When in Paris...

My first day in Paris felt more like three days.  The day began at 8 AM on a Tuesday morning in New York City and didn’t end until 1 AM, Thursday, France time.  When I arrived, the sky in Paris just beginning to wake up.  My plane was an hour early landing at Charles De Gaulle and the sun was an hour and a half away from showing its face fully.  It felt like I and the other passengers of flight 44 were the only people awake in the world.    

When I stepped off the plane, I began to feel more and more out of place with every step I took.  Even the French/English signs offered no comfort for me.  I realized the loneliness and helplessness that is felt when you are in a foreign country and I can’t speak the language.  For the first time in my life, I really felt disconnected from humanity.  Even after being in New York, where the world converges and becomes a melting pot of various religions, races and cultures, I felt like the oddball.  This moment was even more paramount than the first day I had arrived in New York.   I stood at the baggage claim, trying to figure out who was American and who was French. I must have looked like a confused, deaf mute as I searched the faces of others for perhaps a clue to this whole system.  But from the responses, I gathered that they were just as confused as I was.  My thoughts ran arbitrarily with wondering where my luggage was, where to go next, what needed to be checked or stamped and hoping no one would ask me any questions in French.  As it turned out, I received my luggage without any incident and followed the crowd as if I were herded cattle taken to the next corral of my arrival.  

As I approached the lines to have my passport stamped, I realized quickly what this “anti-queue” philosophy is that the French have. It was easy to distinguish between who the Americans/Other were and who the French were.  The Americans were patiently waiting in line while a large drove of French men and women walked completely around the silly, roped-off barricades and went straight to the passport booths.  Of course, the guards said nothing.  And why would they?  I realized how ridiculous it all was, too.  Why does everything always have to be so rigid, so formal, so structured?  I soon began to admire the rebellious way they all took the ‘all for one and one for all’ stance. Obviously, there was power in numbers. Hence, the many strikes that occur. The passport agent gave me a half-hearted “Bonjour” and nonchalantly flipped through my passport.  My first stamp was created and there my journey began.

Deep breath. Phase two of my airport journey was through. I had my luggage and I was free to continue on into France.  I stood for an hour at the arrivals gate, observing the Americans, the Europeans, and the Parisians.  I played a guessing game of who they were and where they could be from.  I watched families push through the crowds with loads of luggage and strollers, loved ones saying ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye’ with kisses and business men beginning their week.  One hour I stood, alone with my thoughts. They jumped back and forth between thoughts of what was to come and people watching;  thoughts of “I can’t believe I’m finally in France!” back to questions, anxiousness and more pondering of my life and the events that led me up to this moment.   I realized I had potentially put myself into what L would often refer to as “Lucy Moments”, coined from The ‘I Love Lucy’ Show.  Lucy was always putting herself in compromising or ridiculous situations. In the beginning they were these quickly-devised plans that seemed to almost work out but during implementation, they were usually a disaster.  In the end, they were always a great laugh and adventure, though. My “Lucy Moments” were few but always memorable.  I smiled to myself as I realized I hadn’t come this far for nothing.  There had to be something special that was worth exploring.  I held onto that feeling as I thumbed through a thick fashion magazine filled with runway shots of European fashion shows.

In the taxi, scooters whizzed by and the sun was now fresh on the horizon.  I felt like a newborn baby just seeing the world for the first time. There were new sounds, new things to see, new words to learn and new foods to taste.  I couldn’t believe I was here. I was taking in every second of every moment with appreciation. I was fascinated by every detail of my thoughts, emotions, the city moving around me.  This was a moment of many to come where I felt so alive and so grateful to be living.

When I arrived at the hotel, the check-in time wasn’t until 1 PM, so I decided to go for a petite déjeune at a nearby café. The waiter extended to me a very warm Parisian welcome and a delicious cup of café au lait. 

