Luck and the merry-go-round of life

There are times in life where you realize you've just come full circle.  That's been happening to me over the last few weeks, and I have to laugh because, honestly, there is a bit of irony to life. But I'm optimistic about what it means to come full circle, and this optimism stems from a belief that the best merry-go-round rides are those where you stop and start at the exact same point.

I didn't create this belief on my own.  I actually heard it when I was about 8 years old, from another girl who explained that it was lucky to stop and start at the same spot. I have no idea where she came up with this concept, but, being 8 years old, I adopted it.  Since then, if I'm on a carnival ride, I always want the guy to end the ride so I finish at the same point I started.  Thirty years later, and I still love to test my luck on those merry-go-round rides.

So. How is my life coming around full circe? I'm going to share this in theorem fashion.  Actually, I'm not totally sure this is in theorem format.  What little I remember about them comes from my 10th grade geometry class where I learned that I needed to end everything with "Q.E.D.".  I don't know the translation, but it means "it's been proven" or something like that.  That's pretty much all I learned in geometry, and I only learned that about 3/4 of the way through the semester when I noticed I was getting points taken off for forgetting to end with Q.E.D. and I could write pretty much anything and, as long as I put Q.E.D. at the end, I'd get partial credit.  I love partial credit.  In other words, feel free to give me partial credit for the following theorem:

August 2010: I'm in marketing. I'm in the pharmaceutical industry.
September 2010: I'm not in marketing. I'm not in the pharmaceutical industry. I'm in France eating baguettes, drinking wine and learning French.
January 2011: I'm not IN marketing, but I'm teaching marketing. I'm giving some marketing advice.
May 2011: I'm teaching marketing. I'm consulting about marketing. But I'm not in the pharmaceutical industry.
September 2011: I'm teaching marketing. I'm consulting about marketing. I'm consulting about a genetic company start-up. But genetics isn't pharma, right?
November 2011: I'm teaching marketing. I'm preparing to teach a class about pharmaceutical marketing (see where the irony starts?). I'm consulting about genetics. I'm reading a textbook about the pharmaceutical industry and it's talking about DNA, how it's being sequenced and the application to clinical research.  I switch to working on my consulting project about genetics.  I open a document and read a debate about sequencing DNA de novo (from scratch) versus using a shotgun approach. I go back to my textbook. Same content. Suddenly, I realize:

I'm in marketing. I'm in the pharmaceutical industry.

I'm on a very funny merry-go-round ride.  But it's not a bad place to be.

Q.E.D.

Cocktail Parties

I remember several years of going to cocktail parties where people would ask me what was new in my life, and I wouldn't have an answer. I was in graduate school, working full-time, dating the same guy, etc.  Life was uneventful.  People look very disappointed when you don't have an answer to their question of "What's new?".  I dreaded it, and felt a lot of pressure to make things up.  But, I would just look into my drink, shrug my shoulders, and answer "Nothing, really" (or give a really lame response) before asking what was new for them.  Inevitably, I'd hear about their engagement, or wedding, or childbirth.  This may have been the period in my life where I really learned to appreciate wine.

Of course, I realize that no one was trying to make me feel like my life was stagnant, staid or boring.  And I am sure I've asked the same question to hundreds of people, unwittingly scrutinizing their appetite for change.  But, the question consistently served to remind me that I felt like my life wasn't going forward in the way I wanted it to.

Now I've made changes that have accumulated over the years, with a unique blend of stability, constancy and newness.  I've moved forward in a direction that I love, and I appreciate the moments of peace and the feeling of being more settled.  I'd like to go back to those cocktail parties and answer differently.  I'd imply that new things were on the way.  I know that now, if I ever get to the point where I'm at a cocktail party and have nothing new to report, I'll look down and say "Nothing" and then I'll look up, make eye contact, smile and say "Yet", all the while enjoying my glass of wine.

An Earthquake? Really?

This morning I got out of bed on the wrong side.  I didn't get 'up on the wrong side of the bed', meaning that I still woke up in a good mood, but I just decided to get out of bed from a different direction.  Somehow, this caused my entire day to unfold in a series of events that made it feel like "Opposite Day", like the kids' game where no means yes, or you do the opposite of what you would normally do.
I have a lot of evidence that today was Opposite Day.  For example, there was an earthquake that hit the East Coast instead of the West Coast.
Actually, as far as examples go, I feel like this one really makes its point.  I was sitting on my couch, working on the computer, with the TV on but sound muted (taking the advice from friends about how to work full-time from a home office!) and suddenly I thought my television was going to tip over and my house collapse.  Happily, neither happened.
Later in the day, I tried, unsuccessfully to find a Kettlebell exercise group.  I got lost (the only 'normal' thing that happened today) and missed the class.  Instead, I went for a run and then grocery shopping.  I did my food shopping because my lunch had consisted of nacho chips and salsa and I had nothing to eat for dinner.  Despite buying healthy choices, I found myself scarfing down an ice cream car in the grocery store parking lot.  Yes, my dinner was an ice cream bar and some watermelon.  My defense is that I did exercise.  However, when I got in my car and turned on the radio, Bon Jovi was belting out "I'm going down in a blaze of glory"  Yikes.  Between the horrible eating, the earthquake and other random events that had me flummoxed today, I felt like this song could be a warning.  But, because it's Opposite Day, I just belted out the lyrics and resolved to get out of bed on the right side tomorrow morning.  Wish me luck.

Finding focus...

I've got about six projects going on. Maybe eight.  All happening at once, all requiring focus and energy.  Unfortunately, there are distracting and tempting TV marathons on cable during the summer.  I'm finding that Project Runway, Tabitha's Salon Takeover and House seem intriguing, even relevant.  I hope it's actually just that I like the background noise.  Most of the time, I can't tell you how the TV show ended, or who won.
This summer has been productive, though.  I'm spending time networking, have finished some key deliverables, and am consistently scheduling in things like "fun" and "exercise".  In a way, it's ideal because I can meet a friend for lunch, and work at night.  My time is my own. But I am realizing it's difficult to track how much I'm accomplishing.  I mean, I think I could say that I've partially listened to most of season 6,7 and 8 of America's Next Top Model.   Though I do feel more prepared for shooting a Cover Girl commercial, if I'm ever asked ("Easy, breezy, beautiful. Cover Girl." Yep - got it.), but I'm not sure that is going to get me as far as I need to go.
Anyway, I could use some help. I started a grid. It's got short- and long-term tasks on it. I'm getting back to an old-school approach of crossing things off a paper list.  But, I could use some more tips on finding focus. Help?

Pets

Recently I had the opportunity to pet-sit, which brought back a buried memory.  I've only had one other pet-sitting experience, and it was a disaster.

To set the stage, you should know it was Minnesota, winter, and cold.  I was 20 years old, interning for a financial securities firm. My boss asked me to stay in her house while she and her husband went on vacation.  I didn't really know how to say no, so I agreed to do it.  The idea was that I'd watch her two dogs, and in return get to stay in her huge mansion and watch big-screen TV.

