Das ist Guuut

Its a bit overdue, but I couldn't forgo the details from my first visit to my future new home. Welcome folks, to the incredible Munich, Germany. Everything here is, well, substantial. At least way more substantial than Paris. The men, the beer, the noise level. Instantaneously, I felt at home in this ridiculous place.

I hadn't seen the German components to my family tree in about 15 years, so I wasn't sure who to look for or exactly what to expect when Mickey came to fetch KK et moi at the airport. Being my dads side of the family, I was sure that these people were a little more than crazy. And Alas! How correct I was. In the first 5 minutes, we were laughing over old family stories and Mickey was trying to explain to me our family tree, which in reality is more like a lamp post. I guess the incest explains the kookiness? Anywho, Mickey takes us on a quick driven tour of Munich before we make a pit stop by the apartment/hotel he is letting us stay in complete with beers and cozy blankets. Cant ask for much more in freezing Munich.

And then the craziness ensues. While Mickey is preoccupied this way and that, alternating between business phone calls and playing family tour guide, we somehow end up at a very local beer-garden. KK and I take in the substantial surrounding, food, and people, and are introduced to our escorts for the night (or something like that), Dennis and Colby (Jack). These guys are definite dudes (and I looove DUDES) who I immediately impress by knocking over a half liter of beer right onto Colby Jack's pants. Oops! Mickey starts hysterically laughing and pointing to his crotch attempting to make “loo” jokes until, and a bit after, the beer evaporated into the beer-garden air. I got shit for that one for a while. So, back to the events at hand. We, more wine drinkers than beer aficionados, more vegetarians than carnivores, are ordered the following: 1 plate of sausages, mashed potatoes, potato dumplings, pork, sauerkraut, red cabbage, chocolate cake, apple strudal, and 3 kinds of beer that appear to be bottomless. Did I mention we weren't even hungry? Holy moly. Looking around, taking in the surroundings, these people are bigger and louder than most I've witnessed, and their mugs and plates definitely mimic that. We hit it off with the boys, and 3 doppelbocks (but in actuality much less as I kept pouring mine into Dennis' liter mug), 3 hours, and a whole lot of miscommunication later, Dennis and I are standing on the booth of our table, attempting to dance for the rest of the restaurant. Hmmm....we decide to take this elsewhere.

Quick lowdown on the boys:

Colby Jack: The tall, lankier of the two, he is your typical late twenty something asshole player type, trying to be smooth with the ladies even when he has remnants of an entire beer on his pants. The smarter of the two, speaking English, although not quite understanding when I call him a “creepster.”

Dennis: even more substantial than your average German, adorable in that free spirit, just wanting to have fun way, but complete with a whole lot of muscle. His English is fairly non existent, but understands when I respond to his love confession with , “oh, God, not another one.” He says that's his line. This guy is mine.

The five of us are dancing our way through the snowy baroque-ness that is Munich. We pop into a wine bar and witness and then take part in, although just for a moment, some dancing reminiscent of a type of German ho-down complete with lederhosen. We pop outside again, continuing to frolic through the streets, meanwhile being exchanged between Dennis and Colby Jack. What fun! At the point, I'm not sure what my cousin(?) thinks of his long lost family member. We reach our final destination, the German discotheque, finding ourselves on platforms dancing, in dark hallways at moments, and being handed vodka red bulls in the process. (O Lord, WHY?? Why did they pick that? Anything but that! or that's precisely what we moaned later that morning) After watching these macho type boys demonstrate pass the ice cube, KK et moi look at each other befuddled, and then partook. The night gets fuzzier, the smiles wider, the arms flail-ier. While being swept around the club by this Dennis character he accidentally bumps into the German, crazy security guard and ensuite....kicked out. Damn, these Germans are tough. We decide to steer clear of the situation and stumble home. 20 minutes of trying to separate ourselves from the boys, 15 minutes of trying to pronounce the name of our street to the cabbie, and another 10 unlocking our door, we fell into bed at 4am, some still with contacts, trying to forget that we hadn't been in this horizontal position for a good 24 hours.

The next morning, one of those huge sunglass and coffee mornings, after we had a quick photo shoot in the snow, we meet up with more long lost family and old family friends. My aunt(?) Renatae suggests the liver dumplings soup and fried fish since it is LIGHT??? and I've had enough meat to last me for the rest of my life. I look over to Mickey and am surprised by the reasonable lunch he has in front of him, thinking its fried egg on toast, except that isn't toast, its pork. They slay me. The lunch was complete with crazy family stories and laughter. I felt so at home in this crazy German world. For once, I was face to face with where my German family stems from and I felt more like them in one day, than 3 months in the other European country overflooded with stripes and moustaches. Renatae continued to take us to the Christmas markets, where we perused great architecture and the spirit of a snowy Christmas season. Of course they love us through food, feeding us gluhwein (hot wine) made to perfection, roasted chestnuts, chocolates, and then resting our feet to eat a supposedly famous dessert in the middle of old Munich. The markets are truly extraordinary, a must for any Christmas freak, like myself.

We haven't even been here for a day, and I feel as though it has been forever, and finally my unter schwester Shaina arrives and after some quality sibling time together, we take off to Hofbrau House and somehow end up drinking liter beers with the US Olympic Bobsled Team. I could go on forever baby, but honestly the more I think about this weekend, the more my liver and stomach start spasming.

Upon departing from Munich and returning back to my “real world” that is anything but, I have decided that if there ever needs to be extreme shitty times to balance these incredible ones, that's ok by me. I leave with invitation upon invitation from family and friends to return, and I hope to....maybe for longer than they expect.