After breakfast, I decided to wander around Paris and take one of those free guided tours that last about 3 hours.  I think my mind was still in shock or perhaps I was still recovering from the early morning hours. Paris was beautiful and spectacular.  Eventually, I lost interest in the tour group and lagged behind.  I retreated to my own adventure of Notre Dame, a walk along the Seine,  La Madeleine Church as well as an hour break in the park to sit next to the fountains, soak up the sun and live, Parisian style. The moment felt perfect, as if time stood still and the world around me disappeared. Up until this point, the whole day had been a bit of a whirlwind. It wasn’t until this moment in the park that I really felt like I was in my skin, here in Paris. 

The hotel arrival was an adventure in itself.  When I did finally check into the hotel at 6 PM, I was pleasantly surprised by its overall appearance and the view of the city.  The room was modern, cozy and featured one of those frosted glass doors to the bathroom.  A hot shower was the first thing on my mind and I tore through the room like Moses parting the Red Sea to get into my hot, trickling therapy. After starting the shower to get the water nice and warm, I went about finding my toiletries. When I went into the bathroom 5 minutes later, the floor was soaked with about a half inch of water.  Apparently, this shower was not meant to actually be used like a shower.  It was poorly designed and leaked like a sieve. I ended up getting an upgrade to an Executive Suite, free of charge. The view was nice, the room was huge and as luck would have it, that shower leaked as well.

I finished the night off at one of those family style meal restaurants. Parisians sat at the table and we all shared bowls of food but very few words were spoken. The atmosphere felt like home and the food was quite good.  I finished the dinner in typical French manner with it ending around 11 PM, stuffed silly with good food and wine. I walked back to the hotel through the quiet, tiny cobblestone streets.  

I had never been exposed to so many different, wonderful, beautifully presented dishes as I had in France.   Even a café that would be considered the worst place to eat ranks high on my list. Compared to the tasteless, unimaginative, fake, artery-clogging crap I grew up eating in America, anything French was grand gourmet to me.  If there was one thing the French could do better than anyone, it was food.  France was the most romantic, in love with love places I had ever seen.  It didn't matter how old you were, you still found couples sitting on park benches, kissing, holding hands.  Couples, and even friends, sat for hours at tiny, intimate tables in front of quaint cafes, leaning over, gazing into each other’s eyes or deep in conversation.  

Men and women celebrated their new found love and relationships as if it were unexpected promotions at work.  Love was a luxury and a precious gift.  I discovered that the things in life that really mattered were the least things taken for granted in France. I realized that life and love were indeed special gifts and awakenings of spirit and self.  Being in Paris reminded me of how good it felt to be human and a natural woman.  I felt so free to be the feminine being that I was created to be. I had no sense of emotional boundaries, suppression, hang-ups or fears.  It was like a veil that had been covering my soul was lifted and the girl within could finally be revealed.

By my third day in Paris, I had seen many of the monumental sites. The Louvre, Montmartre and La Basilique du Sacre Coeur (Sacred Heart) were among one of my favorite places to visit. I paused in the large cathedral for a while to sit, enjoy the silence and take in the calm. It was my form of escape and therapy from the people out on the streets. I loved the beauty and comfort underneath the sprawling arches of the cathedrals. 

Paris made such a huge footprint on my heart.  I will go back again someday.

Let the Gentrification...BEGIN!

"Today the neighborhood is filled with the sounds of jackhammers and dump trucks. That could only mean one thing: Gentrification in Progress. There are two buildings on just my street that are in complete renovation mode, pulling out all the stops and tearing out concrete to make room for grass and flowers. It's really quite an amazing sight to see a "ghetto" being transformed into a place that will someday be another overpriced neighborhood full of The Village population overflow.

Perhaps Bushwick will someday be appealing to the fickle snoots that at one time wouldn't even consider taking a train further than one stop out of Manhattan. The way I see it, the recession has been good for the aesthetics of Brooklyn's low-income neighborhoods. But when Manhattan residents are forced to move into areas of Brooklyn because the rental rates in The City are too expensive for matchbox-sized apartments, the rents will go up here in Brooklyn, forcing the low-income, hard working residents who have been here for generations to go...where??? Of course I'm concerned, these are people I've grown close to, gotten to know and in many ways consider true friends.