It sounded pretty good until I realized that the heat was set at about 60 degrees and one of her dogs was in heat. My boss had casually mentioned both these issues.  She gestured towards the heating system and said "I'm sure you know how that works, just click here and the heat will come on".  I didn't know how it worked.  And the demonstration did not help. And when she sort of mentioned the possibility of her large female dog going into heat, I had no idea what that meant either.  I had the vague impression that a dog in heat meant that she would shake or give off some sort of scent. I called my boss in a panic when the dog started to bleed.  She told me I had to put a padded girdle on the dog and regularly change the pad.  Oh, and make sure the other dog didn't get a chance to impregnate her.

Yeah, right.  Each of those dogs weighed 100 pounds.

In any case, I soon found myself at the pet store saying the word "bitch" and meaning an actual dog.  My face was bright red.  Equipped with the right supplies, I prepared to outfit the girl dog with her protective apparatus.  The dog took one look at me and ran.  I finally captured her and strapped it on.  Neither of us had our dignity intact after this exercise.  But, the leather straps were on and I had a few hours in which I could shiver under several blankets, remote control in hand.  The dog, meanwhile, was hiding in the back of her outdoor doghouse.

Time was up, and I knew I had to take on the dirty work.  I called for the dog to come out.  "Haha", laughed the dog (or at least that's how I interpreted her expression).  And this is how I came to find myself crawling on my hands and knees through the snow to find a dog in heat.  This was not my finest hour.  Evidently, the dog felt the same way.  A few hours later, I found the leather girdle chewed in half. It was off the dog.  My memory gets a little cloudy here, but I have a dim recollection of giving up and spending the next few days trying to stay warm while keeping the dogs apart from each other.

Surprisingly, she didn't get pregnant. Not surprisingly, I didn't pursue a career as a pet sitter.

My second pet-sitting experience, while marginally better, hasn't changed my mind.  I still have no future as a pet-sitter.  But, strangely, I kind of want a dog.

Mail Call

For the last several weeks, I have been eagerly anticipating delivery of my MAC Cosmetics Professional discount card in the mail.  This has caused me to actually pay attention to mail delivery, its frequency and content.  Normally, I just toss it all in a pile and open it once a week or so.  I find that my mail is mostly dull, full of bills and unnecessary credit card offers, and by opening it less frequently, I minimize my boredom and make fewer trips to the recycling bin.

Before this, I could honestly tell you that I thought I received mail every day, except Sundays.  But waiting for the delivery of this card has completely opened my eyes.  The US Postal Service has stopped delivering mail to my street. Okay, that's an exaggeration.  In reality, I believe that my zip code is part of a clandestine test marketing schema to ascertain whether anyone complains about mail delivery cutbacks.   I believe that the USPS has started to deliver mail three times per week.  On the fourth day they just dump some flyers containing coupons in your mailbox.  Specifically, those newspaper-y ones that are really thick that look like you have lots of mail but you don't.  Instead, you just have something that seems impossible to grab, and when you lift it out of the mailbox it falls apart and you suddenly have 75 pages of newspaper that you are trying to bring in the house with one hand while simultaneously carrying a purse and computer bag over the same shoulder, while shutting off the beeping house alarm with the other hand, using your hip to keep the screen door open, and one foot to keep the cats inside the house.  The other foot is needed for balance, but somehow ends up having to take on the role of dragging the newspaper-y advertisements into the house before the kitties decide you've brought them a new form of litter.  Yes, these are the papers that take up a lot of space in your mailbox, so you think you have lots of things to open.  And after you throw them away, you worry that maybe your MAC Cosmetics Professional discount card got stuck in between the pages, so you feel compelled to go through the advertisements to double check.  And perhaps you discover a discount coupon that is quite useful (e.g. $3 off of L'Oreal products) but reminds you that what you really want is being held hostage at the USPS.  This seems to happen on Thursdays.

Clearly this card has caught my attention. Many of you know I enrolled in esthetician school, where I am happily doling out skincare tips, providing facials, and waxing hair from various body parts.  Very satisfying work. You probably did not know that the school includes professional make-up application training.  Voila!  I can call myself a professional make-up artist AND I can get a discount on MAC products to create my own make-up kit for professional use.  I'm EXCITED about this.  I love make-up. I just need access to the stupid card and life will be perfect.

So, back to the conspiracy being conducted by the US Postal Service.  I know for a fact that a friend of mine mailed a letter to me over a week ago.  Maybe a bit less than a week. I guess I really don't know this as a "fact" per se. But, in any case, I'm waiting for a letter. And I sent away for a magazine subscription to Allure and I haven't gotten that, either.

I did, however, receive a book in the mail.  It was from my father.  The book is about a horse.  My dad had enclosed a note that simply said "Per your request".  Curious, I opened the book. The pages are yellowed and some are dog-eared.  And on the inside front cover, a very young me had written in childish cursive "Property of Erika.  If found, return to owner".

I'm not sure when he mailed it. Judging from the yellow pages, it could have been quite awhile ago.  LOL. But at least I have something to read while I wait for the mail.  Whenever it comes.

Recommendations in Lisbon: First day Iris was there

Lisbon has a charming juxtaposition of old buildings with hand-painted tiles, next to those covered in bright graffiti.  Like all older cities, there are distinct neighborhoods with distinct identities: Alfama, home to Castelo Sao Jorge; Baixa, the heart of the city with high-end shopping on it's Avenida de Liberdade; Barrio Alto, an area that truly awakens at night with restaurants, bars and clubs; and Belem, one of the oldest sections of Lisbon.

Belem
You can get to by taking a little streetcar (expect a bit of a wait for the tram to arrive, and for it to be crowded).  While in Belem, be sure to visit the Jeronimo Monastery and walk through the gardens nearby.  If you have time, walk near the sea and visit Belem Tower.  For lunch: My friend and I ate an omelette de gambas at Restaurante Belem Palacio; it was full of locals and quite good.

On the way back from Belem, we took the tram back to Praca Figueria and walked down Rua Portas St. Antonio, which is very cute.  We stopped for a beverage at Casa 7 Cafe and chatted with friendly Lisboans.

For dinner in the same area, I'd recommend Adego do Arturo (location: Rua das Portas de St Antao, Baixa).  Like many restaurants in Lisbon, there is outdoor seating, as well as indoor seating.  I tried serra cheese and cracked wheat bread as an appetizer.  Serra is a soft cheese with a sharp aftertaste, and it was very good when paired with the bread; rustic, filling and tasty.  (Remember - if you eat the bread or snacks they put on the table, they will charge you for it).  For dinner, I had the Bacalhau a Braz, which is salted cod with eggs, onion and potatoes mixed like its been scrambled together with parsley sprinkled on top.  It was great!  For dessert, I tried abacaxci (pineapple) soaked in port and learned that I prefer pineapple to be separate from port, but it was still okay.  The ambience and location of the restaurant, plus the quality of food, makes it a great choice for dinner near bustling Rossio Square.

