wandERINg

It's time to change the title of my blog since as of next week I will no longer be in Paris. I'm not sure why I went with a name so specific since I knew all along that Paris was merely a launching point. I guess I was optimistic that we would get jobs right away and I could spend a few years becoming fluent in French language and French cooking. But since that didn't happen, rules are rules and we are moving on.

And so we are off next week to a sea-side town in Bulgaria. When we tell people here that we are going to Bulgaria, we get a lot of "oh that's great!" and "you'll love it". When we tell Americans, we get raised eyebrows and disbelief. (The raised eyebrows are just assumed by the tone of the emails).

I'll admit that it wasn't anywhere I expected to end up. But it's only for a few months and after that we will be on to somewhere else, hopefully with good stories to tell our future children. I have never lived near a beach so this will be a first. I hope to visit Istanbul, Ukraine, Romania, and maybe Russia. I doubt I will learn much Bulgarian while I'm there, but thanks to youtube I have already mastered "hello" in both informal and formal/plural forms.

So in renaming my blog, I was considering the following:

wandERINg - too obvious

Globe-Trotting - but we're only trotting around Europe so far, not the whole globe, so this wasn't accurate

Vagabonding in Varna - I think this suggests hitchhiking and not paying for apartments, neither of which we have yet to do

Beach Bum in Bulgaria, Ecrivain in the East, Drifting to the Black Sea... all of which are too specific

Finally, I chose Year of the Dog. Partly because from the very beginning of this adventure, everything has been complicated by our decision to bring our dog, which we knew it would. Yet having him here has also made this all the more enriching, and my life tends to revolve around him, as many of my blogs suggest. And also because many years of eating at China Doll in Dickinson taught me that I was born the Year of the Dog, and I believe the character attributes of the Dog are compatible with those that inspired me to be where I am now.

I am happy that these past three months have given me a chance to improve my french language skills (I can finally have phone conversations in French, sorta!), to meet all sorts of interesting and sweet French people, and to introduce Paris to a few friends and family who came to visit. For those who still want to visit, instead of a mat on the floor by Majerle's dog dish, in Varna we will have two bedrooms. So come on down!

An Ode to Phoenix Eateries, Part 2

I have been a coffee addict since high school. It started when my dad made pots of coffee each Sunday, and since I was the only child out of five still living at home, I would help him polish off a pot or two. I loved the coffee jitters. In college I was equipped with a massive mug that gave me unlimited access to cafeteria coffee. I owe this bottomless mug some credit in my achievement of a bachelor's degree because it kept me warm on the freezing walks to class and it kept me up for late night studying. I also started drinking espresso-based drinks at Tabula and Urban Stampede in Grand Forks. The coconut latte was my standard study drink. While in France one summer, I purchased a stove top espresso maker, and for the past eight years, few mornings have gone by that I haven't made myself a coffee drink with this same dirty Moka pot.

When I moved to central Phoenix a few years ago, I discovered that all this time I had been missing something: outstanding coffee. Lux Coffeebar is where I found out how coffee is supposed to look, taste, and smell. The espresso is truly perfection, with or without milk, flavorings, ice, etc. The baristas at Lux clearly know what they're doing. Before covering your drink with a huge spoonful of homemade whipped cream, they'll give you a glimpse of the leaf design made with the froth, evidence that the milk has been frothed perfectly since it can hold the shape. It's a shame to hide the design, yet the whipped cream is as delectable as the latte so I can never pass it up. Lux roasts their own beans, a process that is on display behind the sugar and straws, and the smell permeates the coffee shop and spills out onto the patio of picnic tables, shared with Pane Bianco.



My favorite Saturday mornings in Phoenix included a trip to the downtown farmer's market followed by a Velvet Latte at Lux and a stroll through Steele Indian School Park. There were occasional weekdays I would get up extra early to ride the bus over to Lux and drink my tasty beverage while riding the Light Rail to work, thereby increasing my normal 10 minute commute to roughly 90 well-worth-it minutes.

The atmosphere in Lux is the kind one never wants to leave. Local art is the main decor, with worn-in hipster furniture inviting one to curl up on the couch and feel at home. The staff possibly never changes, so it's clear this is much more than a job to them; they're doing what they love to do everyday. They have fun, they BS with their customers, they play Sufjan Stevens music, and they make their customers want to be regulars.