Next stop: Detox. One thing I can always count on good old California for....

Mais, Ouais [bah-way]

The weeks following your worst days, inevitability at least for me, are always some of the best....the ones filled with the most life. I suppose it could be this or the 1) minute amount of work and the excess of dinner parties and delicious hot chocolate 2) christmas shopping with german gluhwein (hot wine) in tow, 3)traveling 4)dating and of course my all time favorite pastime 5)dancing. Hmmm, I guess I will guess it is the latter bundle. So following a shit weekend, the past week has been one of the best so far, making it difficult to part with my newly beloved Paris...yet another city to express my love-hate relationship patterns with. But this use of extremity is fitting, as I remind you that their keyboards require the shift for periods and nothing for the EXCLAMATION. Telling, I say. So, recapturing the past week:

First up: Mon Date Avec Monsieur Falafel
Falafel, you ask? Mais, Ouais! KK was so kind to accompany me for my first drink with M. Falafel as to assure me that this one wasn't giving serial killer vibes or just plain crayzay-ness. After her more than approving, we parted ways and started gallivanting around the streets of the Marais (apparently we picked a bar where the men liked MF way more than KK et moi), we enjoyed one another as much as one can without understanding what the hell the other person is saying. Although, in some mysterious and fun way it just added to the fun, hilarity, and inventiveness of how to get to know each other. He did unknowingly teach me a few new words that would never come up in any other situation...But, about an hour of laughing et petites (peut etre plus) bises later, it was quite the fun night. (I am counting on my parents inability to use Google translate here.) And after his attempts to impress me with the few English words in his vocabulary, comme “Christmas”[krees-must] avec une petite foreign lisp, we parted ways, smiling all the way home...at least on my end. God, did anyone ever tell you this city is tressss romantic? A few days later, as I was being drilled by my roommates and their friends, about his looks, personality, etc, the question of intelligence made its way into conversation. To which, I attempted to answer in French, “How the hell do I know...I have no idea whether he is speaking to me in French or Hebrew half the time!”Yeah, I'm sure that didn't translate either. Anywho, its fun, harmless, and of course in my true fashion....so not serious.

Ensuite: Best Day Ever
Usually most “best days ever” include the use of the many senses and this is precisely what this day exploited. One of the greatest things about Paris is this, and its way of doing it to the extreme. Without work or obnoxious children, which is reason enough for me to smile, KK and I hit the town, with little else on the menu other than Christmas shopping, a good meal (or two), and even better chocolat chaud. We took Paris in, exploring the best epiceries, sampling with our eyes an taste-buds all this gastronomic city has to offer. We complained on and on about our weekends, letting all our hostility out, making room for nothing but pure goodness. So we continue, with hot chocolate that is not only presented as art, but tasting pretty darn amazing as well. And like everything in Paris, complete with a price tag that doesn't let you forget it. One of our stops was Gallerie Gourmet, the food component to the famous department store Gallerie Lafayette, housing every type of extravagant food indulgence from hand selected spices displayed in luxurious glass vials to fois gras sets and my favorite, magnificent looking chinese dumplings. I just couldn't resist, and although I knew well knowingly they could never be exist in the same realm as Dumpling Man (holler back), they offered a nice break from the norm. But after my taste testing, I will leave dumplings to, well, anyone else except Parisians. Even Chinese Parisians. Next is the Marais, our favorite spot for chocolate, falafel and their good looking men, and perfumes. After a few hours of contemplating what our family and friends would like to open on Christmas or the 8th night of Hanukah, we were yet again lured into our favorite perfumery. Whether its Schmoopie et moi a New York or KK a Paris, there is a place that good perfume takes you that is parallel to few other indulgences. Their dimly lit, cove-like ambiance makes one feel instantaneously cosy upon entering and the endless choices of fragrant destinations doesn't hurt either. The combinations, we have been testing for quite some months, and after trying to match each others personality to the appropriate combination, we both decided on “Chasse des Papillions” (Hunt of the Butterflies) to sport for the rest of the day. ( I would later buy and be complemented on the scent by one french teenager and one hot German dude) It was after smelling our wrists continuously for the next hours and while sipping hot chocolate, yet again, that it is these “material things” (whether art, dress , or scent) that helps you create your own perfect world as you see it. We couldn't stop smiling from ear to ear for the rest of the day. And after hitting one last vintage shop and avoiding falafel man as not to appear too crazy, we made our lasts stops, as most Parisians do, at the local boulangerie and fruit/veggie market to collect the last components for our wondrous day. The best bread in the world, other than Judy Stein's challah and NYC bagels, we stir fried veggies, poured some wine, and swapped great music back and forth over petits cigars. I cant remember what was for dessert, but it just added to everything great. Our senses were overloaded and nothing too crazy occurred; we just relished the company, laughter, and the help of constructing our own perfect, cozy worlds. KK took of at about 1130, but I think we both continued smiling the rest of the week.

To end this great week, things only got better over yet another fabulous dinner party de Carole and one crazy trip to Germany. But please, thats for next time. Get some sleep.

O Merde

The universal standard question: How was your weekend? Tu as passe un bon week-end?

No sugar coating here folks (my inner new yorker speaking)..... it was crap. Straight up merde. The closer Christmas time draws near, the more I miss my family, my friends, and my country. And however much my hippie half hates the Internet and technology at times, I really appreciated it this weekend.