Boggle

2011 seems like a year of turmoil for many of us.  Politically, the world is in turmoil, and individually, many people are taking on radical change.  Perhaps it's all a reaction to the recently turbulent economy, or maybe it stems from an optimistic belief that we don't need to accept the status quo.  Either way, I've seen a pattern of daring, and I'm energized by it.

At the same time, it's a bit unnerving and unsettling to be in the midst of change.  Change can feel overwhelming, and the small steps of accomplishment often get buried under all that's left to do.  Success isn't guaranteed and it takes faith to continue to work towards a result that you can't quite see. 

My friend Linda aptly described change as feeling like the game-pieces in Boggle: being all shaken up, and not knowing what the result will be.  All you know is that the pieces will land at some point, and you will need to be able to spell a word from them. I love the image, and I believe it holds the secret to successful change: trusting that, no matter how the pieces fall, you will use them to craft a solution.  It's believing that you can get through the shake-up, you will recognize what you have, and use it to build a future.

It's so simple that it really boggles the mind.

(Ha-ha. I couldn't resist.)

One More Day. One Day More.

Have you ever slowed down to think about the overlapping moments of our lives?  When I was living in Paris, life in the United States seemed remote.  I was completely entrenched in a different society and routine.  I returned to the States, and life in Paris seemed remote.  Perhaps this could be credited to my ability to assimilate, but I have a feeling it's just the way we humans are about life.  We tend to live the life that's in front of us, while contemplating the one we want to build.  Living today, and anticipating tomorrow.
The TV channel PBS has been airing a concert rendition of Les Miserables every night for the past week.  The first night I saw it, I stared transfixed at the television, watching the passionate build-up to the song "One Day More".  An escaped convict, Jean Valjean, is raising a girl named Cosette in an effort to right a wrong.  A group of young revolutionaries plan to overthrow the government.  A couple, who are dishonest innkeepers, plot to profit from the political unrest.  Their daughter Éponine is secretly, hopelessly in love with a revolutionary named Marius. The day before the battle, however, Marius meets and falls in love with Cosette and wonders whether he should stand with his friends or follow his heart.  The cast joins together in a ballad, each sharing their point of view on the day's events, and their thoughts about the following day.    
Suddenly, it struck me again just how differently each of us live the same 24 hours.  That day, I was grading papers and watching Les Mis on television, anticipating school the following day.  Yet, in Libya, there are revolutionaries fighting against a corrupt dictator. In Egypt, people are reacting to a new way of life and perhaps beginning to feel the effects of a significant economic impact.  A friend in Paris was sleeping.  Another was working late.  In my own city, someone else was giving birth.  Someone was recovering from an accident.  Someone was falling in love.  Someone was comforting a friend.  Someone was laughing on the phone.  
We are all sharing the same moment in time, all anticipating the next, each with our own day and our own way. Our own perspective. Our own moment.
Yet somehow together.

Winter, winter, winter.

Rousing myself out of bed to shovel snow for the umpteenth time this winter made me feel like an old and cranky adult.  I've got to get up early in order to do my part  because my amazing and energetic neighbors shovel for me if I don't join them quickly enough (which happens more often than not).  But this year I've resolved to make a change: I'm trying to be out there next to them.
Mmmmm.  May have picked the wrong winter for self-evolution. 
Yesterday, after spending three hours complaining my way through shoveling snow, I started to wonder if what actually needs to change is my attitude.  I'm never going to be a fan of winter.  Perhaps I over-dosed on it as a kid in Minnesota.  Then it started to warm up, and the snow turned into that sticky fun kind.  I started remembering that snow is actually kind of pretty.   I started remembering how much fun it can be to play in.  I furtively made a snowball and threw it.  Then I made another. 
And another. 
And then I smiled.

Back to Life? Back to Reality

I'm back in the States, and slowly adjusting to the fact that I can speak English wherever I go.  This is probably a bigger adjustment than you may expect, but I shall explain.  After leaving Paris, I went to visit my friends in Lebanon.  It was supposed to be just for a long weekend, and I had a flight booked to Philadelphia, followed by another flight to Minnesota to see family.  My flight to Philadelphia was through London.  Hmmm.  London was paralyzed by snow.  I was a bit out of touch with the news, however, when I arrived at the Hariri airport in Beirut expecting to be able to board the plane. I checked my luggage (two hefty bags) and went to drink a NesCafe while I waited for the boarding call.  About an hour before the flight, I walked over to the gate.  Everything seemed fine, though I noticed there were fewer people in the waiting area than I would have thought.  About ten minutes later, I looked up and saw that they had turned out the lights on the signage above the waiting area and above the gate.  There was a circle of people surrounding the airline agents, and all of them were talking and gesturing. The lady in the middle looked a bit intimidated.  Suddenly, I realized the following:
1. Lights out must mean the flight was canceled.
2. I don't speak Arabic.  Well, ana btihke arabe schwai schwai schwai and definitely not enough to discuss flight cancelations.
3. My blackberry was dying.
4. I had packed the cord away in my luggage.
5. I had no idea what to do.
I had gotten my passport stamped and it said I was leaving the country.  Was it possible to just walk out of the airport?  How would I get my bags?  How would I explain what was happening to the customs agents?  Where was I going to go?
In the States, I'd be on the phone with the airline or a travel agent, re-booking a flight on another airline, or walking to the gate of another flight and negotiating a seat on stand-by.  In Beirut, I was a foreigner with a lot of questions amidst a crowd of angry passengers.
A kind man started translating for me.  "They are saying that the flight is canceled. 
- No, it is delayed until 4pm. 
- But it is only for people flying to London.  If you are flying out of London, you can't be on the flight.
- These people are angry because they have been trying to fly for 2 days and can't leave".
I looked at him and asked what I should do.  He joined the crowd and spoke with a commanding voice.  The lady made eye contact with me and said something which was probably like 'tough luck, kiddo'.  The man looked at me and said, "You will have to go back to the ticket agent, or to the ticket office".
"But that's on the other side of security", I answered.
"Yes", he said.
"But maybe there is another flight, or perhaps I could fly through another city.  And don't I need to re-book a flight before I just leave the airport? And I already got my passport stamped." I'm not sure if I said all of these things, or if I thought some of them and said others, but the man could clearly see that I was overwhelmed.

