We have been feeling a little fragile these last couple of days. This lifestyle of movement, of carrying the weight of our lives on our backs, is beginning to take its inevitable toll. I should be falling on my knees in thankfulness that it has eluded us in its fierce entirity until now. For me, it cascaded over my body like bullets or a phantom wind two days ago in the train station Milan. All of a sudden, I felt as if my feet could not take me another step, and every shard of my bodily self seemed as if it might shatter to the dirt-streaked ground. My already large eyes widened with the sheen of tears, and with all that was in me, I wanted to give up. For twenty seconds, I considered it; toyed with the idea like a piece of forbidden fruit; tasted it and tried it on for size. A dingy corner of the station, offering cold cement and a snaking rancid smell, seemed like a logical place to curl up agaist my loathed, now-haggard belongings, and pretend I was a little girl again, in my flower-petaled bedroom, or at least a fox in its den or a hobbit in its hovel. I wavered at the edges of decision...do I break in half, or even into quarters or miniscule tatters here and now, in this dank station, and by doing so, in part break the two extraordinary women at my side...or do I breathe deeply, clutch my heart back into its cavity and press onwards, upwards, forwards. In the end, it was not even a choice. I collected my seeping emotions up off the ground and willed my feet to tread again. In the span of those suspended minutes, I learned at least five. hundred. thousand. intricacies and volumes about myself, and about resiliance in the face of apparent hopelessness. Coming out of a following 12+ hours of precious, dreamless sleep, clarity was somewhat restored, and morale pieced back together. All carries a veiled freshness now...at the very least, I am fresher in myself, and better able to take on the push and pull/come and go of what continues to blossom into our path.
Last night, to name a singular experience...last night was 1000% comprised of tossing and turning. Milan to Barcelona, a la night train, was an ominous challenge. In the disarray that is now my tote bag, I could only extract a solitary earplug in the darkness, so sleep was fitfull and laced with the grating sounds of shudder-worthy snoring. BLEGH. The 14, etc. hr. stretch of (seeming) death was livened further by a French police raid of our train somewhere between the gaping distance of Milan and Barce. A man sleeping a mere few seats away from us was plucked from his slumber, and dragged off the train for reasons my shoddy Italian barred me from understanding. It was un peu mental, and in the throes of my Gravol-induced state of dreaminess, felt like a sliver out of a film or a cutting-ege fairy tale. Strange, oui?
Barcelona's streets have, so far, embraced us with eager arms. Ladybirds and I are feeling relaxed already here. We spent our post-train afternoon slash evening revelling in steaming showers, wandering beneath palm trees, curling up to feast our screen-hungry eyes on mindless movies, and sipping tea and budget red wine. As food has been scarce today, I apologize if my words are senseless...bear in mind, they are empty-stomached and wine-induced.
It is a wonder to think that I will be back in my own sweet apartment in one week less a day...I intend to hug all the clothing in my closet for at least three hours, my roommate for a minimum of four, and fall into sleep for three-five days straight.
I am dying to see you all. Traveling has been a God-send, but at the end of the end of the end of the day, there is, after all, no place like home. And I cannot quite believe that I just quoted 'The Wizard of Oz' in black-and-white, but I am sticking by my words. Snow-laden prairies, I am coming. Palm trees and gleaming sunlight are all very lovely in and of themselves, but I am aching for the naked trees and grayed skies of home right now.
Wednesday, December 5th, 8:34 pm...Northwest Airlines, Minneapolis to Winnipeg--if anybody is interested in an airport reunion. I, for one, shall be there with one fazillion bells on.
Adios pour le moment.
Be happy.
Love life.
See you in a flash.
R.B.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Cut to the bone; quick to the kill--a lot of sequins with an undercurrent of grunge.
Months ago, in the midst of summer, I had a vividly memorable conversation with a friend in the aisles of a grocery store. During that time and space the reality of this trip was still largely unborn, and my doubts and fears were growing with a weed-esque severity. I was shaky; I was unsure; I felt trepidation. The unknown is, perhaps, more daunting than anything we can touch or taste or feel.