Countdown:

#5. NPR- It feels good to be connected to home. It feels even better when you can read or listen to a news program with a decent perspective sans their uptight/serious attitudes. Whether its the some guy's take on why he is okay with his masculinity while reading“Eat, Pray, Love”or the great “All Songs Considered”, the news radio will all the right kinds of bullshit, never seems to leave me unimpressed.

#4. E-Photos (with commentary): I think the saying is: “A picture is worth a Thousand Words.”Or is it a million? I never claimed to be great at expressions. No matter how great of a writer one is, there is nothing like a good photo. My favorites: The Sartorialist's ability to capture beauty and intruige and of course the slightly (but just slightly!) lesser known Sammy Rode. Her quirkiness still blasts through all borders and makes me feel at home with her strange email pictures and even stranger commentary.

Sammy a dit: "Tout alors! Shush! He is Le Chien, and he is traveling incognito."

J'ai dit: Tu est trop bizarrrrre! But hey, I guess it takes one to know one.

#3. Jiwa.FR – The international answer to Pandora, but better, lets me build my own playlists (gratuit!) and keeps me company no matter what mood I may be in. Dance...OK! Ridiculous oldies flashbacks... Naturellement! Christmas....Wait, no MARIAH??? You have to be f(insert Steve Stein's favorite word) me. Maybe I'll move this one to #5.

#2. G Chat- Sometimes it just feels good to pretend you are working when you are doing nothing but talking about nonsensical crap with your best friends thousands of miles away. You might be talking crap, but they get your crap. And thats all that matters. Without Betty_White69 and are semi-regular sessions on the good old computer, I think I might crack. Although you cant see peoples faces, their expressions, or laughter covered by obviously fake coughs dans le bureau.... you can always imagine it. And I'm sure 9 times out of 10, I get it right.

#1. Skype. Thank god. No explanation necessary.

Being in a foreign country, isolated from what you know, sometimes you just need a couple days to spend with people, virtually or not, to remember a bit about yourself, and to remember how to laugh...in English.

I Like Your Dog

For those who dont know...I love falafel. And I love falafel even more in Paris, and apparently it loves me back. I have been building quite the rapport with the falafel dude, who now knows me by name. And I don't think he wants to stop there. At first, it was free french fries for his “copine”or “girlfriend”. Now he is getting to know his girlfriend better and starting to speak my language. My favorite and consequently most commonly used words are roughly translated into “free” and “falafel.” So, on Wednesday, I decided to grab my favorite to go meal in Paris and an overly friendly bisous, free falafel, some flirty miscommunication, and 20 minutes of awkward fondling of my fingers later....I believe he asked me out for a glass of champagne...or at least I hope that's all he asked for. What the hell, I'll give just about anyone at least one chance. Hell, I am a sucker for a good story. And believe me, I don't think this one will disappoint. He scribbled down my name and number on his falafel order slip, in Hebrew of course. Steve Stein actually might not want to kill this prospect with the words Hebrew dancing through his head. As I pull myself away to anxiously get to the eats, he tells me he loves my smile and that I was tres jolie and I laugh to myself, again, letting yet another guy think that these stupid, cheesy lines actually work. Lesson: They don't. Even if you think they do. They don't. And if they do, the girl is prolly stupid. But maybe you like that.

Yes, this guy is cute, not shorter than I am, and has a gap between his two front teeth. In other words, the exact few things I might advertise on match.com....if I did that. Well, here goes nothing. There is no turning back now. I better not screw this one up. This could potentially be more prosperous than dating a dumpling chef slash vegan cupcake baker.

The only thing I miss more than my bizarre interactions with the universe, is discussing them with my favorite people in the world. One of these beloved has chosen not to disclosure his/her true name, but rather use the surname BetTy_WhITe 69. Very mysterious, I know.

BetTy_WhITe 69: fabulous

did you kiss the frenchie guy yet?

me: NO!

arghhh

not even after wine tasting

BetTy_WhITe 69: interesting

clearly things move slowly there

me: yeah tell me about it

but did i tell you the falafel guy asked me out

HAHAHAHA

o man

my falafel days are now ruined

BetTy_WhITe 69: shoot

well, if it get's you free falafel

that's prolly the wrong thing to say

lol

me: well initially i thought the same thing

BUT

what happens next? there are only two possibilities

BetTy_WhITe 69: lol

me: either i blow him off and can never eat the most wonderful falafel again

orrrr

i marry him

and get free falafel forever

its a tough choice

i mean he has A GAP

BetTy_WhITe 69: he's the one

BetTy_WhITe 69: but you will prolly get sick of falafel

me: NEVER

no way, its too good. its the best falafel ive ever had

E

V

E

R

BetTy_WhITe 69: that's bc he makes it with

L

O

V

E

me: L

O

L

O

L

O

L

but seriously...lolololol

ill keep you updated, BetTy_WhITe 69.

Beinvenue a Ma Semaine

Ah, the week! It has been truly spectacular so far. And its pretty much all thanks to a wonderful kick-start of a Sunday.

After a small post-Thanksgiving leftover feast followed by a movie in English (the title I am too embarrassed to mention by name), and a small sleepover (holler back 6^th grade), finally came Sunday. Not only did I finally discover where France hides its raw milk (with the rest of the refrigerated goods, who would have thought?), but I became more familiar with what they classily call“La Salon des Vins” or more appropriately “One Great Excuse to Get Drunk Off Your Ass for 3 Euros all Weekend Long.” So here's the deal: one ticket, 6 euros, good for two people. I suppose they have made one ticket good for two, so WHEN you black out or start a drunken riot the odds are greater with two people that one out of the two might have some common sense/reason floating around somewhere. So 3 other friends and myself strolled into the craziness and each pair exchanged their ticket for 2 wine glasses. The crowds pushed us to the exposition halls, which housed thousands of wine stalls, each with at least three wines for tasting. People are everywhere, with their little trolley carts piled with boxes and boxes of wine. These people mean business. HOW DOES THIS EVEN EXIST?

