Personal Writing

2009-05-25T13:03:00.000-07:00

Journal entries from various travels.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I just got off of a train that was infiltrated by about 30 four year olds. It was amazing. All the riders had unwittingly been entered into a very smiley situation. Kids were striking up conversations with strangers all over the place, cracking people up, doing goofy shit, staring like only kids can do, in that totally non-offensive, and completely adorable way. It pretty much made my whole week.

Lately, I have been busy busy busy, so so busy, a busy busy bee. The busyness is stemming from:

1. Becoming an enlightened being.
2. Traveling, as an enlightened being, to Amsterdam.
3. Acquiring a roommate.

Instead of spending the holidays alone in Paris, I decided to go on a seven-day retreat being held at a Buddhist monastery in Bordeaux, Plum Village. I went through a bit of a back and forth before deciding on this course of action, mainly because the daily wake up call was at 5am and I’m getting up around 1pm these days, but after departing for my journey, I realized I had made the right decision. I spent the first 45 minutes of the train trip ruminating over how badly I wanted to clock the guy who had made me move my luggage so he could sit in the seat it was near, even though the train was otherwise empty. I tried to be a good Buddhist and practice non-attachment, but nonetheless, I was very attached to sending him dirty looks and openly hating him, after I brattily stormed to an empty seat on the opposite side of the train.

Throughout the week I also became attached to many other things. I attached to the idea that I must chastise my chatty French roommates for never shutting up during the damn Nobel Silence. I attached to the idea that the nuns were secretly plotting against the lay people, or “Dear friends,” as they would call us. I attached to the idea that I must pile as much food as possible onto my plate, because it was free. I attached to the idea that the mouse who was nightly gnawing at the wall from the inside out may eventually break through and head for my bras and panties (not an unfounded notion, as I once had two hamsters who made a hobby of turning my undies into Swiss cheese). So I decided it was best to not remain impervious to my reason for being there. I needed to calm down all that incessant monkey brain chatter.

I practiced non-attachment by taking pictures of dewdrops, fat cats, and ripples on the pond, while wandering through the brown vineyards. The nuns reminded us all to “Just enjoy breathing.” I did that too. I placed my feet squarely and firmly on the ground as I walked, feeling every step, taking every breath, letting thoughts pass. I liked this. The monkey seemed to have a bit less to say, although we were still having disagreements from time to time. The monkey really REALLY wanted me to reprimand my roommates for never ever shutting their big fat mouths (I think this is the monkey talking right now) but luckily the monkey didn’t really know any good French, so I won that battle.

The monkey did spend some time complaining with the other campers, but ultimately I just chalk that up to some good old-fashioned bonding amongst people who would otherwise be total strangers, without much in common. I’m letting the monkey off the hook for that one. So, after a week of living mindfully, and enjoying my breathing, I haven’t totally gotten the monkey off my back, but we have a much more kind and understanding relationship with each other now. At least he’s not throwing feces at me any longer, or when he does he apologizes after. I consider it a success!

Then I got home and there was an orphan from LA on my doorstep! I’m a self -proclaimed roommate-less kind of a woman, and the monkey is a whole other story that shan't be addressed here. Needless to say I was a tiny bit worried, but I decided to accept this as my post enlightenment challenge. So pack two people, two cats, and one monkey into a tiny Paris apartment, and also factor in a lot of breathing betwixt these elements, and you have my busyness in a nutshell. It’s actually all been going wonderfully, I am happy to report.

I've blabbered on too long. I'll have to write about Amsterdam another time. Quick summary: It was great!

It may be too soon to say this, but I feel spring is in the air. I’m getting giddy.

The new roommate checking out the sites.

Totally loved Amsteram, and it had nothing to do with pot.

Paris is still beautiful, of course.

Love from Plum Village.

September in Paris.

Pére Lachaise Cemetery, I visited for the first time yesterday. I'm smitten. I resolved to return every morning for a walk and photos, as soon as the gates open at 8am. Today I made good on that resolution.

It's hauntingly beautiful. It's just as you would have it be in your imagination, cobwebs everywhere, things decomposing, in disarray and breaking down, ravens cawing from the rooftops of the tombs. I feel lucky to live only four blocks from it. It's really lovely with the Autumn leaves falling all around and crunching under foot. It's so massive, I think it would be impossible to keep it up in the way you see grave yards in the US being treated. In this condition it starts to talk about time and impermanence, and obviously loss. I feel like it's an honest approach to the concept of death, but maybe I'm being a little too arty here...

A black cat crossed my path there, on both my visits. This cat was very sweet and cuddly, purring a lot and enjoying being scratched and petted. Today I sat on a bench and he crawled into my lap and snuggled up in my scarf, and even though passing Parisians stared at me as if I were cuddling a rat, I felt it was an omen of good luck, meeting this cat. My first Parisian cat encounter. I'll have to give this kitty a name, as I plan on meeting him daily. I think he's excited about our visits too.