And so. He began telling me of his time spent in Europe, and his gracefulness; his ease and energy-lit eyes calmed me. I was soothed and inspired. One concept he spoke fervently about has stuck with me like a second skin throughout my time abroad--and that was of embracing all the incredible, epic places I light eyes on as backdrops. He went on to explain that he felt that these landmarks and settings, glorious as they are in physical presence, are regarded far more richly when thought of as backdrops to the experiences you are having in the shadow of them.
I am explaining this poorly and crudely, but it has shaped the way I look at things and internalize my surroundings within these two months...and so I feel stirred to give it mention.
To paint somewhat of a visual, here is a glimmer of my encounter with the Eiffel Tower in light of this stream of thought. My initial glimpse of the Tower by night was sensual and stunning as expected, but beyond its gaudy radiance ripping through the darkness, I remember more, more, more. Meg and I were han solo that night, Katie opting to channel her inner Sleeping Beauty, and so us two remaining bodies were pulled like lightweight magnets to said beautiful structure. It quickened the beat of our hearts, and stilled our words. I have written of this already. But here is what was going on in the real, tangible flesh...here is what the Tour D'Eiffel served as such a breath-stopping backdrop to. We were layered in clothing; the air was laced with winter. We leaned up against a cool stone wall for ten or fifty minutes, I lost all conceivable track of time, and shared a bottle of rouge, sans glasses (as has become the pattern these last many weeks). Voices meshed all around us--teens getting rowdily drunk, lovers making out on the ground/on top of benches/in trees (this legendary French kissing obsession is not a cliche, it is dead accurate), vendors waving neon Tower keychains and sugared crepes in our faces...and so on. We eventually found ourselves tucked into the outdoor portion of a nearby cafe, our pale faces still littered with the myriad of light being emitted from the Eiffel. We sipped a single glass of wine each...we talked about life, about pain, about love...we observed the world of Paris weaving itself past with fascination and tirelessness. I slipped between sheets thankful that night.
It was something like that.
I have been fortunate. There have been others that stand out as wildly significant...backdrops embedded all across a continent. The city bus in London...a riverside bridge underneath the throes of traffic in Amsterdam...a concentration camp on the edges of Berlin...a grimy phone booth in the streets of Prague...a barren courtyard in Brussels...a lake underneath the Swiss Alps in Geveva...I could go on. There are vibrant, unforgettable memories attached to each of these settings, and they have become fragments of myself.
Our train leaving Rome for Venice is drawing ever nearer, so I am off to collect myself. I am amped for the city upon water.
Fare thees well,
R.B.
And so. He began telling me of his time spent in Europe, and his gracefulness; his ease and energy-lit eyes calmed me. I was soothed and inspired. One concept he spoke fervently about has stuck with me like a second skin throughout my time abroad--and that was of embracing all the incredible, epic places I light eyes on as backdrops. He went on to explain that he felt that these landmarks and settings, glorious as they are in physical presence, are regarded far more richly when thought of as backdrops to the experiences you are having in the shadow of them.
I am explaining this poorly and crudely, but it has shaped the way I look at things and internalize my surroundings within these two months...and so I feel stirred to give it mention.
To paint somewhat of a visual, here is a glimmer of my encounter with the Eiffel Tower in light of this stream of thought. My initial glimpse of the Tower by night was sensual and stunning as expected, but beyond its gaudy radiance ripping through the darkness, I remember more, more, more. Meg and I were han solo that night, Katie opting to channel her inner Sleeping Beauty, and so us two remaining bodies were pulled like lightweight magnets to said beautiful structure. It quickened the beat of our hearts, and stilled our words. I have written of this already. But here is what was going on in the real, tangible flesh...here is what the Tour D'Eiffel served as such a breath-stopping backdrop to. We were layered in clothing; the air was laced with winter. We leaned up against a cool stone wall for ten or fifty minutes, I lost all conceivable track of time, and shared a bottle of rouge, sans glasses (as has become the pattern these last many weeks). Voices meshed all around us--teens getting rowdily drunk, lovers making out on the ground/on top of benches/in trees (this legendary French kissing obsession is not a cliche, it is dead accurate), vendors waving neon Tower keychains and sugared crepes in our faces...and so on. We eventually found ourselves tucked into the outdoor portion of a nearby cafe, our pale faces still littered with the myriad of light being emitted from the Eiffel. We sipped a single glass of wine each...we talked about life, about pain, about love...we observed the world of Paris weaving itself past with fascination and tirelessness. I slipped between sheets thankful that night.