So he helped me.  He walked me through the airport and introduced me to a manager. The manager explained that I would need to cancel my flight and collect my bags immediately.  I repeated my goal of re-booking the flight, or seeing if there were flights through a different city.  He looked at me with knowing eyes, and said "Okay, okay.  You will go talk to the ticket office, and then you will call this number for the bags".  He then kindly passed me along to the customs official, who politely stamped "CANCELED" on my passport stamp. 
I was free to roam about in the country again.  Without an interpretor.  That being said, most people in Lebanon speak either English or French.  But I knew I would need a persuasive selling style to really learn my options.  And I wasn't confident I could do that without Arabic.
I was using my dying blackberry to message Rana, continually interrupting her during an important strategy meeting at work, and asked her to please call Mike.  Mike is persuasive and fluent in three languages.  Rana told me he was coming, but he was a few hours away from the airport.  I had to try this on my own.
I went to the ticket counter and asked about a flight for the following day.  The man said "You can't leave before Christmas."  Followed by, "But Beirut is beautiful at Christmas.  Why you wanna leave?  You will just stay here and you will leave on 26 December".
When I stared at him in shock, he pointed at the newspaper on his desk.  I couldn't read the words, but t here was a giant photo of the passengers who were stranded at the airport in London. "See?", he asked "It's better here".
I agreed that staying in Beirut was better than sitting on the airport floor in London paying hundres of pounds for airport food.  But I still thought it would be even better to be in Minnesota with my family.  I repeated my questions about booking a ticket through another city, or booking for the following day.  He calmly turned his computer screen towards me and showed me a list of flights (or at least that's what I think it was). "26 December".
"I need to talk with my friend", I replied.
At this point I was a bit shell-shocked.  Not get home for Christmas?  I hoped Mike could get a different answer for me.  In the meantime, I went and bought a local phone and a blackberry charger.  I felt better once I knew I was able to physically communicate, even if I was still missing some language skills.
When Mike arrived, we went back to the guy in the ticket office.  We got the same story.  Details aside, the 26th of December is what he could offer.  We decided to call the travel agent in the States, to see what she could do.  With the time difference, however, we had to wait.  So, we decided to go get my bags.
Mike wasn't allowed through security with me because he didn't have a boarding pass.  I was on my own again.  Luckily, the guy on the other side spoke French.  Or at least he tried.  He sent someone to search for my bags, and listened wearily while I bemoaned my fate.  Another man approached me to tell me they could not find my bags.  I would have to file a lost baggage claim.
I walked back through security and told Mike what happened.  Mike went into crisis management mode.  For two hours, we cruised through different sections of the airport, with Mike leading the charge in his rapid-fire Lebanese, being friendly but stern, and repeating that the bags must be in the airport because bags are not allowed to fly without a passenger.  Personally, I was ready to go drink a glass of wine, and start shopping for new clothes.  But he was a man with a mission.  At the lost baggage claim desk, when they implied that three people had already looked for my luggage, and it was my fault that my bags were missing, he insisted that I be able to go search myself.  Suddenly, I was being taken alone through another security gate and was in the lost luggage area.  It felt reminiscent of Serbia (where my luggage was lost for 24 hours, and I had to borrow a taxi driver as interpretor), and I realized I was actually able to better communicate in Beirut than Serbia.  I immediately spotted my bags.  They were in the wrong spot - in front of the counter, instead of behind the counter in the storage area - and I could see why they were overlooked.  Well, not really, but facts are facts.  I tried to get someone's attention, but nobody responded to my English or French.  Finally, I touched someone by the arm.
"Ana", I pointed at myself.
"Wahed. Hamra. Heyda". (One. Red. There.) I said, pointed at my red bag.  The guy and I both started laughing at my pigeon Arabic, but he nodded and got my point.  So we walked over and he asked if there was another.
"Nain" I said, meaning I had two bags.  I pointed at the second bag.  "Akid". Okay.  And he got me a little luggage scooter rack, piled my bags on top, and off I went. 
The ticket was eventually resolved.  We had to go in person to a ticket office and get it confirmed. A few days later, there was a snowstorm in Philadelphia, and Mike skillfully negotiated out of the financial penalty to re-book the ticket and got me on yet another flight.  However, after four trips to the MEA ticket office, several long converstions with the airlines, and one extended baggage search, I have since decided that, if I'm going to travel to Beirut, I need to learn Arabic.  And preferably, fly with carry-on.
Language lessons, anyone?

Just a bit of a rant...

My week hasn't been the best. I fell while walking last Saturday night, scraping my knees and ripping a pair of jeans. Sunday I got the flu.  I will spare you the details, but I felt like I might die, and that dying might be an option to pursue. Tuesday my internet connection went out.  Wednesday I had a relapse of the flu in the midst of the worst storm to hit Paris in 50 years.  Throughout this time, I kept bumping my knees and causing the scabs to break and one of my knees to bleed. Suffice it to say that, by Friday, I was convinced that I was living under a temporary black cloud and my mood reflected it.  I felt cranky, frustrated, and sick.  Not such a good combination.  However, for the most part, I took my anger out on strangers and just whined a lot to my friends.  Yes, the poor innocent strangers.  But the one who bore the brunt of my frustration was a girl in the metro station who was trying to follow me through the turnstile in order to avoid paying the fare.  Normally I'd roll my eyes and let it go.  But this time I got self-righteously angry and yelled at her, "I said NO!" when she followed me through after I'd told her not to.  Unfortunately, because I was still feeling like a truck had run over me, I screamed in English, so I think she missed the true gist of what I said.  She looked very unperterbed as she walked to catch her train.  I threw furious glances at her back and imagined bad things happening to her.  Okay, my imagination wasn't that vivid, all I could come up with was a vision of her getting caught and fined by the metro police.  I still hope the metro police caught her. 
Hm. Guess the fury hasn't completely disappeared. 
Anyway, I felt well enough to go out Friday evening, and met my friend Ader for a drink in the Bastille.  I was cautiously optimistic enough that I would be able to (1) walk, and (2) walk without falling, so I wore a pair of high heels.  This has nothing to do with the story, except perhaps illustrate that I believe that, when life takes a turn for the worse, it usually takes a turn for the better at some point, and I'm always on the lookout for that moment when things are better.  So,  I wore my high heels.  The night was great, and I had a lot of fun chatting with my friend.  By the time we left, I'd over-stayed my energy and was starting to feel that metro-police wishing crankiness again.
And the universe, in her eternal kindness, forced me to endure something that I have come to hate: a noisily kissing couple on the metro.
I know Paris is a romantic city, full of so much love and beauty that it just makes everyone, no matter the age, want to revel in happy coupledom.  And that's perfectly fine - when it's me.  But when it's everyone else, I find it extremely annoying.  And for the couple on the metro last night, who slurped, and groped and fondled their way through 8 metro stops with me, I hope the metro police catch you and give you a big fine.
xx 

Souvenirs

One of my favorite words, "souvenir" in French means "to remember".  Of course, I often think of this when I'm on vacation and buying a small trinket to bring home.  But I like it as an idea, too.  I picture my memory being full of small gifts from faraway moments, but with the added benefit of me not having to dust anything.

