Tourism in list form

I realize I haven't blogged much about touristy stuff in Buenos Aires, so I thought I'd take a break from the meat talk and list my top ten favorite things about the city, because it's an amazing place, and it's so much more than chorizo. Which is high praise from me.

1) Food and wine. Come on, you knew that was coming.

2) The trees. This is sort of a weird thing to love about a city, but Buenos Aires has the most enormous, amazing trees all over the city. I've been to many cities, and never seen anything like them. They are huge, ancient-looking things that look like them belong at the heart of a mysterious forest out of some Arthurian legend. Some have these enormous, gnarled grey roots that rear out of the ground like ghosts, while others have thick, curvy branches that skim the ground and are absolutely perfect for climbing. At one point we were discussing how strange it was to come from a place like Peru, where very old remnants of ancient times are tucked away in corners, to a place like Buenos Aires, where things seem much younger. But of all the old, venerable things to have kept around your city, I think these trees are some of the best.

3) La Casa Rosada. This is the president's house in the middle of the Plaza de Mayo. It is big, beautiful and it's a lovely, dusky pink. When I lived in DC, my friend Pitt and I used to evaluate houses based on how compelling a speech made from their balcony would be, and I have to tell you that this one takes the cake so far. No wonder Evita was able to craft such a compelling and controversial persona--I'm estimating that her charisma was at least 24% balcony.

4) Big Silver Flower. Near the art museum (and just south of some of my favorite trees) there is this enormous silver sculpture of a flower that opens and closes with the sun, and is therefore beyond awesome. Seriously, science+sculpture+ public art? I ran around it every day because it made me so happy.

5) Shopping. When you eat a lot of meat, I guess you get good at doing lovely things with the remaining cow, because the leather goods in Buenos Aires are amazing. In fact, all the shopping is spectacular. Cheap, stylish, and tucked away in lovely neighborhoods like Palermo or Recoleta that are a pleasure just to walk around in.

6) Teatro Colon. This is kind of an honorable mention because I only got to see a tiny bit of it, but Buenos Aires has a spectacular theater. I think I love it more than the Met Opera house. It's currently being renovated, but I will return for an opera there. (interestingly, they also have a club that is modeled after the Sydney Opera House, but I think that setting is probably a little less inspiring when filled with grinding twenty-somethings. just a little, though).

7) San Telmo Street Fair. Buenos Aires has really good street fairs, but my favorite was the San Telmo. It is, depending on your point of view, either the coolest place to get anything you might possibly want, or the biggest warehouse of weird crap ever. I counted four booths devoted exclusively to colorful, old seltzer bottles. There are also random tango shows hiding around corners which are fun to watch.

8) Old Lady Just off the San Telmo Street Fair. I know, weirdest entry yet, but this old woman was sitting on a stool just off the main square in San Telmo with a big poster of Louis Armstrong taped in back of her, drumming crazily, singing and scatting really, really well. She had this huge grin on her face the whole time like this was the best thing in the world that anyone could ever be doing, and I saw her actually turn down money. She is absolutely on my short list of people i want to be when I am old. I just need to learn to scat, sing, and drum, and get 3000% more awesome.

9) 9 de Julio Ave. There is a 20 lane highway in the middle of Buenos Aires. It seems like a poor urban planning decision, but it's so strange that it just sort of turns the corner around unwise and heads straight back to awesome.

10) The details. Random squares of delicately painted tile, brightly colored houses in La Boca, intricately worked wrought iron balconies, beautifully kept parks, smiling restaurant owners, and friendly taxi drivers. It's the small, almost secret-feeling details that make a good city a great city, and Buenos Aires has them in spades. It is all the best parts of Paris and Barcelona, except a third of the cost. I will definitely be back.

Steak? Belt´s too tight for steak.

One of the many, many irritating things about altitude sickness is that it robs you of your appetite. Most of my trip through Peru was at a high elevation, except for a few days in Lima, so the whole time I was in Peru I barely had any appetite at all. I would force-feed myself to keep up my energy, but I was totally uninterested in food. I was also engaging in some strenuous physical activity and not sleeping very well. So by the time I left Peru I was down ten pounds from an already low weight. I was unsettlingly, weakly, bonily thin.

Fortunately, I came to the best eating city I have ever been to in my life. Hark to the legends about meat, wine, empanadas, dulce de leche and everything else they say about Buenos Aires, because I have never been so happily stuffed in my life. First, the steak. It is as buttery, tender and lovely as they all say. I don´t know what they put in those pampas grasses, but I suspect wizardry of some sort. My first bite of steak in a restaurant in Buenos Aires was the Argentinian equivalent of my first glimpse of Machu Picchu--a fantastic revelation of deliciousness.

Steak is the main event, and it was my exclusive focus for the first few days, when I had precious little stomach room and had to triage for tastiness. But as my stomach stretched out a little, I was able to experience even more of the wonders of Buenos Aires. Chorizo? Plump, sizzling, fatty and amazing. They grill/broil a first course of provolone cheese with oil and herbs that is like biting into soft, pillowy, fatty luxury. The store sells ham flavored potato chips whose salty tang has stolen my heart. They also sell huge cardbord tins of dulce de leche, the rich, mild nearly-caramel-but-less-of-an-edge substance that makes everything taste heavenly. Honestly, why are you still reading this? Go to the gym for 3 straight weeks, skinny down, and then head to BA for the gustatory ride of your life. You can afford it, because I don´t think I paid more thank 30 dollars (including some of the best wine you have ever had in your life) for any given meal. And now I have my ten pounds back!

the city of the dead and other stories

Sorry about the long delay in blog entries. As soon as I got to Buenos Aires I moved into an apartment with five good friends, so a lot of my time has been spent doing things that are objectively uninteresting to outsiders like dance contests and massive cheese eating marathons, but are the stuff of which fantastic friend vacations are made. I purposefully divided my vacation into two halves. The first was physically active, extrodinarily memorable, but often exhausting touristy stuff, while the second was a long vacation in a big city with a group of friends, ideal for resting and gaining back some of the weight I shed at altitude. I´m really pleased with how both halves have gone, but the second is much less ideal for blogging than the first.

But we have managed to do some classic touristy things. We´re staying in the Recolleta neighborhood so on the first day I managed to stumble to the famous cemetery there which is just down the block from us. It is strange and striking and not really like any other cemetery I have ever been to. There is no green space. Instead, it is all row upon row of mausoleums, perched next to each other like regular buildings on ordinary city blocks. I am not used to mausoleums I guess--I expected them to be all inaccessible, pyramid-like tomby stone but these are almost like little apartments. Windows, stairs, doors perfectly hung on hinges, like tiny little one bedrooms for people who have no intention of ever exiting. Several of the taller ones that peek out over the walls of the cemetery even have little round windows for better views of the street.There´s something charmingly stubborn and also creepy about a place that refuses to abaondon the strict conventions of living when confronted with death.

We also managed to see a poilitical demonstration against the city bank (seems like par for the course in currency-nervous Argentina) and the weekly march of the mothers of the disappeared. During the dirty war, the Argentinian government routinely kidnapped and killed dissentors. The mothers of people who were kidnapped still gather regularly to march and demand to know what happened to their children. I saw the march just after I had visited the cemetery, and it was such a striking contrast between people who take all the trappings of life with them and physically refuse to disappear, and people who just vanish one day without a trace, so thoroughly that their mothers must spend their remaining days asking for an accounting.

But it´s not all tourism and political strations. In fact, it´s mostly meat, which I will write about next time, because I plan to wax rhapsodic about it for many, many paragraphs.

Greatest hits of tourism part II

After we did the lion's share of our hike, we headed to Machu Picchu. I have wanted to see it since I was knee high, and it was the thing that made me originally plan this trip, so needless to say I was prepared to be blown away. But I was so much MORE blown away than I originally expected to be that it was ridiculous. Anna wrote earlier in her blog that the greatest hits of tourism are greatest hits for a reason, and I have to second her, because Machu Picchu? Zow.