It was something like that.
I have been fortunate. There have been others that stand out as wildly significant...backdrops embedded all across a continent. The city bus in London...a riverside bridge underneath the throes of traffic in Amsterdam...a concentration camp on the edges of Berlin...a grimy phone booth in the streets of Prague...a barren courtyard in Brussels...a lake underneath the Swiss Alps in Geveva...I could go on. There are vibrant, unforgettable memories attached to each of these settings, and they have become fragments of myself.
Our train leaving Rome for Venice is drawing ever nearer, so I am off to collect myself. I am amped for the city upon water.
Fare thees well,
R.B.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Still despising pigeons:
Good day and good day and good day from Roma, Italia--the land of ancient architecture, oozing cheese, drop-dead disgusting champagne, and (apparently?!) palm trees. Ohhhh, my. What a web of complication we encountered upon kissing Paris goodbye. We count ourselves lucky...or blessed, rather, to even have slipped out of the debauchery of streets astrike. We reunited with a fresh-faced Meg in the Geneva train station, only to inform her that our only way out of this place (that avoided the inevitable French stop-over) was to turn around and catch a train straight back to Zurich, the exact city she had departed from mere hours ago. Murder. Madge took the potentially-crushing news like a warrior, and only laughed at our agonized eyes and consolation offering of cigarettes. And so. Instead of weaving ourselves to Spain/the south of France/Italy, we have twisted la route around. As it looks right now, we will spend our last string of days soaking up pure relaxation in the glitteringly affordable land of the Spanish. However, if I have learned any lesson repeatedly and, at times, crushingly on this trip...it is to plan tentatively but not in solidarity. Circumstances change on a moment-to-moment basis, and the by-far best attitude to take on is one of lightness and spontenaity. So I am channeling that. Besides, we are hardly fretting, as our magician of a travel agent will be able to make whatever we need happen, leaving us none the poorer. Winnipeg livin in two weeks still glows like something radiantly cherished in our hearts and heads.
In the spirit of movement and living in the present moment, though, here are a few words on the city of Rome. It is no word of a lie that the gelati here is of the life-changing sort. By the light of day, everything here is coated in warmth and loveliness, yet as soon as the sun dips down, the city cools to the point of inducing shivers. It is a curious climate. A good portion of all life stemming fom the soil is still lustrously green and growing, while the streets are also littered with burnished autumn leaves. Palm trees blossom upwards into the sky, alongside others that have long since turned skeletal, shedding their leaves for winter. It is a strange and entrancing sight. Wandering through the Colleseum the other day felt out-of-body...there was this discernable yet indescribable glaze of wonder draped over the place, and the people within it. I felt very young and incredibly naive in such an age-old, legendary place. Locking eyes on the Pantheon by night was quite the rush to the senses as well...us three all a little light-headed from the evenings copious amounts of red wine. The icing on the cake that night was the fresh, long-stemmed red roses we were gifted by our server at a bebe outdoor wine bar...we sipped our liquid deliciousness, and he stood there and laughed at us. Hectic English-speaking girls, clad in our token 'dress-up' outfits, talking five trillion miles a minute. I imagine we were quite a funny sight.
Other than the fact that our hostel is a shrine to elderly women everywhere (bless their hearts), a bit weird, our temporary life here is a delight. We are all swimming in relief at the fact that the Italian langugage slides off our backs like water off a fish's...the men here are AGGRESSIVE, and it is probably for the best that we remain blissfully ignorant of the content of their hollered words. Today we are dipping over to Naples for some serious street-wandering and exploration...the intention is to not get killed; Naples is notorious for its loco insano traffic. I am actually happy to embark on this blink-and-it's-over train journey, knowing there is no possibility for it to reach the twelve, thirteen, fourteen hour span. Au contraire, I am looking forward to this opportunity to curl up with book and thoughts, catching glimpses of the Italian countryside as it flies past.
It is so strange to think that two weeks from today, we will be on a plane bound for home. I am ready--ready to embrace these remaining fourteen days with renewed fierceness, and ready as well for home. My bed and bath are going to be receiving some serious face time once my feet are light on Winnipeg ground again.
