la fille en rose

This summer is divided into three parts: Greece, New York, and Ile de Ré. Tomorrow I embark on the third leg of summer 2008.

Considering I just got back to Paris yesterday morning, I'm not happy about this. I'm super-excited to meet the baby I'll be nannying, and settle in to the beach house, but I would love a bit more time at home. And I would love to go a week without either packing or unpacking my bright blue suitcases.

I have mastered the art of packing light. For my 3.5 weeks in Greece I had a small, carry-on size rollie and a carry-on bag. That's it. For 6.5 weeks I'm moving up to a medium-sized suitcase, but am still not bringing much. After Anna came over for breakfast and expressed shock at the number of sandals I was packing, I had to reduce. But seriously, fifty days on an island requires more than one pair of sandals! And no, flip flops are not optional!

I'm right, right?

Yesterday, after my plane arrived 90 minutes late, I showered and went to two job interviews. The first was atrocious, as the woman freely admitted that she hadn't really read my CV, and she thought I should get a master's in order to be a viable candidate. Did I mention that this was an assistant job? That's right, she thought my six years actually WORKING in publishing (including 2.5 years as an assistant) do not a qualified candidate make, as I don't have an advanced degree.

When she named the specific master's program she thought I should look into, I replied that I had gone to that program's open house day, and been told by two of the heads that I am overqualified and would most likely be bored. She didn't have a whole lot to say to that.

Also, she said that I am competing for jobs with people who went to the top French schools. I asked if she happened to notice what school I went to, and she was like, oh, I guess I didn't notice that. You should reorganize your CV. As if it's my fault she didn't bother reading it! Thanks for wasting my time, lady.

The next one was a bit better, although by this time I was so exhausted (it was well after midnight, New York time) that I'm not sure my French was at its best. Still, they're going to try me out on a freelance basis, and once I re-do part of my writing test they'll consider me for a full-time position. We'll see. It took three months from sending in my CV to actually get an interview, so maybe I'll get a job offer some time in 2009.

Okay, now I'm off to visit a sick friend, before I continue packing. We head out tomorrow around 9 am, in order to make it to a friend's house in Poitiers by 1. It'll be interesting to see if I'm invited for lunch, or relegated to the kitchen. I've never been "the help" before. I hope I don't suck.

In Manhattan, summer normally means doing anything you can to get out of the city. Of my nine days in New York, four were spent out of town, in the Hamptons. Or Amagansett, to be more precise. Tessa and her boyfriend, Paul, rented a house there and the whole family spent the long weekend watching tennis, grilling, and reading an astonish ing amount of trashy magazines.

It was really nice and relaxing, despite the crappy weather and broken hot tub. Fortunately there is no documentation of the 4th of July family tradition, which involves my wearing an American flag bikini and marching around while singing "God Bless America" at the top of my lungs.

Here, instead, are a few more presentable moments:

I’m writing this on my third flight in three days, heading back to New York. I can’t believe I’m still functioning, much less in a really good mood and awake. (NB: It took me several days to get this online, but I did write it on the airplane).

Greece was amazing. I expected to like it, but I didn’t think I would love it as much as I did. I came home (to Paris) feeling completely re-energized and re-fueled. So often we need vacations from our vacations, and come home feeling depleted: over-sunned and not ready for the real world. But this time, I came home ready.

Santorini was beautiful, and the bookstore was a lot of fun. The first 10 days or so were fantastic, and I was really into the whole communal lifestyle. But after that, when more and more people were using the same toilet and kitchen and energy, I needed a bit of alone time.

So I found ways to escape: spending hours on Katharos Beach, reading by the Castle, or even just heading up to the terrace for the sunset. I left feeling like I’d accomplished a lot, relaxed and worked and ate and played and learned, and met some amazing people while doing it.

When Pauline and I left for Crete, I think both of us assumed the highlight of our trip would be Knossos. Instead, I think she’d agree that it was the low point. But we LOVED Crete. Thursday evening we took a high-speed boat into Heraklion (ugliest city EVER):

ate seafood at an outdoor ouzerie (grilled octopus, fried sardines, and something else) while the cars sped by, and headed to Knossos in the morning.
 
What a disappointment.
I was expecting something like Pompeii, which I suppose is completely unrealistic. But still, we were so confused about what we were looking at that the whole trip felt a bit pointless. With barely any signage and most of the complex closed off for renovations, it felt like we were just wandering around piles of stones, with random, overly bright reconstructions thrown in every so often. Boo.