Please, stop here, and use your imagination to re-create this scene in the US. I don't think there is enough barbwire or police force that would be able to control us under this situation. Thank goodness the french are calm. Or what a pity?

and I RESUME: I was very overwhelmed at first, being that normally I need a break after 1 glass, and by the second you can generally find me nestled in the corner by some heater. So I decide to try and put my big girl pants on and taste all of what France's vineyards have to offer. The combination of wine and the french language is always a great one, as I began to try and commence conversations with all of the self-proclaimed wine experts in the showroom. I think they thought I was an amusing subject, so they stuck it through my poor french and humored me with great information about wine. About 10 booths, 4 slurred conversations, 2 hours, and a million puzzles frenchie faces later we come face to face with the cognacs. White flag. I'm waving it. I'm done. I guess those mysterious buckets on the floor were for pouring the rest of your wine into. Hmmm, I guess next time (in March that is) Ill know better. Or maybe, Ill just have the tolerance higher than a 70lb 3rd grader.

It was pretty impossible not to have a great week after this madness. So I...

1. Bought train tickets for Champagne for Saturday. I meant it when I said I was going to work on my tolerance. I am beginning to develop into quite the serious student.

2. Met a fellow New Yorker for a drink and chatted over the sustainability practices of France's agriculture. Heaven! At last, normal people... at least in my obscure universe.

3. Have been re-inspired to pick up my camera again. For some time, I lost the interest in continuing my photography. No matter how much I have tried to reason to myself to pick up my camera in the past, art is not reason. Like most things creative, the paintbrush cannot be pushed to the canvas if you want a truly wonderful byproduct. But now, I am driven to document the visual more than ever. An article, compliments of NPR, reminded me of the“complicated machinations of art: (and its) way of remaking a world.”I think it is the result of not living by means of a schedule; it allows you to actually experience life. At least for me...and its wonderful.

So in short: enjoying life, enjoying not living by a schedule....actually feeling like I'm living.

Snapity, Snap snap.

After a successful and amazingly fun Thanksgiving and a Christmas market flooded with wackiness, with only my poor excuse for a memory and a sticky kitchen floor to show for it, I realized I have made limited use of mon petit camera in this beautiful city. I have spent many hours on different bedroom floors, in each city I have inhabited, remembering my best times through photos where we rode bikes for hours upon hours, hosted man pageants called mangeants, and jumped into pools, laughing the entire time. On one hand, I am content with being so engaged in the moment, that the thought of disturbing it to schlep out my camera seems counter intuitive to the fun. En fete, I remember how much the joy of pictures and the tangible components of memories actually bring. Collectively, their overwhelming-ness leave me smiling even stronger than some of the actual moments. The brunches I have spent in New York looking over the festivities of the previous night's debauchery, this time without the tequila goggles on, always remind me that photos help the good times stretch out to help cover the rainy days. So I guess I'll restart out my adventures with the visual in slow motion...this time using my friend/fellow teaching assistant's eye to show you around our Thanksgiving table. (Remercie a Ms. Amrita Raja)

The expandable table was set for 17 and menus (also compliments of Ms. Raja) falsely lead people to believe the night would be full of class. Thank goodness it wasn't.

We went around the table to say remercie en franglais. Family, friends, but mostly turkey were on the top of everyone's lists....and this is why....

Thanks to my roomies, Carole et Ombeline, we had a fresh turkey from Brittany to roast who just met the knife last week. Now, how many Americans can say that? It was first time attempting a turkey on my own, and at 7 kilos, it was quite the woman.

They were the only pictures from the actual dinner. I am a bit sad that I didn't take time to snap here or there, but that's yet another issue of balancing slash distribution of time that I've never attempted to understand very well. So this time, I let someone do it for me. Some memories are just too good to experience once. So thanks for documenting our thanks. It is much appreciated.

TARTE AU CITROUILLE???

At the risk of dissapointing my mother, as she will feel cheated for not receiving a personal e-mail as well as a new blog update, I have decided to sum up my Thanksgiving with my email response to her the day after remercie for having a pretty damn great excuse for not working, eating slash drinking all day long, and sharing this peculiar holiday with people you love:

you will love me FOREVER??? wow, trop cool maman! hehe....anywho, im stuck at the lycee right now for 3+ hours until my next class and i am completely exhausted from thanksgiving....i had work on Thurs from 830 to 1230 (so i got up at 530) then rushed home, shoved a couple green beans in ma bouche and some things in the oven....cooked until 8....and the party went off without a hitch. The french and the english speakers mingled until early morning and the rest of us didnt finish cleaning and dancing until 230....AND then I woke up at 530 again this morn and worked all day! but not one complaint from me because it was such a great night. It sounds like there were so many things to do, and there were, but for some reason it just didnt seem like it. Everything was relaxed and in order and I havent gotten any calls yet about people dying from undone turkey or bacteria ridden stuffing! A successful night indeed. I had a wonderful time, yes, seeing my roomates astonished that one would serve cheese BEFORE a meal, hollering across the table of 17 like the less than chic american I am, and having a great excuse to play fabulously shitty american oldies at dinner. But there is always something missing when the family isnt together on the holidays. The pumpkin pie tastes different (well probably because it wasnt out of a can), no one else dares to imitate dads elastic pants, no aunt donnas complaining about their pies being runny, not to mention not an ounce of sympathy for the poor semi vegetarian in the room. I missed you last night and your little shot glasses of wine....just thought i would let you know.