I am off to catch a train. I hope you are all better, better, better than well.
Yours,
Rebecca L.
In the spirit of movement and living in the present moment, though, here are a few words on the city of Rome. It is no word of a lie that the gelati here is of the life-changing sort. By the light of day, everything here is coated in warmth and loveliness, yet as soon as the sun dips down, the city cools to the point of inducing shivers. It is a curious climate. A good portion of all life stemming fom the soil is still lustrously green and growing, while the streets are also littered with burnished autumn leaves. Palm trees blossom upwards into the sky, alongside others that have long since turned skeletal, shedding their leaves for winter. It is a strange and entrancing sight. Wandering through the Colleseum the other day felt out-of-body...there was this discernable yet indescribable glaze of wonder draped over the place, and the people within it. I felt very young and incredibly naive in such an age-old, legendary place. Locking eyes on the Pantheon by night was quite the rush to the senses as well...us three all a little light-headed from the evenings copious amounts of red wine. The icing on the cake that night was the fresh, long-stemmed red roses we were gifted by our server at a bebe outdoor wine bar...we sipped our liquid deliciousness, and he stood there and laughed at us. Hectic English-speaking girls, clad in our token 'dress-up' outfits, talking five trillion miles a minute. I imagine we were quite a funny sight.
Other than the fact that our hostel is a shrine to elderly women everywhere (bless their hearts), a bit weird, our temporary life here is a delight. We are all swimming in relief at the fact that the Italian langugage slides off our backs like water off a fish's...the men here are AGGRESSIVE, and it is probably for the best that we remain blissfully ignorant of the content of their hollered words. Today we are dipping over to Naples for some serious street-wandering and exploration...the intention is to not get killed; Naples is notorious for its loco insano traffic. I am actually happy to embark on this blink-and-it's-over train journey, knowing there is no possibility for it to reach the twelve, thirteen, fourteen hour span. Au contraire, I am looking forward to this opportunity to curl up with book and thoughts, catching glimpses of the Italian countryside as it flies past.
It is so strange to think that two weeks from today, we will be on a plane bound for home. I am ready--ready to embrace these remaining fourteen days with renewed fierceness, and ready as well for home. My bed and bath are going to be receiving some serious face time once my feet are light on Winnipeg ground again.
I am off to catch a train. I hope you are all better, better, better than well.
Yours,
Rebecca L.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
We hear the leaves fall to the ground...
One and all,
This strike of the French sort continues to lay its fingers on us again and again, just when we start to think we have escaped its clutches. Long long story short, Magpie/Kit/myself are perched in Rome, instead of Barcelona, a la moment. A torrent of details to follow...
Hearts and embraces,
Rab
This strike of the French sort continues to lay its fingers on us again and again, just when we start to think we have escaped its clutches. Long long story short, Magpie/Kit/myself are perched in Rome, instead of Barcelona, a la moment. A torrent of details to follow...
Hearts and embraces,
Rab
Friday, November 16, 2007
And you know that she's half crazy, but that's why you want to be there:
Current status: sipping red from the bottle while slavedriving over laundry, all avec my belle fleur, Kathleen Mackenzie Dange. We are missing our lovely sister Meg...she is nesting in Zurich while Kit and I are dragging our haggard selves around a freezing Geneva. Tomorrow, a joyous reunion of three in the Geneva train station, equally frosty in temperature. This time tomorrow we will be together foreverrrr and Barcelona-bound. The sole intention for Spain is to treat our broken bodies with as much soothing and luxurious rest as humanly possible. Massages have been mentally scheduled for this city since day one of our travel extravaganza. I am holding my breath. My shoulders are frailer, my feet more repulsive and my legs more bruised and battered than in all of self-history...backpack scars, etc. Nevertheless, there is a smile curving over my lips. Movement and newness is good, good, intoxicatingly good. Steaming hot showers are even better...in the dead of last night, Katie and I crawled into our Genevian (Genevan? Geneveuse?!) hostel like smashed insects, barely discernable as ourselves. We both fled for the showers like wild-eyed women, dirt/sweat/tear-streaked after a bleary fourteen, fifteen hours a la train. Haggard Harriet and Haggard Hannah we were...but that scorching water streaming over my body revived me to the point of a blossoming contentedness...praise the Lord and the stars and the galaxies and all that is sacred. Delving into yesterday's debaucherous events un petit peu...it is no farfetched fairy tale that the French love their strikes. How beautifully convenient that they should decide to declare one just as us sparrows were poised to take wing from Paris. Chaotic. Kit and I cursed fully and scandalously for 2-3 minutes' time, and then drew the deepest breaths and forged forwards like wide-eyed soldiers, not really knowing what the hell we were doing. The result? Dawn to pitch-dark midnight running from train to train, city to city, country to country, cab to cab, language to language. In a matter of a single day, we streamed, whirlwind-style, Paris to Salzburg to Bern to Basel to the Geneva we had been weeping for all the while. All in the time frame of this, I ate a drop-dead disgusting sandwich, finished my (incredible) book, ran my iPod dry and engaged in copious amounts of thought. We laid eyes on our first snowfall while leaping onto a train in Basel...and my heart fluttered, bird-style, in sudden and paralyzing longing for home.