There are price-conscious, economically smart people out here in Brooklyn. We get large apartments for half of what The City pays, we have discount stores and don't get bent over for a sandwich at the corner deli. We pay $4 for a turkey on rye in Brooklyn that people in Manhattan pay $8 for. But how long will we be able to outsmart and outrun the city and the climbing rental rates?

Seeing all of the renovations take place are nice. I love to see old buildings transformed to their original glory. But there is a sour part of me that wants to keep it all a secret. I don't want to see authenticity tainted by the fickle who never saw it's beauty in the beginning; those who weren't here when it wasn't so pretty on the outside".

Mi Vida Loca in Bushwick

"Discover Bushwick!" Exploring parts of New York that will probably never make it on a tourist brochure.

When I first decided to move to New York, I told everyone I’d be living in the hip, trendy, East Village area of Manhattan. Naturally, why wouldn’t I want to live there? After all, I had visited for two weeks and spent most of my free time sipping lattes at the quaint cafes, trying new cuisines at the French restaurants, shopping in the over-priced boutiques and took in as much Jazz as I could stomach while I got myself acquainted with what I thought would be my new neighborhood. Of course, since when does life ever go as we plan? After searching for apartments through Craigslist, with zero success, I finally decided on a temporary living arrangement with a girl I had previously met at a party in the Lower East Side. She said she had an apartment with a room available in East Williamsburg that I could rent until I found a place of my own. East Williamsburg sounded like a nice landing place to begin my New York life. I had visited the Greenpoint/Williamsburg areas before and really fell in love with the whole scene there. It was an extension of the Lower East Side, really. The vibe was artsy, young, raw, maybe a little rough-around-the-edges but a great place to start. Piece of cake!

I arrived at JFK and no sooner as I left the baggage claim was I approached by a man who asked me where I was going. “Brooklyn”, I said, to which he quickly replied, “Come wit me”. I was led through three lanes of passenger pick-up traffic to an incredibly large Puerto Rican man who looked like the Don of the Gypsy Cab Drivers. The Don, not making any eye contact, escorted me over to a enthusiastic man named Abasi in an older model Lincoln Towncar. He quickly grabbed my overstuffed suitcase and threw it in the trunk of the car. As I slipped into the backseat, I began to wonder if I had done the right thing. Thoughts of my unusual disappearance and the montage of my photos that would be used on the episode of Unsolved Mysteries quickly played in my head. My thoughts were soon drowned out by Abasi’s too fast and too furious driving techniques.

Almost to my destination, I realized I wasn’t going to be living in any such artsy, gentrified neighborhood with café’s lining the streets and young hipsters tugging at their vintage cardigans. I wouldn’t be in Williamsburg or even East Williamsburg, for there was no such thing as “East Williamsburg“. I felt like Jack on the Titanic when Cal finally confesses that there is no “arrangement” or boats on the other side to take the men to safety. The car pulled up to a litter-lined street flooded with Salsa music. And here I was: The blonde, white girl from Texas and the new, temporary resident of Bushwick Brooklyn. “Bushwick“, I said to myself. The name even sounded dirty rolling off the end of my tongue. ‘Bushwick’ is a word that even the residents are afraid to mouth. “Where do you live?” “You know, that slum area of Brooklyn; That which shall not be named”.

After two weeks, the only word I could use to summarize my life was “tired”. Bushwick lived up to it’s reputation. It was a less than classy area, with Latino grocery markets serving up old produce, 7 stops away from Manhattan. It was a series of sleepless nights and a never-ending bus, train, “just a few more blocks to go“ adventure. Everything from making a simple deposit at the bank to shopping at the market, was an event that required methodical planning, walking a mile or two and making sure I had a book and my iPod to keep me company for a 45-minute train ride. What used to take 5 minutes, now required me to shower, get dressed for the day (make-up optional but highly discouraged. It‘s best to look as bad as possible), studying a subway map to figure out which train(s) to take, a 30-minute train ride, a mile walk and a “god, grant me serenity!” Who would have thought that living in New York City would have been such hard work? Performing simple tasks was no longer mindless and my sense of surroundings and awareness became as keen as a fox. I found myself rethinking this entire arrangement and wondering how much of it was really worth the privilege of being able to say “I live in New York”. But there were also many moments when I realized how phenomenal the city was for it’s art, history, music, cultures, entertainment, fashion, food. And it was true, this city is not for everyone, especially the lazy, faint of heart.