I should probably attribute some of my master's degree to to Lux since many late night dates with my laptop were spent there. There is nowhere I would have rather been. Once I sat down at the only available spot and realized that directly across from me was Mayor Phil Gordon being interviewed. He's obviously a fan too. I ran into Chris Bianco a couple of times on his days off. Even though he's next door five days out of the week, he still must love it enough to hang out there on Sundays. I can't count the times my friend Mindy and I would talk for hours while her daughter dragged half of the toy shelf onto the outside patio for entertainment. I love that Lux is kid-friendly, dog-friendly, eco-friendly, pretty much friendly to all!

As I write this, I am drinking a homemade cafe au lait that's not very good, and wishing it was my favorite coffee drink in the world, Lux's Velvet Latte.

La Vie Est Belle au Printemps à Paris

Paris definitely knows it is spring, or printemps. I think the thermostat was turned up last week to a beautiful 60 degrees. Everywhere the trees are budding and will hopefully bloom soon, before I must leave here. Shutters and windows have been thrown open across the city to let in the fragrant breeze.

The Parisians have taken their furs and heavy tweed jackets down to the storage cellars in favor of their spring pea coats. The little girl whom I meet at her school and accompany to lunch each Monday was excited to show me her cute purple plaid "caban" (NOT a manteau, because c'est printemps!). She also rattled off in French what each of her parents and brothers wore to school and work that day and how chic they all looked in their warmer weather attire.

The fountains and ponds are filled with water and the parks are filled with people, lingering and feeling the sunshine on their faces. Paris parks are equipped with not only benches, but these reclined lazy-day chairs that allow for comfortable relaxing, napping, reading, or my favorite pastime: discrete people watching.

Brock and I spent our afternoon at a nearby park yesterday with our books in tow to enjoy this weather we thought we'd left in Barcelona, but were delighted to find waiting for us in Paris. It can be difficult to stay focused on a book with all of the people to watch. No park outing is complete without witnessing a few make-out sessions by people of all ages. In fact the male in one such couple, absorbed in kissing his girlfriend, was virtually back-to-back with another man eating his lunch. Noone seems the slightest bit suprised by this behavior. Last year at a Phoenix Coyotes game, a couple started making out in the bleechers during intermission and was promptly confronted and stopped by the staff. That kind of intervention would never occur here.

I also was distracted by baby birds learning to fly and fighting over a small hole in the ground behind me, by the people walking by with their spring wardrobes which include lightweight and colorful scarves and flats instead of winter boots, by a bum that kept falling off the bench he was napping on (a kind man attempted to prop him back up and make sure he was ok), and by the realization that my time here is running out so I need to soak up as much of this as possible.

This morning I took Majerle to Parc de Monceau, my favorite park in Paris, where there is a footbridge over a pond, a water fall, a small lake surrounded by Roman pillars, mini-castles, and numerous sculptures. I sat down on a bench on the main thoroughfare for a bit of people-watching and when I felt some tugging on the leash, I realized my dog was bathing in a gutter behind my bench. Maybe this is a sign it's time to give him a bath, or maybe he was just in need of a cool-off since he probably had forgotten what warm weather feels like.

Our next destination will provide many more opportunities to experience the outdoors, but this Paris ambiance is something I will always crave. And springtime in the parks of Paris is for me, as good as it gets.

Rad Barcelona

It's funny how people (myself included) talk about how cheap and easy traveling around Europe is, because nobody mentions the practicalities involved in travel and typically tend to synthesize the idea to a $30 Ryanair flight that takes only two hours to cross a few countries.

Well, what's left out is that Ryanair flies primarily into very remote airports to which travel time and cost quickly compound and that cheap flight's original appeal is drastically altered.

Nevertheless, a vacation (from our vacation-like life) was much needed, so Brock and I spent his birthday taking the metro at 5:30am from La Madeleine to Porte Maillot to catch the hour bus ride to Beauvais airport, flew 90 minutes to Barcelona's Girona airport, bused another hour into the city, took a metro a few stops to our hotel, and finally began our vacation at 1:00 in the afternoon with a couple of empanadillas and a cat nap.

