La guerra de los moscas

I've learned how to sleep in the heat now, something that I never could do in the five years I lived in Dallas. Air conditioning is such a double edged sword, it offers precious relief from the intensity and discomfort of the sticky heat, but in turn you never actually acclimate to your environment. I don't think I would be able to appreciate the absolutely intoxicatingly delicious feeling of cool sea water If I didn't have these wickedly hot nights as counterpoint.

There is one element of this new environment that I find myself in that I do not know If i can ever become accustomed to. The God Damned Flies. As I write this there about twelve of them infatuated with me at the moment, buzzing about my head, landing on my legs under the table, and on my hands as I type. I must look like I have some sort of palsy, the way It twitch, jerk, and swat uselessly at these little bastards as I sit here. These are not the lazy houseflies I'm used to in California, or the bottle flies that throw themselves endlessly at the windows until they die from exhaustion.  Oh no, these are Beelzebub's own special little little devils, a legion who's only purpose in existence seems to be to drive men to madness. They are small, wickedly fast, and relentless. They seem to have a special, and disturbing, fondness for human flesh. I've tried baiting them away from me with sacrifices of coke or juice in a shallow dish, but these tiny demons, won't be appeased not when their is human skin to land on anywhere in their vicinity, and when they can't have it fresh they haunt my bed, tasting me on my pillowcase. 

I'm locked in a war of attrition that I know I can't possibly win, but I have set about killing them out of spite if nothing else by any means I can, sometimes leaving their splattered bodies, like morbid trophies for a few hours as if to deter them from their campaign.  the sandal is the most reliable weapon in my arsenal, and I even deputized Diego, the little boy from the family across the hall to come in with his fly swatter and kill as many as possible for a few hours in exchange for a popsicle. This was my most effective resource for a while but the flyswatter wore out and broke from to much use, and their are no more left at the local supermarket. I've even brought in chemical weapons to combat the hoard. Spray that's supposed to kill "instantly."  I'm sure it does if they just sat their and let themselves be sprayed, but even flies aren't that dumb. The only technique that seems to work is to create a massive aerosol cloud around the devils and try to coral them into it. As satisfying as it is to each them fall out of the air, the room reeks of deadly chemicals with a lemony fresh sent for a while after each gas attack. 

I'm thinking that the entire theory of spontaneous generation needs to be revisited because, the only small victory one can hope to accomplish is to kill enough of them before going to sleep, so that they don't wake you up at the crack of dawn. As hot as the nights are here, I shut the doors to my balcony at night less out of fear of intruders as out of desire to not have my face assaulted like a corpse in the morning by fresh troops that have flown in over night. It doesn't seem to matter how thorough I am, there are always several trying to attack me in the morning.  All in all though It's really not that bad I suppose, It's just a bit annoying to be locked in an endless, and ultimately futile struggle with such a insignificant creature.

Immersion

I pulled myself through the water, lashing the sea with my arms, beating it to a froth with my legs, reveling in the almost alien, yet at once completely natural sensation of swimming. At the buoys, I stopped, turning onto my back to rest, my eyes now facing the shore and the Barcelona skyline. Emptying my lungs I allowed myself to sink beneath the surface, suspended by the thick brine of the Mediterranean in a world of azure. Motes of pyrite, unique to the beaches of Barcelona, dancing in my vision, flashing like gold in a miner's pan.  Hanging there between the blue black abyss and the glittering turquoise surface I suddenly became aware of a profound calm. Not a zen emptiness, but a stillness of self. Like the thundering science of an empty stadium, my mind, or rather the usually riotous pre-frontal cortex mind, was curiously still. This sudden realization, and the resulting probe of inquiry, broke the spell, popped the bubble of tranquility, the ambient chatter of my consciousness came flooding back in; I realized then what it was. Immersion. 

My little cousin who is only six years old and already speaks three languages fluently, described the experience of keeping track of multiple languages like this: "I have lots of boxes in my head," she explained seriously "I have a box for Spanish, a box for English, and a box for French." Now I have a Spanish box too. It's quiet, largely empty really, and not cluttered with scraped notions, raged bits of verse, and feral thoughts, like the English box in which I have up till now lived in exclusively. To use the great analogy by which Man has chosen to misunderstand himself in this era, I've partitioned my hard drive. 