Anyways and anyhow, we made it here and have been thoroughlly laying lower than low today. The Swiss alps are stunning. Everything is sickeningly expensive. Oh and we saw swans, closer than ever before, on the edges a shatteringly windy lake. Buying Parisian Vogue is a complete rip. And I had the loveliest conversation with my maman this afternoon. That is it and that is all.
Embrace one another for me, all of you.
Rebecca L.B.
Anyways and anyhow, we made it here and have been thoroughlly laying lower than low today. The Swiss alps are stunning. Everything is sickeningly expensive. Oh and we saw swans, closer than ever before, on the edges a shatteringly windy lake. Buying Parisian Vogue is a complete rip. And I had the loveliest conversation with my maman this afternoon. That is it and that is all.
Embrace one another for me, all of you.
Rebecca L.B.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Breathe out, it's fall...
Our sketchy jewel of a Parisian apartment has one particularly charming feature: slim to no heat. Here is what I wore to bed last night...
2 pair socks (one woolen)
1 pair leggings
2 tank tops
1 long-sleeved shirt
1 hoodie
1 knit sweater
2 scarves
1 coat
YEEP.
I am off to indulge in my morning espresso and almond croissant.
You are loved and missed, friends.
2 pair socks (one woolen)
1 pair leggings
2 tank tops
1 long-sleeved shirt
1 hoodie
1 knit sweater
2 scarves
1 coat
YEEP.
I am off to indulge in my morning espresso and almond croissant.
You are loved and missed, friends.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
"You'll never be a vegetable; even artichokes have hearts..."
I am feigning typical French life in a rented-for-the-week apartment in Montmarte, Paris...the very district of the city where my beloved "Amelie" was filmed. The Two Windmills Cafe itself was hit up HARD by us ladies late this afternoon, after a physically-gruelling pilgrimage through the most gargantuan cemetary of my life. All our sweat, tears and whispered curses were worth it, however...as soon as I as standing at the grave edges of Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf and Oscar Wilde, I was soaring. Well worth the screaming sensation in my legs, when all is said and done. To dip back to 'The Two Windmills' or, more appropriately-christened here in the land of the French, 'Cafe des 2 Moulins', the place is more humble and grunge than I had expected, and as a result, I love it far more fiercely. I sipped vin chaud (hot red wine with cinnamon and a scalded wedge of orange swimming within) for the first time, and revelled in the sacred quirkiness of my surroundings. Smoke clouded the air, The Velvet Underground snaked through the space, and a small dog wandered at our toes. Sheer brilliance, oui?! I, for one, was in my height of personal glory. I plan to slide back through those doors, solo, avec journal, pen and book sometime in the next few days, and drink it all in a little more deeply...