We got up at 5am to head up the road so that we all could have the chance to climb the much higher rock nearby that overlooks Machu Picchu, and also so that we could beat the crowds there. Obviously our hike had led us through clouds by this time, but there's something about the fog and clouds that drift through the round, green mountains boardering Machu Picchu that makes you feel like you're travelling into a story. They've built up a whole tourist infrastructure around the ruins that is initially annoying--you go down a narrow little passage and you get bothered by people telling you to check your bags and show your ID and thisandthat. But the second you round the corner, you find yourself practically smacked in the face by this enormous complex of wonderfully-preserved ruins that cascades down the mountainside into a gorge. It's completely breathtaking. Each one of us, individually, said "oh my god" out loud when we rounded the corner. One member of our party speculated that if you had a tape recorder at that exact spot, you would hear the same phrase, in many different languages, thousands of times a day. Utterly amazing.

So it was a day of playing at the ruins! We took the tour, and then some of us went to climb the enormous rock next to Machu Picchu, while the more height-phobic among us (myself included) ventured off to explore more ruins and find the old Inca Bridge. A day well-spent. I can't wait to post photos.

After that, we headed back to Cusco, where I took what was easily one of the top 5 showers of my life. When we talked about what we were going to do after the hike was over, we were all completely convinced that we would go out and drunkenly celebrate our victory over nature, distance, altitude and cold. But it turns out that a few days of not sleeping combined with dry air and altitude sickness make for a pretty poor celebration. We all had a few beers with dinner, started complaining that we were dehydrated, and sheepishly agreed to call it a night. WOOOO!

We've been in Puno for the past few days on the shores of Lake Titicaca. Lake Titicaca borders both Peru and Bolivia and is the largest lake in South America. It is so large that it actually has a number of islands inhabited by different cultures that have been there for years. We have had endless troubles in Puno--Dan and I both got sick and I have had to do furious battle with Lan Peru to get the to give me my tickets to Buenos Aires, but I did manage to go on an island sightseeing tour today. I didn't have much time, so I chose the most interesting, bizarre set of islands that the lake has to offer. About a half hour from Puno there are a series of islands that are actually man-made. That's right! The inhabitants, the Uros, actually constructed the islands themselves out of a variety of reed, supposedly to escape from the iron hand of the Incas. Not only are the islands themselves made of the reed, but everything on the island is made of it--the houses, the huge boats they use, the furniture... they use the reed to cook, as medicine, as housing, and they also eat it. I am nominating it for the most versatile plant of all time. Stepping on the islands is a little disconcerting--they definitely sink a bit underfoot. It's sort of like walking on loose hay, if the hay were floating on a huge, chilly lake. But people have lived there for eons, so who am I to stick my nose up at it? After the village we visited gave us a presentation on local culture, the local girls dragged me (again, the tallest and whitest person in the group) off and basically made me their doll. They dressed me up, they braided my hair, they gave me different hats...it was crazy. Another set of pictures which I'm promising to upload when I come across a computer that will actually work with my camera.

¨They have killed a sheep for you!¨

We finished our four day hike yesterday and went back to Cusco, land of showers, toilets and temperatures above freezing. All hail Cusco!

Our hike was absolutely amazing. We hike the Lares trail, a trail that winds through mountains past tons of tiny Andean villages and ends with a trip to Machu Picchu. There were lots of things that made the hike an incredible experience. We were just traipsing through the Andes--it was so serene, and we had incredible views of snow-capped glaciers and long, uninterrupted stretches of tundra and mountains. Sometimes we would round the corner and see a gorgeous, icy blue glacial lake just stretched out in front of us. We got so used to just seeing llamas, alpacas, donkeys, wild horses, sheep and stray dogs chilling in the wilderness that by the second day we thought nothing of it. It´s a major tourist trail, so as we trekked, children would come running from all the tiny villages that dot the Andes to stare at us. Seriously, they are engineering some sort of uber-cute race high up in the Andes, and when it finally reaches American we will be doomed. We will be completely powerless against them, and all our domestic babies and our puppies and kittens will go ignored. Our guide Felix had told us to buy lots of little toys and candies for the kids, so we were prepared, but we weren´t prepared for their ability to quickly hide the gifts we gave them in the sleeves of their ponchos, thus provoking intense and violent arguments among them concerning who was double-dipping in the gullible tourist pool.

But it wasn´t all children and llamas. The trail was actually incredibly difficult--probably the most physically challenging thing I´ve ever done in my life. I´m a fast hiker and a good camper, but I was completely unprepared to hike at that altitude, and camp in the cold temperatures we experienced. I don´t think I got more than an hour of sleep each night because it was so cold I would just shake uncontrollably in my sleeping bag all night. I was wearing everything I owned, and my sleeping bag was great, but all for naught. The trail itself was also really challenging. I was afraid there would be a lot of steep climbs and hoisting myself up rocks. The terrain wasn´t like that, but the altitude was such a problem for me that the steepness of the passes left me completely breathless very often. We had to stop practically every ten minutes because we were sucking wind. Not what I´m used to.

The absolute, bar none highlight of our trip had to be the hair cutting ceremony. On the third day, the trail led us very close to our cook Ricardo^s house. As we were passing it at about 10 am our guide, Felix, took us into the enclosure of Ricardo^s house where his yard was and told us they all had a surprise for us. Today was Ricardo^s son´s hair-cutting ceremony (sort of an Andean baptism) and we were all invited! Then Felix turned to us and said ¨This is a very special honor and a very special day. They have killed a sheep for you!¨And sure enough, we looked down into the yard and there was a freshly butchered sheep which two women were in the middle stages of cleaning. I think all of us experienced a moment of total bewilderment (and anxiety) as we watched them shovel the organs out of the sheep, wrap the meat in newspapers, put it into hot coals along with a huge load of potatoes and then bury it in dirt and hay for an hour. But when an Andean villager invites you into his home and kills a sheep for you? You put aside your squeamishness, sit down, and wait for lunch, because it´s awesome.

So we all sat down in his yard to await our feast. For about an hour we drank a local drink prepared for the hair cutting ceremony, and each drank out of one beer (apparently a custom, although i think it was just their way of loosening us up) until the actual ceremony. In the ceremony we each cut off some of the child Gydo´s hair and gave him some cash, making us each apparently honorary godparents. People, I have an Andean godchild! Then the sheep was brought out. They started us out easy with some potatoes, which were pretty tasty. Then they ripped all the sheep meat off the bone and served it to us and I have to tell you, freshly killed sheep cooked in paper underground? Kind of great! We all ate some, someone went on a beer run, and then...Andean dance party. That´s right. They put on music and got us all to get up and dance with them. It was awesome. By the way, it was only about noon at this point. Then we all decided to visit a local school where we were MOBBED by children and gave away the remainder of our presents. By then we were all tipsy and late, so we actually had to be driven in a station wagon to the next point of departure on our hike.

Dan is bugging me to go to dinner, so Machu Picchu will have to wait until tomorrow, but here´s a preview: breathtaking.

By the way, I´m hoping to load some photos tomorrow so you can all finally see the wonderful things I´ve seen, and hopefully get some shots of me shaking it in the Andes.

On my way to where the air is...weak

On our last night in Lima, we had delicious ceviche and discovered I am an AMAZING first time gambler (seriously, we won more than 100 dollars on tables that were mostly denominated in sols. At a 3 to 1 sols to dollars ratio, that´s impressive). A good showing, but we were all glad to leave Lima behind. While I am very grateful to the city for so effectively standing up to earthquake, it was so gray and rainy there the whole time. We were definitely ready for blue skies.

Which we got as soon as we arrived in Cusco! We were prepared to be impressed by even the faintest hint of sun after Lima, but Cusco really is objectively beautiful. It´s small but bustling, the people are beautiful and there are inspiring hints of Incan civilization hidden away in little corners of the city. Plus the children are beyond adorable. We all agree that this is the cutest population of children we have ever encountered. They´re so keenly aware of their own cuteness, that they charge you to take photos of them. It´s sort of uncomfortable just standing around taking photos of other people´s children in another country and then sheepishly handing them money, but we all eventually succumbed. Add to this the bevy of dogs playfully bounding through the street and lovely, warm days and you have my perfect vacation city.

Actually, you would have to add one more thing to make it my perfect city: oxygen. Cusco is at a high altitude and you really feel the lack of oxygen. All of us have little pinching headaches and I now pant with the effort required to climb a tiny hill. I feel like my lungs are being fed the atmospheric equivalent of the orphan gruel in Oliver Twist--just barely enough to keep them going. But we get better every day, and it certainly didn´t stop us from touring our little hearts out. On the first day we took a bus into the mountains above the city and saw lots of Incan ruins, including that giant stone panther that the Incans erected to tell other armies to not even bother. And seriously, if I were an invading army and I came up over a mountain only to discover that the civilization I was planning to invade had enough spare manpower to build a huge stone panther that can only be seen in its full glory from thousands of feet above? I´d retreat but quick. It was amazing and fully awe inspiring.