Up until this point in my life, Spanish for me had only been another poorly preserved academic artifact living in the reassesses of my mind. More like a ratty old reference book pulled out from time to time to order food, pick out lyrics from a song, or communicate with a day laborer. I've been In Barcelona for two weeks now, and this past week especially I've been communicating exclusively in Spanish. I've had the opportunity to spend quite a bit of time over the last several days with a wonderful family, friends of my uncle, who are staying in the apartment across the hall from mine while on holiday.  They are a family of South American transplants living in Paris, and they have made me feel like one of their own this past week.  Once again, I am blown away by the warmth and openness of the latin spirit. They have gone out of their way to include me in everything. I've done as much as I can to repay their generosity, but there is no way I could ever thank them enough for the hours of conversation and patience as I stumble through my speech. I know I must sound to them as I butcher verbs and reach for false cognates, but they have been patient, understanding, and eager to instruct.  

It's a bit of an odd feeling transitioning back to the part of my mind that thinks in English, especially if the switch is abrupt. If I try to speak in English two quickly after speaking spanish, It comes out in the same ungainly clipped way that my Spanish must sound. Yesterday I had to laugh because for the first time ever, I had meant to ask a question in English but it came out in Spanish instead.  I couldn't have asked for a safer, more welcoming environment in which to begin this process of Immersion. It is exciting, this process of learning a new language. It's a bit like turning a corner in your house and finding a whole new sweet of rooms that you never new existed. It feels like I've added new mental real-estate, psychic Lebensraum if you will. I know that this holiday will end soon, and the training wheels will come off at that point but I already feel like I've made a quantum leap, and I feel much more confident for it.

Gypsy Radio

The sky moves

My cigaret burns

And gypsy radio dances

Smoke coils in esoteric shapes

Up where the air is cool

Dinner for six boils, rolls

Six, six lonely days.

Days of discovery.

Discover, no, acquaint is the word.

Gypsy radio, Shadows on the wall.

Empty glass half full.

Rolling with the punches.

Gypsy radio.

Barcelona, an introduction.

View from the top

pool side at the ARTS Barcelona

How to sum up Barcelona? I can't, but I'll try anyway. Barcelona is… Barcelona is indefinable, and indescribably romantic. It took me a bit longer than I had original anticipated to get down to Europe's second most visited city, but looking back I wouldn't have had it any other way.  Paris cleansed my palate, and now the taste of Barcelona is all the sweeter for it. The two cities are to me a study in contrasts.  Paris is The City, there is more than a little truth to the claim that Paris is the capital of the world, Paris is serene in her majesty. Barcelona… Barcelona is alive, Barcelona hums and shivers like heat haze, it has the warmth and vitality of a living thing. Barcelona is a creature of passion.  I've only been here a handful of days, but already I find myself falling in love with with this city by the sea, with it's people, and the vibrance of the atmosphere. 

Glass and Brick 

The night before last I was sitting on my balcony overlooking an ancient, gnarled fig in the courtyard and the roofs of the gypsy slum that surrounds me. I was relishing the slight stirring of the air that might have aspired to be called a breeze, scratching out a bit of writing as dinner cooked on the stove.  To my left an impromptu family fiesta had taken off on the rooftop terrace of the neighboring building. There was music and dancing, children and young adults alike enjoying the latin music and sending their laughter on wings into the warm night. It was enough to just sit there and soak in some of their revere. At some point in their merrymaking however, they noticed me, and calling out to me, we struck up a conversation across the gap.  

Barrio 

They were Venezuelan immigrants, with patience and good hummer they worked out my ugly castilian. I told them how much I loved their music; they asked me whether I liked to dance, I told them I did but that I was not very good. They laughed and invited me to join them, an offer I accepted enthusiastically. For several hours afterwards, I added my laughter to theirs as we danced Salsa, Bachata, Merengue, and Reggaeton. They were as patient and eager to instruct with my dancing as they were with my language. Their warmth and good humor was infectious and everyone seemed to be having an amazing time. I am very much looking forward to next dancing lesson with Glenda, Adonis, Jordie, Hillary, Micky, and all the rest of my new friends next door. 

Now, as I lay naked and sweating atop my sheets, clutching a frozen water bottle swaddled in a t-shirt, I smile as I wait for sleep to find me. I feel a becoming, an integration, an acceptance. Paris resonates with my soul, but Barcelona calls to my blood, I have found that there is room enough in my heart for two cities. 