Part of the reason I came to France was to spend time with my souvenirs from 2009.  As many of you know, I went through treatment for cancer a bit like... I don't know... someone who was fighting tooth and nail to keep her sense of self and some semblance of normality in her life.  For me, this meant working, surrounding myself with friends, and jumping on any plane that would take me close to friends and family as often as I could.  I got enough out of life to feel like I was living, despite my body feeling like it was dying.  I pushed myself.  Hard. 

I knew that at some point I'd need to sift through my souvenirs and decide what they mean to me.  I guess it's natural that I was thinking about it here in Paris.  Paris is the place where I discovered the lump in my breast.  Paris is where I came the weekend before my surgery.  After chemo, when I couldn't recognize myself anymore because I was heavier from the steroids, hairless, with no eyelashes or eyebrows and a face totally broken out in a rash, I went to Paris, looked in the mirror and saw a tiny glimpse of me - just a little glint in my eyes.  Paris is the place I came after radiation, despite being utterly exhausted, and it's the place where I told myself I was getting better, that I had more energy, and it was safe to let things get better.

It's a daunting task to think about living after going through an ordeal, any ordeal - cancer, loss of a friend or relative, a break-up.  And when you are moving at the pace I chose, it's not that easy to remember what happened.  On the plus side, my friend Stacey documented quite a bit for me with photos, which I looked at tonight for the first time in more than a year.  It's amazing how a tiny picture can elicit such strong recall.
And the funny thing is that through the photos, I just see my family and friends sitting there next to me, supporting whatever crazy idea I had, regardless of whether it's what they would have chosen or not.  There are photos of smiling friends at my house, bearing food and flowers.  I see the stress and worry in their eyes, but also the love and support. There are photos of my mom and I in Sydney, Australia while I was in between my last two rounds of chemo.  Despite her strong objections, my mom endured a 19-hour flight just to be with me and make sure I was okay.  There are photos of a big group of friends who came over the day I chose to cut my hair, in preparation for losing it all.  This day is among the hardest to remember, because it was the day I fully transformed from looking like myself to someone I couldn't recognize.  But it was a day that was so incredibly full of love, that later, when I washed my hair over and over to let it all come out in clumps, I was able to say goodbye and let the next phase come.

When I was diagnosed, it was vitally important for me to surround myself with memories of why I was living.  I wanted to keep those reasons front and center.  And I did.  They are in my photos, smiling loved ones holding my hand. 

Now these memories have become part of my treasure chest of souvenirs, and they have helped me reach the place where I can again let the next phase come.     
   

A postscript

Just wanted to provide an update that Iris did wake up, and once she woke up there was no stopping her!

We found time to drink champagne on the top floor of Printemps department store, to drink champagne at Le Meurice hotel for Thanksgiving with friends Nicole and Bristol, and to drink champagne during a river cruise down the Seine. 

Of course, it's easy to find time to drink champagne. 

Believe it or not, we managed to fit in some actual activities - a museum, a church, a graveyard, a trip to the Hammam, dinners out, a jazz club... lots of stuff!

Her secret was coffee.  :)

The Visit from Sleeping Beauty

Honest to God, I've never watched someone sleep so much in my life.  My friend Iris is here in Paris, all the way from Las Vegas, which has a 9 hour time difference.  I should have been tipped off to her exhaustion when she walked into my apartment and asked, "Where is the bedroom?"
At first, I thought she asked because of a miscommunication about the size of my apartment.  I had indicated I had a 600 square foot studio.  Unfortunately, she told me it's about 200 square feet.  I was never good at geometry. Or geography.  I'm pretty terrible at anything that starts with "geo".  But I'm really good with a clock.

So here is our schedule so far this week:

Saturday night: Iris falls asleep at 9:30.  (In her defense she had been up for 36 hours).
Sunday afternoon: Iris wakes up after a 14-hour snooze.
Sunday afternoon (later): Iris falls asleep at the movies. (In her defense, it was rainy and cold that day, and the movie theater was dark)
Sunday evening: After being awake for almost 8 hours, she heads to bed.
Monday afternoon: After just sleeping 12 hours, she groans and wonders whether I could bring her some tea. (I do). I'm thinking it's a little extreme to sleep so much, but also that she's making up for all the lost hours and still adjusting to the time zone.
Monday evening: Iris is revved up in Montmartre, drinking champagne and coffee.  She wants to walk home after dinner with some friends.  I start thinking "okay, good, she's adjusted to the time zone now".  She makes plans to do a day trip to Versailles.  I've got a meeting and can't go along.
Tuesday morning:  I wake up early, expecting Iris will soon follow.  9am: She stirs. I open the shades. 10am: She rolls over. I turn on the TV. 11am: I hear a sigh. I turn on the lights. Noon: She gets up, after a restful 12 hour nap, and tells me she feels awake for the first time since she's been here.  I roll my eyes and make her tea.
Tuesday night:  We decided to go home early.  Iris' recollection is that it was rainy and cold.  (Seriously, it's Paris, it's almost always rainy and a bit cold, so she's probably right).  Along the way, she theorizes that now we'll able to get up early and do some touring in Paris.  I suggest we go out for breakfast and grab croissants.  She suggests that I go get them and bring them back.  I counter with a different idea.  There is a little cafe near my place that has a great ambience and tons of cute bankers that stop for breakfast before work, and I've always wanted to go.  She agrees and we decide to wake up early.
Wednesday morning:  One of us wakes up early (me, obviously).  Iris gets up to get some water around 8:30 and mumbles "What time is it? Oh, it's so early, I'm going to go back to sleep".  9am, 10am, 11am... 11:30am...I wake her up and tell her she's slept another 12 hours. 
"We missed the bankers at breakfast", she says. 
"Yep". I reply. 
"Well," she ponders "maybe we can catch them at lunch".
And that's how this week has been going. :) 
 