love you FOREVER also,

the dolly

Maybe Thanksgiving is about not only being with those you love, but remembering who is missing at the table. My Thanksgiving was a great one indeed, as one the one before in Costa Rica, and the one before in New York. Each year, I gather fond and new memories of sharing the American traditions, bizarre ou pas, with new family and friends gathered around some type of fowl, eating and drinking way too much.(which hopefully and usually leads to dancing...in true thanksgiving fashion...too much) But as I thanked my new family for being who they are, I begin to realize more and more...new or old, perfect or frayed, you just cant beat the je ne sais quoi about the real thing.

Flag Flailing

1 am. Thursday morning. I must awake in 4.5 hours....but alas the entire country of Algeria is outside my window celebrating their country's soccer victory. Why my window? Just lucky I guess.

A couple things I must say before they get lost in the black hole of my brain....like too many other good tidbits...

1. Tonight I enjoyed the France/Ireland soccer match at a Frenchie's apt. Four french guys to three American girls. I loved the odds. I was greeted by my friend Alexi and an obviously Asian man, whose first words were, "You are American? Look at me (he points to his face), I am Chinois." Yeah dude, I got that. So rewind, 3 french guys to 3 American girls. Still better than anything NYC had to offer. After 4 pizzas, shit ton of wine and beer, sexual french-english translations, and France's victory, my friend Katheryn and I sang and danced down the street to Brucey Springsteen. My victory dance for France was in English.

2. On the metro I got a glimpse of a restaurant called P.F.C. (Paris Fried Chicken) I laughed and then I cried. I've lost all respect for you Paris.

3. I decided I had some energy to burn, so I got off three metro stops early, hoping to take in a beautiful, peaceful, Paris at night. So, this is when I can across the country of Algeria at the Arc waving flags, running through the streets, screaming, flailing, you name it. Police are everywhere right now, and being the only female on the streets, it was the first time Ive been a bit frightened in Paris. Thank god, I was thinking these people didn't have it in them. Ill think youre going to be ok Paris. I guess it just took a few immigrants and a soccer game. Hey, whatever gets the job done.

So, Im not tired, but Ill kill (not literally...if anyone from the french government is reading this) my students if I dont get more than four hours of sleep.

A demain? dinner party, cranky adolescents, and my favorite boy...i mean conversation class. a la prochain.

I fought the Law and the Law Won

The Law being liquids.

I had a glass of wine and a pitcher of hot chocolate for dinner last night. And then played MASH and danced to wonderously shitty American music. You can take the Stein out of the US but, hell Im still a Stein.

Today in a nutshell:

1. I began just like the previous 3 mornings....with the Bobby Fuller Four incessantly playing in my head. After trying not to slap a bunch of French primary school students who NEVER grasp that Italy translates to Italie....I boarded the wrong bus, rode around the beautiful Parisian countryside for 1.5 hours and then walked another 30 to the bus station. The bus driver who so graciously helped me out, then continued to so graciously try and get my number. I answer, "Je comprends pas." When in doubt, play the stupid American card.

2. Nothing to eat since breakfast at 6:30 am, and my stomach reminds me it is now 1400h. I made my way to grab the best falafel ever, and the cute falafel man calls me his girlfriend and then orders the chef to give me free fries. Apparently he has no idea who his girlfriend is, since I would clearly like a side of vegetables instead. The French want you to become fat. Im sure of it.

Tonight: drinks and food as a base and then who the hell knows. I love that.

Have to go "tutor" a 6 year old who corrects my French and teaches me German.....blahhhh. I should have started with animals.

Nostalgia

Its true. I miss my family. Duh. I perpetually miss California, no matter where I am on the globe. Duh, its flippin awesome. I miss my friends. Again duh, they're unbeatable. But alas, I didnt expect this one..... I MISS NEW YORK.

It all came to a culmination this morning, checking my e-mail before an early brunch, I received an email from THE A-rizzle “Ariel” Rosner. It was just a quick hello from New York with a iphone snapshot (what the f...you have an iphone???) of Babycakes, my all time favorite bakery, delivered straight to me in Paris. How cruel! I havent missed New York in a very long time, but I miss it desperately now. And of course, these feelings would undoubtedly start with emotions only a vegan bakery could be responsible for. It made me miss my friends who traded lunches for the vegan sweetness, the brunches, the harshness, the teas, the parties, the non-stop excitement that is like a drug and is always easy to leave, but hard to stay away from. I miss my co-op, English speaking dive bars, Saturday hat outings, running to give friends 5 minutes long hugs au lieu of a bisous, vegan restaurants, and even hipster posers. There is a charming grittiness, a feeling of no one giving a shit but at the same time not fooling anyone about their true agenda, an edge, its own special beauty with a bouquet of ridiculous memories only new york could have produced. Dont get me wrong...I love Paris. For now. But, it could never be home. Its like this grand vacation, where I work, but not really, and was extended because you couldnt possibly end it after a week, or a month. No matter how much NYC could drive me crazy....I want it back so bad. The good times were just too good.