Barcelona was refreshing! The moment we stepped off the bus we took off our coats to enjoy the warm air and sea breeze.

Although there is no need to compare the two, I couldn't help but consider the many contrasts between Barcelona and Paris because Brock and I are still trying to figure out where we might drift to next and Barcelona is on the short list. While walking around I wanted to try to come up with a few words that would summarize my feelings about the two cities. To me, Barcelona is alternative, bohemian, colorful, and rad while Paris is classy, sophisticated, and dreamy.

I also narrowed down some of my observations in order to make comparisons between these two unique and fabulous cities.

DOGS

Paris is a high fashion city, and while dogs aren't as common in Paris as in most places, those one might see are typicically as fashionable as their owners. Parisians love their small designer dogs. I see almost nothing but Yorkies, Bichans, Cavelier King Charles, and Maltipoos, all tiny and perfect looking straight-from-the-groomer pups. The only exceptions seem to be my mutt Majerle and the inbred dogs that keep the homeless people warm.

But in Barcelona, Majerle would have fit in perfectly. The vast majority of dogs I saw looked like they had some German Shepherd in their blood. I saw a few little Yorkies, but most dogs were clearly happy medium-sized mixed breeds cruising around beautiful Barcelona. I have to imagine that the dog owners are more concerned with adopting healthy rescue dogs in Barcelona than purchasing expensive (albeit adorable) fashion accessories like the Parisians.

ARCHITECTURE

The buildings of Paris are very uniform. They are elaborate and wonderful, but they tend to look pretty similar, thereby creating the quintessential Parisian charm. In Barcelona there is more chaos and color. I took too many pictures of random buildings in an attempt to capture the Barcelonian look, but I'm not sure it exists.

In Paris, balconies are not very common. The buildings that have patios rarely allot sufficient room to hold more than a chair or two, let alone a small table. Some parts of town have far more patios than others, but in most cases the miniature balcony is purely decorative and may house only a couple of herb pots. I wish they were more common because who would not want to sit outside on a terrace all day with a cafe au lait watching the lovely scenery below on any Parisian street?

Barcelona was filled with balconies. A building void of rows of balconies was a rarity. And people made great use of their balconies, either for people-watching or allowing their laundry to be freshened with the cool sea air. The laundry added to the color and character of the streets, but the balconies themselves made the buildings look inviting and alluring.

BREAD

I hate to offend the French, proud of their perfect flour that can only be found in the soil of this country, but the bread was far superior in Barcelona to anything I have had in France, ever. The bread was denser, moister, and more flavorful and substantial.

The other night, I heard my neighbors at midnight seeing off their company in the elevator situated between our apartments, so I popped out to say hello, and ask to use their printer for our boarding passes. My neighbors are a fascinating and well-traveled couple, so we always enjoy chatting with them. In hospitable French custom, they invited us in for a glass of wine and a lesson on the complexity of Bordeaux wine which stems from the boredom of the French palate when it comes to simple wines. As the conversation drifted to Paris food markets, Brock asked where in the neighborhood we might find the best baguettes, as we have tried many places. They informed us, malheureusement, that most boulangeries no longer make their own bread daily, but have it brought in from factories outside of Paris. This explains why so many breads we have tried tasted the same, and it makes me feel less critical for saying that Spanish bread is better. Perhaps the Spanish have yet to outsource their daily bread.

FOOD

French food is simple, hearty, and tasty. The French believe in letting the food speak for itself, perhaps with minor accompaniments such as sauces or mustard, but for the most part, the French meal consists of a high quality piece of rare meat seared on both sides, served with organic vegetables and potatoes, some local French cheese, and red wine.

In Spain, we found the food exotic and exciting with surprising tastes added to simple food staples. We feasted on tapas all day and night, finding that the dishes varied drastically from one place to another. We tried a few different types of meatballs, patatas bravas, Spanish tortillas, empanadillas, sangrias, and all sorts of cheeses and breads with tomato. Everything we tried had new and pleasurable flavors and spices. I love French food, but I must admit I would rather have Spanish tapas any day!