La Tour Eiffel is Looking Up

My first trip to Paris did not foreshadow, in any way, my future connection to the capital of France.  I came to a cold, windy, rainy city in early November, after I had just vacationed in sunny, beautiful Barcelona.  We hadn't planned our Parisian vacation very well, and all I knew was that I needed to see the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Elysses.  So four of us started our Parisian adventure by going to see the Tower.  We arrived alongside six or seven hundred of our closest friends, waited in a long line for tickets that would let us go to the summit, and crammed ourselves in an elevator to go to the first level.  We disembarked, and looked out.  It looked gray.  We jammed ourselves back into the elevator and went to the second level.  Still gray, but we found a place to buy des gaufres (Belgian waffles) with nutella and whipcream.  After a debate regarding whether to go to the top or not, we decided to go. Part of this debate took place in front of the elevator, during the 30 minute wait.  I could tell that many other groups were having the same conversation.  I could interpret the gestures - men pointing down to the ground, women staring fixedly ahead, children pulling at the hands of their parents, people looking up wondering where in the hell was the elevator, energetic youngsters searching for stairs - even though I couldn't understand the words.  Finally, the elevator arrived and we were able to shove ourselves inside.  We made it to the very top, about two hours after we had started our journey.  We looked out.  It looked gray.  Worse, it had started to rain.
After this experience, I heard several other similar stories, so I know I wasn't alone in feeling like once I had "checked the box" on seeing the Eiffel Tower, I never needed to go back.
Fast forward a couple of years, and I was back in Paris on a whim.  A friend wanted to celebrate her birthday and four of us decided to go abroad.  We found a good deal to Paris over Bastille Day.  Three of us had been to Paris before, and one - my friend Deb - had not.  We negotiated experiences over a dinner to plan the trip (imagine! a dinner to plan a trip!) and debated the La Tour Eiffel destination.  I conceded to go on a bus tour of Paris (I know these are very practical ways to see a city, and I've done them many times, but I always feel like SUCH a tourist), but flatly refused to go up the Eiffel Tower again.  I offered to go to the Champ-de-Mars, and go so far as to look under the Tower, but on a three day trip, I said, I did not want to spend 2-3 hours with hoards of tourists on a hot July day.  Two of my friends agreed, and Deb lost her dream of going to the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Until yesterday.
I give her a lot of credit for her ability to bide her time and negotiate over the course of several years.  She has a very subtle style, so much so that it's almost unnoticeable.
It started by her buying a ticket to see me in Paris, and casually asking what we should do.  I offered a few ideas, skipping over the issue of whether to visit the tall metal sculpture near the center of the city. 
Then, she checked in to make sure I was okay.  Evidently the American press had been eagerly covering a risk of attack in Paris, and that the red zone included top tourist desinations such as the Eiffel Tower.  We were joking around on instant messaging.  I sent "You don't have to worry about me being anywhere nearby there" at the same time she sent "Now you'll never let me go there".  We laughed at each other's jokes, but I knew that the dream was still somewhere in the back of her mind.  Or probably at the very front.
So when she arrived yesterday and asked me to show her where we were on a map, I wasn't too surprised to see her eyes drift longingly to the 7eme arrondissement on other side of the Seine.  Unfortunately it was a cloudy gray morning.  I suggested that we go to a few museums, because it's an easier thing to do when it's a bit overcast, but also because when you are fighting jet lag, it's good to be visually engaged and it's an activity that's not too tiring.  I sensed a bit of disappointment, but she didn't say anything.  We started our day with a pause for coffee on Rue Montorgueil, then made our way over to the Rodin Museum.  Next we decided to stop for a late lunch in the 7th district.  Her eyes widened when I pointed to the Eiffel Tower looming in the background as we walked to lunch.  I could hear the wheels turning in her brain, but it was kind of raining and cloudy, and it wouldn't have been a good time to go.  After eating, we went to the Musee des Arts Premiers (Musee Quai Branly) and saw a very interesting exhibit titled "Baba Bling".  When we walked out, the weather had cleared, and we were only two blocks away from the Tower.  Qu'elle chance! It was her moment. 

We hustled over to the monument, saw that the ticket lines were not long at all, and hurridely queued.  Right after we got in line, we saw bunches of tourists meandering towards the ticket office.  Perfect, we beat the rush and bought our tickets in less than 10 minutes.  We boarded the first elevator that arrived - we were the last ones on board, and there was still a bit of room to breathe!  We went right to the second floor and exited to a magnificent view of Paris.  It was dark, the sky was clear, and we had a wonderful view of the sparkling lights of Paris.  After taking some photos, we decided to walk down the steps to the bottom, and captured some creative shots along the way.  The evening was perfect, and I realized that sometimes it's just timing that makes an experience good or bad.  If you're going to visit the Eiffel Tower, go on a clear evening in the late fall, and you will have an amazing view of Paris.  And, if it's something you've kind of avoided doing for a friend, you'll also have a nice clear conscience.

Success

I feel better about my ability to communicate.  I went for a haircut and was able to specifically ask for, and receive, the cut that I wanted.  Perfect!  I also met with someone who peppered me with questions about the Tea Party Movement in the United States and the alliance between Libertarians and right-wing Republicans.  While it was challenging, I was able to communicate... and I think everyone has a bit of trouble explaining the Sarah Palin and the Tea Party, don't they?
Aside from the few funny stories I've shared, I've actually been able to communicate pretty well in French.  At the end of yesterday, I realized what's been happening: my conversation partner(s) have changed their expectations.  Once I confidently responded to the easy introductory questions, they started asking more difficult questions. 

I'm not sure why life is like this.  As a baby, you gurgle and smile and everyone is excited by your latest development.  As you get older, people still appreciate a smile, less so a gurgle, but they expect a bit more, such as an opinion on American politics. 

I think learning is always like this.  At the beginning you see great progress and you receive a lot of praise.  You know that things are flying past you, but it doesn't seem to make anyone overly concerned.  You learn a bit more and feel like you know almost everything, because you are comparing it to what you used to know.  Then there is the day when you turn the corner and you see everything that you don't know.  You see your mistakes, you know when you've missed something, and you're not sure that you have the capacity to do more.  That's the day, I used to tell people when they joined the marketing team, that's the day that you're a marketer.  You know what you know, and you realize what you don't.  It's the day you can start asking the right questions to bring clarity to everything else.

So, today is the day I can speak french.  The rest is just there waiting for my focus.

Les Petits Mouchoirs

Yesterday I went to see the film "Les Petits Mouchoirs" (translation: the little kleenex/tissues) which was one of the best movies I've ever seen.  It was in French, and, no, I didn't understand everything.  But I understood a lot. Or enough to think it was a great movie.  And if you see it, and disagree, then you can credit my imagination for creatively filling in the gaps.  But really, it's a film you should see.
However, I think the intensity with which I concentrated while watching the film may have caused me to use up my quota of french speaking ability this week.  I'm done, fini, caput, and it's only Monday and I have three 'conversation exchange' meetings this week and three more days of school.  How do I know that I've used up my quota? People are talking to me at a snail's pace and asking me questions like "have you learned the past tense?".  It's sad. It's frustrating.  It hopefully means that I'm on the brink of a french breakthrough. 
Some of my friends, who are on the opposite side of the spectrum and have optimistically suggested that I will be fluent at the end of this time in France, have asked me whether I'm dreaming in french.  The answer is "yes".  I'm dreaming consistently about french verb conjugations.  My life has become a series of dreams about verbs.
Actually, somehow in the midst of living a dream, the rest of my imagination has fled.  Last week I went shopping with a friend.  We looked at coats by Desigual, which is a Spanish brand of clothing which combines bright colors with interesting details that culminate in a unique style. My friend made a joke about imagining what to wear underneath the coat.  I looked at her in surprise and said I was imagining something really warm.  It's cold in Paris.  I want to buy bulky sweaters.  It's sad.  OOh.  Actually, I want to buy bulky sweaters AND a jacket from Manoush (a French brand that is exquisitely crafted and girlishly fun; not yet in the States, but hopefully will come soon).
Upon reflection, maybe it was this shopping trip, including the hour I spent walking in the shoe department of Galleries Lafeyette, that actually started all of this downward spiral.  About a year ago, they opened an entire floor dedicated to shoes, and my dreams started to come true.  Anyway, I spent time exploring heaven, and since then, I've been pretty speechless.
Clearly, I need to start working again. Window shopping is great, but if all I can do is look, I'm going to need some little tissues.  :)

A changing perspective

Today I was walking down Boulevard Houseman and caught a glimpse of a magnificant view.  Surprisingly I had my camera with me, so I quickly took a photo (picture on the right).  As I was looking through the camera lens, I realized that what I was actually seeing was a totally different perspective on a view I'd seen many times before.

