Follow The Yellow Brick Road

After having potentially fought off lions, tigers and bears (oh my!) in my dreams the night before,  I awoke the next morning in my cozy little bed with visions of Aussietastic yumminess dancing in my head... And his name hilariously misspelled in my phone, prompting me to send him a quick message wondering if I had met a mysterious man the night before. While I was off to work for the day, he was off to explore more of Paris. His agenda was simply to galavant from around Chatelet in the center of town, all the way up the Champs Elysees to see the Arc de Triomphe. I put in my wine-loving two cents and suggested he meander through the Christmas Market and feast on vin chaud, sadly admitting that while I work in that general vicinity, drinking on the job is generally frowned upon. Instead, this gentleman from afar decided he would stop by and visit me during my 30-minute break... I really couldn't think of anything better than a warm scrumptious man on such a frosty cold afternoon so I happily accepted his offer.

Not only that, but he somehow wanted to see me again during the twilight hours! That glimmer from the Emerald City was certainly getting a hell of a lot more sparkly. So, we made plans to meet at a typical French restaurant in Odeon. I had been to this place for the first time just a few weeks prior, to taste Frog Legs for the very first time. On this occasion, I demanded that the Australian have his first sampling of escargots, watching in delight as he tried so hard not to gag on gooey garden creatures.

After dinner and dessert, we walked across one of the moonlit ponts over the Seine in pursuit of nighttime frivolity. Having long since been acquainted with Cafe Oz, the Aussie bar chain sprinkled around France, I felt it was only right to bring this strapping chap to the Parisian land down under. It's the kind of place that feeds into all manner of stereotype: no yellow brick road per say,  but adorned with crocodiles and pushing Fosters on tap, a beverage all Aussies unequivocally refuse to imbibe. Instead, we indulged in profoundly overpriced cocktails while spending most of our time nestled into each other, sometimes appropriately and sometimes less so... Not that I would EVER do something as ridiculous as make out in public, I am a LADY. That is why one of the bartenders definitely did NOT throw a coaster at us with the words "get a room" inscribed on the back.

That is also why I definitely did not go home with him for the rest of the evening and get up to all sorts of trixy mischief. At least, not before we found ourselves at the door of the airbnb he was staying at, and realized that there was apparently already a party going on inside. Once we finally entered, it seemed we had stepped into a denizen of Russian Mafia members. With a glass of vodka lemonade in our hands, I wasn't so sure I hadn't actually fallen asleep in Dorothy's field of poppies. Perhaps the rest of the night was just a hallucination as well, but I certainly awoke to another whole day of enchantment...

One Step Closer To Oz

Every once in a while, people wander into your life unexpectedly, sometimes momentarily, and manage to rejuvenate whatever flailing bits of neuroses that so often threaten to temper your joy. I have developed this wonderful group of friends through the Brit Meetup Site I went to for the first time a couple of years ago. We met when my good American friend and I went for a random pub quiz night and were placed with a group of people we had never met before. Magically, our combined powers culminated in us winning the quiz that night and since then our friendship has continued to grow. Over the last couple of months, I have started to host some of the Meetup nights and meet even more people, British and otherwise. So last Wednesday, when I hosted a mid-week pint for the second time on my own, I was expecting to have my friends there to support me and to meet a smattering of new partygoers. I was admittedly not expecting to meet a handsome stranger who would carry me off into fantasyland for the next few days.

It was one of those evenings that started very slowly and I didn't expect there to be too many attendees. For whatever reason, though, the guests came pouring in somewhere circa 9pm and I was making the rounds to welcome everyone and make sure no one was left on their own. That is just about when I happened to be near the entrance and three gentleman came walking through the door. I greeted the first two, introduced myself, then looked up to see an incredibly attractive looking man smiling down at me from his oh so great height of 6 foot 2. I was told after the fact that it appeared as if I had made a beeline for him, completely ignoring his friends, and essentially stalking my prey. This was of course not true. It was simply the magic of the cosmos that brought us together. Well, that and the fact that I seem to have some sort of Australian magnetic pull which attracts all Aussies around me at any given time, whether or not I have heard their accent in advance. 

