two things. Firstly, I had no idea where he lived. And, secondly, because the rates are dependent upon the time elapsed since checking out the bike, I could not, in good conscience, leave it with a drunk stranger. But I figured it was worth a shot...
"Can I trust you?" I asked.
"This bike is under my account. Will you return it to a station?"
Despite the fact that we had gotten along just fine with Franglish, he decided at this moment to pretend that he couldn't understand me. Fuck. I tried again in French. Still, nothing.
"Ah, you are a tour-eest?" he said, mockingly.
"I've lived here for a year," I snapped. Adding, for good measure, "I'm not a fucking tourist."
By this point I wanted nothing more than a shower followed by bed; getting into an argument when my money was on the line was the last thing I needed. So, seizing the open bottle of liquor he had placed in the bike's basket, I shoved it into his chest.
"You - take this," I said.
And, grabbing the handlebars, "I - take this."
I could tell this was unexpected.
"You're so aggressive," said hipster boy as he took his bottle and stepped away from the bike.
By the time I had parked it at the nearest station and returned to the scene of the confrontation, he had disappeared into the night. Probably, I assume, to con someone else into a free ride.
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1. Bank strategically.
Opening a bank account in your new home might be a real pain in the ass. Especially if that new home is in France. Or maybe you won't be staying put long enough such that it's worth the bureaucratic hassle. Accessing your funds from overseas without racking up huge fees can be rough, but certain banks are more helpful than others. Bank of America, for example, is part of an international alliance that lets you withdraw cash from ATMs without paying fees - BNP Paribas in France, BNL Italia in Italy, Barclay's in the UK, Westpac in Australia, etc. I've heard Charles Schwab waives foreign transaction fees. And credit card-wise you can't beat Capital One - they don't charge foreign transaction fees and you can easily set up travel notifications online so your account won't be blocked when you swipe your card overseas.
The downside is that very few American banks have cards with smart chips. This was a huge problem for me in Scandinavia, where I found my cards repeatedly declined. Luckily my travel buddy was there to bail me out and I repaid her later in cash.
2. Get your prescriptions filled early.
It is possible to stock up on months' worth of your prescription medication, but generally that requires a special call to your insurance provider. Another thing to consider is how much space your stash will take up when packing. A single pack of BC might not seem like a lot, ladies, but when you have dozens that's not so much the case.
3. Verify whether you'll be needing a visa and how long the application may take.
This might seem like an obvious one but consider my friend who was once stranded in Atlanta after being unable to board her flight to Brazil on account of not having a visa. I know, I know, Americans don't need them for many places but it's much better to err on the safe side. Some, like Turkey or Australia, can be purchased easily upon arrival or online ahead of time. Others, like India, require an actual application.
4. Get immunized.
Allow enough time for this because some require multiple shots that could be spaced as far as four weeks apart. Tell your travel doctor where you're going and they'll prescribe you some medications that are useful to have just in case.
5. Back up everything in every place imaginable.
Carry extra copies of your passport and visas. Scan them and email them to your family. Save them to Dropbox and Google Docs. Do the same for your travel itinerary.
6. Unlock your phone.
Oh, wait, that's illegal now. Well if you hopped on the bandwagon before the government got involved, purchasing foreign or international SIM cards for your smartphone can save you a lot on the road. (Nothing is worse than roaming data charges). If you'll be going to a lot of countries for relatively short periods of time, SIM cards from the likes of Telestial, OneSimCard and Doodad are probably best. If you're staying for a while, look into purchasing a local one at the airport - but be careful, sometimes it takes confirmation from your hotel/host before they hand over your new SIM card.
7. Eat like a pro.
Leaving home you'll probably find that the likes of Yelp and Urbanspoon, which collate reviews from users, haven't percolated throughout the rest of the world. Yes, there's always TripAdvisor, but they have a bit of a bad rep when it comes to fake reviews. And, yes I am kind of a food snob, but the masses don't always have the most discerning palates. So it's best to follow the local authorities. In Paris, for example, I relied on Paris By Mouth, which is curated by a group of experienced food writers/editors. For more general traveling and eating (especially street food) tips check out Legal Nomads. Tyler Cowen's Ethnic Dining Guide has good tips for stateside visitors. I also like Where The Fuck Should I Go To Eat. But no matter where you are, chances are there are plenty of local food bloggers with useful insider information.