What I'm Eating: Macaroons

Presentation is key

Here is a prediction. First there was the frozen yogurt revival, then there was the cupcake craze, the next big thing in the world of deliciously empty calories: Macaroons.  There are lines out the door at specialty bakeries here in Paris, like the famous Ladurèe, for these sweet little confections. They come in a cornucopia of tasty flavors and they look as delicious as they taste, like colorful little burgers.  They're crispy on the outside, chewy in the middle, and as a person for whom texture is an important part of what what makes the experience of eating so enjoyable, these little guys are a lot of fun to munch on. 

Sugar! 

I've been told by an expert on the subject that these petit treats are wickedly difficult to make, and if even the slightest thing goes wrong at any point in the process the entire batch is ruined. Macaroons were once the favorite treats of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, and other European ladies.  If the Royal wedding has shown us anything it's that Americans are fascinated by anything associated with European royalty, and if there is anything Americans love, it's taking something previously exclusive and democratizing it.  Anyone with a little bit of experience with baking can poor batter into a cupcake tray, whip up some cream cheese frosting, and make a fairly decent cupcake, so If this were launched well, whoever is first to market will likely be able to corner it for a good stretch of time.  After trying these tasty confections for the first time I'm convinced it's not a matter of if, but when. Good luck to who ever tries to pitch the idea to a bank for a loan though.  

Before the first bite.

Guilty pleasure  

Euro Disney

There is something odd about a foux castle in Europe.

When your heart is heavy, it can be such a relief and a blessing to trade in the jaded lenses one can't help but look though, and instead view the world through the eyes of a child. I've had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with my young cousins since I've been in Paris. At six, four, and one and a half, they are cute as hell, and they love to spend time with their big cousin "Chin Chin."

I've gotten to pretty good at telling bedtime stories since I've been here, and it's actually a lot of fun to just make up a story on the spot and to have such an enthralled and captivated audience. It's almost imposible not to smile when you see their eyes as wide as saucers, you can almost hear the hum of their imaginations working in overdrive.

The fairest one of all

It was a similar experience for me going to Euro Disney with my cousins and two of their little friends; it was hard to keep a smile off my face.  I don't remember when I got so jaded that this sort of thing wasn't fun for me anymore, but for a little while I was able to recapture some of that magic seeing it all through their eyes.  For them, when Cinderella and the other princesses came by our table at lunch, they were the real thing!

We got lucky with the crowds, the park was not that full given that there had been a downpour earlier in the day. The Park itself was cut from the same mold as the original down in Los Angeles. I was actually a little disappointed at how close of a copy it was. Although, I have to say going with little kids, there was quite a bit of the park that I didn't see. Tomorrow Land however, looked a lot better than it's beleaguered older sister back in California, which has taken on this ironic, decrepit retro-futuristic vibe.

As little kids are want to do when they are excited, we ended up going on each ride twice. In California on a summer day you are lucky to go on five rides, period. On account of the rain we were able to make several rides while repeating them.  The kid's favorite, and mine also, had to be the "It's a Small World" ride. I can't tell you how many times I've been on the LA version across the course of my childhood. But  this version of the ride benefited quite a bit from the updated animatronics, and I found myself grinning like an idiot both times we went through.

Round Doux 

Predictably, the little ones melted down by mid afternoon, and although I could have stayed, being alone at Disneyland is like sitting alone at the back of a children's movie in a trenchcoat, so I opted to leave early.  At the end of the day I left much happier than I arrived. There is a freedom in not having to suspend your disbelief, and just living through a child who doesn't have to make that leap.   I would have to go again to fully compare Euro Disney to it's American counterparts, but I what I experienced had nothing to do with comparisons or ratings. I got to see it thorough the eyes of pure imagination and that made all the difference in the world.

It's a stereotypical world after all 

The Menagerie

A menagerie is not a zoo. When i was young I remember seeing depictions of old zoos with lions and other animals pacing back and forth in iron cages located in what looked like a normal public parks. I've been told the Dallas zoo was much like that at one point in time, as well as many zoos on the east cost. I suppose I thought that sort of thing had largely passed away towards the latter half of the twentieth century. So a few days ago when I visited the menagerie located in the lovely Jardin des Plantes, it felt like I had stepped back in time.

The menagerie was founded only a few decades after my country, in 1793, and while it has been updated with a few more modern structures for the primates and big cats, the feel is still very old world; a zoo would never be constructed like it today. The layout and design of the menagerie is very anthropocentric and the approach is clearly rooted in the French tradition of garden design. The effect is very pleasing to the visitor. There seemed to be a dark side to it all though, like the bad aftertaste of slightly spoiled meat.

I have never been a bleeding heart activist, but I believe that if you're going to keep a wild animal in captivity, one ought to make an effort to make its life as comfortable and stress free as possible.  Obviously this is a sliding scale in terms of the complexity of the animal in question. At least at some level however, the ideal ought to be to recreate, as best as possible, the animal's natural habitat. Arranging and displaying wild beasts like flowerbeds and fountains in a formal garden is a little distasteful to me. It was nice to be able to see so many animals in such a small span of time, but I couldn't really enjoy it as much as I ought to have, because I couldn't help but feel a little guilty taking pleasure in the experience when the animals seemed so listless and resigned in their small spartan enclosures.

Déjà vu

I had a very surreal experience yesterday.  Déjà vu is an odd feeling, but it’s a common enough sensation to be unremarkable. It's something you appreciate for its novelty in the moment, but like a dream, it's soon forgotten. You realize it's just your brain playing tricks. What's truly shocking, is when you realize that the odd but otherwise dismissible experience is actually linked to a real memory, one long forgotten.

Yesterday I was visiting the beautiful Parc Monceau in the 8th arrondissement. I was appreciating the charm of this enclave of domesticated nature when I was stopped dead in my tracks. Déjà vu. I've been here before. I knew it, I was sure of it, but I was just as sure I hadn't been the last two times I was in Paris in 2007, or the time before that in 2001. Then it hit me. The last time I had been in this park I was three years old. Not only had I been here before, after 21 years I was standing on the sight of one of my earliest memories as a self aware creature. It was the fall of 1990, a thick veil of fog was hanging over the city of lights, and my mother, who was the age I am now, had taken me to play in this park. I still remember the way the broken colonnade of pillars disappeared into the mist rolling off the duck pond. I can even recall the outfit I was wearing.

I was left reeling from this shocking, yet seemingly inconsequential, encounter with the deepest recesses of myself. I stood their dumbfounded for a moment, the smell of wet grass and the faint reek of a Paris that was lingering in my mind. What did it mean to be here again after so long? I still don't know, but It makes me feel whole in a way. Like something of who we are, and have always been, persists and does not die under the weight of so many years. I still remember my yearning to be accepted by the older French children, enviously watching them ride their bicycles along the foggy promenades. I asked my mother whether it would be okay for us to go back home (to America) so I could get my tricycle and ride with the big-boys.

Am I still that little boy on the outside looking in? How much have I really changed? Have the joys, defeats, loves, accomplishments, and heartbreaks of the last two decades really made much of a difference? I think the answer is yes. I’m still fundamentally myself, but the long sting of circumstance and experience that lead me back to that spot have armed me with the tools to make the future I want for myself. Someday, when I have seized that future, I’ll complete the circle. On a brisk gray morning I will bring my own child to play in the gardens of the Parc Monceau and I will smile, knowing that one day they too will encounter themselves and realize that they are whole.

The Road Less Traveled

Bois de Boulogne 1

One of the nicest things about an extended stay in a city abroad is having the luxury to take a step back from the tourist scramble. Wandering the streets without any particular aim, spending a few hours people watching in a café, or just taking a run through a park, are all enjoyable ways to experience a city through a different avenue than the major sights and monuments.

Bois de Boulogne 2

There is so much beauty to be found off the beaten track, and getting to know a city is like falling in love. The more you learn about her, the more you want to know. The major points of attraction are still grand and wonderful, but it's the personal experiences that make your memory, your relationship with the place, magical and distinct. My Paris is the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and Notre Dame as much as it is for anyone else.  My Paris though, is also following the sound of music through twisting cobbled alleys, chasing a pair of green and red parrots through the Bois de Boulogne on my morning run, and eating hot crepes on a cold december night on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. This city deserves your love, and everyone deserves to find their Paris. As one American in Paris put it:


"There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other"

-Hemingway 

Paris in Photos: Vol. 2

Strolling through the Jardin du Palais Royal

Remember the trees.

Soundtrack

Beings of light

Flowers, Stone, Sky

Panoramic 

Mushroom! Mushroom!

"Awesome." 

Tortured forms

Centre Pompidou 1

Centre Pompidou 2

Chrome

Tomb of the Liberators

Celestial Equestrian 

Empty out the sky

Tour de France

Inspired.