After chatting for a few minutes, me trying desperately not to get swallowed whole by his sparkling eyes, I let him go on his merry way and continued to make my rounds. This of course included stopping by my American friend with a fervent plea to have her prevent me from associating with such an obviously dangerous figure. Knowing my flare for the dramatic (as well as my complete idiocy when it comes to making good decisions) she answered with a resounding no and I was left to decide on my own what to do with this mystery man. Happily, I was in hostess mode and so eventually made my way back to him and his crew, where I pretty much remained for the rest of the evening. After some preambling chit chat, it became clear that he and I were the real stars of the conversation, and were eventually left alone to vie for center stage.

While this scene played out, I was well aware that my group of friends (mostly guys) were always on the sidelines ready to play wingman (no thank you!) or mercilessly mock any and all absurdist behaviours. And yes, that would include any attempt at making out at the bar. So when the Australian suggested we do just that, my always less than modest soul surprisingly asked that we remove ourselves from public view for the cause. Some things are better off taking place behind the scenes.

Meanwhile, I had already learned a vast amount about this delightful being. He is from Perth, Australia, sometimes rescues joeys from the side of the road, has profound farming skills and could probably win the Hunger Games, has never read Harry Potter but saw all of the movies and could sufficiently quote magic spells when need be, and most importantly asked me if I was interested in going with him to the Moulin Rouge (not knowing that I refer to the Baz Luhrmann film as the movie that describes my soul)... If there was ever a debate about my American friend giving me good advice (which I am sure there was not), it officially ended here...

So yes, another Australian entered the spectacle that is my life and tried to jam on those ruby red slippers that only residents of Oz are truly allowed to tote. My current theory is that Australia might be the only place that could actually satisfy my penchant for everyday ridiculousness and that the cosmos is paving the way with a yellow brick road sprinkled in Aussie kisses... The next two days were certainly worthy of technicolor... 

To be continued...

French Wine and Frog Legs

A day of magic and mystery. A day of prancing and poetry. A day of... wine. Every year, what seems in lieu of Thanksgiving, there is a wonderful decadent exposition of French wines on display at Porte de Versailles. "Salon des vins des Vignerons"is like Santa Clause's Christmas playland except nothing to do with Christmas or decorations or tinsel. After tasting an infinite variety of magical elixir, however, it pretty much looks the same. Vendors from vineyards all over France come to show off their wares and sell by bottle or bulk. One of my American friends has gone to this event for the past couple of years, always reporting back with tales of joy. The first year I didn't even know it existed. The second, I was previously engaged with Brother and Sister-in-Law and 4-year-old nephew who, rather unfortunately, would not have made such an event very practical.

This year, I was determined to go, and so what better excuse for Hot Blonde Cousin to come to Paris and join me. After our Thanksgiving feast the night before, I can't say I woke up feeling overly spry and springy, but we made way down to the exposition center and filled up on French food before entering paradise. There was definitely extra security all around, an obvious product of recent terrorism. I can't say it was looked upon with disdain either. I would much prefer a day of wine without the added fear of premeditated danger. Instead, I was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the event. Stalls of wine laid out for what appeared to be miles and I frankly had zero idea where to even begin. An older French gentleman offered to sell us his used information book, though it wasn't overly helpful since I wasn't familiar with most of the wines or vineyards. I think my poor cousin expected me to frolic up to the first vendor I saw and speak in rapid French. What actually happened was more akin to a very pretty American deer stuck in a wine-induced whirl of magical headlights.

It's not that I am so afraid to test out my French speaking skills, but I am all too familiar with French mannerisms and was truly searching for someone who looked openly friendly to begin our research. After a few false starts, though, we finally started to get the lay of the land. And since many vendors were generous with their tastings, it wasn't long at all before "J'étais pompette!" and I was happy as a clam to chat with various vineyard folk. About halfway through our venture, we happened upon a young Frenchman who had us taste pretty much all of his stock, culminating in taking a picture of us from behind his counter, as if we were the vineyard proprietors... (Hmmm now there's a thought!) I think this was just before we finally decided to break down and purchase the little neck ropes that would hold our glasses of wine casually dangling in front of us so that we could browse freely. 

Circa five or six hours later, the Hot Blonde Cousins of American Heritage were quite well intoxicated with French Culture and Libations. We had had a pretzel somewhere in the middle of the day, though my mouth was quite adamantly opposed to the concept of salty dry breadlike products at the time. Before leaving the salon, we made sure to purchase the bottles we had decided upon by that point. I had 5 in all, 3 from the cute young Frenchman we had met mid-day. 