Cusco is also great because the people are really friendly. Once they get done trying to sell stuff to you, they´re happy to sit and chat about America and where you come from, what your life is like and how it compares to yours. My Spanish has gotten much, much better just from being here two days. Yesterday I talked to a twelve year old boy for a half an hour--I taught him how to advertise his shoeshine business in English and he gave me a refresher course on the past tense. When I see him in the street now we wave hello. Great city!

Tomorrow I leave for my four day trek up even greater heights. I am super excited and, yes, a little nervous. Let´s hope the Andes stay nice and calm and warmish for a while, because I don´t need capricious weather to add to my thin air woes.

Life in capital letters

Now that we´ve recovered from our fears that we would be subject to ruin, theft, and packs of wild dogs roaming the street in Lima, travelling companion Dan and I are trying to plan ahead for the remaining legs of our trip in Peru and actually see some of the city. Both efforts, however, are made more difficult by our new nemisis, earthquake.

First of all, it is incredibly hard to get any actually reliable news about what is going on in Peru because the international news media is far more interested in repeatedly hitting us on the head with exclamations and horrors than offering any useful information. While I agree that yes, it is newsworthy that DEAD BODIES LITTER THE STREETS IN PERU or LOOTING AND RIOTING RUNS RAMPANT ON PAN AMERICAN HIGHWAY, perhaps it might be more helpful to offer us specific information about places to avoid, or places that have been rendered dangerous or seismically unsound by recent developments? Anyone? No such luck, though--reporters seem to be so busy luxuriating in the pathos that they can´t be bothered to shoehorn in a nice, simple rundown of the places where everything is still business as usual and the places we should give a wide bearth. Fortuantely, word of mouth from other tourists is much more reliable. Yesterday we met some Hawaiian tourists who were in Cusco during the quake and they told us the city is fine, so we´re headed there tomorrow morning. So next time I write, don´t be surprised if I have altitude sickness!

Sightseeing is also made difficult by earthquake. Yesterday I took a taxi to the Museo de la Nacion in central Lima, eager for an afternoon of Peruvian history and culture. Unfortunately, earthquake busted some of the windows so it was closed. Earthquake! There were actually a lot of locals roaming around inside, so I considered sneaking in under the guise of going to the bathroom. I ultimately abandoned this plan, though, because I don´t exactly blend in here. I don´t know what I was expecting, but the combination of my blinding whiteness and extreme height (I have not yet seen any woman who is as tall as I am, and only a few men) makes me really stick out. All the guidebooks say you should try to look like a local by walking purposefully and not looking at maps or taking photos, but when you sort of resemble a slim, hairless abominable snowman plowing through the crowd I think the jig is up, touristwise. So I just left the museum, and spent the rest of the afternoon walking around town with Dan. We went to a place called Narky´s, which could only be described as ¨Peruvian Benigans¨ to sample Peru´s signature drink, the pisco sour. I´m not saying anything against pisco, but when I run my own country, one of the qualities I´m going to look for in a national drink is ¨does not contain egg white.¨ The pisco sour falls far short of this requirement, unfortunately. Still, it got me tipsy enough that I managed to lose my gloves, adding them to the list of items I leave behind in Peru (which also includes my copy of Marco Polo´s Travels and some skin off my left ankle).

We have managed to do a few touristy things. Yesterday Dan and I stumbled upon the Parque del Amor. It´s this pretty, Gaudi-esque mosaic park on a cliff above the sea with all these different pick up lines and thoughts about love scattered around on tiles. Dan took note of some lines he might be able to use on Peruvian women and I made a note to watch for any Peruvian men who tell me my eyes have the depth of the sea. I demand that any potential suitors have enough game not to have to resort to taking pickup lines from local benches! Then we met up with the rest of our hiking group and went to an indigenous dance performance in a nearby neighborhood. It was good fun, except at some point the MC caught on that we weren´t from around here (how did he know?!) and demanded that we come up and participate in a big group dance. Dan and I enthusiastically bounded onstage, only to be subject to what seemed to be about 20 minutes of vigorous aerobics and possibly a game of London Bridge. We got a big cheer from the crowd when we told them we were from NYC, though, so that was nice. Then we all went out for some karaoke. I am determined to perfect one Spanish karaoke song during my time here, so we´ll see how that goes.

Today Dan and I blearily made our way to a local monestary that was rumored to have amazing catacombs. I had ambitions of matching Anna, catacomb for catacomb, but when we got down there, Dan and I both simultaneously realized that the combination of recent seismic activity plus confined underground space full of bones equals terror. I barely held it together, and sort of maybe shoved a few teens out of the way as I rushed to exit.

It´s our last night in Lima, which is okay because while I´m grateful to Lima for not succumbing to earthquake, it´s the grayest city I have every been in. And keep in mind that I lived in Chicago for four years and England for one, so that´s saying something. Bring on Cusco and its rich supply of ruins, so that I may be enchanted by them, and then possibly trip over them!

I feel the earth move under my feet

So I was in the middle of my flight to Lima yesterday, spending a few poorly-fed stopover hours at Miami International (seriously, Miami, would it KILL you to keep a few restaurants open past 10pm?), when I heard some news...

I guess I sort of knew that Lima had to be near a continental plate because...mountains, but of the potential catastrophes I´d planned for, earthquake was not really in the top ten. I usually plan for Megan-centric problems, like passport loss, hotel confusion, or concussion. Not natural disasters. When I first heard about it, I was obviously worried-the BBC was doing its full-on "QUAKEWATCH: EARTH STRIKES BACK" thing, and they said people were sleeping in the streets in Lima, that cars were crashing, that the electrical system was down and that generally, fire and brimstone were raining from heaven and it was the end of days. But I steeled myself--I figured I had all my camping gear so I could sleep outside if I had to, I had first aid supplies, I had friends in the area, maybe I could actually help some people who had been hurt--and began stockpiling potable water.

My nerves continued until I landed in Lima, at which point...nothing. Total calm. Plane landed fine, driver picked me up, orderly traffic, water and electricity in order, no sign of panic in the streets or fires raging through the city infrastructure. Everything seems...normal. I know it´s not, and I know lots of people were killed and injured, but I think a lot of that must be further south, because I spent all day driving/walking around Lima talking to people, and things are really calm here. Obviously I can´t speak for the rest of Peru, but I´ll keep everyone posted as I head to Cusco and parts beyond.

I now know what an aftershock feels like, which is unnecessarily exciting. It hit while I was taking my morning nap. I expected terror and falling tiles, but I think it was light, because it mostly felt like I was in the bottom of a flimsy bunk bed and the top bunk was climbing down.

Anyway, other than being delicately perched atop sideswiping tectonic plates, Lima is great. I´ve never been to South America before, and it´s a pretty good place to start. Everyone has been so friendly, and I´m really happy with my hotel (beach--and therefore epicenter--adjacent!) and with the food I´ve been able to scrounge. Plus, now the bar for my vacation has totally been lowered--before I had to have great times and take lots of pictures and make magical memories. Now I´ll just be happy if the ground stays relatively steady.

In related news I have an unsettling history of taking international flights just before or closely after terrorism catastrophes or scares. I hit 9/11, the shoe bomber, and the recent liquid explosive scare by less than a week each time (if they had started that terrorism futures market, knowing my flight schedule would totally be insider information). But I´ve never brushed up against natural disasters before. Are my powers of discord and disorder becoming stronger? You be the judge.

Behind the roadtrip

Hi Anna's Readers,

As my first official guest-blogging act, I thought I would add a few stories to her already-stirring account of the road trip. I'm doing this for two reasons: 1) revealing previously unknown information makes you more popular, and 2) revealing previously unknown goofs and follies (mostly by me) makes it seem even more remarkable that the road trip came off well, instead of ending with us placing a late-night emergency call to AAA or being carried off by flies.

