just "sauce" & the luck of the point

Paris, so far, has been a blur. Touring a city is often tiring so when the weekend arrived I was ecstatic at the thought of sleeping in. On Thursday night I literally fell into bed and awoke a blissful ten hours later. It was awesome. But I had a buttload of homework--which was slightly less than awesome. Eight readings, eight corresponding responses, and two assigned journals filled with sensory details later, the sun (or what constitutes as "sunshine" here) had set and I was starved. Some of my classmates and I rode the Metro to a promising taqueria called Guacamole. I scarfed down three carne asada tacos having been deprived of good Mexican food for over a week! And when you live in Southern California where there's a taco joint on every corner, it might as well have been a year! I have a feeling Parisians aren't too fond of spicy foods though. The hot sauce should have just been called "sauce." I noticed too, when I had Pho the week before, the Sriracha seemed a bit watered down. It was in a different container so it was probably a knock off rooster sauce. Note to self: bring your own Tabasco. The only somewhat "spicy" sauce here is their mustard which Parisians seem to put on their food religiously.

On Saturday I awoke pretty late as well. My friends and I had planned to go to what we've dubbed as "Little Vietnam" on a Metro stop called Tolbiac to scour about for some Thai food. We needn't scour very far, though we did have to wait thirty minutes for a table. The place was packed which we thought to be a good indicator of the restaurant's food. The servings were pretty small and the prices were a wee bit steep, though it was lunch time in a European country. However, what it lacked in substance, it made up for in flavaaa. Every time I place an order here I feel as if I've just gone through an interrogation. Usually when the waiter comes by to take my order I do what I refer to as "The Luck of the Point," wherein wherever my finger lands on the menu, I'll have to eat. 

Later that day my friend Nina and I went to a brasserie close to our hostel. We planned to have a drink and do some reading, très French, excluding the fact that we don't surround ourselves in a cloud of smoke. We walked into the building proud of ourselves for pulling the door open upon entering rather than pushing (we've had many an incident in which we open and close the door of a shop the wrong way). A waiter materialized before us and I held my fingers up in the universal sign for two--and it didn't hurt that this symbol is also universally known as peace. We come in peace, I tried communicating through my eyes. It didn't work. He pointed to a booth so Nina and I got ourselves situated before studying le menu. My finger ran down the Vin Rouge list. I stopped on a word that read Bordeaux, a city in France I'm familiar with having attended a school named after a saint from the city. I shrugged (Luck of the Point!) and told Nina my order while she told me of her plan to ask the waiter for something fruity and dry. The round-bellied, hairless headed man (all of the waiters I've had seem to be balding old men, don't they?) came to our table five minutes later, notepad in hand staring at us in boredom. "What you eat?" he said. Nina began asking him about the wine and was interrupted by the bewildered man. "No! What you eat? This table for eating!" We told him we just wanted drinks. He shook his head. "This table for eating!" he said again. He pointed to the fork: "This is a fork!" He pointed to the knife: "This is a knife!" He pointed to the place setting: "This is for food!" He was like a culinary drill sergeant telling us what was what on the table: You place food on table! You pick up fork with hand! You lift fork with the tongs end toward mouth! Insert food! Chew and swallow! A-TEN-HUT! We put our hands up in surrender. "You want to drink only? You sit over there! This table for eating!" He took our order then, before we slumped red-cheeked and sweaty-palmed, to a new table setting-less booth. We get our wine (which wasn't too bad) and some trail mix in a little ceramic bowl. A few chapters and an hour and a half later, the waiter returns. "You pay bill now, I leave." I got my wallet out and started fingering some of the bills and counting coins. "Where you from?" I hear. I looked up at Nina before staring at the waiter. "California," Nina said. He smiled as if remembering something, and then: "I have cousin in Monterey! You know Monterey? Near Santa Cruz! I love San Francisco!" He then proceeded to name every street and tourist sight in SF: "Fisherman's Wharf. Union Square. Lombard Street. Coit Tower." Gone was the vicious waiter of old, replaced instead by this amiable fellow who I thought would have made a very good Bay Area tour guide. After he was finished reciting the San Francisco traveler's book and the l'addition was paid, we exchanged Au revoir's and Bonne Annèe's, Nina and I rather puzzled at our waiter's temperament.

And on that odd note...guess what! Guess WHAT! GUESS! WHAT! I just received my first essay grade for Writing Through Paris as well as a fully detailed evaluation (on how awesome it was! DUH!). If you couldn't pick up on my excitement through my use of CAPITAL LETTERS, let me just lay it out fo' ya! I got an A! And I couldn't be happier!

I have failed to tell you about my Sunday meal (escargot, pasta with porcini mushrooms and ham [which was EH], one scoop of chestnut ice cream [eh, again], and one scoop of coconut [BOMB]), but I can't stop reading my paper eval, so I'm going to call it a night! Also, I have class in the morning!

So bonsoir Paris! Good morning California!

You'll be hearing from me again soon!

winter interlude

Je me presse de rire de tout, de peur d'être obligé d'en pleurer.

I make myself laugh at everything, for fear of having to weep.

-Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais

The Barber of Seville

Photo from my cousin, Jas

conversation and observation at au chai de l’abbaye

The clink clank clink is the cacophony common in a cluttered café. It’s an orchestra of silverware and plates that contribute to the movement of the place. As my glass empties, my observation skills seem to wane, or perhaps they become sharpened and sensitive. In any case, my hearing seems more attuned with the atmosphere and if I close my eyes for a moment, I can concentrate and detect what actions accompany these sounds. A spoon hits the edge of a glass, a fork scrapes at meager crumbs on a plate, the strike of a match lights a cigarette, lips sip on espresso, and finally the contented sigh from a patron.

I open my eyes and the first thing I see is the table that holds my pen and paper. It is an ivory marble with gray veins framed by a dusty tan wood. I sit on a chair with a scarlet cushion and brass buttons. I adjust my feet under the table and look up. The light in the café is bright in some places and dim in others. A single florescent bulb hits the shiny, hairless head of the waiter. He has his eye on me. It’s easy to tell I’m American, though I’ve been “Ni Hao”-ed at everyday since I’ve gotten here. I had attempted to ask him what he recommended when I first placed my order. One of my companions told me how to say, “what do you recommend?” in French and I repeated the phrase in my head over and over, confident that he would point out a few choice reds on the wine list upon hearing my question. However when the time came to ask, I noticeably shrunk before him and stuttered the words unintelligibly. He shook his head back and forth and looked between my companions and myself, slightly outraged. When one of my friends clarified my question the waiter looked surprised and pointed to himself wide-eyed, saying “Moi?” Finally he pointed to practically every wine on the list and a light sheen of perspiration broke out on my forehead as I tried to keep up with his quick pointing fingers and rapid French tongue. I blindingly chose one, feeling slightly as if I had just gone through an interrogation. Upon my choosing, he snatched the menu from my hand and I looked up at his face to see that he looked somewhat satisfied. Perhaps he was just as relieved as I was that the line of inquiry was over.

A group of two British men and two British women are seated to the left of me. I think they’re on holiday. Their conversation topics consist of cheese and wine and I recall Chris telling us of the great width and appetite of Balzac. He said they don’t talk about these things in Britain, but I suppose since they’re in France, this type of conversation is relatively safe. A few Frenchmen sit behind me on my right. I hear a couple of deep, distinct voices, so perhaps there are only two of them. The guttural yet fluid sound is soothing like the warmth of the red wine flowing down my throat and settling in my stomach. It makes me sleepy, but pleasantly so (at the end of a long day I always find myself dozing off on the metro ride home). I hear a couple of women now behind me as well. They were here when the café was rather empty, though they were silent. I think it’s the rising noise level of the café and the liquor and espresso in their systems that accumulate to their own volume. They’re Japanese from the sound of it. Conversation never ceases here, though I find I’m a bit fearful in lending my own voice to the noise. For now, I sit back in my seat and take what comfort I can of the café, waiting for the rain to stop and waiting to be inspired.

food for thought in a hole in the ground

The concave walls of the hallway are reminiscent of the architecture of a tunnel at the aquarium. I call to mind past elementary school field trips, shared Valentine’s Day dates, and long afternoons of reflective solitude. The wall on the right is colored blue depicting scenes of life underwater, further alluding to my recollections of the aquarium. The hall is long and great. Sound, like the people walking, travels quickly in the large space. The noise bounces from wall to wall and off of the arched ceiling creating vibrations like the thunder of a summer rain.

There are three narrow strips moving on the floor, transporting people from one end of the hall to the other. We are just items on a conveyor belt at Safeway. I choose the middle aisle and begin to walk on the left side, forgoing the option to stand on the right. The girl in front of me pauses to fix her shoe and I stop, just barely, on the tip of my toes to prevent from crashing into her. She shifts toward the right giving me leeway to pass by and smiles sheepishly. She has long copper hair and I automatically decide that if she were an item on a conveyor belt, she’d be a carrot. The couple the carrot steps behind is locked in an amorous embrace; I glance openly at them catching a glimpse of a kiss notoriously named after the French. They don’t seem to have any restraints on public displays of affection here, or PDA, which my friend has coined to actually stand for Put Dat Away. Perhaps this pair would be a couple of Hershey’s Kisses. I shake my head; no, they’d definitely be two unsliced Genoa salamis. I shiver at the thought of standing next to two unnaturally oversized slabs of meat on the slim walkway and embarrassingly scurry away, no longer looking at anything save for the flickering light at the end of the tunnel. I am on my way to lunch, my appetite now eaten away by nausea. I decide there should be no food for thought in the station of a metro.

hope, perpetual

Bonne Année!

That's French for "Happy New Year's!" I was told the French use this greeting for the entire month of January, so you'll be sure to hear it from me many times! I have never spent a New Year away from home so this will be quite different. I know it's not exactly Thanksgiving or Christmas, but it's a holiday in which I am usually surrounded by my polka-dotted pajama clad family, all of whom I am thinking of now and miss very much. New Year's for me is usually spent at my uncle's house in Riverside. We eat sopas and pandesal made by my aunt, watch Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve Special on the television, and jump when the ball drops in Times Square at midnight. Toasts are made all around with glasses of Martinelli's apple cider and white grape cider and kisses on the cheeks are exchanged throughout the room, giving one another a sense of warmth and of home for the New Year.

Last year however, I spent New Year's upstate with my other family members who keep these same traditions. Though I believe we had Chinese, rather than sopas! My grandmother braved the cold to venture to my aunt's house where we were all celebrating that evening. I remember her telling me we would leave before midnight, and me complaining and explaining to her the whole point of celebrating New Year's is the countdown to the New Year! I persuaded her to stay and she complied because really, we would have been doing the exact same thing at her house, but you know, just us two in her bedroom and me jumping by myself, though come to think of it, I could have probably persuaded her to make one of those grandma hops that she used to do so adorably. I actually spent July 4th evening watching fireworks from her television with her as well, but I'll reminisce on that event another time. Anyway, grandma spent the entire evening on the couch watching the Dick Clark special and dozing off occasionally and I remember her looking especially pretty that evening in a purple sweater and scarf with a hint of silver eyeshadow on her lids which made her eyes sparkle even more.

As happy as we were to ring in the New Year, we didn't know what to expect for 2011 and I always tried to focus on the present rather than dwell in what the future had in store for us because I know my time with grandma was precious. She was in all truthfulness, my best friend, and though she would frustrate me at times, I cherished every moment not knowing when the moments would end, and I wish with all my heart to have another year, another day, another moment with her. So though I am saddened at the thought of not having her here with me this year, I remember fondly all of the moments I had spent with her this past year, both the good and the bad.

2012 will be a healing year.

Grandma, I ring in the New Year with you on my mind and in my heart. You gave me life, you taught me faith, and you showed me compassion. Though there is a part of me that is broken, and that perhaps will always stay broken, I will continue to live my life whole for you and because of you. This isn't a New Year's resolution. This is a resolution for all time.

Grandpa taking his last nap of 2010 in the massage chair

Skyping with family in Socal (AHAH @ Amanda's face!! And Lea's!! Ahahaha)

2 seconds 'til midnight, preparing to jump

Grandma and I, this time last year

once upon a plane ride

I'M HERE!!!!!!!! I am currently sitting at a desk in my room at the hostel, awaiting my sister's arrival. The room consists of four beds, two showers, and one toilet. It's more spacious than I anticipated and I only share it with two other girls. There's unlimited WiFi and I get two free meals a day for five days. It's currently 7PM and most of my classmates left to eat dinner except for my roommates and myself. I didn't go downstairs to the cafeteria though I'm told the food is pretty nasty looking. Luckily for me I have some seaweed snacks that no one wants to share! Breakfast is from 7AM to 9AM and hopefully they have bagels. I have a welcome orientation tomorrow morning at 10 and then a bus tour of the city at 2. I don't usually have class on Fridays but this Friday is an exception so I'll be in the classroom from 9AM to noon. Did I mention the classroom is just an elevator ride downstairs?