Fuuuck, it is good to be here; one thousand goods. I am counting my blessings more vividly every day, and they are a rich many. Us prairie nymphs have our moments of tears and trembling, but somehow, we continue to find ourselves dissolved in laughter at the end of any and every travesty we have encountered thus far. Take the other day, for example. After a hectic and disheartening half-day of dragging our thousand-pound backpacks from metro line to metro line in attempt to find our hostel for Paris: Part Deux, we were the most haggard editions of ourselves yet. Mon dieu...how does one quite sum up a complex sensation of disenchantenment, exhaustion, directionlessness, defeated spirits, trepidation and physical defeatedness all in one simplistic breath? Our entire bodies were sweat-streaked, our backs breaking, and our words clipped. (Sidenote--Damn that backpack directly to the gates of hell...eternally grateful as I am to its owner for the brilliant loan, it is currently the bane of my bodily existence. Excuse my rawness of language, but once I am home, I never want to lay eyes or touch on it again. HA.) Once behind the closed doors of our new abode, all three of us flocked towards various methods of solace. I swaddled myself in three pajmenas and collapsed on my trife bottom bunk in immediate sleep, Dangerfield healed her spirits tap-tapping away on our own (for now) personal computer, and Madge attacked the kitchen with a scouring pad, cleaning gloves and the savage energy of ten armies. So is illustrated our wildly varying methods of soothing broken spirits and licking personal wounds.
In other noteworthy happenings...
1. Sunday afternoon found us attending mass at Notre Dame Cathedral...shivers shivers shivers all around...I have never heard voices quite like I did that day, meshed with melancholy organ and bathed in the glow of five million flickering candles. There are no words...all I knew in those moments is that my entire sense of time and space slipped away, and all I was aware of was the pulsating energy in that amazing space. Needless to say, I have not felt that utterly worshipful in, perhaps, ever.
2. At the risk of coming across as a starry-eyed teen queen, here is a tiny sketch of an experience I had on the street just the other day...I was traipsing through the Latin Quarter, apple in hand, when the most absolutely stunning babe man caught my eye...so of course I snapped my head to get a fuller glimpse, and as I was gazing in worshipfulness (of an entirely different sort than the church service variety), I continued walking at breakneck pace, and proceeded to smash headlong into a very disapproving midde-aged Parisian woman. To say the least, she was unimpressed and glared me down in fiery fashion. In our throes of laughter after this encounter, I lost my imaginary-boyfriend in the crowd...Domage domage.
In closing...
To dispel any unspoken doubts from potentially skeptical (but dear, sweet) readers, IT IS ACTUALLY cheaper to drink wine than water here. I rest my case. The French know best.
We are having a quietly luxurious night in, full of journals, candles, Earl Gray and some soft Neil Young. Said indulgences are calling; I am going, going, gone.
Love etc.,
rlb
Fuuuck, it is good to be here; one thousand goods. I am counting my blessings more vividly every day, and they are a rich many. Us prairie nymphs have our moments of tears and trembling, but somehow, we continue to find ourselves dissolved in laughter at the end of any and every travesty we have encountered thus far. Take the other day, for example. After a hectic and disheartening half-day of dragging our thousand-pound backpacks from metro line to metro line in attempt to find our hostel for Paris: Part Deux, we were the most haggard editions of ourselves yet. Mon dieu...how does one quite sum up a complex sensation of disenchantenment, exhaustion, directionlessness, defeated spirits, trepidation and physical defeatedness all in one simplistic breath? Our entire bodies were sweat-streaked, our backs breaking, and our words clipped. (Sidenote--Damn that backpack directly to the gates of hell...eternally grateful as I am to its owner for the brilliant loan, it is currently the bane of my bodily existence. Excuse my rawness of language, but once I am home, I never want to lay eyes or touch on it again. HA.) Once behind the closed doors of our new abode, all three of us flocked towards various methods of solace. I swaddled myself in three pajmenas and collapsed on my trife bottom bunk in immediate sleep, Dangerfield healed her spirits tap-tapping away on our own (for now) personal computer, and Madge attacked the kitchen with a scouring pad, cleaning gloves and the savage energy of ten armies. So is illustrated our wildly varying methods of soothing broken spirits and licking personal wounds.
In other noteworthy happenings...
1. Sunday afternoon found us attending mass at Notre Dame Cathedral...shivers shivers shivers all around...I have never heard voices quite like I did that day, meshed with melancholy organ and bathed in the glow of five million flickering candles. There are no words...all I knew in those moments is that my entire sense of time and space slipped away, and all I was aware of was the pulsating energy in that amazing space. Needless to say, I have not felt that utterly worshipful in, perhaps, ever.