Death punch
Anna mentioned that we started out late on our first official day of the road trip because "we" drank too much of the fizzy gin death punch that we brew up once a year to celebrate summer. That was pure charity, folks. Anna drank sensible amounts of death punch. I, on the other hand, chose a very dainty glass and fooled myself into believing this meant I was drinking correspondingly dainty portions of punch. Not so. I threw up generous amounts while still at our host's apartment (sorry Steve) and then even more generous amounts after the walk back to my place. I was incapacitated until 11am, when Anna ingeniously made me bacon to hurry my hangover recovery. An inauspicious beginning, I think you'll agree.

A kindness well repaid
When we awoke the day after our drive to Maine, we were flush with the previous evening's unexpected victory over Maine's high motel occupancy rate. Plus, we had the prospect of Civil War Reenactment fueling our good moods! But when we drove to the place where we'd spotted the reenactment sign the night before, we realized the actual event was at a place we'd never heard of. Never fear, we thought, and drove over to a nearby house to ask a man outside for directions. Anna popped out and he was so nice and gave us very detailed directions. She got back in the car, and as we were excitedly discussing the directions, I IMMEDIATELY backed into his mother's car. There was *maybe* a four second gap between the time he stopped being generous toward us, and the time I collided with his family vehicle. If it had been a conditioning exercise designed to teach him not to be kind to strangers, it would have been enormously effective. Fortunately, I had been going very slowly and there was no damage. His mother came out to inspect the car and, predictably, could not have been more kind. She even wished us a good trip. Thanks, friendly strangers! I'm sorry I wasn't more competent.

The recruits who brought down the North
As soon as we arrived at the civil war reenactment, we were again overwhelmed by enthusiasm. After funneling this enthusiasm into trying on Civil War outfits and learning trivia, we accepted their invitation to fall in and do some Civil War-style marching. The first thing that was required of all troops and recruits was to stand in two parallel lines and count off by ones and twos. Unfortunately, this was beyond us. I immediately forgot my number and had to ask the woman beside me what it was, causing her to hiss "don't forget your number!" at me at appropriate intervals during the entire rest of the half-hour exercise. Anna also immediately forgot her number. She also asked the people beside her for assistance, but actually confused them and caused them to forget their numbers as well. A job well done by both of us! We both giggled a LOT when we realized we'd made the same mistake. On the plus side, we did get to give three cheers for Lincoln at the end, which I have always wanted to do.

The assault on our ankles
Upon arriving at Anna's great aunt's home in Isleboro, we had some time on our hands so we went for a walk down to the beach. I happily skipped stones along the water while Anna lounged nearby on rocks, patiently listening to me ask if she saw *that* awesome skipping effort. What we did not realize was that Maine, in a stern, New England-like fashion, austerely rejects casual interlopers into her environment by deploying swarms of vicious bugs. By the time we finished our evening of girlish frolic we were both covered in bites from our ankles to shins, and I had some sort of mysterious half-inch-long series of 3 gashes, as if a moderately sized fly had grown T-Rex claws and attacked my arm with them. We were both up half the night scratching, but tried to keep it a secret, because Aunt Mimi had repeatedly emphasized that we were to wear bug spray at all times.

I give into my natural urges
We're both key, wallet and cellphone losers, so it was near-miraculous that we didn't lose any of those items during the trip itself. However, as soon as we arrived back in New York, I immediately let my baser instincts overcome me and locked the keys in the trunk. We didn't discover this until the next morning, when we turned my apartment upside down looking for them and even embarked on a search through the recycling bin (where I thought I might have thrown them away) and my dirty laundry (where I thought they might have fallen out of the pockets). Luckily (again!) Budget had given us a car with a keypad on the door, so we were able to open the door without resorting to a locksmith or (my suggestion) crafting our own slimjim. I actually went so far as to look up the New York penal code to see if possessing a slimjim would be a crime, and I think it might be.

All this and it was still a fantastically successful road trip! We were both immensely thankful for our good luck, and I hope said luck extends to my as-yet-unplanned trip to South America. I head to Lima in a few days, followed by Cusco, a hike on the Lares trail, a trip to Lake Titicaca, and then to Buenos Aires. Prepare for lost keys and minor motor vehicle mayhem, South America!

we'll meet again...don't know where, don't know when

The Daft Punk show was AMAZING. We got there a bit late, and I had to sprint all the way from the subway to the concert, and tripped and skinned my knee in the process. I didn't even notice I was bleeding until after the 90-minute set -- I was too focused on jumping up and down and screaming, "We love you, robots!" I had thought the show would be a bit of a letdown, since my expectations were so high after Coachella, but that was not AT ALL the case. Good lord, do I love those robots and their sweet hott french glam dance pop.

The next morning I got up at five to catch a flight out of JFK, but ended up missing my plane. The LIRR website says it's a 35-minute trip from Penn Station to the airport, but apparently that does not include the 20 minutes it takes to get from the LIRR station to the actual airport. Oh well. The flight I did get on was delayed on the tarmac for two hours, during which time the babies on the plane decided to have a crying party. Fun! In the end, it took 15 hours to get from Megan's doorstep to my own.

But when I stepped outside at the Oakland Airport, it was all OK. California is always beautiful in clutch situations, I've noticed. Every time I visited here before moving, it was sunny, breezy, crystal-blue. People told me about the fog, but I secretly didn't believe it, because California is crafty about hitting you with amazing weather just when you need it. My arrival home was exactly like that. The sun was warm, the breeze was cool, everything smelled good, and I've never been happier to be home.

So we've reached the end of my travels, and thus, the end of my travel blogging. I may revive my interweb memoirs for future adventures, but for now I'm going on hiatus. I'm happy to announce, however, that my ex-roommate and recent travel companion Megan will be guest-blogging during her travels to South America. Those of you who know Megan already know to look forward to her reports from the Inca Trail. To those of you who don't, I can promise that if you've enjoyed my blogging, you'll love hers, too.

So with that, I'll sign off. Thanks to everyone who read my blog while I was away. It helped my homesickness a lot to know you were keeping tabs on me. Au revoir!

the invasion of italy, peanut butter pie, and the new world order

Megan and I had the best road trip EVER. The crazy part is, it was almost totally unplanned. We coasted on luck and street smarts (mostly luck, really) and it was incredible.

After going AWOL from the 3rd Maine's civil war re-enactment, we headed up to Islesboro to stay with my great aunt Mimi. She's 90, way sharper than I am, and full of fantastic stories. For example, she and her friend took a trip though Germany in August of 1939. That's the month before WWII broke out. The trip consisted of buying a row boat, meandering downriver, renting rooms in farmhouses, and having ridiculous adventures like getting chased down a mountain by a drunken Nazi officer. She makes our road trip look lame by comparison, doesn't she? And that's not even her best WWII story! She served coffee at the invasion of Italy! For real! As if that's not enough, in addition to having been in the shit, Aunt Mimi has a great sense of style. She rocks yellow ballet flats like nobody's business. Megan and I really want to grow up to be her, but since that civil war re-enactment is the closest we've come to battle, I don't think it's in the cards.

Aunt Mimi wanted us to see Acadia National Park, but since we knew from previous experience that Maine is full in August, we went inland from Islesboro instead. On our way, we randomly happened upon the A1 Diner in Gardiner, Maine. I feel confident in saying it is the best diner in the world. It's in an old-school diner car, offers five kinds of soup, and the lunchtime music selection includes Thelonius Monk. Apparently it's been there forever, but a gay couple from Boston bought it ten years ago, so the menu is a hybrid of city slicker staples like tofu and diner classics like peanut butter pie. Also, our waiter had a soul patch and is trying to launch a career as a singer-songwriter. The diner could not have been more perfect - my heart almost exploded.

In New Hampshire we stayed at the resort in Breton Woods where FDR convened the international conference that set up the IMF and World Bank. It looks like the hotel from The Shining. Megan and I meant to start a new world order, but we had a bottle of wine and several Miller Lites instead. The next morning we got up and hiked part of the way up Mount Washington, which is beautiful. Verdant woods, crystalline streams, you get the picture.

And now I'm back in NY, and my trip is almost over! Daft Punk is tonight, and then tomorrow I'll be back in SF. I didn't confront the German army or anything, but still, I think it's been a good trip.

things look grim, but the drive-in makes everything better

On Thursday night Steve hosted us for a rousing night of extremely vengeful charades, fueled by Megan's famous Fizzy Gin Death Punch. We lost at charades, but we took home the gold medal in Death Punch consumption.