Now apparently I was quite some tipsier than originally suspected because I somehow managed to type my pin number wrong 3 times when trying to pay for my wine. My card was blocked, but I managed to pay for all of my bottles anyway. Cousin and I finally left the center, though thankfully at the door I realized that I had walked away without the backpack filled with wine. We went back to fetch the bag, but not until I got home did I realize that I had still somehow managed to leave two of the bottles behind! Thankfully, cute Frenchman had given me his business card, so I texted asking if he could hold them, and my American friend graciously picked them up for me when she visited the salon the next day. One might suggest that the universe was attempting to pull me away from my Dionysian desserts. I, however, like to think it was just testing me to make sure I am worthy.

After such a long day of dancing in drink, there was really only one thing Cousin and I could do... Eat Frogs' Legs...

American Thanksgiving In Paris

My first Thanksgiving in Paris was four years ago during my initial stint testing out this amazing city. I had all my new friends from the TEFL course I was taking participate, and I took advantage of the spectacularly spacious apartment the man I was dating at the time lived in. Because of our varying schedules, we ended up holding the festivities two days prior to Thanksgiving. We tried to order a turkey from a local butcher but somehow the message was never conveyed to the right person, so we ended up with chickens. A Scottish friend tried to make sweet potatoes with marshmallows, but somehow the French yams just sucked in the fluffy layer of sugar on top and they ended up more like sweet mashed goo. My fella was also going to move out a week or two later, so there was no furniture, leaving us picnicking on his living room floor. All in all, it was a completely and spectacularly haphazard holiday, one filled with love and festivity exactly as I would wish.

In contrast but equally as pleasant was this past Thanksgiving in Paris. My dear Hot Blonde Cousin had decided to travel over from London for the weekend, and we were happy to be invited to a lovely soirée in honor of the day. My American friends who have a gorgeous apartment on the Seine finally decided to host the event for their final year in France, and let me just say, they may not hold galas very often, but when they do, they go all out. After a day of work followed by a jaunt to Gare du Nord to pick up my cousin, we stopped en route to purchase some wine and cheese and finally made it to the party. We were greeted at the door by mouthwatering smells of cooking turkey and almost immediately handed a glass of champagne. Our gracious host and hostess made sure to keep our glasses filled all evening while we hobnobbed around, meeting new friends throughout the night. Not only that, but the lovely couple had actually tracked down chafing dishes and showered us with mountains of food, ranging from turkey to lamb, potatoes to cranberry sauce, pies, wine, and liqueurs.

It was the quintessential notion of what an American Thanksgiving usually represents. We spent the evening gorging on munchies, drinking excessively, and sharing stories. It was also an overindulgent beginning to what would be a weekend full of wine and food and then some more wine and some more food. Let the holidays begin!!!

If We Love, We All Agree

This time of year is meant to fill with peace and trust and love,
No matter what beliefs you have from under or above.

From Jesus Christ to Aphrodite,  Budda to Allah,
For me it's all the same, preaching great love, forgiving flaws.

While walking round the streets of cities paved in different lights,
I hope to share a smile instead of fearing heated fights.

Embracing all diversity, its beauty and its charm,
While striving to consider why on earth it leads to harm.

I can't imagine life in which we all should look the same,
In action or beliefs, in our opinions, even names.

The brilliance of humanity is based on having choice,
To do and think and love and speak it all in joyous voice.

So when you sit today and have a meal with friends and fam,
Take time to think of others from contrasting lives and lands.

Send hope and kind acceptance to the ones who are in need,
A dose of great perspective to the selfish teaching greed.

Then pass the hugs around, with luck assisted by some wine,
To health and all the good things we should focus our dear time.

A turkey and some pie is had in thankful memory,
Reminding everyone that if we love, we all agree.