Sometime in January I will drag myself to see “New York, I Love You”, when it will finally reach Paris. I will become even more nostalgic, like anyone always remembering the wonderfulness of a far-removed place, pushing the harder times to an irretrievable space in the mind. Dont get me wrong, I would never...well almost never complain about Paris....but hey Im allowed the miss New York too. Of course its more the people I will always miss from anywhere, but its the place that pushes you a little harder to make things happen. In Paris, I am being shown a new language, art & culture, and how to enjoy one thing for a shitload of time. It tries to show me how to be a lady, but come on, once a Stein always a Stein. New York pushed extremes...California is just simply and always will be home. But New York, I miss you.

Please Tell Me This Was Not a Date

I know I promised that my next post would be an on-going extraction from the awesomeness of my vacation...but I just felt like talking about something else, so viola. And yes, the "viola" is used just as frequent as you may think en France.

Last night I had another, this shit only happens to Stephanie Stein moment. I got invited to a soiree to be a plus one with a new "friend" named Marc from where else but the English/French conversation class. Best mix of people....EVER. I decided to accept, because well, why the hell not. So Marc proceeds to drive me 40 minutes outside of Paris, to a peculiar looking suburb that looks more like that shitty town in the middle of no where than I actually want to admit. And you may ask why leave Paris for a party on a Saturday night when this is practically the equivalent of leaving NYC for jersey city? Well, that's a damn good question. The ride there was interesting to say the least. Marc spent most of his time shuffling between techno cds, the clutch, his french excuse for a garmin, and when he wasn't too busy doing these handful of un-necessities, he was kept busy twitching or scratching something that didn't really itch at all. We continue to try and speak, although i think he finds it hard to speak English and be coked out at the same time.

Party. Hmm....I enter and meet about twenty 30-60 year olds who immediately gawk at me because I am American. And not in a good way, mind you. We drink, we eat, and after these people are really wanting to let loose so they push aside the tables and begin to dance to shitty American music of which of course they have no idea what is being sung about. Some just move side to side, others (who have had too much punch) are literally jumping up and down while kicking and talking to me in English like I am a half death three year old, and yet other 55 year old Italian men are convinced that I am their girlfriend. Sorry man, you smell. Oh yeah, and you're as old as my father, but not nearly as funny. Of course I dance with this strange congregation of people, and of course my date is the ONLY person sitting on the couch reading a philosophy book. Half way through the party he decided it was necessary to pull out his purse and start reading. Hmmmm...ok.

1 am rings and I am ready to get the fuck out of this place. Mark starts up the car and his tourettes again and cant seem to find the freeway. He starts talking to himself in French and jerking the car in 30 different directions. I was too tired to keep my built up laughter any longer. When he finally finds the freeway some cheesy American oldie comes on and he starts singing the chorus in his franglais...."can you feel the love tonight". Holy shit, get me out of here. There is some crazy french man serenading me in his beat up car to an Elton John song that is on the same disc as 20 techo songs. And an hour ago he was reading a philosophy book while telling me he could have gone to 5 other partys that night. Ok. YOU'RE A PSYCHO. This shit only happens to me...I need to start saying no to people when they ask me to go somewhere. Finally I get home at 2am. I had to laugh. And then I had to shower.

Me Back Now

So I'm back. I'm just back from being given 10 days of paid vacation after working a little less than a month of my rigorous 12 hour work week. The U.S. does not quite have a good grasp on this fantastic method yet. It is more like we'll give you 260 days and apres a prize of 10 days is rewarded left to worry about what craziness one might fit in with the only time for oneself. Now that just isn't right.

My vacation started by my little sis Shaina tagging me in Paris and scurrying away to Ferrara, Italy to have me find her in return. My cousins (Susie & Schmitty) catch up with us there and then allied with me back to Paris. It was quite a whirlwind, but left me happier than ever after seeing English speaking family ….even if I did give up my bed for a yoga mat. The awesomeness of the past week is quite overwhelming, so I will separate them into a couple different posts. First, of course, in true Stein fashion:

Food/Drinks:

Start: Ferrara Italy

1.Breakfast at the hotel is very telling of what Ferrara is like. They love you through their food. The spread at the “continental” breakfast included three types of cereal, three types of croissants, fruit, eggs, juices, breads, cured meats, cheeses, cafes, etc etc. Yes, this is breakfast, and yes it is never too early to eat cured meats apparently. Schmitty rejoiced while Susie and I rolled our eyes. We later made up for the lacking consumption of lunch meats by taking as many nutella packets as we manage without weighing us down too much while running from breakfast patrol.

Break for what fancy pants Shaina calls Drinking Chocolate. I had to remind her that we are American and we call this stuff hot chocolate pudding.

2.I don't understand how these Ferrarians make any money. Well, at least in the restaurant business. Not only do they pile on food and practically give it away, but this is THE common method of doing business. We're not just talking special occasions, and if we are, then everyday at 5 or 6 o'clock is Thanksgiving. Welcome to the “apertivo”. Early evening marks the time for folks congregate at their local cafes to have a cafe or a drink. And after ordering a drink, then they bring you free food. We are talking cheeses, breads, olives, pastas, sweets, chickpea baked deliciousness, and more. I don't get it. Its like they feed you because they don't want you to eat dinner and give them money. But then you do. And then you get dessert.