I walked closer, so I could take a photo of what I normally see (photo on the left).  If you look at the bottom you see four large Corinthian columns framing a typical-looking ancient Roman building.  This is the view I've seen a dozen times.  I've had a bit of idle curiousity about what the building is, thinking that one day I'll go find out, but I haven't really paid too much attention to it, as I've always had somewhere to go or something to do. 

Today, though, I had an hour to spare before I needed to be home.  I hadn't been sure what to do with this hour.  At first I was thinking of ducking into a museum, but it was out of the way.  I had really wanted to go shopping on a street called "Rue des Martyrs" because it's well known for having the best bakeries, fruit stands, and spice shops, but I wasn't sure where that street was located though I knew it was somewhere near Sacre-Coeur (Montmartre).

Clearly, I was just killing time and it was an easy decision to take a photo of the great view, and then walk closer to see if I could get a better shot.  It wasn't until I was closer that I recognized the Roman building.  Realizing I had nothing better to do, I walked up to it and found out it was a church.  Curious, I walked around the back.  And guess what? There was Rue des Martyrs, full of lovely pastry shops.  I bought a

moulleux chocolate, some bread and fruit before heading home.
Along the way I thought about how distance can provide a different perspective.  At first, I saw a unique view of this Roman church with the Sacre-Couer perched splendidly in the background. This pulled me forward, until I realized I was getting to learn about something I had wanted to know, and was able to find something I had truly wanted to find. 
Perhaps life is always like this, when we let it be.

 

Ose

I've been away from home for six weeks.  Unbelievable! Time has flown by.  I finished my first full "semester" of school, and passed.  Actually, I don't think there is pass or fail, but I was told that I can come back on Monday, so I feel as though I passed.  This is an important thing.  I don't know if you all remember this feeling, or if it was just the sense of a particularly insecure young girl, but every spring I would be terrified to open the paper that said whether I could move on to the next grade or not.  I have a strong need for achievement (some would say over-achievement). I like achieving things. Seriously, though, is there anyone who doesn't?  Anyway, it's been really strange to be in school again and be certain that I'm going to be wrong or say something extremely funny.  It takes a different kind of self-confidence.  I started out by being fairly quiet and only saying something when I knew I was right, or when I was called upon by the teacher. One day I got really frustrated at making so many mistakes.  And then, I had a chat with myself about letting myself fail.  I've had to "ose" (to dare) to make errors and try to speak and write.  That's how we learn.
Yesterday, I went shopping with a girl from my class, and we stopped for a bite to eat.  I ordered a sandwich.  Instead of taking it out of the sandwich case, the server walked to another part of the store and said "sawqouoqbkjfkjjowi prochain fois".  In other words, I have no idea what the first part was, and only heard "next time".  And perhaps all I heard accurately was "prochain".  Anyway, I thought she meant that they didn't have the sandwich, but perhaps they would next time.  This happens ALL the time in France.  You ask for something, and they don't have it.  Or maybe they have it, but they won't provide it to you during the hours of 1-3, or unless you order food, or blah blah blah.  There are a lot of rules.  Anyway, I picked a different sandwich and asked for a bottle of water.  The lady rang up my order and the total was way too high.  As you may have guessed, I misunderstood the sentence including the word prochain.  Alors, what to do? There have been other times in my life where I would have just paid for two sandwiches and let the lady think that I'm a very hungry American.  Instead, I told her (in French, because you KNOW at this point I have something to prove, at least to myself) that I thought she said that they didn't have the sandwich and that I only wanted one.  She huffed and re-rang the order.  I probably need to start clarifying whether I've understood something accurately.  But, the good news is that I'm getting better at asserting myself.  And that I'm daring to try.

My parents returned!

Good news - my parents were able to return to Paris despite the strike.  They are less amused by the strike than I am, but then again I didn't have to wait five hours for a train.  Instead, I waited inside a little cafe near my home.  The cafe is called "Beauthe", and it's one of the only authentic bubble tea shops in Paris.  The owner told me this today.  She is from Taiwan, and, she explained, this fact helps one create an authentic bubble tea shop.  She was incredibly nice, and told me all about the store and how they are trying to integrate a Taiwanese atmosphere into a space that they hope people will come to and relax, eat and drink tea.  She told me about the artist who created the paintings on the wall (for sale), showed me the notecards that they have (also for sale) and lamented about a robbery that took place there a few days ago.  Then she cautioned me to be careful when walking alone at night.  "Always," I said.  Best of all, they provided me with a delicious bubble tea - the best I've had - and a space to conjugate verbs for two hours while I awaited the return of my parents.

Chez Moi

Many of you have been wondering about my apartment in Paris, so I will attempt to describe chez moi.  I moved into a 20 m2 studio in the 2nd district in Paris.  I think this converts to about 600 square feet. So, imagine your dorm room in college equiped with a kitchen and bathroom, and you have a general idea of the size.  The space was recently renovated, with a neutral color scheme that splashes of chrome and seems both masculine and modern.  The style of the space would work well in New York City or London, as well as it

does in Paris.  The location is amazing.  It's just off the Grands Boulevards, which is kind of a "scene" on the weekends, has quick access to two different metro lines, and is easily walkable to the Opera district (including Place Madeleine, Galleries Lafeyette, Printemps), Montorgueil (a street closed to traffic that is full of restaurants) and the Republic area (with yummy Moroccan spots).
Now imagine walking up four flights of a circular staircase to get there every day.  It makes you think twice about going out, while at the same time, it gives you a reason to go out.  And, happily, it helps you rationalize eating that extra croissant in the morning.
All of that being said, the people who renovated this aparment were ingenious in terms of space utilization so it doesn't feel that small, or at least it doesn't feel small until you are hosting your parents, and are trying to figure out a space where you can sleep on the floor.