Something To Say

I have been reticent to write anything about what happened in Paris a little over a week ago. Partly because there are very few ways to ramble sentiments without being tragically cliché and partly because I am one of those people who was frankly least affected by the entire thing. I was home in my apartment completely across town and I was fortunate enough not to have any friends or family near the danger zones. I had spent the early part of my day cleaning my apartment and the latter part at my job, all in the 16th arrondissement. I grabbed some McDonald's on the way home because I didn't have anything in reserve and I was frankly settling down to read and sleep in preparation for an early day to follow. While chit chatting on whatsapp with my dear friend in Vienna, he all of a sudden messaged that there had been shootings in Paris. I almost immediately got an email from a friend at home who must have been watching the news at the same time. He wanted to know where I was and if I was ok. Over the course of the next couple of hours, my friend in Vienna gave me updates from his 300 channels while I struggled to find information on the internet. Texts and emails poured in and I had to assure all that I was safe and well away from danger.

But the truth is, I easily could have been in any of those places on a friday night. I have pictures of myself and friends at Le Carillon four years ago. A week prior I was in the same neighborhood taking a writing workshop and wandering around on a friday night to similar bars and restaurants with my new writing compatriots. The difference between this act of terrorism and previous ones us westerners have been touched by was that it was open warfare on civilians rather than government buildings or political antagonists. It doesn't make it right that something terrible happening in Paris gets more news time and recognition than other parts of the world, but it does make it feel more real. Because I have seen and been and walked the streets where fallen bodies lie.

I don't know enough about high politics and terrorist groups and conspiracy theories to sift through and decipher whatever truth and propaganda we read in an age of overwhelming mass media. I am sad for those who were affected in a city I love. I am sad for anyone anywhere in any country who has to deal with such absurdist views of humanity and what is right. I am outlandishly thankful for the friends and family who reached out and shared their love with me then and since... and frankly always. If we share more of those sentiments we might be able to make a difference. Love.

Piratical Penmanship

Amidst working nonstop for days and days on end, intermingled with occasional social outings that tend to culminate in foolhardy hangover, I managed to at long last carve a creative engagement into my agenda last weekend. I signed up for a creative writing workshop months ago and managed to stave off students for a whole day and a half, a miracle in and of itself these days. 

I found this particular workshop through a meetup site I get frequent emails from, and once I looked into the details was very intrigued by the prospect. Friday would be focused on fiction, saturday poetry, and sunday for the purpose of sharing whatever fruits we had grown from our labor. I signed up for friday and sunday only, party because I knew I couldn't escape work that long, but also because I am very protective about my specific and rather silly brand of poem. Since I have never before engaged in a writing workshop of any kind, I was simultaneously excited and rather nervous to share my wordsmithery. The good news, however, is that when I finally paid attention to the address and arrived at the location (ten minutes late because I was just not paying attention to the metro stops), I realized that the bookshop we were instructed to find was in fact on a boat! Not that I am really a nautical gal, but my affinity for piracy is such that writing on a small ship on the Seine for the afternoon, abandoning all landlubbbers for the seafaring thoughts of a wandering dreamer, seemed just the ticket! I daintily boarded the vessel and found myself in the bowels of the cutest little bookstore imaginable. 

Since I certainly can't help but make a noticeable entrance, I frolicked into the little room of writers positioned in the rear of the bookboat and made my introductions. It was a small group, only about 7 of us, and we all jumped right on in to some writing exercises. We spent the morning developing characters we concocted by thinking of someone we saw on the street, either en route to the meeting or a day or two before. We discussed character, setting, dialogue, plot, and then in the afternoon we either proceeded with our new stories or worked on something we had brought from previous efforts. I decided to do the latter because I have had an idea brewing in my head for years now and I really wanted to find some way of propelling it forward. Though I was rather hesitant to share, I ended up delighted by people's feedback and support in finding some direction for my tale. 

It is always a bit of a crapshoot when sharing work with other artists. Under the best of circumstances, there is positive feedback, constructive criticism and truly appreciative support. Under other circumstances, there can be unhelpful comments, petty rivalries and envious subterfuge. Fortunately for me, I experienced the former in abundance. After our day's work, we all planned to have dinner together at an Ethiopian restaurant. Many of our party had actually traveled in from other cities and countries for the event, so it was a wonderful opportunity to try some new food, see a bit of the city, and also get to know each other outside of the workshop setting. It was such a friendly bunch that by sunday afternoon when we all shared our work back in the galley, we felt really comfortable and delighted in each other's successes. I think we are all happy to have met some fellow writers from around the globe and are truly looking forward to the next workshop at sea.