On my way to the grave yard I picked up a chocolate croissant. Yummmmm.... I was feeling very French, going for a stroll in the cemetery, in fall, wearing a scarf, with my chocolate croissant (I don't know if this is something the French would do, but it's my fantasy dammit!)... except for when I had to do the ordering, then I did not feel very French at all. The pastry guy giggled politely when I placed my order, then I explained in French that I don't speak French..."Désolé, je ne parle pas Français." I've become very adept at saying this phrase, maybe even with a perfect accent! I'm sure this is very confusing to all the Parisians I speak with, as it soon becomes very clear that it is in fact true. They always seem to want to test it though... I need to take some classes soon!

I also went to the Catacombs, Les carrières de Paris. Many, many tunnels full of bones and families and people from the past, under the streets of Paris. Spooky! I've done other, non macabre, touristy things, as well, but who hasn't! So I'll spare you the details.

Today I have to learn how to do laundry, and think about going to talk to someone about getting a bank account here. That's going to take some courage. Every time I start thinking about it I get the urge to take a nap. Ugh. Mommy!!!!!!

New York

I’m pouring myself another glass of Lillet for this one, because I’m feeling like I really wanna spill it. Let’s get it all out.

My god. I’m feeling extremely self-centered.

I just got back from a nine-day trip to New York City. Long trips always get me contemplating myself, my place in the world, the validity or stupidity of my routines, what it means to know people, and what it means to mean something to them. I watch all the terrible romantic comedies on the flight to and from. I cry during all the terrible romantic comedies on the flight to and from. I think about all the people that I love and have said goodbye to. I feel sad and lucky all at the same time, and none of it ever seems to make any more sense the next time I do it all over again.

I’m tired. I don’t even know why. Well, we did drink a lot of beer, as Wisconsinites tend to do when reuniting with old friends, or for any reason really. I got home and slept for over 24 hours. Now it’s 6am and I’m am nowhere near to sleep.

I saw a lot of old friends. It was good. It’s nice to feel known again. I miss laughing with other voices. I’ve spent the majority of the last couple of years alone. It’s been edifying, but very lonely. Clearly there must be something to it, or I wouldn’t have moved to a place where the only other beings I know are my cats.

I hope there’s something to it.

I find myself wondering if I’m suppose to have things to show for my 30 years; a house, a résumé, a relationship. I see what other people are doing and I feel the compulsion to compare myself, but there’s no one I’d rather be. I do believe it is enough to just be, but my head won’t let my heart rest. I’m sorry, I know it’s really cliché to use the head and the heart thing together, but god damn it, it’s true!

I need a hug.
I want a hug so bad.
A long drawn out embrace.
Arms and shoulders and hair and cheeks and awkward silence.
A big hug.

I loved New York. It’s an awesome city. The last time I was there it was one night of a three-day whirlwind road trip. First from Wisconsin to a party in Indianapolis, then we drove to New York for a party in the Brooklyn Bridge, and the last night we finished with a visit to a club in Cleveland Ohio. We slept on the couches in the upstairs lounge, with stinky feet and un-brushed teeth, while my friend Kurt spun records. We weren’t very good support, too crabby for all that mess. Needless to say, it was a very different experience this time around. I had been with my parents when I was twelve, but it was cool to see it again as an adult.

Olive got fat during my absence, but no less cuddly. Both the kitties missed me, Olive and Skeeter. I can tell. We truly have a love affair going.

I think I’m going to take advantage of this jet lag and go watch the sunrise over some Parisian monument, something real poetic like.

Here are some photos from the trip….

Africa

I somehow ended up in Africa last week.

Andrew was in the south of Spain visiting some friends and sent me an email saying I should meet him in Tangiers the next day for a drink at the bar. It sounded a little insane, so I thought maybe I should try it. I left the next afternoon, and arrived in Morocco that evening. I got ripped off the moment I stepped off the plane, agreeing to a cab ride to the Continental Hotel for a price of 200 Durham, 100 more than I should have paid. The hotel was amazing. I was immediately in awe. Although we were unable to get the proposed drink at the bar (understandably so in a country that's predominately Muslim) we made the most of the evening.

