London Sun

To London again, the third time this year and none of the thrice has felt like a remotely similar experience. I planned this trip, partly to celebrate my cousin's 30^th birthday, and partly to reward myself for having finished classes for the year and to kick off the summertime. I was incredibly fortunate in having a rather stunning weekend of weather, though of course I fancy the notion that the sun was shining via my presence. Regardless, while the fine weather tends to make my allergies go berserk, it made for a delightful weekend to be romping around London.

I arrived Friday afternoon after a pleasant trip on the Eurostar, and had previously decided that I would indulge in a park for the afternoon while I waited for my cousin to finish work. When I studied abroad so many eons ago, our school was located right on the border of Regent's Park, a place my friends and I mutually agree we didn't visit nearly enough. However, I remember at least one blissful experience when my director for the Shakespearean comedy “Much Ado About Nothing” suggested we relocate rehearsal to the park on a similarly sunny afternoon. With that in mind, I decided to pass by my old alma mater and feast my eyes on the beauty that is this particular Elysium.  My memories had served me well because I think it really is one of my favorite parks around so far, full of flowers and festivity. After that, I met my cousin at work and we made our way to the Clapham area where I got to see her new apartment. For the evening, we had planned on going to a bar I had found online called “The Toy Shop”. I ran across it while curious if London had any bars that serve cocktails in baby bottles, like I've experienced in Paris. This place claimed to not only have said offering, but also heralded “absinthe wine gums” which sounded equally as tantalizing. Unfortunately, when we arrived at the bar, though whimsical in appearance, we were disappointed to realize that they no longer had either delicacy, apparently changing the menu fairly often. One bartender said he had never known them to have the wine gums at all. In his attempt to placate us crestfallen grail-hunters, however, he offered to dip some marshmallows in absinthe and see what the result would be after lighting them on fire. I honestly can't say it had the same effect, but while resting atop our cocktails served in old glass MILK bottles, we appreciated the attempt nonetheless. Most hilarious about the evening, though, was the food. We ordered one of their sharing boards that is apparently meant for about 2-3 people. In reality, they could probably feed twice as many, and we made for quite an interesting sight, us two blonde American girls with a veritable feast laid before us. Lesson learned? If you ever want to attract men to your table, order obscene amounts of munchies. We had several male figures feel it was totally within their right to try to scam food off of us all evening, sitting right down at our table and either flirting or making random chitchat to get at our spread. There had apparently been a big polo event in the area earlier that day so they were already drunk, and it's still wildly debatable if they even noticed us sitting at the table until realizing we were the gatekeepers to their nourishing nirvana. I can't say that my cousin or myself were even mildly impressed by these reckless scavengers. At around 10pm we had decided to vacate the bar that was now swarming with a totally weird crowd, until by good friend in London who was supposed to meet us finally turned up. Aside from loads of laughter and a couple more hours of ridiculousness, we also managed to polish off another two bottles of wine, one of the many reasons the next day didn't feel nearly as energetic as I was hoping for.

Still, Saturday proved that although the morning had to rain a little so as to uphold London tradition, the rest of the day was in sync with the summer season and Cousin and I ran some errands about town before coming home to get ready for her birthday dinner. We met two of her other friends, both guys, both profoundly late (the cads!) and proceeded to go bar hopping into the night. The only problem is that we found ourselves at the whim of the one native Londonder and rather than heading to bars that were more our style, managed to go to one decent venue, but ultimately ended up at a place that brought me back about a decade to when I was completely intolerant and bitchy whilst irritated. Ok fine, I don't mean that I'm incapable of either of those traits even now, but I have definitely grown up and become a lot more tolerant at bars, specifically when the event is not my celebration. However, this place was dark, so crowded that you could barely move, and the music was so loud that talking to anyone, whether we knew them or not, was virtually impossible. At an age where I still love to drink and socialize but really prefer to use the opportunity in the hopes to communicate with friends and/or meet new people and/or enjoy the ambience, none of these were possible. Not only that, but the shortest girl in the room is ALWAYS the one people tend to push by, assuming at first glance that the dip in the crowd is a opening to walk through... Negative, ghost rider... The laws of physics make it impossible to walk through solid human flesh, sorry... Happily, the bar was very close to my cousin's apartment so we gladly made our way home and decompressed over water and Dorito's.

Finally, Sunday was basically a continuation of our culinary delights for the weekend. Lots of food Friday night, a great brunch and dinner Saturday, and the end to the weekend was a trio of excess. Another brunch in the bright summer air, sitting outside on a pavement café. After that, high tea at a fancy hotel where we indulged in finger sandwiches and scones. And in the evening, a lovely meal of Indian food, my favorite thing every time I am London bound. The only sad part? I don't think I've ever had a spicier biryani in my life and I spent more time trying to get my mouth to cool down than enjoying the wonderful taste of the meal. It was an early night, as my train back to Paris left at 7am from St. Pancras this morning, and thus the end of my recent British excursion. 

After so many extravagant meals, it seems the time has come to get back on the healthy wagon as beach weather abounds. There has been talk of a half marathon... We shall see...

Bohemian Ideals

This week has seemed to circulate quite a bit around the ideals of beauty, freedom, truth, and love... The Bohemian ideals heralded by the artists wandering around Montmartre during the turn of the century. The main reason for this is that I will soon be auditioning for a tour guide position with an American company, and that is the area in which I will be commencing my speaking skills. Two of my American friends had family visiting the other day, and they did me the honor of letting me practice my little script for the first time. I didn't know the script by heart yet, nor did I really know the route, but it was great fun taking them around and getting the lay of the land. As I was waiting for them in a local Starbucks, I had an amazing view of the Moulin Rouge sitting right across from me, bringing home the memories of all the crazy decadence that used to exist in this neighborhood. 