4. Gelato. Tourjours. Everyday. All the time. The owner greeted us with a painted on smiled so big and honest that you knew the gelato couldn't be anything less than fantastical. Each day this woman gets up and makes her gelato from scratch. By charging just under 2 Euro for quite a generous portion, and like all other peeps in the food business here, she makes little profit....I am sure of it. But, here, money seems to take a backseat and pleasing others is the primary aim. The loves what she does, and she does it well. We talk to her for some time on our last day, with people on one side who know no English and in return people who know zero Italian. But we smile, and it isn't faux, and we we try to understand each other through flailing our melty gelato-covered hands. We take off on our bike gang just happy that someone cares. Even if it is means wearing loose clothes for a day or two.

Paris

1. Meeting up with one of Schmitty's co-workers from back in the US of A and his friend, we were directed to Le Pain Quotidien for Brunch on Sunday. The place was extremely familiar, as they have a few scattered throughout NYC, and the rest of the world. Although I have never spend so much time in any restaurant back in New York. We enjoyed the company so much, I think we began to forget about the food but enjoy it at the same time, if that makes any sense. We discussed the many differences between Americans and the French, debunked a couple stereotypes and confirmed a few others while laughing and of course sometimes crying. From time to time just remember make looking forward to your food as much as your company and vice versa....and make it last as long as you can. For the French this is a social hour, a feeding hour; a time of luxury developed from something you need to do anyway. Only here do you pay twice as much for a cafe if you want to sit. Because you will sit for hours.

2. The French got me at their first croissant au buerre. The Italians got me at pumpkin ravioli with nutmeg. But no one does a home cooked vegetarian feast like the Codoni-Schmitt-Steins. On our first full day in Paris, I showed Susie and Schmitty the amazingness of the French outdoor market. The endless stands filled with fresh vegetables, chickens (de-clawed and de-feathered, unlike my frigo), wheels of cheese, whole fish, flowers....basically anything you might possibly need for one killer dinner party. The cousins were surprised to find how friendly the French were; everyone was patient and helpful....especially the lady who gave us ballin advice on a great brie. Of course there is always one in the bunch and this one was the damn ginger lady who basically told me to screw myself. Fine. Ill make some other ginger lady 50 cents richer. But that didn't stop our supreme glee from smelling and perusing the market while buying up all the veggies for the upcoming veg filled dinner we desperately need after way too many apertivos and gelatos. As a shout out to my Californian roots, we snatched brussel sprouts, pumpkins, spinach, carrots, and potatoes to make up our veggie meal. Brie de mieux, a baguette, and a bottle of wine later we were finished. We baked oatmeal raisin cookies and c'est la vie....we needed that one. My roommates laugh at my semi-vegetarian ways, but they secretly want in. I mean how can you find anything better than roasted root veg? God, I'm California. And I love it.

3. Their last night, we head out to a recommended restaurant by a local and my friend KK joins us as well. We found the place after searching for 30 minutes in the rain and jumping into a few puddles. The restaurateur took a liking to me over the phone when I incorrectly placed my reservation as StephaNIE and not aStEPHphanie. She is currently my favorite funny French person so far, calling Scmitty a baby when he couldn't finish his cheese and me bizzzare for trying a piece of fromage blanc avec mon chocolat gateau. She truly made the night even better if that was possible. She never gave us look to indicate that we were stupid, ignorant Americans, but rather joined in our our fun. We were happy to have another practically at the table. Schmitty sprang for the ultimate French meal complete with foie gras, steak tartar, and fromage. Everyone enjoyed our three hour meal, except maybe the other Parisians listening to our boisterous laughter and the sight of our sharing of foods. It was a blast, and not only did no one look at us strange for hanging out until almost midnuit, but we had trouble getting the check.

4. The Grand Finale: Singing and Dancing as we pop open Champagne at la Tour Eiffel on the hour. It began to sparkle and we enjoyed a beautiful night in Paris. Paris at night is so beautiful I even forget that its fucking cold. The cousins made the night even better hand selecting a bottle of “golden” champagne at the Paris' answer to Target. It was DELICIOUS. A few macarons later we commence singing and dancing like the boisterous Americans we are so proud to be.

Coming Soon: Dance/Music/Enteratinment......You don't want to miss this one folks.

Best Week Ever, Nothing Really Happened

My best week so far has been so, not because of a few poignant events, but actually just an accumulation so far of petites choses so small you might call them pathetic. But holy shit have they made my week feel flippin amazing.

1. The best croissant au buerre so far Ive found is from a place, so close to chez moi, that I could actually sleep walk there, in a storm, wearing three inch heels, with a screaming 3 year old on my back. Delicious.

2. I mustered up the confidence to ask a question today, at the french's attempt to duplicate a Best Buy, and the employee understood what I was saying. You might think this should be a common acheivement in my everyday Parisian life, but alas, it is not. People here never understand what the hell im saying and not only did this guy understand, but he responded with...hold on to your panties here... "good question"....en francais of course. I didnt understand a word he said from then on, and I still dont know whether I can play European DVDs on American computers...but who the hell cares. Someone, finally!, understood what was coming out of Stephanie Stein's mouth. Shaina Stein must be praying extra hard for me on Sundays.