The railroad style apartment that I shared with my room mate was modernly updated, clean, cutely furnished in 21st century IKEA with the residue of 75 years of former residents. And the kitchen came fully integrated with it’s own family of roaches that we had both waged war against in the form of powders, sprays and bombs.
This was the only place I’d ever lived where the bathroom offered multi-tasking capabilities. I could take a piss, wash my hands and give myself a foot soak in the bathtub-all at the same time! The view from the front and the back of this dwelling was stellar, if you didn’t mind looking onto ghetto-style American graffiti and urban poverty. And the back end of the fire escape was fully barred off to deter thieves from breaking in (again) to steal valuable items like laptops, TVs and, I don’t know, expensive French panties?

After two and a half weeks, I had not really had a good nights‘ rest. I was desperately sleep deprived, cranky and bloated from the MSG-laden food at the Latino markets. Between the Salsa music heard round the clock, the droning bass from my next door neighbors‘ surround sound, dogs barking, Polish women yelling obscenities out into the streets, ice cream trucks playing that repetitive nursery rhyme music, horns honking, buses driving by, tow trucks at 3 AM, the screeching, rusty M train running by every 15 minutes, police sirens, thugs yelling, “I’m fuckin' gangsta, bitch!“ while shooting their guns, I was ready to just pack up and head back west on the next thing smoking. And the rats. For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the behemoth rats that could be heard from two stories up, squealing and rustling around in the garbage bags. They’d come out at nightfall, ready to party in all of the Latino leftovers; and the fiesta wouldn’t end until 4 AM.

I missed my old, lumpy bed. I wanted to sleep in, just once, past 8 AM without being disturbed by the aforementioned neighborhood ruckus; I wanted to sleep without the use of earplugs or pills. Or wake up with the cool breeze of a fan blowing on my face on the mornings when it was already 80 degrees in the sweltering heat of an August in Brooklyn.

The neighborhood gentlemen, referred to us as “Blondie Blanco’s“. Translation: “The White Blondies”. We were anomalies in this neighborhood of black and chestnut colored hair. And although most of New York is considered gentrified, I still could'nt help but notice that this neighborhood, in particular, was fighting the currents on that gentrification movement.

Even through all of my experience, there were some good things about living in a Latin ghetto. For example, I had the luxury of listening to loud, energetic Salsa music while shopping at my neighborhood market for groceries. In fact, if I actually wanted to Salsa in the aisle with my loaf of bread, the store clerks wouldn’t have minded at all! There were many off-priced stores that offered household goods and expired but still useable shampoos for a dollar. I found a coffee maker there for $12. I nabbed a $4 dress in a thrift store that could be worn a hundred different ways. How's that for stretching your dollars and cents! There was a great bakery two blocks away that made a delicious carrot loaf cake. It paired very well with my coffee, made in my $12 coffee maker. My neighbors could cook an incredible pot of pinto beans and they’d always offer me a plate, with rice sur le côté, any chance they got. My Guatemalan neighbor, who used to make dentures and porcelain teeth for Dentists in Mexico, gladly offered to glue my crown in for me one afternoon when it suddenly came out as a result of too many Starburst fruit chews.