Around 5:30 in the morning I woke to hear a mysterious voice echoing through the streets and houses on the hill in Tangiers. The man who had scared me the night before, by waiting for me in the dark at the bottom of the stairs, with the pointy hood of his jalaba pulled over his head, was now practicing his morning prayer ritual. The voice moved from outdoors to the echoing halls of the hotel. Voices from other rooms joined "Hey man! I'm trying to get some sleep!" I guess they didn't get the Moroccan memo either. "Be ready to wake up to chanting every morning at 5." It was rather surreal and otherworldly. This was a tradition we experienced all the way to the end of the trip. Marrakech was the most amazing, because the voices came from all over the city in chorus. I went back to bed, and in the morning, enjoyed a bread filled breakfast in the hot sun before setting off on the train to Casablanca.

The main languages spoken in Morocco are French and Arabic, and some broken English (and actually Spanish too, I think), so most of the time I had to resort to using my infant French to order food, buy tickets, and also to kick the family who had stolen our first class cabin out and send them to second class, which was exactly the same as the first class. Despite the sameness of this cabin to the cabin where her actual seat was, the grandma of the family decided she would be happier to stay where she was eating her greasy, smelly shawarma sandwich with a toothless grin. Before she could finish, the person whose seat she had stolen showed up and finished the kicking out process for me. She left after delivering some disparaging remarks and packing up her luggage and sandwich. With the wafting meat odor and the greasy film on the table, she would not be forgotten.

At long last the train was moving, and landscapes were flying by the window. I stepped out of the cabin for some relief from the ghost of the shawarma and went to the window to have a closer look. I was standing there thinking that it was all a sight for sore eyes when the window in front of them exploded. Glass flew into my eyes, hair, onto my clothes and skin. Images of the man and woman on a bus in the Moroccan dessert, from the movie Babel, came to mind. I was sure I had been shot. I didn't scream or yell, totally stunned, I walked to my cabin and sat down in my seat, covered in shards of glass.

Seconds later there were 3 train conductors there, asking me what happened and if there was glass in my eyes, in a confusing mixture of French and English. I answered back in the same confusing mix, still not really too sure of what had happened. There were small particles of glass, or something in my eyes, so the conductors took me down to the bathroom and had me rinse my eyes out and splashed water all over my skin to wash away the other bits of window still on me. They were very worried and asked over and over if I would like to see a doctor. It seemed that everything was OK, so I declined, and one of the conductors pinched my cheek and smiled at me.

Maybe I was still in shock, but I felt surprisingly calm. I reassured myself that it was in fact a rock that had been thrown, and not a gun shot, and tried to convince myself that it was not at all personal, maybe just a kid with lucky aim. I did OK with this line of thinking, until I started to feel like there was still a sliver of glass in my eye. I looked and looked again, not really seeing anything, but feeling something. I began to imagine an infection that would ultimately rot my eyeball out. I started to feel a bit panicked. Who would I be without my right eyeball? How would the world receive me? Oh! Pirates! Pirates are cool right? I could rock an eye patch, couldn't I? I decided I could. Once that was settled I felt much better. I was ready for Casablanca.

Now as a tourist, going into the lives of other people from other cultures, I feel some responsibility towards being respectful, and grateful for the opportunity, so I kind of hate to say this but, Casablanca was a dump. In its defense, we didn't get to see a whole lot of it, so there could be some really beautiful pockets that I just missed out on. The beach wasn't so bad, but the city felt rough. Nonetheless, we were welcomed, and everyone was extremely patient with my poor French, even acting as if they understood every word! Thanks guys! We wanted to go to Fes and Marrakech as well, but were running out of time, so we decided to hit the road and just spend the last couple of days in Marrakech.

Marrakech was definitely the highlight. Huge markets with snake charmers, monkeys, filthy cats everywhere, kids following you and giving you directions that you don't need to guilt you into handing over some change for their services, people yelling "Fish and chips!" at you as you pass, based on the assumption that you're from England, snail soup vendors, and just about anything else you can imagine. I got duped into letting one of the market girls scrawl some clunky looking henna swirls, that she squirted out of a syringe, onto my hand. She said she would "give" me a flower because she liked my eyes. Stupidly, I let her "give" it to me. Then when she was done she said I needed to give her a present. I told her I didn't have anything (I didn't) and she commenced to chase after me screaming, demanding anything. I had half a bottle of water that I jokingly said I would give her and she screamed "Yes! give it to me!" and I said "No!" because I didn't like her attitude and she let me go but not before she got the chance to scream "Fuck your mother!" in perfect English.

After being to Europe a couple of times, it starts to kind of blend with my perceptions of the US. There are so many connections and similarities. I think the first time I went to Spain I experienced some mild culture shock, but since then haven't noticed much. In Morocco, on my second day, my head was spinning. My brain was totally packed full of thoughts and ideas, new smells and images. Totally over stimulated. Time for the hammam!