Paris is for lovers

St. Christopher's Inn

Stone and Scrollwork  

La Seine

Saints

Hostel Territory: St. Christopher's Inn Paris

As a solo traveler, and as someone who doesn't speak the native language, knowing where to go out on a Saturday night in Paris can be a daunting task.  After feeling like a zombie for a few days due to a bad bout of jet lag I was ready to have fun and be social. After my positive experience at The 3 Ducks, I decided to try out another hostel bar. Using hostelworld.com again, I decided on St. Christopher's Inn in the 19th arrondissement. I was excited by it's 82% approval rating, one of the highest of any in Paris, although many reviews cautioned that it could be difficult for a solo traveler given its size made the atmosphere more impersonal.  

As far as Hostel's go, St. Christopher's and the Three Ducks couldn't be more different. The Three Ducks might be closer to the stereotypical idea of a hostel as a small, questionably sanitary, but otherwise fun sort of place young people stay while traveling abroad. At three hundred rooms St. Christopher's is closer to a small hotel than a hostel.

Walking in, I was impressed by the clean modern aesthetic and the inviting youth oriented atmosphere.  The bar was large and open; there was good music playing and, while busy, the place was full without feeling packed. I made my way to the bar and was able to get a pint quickly as there were five multilingual bartenders taking orders and serving drinks. Beer in hand, I scanned the room and immediately understood what others had found intimidating.  This wasn't a hostel bar; this was a bar that happened to be inside of a Hostel. I could see how a solo traveler might have felt like an outsider looking in. The volume level was high, and people were congregating in large groups. Determined to have a good time, I decided to pick the best looking group and just go for it. There was a group of about eight beautiful people gathered around a round table towards the back of the Bar. After making sure they were speaking English I put on my best smile, walked right up and filled the last gap around the table.

Going out by myself is a new experience for me; back in the states I've only ever gone out with at least one other person, but usually with a whole group of friends. I have discovered that the best way to instantly become everybody's new best friend, and to turn a bunch of mostly strangers into a group, is to offer to buy a round of drinks. After toasting to "new friends" with a round of jagerbombs I spent the next few hours joking and getting to know my new acquaintances.  As a side note, the fringe benefit of buying that first round is that it's kind of like an investment. You get to look really magnanimous, but then get to enjoy everyone practically tripping over themselves to repay that initial act of generosity.  I didn't have to buy another drink the whole night!

After some good laughs and interesting conversation, it was 2:00 a.m. and we were all kicked down stairs to the nightclub that I had no idea had been beneath my feet that entire time. While it didn't have any coherent theme that I could understand, the dance club was a lot of fun and better than most I've ever been to in the states. The DJ was actually playing good music, and the girls were beautiful. What more could you ask for?  

Tasteful Decoration: Check.  

I'll have to visit a few more hostels before I can really have some context, but for now I'm going to give St. Christopher's Inn a tentative A -. I had a great time, I would go back in a heartbeat, and I while I've gathered that it is more expensive than your average hostel, I would recommend it to anyone who is planning on visting Paris. As I have an affection for bad puns, I've decided to make "Hostel Territory" a reoccurring column on this blog where I'll relate my experience and rate the hostel, so stay tuned.

Jet Lag: a poem

My head feels like a broken pot,
My eyes lidded in lead.
By day I shamble like the living dead;
At night I toss and turn upon my cot.
A cruel lover, Sleep teases me, tempting me to bed.
But when Sleep is sought, She wont be caught,
Nor bargained with, or bought.
The breaking dawn fills me with dread.
Caffeine fuels the brighter hours,
Though it leaves me fraying at the seams,
But wine appears to have lost its powers
To help me find the land of dreams.
Flying, I've outpaced my clock;
Man, it seems, was meant to walk.

- Christian

Paris in Photos: Vol. 1

Just some dead white male.

Arc de Triomphe 

Lonely Saint

Seal

Hail brothers and farewell you are
twice blest, brave hearts double your glory is who perished
 thus
For you have died for France and vindicated us
-Alan Seeger

Portal to a hidden realm

Caryatids 

Ancient Sentinel

Hail!

Metro

Jörmungandr

King Rat

Hands holding hands

Cafe

Beauty Eternal

Once Again

Deference 

Le Thé

Winged Victory

Death Mask

Le Pettit Palace is rather Grand 

Iron and flowers

Flag