Even more than that, I found myself going home at night and watching Moulin Rouge the film, starring Nicole Kidman and the ever-adorable Ewan McGregor, while memorizing the tour guide script. In my own New York cabaret, in addition to my daily life, I have often referred to this film as “the movie that describes my soul.” I think this was one of the first indicators that I wanted to frolic in Paris and experience even a whiff of the lingering culture that embraced such ideals. The movie itself is pure absurdity, with costumes, songs, and completely ridiculous moments that in my opinion are what make life truly worth living. On top of that, I recently bought myself a new guitar, so I could start composing some little ditties. This week was the first opportunity I really had to get back into an instrument I frankly haven't really played in several years. As I tried to get my little hands all calloused up again, I reacquainted myself with the chords for Elton John's “Your Song”, which was the first tune I ever officially played publicly, in front of an audience of about 700 people in college. Now, I am no guitar phenom. I like to try my hand at it so as to accompany my own dulcet tones, and at the time I was very much infatuated with a musician, so of course I had to impress him by doing my best to be musically awesome. I chose that specific song because of my Moulin Rouge obsession, loving the way that Ewan McGregor belted out his innocent diatribe in order to win his courtesan's heart. It's always funny how things come full circle, as I hope to be giving a weekly tour of this artistic area. Not only that, but I am off to London again this weekend to celebrate my cousin's 30^th birthday! And when I was studying abroad soooooo very many years ago, my best friends there shared my love of Moulin Rouge, its songs and spirit. The amount of times we would have a bit too much to drink (or frankly no alcohol at all) and run around the apartment acting out the characters, singing the melodies, and enchanting our own romantic beliefs, was infinite. From Paris to London and back again, I will continue my Bohemian lifestyle as best I can.

The Maze of Frenchology

It's possible that from as early as birth I have had negative karma when it comes to technology. In my personal fantasyland, I like to think this is because celestial and/or magical beings generally don't interact with the likes of modern contraptions. And really, why would they? If you can do magic, you don't need cell phones or airplanes or computers, and if you are part-goddess than clearly electricity and radio waves and the like simply go haywire as a result of concentrated other worldly energy levels. That being said, as I use many modern devices on a daily basis I have to jump these hurdles and deal with the fact that sometimes technology merely exists to thwart all of my endeavors. For example, I have been without internet access in my apartment for over a week now, something that I find borderline infuriating since I rely on phones and computers for the bulk of my paid work and social communication. Frankly, if it wasn't for the paid work aspect I would probably submit to the universe and take my well-needed time away from the hubbub of cyberspace. Sadly, this is not easily accomplished in the year 2014. 

Add on top of this technological layer cake, the French icing that frequently adds a level of nauseating excess. In other words, NOTHING in France can happen quickly or with apparent ease. About two weeks ago, the girl I was sharing internet with told me she was moving out of the apartment next door so I would have to find a new internet source, but would have about ten days before it stopped. Contrary to normal French custom, the connection actually gave out the following day, giving me no time to get to a store and coordinate my own line. I also asked the girl if I could possibly take over her account, but she responded as if I had suggested sacrilege, so I decided not to push it. I made my way to a local store that was of course undergoing renovations starting THAT DAY. So I found another store not too far off and was halfway through battling French terms when I realized I would need to provide my actual bank account number, not just give my debit card details. I had to come back yet again the next day, at which time I took my internet box home but couldn't have an appointment for the technician to come for another ten days... Exhaaaaaaaaaale... Ok, the man arrived on Friday two HOURS EARLY, expecting me to be home, though I was unavailable at that time. He did manage to come back when my appointment was actually scheduled and did his work, informing me that my internet would finally start up in about two days. I have no idea why it couldn't start immediately but so be it. Needless to say, I received a text message AND an email yesterday, claiming that my internet was activated, but as of this afternoon was still not receiving any connection. Finally, I called the company and struggling through French with a few English words here and there, come to find out that, yes, there is a problem, yes, they will fix it, but it might take another 10 days, and they will contact me if they have to set up another appointment. Basically, I was flung out to sea with some sort of metaphorical life preserver and told they will eventually get around to saving me. 

American companies are equally as frustrating when it comes to appointments and scheduling, but the amount of time that it takes me to accomplish certain goals here in Paris sometimes astounds me. The best part, of course, is that no one else is remotely in a rush. Sense of urgency is not something that exists here, despite this being a major metropolis filled with modern innovations that sometimes completely overshadow what I ever experienced in NYC. I think I had to go to the bank in Paris about 6 times before fully opening my account, but yet it took me approximately 10 minutes to set up my phone plan. And every time I renew my metro card, I look at my sturdy little tag with my picture and signature on it as I swipe into a turnstyle that only goes one way and wait for my train that comes with rapid speed according to the digitalized sign that tells me exactly when it will arrive and I think how lucky I am.

Yes, I do wish that my owl would arrive to take me to Hogwarts so I could abandon modern technology in the name of inherent magical skill that would allow me to exist without such devices. But as I await the arrival of said twilit creature, I shall diligently take deep breaths as I accept that while France is my home, I must yield to the technological twists and turns of this culture.