As a result, our road trip started sloooooooooooowly. We didn't get on the road until after lunch, and it was almost 9 when we rolled into Saco, Maine, our destination for the night. Why Saco, you ask? It's the home of the nation's second oldest drive-in, and we'd never been to a drive in. As a bonus, they were staging a civil war re-enactment at the local high school. Obviously the real question is, Why NOT Saco?

Anyway, as I said, we got to Saco at 9, which coincidentally is the time that all the restaurants close. We then discovered that thousands of other people had also decided to make a weekend of it in Saco, and finding a hotel room would be nearly impossible. Maggie even helped out over the phone, looking on the internet for miles around town, but everything was booked. Our spirits were low, and it appeared that our visit to Saco would be a disastrous failure. Fortunately, the drive-in cheered us up hugely, because it is awesome. You can talk as loud as you want, and they have cheese sticks and really salty chili. Mmmm. The third Bourne Identity movie confused us (Wait, who's that dude chasing him? Why is Julia Stiles so zombified?) but it didn't even matter, because the drive-in rocks so hard. I also think drive-ins might be lucky, because after the movie we stumbled upon a Best Western where someone had just cancelled a room. We were so happy we lept through the parking lot like drunken wildebeests, braying with triumph.

The next morning, we stopped by the civil war re-enactment, which was TREMENDOUS. I highly recommend attending one if you have the means. The Confederacy wasn't represented, because we were in Maine, but our boys in blue made a good go of marching around and firing their muskets more or less in unison. We even got to march with them and try on their extremely sweaty wool jackets. Then their youngest member, a teenager named Jared, gave Megan a tour of his tent and explained what a "gum blanket" is. It was a moment of pure road trip bliss. Now, onward to Islesboro!

false start

On day 1 of our road trip, Megan and I failed to actually leave New York City, or rent a car, or even leave the house before 11. We woke up with terrible hangovers, and then the house we were going to stay at in Vermont with Ginny turned out to be full of people, and everything just kind of unwound. We decided that instead of going to Newark to pick up our car, we'd have lunch at Roy's and then head up to the Bronx Zoo. By the time we arrived, the zoo was closed, but we snuck in by pretending we desperately wanted to go to the gift shop. Most of the animals had gone inside for the night, which freaked Ginny out a bit. She was worried that the lions were hiding from us so they could pounce from behind a nearby rock or soft-serve ice cream truck. We managed to escape un-mauled, though, and we did see the sea lions, a hilarious little moustachiod monkey, and a flock of flamingos.

america, f*** yeah!

Nick and I spent our last 24 hours in London enjoing the Indian food and the Tate Modern. Thanks for the advice, all. To be completely honest, though, London was a bit of a letdown after Paris. Summer in Paris turned Nick and I into horrible city snobs, apparently. I think it'll be a while before Paris's rosy glow wears off and we can learn to love another landscape.

But now I'm back, and it's great! My mom and I went out to the Northern Virginia hinterland to visit the area's sole remaining Roy Rogers yesterday. I scarfed down some fried chicken and an extra large fries, and suddenly the fire of my soul was relit. Mmmm, fried.

Some things about the US have been a bit of a shock, admittedly. Public transit here blows, for example. I miss the Paris Metro. And wow, look at us with the capitalism! Nick and I observed often on our trip that no one in the world gets capitalism like the US. In other countries, shops are closed even when I'm desperate to acquire their goods, and waiters are totally indifferent to my needs. By contrast, in the US when I'd like to acquire a good or service, 99.9% of the time someone has figured out a way to sell it to me. America is all about beating its way to your door with a better mousetrap, and that's awesome. On the other hand, the unrelenting zeal with which Yanks are encouraged to consume is kind of crazy, when you think about it, which you do when you return from a two-month absence. I walked into a Banana Republic yesterday to kill time before meeting a coworker for some drinks, and I had to leave immediately because I almost had a panic attack. I suddenly felt deeply threatened by the borg-like homogenizing power of this season's cute new apple-green silk wrap dresses. Back off, The Man! I need some time to readjust before I can suckle at your teat again. I can't wait to get back to San Francisco, where I'm a total moderate compared to all the other crazy-crunchy-granola-off-the-grid commies.

Before that, though, I've got my road trip through New England with Megan & Ginny. New Englanders, please advise. Alex, I know you'll have wise words to share about Maine. What about Boston? What should be on our to-do list there? And is the Cape or Nantucket worth the detour? I'm sort of tempted to visit the Nantucket airport because that's where the TV show Wings was filmed, so clearly I need ideas for better ways to spend our time, so that Megan is not forced to beat me to death with her bar review books.

king's cross

So, we're on the move again, which means limited internet access. Here's a quick rundown of the last few days.

July 18th - Our last night in Paris. We went back to our favorite steak frites place and reminisced about best parts of the trip so far. (I liked the gypsy caravan, and Nick liked Fete de la Musique.) Then we bought two beers and wandered down to the river. I don't really remember much after that, other than that I insisited at some point that we go to the corner store for another beer run.

July 19 - We woke up in a world of hurt, which was, as Nick pointed out, all my fault. We had to rally, though, because it was our last morning. We bought trois croissants (un for Nick, deux for me, as usual) and walked along the river to the Place des Vosges, where we watched an old man in a track suit do squat exercises among the pigeons. I'm going to miss Paris.

We took the train to Brussels afterwards, and spent the next 24 hours drinking and eating. Street waffles are awesome, by the way. Why hasn't this concept been imported to America yet? Thanks also to Alex for pointing us to a fantastic Belgian friterie.

July 20 - We fly to London and meet up with my cousin Bekah, our host for the evening. At around 11 PM we headed over to the Harry Potter queue party in Piccadilly, and I realized that the problem with going to the best Harry Potter queue party in the whole world is that people started lining up there days in advance. Not only did we not get a book that night, we didn't even manage to walk the whole length of the line, it was so long. It was fun, though, watching the crowds of costumed fans chanting, "HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!" and generally freaking out as the midnight hour approached.

July 21-22 - We bought a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in King's Cross station on our way to meet up with Nick's friends, which I thought was pretty neat, since I mostly know about King's Cross from Harry's adventures there. Nick's friends invited us down Pool, which is apparently known as the British Riviera. It seemed quite nice, although I can't say for sure because I spent the entire weekend inside, reading and not talking to anyone. It was totally rude, but I couldn't help myself. Harry Potter 7 is GREAT.

Tomorrow we're off to enjoy some of England's non-fiction highlights, assuming Nick can tear himself away from HP7. If you've got any London must-sees to recommend, holla!

ossuaries, reliquaries, and epiceries

Our time left in Paris is short, so we spent yesterday dashing through three must-see recommendations from friends that we had left to visit.

We started at The Catacombs, an underground network of tunnels leftover from the Romans' limestone quarries. They were converted into a mass grave in the final years of the French monarchy, because Paris was running out of burial space, and nobody (other than bacteria) likes overflowing graveyards. Monsieur Hericart de Thury, an Inspector General of the Quarries under Napoleon, decided to turn the ossuary into a tourist attraction, and had all the bones restacked in crazy patterns. You can see mosaics in the shape of hearts, crosses, and arches, all made from skulls and femurs and ribs and the like. It's nutty.

Nick and I were really curious as to how Thury decided that the public wanted to see skulls stacked into heart shapes. We paid 5 euros each for the privilege, though, so obviously he was right. We got to talking about what we'd do with the Catacombs if we had Thury's job, and decided we'd bring back the candlelit tours they offered pre-electricity, and also let people pay extra to have the guards jump out from behind corners and scare the bejeezus out of their friends. I have now officially added manager of macabre national monument to my list of potential post-midlife crisis careers. (Other possibilities: owner-manager of a socially responsible bed and breakfast in a small Mexican village, high school science teacher.)

If you ever make it to the Catacombs, be sure to read all the signs, some of which were pretty funny. Instead of warning pregnant ladies and people suffering from heart conditions to stay away, like we do in America, the Catacombs cuts to the chase and declares "weak people" unfit for entry. I also enjoyed the warning that read "The ossuary tour could make a strong impression on children and people of a nervous disposition." I guess I've got a nervous disposition, because walking out the exit into the sunlight and realizing my feet were covered in bone dust definitely made a strong impression on me.