Back in the city, we decided to go to the Archaeological Museum, so that the city wasn’t a total loss. And that was a good idea, as the museum is currently closed for renovation so there is just a small building with highlights that was small and well curated.

Once in Rethymno we settled into our hostel and headed out to get the lay of the land. What a pretty city. It’s very touristy, but still quite nice. The Venetian influence is obvious in the old town, and our dinner by the fortress, overlooking the port, was fantastic. We had octopus in vinegar, cheese croquettes, and seafood risotto. After a free dessert and two free servings of dessert wine, we were stuffed full.

 
The next morning we woke up at an ungodly hour, and caught the 6:30 bus to Margarites, a small village about an hour outside Rethymno where they specialize in pottery. We arrived in the village at 7:45, with nothing open. We found one taverna where the woman served us a simple breakfast and said we could use the table until 10, when presumably the rest of the town would wake up. I napped for a bit, while Pauline read, and then we were off to explore.
Since the town is written about in guidebooks, and known for its ceramics, I was expecting the prices to be high, or at least normal. But instead, the first store we went into had a wine pitcher and six cups for 6€. Total. Pauline and I looked at each other and were like, fuck. We don’t have room for everything we’re going to want to buy. We could have each afforded to buy a whole table setting for four, if only we had room . . . Next time.
 
I did buy myself a small bowl (3€), and a few gifts. But ceramics are a hard thing to travel with, especially since I knew there would be three flights before anything reached the recipient. That’s a lot of opportunities to break, crack, or crumble.
We walked about a kilometer outside town to meet Manolis, the famous septuagenarian potter who still uses the original techniques, i.e. no electricity. His work is definitely a bit rough, but he’s hysterical. He spoke to us in German (Crete was heavily occupied, and destroyed, during WWII), and kept exclaiming “America! America!” and then hugging me. A few times I had to turn my head to avoid his kisses landing a bit too near my lips, but he was adorable and so proud of his work and his studio. Pauline and I both left with big smiles.
We had lunch overlooking a lush valley, with a breeze coming off the sea, and drank lots of Zeus juice. Back in town, we collapsed on our beds, despite the heat, and woke up to wander around town some more, and eat on a square with a church and the most massively unsteady electric tower ever. It looked like a small child could push it over and destroy the neighborhood.
 
The next morning, Saturday, saw us bussing it to Chania, another Venetian port town and our favorite of the three cities. Our hotel was pretty rocking, despite the asshole of a manager (sorry, P., it’s true), and we vowed to take advantage of the air conditioning, balcony, and huge beds later on. But first, we had to explore.
  Chania is lovely. We had lunch in the food market, stumbled into a free exhibit (featuring some photos of Manolis’ workshop), took way too many photos of doors, bought ridiculously cheap leather goods, and then returned to crash. Crete at the end of June is very hot, and despite our going through like 2 liters of water a day, we were just zonked. After a fantastic dinner (stuffed zucchini blossoms, feta, mushroom, and pepper pie, and baked sardines) we returned to conquer the packing beast. Pauline had to fit all of her new purchases into her bags, and I had to organize all my crap so that I had one bag for Athens, and the rest balanced so I wouldn’t fall over.
 
After a scant 3 hours of sleep, we were back to the bus stop. Me and Cretan bus stations are very good friends. I made it to the airport, and on to Athens. Which I loved. Everyone I’ve spoken to has said that the only thing worth seeing in Athens is the Acropolis, and that the rest of it is dirty and ugly. But I loved it.  
I walked through the flea market:
and found the sandal place that everyone talks about, Melissinos the Poet Sandal Maker. It’s now in its third generation, and has shod the feet of everyone from Jackie O. to the Beatles to Sofia Loren. They have a sandal “menu,” and rough sizes ready. When you choose your model and size, the owner cuts the shoe open and fits it precisely to your foot. I bought two pairs (the John Lennon and the Plato), for 25€ each. For hand-made, custom-fit shoes. Score.

Next I went to the Central Market, which was unfortunately closed for Sunday. But the taverna recommended by Lonely Planet was open, and man, was it good. My waiter even offered to store my water bottle in the fridge to cool while I ate.

I visited the National Archaeological Museum, and was completely blown away by the Mycenaean exhibits. My feet could only take so much, and I knew I had a lot of walking ahead of me, so I kind of raced through the vases and sculpture, and headed to the Acropolis.