3. Monday night, a couple of friends and I attempted to watch a soccer...ughhh I mean football game..at an Irish bar, and yet again misunderstood the time and day of the match. So of course we opted for a classy cafe instead. Why not...the wine is the same price if not less than the hot chocolate. First, shout out to Paris for having outdoor cafes stay open in the winter and mastering the concept of the space heater. Just as I was enjoying the delicious wine, great company, and the romantical atmosphere of sitting in a warm seat out in the flippin cold.....yep a creepster. I thought I had seen it all folks. I mean New York has no shortage, Costa Rica makes a strong presence in the rankings as well, but a Jamaican man living in Paris took the cake. I thought that telling him I was an escape convict from a small town in Idaho would deter him, but appartantly he was only more interested. Note to self: New pick-up line for French men. Long story that I wish would have been shorter in reality, he drunkenly follows us, barely able to keep his body upright, and manages to grab two out of the three girls sprinting down a grand street in the Marais. We dash into a bar shreiking with a few middle age french men drinking wine and eating chicken wings. (They have those here??? should have not been the dialouge taking up my brain space at that moment) As the creepiest creepster I have ever experienced opens the door and pass out in the entrance flat on the beautiful mosaic floor, one of the guys asks, “ Is this guy with you?” What?! Are you fucking kidding me? We just ran into this place screaming, panting, and asking for antibacterial wipes. No, this guy is not with us sir. What the F??? Well, as far as I know that man is still passed out at that bar. Well, I guess if I ever run out of stories, Ill go wake him up.

   4. Just made a apple, carrot, ginger, kiwi, spinach juice. Delectable.

   5. My heat came on. Reynauds rejoice.

   6. I got to speak English to Carole, one of my roomies, last night. This made me feel like an actual human being and not just like a stupid american girl living with two cool Parisian twenty-somethings. Even though Ive been living here for almost three weeks, it was so nice to chat with her and expand our conversation beyond my limits of hey, you work today?, you hunting this weekend? Shes a great girl. And Im beginning to feel more and more at home everday Im here. I lucked out again living with these ladies. I even have a date to visit their place in Brittany! OOOO! I can barely walk straight so I hope they know not to give me a rifle.

   7. As I was typing an email to a friend, Yellowcard's Ocean Avenue came on. I love a good, crappy flashback. It always reminds me how far I've come, and how much further I should really be....since Im actually enjoying this ridiculous sound right now.

   8. Im making friends with the marche peeps every wed. Fish guy is hot. I told him to keep the change. Booyah.

Yep, this is the stuff that is making me probably the happiest lady on Earth. Its so nice to feel happy when nothing really crazy or out of the ordinary is happening. Im actually enjoying the times when I have nothing to do; for once just enjoying what is happening to me. around me. Even if it is a stranger's hand trying to grab my ass. And beyond this, my little sis is visiting me this weekend. What could be better? I wonder if we are attending church.....oh vey.

Week In Review

Since my favorite section of the lovely (and highly missed!) New York Times is “The Week in Review”, I thought I could make an adaptation and squeeze it into my highly popular blog that I sure is on par with the number of subscribers the Times gets from GoBush, Wyoming. So taking a break from arguing about who really deserves the peace prize or our pathetic headway on the health care front, lets look for a moment at what important news didn't quite make in the NYT version:

Sports Debrief

Me: 0.5*

Croissant au Beurre: 786

*half point awarded for pathetic/minimal effort

Monmartre Wine Festival

Hookers and hipsters congregate together to drink booze, eat tariflette, and scare away German tourists.

Another Fine Mess: Golden Bikinis Not Allowed at Parisian Public Swimming Pools

Girl is told she must wear appropriate swimwear for first time since her mother was allowed to brush her blond bowl-cut.

Economy 101: Euro vs. Dolla

Quick Lesson: If Bikram Yoga is 25 Euros this roughly translates to $36.25. Alternative, I'm a poor teacher-friendly sport: Running. Not only can one run for free , but one may also get a free comedy routine that features American girl, first running while singing, and then falling while shrieking in the middle of a cobblestone street. I smell a Tony folks!

hint: American Girl shreiking/falling=me

Style: Dining & Wine

Spotted: Three Paris roommates, speaking broken French and English, laughing and stumbling out of a midnight dinner bonding over possible male conquests and plans for an American Thanksgiving...all topics that unfailingly transcend the language barrier,especially after a tapped bottled of delicious French wine. (Side note: If every restaurant comes with a personal, tall, handsome, bi-lingual restaurant proprietor to assist in the handpicking of wines in the "cave"....well then, I'm never coming home. But only if the next one isn't married.)

Quotation of the Week

Excerpt taken from a fellow assistant's blog, referring to none other than yours truly:

“Again the Tall One, a fellow English assistant, makes about as much sense as a three year old German child, learning French as a third language.”*

*Actual words may vary and may have been altered in transition form “copy” to “paste”. One thing remains true: I am actually referred to as “the tall one” in true life blog.

Mental Health: Crazed Woman Looking for Company on the Subway

chosen awkward bystander=moi

Technology

French keyboards insist that one must shift to type a period, but not an exclamation point. The origin of their passion explained.

Classifieds

20 something year old in search of older woman, preferably in her seventies, preferably French, to spend afternoons and/or mornings with at cafes, reminiscing about life in wartimes, and keeping her inner golden girl humored.

Status: FOUND

(same story, different city)

The Arts in Review

Deal in the art world: Watch Stephanie Stein dance on the metro. At the Bus Stop. On school grounds. Whether you are looking for Comedy or Ultra Modern Dance-ish-ness, you only have to splurge on the ticket to Paris, France!

Sponsor: www. kayak.com

Well guys, that's pretty much sums up my week. Its lightly raining and I'm about to grab a cafe and find an electric blanket so I can burn myself to pieces. Just kidding mom, Ill stick to real fiiiire. Don't you worry bout a thang.

Speaking of thangs and chicken wangs:

Update: No chicken with attached appendages in the frigo this week. Just a lot of yogurt.