Obviously, my first houseguests have arrived.  My parents have been kind enough to visit me whereever I've moved: Washington D.C., Philadelphia, Nashville, and Paris.  They are travelers, too, and while they've settled in St. Paul, they contentedly explore the world, and I contentedly host them when possible.  Last year, I met them in Paris and we spent a bit of time together, but not 24/7.  So this has been a bit different.  I have been the tour guide and translator, which is cool and unusual at the same time.  As I did while my friend Linda was here, I forget that my parents don't understand what I'm saying and don't always remember to translate.  I also forget how difficult it can be to be surrounded by another culture, another type of food, and another language and not understand the language, or customs.  As an example, my friend Karina told a story about a restaurant that charged her 6euro80 for a breakfast that was listed as 6euro on the printed menu and the daily board.  When she asked about it, they said it's 6euro80.  When she told me the story, I laughed.  That's just France. On the other hand, my parent's eyes opened wide and they chewed on the information for awhile.  However, in France, you can sit and eat your 6euro (or 6,80) petit dejeuner for two hours if you'd like.  While in Corsica with Linda, we arrived at a restaurant at 10:45 and drank coffee until they started serving lunch at noon (actually, 12:30) with no glares, questions or problems. It's France (okay, Corsicans may argue with that), and it's different than the United States.

In any case, this morning, I wanted to watch the French news to learn more about a pending transit strike (side note: every year there is a transit strike in October or November, and it makes me smile.  Of course, as of yet, I've been unaffected by the strike, so stay tuned and I will let you know if that changes.  In the meantime, from what I understand, people are busily reserving public bikes by locking up their wheels so others can't have them).  Back to the news.  My cable started acting erratically when my parents arrived and began using my Wifi with their iPad.  I started by blaming the iPad.  My dad turned off the iPad, and the cable was still erratic.  So then I started blaming their luggage.  Perhaps it was interfering with the cable signal, or made one of the plugs loose.  I tightened all of the plugs on the cable boxes.  Hmm.  My dad was able to watch english news, but the second I changed it to a French channel, the cable would go out.  Now I blamed fate.  "I'm destined to never learn French", I lamented this morning, with a lot of frustration and perhaps a bit of exaggeration (I get this from my mom).  I turned off the television and left for school.
My parents left for a side trip this morning and took their iPad and most of their luggage with them.  So, I was able to fully test the (1) iPad, (2) luggage, and (3) french learning- cable interference theories when I returned from school.  I turned on the TV to a French channel.  It worked.  Ha!  But then, ten minutes later, the connection went out.  I asked a friend whether cable in France just goes in and out. Nope, he said.  It's not normal.  He told me to check all the connections.  Finally, voila! I found that one of the plugs that go into the actual television set was loose. So, it was the luggage that bumped the TV.  :)  Theory two. lol.
Tonight I'm back to watching French television, a little bit late to tell my parents that they may not be able to get back to Paris on Wednesday.... 

p.s. the photo was taken in Corsica, on the day we ate lunch.  However, we delayed dinner in favor of a few glasses of wine.

Thoughts on Transition

My friend Rana sent me this quote:

"It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new.  But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful.  There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power".
- Alan Cohen

Many of my friends are in the midst of significant change, as I am.  All of us have felt the desire to hang on to what we know, and what feels comfortable and secure to us.  Yet, it's true that "there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful". 

Unfortunately, while we learn time and time again that there is no actual security to life, we seem to seek a way to make life static at its best moments.  Yet, at any moment, on any day, life can turn us in a different direction.  Perhaps in a direction we welcome, perhaps not, but those turns of life are difficult to embrace without courage or trust in ourselves. Living a life which no longer has specific meaning, in order to surround ourselves with what feels comfortable and secure, is a sad thing indeed.  Yet, often, it's hardest to say goodbye to things that used to have meaning, but changed, because we can't really say goodbye to what we are missing.  Instead, we invest energy in an attempt to regain what we lost, and in an attempt to go back to the preserved moment in our memory when we were happiest.

At the helm of change, we anticipate, grow and challenge ourselves.  Rather than seeking to hold on to a life that is static, perhaps we should instead live as though we are a river.  We should bend and twist according to the environment, responding to its changes with a combination of power and acceptance.  Perhaps we should believe there is a certain comfort, even security, in knowing we have the power to adjust and change. As Mr. Cohen said, "for in movement there is life".  But, I would also say, in life, there is always movement.  I wish you all a feeling of security through change, happiness through adventure, and wisdom for the journey.

An update from Paris

I've been living out of a suitcase for what feels like a really, really long time! All is well. I move into my flat this Friday, so I should feel more settled soon. 
School started, and I feel like I'm learning more french already.  Or at least I felt that way until I went to the phone store.  Buying a phone and a cell phone plan in another country, in another language, isn't that straightforward. But, with a little advice from my friend Mike via text message, I was able to buy a phone. I need to go back to get the plan. 

After I got the phone, I stopped for a sandwich at Starbucks and was immediately spotted as an American by ordering a tall coffee.  I forgot to specify what KIND of coffee (e.g. elongee, latte, etc).  The guy behind the counter was kind enough to tell me that he recognized my accent, but it wasn't too bad.

In addition to being American, I must look like a good 'mark'.  On the street today, I saw a woman picking up a gold wedding ring as though someone had dropped it.  She looked surprised and acted like she was going to keep it.  But then she offered it to me, as though we had both found it together.  I shook my head no, that I wasn't interested in sharing the ring.  She shrugged and walked away.  Then a guy on the street told me that "elle attempte a attraper", or that she tried to con me.  Crazy.  First of all, I wouldn't want to take a ring that someone had lost.  Second of all, the gold didn't look real.

My last sortie on this busy day was a trip to Monoprix to buy all the things I either forgot to pack (socks, for example! when you leave in summer, you forget about fall!!!) or couldn't carry with me.  The most difficult transaction was the purchase of nail polish remover.  I still don't know the word in french, but I found it.  And the bottle has a stopper that prevented me from freely pouring out the polish remover.  Usually I end up spilling the remover all over the counter, so this is great! Things are coming together.

Day 3: The arrival of Iris

I woke up and quickly jumped out of bed, realizing that Iris should be arriving at any moment.  In fact, I heard a car door slam, looked out the window, and saw that her cab had arrived.  I raced out the door to run downstairs and give her a hug.
Iris and I have been friends for a long time.  We met sixteen years ago when we both lived in Minnesota.  She drove the car I wanted, dated the guy I thought was cute, got the first promotion at work, always dressed fashionably and is beautiful.  It was hard to like her.  But then, we both transferred to Philadelphia, and we became roommates.  She helped me transform, and encouraged me to abandon the velcro-strapped Teva sandals I loved (even though I could walk on hot asphalt and in sand and in water without needing to change shoes...). We became co-conspirators and adventurers, roommates, then neighbors, and friends.  But in all these years, we've never traveled together.  
A few months ago, we decided to take a trip.  We picked Lisbon as our destination, and now, finally, we were about to begin our vacation!
(I promise to write more soon - in the midst of a major life adjustment!)