 
I have to admit, I got a bit choked up when I first saw the Parthenon. I didn’t expect to be so moved by it, as I’m not a huge Greek history buff, but the history of the place just moved me. It would be fantastic to see it once all the restoration is finished, and the scaffolding removed.
And, of course, while sitting on a marble bench, looking up at the columns, I saw two people I went to high school with. I love that shit.
 

I walked around the whole Acropolis for a while, and really got shivery when I saw the Theater of Dionysus. I mean, drama was born there! In that spot! Euripides and Aeschylus and Sophocles all sat there and had their plays performed there and DRAMA WAS BORN THERE. Fucking awesome.

I doodled through the Plaka, remembering how much fun it is to travel alone. You meet so many people! I met New Yorkers and Frenchies and Canadians . . . people just talk to me when I’m traveling alone. I also found myself at an awesome crossroads. Standing in one spot, I took these two photos:
To my right, graffiti and African immigrants. To my left, the Roman Agora and the Tower of the Winds.
 
That’s part of why I loved Athens so much. In some cities (Berlin and Brussels, to name a couple) the mix of old and new just doesn’t work for me. But in Athens, the city has a life and an energy and is so very walkable that I definitely want to go back.
 
So, there’s my month in Greece. I want to say more about Santorini, but it’s so hard to describe three weeks . . . So here are just some of the moments I remember best: the boat trip I took with Anna, Tim, Quinn, Claire, and Erin. Or sitting in hammock chairs eating ice cream with Nerea. Seeing Pauline complete her film festival. Falling asleep and waking up surrounded by books. Taking silly pictures with Colleen. Hosting contests with the customers. Creating stop-action films over the course of a night. Completing the hike from Oia to Fira. One-upping Catherine with dirty comments, and mortifying Pauline in the process. Going drunk cliff jumping at 3am in Ammoudi. Seeing the sunset again and again. Speaking French and Italian and English, all in the space of 30 minutes. Watching crocodile porn, all piled into beds late at night. Eating on the terrace, surrounded by candles and stray dogs. Thank you to Atlantis Books for making it all possible.

Here, for your viewing pleasure, my three weeks in Santorini:

I just lived a moment out of Rent. Only without the crackheads and AIDS and homelessness. A very cute boy just rang my doorbell and asked if I have a light. He held out a candle, and I lit it, thinking that it's a shame he's most likely using the flame to lure his date into bed. What other reason could there be, when the sky is still blue and the sun is still shining at 9:12 pm?

For the past three weeks I've been in Oia, a small town on the Greek island of Santorini. More specifically, I've been living and working at Atlantis Books. I've had a fantastic time, and have tons of pictures of the fun: fires on the terrace, jumping off cliffs at night, boat trips around the island, and much more. I can't quite believe that the three weeks are up already, but I don't feel sad. I have a feeling I'll be back here . . .

In about an hour, Pauline and I are leaving for Crete. We'll spend four days there, and then I'm off for a day in Athens, before catching a flight back to Paris. Then I have about 30 hours in Paris, before flying to New York for nine days.

That's right, I'm taking three flights in three days, and will be in five very distinct places within the space of one week. I truly hope my body can handle the constant change and grossness of airplanes . . . Although I guess if I've managed to not get sick while living in the (beautiful but rather) dirty conditions here, I'll be fine.

So, there you have it. Sorry this isn't more interesting, and sorry I haven't been writing for the few months. I just haven't quite felt like it. I'm trying to shake that feeling though. Check back to see if I managed. ;)

Happy June!

Today is my saint's day. So I want presents. I don't care if I'm Jewish. Gimme stuff. For free. With ribbons on it. 

I'm now back in Paris, having arrived Sunday morning. And it's so hard.

My mom had a major stroke, with no warning. Five weeks beforehand we were hiking over waterfalls in Morocco, and now . . . I don't want to be too specific, as my mom is a very private person, so I'll just say that she's making progress, but it's slow, as apparently most strokes are. My mom is young and healthy, so we're hoping she'll make a full recovery, and she's in one of the best rehab clinics in the country. The problem is she's been there almost a month now, and she desperately wants to go home.

My trip to New York was originally going to be just over two weeks, and I extended it to four. Most of that time was spent at the hospital, from 3 to 8 hours a day. I was able to see most of my friends (Jeff and Josh, you're up first next time!), which was fantastic. I really felt supported and loved by all my friends who made time to see me, planned special events near the hospital so I could attend, and sent their love and prayers to room 110A. Every bit helped, so thank you all.