FASHION

In Paris, Brock and I tend to feel pretty underdressed. Parisians dress well and they dress similarly. They wear a lot of black: black coats, tights, knee-high boots, skirts... believe me, when I wear brown or even gray, I stand out in the crowd. Parisians do not throw on some comfy sweats and a college sweatshirt to go to the grocery store; they nearly never leave their apartments without looking like they are on their way to a cocktail party. They look beautiful, just not always comfortable. In Barcelona there was no obvious style. People were wearing every style of clothes imaginable. People looked more comfortable and unique. I did not feel underdressed or inappropriately dressed ever (under-tattooed perhaps!). I think living near a beach contributes to people's freer attitudes towards attire.

$$

I also quickly noticed that Barcelona is significantly cheaper than Paris. We couldn't believe the kinds of meals we were getting for a few Euros. Everything in Paris is very expensive. Barcelona also feels a bit seedy at times, whereas Paris feels very safe, even at 3:30 in the morning when I have to take Majerle out for a bathroom break, wearing my PJs. I suppose this feeling of security comes at a price.

ENFIN

Leaving Barcelona was alright, because leaving meant going back to life in Paris and because I know we will be back. We may even live there for a few months down the road. And it only took a few minutes upon arrival in Paris to remember that it doesn't matter what we loved about Barcelona, we love this city too.

An Ode to Phoenix Eateries, Part I

My friend Jennifer from Phoenix came to visit me in Paris this week! While walking through the winding streets of the Marais and dining in the Latin Quarter, we reminisced about our time together in Phoenix and some of our mutual favorite restaurants that I miss. So I decided to devote this blog to some of the ones that made leaving Phoenix a little difficult.

Pizzeria Bianco

I was sad to read the news that Chris Bianco's gracious presence will no longer be a constant at Pizzeria Bianco due to health issues. My husband read me the news one morning since we still have our browser set to open up to an AZ site.

Bianco has always held a celebrity status for me, long before he was on Oprah. I occasionally came home from trips to the downtown farmer's market or Lux cafe, anxious to tell Brock that I saw Chris Bianco! I loved observing Bianco in action at the pizzeria, where he prided himself on handling every single pie that went into his 800 degree stone oven. Between rearranging pizzas in the oven with his pizza peel, his eyes would dart around the room, probably to savor the delighted patrons' faces as they bit into the result of his art. This is the only evidence one will notice of his pride since the cozy little house on East Adams Street lacks the presentation of a single award Bianco and his pizzas have earned. There is no boasting whatsoever, even though he has surely earned the right to do so. His admirably humble character is as evident in his television appearances as it is every night when he makes sure to acknowledge and thank each customer.

On our first visit, we were seated at the bar as close as one can get to Bianco, so Brock and I, novice pizza makers, sought out his expertise and asked whether flour or corn meal makes a better pizza peel coating. He was kind enough to take time to explain why flour is actually better, despite that fact that he probably had 40 pizzas to construct. I've never used corn meal since. On one occasion, I was excited to bring my pizza-loving brother for dinner at Pizzeria Bianco, and tears rolled down my eyes in the back of the car the entire drive to another Phoenix pizzeria since my hungry brother and husband were unwilling to wait until 10:00 to eat (we had arrived at 4:00).

I have eaten pizza in New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Rome and Napoli, the dish's supposed birthplace, but nothing has ever and undoubtedly will never, in my eyes, approach the exquisite taste of Bianco's Rosa, not to mention every other pizza and appetizer on the menu.

I like to say that I've been eating at Pizzeria Bianco since the wait was only two hours, as opposed to the now four to five. I always enjoyed sitting at the bar, awaiting my meal when an unknowing and eager group of people would come in, hoping for a bite to eat, only to drop their jaws and walk out in disbelief when told that yes, they can have a table... in five to six hours.

While my husband and I were weighing the pros and cons of moving to Paris, losing Pizzeria Bianco was high up on the cons list. When I head back to Phoenix at some point, PB will assuredly be my first stop.

Lola Tapas

We finally decided to head out of France for a few days and planned a trip to Barcelona. I am thrilled to revisit the Mediterranean and to feel the life on the streets, but I am looking forward most to the Spanish food. If a single meal we eat in Spain rivals what is served nightly at at Lola Tapas, I will be a happy girl.