When the neighbors threw back-yard parties to celebrate a 5-year olds birthday, it would last until 5 AM and my room mate and I (the token white blondies) were always invited to partake in the festivities. There was usually a smorgasbord of food and fresh Pina Coladas. Everyone in the neighborhood was really nice, warm and welcoming. I learned that I truly love the Latin culture for this. They are incredibly loyal, family oriented, big hearted and full of pride, happiness and passion. I learned to Salsa, Merengue, speak a little more Spanish and not only observe but live the way another people in the city live. Even with language barriers, we are all able to come together, live harmoniously and really share and connect as humans. To me, Brooklyn is where life is real. There's no resemblance of HBO's Sex and the City. In the many different boroughs of Brooklyn is where you find authentic culture. I would have never known or experienced this had I not lived in this neighborhood. I have gained an appreciation for my neighbors in a way that I never thought I would. In fact, many interesting people have come from Brooklyn's Bushwick: Eddie Murphy, Mae West and Jackie Gleason, to name a few.

After reading about the history and statistics of Bushwick, I realized this place is quite interesting and not even as scary as one would assume by it's previous crime statistics in the 1980’s-90's. Bushwick experienced 0.0252 violent crimes per person in 2007, in line with the City's overall rate of 0.0250 violent crimes per person.
In the wake of lower crime rates citywide and a shortage of cheap housing in "hip" neighborhoods such as Williamsburg, Greenpoint, and Gowanus, an influx of young professionals and artists moved into converted warehouse lofts, brownstones, limestone-brick townhouses and other renovated buildings. Bushwick's 83rd Precinct has a similar crime rate to neighboring Williamsburg's 90th Precinct.

In New York, everyone is here together: Whites, Blacks, Latinos, Asians, Indians, mixed ethnicities, artists, musicians, aspiring rappers and mid-western “blondies” just trying to figure it all out. This is what makes my neighborhood and New York City so intriguing. And even a place like Bushwick would be, at first glance, not a borough you would want to venture into. But sometimes you have to break open the geode to find the beauty that exists inside. Even as I write this, I can't help but laugh to myself when I realize all of this is my life and it’s all true. I love the new experiences, the unexpected, the adventure of it all and being challenged and forced out of my comfort zone. I always want to see life from different perspectives and it looks like I have certainly done that here.

Start Spreadin' the News...

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The two weeks I spent in New York altered the course of the life I have been living for the last year. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive again. I mean, really alive. The first three days were awkward and a bit lonely. It was like the feeling one experiences on the first day of school as the new student. The people and possibilities were exciting but I was not yet comfortable in my skin. Once I let go and just let the flow of the city carry me, I felt like I was a tiny drop within a vast, magnificent ocean. I was a small part of something big and powerful, and I loved the way that felt.

I knew going into it that my life and perspective would be changed forever. I knew that I would experience many new things and take with me some amazing memories; Memories so great that even now, I shake my head and smile when I recall the details. I know vacations like this always resonate for us but this was a little more than just vacation for me. It was more like the pause in my life that I desperately needed: A chance to reflect, grow, reconnect and hopefully, discover what road I needed to take next. I had been living in a state of staleness for a few months and it was just time to kick myself out of the comfortable nest I had made for myself and make something real happen.

The city is alive with a heartbeat that is felt from Harlem to Brooklyn and Chinatown. There is unification in the multiplicity. The art, the music, the energy, the people, the languages, the food, the ethnic diversity, the fashion, the history, the weather, I soaked it all in. I never wanted to sleep so I stayed up until 3, 4 and sometimes 5 AM. I awoke early every morning ready to do it all again and I was excited about discovering a new café that offered an amazing cup of coffee and the perfect croissant. And in my second week, I discovered espresso made by a true Italian woman. I sat in Central Park, ate escargot, walked blocks upon blocks without ever feeling it, saw two major movies being filmed, saw the city lit up from the ferry while sharing the music of Coldplay from my iPod with a new friend. I met an artist who does fine art body painting, a denim designer on the L train from Brooklyn who uses the very same factory and wash technician that I do. I was reminded that even in a city with millions of people, it is still a very small world; and we can all be so delicately intertwined. I met so many people from all over the world. Some have lived there for years, some were just passing through. People were warm and welcoming.  I ended up deep in the heart of Harlem, lost, and the residents were kind enough to point me in the right direction back to where I was supposed to be. As with any big city, there are your sketchy neighborhoods and scary people but my overall experience with New Yorkers was very good.

After the city had a chance to soak into my skin, I knew it would never leave.

It's up to you, New York.

In just a few more days I’ll be in New York City. Like LA, New York is another place I’ve waited my entire life to see. I’m feeling a mix of different emotions. I am already overwhelmed and I haven’t even stepped foot on a plane yet. I’m excited, scared, bewildered and ready all at the same time. This is just what I’ve needed after the year I’ve had. I only hope the city will live up to the expectations I’ve created in my mind. But on the other hand, I have no real expectations; only moment by moment experiences that I intend to take in fully. What comes my way is to be determined and I’m very excited about that. I figure, it can only go up from here, right? Well, at least that’s what I’m hoping for. The universe seems to be taking me in that direction and I honestly haven’t got any interest in fighting the current. It’s just the opposite, actually. I welcome and embrace the change; the surprise victory that I know will occur in the core of my being at the very moment I step off that plane and fill my lungs with New York City air. How can a place be such a big deal to me, I wonder? Is it because I’m from a small town and the only one in my family with a real sense of adventure? Is it because of what the place evokes in my heart? The center of earth’s fashion universe, a place to fit in, get lost, make a name for myself, watch humans be human; perhaps all of the above. The only regret I will have is that this adventure will be one I’ll take alone. That saddens me most. When I look out over the city for the first time from that airplane, there won’t be anyone beside me to say “Look at that view!” And when I step onto the streets, I won’t have the luxury of looking over my shoulder and saying to someone, “See? I finally made it!” But there is a big part of me that knows I’m not totally alone. If my dear friend were here, he would have surely gone with me. And if he’s on the other side, I know he’s looking out for me and he’ll probably be there with me, in that great big city, watching me like I’m a child at Disneyland. I realize our lives are so much better spent with people we love. And an adventure like this one is nothing more than a great way to escape the mundane, find myself a little more and serve as a reminder that we all need people in our lives to share these experiences with. And not just general people or acquaintances. I'm talking about people we trust, love, adore, cherish. Our 'soul mates' in life.
I do hope this trip will be one that brings me closer to myself and my goals, in a spiritual sense and literally, in regards to my career. It’s a thought that has been on my mind non-stop. I’m ready to stop being in this state of inertia. I realize that if I never make it to where I want to be and accomplish what I really want to accomplish, I’ve lived a half-life. And when I think of the idea of only living a half-life, I often wonder what the use would be in living at all. I wake up every morning ready to go. I love what I do so much that I cannot imagine doing anything else. I could never abandon my dreams or my passion for creating. Without it, I think I’d just die. That may sound extreme but honestly, until you’ve loved someone or even something so much that it just makes you make sense, you may never understand me. And I also realize that not everyone is wired that way. And I ask myself frequently, why I am. But I’ve become much more content with right now and what’s ahead that I try not to spend too much energy on the things that have passed. I’ve learned the hard way not to waste much time in negative thoughts of yesterday. It no longer exists.

So, here I stand at the gate of my mid-thirties, looking forward only. I will not question fate, choices, who or even who not. It’s no longer my agenda to figure out why things went awry, or wonder what could have been or what should have; rather what’s most important now is what can be. Who will I become, what person will I be to others? What will I contribute or give, who will I surround myself with and for whom will I eventually share that “big love” with. I think about this amazing two week trip I’m about to experience and I wonder, what strange, artistic, interesting people will I meet in New York and what will I see? Where’s the best pizza in the city and most importantly, why is it so darn good? What is a Broadway show like? How, exactly, will that taxi cab smell? What country will the cab driver be from? What’s it like to sit in Central Park and read a good book or stroll Park Avenue? And even more so, how will I feel at the end of it all, how will I be affected? What will I learn about me and what conversations will I have with myself for two weeks alone in a city as massive and inspiring as New York? Who has time to think about the past? The future is so much more interesting!
This is an exciting time in my life. I've given my ultimate dream to the powers that be. Now I can only wait and hope that it all comes to fruition. In the meantime, my world just seems to be opening up. And I'm really enjoying the view!