I finished A Moveable Feast on the plane ride here (I apologize for the incorrect use of italics, there's no underline). However more on that in another entry. I'd like to truly experience Paris first, before applying the text to the city in order to better inform you, the reader, of its truthfulness (though even without my experience, I trust Hemingway's word either way). The plane ride was around nine hours and I sat in the very back row on the aisle, right next to the bathroom which was nice...or so I thought. First of all the bathroom area was sort of a mingling spot in which I overheard many a conversation. Secondly, for all of those who don't know, the bathroom is kind of a common designated vomiting area. There were two people I noticed who threw up: one who made it safely inside before depositing his afternoon meal, and the other who wasn't quite so lucky as the first guy. So this girl is running down the aisle holding her mouth-- no shoes, just socks--and the unlucky person who just happened to be coming out of the bathroom gets a mouthful, literally. Before I even turn around I hear the retching noises from behind the closed lavatory door and smell the sour odor of fresh vomit permeating the small space. I turn around to see a flabbergasted girl around my age covered in a slimy pink gloop, eyes wide, arms outstretched, and mouth open in an 'O.' The stinky substance provides a bright contrast to her all black ensemble. After her initial shock wears off, there is a noticeable change in her demeanor. You can almost see the smoke coming out of her ears, she's so pissed. She starts cursing at the door, no sympathy for the sick girl. When the angry, vomit covered chick's mother appears, she starts to break down crying, mumbling unintelligibly about being bombarded. She's a heavy set girl whose thinner sister offered her one of the shirts she was wearing off of her back, which only induced more tears from the vomit covered girl. The flight attendants were all over her, giving her towels, soap, ginger ale, and a first class pajama set. I, on the other hand, turned away from all the drama, put a scarf over my face, closed my eyes, inserted my headphones in my ears, and pressed play.

That's all I have for now, my sister's here! But I'll be sure to update sometime tomorrow!

Au revoir!

this christmas

The holidays that occur in the wintertime give us a chance to reflect on what we have lost, what we still have, and what we hope to have at the birth of a new year. Christmas is a time filled with remembrances and deep nostalgia. The loss of someone hits especially hard during this time in which we long for home and for yesteryear. Loneliness is manifest during this holiday that celebrates gathering together. The first Christmas without her has come and gone and I couldn't have gotten through the holidays without my family. The loneliness and the sadness ebbs in the company of loved ones and I am extremely grateful for those who are still here, those who share my own pain, and those who have provided me with some semblance of healing.

I went to the cemetery twice with some family members, once on Christmas Eve and once on Christmas Day. Her headstone has yet to arrive and even though it's been a few months,the longer we wait, the more I anticipate its beauty; a reflection of the woman who it commemorates and celebrates. Everyday, there's something new on her grave: a bright bouquet of yellow and orange, a Christmas tree that sparkles with shiny ornaments. I talk to her and tell her things, though most of them are silent for fear of tears that won't stop shedding if I voice them aloud. I know she recognizes me. I feel her, hear her voice inside my head telling me to be a good girl, telling me to keep praying. Even though she's not here, when I'm feeling lost or sad, I take comfort in knowing I am surrounded by her presence. She still keeps me grounded. She still makes me feel her love.

It hurts sometimes to be around my grandpa. He's silent and strong in his loss, but his suffering is real and it's there. It's in that gentle squeeze of the hand that's familiar and comforting. It's in his warm, sleepy smiles that tell you he's still here, he misses her, but he will be strong for her and for you. I love him so, so much and I know my grandma did too even though she was always so frustrated with him. She worried about him a lot. I remember she was disheartened at the thought of leaving him behind. What about Choy? she would say. Grandpa is simply surviving. If he appears lazy and sluggish it's because of a heavy heart. And really now, who could blame him? The woman he's known all of his life, gone. Who will tell me what to do now? he said the day after she past. Why are we here? I think he's just waiting. He reconciles with his old age and now he's living until he gets to see her again. He's lucky too, because he will get to see her sooner, even though it pains me to even think about his absence as well. They won't be separated for too long.

I'll leave you with another little excerpt from my eulogy, as well as some Christmas photos:

Grandma and grandpa are the heart of our family, and grandma will continue to be the heart of our family even though her own heart has stopped beating. We feel her love and are surrounded by her presence and we will cherish that until our own hearts stop beating. I look around the room and I see her love etched in the tears we shed for her, the kind words we share about her, and the color that stains our cheeks, her blood flowing in us. It is through her love that we have been given life.

Grandpa arriving for Christmas Eve festivities

Grandpa surrounded by some of his grandkids and great grandkids

Grandpa and his five daughters

Visiting grandma on Christmas Day