I remember walking into Lola's the first time, after having driven by its Camelback location numerous times wondering about this exotic looking yellow building with the fancy sign. Upon entrance, I was surprised about the communal seating on only two long tables (they have since added seating). But I realized this arrangement was conducive to great conversation with strangers, occasionally being offered to try someone else's food if you're caught glancing at it with interest, and ultimately being more confident in ordering having such close proximity and even a possible taste of some of the options. However, I came to realize it doesn't matter what I order, I am always impressed with each item on the small, diverse, and well-planned menu. The obvious choice for me was certainly the Jamon, almonds, cheese, and date platter and it was only a matter of selecting a few plates to go with it. I still dream about this enticing combination of perfection. Along with the chewy bread soaked in spanish olive oil and washed down with fresh Sangria, Lola Tapas provides a taste of spanish heaven. The restaurant's ambiance always made me crave a lifetime in Spain, and after each immaculate meal I would walk out the door, grab a pack of matches, and begin planning my next trip to Spain. Finally I can say that trip is tomorrow.

To be continued...

Coincidences?? Hm...

I spent the past two weeks in the Alps and could not be happier to be back to Paris! Don't get me wrong, the Alps are splendid and I had the chance to spend a few days snowboarding in this splendor, but I also learned a valuable lesson: If 2 grandparents need help caring for their 2 grandchildren on a vacation, thus making the grownup to child ratio 3:2, there's something wrong with the children, and the parents know it, and the grandparents know it. More on that in a future blog perhaps.

After being away, I needed to get out today and be in the city I love, so Brock and I went out walking all day long. He wanted to get some video footage and to revisit a street he found in the Marais while I was out of town. We walked in circles for about two hours trying to find this street filled with Jewish food vendors before realizing we were about three blocks east of it.

Earlier this morning I had found a vintage shop online I was planning to visit after lunch to look for some new boots. I wrote down the address and directions. On my way home from lunch, I stopped in a shoe store and found some boots I loved and bought, so I went home instead of to the vintage shop. As it turned out, the Jewish street was the exact location of the vintage shop! Had I gone there after lunch, and later came here with Brock, I would have ended up in the exact spot in the metropolis of Paris twice in the same day. And we may have avoided a lot of walking in circles since I had the address in my purse. What are the odds, eh? Eerily though, when I sought out the address of the vintage shop since we were in the neighborhood, the store did not exist.

Another coincidence: While in the Alps, I had no access to television and internet, and one can only hike so much, so I spent most afternoons and nights reading. I finished three books in ten days, and wishing I had brought another easy‑reader, my final book was a pretty heavy one: Confessions, by Saint Augustine. I bought this book on 5^th avenue from a street vendor alongside central park a couple of years ago while visiting my brother in NYC and have tried starting it a few times since then, but finally became determined to read the whole thing. When I got back to Paris, I decided to put it aside for a bit to read something else, so I picked up Dominion, a book my friend Tara loaned me a couple of days before I left Phoenix. I opened the book, read the intro, proceeded to the first page and chills ran through my body when I realized that the opening quote of the book was by Saint Augustine, from Confessions. This coincidence is made just slightly more profound by the fact that my friend Jennifer once mentioned to me while reading and having coffee at La Grande Orange that she attributes much significance to the opening line of a book, and I have thought of her saying this every time I begin a book and I now always read the first line very carefully, realizing the careful consideration put into this first statement by the author. And that very Jennifer happens to be coming to visit me this weekend. The coincidence is made only further profound considering that the morning before I began Confessions, I walked Majerle over to a church in my neighborhood to check evening mass times. And of course, that church was Saint Augustine. The coincidences go on. I told my husband about this and he asked if I happened to have been talking about Saint Augustine lately (which I had not) because for some reason he had called his mom and asked her to mail him his books by the same canonized author. And lastly, Saint Augustine is the son of the saint I chose for my confirmation name: Saint Monica.

I don't really believe in coincidences; I have always believed what we call coincidences are God's way of entertaining Himself and maybe letting us know that we are right where we're supposed to be. But I'd really like to know if there's any meaning behind this one.