2. At the risk of coming across as a starry-eyed teen queen, here is a tiny sketch of an experience I had on the street just the other day...I was traipsing through the Latin Quarter, apple in hand, when the most absolutely stunning babe man caught my eye...so of course I snapped my head to get a fuller glimpse, and as I was gazing in worshipfulness (of an entirely different sort than the church service variety), I continued walking at breakneck pace, and proceeded to smash headlong into a very disapproving midde-aged Parisian woman. To say the least, she was unimpressed and glared me down in fiery fashion. In our throes of laughter after this encounter, I lost my imaginary-boyfriend in the crowd...Domage domage.
In closing...
To dispel any unspoken doubts from potentially skeptical (but dear, sweet) readers, IT IS ACTUALLY cheaper to drink wine than water here. I rest my case. The French know best.
We are having a quietly luxurious night in, full of journals, candles, Earl Gray and some soft Neil Young. Said indulgences are calling; I am going, going, gone.
Love etc.,
rlb
Friday, November 9, 2007
Aglow and aglitter...
Hello and hello and hello,
Paris is frigid a la moment...the brilliant sunlight streaking across the sky is deceiving beyond measure, because upon stepping foot outside, all is polar ice. Swaddled in a plethora of scarves, toques, mittens and pajmenas, we continue to stomp the streets with energy and (hopefully) grace. Morale is not to be toyed with; it is ever and only up, up, blazingly up. The other night we tossed deliciously-cheap wine down our throats, sans glasses and straight out of the bottle, while gazing up at the Eiffel Tower, all afire with a shitstorm of dancing lights. It was gaudy beyond measure, but somehow still left us screeching with pleasure and wonder. Ohhhhhh, Paris je t'aime.
In other noteworthy happenings...
Yesterday, we were serenaded by a sweet, albeit hectic traveling band ON THE METRO. Considering the slender size of metro compartments, this is moderately crazy in terms of sights to lay eyes on. A few stops into our luxuriously long ride, three musicians leapt into the train, and launched straight into a ridiculously animated rendition some quirky French tune. Mental. Every born-and-bred Parisian, on their respective ways to the office or the market, either ignored this spectacle entirely, or looked disdainfully on. Our trio, however, met shining eyes across the narrow space. We were enchanted; others were irked. Our lips curved in smile; others closed their eyes in pointed indifference slash annoyance. It was an interesting moment. All at once, I felt a stark sense of belonging and affinity, but also of alien-esque separation. I was inside and outside of the experience all in one soft, slow series of breaths. It brought forth a reflective head space within me...the contrast of myself revelling in this haggardly charming music, while locals paid negative zero attention.
Okay. This computer continues to gobble up my precious Euros...so bittersweet...so I shall be taking wing before it robs me of my last pennies and leaves me in starvation tonight. Stay happy, stay well.
Rebecca
Paris is frigid a la moment...the brilliant sunlight streaking across the sky is deceiving beyond measure, because upon stepping foot outside, all is polar ice. Swaddled in a plethora of scarves, toques, mittens and pajmenas, we continue to stomp the streets with energy and (hopefully) grace. Morale is not to be toyed with; it is ever and only up, up, blazingly up. The other night we tossed deliciously-cheap wine down our throats, sans glasses and straight out of the bottle, while gazing up at the Eiffel Tower, all afire with a shitstorm of dancing lights. It was gaudy beyond measure, but somehow still left us screeching with pleasure and wonder. Ohhhhhh, Paris je t'aime.
In other noteworthy happenings...
Yesterday, we were serenaded by a sweet, albeit hectic traveling band ON THE METRO. Considering the slender size of metro compartments, this is moderately crazy in terms of sights to lay eyes on. A few stops into our luxuriously long ride, three musicians leapt into the train, and launched straight into a ridiculously animated rendition some quirky French tune. Mental. Every born-and-bred Parisian, on their respective ways to the office or the market, either ignored this spectacle entirely, or looked disdainfully on. Our trio, however, met shining eyes across the narrow space. We were enchanted; others were irked. Our lips curved in smile; others closed their eyes in pointed indifference slash annoyance. It was an interesting moment. All at once, I felt a stark sense of belonging and affinity, but also of alien-esque separation. I was inside and outside of the experience all in one soft, slow series of breaths. It brought forth a reflective head space within me...the contrast of myself revelling in this haggardly charming music, while locals paid negative zero attention.