After the Catacombs, we jumped on the train to Chartres to see Europe's best preserved medieval cathedral. It was very pretty. If you go, I highly recommend the tour with Malcolm Miller, an adorable old british scholar who makes his living by rhapsodizing about the cathedral for the tourists. (Read more here.)

Finally, we stopped by Le Bon Marche, reputedly the best grocery store in Paris. My favorite part was the foreign food, which included an American aisle, featuring jars of strawberry marshmallow fluff, and a Tex-Mex aisle with taco shells and root beer. Why root beer? I don't get it, but then this isn't the first time I've noticed that Parisians have a strange conception of Tex-Mex. We once walked by a little girl eating a hamburger with a fried egg on it in a Tex-Mex restaurant on Rue Saint-Germain. I'm sympathetic, though. I live with a Texan, and they're still a mystery to me in many ways. (Why do they all think they have a panhandle, for example? Chimney, maybe. Pot-lid, sure. But that's not a panhandle - THIS is a panhandle.)

Anyway, thanks to everyone who shared their Paris recommendations with us, especially Jason and Stacey. We were lucky to have the advice of two savvy tourists like them.

champagne makes everything delightful

champagne makes everything delightful
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Today we went to Champagne and toured the Moët et Chandon cellars. Champagne is one of many of the finer things in life that I'm not that excited about, or at least I wasn't until today. The House of Moët , though, is REALLY good at convincing you that they are awesome, and that you'd be lucky to have a sip of their awesomeness.

For example, they offer you the chance to pay a little extra to taste the vintage champagne, and then when you're walking through their 18 km of cellars on the tour, you see the same vintage champagne you're about to taste on a pedestal, under a spotlight, behind bars. No lie. Also, Jean-Remy Moët was personal friends with Napoleon, which is why all the Moët traditional champagnes say imperial on the label. Apparently every time Napoleon won a big battle, he'd travel to the House of Moët to celebrate with some of their bubbly. How ridiculously awesome is that? Now that I know that, I don't ever want to celebrate anything without a glass of Moët. Also, apparently Louis XV's mistress Madame du Pompadour said that champagne was the only wine that made women who drink it more beautiful. It's true, after three glasses, I felt totally hottttttttt. Who even cares what the champagne tastes like, after a tour like that? (It was pretty good, for the record.)

bastille day

ladies love heavy artillery
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Bastille Day was fun. We went to watch the military parade on the Champs-Élysées, and had the good fortune to stumble on the end of the parade where all the regiments (or batallions, or brigades, or whatever -- I have trouble with military vocab) were hanging out and getting back on their busses. They were happy to pose for pictures, and Nick and I entertained ourselves for a while getting shots of me with different kinds of French military hats.

That night we walked to the Champ de Mars to see the fireworks, which turned out to be a LONG way. I was determined to get there in time, so I busted out my best immitation of a NY commuter walk for the three mile trek. Nick was impressed -- he described the pace I set as "grueling," and claimed that if we were playing Oregon Trail our oxen would have died somewhere around Napoleon's Tomb. The fireworks were really nice, and the crowd was fun. They applauded like people do at a rock concert -- clapping and yelling during the interludes, and isolated woooo-ing during particularly awesome moments, like the spiral-shaped sparlky explosions (the firework equivalent of guitar solos).

Bastille Day was great, although dissapointingly free of any angry crowds tearing down buildings in the name of freedom. The whole thing made me miss 4th of July, though. Next year, I am SO flying to the east coast and dragging all ya'll out there into to another incredibly stupid and awesome round of tequila flip cup. Mark your calendars, for reals.

jumping

You may have been wondering, "What's with all the pictures of Anna jumping?" Here's the thing: I recently discovered that jumping is possibly the only thing in the world I do more gracefully than Nick. He's a pretty good athlete, whereas I can't always manage to walk in a straight line without tripping over myself. For some reason, though, I totally school Nick when it comes to freeze-frame pictures of jumping. For example, check out this picture of me jumping in front of Mont Saint Michel:



OK, now look at some pictures of Nick:







The awesome thing is, they're ALL like that. So when we go someplace scenic, I usually suggest that we do some jumping pictures. And then we go and share a beer and laugh while we look at them. And then I spill the beer on Nick's lap.

the last full measure of devotion

On Wednesday we toured the D-Day beaches. The combination of my history degree and Catch 22 had me kind of skeptical about all the Greatest Generation stuff. It's impossible to be a cynic at Normandy, though. Jason, who recently visited, describes pretty much exactly what I felt in his blog post on the subject, so I'll just quote him:

"Visiting Normandy was a great experience. As a California liberal pants-wetter I not only believe that all wars are regrettable but that war-making is something we should be able to transcend as a people. So being at the site of justly-celebrated use of American might made me feel a strange mix of emotions.... I can honestly say that in standing there I felt proud of being American for the first time in as long as I can remember. You're looking at a largely intact piece of German artillery and you know that this was the German Army and not the Nazis who were (you try not to over-dramatize) killing your people and you can't help think to yourself 'Yes, this is good. It's good that this was destroyed. The people who destroyed this were right and I'm proud of them for having done so.'"

Word.

One more note on my visit: as I walked through the American cemetary, lines from the Gettsyburg Address kept popping into my head. I realized that it's not only a kick-ass speech about America, but also a spot-on description of military cemetaries, and what they stand for. Check it:

"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here."

That is SO true -- the overwhelming feeling I had at Normandy (and the Vietnam Wall, and Gettysburg) was that nothing I or anyone else could say or do would be equal to what happened there. So, thanks to Abraham Lincoln and Jason, two of my favorite orators, for expressing my feelings about our fallen soldiers better than I could. Tomorrow, back to our regularly scheduled programming of pictures of me jumping and elaborate descriptions of various foods I've consumed.

wow, so fast!

wow, so fast!
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

On Tuesday Nick and I went to Compiegne to see the Tour de France. Our day there consisted of several hours of loafing around in cafes drinking and reading, two hours of waiting by the race route and watching various promotional vehicles drive by (bottled water,, Haribo candies, shower gel, and Les Simpsons all favored us with free giveaways), and approximately 90 seconds of bicycle racing. That 90 seconds was cool, but given that it was only 90 seconds, I kind of don't get France's national obsession with bicycle racing. I kept reminding myself that the French probably don't understand the appeal of Nascar or the Kentucky Derby, but then I remembered that I don't like those things, either.

Still, it was cool to have seen it, and I finished my book on D-Day during the aforementioned loafing, so that was nice. I think my attention span has lengthened considerably since I've been deprived of English-language TV. I definitely couldn't sit and read for four hours at a stretch this spring. Very upsetting -- I can't wait to get back to the states and my TV, where I'm sure a few episodes of The Girls Next Door will help me forget all about this disturbing discovery.

my summer reading list

I'm currently in the middle of three France-themed history books, all of which I recommend to anyone traveling to France.

The Longest Day, by Cornelius Ryan. The cover calls it "the classic epic of D-Day," and I believe it. It's chock-full of poignant details like the text of the news release Eisenhower had prepared in advance to send if the invasion failed, and the story of a British officer who read the "Once more into the breach, dear friends" speech from Henry V to his troops right before they landed on the beaches of Normandy. Very good.

The Seven Ages of Paris by Alistair Horne. A good history of how Paris ended up looking as beautiful as it does, excellent if you want to deepen your appreciation of landmarks like Pont Neuf, the Louvre, and Saint Chapelle. Also very good if you, like me, are confused by the endless monarchy-republic-monarchy-dictatorship-commune-republic switcheroos of the 19th century. As a bonus, Horne includes lots of entertaining anecdotes, such as stories of monks beaning each other with candelabra.

Instructions for British Servicemen in France, 1944, distributed by the Foreign Office. Lots of funny quotes, like a DON'T list that starts with the item "Don't criticize the French Army's defeat of 1940. Many Frenchmen are convinced that they had a fine but insufficiently equipped army, not very well led." I bought it for the humor value, but found it to be a very sensible and compassionate little book. It's a useful 10,000 foot overview of French culture and history for travelers, AND good advice for a liberating army, complete with warnings about why you should not expect a warm welcome from everyone even when you're convinced you've just done the whole country a huge favor by freeing them from a dictatorial regime. Can't imagine why that struck a chord with me.

twenty four LONG toothless hours

my smile, restored
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Last night Nick and I were munching on our customary pre-dinner baguette when I heard a cracking noise, and then felt something small, hard, and tooth-shaped floating around in my mouth. I've had this experience before, and let me tell you, it is NOT a good feeling. Fortunately, it was just the plastic fake tooth insert I've been wearing since one of my real teeth said sayonara last February, so there was no pain and I didn't have to deal with the emotional trauma of losing a chunk of my skeleton.