Andrew and I decided to get the full deal at the hammam, a bath house / massage treatment experience, an hour long massage, steam, and your own personal bather that lathers you up, scrubs you down, throws mud on you, and then dumps a bucket of water over your head. It was so great to be treated like a baby for once! I didn't have to do anything! I just stood there with my arms out, while my bather, Sunnah, rubbed black soap all over me and then rinsed me all off. Well, I did have to do one thing... It was politely suggested in hushed tones that it was possible for me to leave a bit of extra cash for the services. I didn't have much of a problem with that. That's the first butt massage and warm bucket of water over the head I've had in years.

Sadly, the journey had to come to an end. We spent the last night of our stay in Marrakech on the roof top of our riad, Lapis Lazuli, eating pizza and drinking Moroccan wine in our new jalabas. There was some commotion down in the street and we peered over the edge to look, a man had a woman and her two kids cornered, yelling at her, while another man stood between them holding his arms out to protect the woman. The argument lasted for some time, until the man who was yelling reached out and grabbed the smallest child. Shocked, I yelled out "NO! You can't take that baby!" The man, and everyone in the street, looked up as he walked away with the woman's child. The caretaker of the riad must have heard me shouting and came up to the terrace, joining us in looking over the edge. In French she said something about a divorce. I said "Je suis triste." She laughed at me. Andrew and I were both drunk and donning a jabala. We must have looked ridiculous to her.

The excitement of the last few days had me drinking too much wine, and the trip ended in vomit at the Marrakech airport. Again I was asked if I wanted to see a doctor. They're really on the ball with that one. I didn't see one. I just kept puking and cursing myself until I got it all out. We flew, they fed us, and now we're back in Paris, as if nothing ever happened. It's weird what your brain can go through in the time span of just a few days.

Feeling Sorry for Myself

Although I do like to do things on my own because of the ease in choice it provides, things do start to feel pretty heavy when you’re alone nonstop.

Working from home can compound this. It creates the feeling of very limited possibilities. I like the element of the unknown that comes along with mixing personalities, plus people are smarter together than they are apart. Did you know that? It’s a fact. If you get a group of people guessing at some number, for example, like how many seeds are in a certain pumpkin or something, the average of everyone’s guess, almost always without fail, will be closer to the correct answer than any individual guess. The moral of the story… people need people mon frère, we can’t do it all on our own, at least not very well.

So here I’ve been, with no peeps, sitting around feeling sorry for myself, dodging piles of squashed dog crap on the sidewalk, feeling as if their very existence were a personal commentary of some sort, mandated by the rulers of the cosmos, adding insult to injury, calling me a doodie head, moping around like a sad clown with a lead weight soul.

I must admit, and maybe it’s obvious (?), I’ve really been luxuriating in this mindset. Acting the martyr, sitting gloomily in the Metro station, contemplating pigeons, resolving to live my life as they do, as a renegade, reviled yet undaunted, eating bits of bread and trash from puddles of urine spilt from the unwashed organs of the homeless drunks that scoff at my existence.

In my misery, I started asking for signs. “Dear God, Lord, whatever you are, something out there, forces unknown, show me something! Show me something to make it all mean something!” To add to my martyrdom, I thought I could help myself to feel really pathetic if I took a walk in the rain. I decided to go out for a ham and cheese crêpe, and you know what? I met someone. He walked up to me on the street and started talking to me. He tried to get me talking French, and every time I said the smallest thing he laughed with such gusto and encouragement that I felt like a genius for knowing how to say “I like Paris.” He made me smile.

When I got home there was an email from the neighbor of the aunt of the woman I rent my apartment from, wanting to make some dinner plans, then later came 2 more dinner invitations from friends of friends, then by chance I had to call the sister of the woman I rent from to get a door code and she invited me out to coffee, and then I met someone in my French class who wants to take a trip to the Alps, and lo and behold, suddenly I have some peeps!

Was it a sign, or a coincidence, or just a lucky sequence of events, or maybe more of a willingness on my part to be open to new people, or a combination of all these things? I dunno, I don’t, but then I went to the post office to use their bill changer so I could do some laundry. I put in my €10 bill, over and over and over, it wouldn’t accept it. There was an old man standing next to the machine adding a running commentary on my attempts. I told him twice I didn’t speak French, but I think he just wanted to talk. Over and over again the machine spit my money back at me. I think the old guy told me it wasn’t going to work, but then suddenly it took, and the machine dumped my change out. When I left I said aurivoir to the spectator and he replied with “Bon courage.”

I got home and took out my change to do the laundry, upon counting I found the machine had changed my €10 into €20! With everything else in mind, the pleading with the unseen forces of creation, the deluge of social contact, the old man’s message, I just couldn’t help but feel that this was somehow significant. I don’t know what it all means exactly, and I suppose there are a hundred conclusions you could come to, but honestly, without trying to sound too new-agey, what I think is this; The universe is listening.

Sonya Louise

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