Okay. This computer continues to gobble up my precious Euros...so bittersweet...so I shall be taking wing before it robs me of my last pennies and leaves me in starvation tonight. Stay happy, stay well.
Rebecca
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Don't ask, don't tell--a note on Paris de la melancholy.
Lovers and lovelies alike,
Hello hello from the dwindling light of my first day of fullness in Paris. It has been fittingly epic; layers upon layers of wide-eyed discovery. We blazed our way through the French metro system like we'd been born and bred for the ordeal...peeking our faces from the darkened underground only to be greeted by le Tour D'Eiffel spiraling gracefully into the sun-streaked sky. It was a moment of immense wonder...I felt the world pause around me for a string of moments--children ceased to wail, heels snapping the pavement were silent, and all my senses were aware of was my own shriek of delight and amazement. Sheer brilliance, yes. Our very own collective six feet took us up, up, onwards and upwards flight after flight after hundreds of flights. Elevators are for the weak of spirit, oui!? Height-sensitive moi took a soldier-esque attitude on, and refused to let a lingering fear of being sans feet-on-solid-ground taint the experience for me. Gazing out over the far-reaching city, I felt like a bird or a ghost...weightless and drenched in life and lighter, lighter, lighter than I have in a very long time. It was both humbling and moving. The rest of our day unraveled in an effortless flow...we stumbled unwittingly on the Arc de Triomph, sipped coffee and watched the world slip by from the windows of a miniscule cafe, and indulged in an extensive photoshoot in front of Louis Vuitton (YEEP!)
I am content. Paris has haunted my dreams of both the day and night variety for as long as I can even remember, and so it is quite the glittering blessing to be living that long lusted-after experience out in flesh and blood. I am grateful beyond measure, and brimming with renewal and a trembling anticipation for the next nine days. Expect an overflow of words from these lips in said coming fragment of time...
Okay. I am off to nap in the manner of a cat before a night that promises to revolve around dirt-cheap wine, stunningly dark eyes and our fair share of street-wandering.
Until soon,
R.L.B
Oh, and...
a jewel from the book I finished recently:
"Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning."
--Oscar Wilde, 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.
Hello hello from the dwindling light of my first day of fullness in Paris. It has been fittingly epic; layers upon layers of wide-eyed discovery. We blazed our way through the French metro system like we'd been born and bred for the ordeal...peeking our faces from the darkened underground only to be greeted by le Tour D'Eiffel spiraling gracefully into the sun-streaked sky. It was a moment of immense wonder...I felt the world pause around me for a string of moments--children ceased to wail, heels snapping the pavement were silent, and all my senses were aware of was my own shriek of delight and amazement. Sheer brilliance, yes. Our very own collective six feet took us up, up, onwards and upwards flight after flight after hundreds of flights. Elevators are for the weak of spirit, oui!? Height-sensitive moi took a soldier-esque attitude on, and refused to let a lingering fear of being sans feet-on-solid-ground taint the experience for me. Gazing out over the far-reaching city, I felt like a bird or a ghost...weightless and drenched in life and lighter, lighter, lighter than I have in a very long time. It was both humbling and moving. The rest of our day unraveled in an effortless flow...we stumbled unwittingly on the Arc de Triomph, sipped coffee and watched the world slip by from the windows of a miniscule cafe, and indulged in an extensive photoshoot in front of Louis Vuitton (YEEP!)
I am content. Paris has haunted my dreams of both the day and night variety for as long as I can even remember, and so it is quite the glittering blessing to be living that long lusted-after experience out in flesh and blood. I am grateful beyond measure, and brimming with renewal and a trembling anticipation for the next nine days. Expect an overflow of words from these lips in said coming fragment of time...
Okay. I am off to nap in the manner of a cat before a night that promises to revolve around dirt-cheap wine, stunningly dark eyes and our fair share of street-wandering.
Until soon,
R.L.B
Oh, and...
a jewel from the book I finished recently:
"Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning."
--Oscar Wilde, 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