8. Learn how to shit properly.
I mean it. If you're going to a developing or rural area - especially for the first time - you would do well to memorize this book. It can be redundant at times, but I guarantee you'll learn something from it. (Luckily I never had to resort to using squat toilets, but thanks to Dr. Wilson-Howarth, I know how to if the need arises!)
9. Network.
Got a friend of a friend or a distant relative in the area that you're visiting? Don't feel awkward about reaching out to them. Even if you just end up meeting up for coffee and not staying at their house, having a local contact is invaluable. Say yes to every invitation, because you never know what could come of it. Like that time I went to a dinner party at my friend's house in Delhi and met the co-director of Slumdog Millionaire.
If you hit it off with your Airbnb or couchsurfing host, stay in touch. You never know when you might be able to return the favor or, maybe, the next time you visit they'll let you crash with them free of charge.
10. Document it.
Particularly if you're on a long trip, you need some way to organize your thoughts and memories, whether it's public like this blog or private like the journal I kept whose privacy was violated by an Australian customs agent. I thought I made a good effort, but even now I find I get people, conversations, locations mixed up. There will be no end to new experiences, so keeping them all separate is the hard part.
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Categoriestravel
Outside.
Inside.
I get a lot questions, both online and in person, about LCB so I thought I'd compile a list for any prospective applicants and curious readers. If there's something you're still wondering at the end, feel free to message me.
Why LCB?
I found that most culinary programs in the US last 2-4 years*, and after finishing up my undergrad degree I just wasn't down for more years of schooling. So LCB's ~9 month program really appealed to me. It's the alma mater of chefs like Julia Child and Giada de Laurentiis and, besides, it's in Paris!
*Longer programs are more well-rounded in the sense that the curriculum typically includes the business and management aspects of the industry; LCB is strictly about learning traditional recipes and techniques. So if you're serious about cooking school, do lots of research to get a sense of what you want out of your education.
Do you need to have experience?
No. Many students come in as amateurs (i.e. home cooks and bakers looking to take the next step), although some will have had previous culinary education and/or have worked in restaurants before.
How do you apply?
Online. You provide your personal details and compose a personal statement; if you've applied to college it's a pretty similar process except that you don't need recommendations. You do not, as some people have asked, need to send in a sample of your work.
The school doesn't release statistics regarding acceptance rates, but there is a hefty nonrefundable application fee (700€ as of 2011) that I'm sure is at least partly designed to keep less serious applicants out.
Is housing provided?
Unfortunately, no. After you've been accepted, the school will provide a list of resources to find housing, but for the most part these are simply real estate agencies. This shouldn't be a problem if, like some of my classmates, you're changing careers and have years of savings in your bank account. For people like me, who have been students for most of their lives and aren't so financially endowed, agencies are prohibitively expensive.
If your French is good, Appartager, Le Bon Coin, pap.fr and Se Loger are all useful websites for finding rentals or flat-shares. It is also possible to find sublets on Airbnb. Stay away from Craigslist, though, because 98% of the ads are scams - the people who post there know that most visitors to the site are foreigners and will try to take advantage.
Just for reference, the school is located in the 15th arrondissement between Vaugirard and Convention on Metro line 12.
Do you need to speak French?
Technically no, but you'll have a much better experience if you do. Classes are divided between demonstrations and practicals, but there is only an English translator present during the former. Most of the chefs speak - at best - limited English. And trust me you'll get better marks (if that's important to you) if you speak French and can suck up to communicate with them. If you anticipate doing an internship after graduation, then you absolutely should be proficient in speaking.
What are classes like?
Demonstrations take place in a classroom-like setting, with the chef up at the front going through the designated recipes for the lesson. Practicals take place in kitchens where you must reproduce said recipes.
What is the schedule like?
It depends. If you enroll in the Grand Diplôme (i.e. both cuisine and pâtisserie), expect to have class six days a week, 6-9 hours a day. If you're only doing one or the other, you will essentially be a part-time student. Unless you are in an "intensive," in which case your schedule will be like what it is for Grand Diplôme students. Those doing a diplôme in cuisine or pâtisserie should expect to have at least one intensive, although you should be able to choose which cycle.
And if you really want to know what it's like inside 8 rue Leon Delhomme, I suggest you pick up a copy of Kathleen Flinn's The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry.
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