Still, I was dismayed to find myself looking like Cleetus the Slackjawed Yokel. I've been carefully hiding my lack-of-tooth from Spicer for months now, banishing him from the bathroom when I have to take out my falsie to brush. There was nothing to be done about it now, though -- I had to cave and show him my gaptoothed grin. To his credit, his insistence that I don't need all my teeth to look pretty was actually fairly convincing. Everyone else who's seen me toothless has noticeably winced, including my dentist and the lady at the DMV who took my driver's license photo. Spicer managed to keep a totally straight face, though. Maybe we shoulda gone to Vegas and hit the poker tables instead of Paris, huh?

Anyway, in a development that I'm sure comes as a surprise to no one who knows me well, I now have a dentist in Paris. He's very nice, saw me on short notice, worked efficiently, and speaks excellent English. He charges a lot, but believe me, when you need a dentist in a foreign city, you don't care much about price. I was so thankful to have my smile back that I promised I'd talk him up on the inter-web, so here we go:

Dr. Patrick Bauer
71, avenue Franklin Roosevelt
75008 Paris, Metro St-Philippe du Roule
Tel: 01-4225-7630

i try to be a good American in the south of France

breakfast at la mas de capriers
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Sorry for the dearth of posts this week. Nick and I took the TGV to Nice on Tuesday, rented a car, and then spent the next few days tooling around the south of France.

We started our adventure off in a hostel in Nice, where I discovered that I am too old for hostels. All the other girls there had at least three times as much skin exposed as I did, and all the conversations I overheard were about X-treme sports. Also, the staff was too busy tanning and being charmed by the beauty of life to bother with things like towels, or change for the bus.

The next day we drove west along the Cote d'Azur. We went swimming in a scenic little inlet off the side of the road, and discovered that in addition to being very very blue, the Meditteranean is very cold, and very salty. After drying off, we made our way through a whole mess of sunny valleys and scenic villages to Le Mas de Capriers, a little B&B on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Our room was a rennovated gypsy caravan from 1898, complete with a million candles and an outdoor shower. For dinner the owner Christine directed us to a local Provencal restaraunt, where Nick and I ate our first five course meal. (We thought about you, Josh -- you'd be proud. We're really making an effort to sample the finer things in France, instead of just eating falafel every night. And sometimes I really want to do that, because everything in France is expensive, and the falafel here is both relatively cheap and really delicious.)

When the sun woke us up the next morning, we went for a run through the lavender fields and vinyards, and then a swim in the heated pool. Afterwards Christine and her husband Bernard brought a breakfast of fresh-squeezed orange juice, bread, and a cherry cream tart up to a table outside our room. It was exactly what I'd hoped Provence would be, one of those great travel days when you stumble onto a place that's perfect and you know you'll never come back, because it'd never be as beautiful as it was the day you discovered it. I tried to capture it with a photo essay on breakfast, but just ended up with 30+ pictures of a coffee carafe.

We remembered in the middle of our trip that it was the 4th of July, and felt like crummy Americans for having forgotten. I mean, seriously, the south of France on the 4th? We might as well turn in our passports and burn our bras. We did penance, though, by visiting a Provencal McDonalds for some fries. (Have they also launched the "Big & Tasty" in America? Does the ad for it there feature a picture of a cowboy, a boxer, and a Native American chief?) We also made a list of things we love about America over our pre-dinner apertif. Our list included the Grand Canyon, fried chicken, excellent customer service, Bob Dylan, and American confidence in our ability to make the world a better place. Sometimes misguided, obviously, but also sometimes awesome. Superawesome, even.)

food-focused

A week or so ago, Nick and I went to the Le Relais de l'Entrecôte, after some internet research about the best place to get steak frites in Paris. It was fantastic. There's no menu. When you come in, your waitress asks you how you want your meat cooked, and what kind of wine you want, and then she disappears. Five minutes later, a salad and a plate of bread appear on your table. Five minutes after that, you're looking at a moderately sized portion of steak, covered in mysterious pesto-esque sauce, accompanied by a pile of perfect frites. After we finished, Nick and I were chatting about what a great meal it was, and then the waitress showed up with what we later realized was the other half of our steak, and another plateful of fries. Amazing! We were way too full when we left, but really happy.

The meal got me thinking about how some of the best meals I've ever had have been in restaurants that do only one thing, like Le Relais. There's Diporto Agoras, a little cafe in Athens with green-trimmed windows that had two plates of grilled fish, chick peas, and mysterious vegetable mash on our table 30 seconds after we'd sat down. And Bale Well Cafe in Hoi An, where the proprietress taught to toast in Vietnamese, and demonstrated the proper way to roll the Vietnamese pancakes we didn't order.

It makes sense that restaurants like that would be amazing. They only do one thing, so of course they've learned how to do it really well. The customers aren't allowed to mess things up by ordering something other than the best dish on the menu. It's just like we learned in business school, focused factories that only make one thing are much more productive and effective. (I wish they'd taught us that with a steak frites case study instead of a hernia hospital case study. I would have found Operations MUCH more interesting.)

I've never had the experience of not having to order in America, but the way DiFara's is totally focused on pizza artistry and almost completely indifferent to customers comes close. The way people go on pilgrimages to Magnolia Bakery to worship at the shrine of the cupcake is pretty similar, too.

Anyway, the end result of all this food-related musing is that now I'm trying to figure out what one-food restaraunt I'd like to open. Think about it -- quitting your job to learn how to make meat pies, or french fries, or iced coffee, or whatever it is better than anyone else in your hometown, to the point where people take their friends to your shop to appreciate your genius. It's kind of appealing, isn't it? I think I'm going to make this my new small-talk-starter hypothetical, and bench "If you were a Major League Baseball player, what song would they play as you came up to the plate?" I know Sheldon's answer, and I think Megan could revolutionize morning to-go food by opening New York's first bacon stand. The obvious answer for me is cupcakes, but that niche is already taken in NY, DC, and San Francisco. Maybe Thanksgiving sandwiches? This is going to take some musing.

gay pride

Saturday was the Paris Gay Pride Parade. I've never been to the one in SF, because I've been out of town the last few years, but I now realize what a tragedy that is. Gay pride, especially in parade form, is great.

My favorite float was the railway workers' float. They were blasting technno music, like every other float. Theirs, however, was periodically interrupted by the chime that precedes PA announcements on the train, the French equivalent of BART's "The doors are closing – please stand clear of the doors." People went NUTS when they heard it. I was kinda proud that I recognized it, and suddenly a little more at home in Paris, like when Nick gives a passerby directions at the beginning of The Great Gatsby.

PS: I was checking on the Inter-Web to make sure I'd got the BART announcement right, and found this list of announcements from subway systems across the world, complete with audio files. Ed, Jeff, you can thank me later.

museum pass madness

We had a lazy few days, and decided it was time to kick it into high-gear, so on Tuesday we bought two-day Paris Museum Passes. The PMP gives you free access to 60 sights and museums in the Paris area, so you feel obligated to cram a lot of sightseeing in, which was exactly the kind of pressure we needed to de-slothify ourselves. Here's what we checked out in the last 48 hours:

• The Pantheon, where France buries the men who have contributed most to the nation, including Voltaire, Rousseau, the Curies, Alexander Dumas, and Victor Hugo. We went on Jason's advice, and he was right, it was cool. It's sort of similar to the Lincoln Memorial, in that they're both temples to civic virtue, and they both make my spine tingle. I mean, Voltaire! Neat!
  
  Louis XVI meant the building to be a church dedicated to St. Genevive, but during the revolution the state took it over and rededicated it to its present purpose. In a way that makes it even more inspiring, because it symbolizes the triumph of reason and humanism. It's also a bit creepy, though, because you can't help but be reminded of how the revolutionaries also went smashy-smashy on Notre Dame. Now that I've seen Notre Dame, that seems inconceivably crass. Bad form, France.
  
  
• The Musee d'Orsay: Impressionism, and lots of it.
  
  
• The Rodin Museum: I really wanted to see his fallen caryatid after all the caryatids I saw bravely soldiering on in Greece, but it's in an area that's closed off for renovation. Boo.
  
  
• The Musee de l'Armee and Napoleon's Tomb: As if the rest of Paris doesn't provide evidence enough that Napoleon thought he was awesome. Bonus points, though, for the display of cannons captured from foreign armies. The French really know how to say "Suck on it!" with style.
  
  
• Notre Dame: As I've noted before on this trip, the classics of tourism are classics for a reason. Wow.
  
  
• Sainte Chapelle: Again, zow. Victor Hugo said, "In the Middle Ages, human genius had no important thought which it did not write down in stone." I'm pretty sure he was thinking about the cathedrals of Paris when he said that.
  
  
• Musee de l'Orangerie: I really liked the upper rooms in this museum, built to house Monet's huge circular water lilly canvases. I kind of thought those water lilly paintings were for cat people and 14-year-old girls who dot their letters with hearts, but I was wrong. After listening the museum's audio commentary, I could see how they helped pave the path to abstract art. Plus, they're, like, totally pretty.
  
  
• The Arc de Triopmhe: This was actually not the first arch Napoleon built to comemorate his awesomeness. He started with the one in front of the Louvre, but didn't think it was impressive enough. He really got the awe-inspiring thing right with the Arc de Triomphe, though. It makes every other triumphal arch I've ever seen look kind of lame.

adventures in dijon

On Monday we went to Dijon, the capital of Burgandy. Our trip did not begin well. We had to buy a train pass before we boarded, and then the train was delayed, so we didn't get into Burgandy until around one in the afternoon. Then we ended up waiting an hour for the bus that Lonely Planet told us would take us to vinyards for wine tasting. Finally, after we got off at the last stop, which LP had advised me was at the beginning of the best stretch of vineyards in the region, we found ourselves in the middle of a suburban housing tract, not a scenic vine-covered hill in sight. We wandered around for a while, having a stupid fight and scaring an old lady out for her afternoon walk, but only succeeded in finding the train tracks and the back of a warehouse.

Fortunately, just then we met Lady Luck, who came to us in the form of Bertrand, a drunken Frenchman. We found Bertrand in a bar where I stopped in to ask for directions to the vineyards. He told us, in impressively good English, that he made wine, and he'd take us to his house to taste some if we'd wait 15 minutes. That sounded potentially hilarious to us, so we sat there while he slowly drank the rest of his beer, and then polished off a second, all the while bantering with the his best friend Jean-Marc. Jean-Marc was the only other customer in the bar, and from what I could gather, he and Bertrand go there a lot. They're both fire fighters, and they're kind of guys who rip the filters off their cigarettes because filters are "for zee women." Also, Jean-Marc had a beret and jean shorts on, and Bertrand uses a Winnie-the-Pooh keychain and carries around cardboard box with one boot in it, for no apparent reason. So you can see as how we didn't expect these guys to serve us world-class wine.


We were wrong, though. Bertrand's family has been in the business for a long time. Part of the cellar he showed us dated back to 1728. And he and Jean-Marc made great wine tour guides. Jean-Marc even showed me how to aerate the wine as I drank it, which was particularly impressive given that all his instructions came in the form of hand gestures and loud lip-smacking noises. I snorfed a lot of Grand Cru into my nasal cavities before I mastered it.

All in all, it was an amazing day. We bought Bertrand and Jean-Marc a beer before they drove us to the bus station, and while we drank Bertrand explained that he was returning a favor that came all the way from Australia. Apparently while he was on vacation there, some friendly locals took him under their wing and showed him around. When we stumbled into his favorite bar, he jumped on the opportunity to do likewise. Thanks, mysterious Aussies! I will most definitely pay back the karma bank when I return to San Francisco.

Fête de la Musique

Originally uploaded by nonobstant

Last night, Nick and I went to La Fête de la Musique, a summer solstice party where the streets of Paris are filled with hundreds of musicians. It's great -- almost every street corner is stage for a different act, and you can spend all night wandering through the city, dancing and drinking. Nick and I saw a choir doing Carmina Burana at a medieval church, a band that was kind of like the French Raffi (complete with adorable little French munchkins bopping around to the music), two different salsa bands, a brass band playing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," several DJs (including one whose set ended when the crowd chucked a can at the head of someone from his entourage, I think because they didn't like the Rage Against the Machine song he was spinning), and a stereo system blasting Michael Jackson remixes in front of a parking garage exit. When people tried to drive their cars out, the crowd would surround them and grind up against the doors and windows. Amazingly, no one seemed to mind. I guess everything goes during La Fête.

The best part was the dancing. Man, can French people dance! We wandered through an outdoor rave that seemed to be composed entirely of people who were, like, a hundred times cooler than us. Kind of like this girl. I have never seen people dance as well as these kids were dancing. It was like someone gave Justin Timberlake's backup dancers a whole bunch of ecstasy and set them loose to roam the streets of Paris. We were totally awestruck. We stood there for an hour or so, watching and drinking cans of beer from a corner store. It was the most fun I've had in Paris so far. I really wish Maggie had been there, since she spent our entire time in Europe looking for a good dance club. Last night, all of Paris was a dance club, Mag, and it was super cool.

versailles

leap from bush
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Yesterday Nick and I went to Versailles. As we learned from our audio tour, Louis XIV built it to be kind of a super-deluxe prison o' fancy-pantsiness. He forced French nobles to spend part of every year at Versailles worshiping him, and by doing so managed to awe and bore the formerly rebellious second estate into submission. That may sound like a lame plan, but now that I've been there I totally get why it was successful. Versailles is intimidatingly beautiful and completely exhausting. I almost collapsed during the hour we spent wandering around lost in the weird little faux peasant village that Marie Antoinette built for herself and her friends. When we finally found the exit I was in no condition to rebel against anybody, let alone god's chosen vessel on earth. Well played, Louis!

By the way, the French seem to have totally gotten over their beef with Marie. She is BIG tourist business now. That's life, I guess. One day people are screaming for your head, two centuries later they want to buy frilly pink souvenirs with your name embroidered on them.

If you're thinking of visiting Versailles, try downloading Rick Steves' free podcast tour from iTunes. It's a good alternative to the museum audioguide. It's much cornier (he actually makes a "Louie-Louie" joke - gag), but also a lot less focused on the names of the architects and painters and horticulturalists who created Versailles. Don't use his tour for the Louvre, though. It's hopelessly outdated. If anyone has any other good free podcast walking tours for Paris, please let me know.

The Louvre

Apparently my blog has been recognized as a "Blog of Note" on the Blogger homepage, which is pretty cool. Welcome, new readers! I'm going to have to ask you all to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement about Sheldon's meat pie chain idea, though.

Yesterday Nick and I went to the Louvre. It's...well, it's big. It's not as pleasant and classy a museum experience as, say, the Met (the art museum closest to my heart), but it pretty clearly dominates the Met on every other score. It's bigger, more famous, more crowded, the buildings are more historically significant, and it's full of a lot more ridiculously important artifacts. I'm not sure the Mona Lisa even belongs on their Top Five list. They have Hammurabi's Code there! Like, THE Hammurabi's Code, the actual rock on which "eye for an eye" was first written down! I got pretty nerdily excited when we saw it, especially since when I was a 6th grade history teacher I made my students do Hammurabi's Code-related crayon art. By the way, does anyone know how the Louvre got their hands on it? They don't explain in any of their english-language informational material, which makes me suspect some nefarious act of colonial pillaging. Napoleon Bonaparte, I'm looking in your direction!

Another unexpected higlight of the Louvre was watching people take pictures of the Mona Lisa. There are approximately 17 huge signs en route to the painting stating in multiple languages that photographs are NOT ALLOWED. Still, almost everyone who goes tries to get a snapshot. You can see that they know it's not allowed, because they look guilty and try to do it as sneakily as possible. The guards are apparently not empowered to take people's cameras away for breaking the rules, so they're left with no option but impotently glaring at the tourists, and, occasionally, ruining someone's picture by waving their hands in front of the camera. Nick pointed the spectacle out to me, and we spent 10 minutes standing there, watching and snickering.