My trip was obviously not the vacation I was expecting it to be. Passover, instead of the elaborate, hours-long meal it normally is, was different but no less meaningful this year. We read the prayers and sang the songs and drank grape juice next to my mom's hospital bed. As the youngest, I sang the Four Questions and made everyone listen to me sing Chad Gadya in Aramaic. I really love that song. I got my hair cut, and went shopping at Old Navy, and attended my 10-year high school reunion (pics to come!), but my mind was always with my mom.

Making the decision to come back was really hard. And leaving her that day to go to the airport was one of the hardest things I've ever done, if not the hardest. My mom is my best friend, and I love her so much. I am truly blessed to have such a wonderful relationship with her, and to know that we love and respect each other both as mother and daughter, and as two women who can make each other laugh.

I talked to a lot of people about what to do: my therapist, my mom's friends, her doctors, my friends . . . and everyone told me that I have to continue my life. And my life is in Paris, as crazy and random as that may be. My dad actually flat out told me that I couldn't stay by saying, "I won't have your life turn into a Victorian novel, with you as the spinster who gives up her life to take care of her ailing mother!" To which I replied, "I'm only 28! I'm hardly a spinster."

Living at home with my dad, just the two of us, was really good. We had just spent a lot of time together in January, obviously, but I think it was important for both of us to have someone to say goodnight to. And to share dog-walking responsibilities! I swear, Teddy is the cutest thing in the world, and kept us both laughing every day. Look at my little muffinhead!

My sister and I worked very well together, sharing the jobs that come with a sick family member, while dad took care of insurance, doctors, and paperwork. Mom was never alone, due to our constantly emailing schedules back and forth. We alternated nights, so that each of us could get some time with our friends, and dad filled in when we both had plans. And now I left it all to them, and I feel so incredibly guilty.

I call a few times a day, but mom has up to six hours of rehab therapy every day, and in between she tries to grab naps. So even when I'm able to get hold of her, we can only talk for a few minutes. And I miss her terribly.

How do I do this? How do I just continue on with my life here, knowing that dad and Tessa are still at the hospital daily? How do I leave my mom to battle this without me? If anyone has advice, I could really use it right about now.

Sunday night, I got an emergency call from my father in New York. My mom had been admitted to the hospital, and I got on a plane Monday morning. By 1:45 pm, I was at my mom's side.

I don't want to go into details, or explain the story a million times. But I won't be blogging for a bit, as all of my energy is going into my family right now. If you need to get hold of me for any reason, email is the best bet. My old NYC cell phone number (for those of you in the States), is now back up and running.

Keep us in your prayers. It can't hurt.

In exactly six days, I will begin my descent into the New York City area. I can't wait. The past month has been a crazy rollercoaster of highs and lows. I've gained hope that I might be able to stay, and gained frustration at the way things work. I am still positive I want to be here long-term, but I am ready for a break.

Here, in no particular order, are the things I most want to eat when I get home:

• a medium-rare cheeseburger, with cheddar and sautéed onions, from JG Melon's
• sushi from Roppongi
• shredded beef Schezuan and Moo Shu chicken from First Wok
• sesame noodles from Tang Tang
• curry seafood flat noodle soup from Bo Ky
• mom's lasagna
• mom's sweet-and-sour brisket with orzo
• mom's spaghetti with meat sauce
• mom's curried lima bean soup
• mom's Chinese noodles
• mom's gunky chicken
• a grilled cheese sandwich, made with white bread, Kraft singles, and served with Campbell's tomato soup
• Diet Dr Pepper
• a tuna melt, again with Kraft singles, and way too much (Hellman's) mayo
  
• the house salad at Cosí
• a mild chicken banh mi at Nicky's Vietnamese
• dates wrapped with bacon and baked brie in puff pastry at Salt Bar
  
• whatever it was that I ordered when Jeff and I had lunch at that random place in Chinatown

I think you can all see where my priorities lie. Screw my family and friends, and bring on the food!

There is still all sorts of fall-out from the fire the other day, including my possible eviction and other fun topics. But I'm honestly so completely drained right now that I just can't talk about it. So I'm going to write about babies, instead.

Last Sunday Mike and Rion had a few friends over to meet their six-week-old bundle of love, Dante:

Look at that punim! Those cheeks! I just had to bite some part of him! Hmm, maybe his ears will do: