tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69164168250934768652023-11-10T18:59:18.562-05:00Vesuvius At HomeVesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.comBlogger438125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-9986984068556196902020-04-22T22:02:00.003-04:002020-04-22T22:16:09.006-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #313131; font-family: , "helveticaneue"; font-size: 16px; word-spacing: 1px;">Today I watched a little girl just splash into the Santa Fe River in her pink striped Adidas tennis shoes, same shoes as I had in college. It felt like a miracle. Not the coincidence of the shoes, but the unrestrained exuberance of the girl, to splash full-on into cold moving April water without a single care for the virus or the shoes. I watched the water wash over her ankles and gulp into her shoes and I could feel it as if it was happening to me, as if I was the girl, unrestrained and wild and one with the rivers and the mud. She was with her father, who held on leashes the family dogs, and he didn’t say anything, not one word about the shoes, he seemed truly not to care. A small miracle. They raced sticks down the water, and I cried, remembering when my girls were young and their father and I together watched them splash in the rivers of Appalachia, a lifetime away. I walked home under pink boughs that smell watery and just like Paris, the way Paris smells for me, aside from the urine and the car exhaust, having always gone in the spring. In an optimistic moment a few weeks ago I bought a plane ticket for October. The ticket was cheap. On that day The world was different from what it had been and different from what it is now. When I got home the girls were talking to their friends on their computers. I sat in the back yard and watched the sky go rosy and the atmosphere go gold, like it used to in Brevard, in North Carolina, when the mists would rise over the green and the whole earth would rest, so soft, sighing in and out her breath and the flowers exploded from every corner like a Dionysian riot. This astonishing world. As I type this the church bells are ringing. The bird song is sweeter. How strange that the air should smell just as it did for all my previous springs on earth when this one is so different. The birds do as they’ve always done. So do the flowers. Children splash through cold streams. The colors leave and return in the sky.</span>Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-40553736567651911262020-04-08T11:14:00.001-04:002020-04-08T22:47:04.794-04:00Lacuna<br />
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<br />
<br />
I was ironing tablecloths.<br />
<br />
We were going to have the table read there at the production office. You know, the thing where the cast sits around a table and does a read-through of the script. Creative name: table read. I was hoping I'd get to attend. I've never attended a table read before. We'd spent a lot of the previous day making little place cards with each character's name on them using an Avery template. It was more complicated than you might think, but we'd finally gotten it right. Now, it was Thursday morning and I was ironing table cloths. There was going to be a table read.<br />
<br />
My new friend came in. A publicist with an impressive amount of experience. She said she'd be shocked if they didn't pause production by that afternoon. If anyone is going to know these things, it's a publicist, I figured. She said other shows all over the world were starting to shut down, and it would be a bad look for ours to keep going. But nothing was certain yet. I texted my friend on a show in Winnipeg and she said their production was still going strong. As far as I knew, we were still going to have a table read. So I kept ironing the table cloths.<br />
<br />
About an hour later all the producer's meetings for the rest of the day were cancelled. Network representatives were flying in from LA.<br />
<br />
By noon there was no longer any need for the table cloths.<br />
<br />
Late that afternoon we all gathered in the room where we were supposed to have the table read. The table cloths I'd spent two hours ironing were folded up in a corner. The network said we were delaying principal photography for two weeks. A pause, they said. A two week push. We'd have two extra weeks of prep now before we started shooting. People that could work from home should. Those coming into the office should practice social distancing. No more shaking hands. Use gloves at the crafty station. Hand sanitizer everywhere.<br />
<br />
Some departments were relieved for the extra time, they'd been scrambling to be ready for Monday.<br />
<br />
Anyone who wasn't from New Mexico and wanted to go home should, they said.<br />
<br />
I went home that night to a hotel. I was considering signing a lease on an apartment. Or trying to, anyway, on a unit I'd sent pictures of to the girls for their approval, which they gave. RENT IT, they said. They were eager to move. But the owners didn't seem to want me. They didn't think my work was steady enough.<br />
<br />
Friday morning I went in to work. Most of us did. Prepared to go through the logistics of delaying production on a film for two weeks. All of the locations would have to be adjusted, all the equipment stored, all the vendors contracts adjusted--so many logistics, more than I even know.<br />
<br />
<i>They're going to shut us down</i>, said my new friend, the publicist. Completely. <i>There's no way they can't.</i><br />
<br />
And she was right. By about 11 am they told us.<br />
<br />
Close it up. Send everyone home.<br />
<br />
Two weeks pay.<br />
<br />
There was talk of private jets but most of the cast ended up staying in Santa Fe. One of the actors, however, went back to LA and production was paying for his home anyway, so that's where we are now. Me and the girls. An Airbnb near downtown Santa Fe that is fancy but maybe not as fancy as you'd think. It has a lot of animal print. Zebra rugs and giraffe chairs. It has scary masks and one gorgeous wooden bowl that is laced with turquoise the way practitioners of Japanese kintsugi pottery lace their cracked vessels with gold.<br />
<br />
The days speed by. My two weeks paid ended and the studio said they'd pay us all for two more.<br />
<br />
The first night after we shut down, some of us gathered for dinner at someone's home. It hadn't sunk it yet, the reality. The understanding of just how distant social distancing was supposed to be. I ate a beautiful meal with five people I had met just that week. I remember the publicist saying that we were going to be paused for more than two weeks. That we needed to prepare ourselves for the reality that this was going to be closer to two months.<br />
<br />
<i>Two months</i>, I thought. A feeling like my head was swimming away from my body, zooming up into the atmosphere like a loosed balloon. Okay, I can do that. I have enough saved to last me two months. With unemployment, I won't have to cut that much into my savings. Two months from now we will reconvene and rents might even be cheaper and we'll pick up there. We'll shoot the movie in May and June and July, which only means I'll be employed for even longer. Two months will be fine.<br />
<br />
Now, of course, we all know it could be more than two months. We have no idea of the shape of this yet. It could be something much longer.<br />
<br />
The woman who has been my friend since high school, who is a single mother to an infant, tells me she hears on the TV that there could be a second strain of this thing in the fall.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The days speed by. I set my alarm for seven to make them feel longer but don't manage to get up til 8. I make coffee my new way, with MCT oil and mushroom powder and collagen protein. A ritual that helps all this nothing feel like something. Sometimes, in that first hour, I journal. Sometimes I can write. Sometimes I sit in silence, or put on a playlist of French music. Inevitably, I pick up my phone and spend too much time on Twitter on Instagram. I'm hungry all the time, it seems I'm never full.<br />
<br />
The girls sleep until noon and then we make coffee together, a creamy coffee drink of South Korean origin (or Libyan, or Indian, accounts vary) called dalgona that is, I hear, now tiktok famous. That's where we discovered it, after all. Sometimes in the afternoon I sit on the patio with a book. The first two weeks especially I was able to focus, to read. More often, lately, in the afternoon I enter this spaceless, boundary-less lacuna that passes by quickly, my mind an empty drift, a barren desert scattered with tumbleweeds and feathers. Everything blows by and echoes and yet nothing sticks. I sit outside and stare up at the sky, watching the clouds. Watch the symphonies of butterflies on the white blossoms here, watch the bees. Watch the light change, and think about nothing, and relentlessly reach for my phone, and feel how it exhausts me, the phone, and put it down. And pick it up again. I spend hours this way every day. Some days I get into bed around three and get out around seven to start making dinner. Sometimes I don't make dinner.<br />
<br />
But when I do make dinner, I play Taylor Swift or the Indigo girls, and that's when I cry.<br />
<br />
I have my breakdowns, cooking dinner. It's fine. I'll be sautéing chicken or boiling water and all of a sudden it will hit me: some combination of the spring sunset in Santa Fe, the red light streaming through the blossoms, a lyric "<i>And I snuck in through the garden gate every night that summer just to seal my fate",</i> and it will suddenly crush me, the reality, the surreality of what we are facing, of how quickly and drastically the world changed. I will think of the hundreds of spring evenings that came before this one, when I cooked dinner in a sunlit kitchen and everything was everything, life was just life going on, it hits you like that and I put my hand over my mouth and slip into the laundry room that's off the kitchen here and cry. So the girls don't see me. I'm alone, there's no other adult in this house, no one to see me or catch me or make sure the broccoli doesn't burn. I just stand there for a moment and cry and feel the weight of the new world and this tremendous, all encompassing not knowing. This limitless nothing that we all live with now every day because the old has been destroyed and the new cannot yet be built again.<br />
<br />
Then I stop crying and go back out and shift the chicken in the pan and take the vegetables off the flame and we eat dinner.<br />
<br />
Maybe I go for a walk.<br />
<br />
Maybe I sit by the river.<br />
<br />
One night there was a man there too. Sitting on a stone bench, playing Spanish guitar on the banks. I could hear it faintly over the sound of the stream. I stayed for awhile, just to listen. I didn't look at him and he didn't look at me. Just two strangers by the water, taking comfort in the dusk.<br />
<br />
<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-88171525756415447392020-03-17T20:40:00.000-04:002020-03-17T21:40:05.209-04:00Spiral<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vZIVAVIk-40/XnFtLZt5LZI/AAAAAAACE8E/r-d07OT87nYU94tauLxI2ytKxNM0QGxLACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Laura%2BEllis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vZIVAVIk-40/XnFtLZt5LZI/AAAAAAACE8E/r-d07OT87nYU94tauLxI2ytKxNM0QGxLACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Laura%2BEllis.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>*art by <a href="https://lauraellisart.com/" target="_blank">Laura Ellis</a>, in <a href="https://www.ernestomayansgallery.com/" target="_blank">Ernesto Mayan's Gallery</a>, Santa Fe.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
I spent all of last week bouncing from hotel to hotel, working long days on my new production and sneaking out here and there to look at apartments to rent. The prospect of leasing as a single mother terrified me at first, and yet as I drew closer to signing a lease, the terror subsided and I felt excited and hopeful. The woman who showed me the 3 bedroom apartment she had to let, one with new flooring and funky old bathrooms, offered to cut my rent by $100 a month when she heard I worked in film. She was interested in the industry. She'd dabbled in it for awhile but had left it because she found it too hard an industry to work in as a mother. She and her husband now worked from home and together raised their son.<br />
<br />
I applied for the place. My former landlord from Brevard now lives in Albuquerque and he gave me an excellent reference. The girls were excited and approving and ready to move. It felt like things were falling into place. Then on Tuesday the owners told me they'd leased the 3 bedroom to someone else; was I interested in their 2 bedroom?<br />
<br />
I went to look at it. It was very funky and had hard tile floors but the price was good and I said yes, I was very interested.<br />
<br />
I haven't heard from them since.<br />
<br />
Perhaps they heard that our production shut us down on Friday. It was wild. On Thursday morning I was getting the room ready for our table read, which was scheduled for 4:30 that afternoon. But whispers were already beginning that some announcement might be coming. By noon, all meetings were cancelled. Netflix folks flew in from LA and arrived at 4pm to announce we were pushing filming for two weeks. They said that we would treat those two weeks as additional prep time. Most of us would keep working. Everyone would be paid.<br />
<br />
I slept in a hotel. Friday morning I went into work and before lunch, they told us that production was now shutting down completely for two weeks, and that everyone was to be out of the building by 5 pm.<br />
<br />
The film industry is a strange one in many ways. By nature, most jobs are temporary and uncertain. Getting work again depends not just on how good of a job you do, but on how much people like you. Who you meet. Who warms up to you. It's scary and exhilarating and I love it precisely because it lies outside the normal bounds of reality. The whole world of it feels unreal at times, and there are moments on a film set that I cannot believe my life is real. That I get to be standing in a sunset field in late summer Ohio, waiting with my fellow crew to see a car crash and roll three times on purpose. That I get to ride in the backseat of an insert car down a highway, watching the actors on a monitor in front of me as they act out their scene in the car behind me. That once on a dark mountain in the midst of all-night rain delays we piled several cast and crew into my car and read each other's tarot cards and drank chocolate whiskey. That one wrap landed me in the most bizarre restaurant I have ever seen, where a man played modern pop hits on a smarmy saxophone and waiters walked by with cotton candy in towers on white plates and we ate oysters and steak and decided that we must be in Russia.<br />
<br />
But the strangeness of it did reach an unsettling height when I watched the entire showboating, steam-engined circus grind to a screeching halt in a matter of hours. Reluctant to keep paying for hotels, I asked if I could stay in one of the homes we'd rented for someone who has traveled back to LA. The homes are already paid for. They said sure.<br />
<br />
So here we are, my girls and I, in a beautiful if gaudily decorated home with an indoor and an outdoor kiva fireplace and front and back patios where I can sit outside and drink my coffee and intend to write before I inevitably reach for my phone again, as I do every ten minutes, too distracted by news and worry to focus. It feels a bit like that scene from Zombieland where Emma Watson's character and Woody Harrelson's character hole up in actual Bill Murray's mansion to wait out the end of the apocalypse. Not that I think we are in an apocalypse, but surely we all can relate to the apocalyptic feel of grocery store aisles empty of food and malls with more than half the stores shuttered and we all of us are together in not knowing what will come next.<br />
<br />
Working on films from September to December, I saved up money to allow me to lease a place. First and last month, deposit, moving costs. Now, Netflix is going to pay us for the next two weeks, and then, who knows? I have spent far more than I care to admit on groceries. I'm not hoarding, but we are staying in a vacation rental that has salt, pepper, vinegar and oil and almost nothing else. I don't know how long we will live this eerie and beautiful and nervy life--a rich person's vacation home, a dwindling savings account, work in an industry that might get back up on its feet in a month or so, but may not.<br />
<br />
Yesterday morning I received news that a cast member on our show has tested positive for COVID. People who have worked in this industry far longer than I are saying they're expecting maybe two months before we get rolling again. In the wake of the news, I left our for-now home and went out for a walk. We are living on the banks of the Rio Grande, where I perched for awhile on a rock and felt my heartbeat and blood and all the nerves in my body return to a calmer, ancient rhythm. The earth is very, very old, and while we humans may be relatively new to it, there is something ancient and knowing in us as well. A rhythm that we can be reminded into by wind, by rivers, by trees. When I left that skinny water I turned south and walked toward Canyon Road, the art mecca of Santa Fe, lined with galleries and dotted with a few cafes and restaurants. It was nearly empty, a ghost art town. I went into a gallery at random, on impulse, an old house with creaking floors converted into a light-filled art space with tight corners and narrow hallways. To look upon art was as calming as listening to the river, and the work of one artist in particular drew my eye and made my body sigh. At the end of the hallway the owners, a man and woman, were speaking to each other in Spanish. I asked if I could take a picture. He said yes and thanked me for asking before returning to what sounded like an urgent conversation. The only words I could pick out were days -- <i>miércoles o jueves, miércoles o jueves. </i>Words that actually derive from <i>Mercury</i> and <i>Jupiter</i>, but have always sounded, to me, like miracles and eggs, miracles and eggs. I lingered long enough in that little room in front of them, taking pictures of nearly every painting and photograph on their walls, that eventually the man turned to me and asked me where I was from.<br />
<br />
"I used to live here, but I had to move back to Colorado. I'm trying to get back to Santa Fe," I said. He was an older man, gray hair and beard, a distinguished face, and he looked at me and firmly said "You will," like a blessing. Like a promise. I thanked him. He asked about my work and when I told him about the film industry he gave me the phone number of a friend of his who works in set design in Albuquerque. "You call her and tell her you are a friend of Ernesto's," he said.<br />
<br />
And I will.<br />
<br />
Things like this happen, in Santa Fe. They happen in Denver, they happen in New York, they happen in Los Angeles and Duluth and Cincinnati, but for me, most often they happen in Santa Fe. They happen here. I can promise you that in the coming days and weeks they will happen where you are as well. We will rise, and we will rally. Inside of everything is a spark of light that is life, I believe it with my soul, and I know that wherever you are, it will find you. You might have to look for it. But know: light is there.<br />
<br />
Who knows if Ernesto's friend will be of use to me or I to her? That isn't what matters. I know from my past that a lot of little sparks might all seem to be nothing but will eventually culminate into something, that even the ones that burned out and died were helpful in some mysterious way.<br />
<br />
Here we are again in Santa Fe.<br />
<i><br /></i>
Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-26982521218290280762020-03-06T14:44:00.002-05:002020-03-06T14:44:21.304-05:00Archives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I didn't leave that day on the train. I arrived here in a different method, after I went out into the world and built a life and then watched that life collapse upon itself, again and again, until it was a piece of paper folded down to nothing. I no longer believe in things like justice or hope or luck, or even manifestation. But I believe in highways, I believe in roads, I believe in the way the evening light of New Mexico illuminates the whole land like a road to El Dorado, shimmering gold in the last of the sun.<br />
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<i>From my journal in March 2019</i>Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-6893144528123080592019-06-12T13:03:00.000-04:002019-06-12T13:03:12.353-04:00Spirits<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0Lm6Q61MDDc/XQEwAy1rTzI/AAAAAAABxso/8NN6FD-I5s0xWsw4YogVfnrnFob9MI6xQCLcBGAs/s1600/Blog%2Bheader.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1281" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0Lm6Q61MDDc/XQEwAy1rTzI/AAAAAAABxso/8NN6FD-I5s0xWsw4YogVfnrnFob9MI6xQCLcBGAs/s640/Blog%2Bheader.JPG" width="512" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girls and I are in Santa Fe visiting with our ghosts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve said it before—a very specific thing occurs when you
live somewhere for a period of time that is not too long, and then leave it.
That place itself becomes a time capsule, a museum of who you were in those
days. Santa Fe is a highly defined chapter in our lives, a peaceful rest
starkly demarcated by turmoil on either end. We lived here from December of
2015 to October of 2017. The girls were 9 and 11 when we arrived, and 11 and 13
when we left. For those two years I loved it here, and I was married to a man
who didn’t. I have heard it said that Santa Fe either pulls you in or spits you
out. It pulled me in. Magical things happened to me here, things I wanted but
never thought could occur—I worked on three movies, something I had long wished
I could do but never had any idea of how to accomplish. One of those movies
took me to some of the most stunning landscapes I have ever seen, and brought
me some of the most intense experiences I have ever known. It seems a charmed
thing that I was a part of it, proof that there is some wise machination
working in the universe, some hidden clockwork, that strikes to our advantage
from time to time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we neared Santa Fe, my daughters and I on our journey
here, winding through the canyon that stretches for about the space of an hour
on the approach, a particular feeling came over us all. We grew quiet. Privately,
I started to cry. I realized that what my body thought was happening was that I
was going to drive the girls home. To our own home on Colores Del Sol, our
little adobe, where the girls once played with the neighbor children in the
street, where we walked the dogs in the evenings in the development’s many
wending hills and arroyos left untouched so that people could walk through them
and teenagers could get up to mischief in them and the coyotes could have somewhere
to dwell. Although wildlife does not appear to be short on habitats here, to my
untrained eye. The empty land stretches for miles in every direction. You can
see where the city ends from almost any place you go, and after that there is
nothing but land and sky. This is my land. This is the space of my heart. I
knew it on my first trip here, when I was a teenager and some part of me said<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, I will live here one day</i>. And I know
it now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I forgot the way even the air feels different here. It is nearly
alpine, at 7,000 feet. It is cooler and clearer and the wind sparkles a bit
with a winking something. On our first night here, we arrived later than we’d
intended, because that morning I had somehow slept until 11 am. I had told the
girls we’d leave by 11 at the latest and then had gone to sleep without setting
an alarm, confident that I’d wake up by 8 or 9, as I always do. Instead I awoke
to Ayla knocking on my door, pushing it open, and saying “Mom are we going to
go?? It’s eleven!” By the time we got on the road it was about 12:30. In the
space of that 90 minutes I showered and dressed and curled my hair and packed
and gathered the things that needed to be gathered, and we were off. It was
easy to pack for this trip because we have done it so many times before, on our
road together. Less a setting out than a return. By the time we got to our motel,
it was something like 7, and we were tired. I asked the girls if they wanted to
go out, but they didn’t, they wanted to stay in and watch cable. So I went out
to get a pizza. On a Sunday night in Santa Fe, by 7:30 the city is pretty
quiet. It has mostly shut down. There is a hush in the air, and as I drove to downtown
I thought, oh, I’d forgotten this. How could I have forgotten? The magic of
this place. The spirit or presence of sense of something—sense of knowing,
sense of possibility, sense of spirit—that hangs just in the air here. I picked
up the pizza and drove home as the sun was setting—a beautiful sunset already,
on our first night. I passed a few Santa Fe types, walking along the side walks
as I drove, and felt offended that the city had just gone on without me. So
rude. So heartbreaking, really. Back at our little 50’s era motel, all redone for
the southwestern hipsters, the girls and I ate pizza on our beds while watching
the Kardashians and thumbing at our phones. Then I asked them if they wanted to
go to the hot tub. They did. We put on our bathing suits and made our way to
the spa, a pool of still, heated water set amidst stucco and adobe and a dry
white fountain. We were thrilled to find it empty. We slid into that warm water
and the breeze of Santa Fe on a cool night in early June hushed around us. On
the wind here is the Spirit. The Great Mystery. The Something. I have traveled
enough to learn that what the native people of this land knew was, of course,
correct. Some places have more presence than others. Maybe it varies from
person to person. Maybe you have been lucky enough to find yours. This is mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thing that had hit me and made me cry on the drive into
town, through the arroyos, was the ghost of their dad. We passed under the
bridge that was the exit for the place we went camping and picnicking and
wandering a few times, the four of us, when we lived here. One summer day we
took that exit and drove through six or seven campsites before we found an
empty spot. We listened to Hamilton the whole way, singing along together. Another
day we packed up drinks and hot dogs and s’mores and set out for the woods. We
built a fire and spent the day eating and drinking and exploring along the
river, before heading home. When we drove past that exit, the presence of his absence—the
shape of it, the weight, someone’s sudden absence is such a solid thing—hit me
like a boulder thrown from the overpass and I started to cry, lowered my
sunglasses so the girls wouldn’t see my eyes watering. I had been feeling
better, lately. Optimistic, even. But like any grief, this hit me out of
nowhere and threatened to overwhelm me and there on the highway, I was very,
very sad. It felt as if he should have been there—our fourth, our man. Their
father. My husband. It was incomplete, without him, and that could not be helped.
I still don’t understand how this person has rent himself away from me. The
rending leaves so brutal a wound. A raw and gaping gash that runs all along my
left side, very specifically-- that I am learning and must keep learning to
fill myself, as so many women before me have. This is what women do. We pack
the wound with honey and healing herbs. We learn to mother ourselves. We learn
to partner ourselves. We learn that we must be for ourselves the thing we
thought and wanted our partner to be for us. And we keep going.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is more to it all than this. The wound at time feels
like a wild freedom. Feels like a lightness. Feels like a peace existing
between a mother and her children that somehow never could exist when the
father was there. A male partner requires so much tending to, so much dancing
around of the ego, it sometimes interferes with the river that runs between
mother and child. We are asked to root the river of resources that we need for
our children off toward our husbands instead. Sometimes I look at the life that
lies ahead of me and think, my god, I can do whatever the fuck I want, and no
one can fuck it up for me but me, and that feels wild and liberating and good. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And sometimes the wound feels like a wound, and it hurts.
For everything we say yes to, we are saying no to something else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I mean is: there are things a male partner brings to a
woman’s life, good things. And there are things the absence of a male partner
brings to a woman’s life, also good things. No one can hold both at the same
time. Sometimes we will choose one over the other. Sometimes life will choose
for us. We have to just take it as it comes. As we can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before we were divorced, I sometimes looked at divorced
women with a kind of envy. They seemed so free. After my divorce, a few women told
me they now looked at me that way. An envy. A wondering, of what things might
be like without the man. And there it is, laid out. It is good and bad, better
and worse, harder and easier. Maybe you are in a position to choose. Maybe you
have no choice. I don’t know which is easier.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(I do. Having no choice is easier).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The life of a woman untethered to a man, with her two girls,
is not the thing I chose, most of the time, but it’s the thing I have. I will
take what I’ve been given and do what women have always done: Keep going. Care
for the children, as best I can. Love them, as wildly as I can. Show them, as
much as I can, that life is ever-shifting—that even when it’s calm, the waters
are a mystery, sometimes a wild hurricane or rocky river, rushing us toward a
bend we don’t want to take, and that all we have in our lives are the things we
choose to make of the waters. The things we bring to it. The story we tell ourselves
about what happened to us. This has always been what matters most. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stayed awhile in that still, quiet spa on a night in
early June in a breezy New Mexico. The wind brought us the scent of sage and
roses, from the bushes growing all along a nearby walkway. The night before, back
in Colorado, we had driven home from my sister’s house late at night, a summer
night in a warmer clime, the windows all down, music blasting on the radio. A
song about Summer Love. Ayla knew all the words. I sang along when I could. It
reminded me of being a teenager, those times when the wind in a car and music
on a summer night was all I lived for. I was grateful to the girls for bringing
this into my life again. I have spent my whole life running from connection due
to a deep fear of having my inner self and resources intruded upon, and now—and
it pains me to say this—I see that connection is what life is worth living for.
Someday I want to move back to Santa Fe and work in the movies again. I want to
re-submerge myself in this enchanted place where good things just seem to happen
to me (as long as I took whatever steps I could toward making them happen).
Right now I need to get my daughters through their high school years—all four
years at the same school is what I want most for them, something they have
never had, though they once had four schools in one year. It is my birthday
today. I am 38. So far, I have had a wild and rocky and deeply beautiful life.
Beautiful and terrible things have come, and will continue to come. I can’t
hold the goodness of life with a husband and the goodness of life without one
both at the same time. Those two things cannot exist together. But these two
things can: sometimes your drive is a mourning and a celebration, sometimes
your night is a mercy and a wound, sometimes you are leaving home and coming
home at the same time. There are warm waters and fierce griefs, the wind that
gentles you will also roar, my life and your life have spun and spun and spun
and it has been painful, yes, and terrible, to be sure, and the beauty we have
found at times has been so wild and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>so
true and we are lucky to have experienced all of it, every bit of it, any of it
at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-75579062725601330902018-10-26T18:10:00.000-04:002018-10-27T11:52:15.147-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Ever since last fall I have been preoccupied with birds in the sky. Wild geese, like in the Mary Oliver poem. It must be because I had lived so long in places where the geese did not cross on their yearly migration from one place that is a mystery to me to another. I don't remember ever missing the geese while in Santa Fe or Brevard, but once we were back in Colorado I didn't want to take my eyes off them. They don't captivate me when grounded, but only in flight. I remember clearly standing outside my sister's house, one night last year in late fall when my husband was still in California, and stopping to watch a flock of them sail across a frosty moon in a near-black sky. It was a Halloween moon, very full, the air smoky, the veil thin. The geese were a wonder, true wild things, able to live as they do here in the unnatural world we have made.<br />
<br />
The geese were on a tarot card I had drawn repeatedly over my two years in Santa Fe, when I was trying to decide whether or not to leave my marriage. The tarot deck was called The Wild Unknown and in it, geese were used to represent one of the major arcana--The Lovers. I took it as an encouragement to stay, despite everything that was happening and everything between us. We left North Carolina following a large eruption of my volcano life, and I spent an entire year after that in a liminal space. My husband and I functioned, for that year, as partners and teammates in our children's lives and not as husband and wife, because it had to be decided if the thing that had happened could be tolerated. Could be lived beyond. Over and over again that year, I would talk to the Spirit (Goddess, God, whatever you might call it) and draw The Lovers. Two geese. Mates for life. I took it as a sign that the marriage was worth saving. I don't read tarot to predict the future. I read it to hear what's in my own heart. But this decision was too big, too scary. Everything hurt. I didn't know what was in my own heart.<br />
<br />
The Lovers is a card that's easily misunderstood.<br />
<br />
About a year into our time in Appalachia, my husband had brought up ending our marriage. I had been completely blindsided. I had never thought of us as anything other than lifetime partners, and the fact that he had felt like its own form of betrayal. We had a long and tortured night of conversation, after which I went into the bathroom, sat on the floor with my back to the door, and sobbed the foundation of my life up out of the ground, through my root chakra, and all the way out through my crown. I went to bed. In the morning he said he was sorry he'd made me cry like that, and that we would try to make this marriage work. And we did try. Or we didn't. Or we did, but not hard enough. It depends on who you ask, and when.<br />
<br />
Then we fled to Santa Fe and I brought up ending the marriage and he didn't want to. So we stayed out there in the desert, and I went to work in the movies and he worked at another brewery and I went for walks in the desert and in the mystic mountains, and the girls grew two years older by dizzying increments. Towards the end of 2017 my husband was falsely diagnosed with cirrhosis, and went to rehab. It became clear that this life was not sustainable. We collapsed.<br />
<br />
Then we moved back to Denver and there were wild geese in the sky.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
It always happens in October, it seems. In October we got married, in October Ayla was born, in October we moved from Santa Fe to Denver, and then in October I moved out of our apartment in Fort Collins, where we had lived for six tremulous months as a family, and into my parent's house in Littleton, because my husband had decided he wanted a divorce.<br />
<br />
I am trying to be fair to both of us here, which is why I say that we'd both brought up divorce over the years--who has been married for 16 years and never once thought about divorce?--but it is also true and honest to say that in the end, I wanted to reconcile, and in the end, it wasn't up to me.<br />
<br />
Indy came to Littleton with me for a week, but then it became clear that the change in our living situation combined with another change of schools was too much for her (and wouldn't it be too much for anyone?), and so she went back to Fort Collins where, for right now, she lives during the weeks with Ayla, her dad, and her Grammy, in her Aunt's walk-out basement, and where she and Ayla can finish out the school year. Because they have been to so very many different schools in so few years, these indomitable and enduring daughters of mine.<br />
<br />
This part of it--having the girls on weekends and holidays only--is too awful for me to talk about. I'm not sure if I can bear it and I'm not certain it will be borne. People keep talking about the dust settling, but ending a sixteen-year marriage and losing your home, your life partner, and your entire existence as a full time mother is not about dust settling. It is about beginning the process of sifting through years and years of accumulated dust, dust so thick it goes up to your eye balls and it feels like you can't breath, it becomes a sludge and you are swimming in it and it seems like maybe you will never get out.<br />
<br />
Here's what I have learned about divorce: no matter what impressions you might have formed, divorce is not about just a couple, and it is not about self-actualization, not necessarily. Maybe it can be about that eventually. But at its root, it is about taking this holy, sacred, living and breathing entity that you and your partner have built together with your children, and wrenching it apart. Killing it. Divorce is a death. It razes everything to the ground. You and your children must try to find each other, somehow, inside the ashes. And your children must also try to find your spouse. And though you can see your spouse through the smoke and rubble, you are now strangely, impossibly, forbidden from going to them for comfort--the one person you have always turned to throughout your entire adult life. Divorce is sometimes necessary and sometimes a relief, but not always, and I can only tell you that from here, it does not feel like freedom.<br />
<br />
For days, grief crashed over me, wave after wave, a grief so terrible and powerful and overwhelming that I believed it was a tide that would pin me to the ocean floor and hold me there forever, until I died. It was too much pain to hold. It made time bend and undulate in strange and unsettling ways. It has filled me full to the brim with nostalgia for other times and other lives and other mothers I have been. A new mother of small children. A mother of small town, Southern kids. I even wish I could go back to being a Santa Fe desert mother, because although everything was falling apart around me, the girls and I had each other. Every day I dropped them off and picked them up from school and brought them back to our home, every day we went to bed and woke up in the same house, we passed the minutes and days this way. So that even when things were bad, there was the four of us--there was home.<br />
<br />
The center of the grief, the nadir of it, is the moment when you have to tell your children. When you have to hold their life up in front of them and shoot it between the eyes and watch it die, and watch their faces as they watch it die. That is another thing that is too painful for me to write about, and it is something I would have done anything, absolutely anything, to prevent. After we told them, they went into their room and I went into mine and I fell to the floor, too alive and burning too brightly to bare with the force of all that sorrow. I made an unearthly sound out of my gut and my throat and my chest because the once-breathing, holy, beautiful monster that was our marriage had just died. From the floor of my bedroom, I could see only a strip of narrow sky. Somehow I kept my eyes up even though I had turned into a ghost, and I watched as across that sliver of sky passed a flock of geese, wild and vibrant and vibrating like the red stone of life I imagine sits in the basement of all our bellies, our sacred fire keeping us alive. A flock of wild geese, honking in the bright, bearing themselves across the curvature of the sky with only the strength of their wings, gliding from one mystery into the next, with no understanding of the word <i>bereft</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-16078452715903612612015-08-24T15:12:00.000-04:002015-08-24T15:24:19.563-04:00Wild<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ayla and I went to Target for school supplies. She is entering 5th grade, her last year of elementary school. How this happened, I do not know. How it has been 11 years since I awaited the entrance of this child into the world is one of the great mysteries. I couldn't bring myself to say no to anything she asked for. Shiny new lunchbox with geometrical print, okay. Matching new water bottle with matching geometric print, toss it in there. Ayla was determined to get a white backpack and white shoes, both of which she would decorate with sharpies. The backpack had to be ordered online, the shoes, after some setbacks, were found by Grammy at Kohl's. Ayla gets these grand ideas in her head and I know she will be despondent if they don't work out, and I go to great lengths to prevent this despondency. When we got out of the car at Target I started singing to Ayla "back to school, back to school, to prove to dad I'm not a fool," in an Adam Sandler voice, and that is how I learned that Adam Sandler does not resonate with Ayla's generation AT ALL.<br />
<br />
On Thursday we learned Ayla had been placed in a class with none of her best friends but with the two children she has had the most conflict with over the years. I know some parents think that children need to learn to deal with this sort of difficulty in life, and those parents are right. But I am one of those that thinks, why not prevent what bumps I can, life has enough challenges as it is. And I'm right too, you know? Neither Noah nor I are good at rocking the boat. We didn't want to call the school and ask for special treatment. I got Ayla into the car. "How big of a deal is this situation with your friends?" I asked. "A big deal, a small deal, a medium deal?"<br />
<br />
"It's fine, it's not a big deal," Ayla said. "I'll still see them at recess and before school and stuff."<br />
<br />
But she was holding back tears.<br />
<br />
"Okay," I said. "And are those your real feelings, or is this you not wanting to hurt someone's feelings by switching?"<br />
<br />
"The feelings," she said.<br />
<br />
So I screwed up my courage and called the new principal and told her the truth. That we moved here from Colorado and it's been hard enough to make friends. That it's Ayla's last year of elementary school and I want her to have a good year surrounded by her pals. I understand that some might say these issues are trivial, but they are not trivial to me. I don't understand why we expect children to put up with things that we ourselves would not put up with. Anyway. The principal agreed to switch Ayla to a different class and Ayla and I fist bumped. I felt like a hero.<br />
<br />
By some miracle last night they were both asleep by 9:15. These two have been staying up til midnight and it was just Thursday that Ayla slept in until almost noon. We drove them through McDonald's for ice cream because there's no Dairy Queen here, that is just the town I live in. I hate this town. After milkshakes we sang to them and put them to bed. I had cleaned both their rooms for them because I wanted them to feel orderly and cozy for the start of the year. When everything is chaos it helps to have a clean house. I even cleaned out the bottom of the pantry where there were a million shoes and plastic bags and two spiders and a moth infestation. Harry Potter could be living there basically. I watched them sleep, of course. I remembered thinking, when Ayla started 3rd grade, that we still had three full years until middle school and surely I would feel that time. Those three years would pass with the measured pace we expect three years to pass with. Now here we are, time is unreal. Mothers get this in our bones and yet we rage against it. Ayla's last year at BES and Indy right behind her. God help me.<br />
<br />
This morning we all had bags under our eyes but spirits were generally high. Ayla shrugged on her white back pack decorated with the sharpie-drawn youtube logo and ihascupquake and Nirvana symbols. Ayla is into Nirvana. She is indulging her quirks with a trueness to herself that I admire fiercely. Indy overnight turned into a sort of brightly clawed kitten with jeweled teeth. She has presence. She is <i>in</i> herself and aware of herself like a starlet in a fashion spread.<br />
<br />
God help me.<br />
<br />
Noah took them to Waffle House (HATE TOWN) and then we dropped them at school, where at the last minute Indy said "Do you guys HAVE to walk us in?" all fake-casual, and we said ". . . no!" Me also feigning casual and so off they went, into the wilds, on their own. Then I took a drive up through the forest, it was misty and it had presence, aware of itself and the feats it is about to preform, getting ready just any minute now to magic all that green to yellow and gold, but not yet, not yet, and I thought everything is always coming, but not yet. Not yet.<br />
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Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-45172779269942375702015-08-04T11:56:00.000-04:002015-08-04T12:19:59.671-04:00August Rushes In<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
On the first day of August, we went camping. We have not camped as a family since we moved here. I don't know why. But sometime last autumn Ayla came to me crying and said she was upset because we never go camping anymore. She has a flair for the dramatic but also for telling truths. She is a Libra and a Hufflepuff. But of course I don't believe in any of all that.<br />
<br />
August sometimes gets a bad rap, but its one of my favorite months. August is when the light changes. One warm day in August you will be sitting in your car, it will be late afternoon, the light will go peach-colored and a breeze will blow in. On the underside of this breeze there will be a chill, and you will know that fall is going to come. Your seven-year-old daughter will turn to you and say, "It feels like everything good is about to happen". August is the month of stone fruit and school supplies. It's the month Indy was born. One day in August I had barely slept all night and was driven from my bed at four in the morning with labor pains. I thought this labor would take all day, run into the night, like my first. A mere seven hours later, I would be holding my Indy in my arms for the first time, her short little nose, her funny long legs. Ayla's first act as a human was to gaze at us as if she had known us for millions and millions of years. Indy's was to have a good cry. How could I not love August?<br />
<br />
Camping here is different than camping in Colorado. We didn't grow up here, we don't know the good spots. We drove ten minutes down the street before turning onto a long dirt road lined with corn fields and horses. At the end of this rough road was a bend in the river, and we set up our tent on its banks. No alpine air, too many bugs. But the upside is this ancient river. Colored like coffee or the gold of some hound's eye, the girls undulating their sleek bodies in the shimmering light, little seals, legged mermaids. They are growing strong. Dive low, sputter up. Skip stones. Splash your sister. Ayla propped Indy up on her straight shoulders and said "I won't be able to do this much longer, you'll get too big." Ayla's legs impossibly long, Indy's eyes the brightest thing in the whole world.<br />
<br />
Some people feel compelled to rush through August, squeezing in last minute summer before school starts up again. For me August is when summer slows down. You just have to surrender what you didn't get to. Like a woman of advanced age who doesn't hurry from place to place. Like the river growing wide around its slowest bend. For just a little while in August the world opens up. The swell of July is behind us, the smoke of September is ahead. I sat beneath leaves that danced with the light of the sun off the river. I felt a depression lift away. The old French Broad eventually flows into Tennessee. But just there, in that bend, it would hold us. My daughters closed their eyes and jumped in.<br />
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<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-45426175105686883012015-06-06T13:18:00.000-04:002015-06-06T13:21:41.645-04:00June<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<a href="http://http//www.today.com/parents/photographer-teaches-daughters-strong-new-pretty-t13361">This series</a> of photographs reminded me of these two pictures of my daughters.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://nymag.com/news/features/high-school-2013-1/">This</a> is one of the more fascinating articles I've ever read.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.thestylerookie.com/search?updated-max=2013-12-03T00:51:00-06:00&max-results=1&start=1&by-date=false">Here</a> is an old blog post by Tavi Gevinson that touched me.<br />
<br />
I have been listening to the <a href="http://longform.org/podcast">Longform podcast</a> and the interviews with Cheryl Strayed and Tavi Gevinson got my juices flowing.<br />
<br />
<br />
I would like to publicly request that Marc Maron interview more women. Hearing creative women talk about their stories and struggles is something I need as I try to find a place of peace between my two opposing desires to be a writer and to be a present mother for my children. These urges aren't in tension for every mother, but they are for me. I need to hear from women, women with children, women without children, married women, unmarried women. In the newest Mad Max, there is a moment when the warriors Furiosa and Max grip hands and I cried in the theater at the symbolism of that image. I dream of a time when women and men can work together in perfect union, but we can't get there without many more representations of the feminine myths, more stories about what it is to be female. I need thousands of them.<br />
<br />
Dear Marc Maron: Amy Schumer, Melissa McCarthy, Maya Rudolph, Kaitlin Olson, Jessica Walter.<br />
<br />
Speaking of the myths about the female experience, I hungrily devoured <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Wild-Oats-Project-Midlife/dp/0374290210">The Wild Oats Project</a> by Robin Rinaldi and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Spinster-Making-Life-Ones-Own/dp/0385347138/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1433607454&sr=1-1&keywords=spinster+by+kate+bolick&pebp=1433607456695&perid=147B1CPZRCVH5TP889HW">Spinster</a> by Kate Bolick.<br />
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June in North Carolina has been tremendously green, as if the color were alive, as if I lived inside a velvety woodland painting. One morning I opened my eyes and looked out the window at the exact moment the sun was refracting explosively off the leaves and in my sleep state I felt the color shoot through me, a photosynthetic infusion, the breath of the forest, the substance of life.<br />
<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-45144310898701122832015-04-24T17:27:00.003-04:002015-04-24T17:30:28.506-04:00Free Angel Food Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9FybWDd86Mg/VTq0DABzNiI/AAAAAAAAbP8/i9bZk-dcyzY/s1600/AngelFood_RGB%2B(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9FybWDd86Mg/VTq0DABzNiI/AAAAAAAAbP8/i9bZk-dcyzY/s1600/AngelFood_RGB%2B(1).jpg" height="640" width="420" /></a></div>
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Have you been waiting to buy Angel Food on a payday that never comes? Do you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, afraid of becoming a smoker clown (a clown that smokes)? Do your friends keep telling you to buy Angel Food and you're like, a book made of cake? Where do I get one immediately? You're in luck! Angel Food is free today as an ebook. Just a few more hours to download yours. Get it <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Angel-Food-Brittany-Tuttle-ebook/dp/B00TKGXI9A/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=&qid=" target="_blank">here</a>.Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-49810534549326558512015-04-07T16:54:00.000-04:002015-04-07T17:41:57.288-04:00CDG-DEN-AUS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-60BbPNmi-jk/VSRAUVCK2wI/AAAAAAAAZKk/Xx4LAvkz1QI/s1600/Ayla%2Bchair.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-60BbPNmi-jk/VSRAUVCK2wI/AAAAAAAAZKk/Xx4LAvkz1QI/s1600/Ayla%2Bchair.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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My heart may still be in Paris but my body is in Atlanta. Getting ready to catch a flight to Denver with my two girls. Minus my guy. I really wish he was coming. Not just so he could carry that enormous heavy bag that we ended up throwing into a wheelchair. Other reasons, too.<br />
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The spring in Brevard has been moody. Bright purple flowers against a dark gray sky. New green leaves shot through with strange light. I have been nursing myself off Paris with too many croissants from the local bakery. And lemon tarts. For a few days there it was touch and go. For a few days, I was like: I published my book. I went to Paris. I came back from Paris. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?<br />
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Then April started and I became able to feel optimistic again. I saw <a href="https://twitter.com/PeachCoffin/status/585314504638128128" target="_blank">this tweet</a> the other day and said YES. I think much about this idea of choosing happiness and a great portion of the time I think it is bullshit. I think it's available to certain DNA, but not to all. You know? In the winter, I'm not capable of it.<br />
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But April comes and I feel good again.<br />
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Besides croissants, my other coping mechanism is pretending I live in Austin, Texas. I know my moods are exhausting. My changes of heart wear me out. But I'm maybe a bit obsessed with this yogi <a href="http://yogawithadriene.com/" target="_blank">Adriene</a>. I dream of hot sun and hot weather and funky towns. Let's just say it: I dream of having green drinks delivered to my door. I dream of Mexican blankets and succulents. Lime popsicles and music festivals. You know? I DON'T KNOW. I just have a crush on Adriene. And Austin. Then I was snooping around on Airbnb and found this:<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vcbEuMPdyE4/VSRA_HYXzOI/AAAAAAAAZK4/JwQGhuFdVoM/s1600/broken%2Bspoke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vcbEuMPdyE4/VSRA_HYXzOI/AAAAAAAAZK4/JwQGhuFdVoM/s1600/broken%2Bspoke.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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I mean, if I have an aesthetic, this is it.<br />
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So when I go to work and the stalker man comes in and stares, or the good old boy patornizingly tells me to smile, or the rude man asks overly personal questions trying to figure out if my beliefs are Christian like his, I just pretend I am living in Austin. With Adriene and this famous guy I love. Maybe it's crazy, but it works. IT IS WORKING FOR ME. Leave me alone, let me have it.<br />
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Austin.<br />
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Do you know I wasn't harassed one single time during my two weeks in Paris, but at my job I am harassed daily? I'm not going to be able to stop talking about this. Is it the fact that I'm almost 34? I have a shorter fuse for certain ills. Don't tread on me, I'm 34. Maybe? It's a patronizing harrassment most of the time. Which is more insidious, harder to take head-on. I'm 33 but I'm almost 34.<br />
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(I ask myself, "where should I aim to travel to next?" but all I really want is Paris.)<br />
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In Denver we're going to go to the zoo and eat some stuff. I don't know. Asheville has a Chipotle now* so I don't really need to fly to Denver anymore. Indy was fed Subway an hour ago but she's sitting next to me huffing. So I have to go buy her a $34 airport burger now.<br />
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With love from Sunny Austin,<br />
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B<br />
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Update: The Atlanta airport has a Chipotle. So.Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-61604414615687787062015-04-05T14:24:00.001-04:002015-04-05T14:42:08.195-04:00Chocolate Tour of Paris (With Pastries, Spring, and Oeuf)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Before leaving for Paris, I read that Easter was the major holiday for chocolate. Apparently Christmas is nice and all that, but Easter is when chocolate really has its time to shine. Everywhere I went, there were bunnies and eggs in gorgeous window displays. As you can see, it was often hard to get a good picture with the reflections and all that. Here's what I managed.<br />
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Painted chocolate at Jacques Genin, my favorite chocolatier</div>
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Jacques Genin</div>
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Jacques Genin </div>
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Jacques Genin </div>
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A patisserie in the 3rd. </div>
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<span id="goog_1182050597"></span><span id="goog_1182050598"></span>The renowned Jewish bakery in the Marais where I </div>
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didn't know what to order and managed to walk out</div>
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with a very good, but very American, brownie. </div>
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Pain de Sucre on Rue Rambuteau in the 3rd </div>
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Pain de Sucre. I wish I'd ordered something other than macarons.</div>
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Turns out I don't really care for them. </div>
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*not chocolate, probably. In the 3rd.</div>
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File under "things one must do when in Paris" even though</div>
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it's touristy and dumb. </div>
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Georges Larnicol in Saint Germain des Pres. I took home</div>
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two kouignettes, which were, like macarons, too sweet for me. </div>
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Georges Larnicol</div>
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Georges Larnicol. That is all chocolate.</div>
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Hard to see past the reflections of this gorgeous</div>
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chocolatier in the 7th, near the Eiffel tower. </div>
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The outside of the famous Printemps feels appropriate for an Easter round up. </div>
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Printemps again. Printemps means "spring". </div>
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The classic. Glad I went, for the experience. One thing I noticed in Paris</div>
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is that the sweets were usually less sweet--they were made with less</div>
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sugar, often served with little sugar packets on the side. I never used</div>
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the extra sugar. And I never felt sick after indulging in them the way</div>
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I do after the sweets I eat here. </div>
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A bakery in Montmarte, which may have been called The Two Windmills.</div>
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Tarte citron, which would turn out to be my favorite Paris treat. </div>
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Tarte Citron by Eric Kayser, this locaiton near the Musee D'Orsay. </div>
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The pastry tray at the Salon de Thè at Paris' Grand Mosquee. </div>
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Patrick Roger in Saint Germain. </div>
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Tarte aux Pommes from the famed Poilane, please ignore my thumb.</div>
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Walking around at night. I think this was Rue Vielle du Temple in the 4th.</div>
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Du Pain et des Idées, "Bread and Ideas", near my apartment</div>
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in the 10th. Some say it's the best bakery in Paris. </div>
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Chocolat chaud done just right at Patisserie Viennoise. </div>
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There were a few students working here, drinking this. It's not far</div>
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from the Sorbonne. Can you imagine</div>
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this being your study spot? </div>
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When Marie Antoinette came from Vienna, she brought her pastry chefs with her. The</div>
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French chefs of the time learned from them. So, at patisseries, there are the regular French </div>
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pastries, and then there are the Viennoise. Thanks Marie!</div>
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The outside of Patisserie Viennoise, where the above 3 photos</div>
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were taken, down a tiny little street in Saint Germain.</div>
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I found it thanks to a tip from David Lebovitz's</div>
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"The Sweet Life In Paris". I'm with him--it was probably </div>
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the best chocolat chaud I had in Paris. </div>
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Henri LeRoux, across the street from the Jardin du Luxembourg. It's worth</div>
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mentioning that at this and every other high end chocolatier I stepped into,</div>
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I received very warm and helpful service. At places like Jacques Genin,</div>
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where the chocolates are displayed like expensive jewelry, I expected</div>
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the atmosphere to be snobby. It wasn't--the one exception being Ladurée.) </div>
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It was also completely normal to buy just four or five pieces. Or even one.</div>
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No pressure to spring for the 120 euro box.</div>
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Cafe Suedois, or Swedish, a bright spot where I spent a </div>
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cold and rainy afternoon. </div>
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My final Parisian indulgence was at Pierre Herme. I happened to pass by it and</div>
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had to go in, even though I was over the whole macaron thing by then. I'm </div>
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glad I did, for the beauty of the sweets alone. My picture does no justice. They</div>
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were gorgeous little works of art. I couldn't help but exclaiming "Tres jolie!"</div>
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Which I thought meant "very pretty!" but doesn't, really, I think. The French</div>
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seemed more likely to use "beau" when remarking on beauty. "Trop beau!"</div>
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I selected Caramel au Beurre Salé (of course).</div>
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The purple is "Envie"--vanilla, violet, and cassis.</div>
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Top right is Olive Oil and Mandarin,</div>
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and finally yogurt and grapefruit, which I ordered</div>
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on accident, but there you go. These were the best </div>
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macarons I had in Paris.</div>
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Today the girls are eating all their Hershey eggs and Cadbury cream eggs, which have their place in the canon, of course. But I'm happy to say that later this evening, I will slip into my room and have a little Jacques Genin that I tucked away into a drawer, waiting for me, all the way from Paris.</div>
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Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-33181451884044756472015-04-03T12:05:00.000-04:002015-04-03T12:05:54.911-04:00I Don't Know What This Blog Even Does Anymore1) No I have not spent the last few days looking at areas of Paris I didn't get a chance to visit on google maps and pretending to be there.<br />
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2) Somebody asked me what was the best thing I had to eat in Paris and I said the pastries but I was wrong: it was the eight oysters that I ate raw and completely undressed (the oysters not me), shucked before my eyes by a surly vendor at the Bastille market during the half hour of sun we had that day, and chased down with a one-euro glass of wine in a plastic cup. I followed them with a Nutella crepe. Heaven.<br />
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3) <a href="http://www.parischerie.com/27568/saturday-brunch-at-la-chambre-aux-oiseaux/?theme=twentythirteen" target="_blank"><b>Here</b></a> are some of the pictures I wish I'd taken of La Chambre aux Oiseaux.<br />
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4) There's a million things that I wish I had done in Paris. One thing I did manage to do was eat what Paris by Mouth named the number one tarte citron in the<b> <a href="http://parisbymouth.com/taste-test-lemon-tarts/" target="_blank">city</a>.</b> I also ate two Eric Kayser versions, one by Le Pain Quotidien, and two from little bakeries in Montmartre. They were all my favorite.<br />
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5) One Sunday it was freezing and after picking up some brie melun and tome de chevre from the neighborhood market, I went into Le Petit Cambodge and orderered what was basically pho. The waiter seemed really concerned that I had ordered this, but he didn't speak English and I wasn't understanding most of his French. He brought it to me despite his concerns and it was great. After I ate it, a beautifully friendly and beaming waitress helped me with my French. She taught me to say "J'ai fini" instead of "Je suis fini" and then she said "from the verb 'to be'" and I said, "Oh! J-a-i" which phonetically was like "zhay ah ee" and she smiled and nodded and I smiled because it was good to have this one piece of a massive puzzle fall into place and she was just that kind of person that you can't really help smiling at profusely.<br />
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6) On the day I walked around the Ile St. Louis I was annoyed that there were twelve million people in line at every location selling Berthillion ice cream. They just want it because of the name, not because it's actually good, I thought to myself. Then I passed by a window with a short line so I said oh what the hell, and stood in it. I ordered one scoop of salted caramel ice cream. One taste and I knew this was the best ice cream I had ever had in my entire life and maybe ever would have. I stood on the bridge over the Seine and ate it. Then I turned back and happily stood in line for 20 minutes for two more.<br />
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Le Petit Cambodge </div>
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The bridge that lead to La Marine in my neighborhood.</div>
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(The red awning is La Marine) </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-psBw4RReC_U/VR60unjYzuI/AAAAAAAAY-E/XHKcTT08wWg/s1600/IMG_8779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-psBw4RReC_U/VR60unjYzuI/AAAAAAAAY-E/XHKcTT08wWg/s1600/IMG_8779.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Craft, a coworking space/cafe, that I loved so dearly.</div>
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Also in the 10th, my neighborhood. </div>
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Oysters at the Bastille market on Sunday </div>
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Nutella crepe, same </div>
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Rue Cremieux, near Bastille </div>
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A door in Le Marais </div>
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You just see this kind of thing everywhere you look. </div>
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World's Best Ice Cream </div>
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The sun came out while I was eating the World's Best Ice Cream </div>
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The outfit everybody was wearing in Paris and the shoes</div>
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I deeply regret not buying. </div>
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<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-3062665024648638762015-03-31T19:06:00.002-04:002015-03-31T19:06:25.969-04:00The Bird Room<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NKQawaAmZjw/VRrXHxvBbzI/AAAAAAAAY5Y/0UqbTmbVptU/s1600/outside%2Boiseaux.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NKQawaAmZjw/VRrXHxvBbzI/AAAAAAAAY5Y/0UqbTmbVptU/s1600/outside%2Boiseaux.PNG" height="400" width="225" /></a></div>
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<i>someone else's picture of La Chambre aux Oiseaux</i></div>
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Paris doesn't feel how it looks.<br />
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I spent months leading up to the trip looking at Paris on <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/search/pins/?rs=ac&len=2&q=la+chambre+aux+oiseaux&term_meta%5B%5D=la%7Cautocomplete%7C0&term_meta%5B%5D=chambre%7Cautocomplete%7C0&term_meta%5B%5D=aux%7Cautocomplete%7C0&term_meta%5B%5D=oiseaux%7Cautocomplete%7C0" target="_blank">Pinterest</a> and Instagram. You know filters are being used, but what you may not be aware of is that these pictures are also edited. Every time someone takes a picture, something has been left out. What lurks just beyond the frame of all those white-washed photographs you see is the filthiness of the streets, and the madness of them. They are teeming and chaotic. Only by throwing yourself headlong into the fray can you become a part of it and, when the time comes, hold your ground. Don't alter your path for a Parisian. They aren't expecting you to, and it can throw off the rhythm of the entire boulevard. One full stop can cause a fifteen Parisian pileup. Stay on your path, and they will dart around you at the last second. HOLD YOUR GROUND.<br />
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On my first morning in Paris, I had just slept twelve hours after enduring the overnight flight. They served us wine by the bottle but it was still tough. The seats were tiny and hard as rock, and I had put my ass much closer to the sweet Spanish young man next to me than I should have, turning on one side, under the guise of being "asleep". I could see Paris outside my windows, the Haussmann boulevards, the racket, the sun. Paris looked the way it looks but it felt overwhelming and vast. I felt ridiculous. Who comes to Paris alone? The night before, I had walked along the Seine and seen lovers upon lovers posing with their favorite child, the selfie stick. I had seen families too. Who comes to Paris without their family? I felt selfish and absurd. There was a definite desire to hide all day, and I had to force myself to leave the apartment. "You did not come to Paris to sit in an apartment," I told myself. I put on my black jacket and Rick Steves into my purse and threw myself overboard. Immediately outside my apartment building, I saw a father buckling his toddler into a bicycle seat. I took comfort in that. Look, Parisians are just people too.<br />
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I had nothing to do and nowhere to be. Two weeks seemed like an impossibly long time to be alone in Paris. Endless. That night I would email my husband and beg him to come be with me. But now it was morning, and there was Paris to see. I set out down rue Bichat, headed toward the canal. I passed a few cafes and a lot of Parisians hurried past me, the way they do. The thought of entering any establishment was intimidating, but I needed caffeine and something in my stomach. This infused me with what I call 'the coffee bravery'. I came to the bird-adorned window of La Chambre aux Oiseax. Because it was familiar from my research before the trip, and because there were two people sitting outside, I forced myself to go in.<br />
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"Bonjour!" I announced immediately upon entering the room, sunlit and full of empty tables, as I had read was necessary Parisian etiquette. There was one man working there and when I proclaimed my bonjour, he was on all fours in a storage closet with his head beneath a shelf. Perhaps it would have been better to wait for him to emerge before bonjouring him? Leave it to an American to turn etiquette into an assault. Never mind. After a moment he did emerge, and I managed to take a table by the window, in the sun. (Sit anywhere you want is the prevalent routine in Paris, but it took awhile for me to feel comfortable doing it) "Je voudrais le petit dejeuner," I said. Which was a thing on the menu, I promise I wasn't just saying "I would like the breakfast." "Avec un cafe creme." <i>Nailing it. </i><br />
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I was the only person in La Chambre, and I regretted sitting facing away from the window and into the cafe. I felt like I was staring at my waiter and making him uncomfortable, with his large and serious brown eyes. I felt large and bumbling and gauche. I busied myself taking out my journal and the book I'd brought, but soon enough the room began to fill up with other tables, and the man brought me my French breakfast--good bread and good jam and something hot to drink. I cradled my coffee in my hands and settled my back into the window and the sun. <i>I am doing it.</i> <i>I am sitting in a cafe in Paris.</i> Never mind the Americans to my left and the Germans to my right--are there any French people in Paris? I stayed as long as my nervous energy would let me. This would be the greatest angst I would experience in Paris, and I'd feel it repeatedly. Stay and linger or go and do? Having entire days to yourself alone in a foreign country can unmoor you completely and make you ponder all kinds of questions like <i>who am I really</i> and <i>what do I even like to do</i> and <i>WHERE THE HELL are these people getting those jackets?</i> Eventually I went. Later that day I had a flat white at Craft where another brown-eyed French man spoke two languages to me in gentle tones. I'd wander until I ended up in the Marais and have lunch at Breizh cafe--which means Brittany Cafe in the language of Brittany, which is confusing--a buckwheat crepe stuffed with raw milk gruyere that I didn't enjoy as much as I'd expected to, a glass of dry cider that I did enjoy, a salted butter caramel crepe that was so sweet it made my mouth pucker. That evening was the food tour I blogged about, the fear the Australian couple was being nice to me because they pitied me--alone in Paris! Where I would knock over a glass of wine and swear in French as a joke and nobody but the tour guide would get it, and the tour guide wouldn't think I was all that funny. I'd had such a pleasant morning at La Chambre aux Oiseaux that I knew I would return. But somehow, I never did.<br />
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<i>I wandered into a night time craft market where this band was playing.</i></div>
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<i>They sounded just like the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YlPrvzPolYA" target="_blank">band that's playing </a>in that Japanese</i></div>
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<i>night club in Kill Bill, before The Bride takes on the</i></div>
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<i>Crazy 88. One lyric I caught was, "you fucked</i></div>
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<i>my mother with your sister!" which sounds, you know,</i></div>
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<i>like a really raw deal.</i></div>
<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-82599233800892038652015-03-30T09:59:00.000-04:002015-03-30T10:02:32.067-04:00Pain of Pain au Chocolats<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>final morning in Paris</i></div>
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This morning I took a chocolate croissant from the Target Starbucks and put it under my broiler in attempt to make the top crispy, the way they are served in Paris, rather than mushy and doughy, the way they are bafflingly served here. Two days before I had gone to my local bakery for their version of a chocolate croissant, which is not quite the pain au chocolat I had in Paris. It was crispy on the outside, but filled with far too much chocolate, and had chocolate drizzled across the top, making it all too rich and too sweet. The pain au chocolats of Paris have a small amount of bittersweet chocolate, so you don't get a major sugar hit in the morning, when they are eaten--but you do get a pleasant hit of sweetness between bread that is first light and crispy, and then collapsing and melt-away, to start out your day.<br />
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Sigh.<br />
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Returning from Paris is every bit as hard as I knew it would be. But what remains is the fact that I was there. I spent two weeks running around Paris and even though it hurts to know that the city is carrying on without me, all those hurried masses eating pain au chocolats and tarte citrons and warm baguettes even though I am not there--I was there, and I have left my imprint all over it, in tiny pockets: there in the window of La Marine, there beside the espresso machine at Craft, there in that one open green chair at the Luxembourg, so that Paris will not forget about me. It will remember me when I return.<br />
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This was breakfast on my last full day in Paris. It was a miserable day. Icy rain was falling, and my umbrella kept blowing inside out from the wind, desperate to be a tulip. I took the metro to Hotel de Ville and from there walked a few wet, freezing blocks to a coffee shop I wanted to try. It was closed inexplicably. Maybe a little bit sorry for myself, I walked aimlessly until I saw this bakery, lit up gold in the gray morning. I went inside and ordered in French. When I was asked if I wanted it "sûr place ou a emporter?" I knew I wanted it sûr place, and when the total was "two four twenty ten" I knew that meant 2.90. Next to me a father and his two children were eating the same pain au chocolats before hurrying off to school. I was sad to be leaving and my toes were numb. But that accidental pastry turned out to be one of the best I had the entire trip. The next morning I would hurry one down in the Starbucks at Charles de Gaulle airport in between Chanel and Longchamps. And even that stupid airport pastry was pretty damn good.<br />
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After all, it was still Paris.<br />
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<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-1648938690569852015-03-16T17:59:00.001-04:002015-03-16T18:08:47.375-04:00Streams of Parisian-essToday was intense. I went out looking for the Village St. Paul to buy latte bowls (?) but I couldn't find it. I made my way to St. Germain des Pres. Ultra touristic (in Paris they say touristic, not "touristy"), super chic, classic Paris. You know. The Paris you think about when you think about Paris. I had been warned waiters would be rude to me here. I was looking for the Cafe de Flore--because you have to. They all used to hang there, the Lost Generation. Of course now it's full of tourists but I still had to go. I came to the Deux Magots, which does not mean the Two Maggots. Magots are the Chinese figurines inside. The sun was shining and I wanted to sit in the sun there in front of the cafe. There were no seats so I kept walking. But as I passed, the couple at the front and center table--the point of the triangle--stood up to leave. I wasn't quite sure how to get a seat in these busy cafes. Do you just sit down, do you ask for a table, do you say one word and the waiter starts screaming at you in angry French? A waiter was clearing the table and I walked up behind him. "Excusez-moi, monsieur," I said, and since I don't know the French for this, I pointed to the table and said, "May I?"<br />
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"It was waiting for you!" he replied, a kind and friendly smile, and held out an arm for me to sit. "Merci beaucoup, monsieur," I said, feeling like the man had just handed me the world on a plate, and I sat down. And then I was at the front and center table of Le Deux Magots on the Boulevard St. Germain on a spring afternoon. The sun was shining on my face. The whole world was walking by. I paid five euro for an absolutely terrible coffee and I never wanted to leave. Luckily, I didn't really have to. That's the thing about France, at a cafe you can nurse one drink probably all day long if you want and they will never pressure you. They're not working for tips, they don't give a damn how many tables they turn. I wrote in my soft cover Moleskin and read my book, <i>How Should A Person Be?</i> by Sheila Heti, which by the way is hitting me in my very core, it is my skin and soul set down in paper and ink, Sheila Heti is the voice of my generation done deal. I worked up the courage to ask the older couple next to me to take a picture of me there, and subsequently look THE MOST annoyed anyone has ever been to be sitting in front of the Deux Magots. Having strangers take pictures of you by yourself is very weird and it shows all over my face.<br />
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Every time I'm sitting down somewhere I never want to leave. I'm always afraid I'll never find a nice spot to sit down ever again. I forced myself to leave after a while and made my way to the Luxembourg gardens. Another stranger and I awkwardly took solo pictures of one another. No one has ever looked less thrilled to be at the Luxembourg gardens than the two of us. Then I didn't know what the hell to do with myself. Everyone was shopping everywhere and it made me depressed. All the tourist women were so showy and done up and it saddened me. I wished they could just dress normally and not put up these fur jacket and weird hat barriers between themselves and the rest of the world. Why do we have to project our goodness in this way? Why can't we all just <i>be</i>? I was sad about the women and the tourists and all the shopping and I didn't know where to go. I made a beeline for the Seine as the sun was setting but missed the colors. I headed toward Shakespeare & Co because I didn't know what else to do. I wanted to eat but the idea of being alone in a restaurant among all those women in fur coats was too overwhelming. When I got to Shakespeare & Co they were doing a reading, and I remembered I'd planned to go to the reading but had forgotten about it. They let me in even though I was late. A Swedish writer, Cecilia Ekback, was answering questions about her book, Wolf Winter. Because of the madcap architecture in the cramped and endearing ancient building, I could hear her but not see her. When it was over I stood in line to buy her book. Who should appear to ring me up but <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2014/11/shakespeare-and-company-paris-george-whitman" target="_blank">Sylvia Whitman</a>. I was starstruck. She was very kind. I regretted deeply not bringing a copy of my book, though what would I have done with it? Lamely handed my book to Sylvia Whitman? I lined up to get the book signed by the Swedish writer. She was absolutely lovely. She asked where I was from and I told her, and then, feeling like an idiot, I said, "But my people way back were from Sweden." Her face lit up. "I was going to ask you," she said, and she gestured at her face. "Your face." I was happy to hear this. A Swedish woman had looked at me and identified me as ancestrally Swedish. It helps me understand my long face, my small eyes. It was good to make some sense of the way I look. "I've wondered if my small eyes are Swedish," I said, and she laughed and said, "They might be." I realized how unintentionally offensive I might have been. Then I needed to move aside for the next person in line.<br />
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They gave me a glass of wine and I wondered around the bookshop. I wanted to be one of the writers who sleeps on the floor. I wanted Sylvia to invite me to dinner. I wanted to be the writer giving the reading. I felt very, very alone. I felt like crying. Upstairs was a reading room, the room where to this day the bookstore allows traveling artists and writers to sleep, and notes from people who have done so. I wanted to be a part of all that. It's the closest thing we have to Hemingway and Gertrude, I think. I went back downstairs. Sylvia and the writer were gone. Probably out to dinner, I thought. I didn't know where to have dinner. I had no idea where to put my body. The streets are so loud and overwhelming. I got on the Metro, back toward home. As I left the Metro at my stop, a woman looked at me. In a way people don't do in Paris. She did it again, and again. Finally I smiled a little and said hello. She was about my age, spoke English. French, but her mother has lived in D.C. She wants to move to America or London. "I love Anglophone culture," she said. "And I think the men and women are more equal." I don't know about that. My guard was up but I felt out the situation. It felt good. We are hopefully going to meet for coffee or to see a museum later this week. Suddenly the world was good again. Tiny bits of magic do occur, from time to time they are floating in the air. I walked down the street and bought a pizza. The man was very kind. I walked home holding the pizza box and my book bag and pretended I was living the life of my dreams, a confident and chic woman in Paris.<br />
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<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-2801640535894384212015-03-13T17:46:00.002-04:002015-03-13T18:06:34.451-04:00The Delicious<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's almost 11pm here and I am exhausted so forgive my words and lets just jump in here, the Paris by Mouth food tour. C'est bon? We went to a bakery called 134 RdT (I think). The tour guide, Catherine, explained that every year a baker is voted best baguette and best croissant and that whoever wins goes to the palace (which I am just now like, France still has a monarchy?) and provides all the food for the royals (?) (Kate Middleton?) and all the visiting dignitaries (Padma Lakshmi?). It is an incredible honor and, as Catherine said, "life-changing". This bakery has won a few awards in the past. The newest winner will be announced March 26th, just a day too late for me to rush over there. Good thing I went here instead.</div>
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Catherine explained that when you cut open a croissant, it should be springy--it should bounce back into shape, not stay smooshed, which this one did. It should also be like honey comb inside, airy. They are baked throughout the day because the bakers feel they are only fresh for a few hours. A warm baguette came out as we stood there and we tried it. It was truly unlike any baguette I've had in America. I'm so so tired right now.<br />
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Easter goodies in the window at Jacques Genin. That is painted chocolate. </div>
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Next we went to chocalatier Jacques Genin. He is famous here in France. Catherine told us that he grew up in an abusive home and left at age 12. He started working in butcheries (is that a word in English?) and then moved onto restaurants. His family was very poor and now he creates some of the finest chocolates, caramels, and fruite pates in the world, inspired by what he imagined the sweets would taste like when he peered into windows as a child, unable to afford the treats. Hearing that story made me emotional. It made the chocolate taste precious. It was already excellent but somehow that story made it magnifique.</div>
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Catherine selected two flavors of caramels for us to try. The first was mango, tart, a little sweet, delcious. The caramels just melted in my mouth, they weren't stick at all. They didn't pull at your teeth. Just melted clean away. The second was a dreamy salted butter caramel. She asked us each which flavor fruit pate we wanted to try and all seven of us separately asked for lychee. She said that's the first time all seven people have asked for the same flavor. We saved the almond and mint chocolates for last. The mint was like biting into something pulled from a garden. No extracts or syrups here. Fresh and real and whole as can be. Perfection.</div>
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Next we went to a spice shop with a "sniffing bar" where all the tiny jars could be opened and scented. Some kind of almond bean thing (guys I am so so tired) that is illegal here in the US because it thins the blood smelled so delicious and I bought some. I also bought some pepper that smelled like grapefruit, a big smacking kiss of grapefruit. Noah will know what to do with it. Don't worry about my blood and the almondy beans, you have to eat it by the handful to thin your blood. The U.S, so uptight sometimes.</div>
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Now we come to a place (marche?) off Rue de Bretagne, which you COULD call Rue de Brittany and not be stretching it too much. There are tons of these little places, selling prepared foods for Parisians to take home so they don't have to cook in their tiny kitchens. But they are intimidating to enter as a tourist--it's hard to know which ones are good, prices are confusing and by the kilogram, and it's like, what even IS that thing? That's why I was so happy to take this food tour. The people here were so friendly and I feel I can go back and manage on my own.</div>
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Our guide selected a terrine made with guinea fowl, artichokes, and asparagus. Also "duck butter", which is really rillette, which is meat cooked slowly in fat until a paste can be formed (pretty much). </div>
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And next, everyone's favorite, la Fromagerie! Catherine told us to look for this sign that says "Affineur" for a reason that I can't remember. It definitely had to do with quality. This particular fromagerie had caves on site--in the basement I think--and the cheeses were aged there. It was run by a father and daughter. We learned that cheese has seasons--goat cheese, for instance, is not best in winter because the goats have been inside eating hay. Now that spring is here, the goats are outside eating lavender and other good things, and goat cheeses are just starting to become "in season". Also it's a good time for goat cheese because babies are being born, so milk is extra fatty. </div>
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Some cheeses were covered in ash, and then on some of the ash was a thin layer of mold. Beneficial bacteria! I ate it and it was tres delicieux! The cheeses here are also made with raw milk, which is illegal in the U.S. (everything must be pasteurized) and the taste is much stronger and more complex for it. </div>
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Oh mon Dieu! Next we are at a charcuterie operated by a man named Solo. (Probably I spell it wrong). He is so friendly and smiling. He doesn't speak English much but he knows our guide. She tells us that most charcuterie is from male pigs because, in the case of le cochon, pregnancy and childbirth has a negative effect on flavor. BUT! Someone runs a convent for virgin pigs. These virgin pigs, they taste quite lovely. Solo slices us generous portions. After the virgin, we eat a male who has been rubbed with wine and something else. It tastes sweet and salty. The fat melts in your mouth. Oh boy. </div>
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It's kind of dark but that is a hoof. </div>
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After guiding us through a smashing covered market that I could easily have missed on my own, and giving us some pointers on buying our own food from the market later, Catherine leads us to the grand finale, the wine bar! Catherine is from Boston but speaks to the owner in French, and he selects two whites to pair with the cheese, and two reds for the meats. Now I can not usually drink white wine, but these were delicious. Not too sweet, not that weird sort of syrupy alcholy taste I usually get in whites I select at home. I'm sure good whites are available at home, I just don't know them. #notallwines</div>
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Pictured above on the left is a Comte, apparently the most popular cheese in France. This one 30 months old. The brie was some special kind--melun!--that's where it's from. So Melun, probably. It was so runny and creamy and wonderful. It was what cheese is in your wildest dreams.</div>
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The round is a goat cheese from the Loire valley, 7 days old. It was so good. The round one on the far side is that chevre with ash and mold. Delicious, I tell you! Catherine asked at the fromagerie what was good today, and they were excited to tell her about the middle cheese, Tome de Chevre, one year old. Happy first birthday delicious little cheese.</div>
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On the tour with me were an Australian couple and four gorgeous Brazilians, go figure. The Brazilians didn't speak much English, but the Australian couple was friendly as per their reputation, and the woman took this picture of me. "Thank you," I said. "My mom will be happy." All the food was included in the price of the tour, and even though we started at 3:30, we ate the majority of the food around 6pm, so hello, dinner! It was an absolutely lovely time and I'm so glad I did it.</div>
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Bonne nuit. </div>
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Good night. </div>
Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-52854883312962559372015-03-10T21:25:00.002-04:002015-03-10T21:25:59.738-04:00Let's Talk About: Random Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was going to write an eloquent post about International Women's Day and how much we put up with at work. I was going to say, eloquently, "Can someone tell the men of Transylvania County about International Women's Day please?" Yesterday I kept a tally. Comments from male patrons on my appearance: one. Diminutive nicknames: one (honey). Episodes of Creepy Staring: two. Aggressive Staring: One (from a man convicted of assault on a former employee). This was one six hour shift. If I had kept my tally last week, when my fellow red-headed coworker and I had opened the library together, the "comments on our appearance" tally would have been much higher. No less than three different dudes found the need to go on about our red hair and our pretty smiles. They were all old enough to be our fathers. My coworker loves Flannery O'Connor and is adamantly against censorship. She is working toward her MLA. Her display for the library this month says "Write Like A Girl" and she's kind of obsessed with the Algonquin Roundtable right now. She runs her own shit. I have a degree in English Literature. I wrote a book. I love modern western writers and Woody Allen films, despite how much I don't want to love Woody Allen films. I run my own shit. Neither of us shows up to work on a Monday morning hoping to impress some guy checking out David Baldacci with our pretty smiles. Neither one of us shows up to work with "looking pretty for the men of Transylvania County" as one of our goals, believe it or not, men of Transylvania County.</div>
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I'm not going to write that blog because I'm too distracted today. And I think you get my drift. I read this article yesterday and discovered the term "<a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/speaking-of-science/wp/2015/03/09/sexism-often-comes-with-a-smile-study-finds/" target="_blank">benevolent sexism</a>". I think that's what's happening when a man thinks my coworker and I should be just tickled pink that he likes our hair. When I cut off all my hair last year, it was in very large part a reaction to these kind of comments and the attention I was getting at work (always from patrons and never from coworkers, it should be said). It was my way of saying that my appearance was not for them. My long red hair was not for you, creepy old man who goes out of your way to tell me I shouldn't have cut it. It makes me furious and sad that I felt I had to take such extreme efforts to claim ownership of my own body.<br />
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Then the other day I heard someone tell one of Noah's coworkers that <a href="http://mountainx.com/food/ashevilles-women-in-brewing/" target="_blank">this article</a> written on her and several other women in the brewing industry was "cute", yes he was being purposely condescending, and I was just speechless with anger.<br />
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Men simply must do better. Someone please tell them that a good start for International Women's Day would be not to call me honey.<br />
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Moving on. Tomorrow I am flying to Paris. Before I go I wanted to tell you about my friend Sarah Neubert. That is her gorgeous piece of perfection sitting above. I hesitated a little to loop her into the same blog as my sexism stories, which went on much longer than I intended, but here we are. And in the end, is female art not the perfect antidote to sexism? Sarah has recently turned her artistic talents toward weaving, and the results are glorious. I'm helping her come up with a bio for her Etsy site, and in return I'm going to be the lucky recipient of one of her weavings. This kind of trade is such a cool way for creative people to support each other and I'm so happy that Sarah suggested it. I can't help but feel like I'm getting the better end of the bargain. If you want, you can visit her at her <a href="http://www.sarahneubert.com/" target="_blank">website</a> or follow her on Instagram, <a href="https://instagram.com/s.neubert/" target="_blank">s.neubert</a>. Her weavings are so dreamy.<br />
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Tomorrow I'm driving to the Charlotte airport. I will fly to Atlanta and then hop a plane to Paris. I'm in kind of a state. I was weepy and nervous this morning but it wore off and now I'm good. I'm ready.<br />
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Let's do this. You know what they say.<br />
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Paris is always a good idea.<br />
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<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/4826417/?claim=b8dvsepd8sa">Now I Am On Bloglovin</a><br />
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<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-73449934369905524232015-03-05T15:30:00.000-05:002015-03-05T15:30:20.699-05:00March Must Haves: Let's Talk About Wellbutrin With Owl!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, why not.<br />
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Back in January when I said I was going to get on Wellbutrin, I meant it. But I never actually followed through. I don't know, and can't explain, why it's such a struggle to do something I know is good for me, except, you know, everyone does that. So much of the time we don't do what we know is good for us, and instead we do stupid things like try to be lifestyle bloggers. I thought I was doing okay in the brainpan because I wasn't hitting the really bad places. I was taking a shower every day, almost. Then we had this gorgeous sunny day after two weeks of miserable weather. I put on a song from my Paris playlist, a bouncy happy song that even has birds chirping in the intro, and drove down the street under the blue sky thinking that soon I would be in Paris. And I felt nothing. I didn't feel happy or excited. And then I realized it had been months since I had felt anything like happiness or excitement. I thought about how, in the weeks leading up to Paris, when realization hit me that I was actually going to be there, I would start to cry. So many times I had burst into tears as the thought would hit me that it was really, truly happening. This seemed not too out-of-the-ordinary for me, as this trip is the realization of a dream I've had for about 13 years. It's something I wanted that I had begun to doubt would ever happen. After a year of some major disappointments in the <i>how I thought my life would go</i> department, Paris was one thing that was happening for me. Of course I would feel emotional about that.<br />
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But it occurred to me that there should be some happiness mixed in as well. Not just,<i> I'm so overwhelmed that I'm going to Paris I'm going to sit here and cry about it.</i> And it occurred to me that it would be a waste of a very major trip to show up in Paris without access to my feel-good chemicals. Because that's where I had been since October. The feel-good chemicals all locked away in my brain behind a door to which I had no key.<br />
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Now Let's Talk About the Affordable Care Act With Squirrel. The wrinkles aren't all ironed out, you know. It's a new system. I get it. I fall into this weird place where the ACA thinks I have access to free health care because my husband has free health care. Long story short, I still don't have health insurance. So I called the discount clinic. They couldn't get me in until March 11th at 3:30, which is exactly when I plan to be checking in for a flight out of Charlotte. I got kinda panicky and Noah called around for me until he got me in to a place. I went to the place today. I spent 15 minutes with a physician's assistant answering questions about my health and family history, and then about 5 minutes tops with a doctor. I am so grateful the doctor didn't hesitate to put me back on Wellbutrin, as I'm always nervous the doctor is going to give me a hard time. The cost of the visit was $126. I think it's worth mentioning that that's how much it costs to spend 20 minutes talking about yourself in the hopes of getting access to the feel-good chemicals in your brain. I'm not complaining, I'm lucky we can afford it. They let us break it up it into payments, even. Though at this point I had decided I'd pay it out of my trip budget if I needed to. Then I went to get the script filled at Ingles. I hate Ingles. They wanted $117 for 30 pills. So I called the independent pharmacy in town. They wanted $26. Ingles had agreed to price match, but at that point it just seemed wrong to give my money to a corporation instead of the family-run pharmacy. Hooray for that! Whatever. The only reason I'm going into such detail is that if someone else out there is depressed and uninsured, I want them to have an idea of what it took to get help.<br />
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So here they are. My March Must Haves! For stylish but depressive moms on the go! Because lifestyle blogger now, remember? I live such a lifestyle. I don't even know.<br />
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I started taking the Elderberry syrup when I had that horrible two-month cough going around, but it didn't do anything for me and now I don't believe in anything anymore. Except for access to prescription drugs. I'm taking the probiotic because for months my stomach had been upset every single day, especially after coffee, and the probiotics made that all better from the first pill I popped.<br />
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Bupropion (I actually take the generic) hits me like a charm. Twenty minutes after I took one, I had a giggling fit. For no reason I laughed and laughed. That might make it sound like Bupropion made me crazy instead of better, but I think it was my body finally feeling a giddiness about all this, one that had been tampered down for months. It hit me this way last year too. One tweaky day and then smooth-sailing. Now, a few hours later, I'm all evened out.<br />
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I still want to be a lifestyle blogger, though. :-/<br />
<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-82897209479724520322015-03-04T10:18:00.000-05:002015-03-04T10:34:41.847-05:00Let's Talk About Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One week from today I will fly to Paris. When I get off the plane all rumpled and dehydrated, I'll take the RER to the Metro to the Canal St. Martin (pictured above and in snow, below), where I'm renting an apartment from a lovely woman through Airbnb. I had originally booked a place in St. Germain des Pres, an ideal location for many, right in the heart of the city. Then I agonized for a week before changing it. (Sorry, sweet Sorbonne student I cancelled on). St. Germain, in the 6th, is classic Paris. It's also tourist Paris. So many of the new restaurants I was reading about were north of the Seine, in the 3rd and 10th and 11th, what is sometimes called "the Brooklyn of Paris", and I'm going to be perfectly situated for all of those. It's also a place where Parisians hang out, but tourists have not discovered yet in total droves. The 6éme is convenient but I was imaging myself sitting down to eat every night in horribly overpriced tourist traps. The 10éme has less of that. Plus, it's all Paris, so who cares where you stay.<br />
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The first full day I'm there, I'm taking a food tour with <a href="http://parisbymouth.com/taste-of-the-marais/" target="_blank">Paris by Mouth</a>. I had originally thought to do a tour with <a href="http://www.thepariskitchen.com/wendy-lyns-private-paris-food-wine-cheese-tours/" target="_blank">Wendy Lyn</a>, but she doesn't take solo travelers. <i>Quelle horreur!</i> Paris by Mouth is more affordable anyway, and I've spent hours researching restaurants and boulangeries on their website. It even influenced my choice to stay on the Canal, because their breakdown of restaurants by arrondissement notes that it's hard to find great food for reasonable prices in the 6th unless you are on a chocolate-only diet. Don't get me wrong, I'm going to be spending about a billion hours in the 6th. All the chocolatiers and patisseries are there, it seems. Just a few on my list are Ladurée (of course), Gérard Mulot (macarons), Pierre Hermé (macarons), Henri Le Roux (salted butter caramels), Patrick Roger (chocolates), Poilane (bread), Eric Kayser (baguettes)--and that JUST covers the 6eme. I'm a teeny bit worried that I might go to St. Germain des Pres, get sucked into a macaron-eclair-and-caramel vortex, and accidentally spend my whole budget over the course of a few hours, on sugar and maybe one Diptyque candle. </div>
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Anyway, the food tour. The good thing about it is, you pay in advance so it doesn't feel like it's coming out of your trip budget <i>per se</i>, and then over the course of three hours, a guide takes you and a small group around the neighborhood of your choice (I chose the Marais), introducing you to a family who runs a 7th generation fromagerie, a "pig obsessed" butcher, and a MOF chocolatier, which I must insist stands for "Mother 'O Fucker" chocolatier, though really it means Meilleurs Ouvriers de France, something like Best Craftsman of France, and is a prestigious award only handed out every four years. Of course you get to eat all this on the food tour, and hopefully pick up some tips for selecting your own fromage and charcuterie during the rest of your trip. I am really so excited about the food tour.</div>
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I've been researching obsessively, mostly about what to eat in Paris. Finally I typed it all about by arrondissement, a six-page long list that I can print off and carry in my purse instead of a heavy guidebook. So many of the best restaurants are by reservation only, and I didn't want to be too pinned down. So I only have two reservations for now. One for <a href="http://www.thepariskitchen.com/review/james-henry-bones-bar-restaurant-paris/" target="_blank">Bones </a>and one for <a href="http://parisbymouth.com/our-guide-to-paris-au-passage/" target="_blank">Au Passage</a>. Both allowed me to book online. I wanted to eat at <a href="http://parisbymouth.com/tag/frenchie/" target="_blank">Frenchie</a> so badly that I asked a friend of mine to ask her brother, who I've never met but who lives in France and speaks the language fluently, to call and try to get me in. He kindly did, and it turned out Frenchie is closed until late summer so oh well, next time.<br />
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When I traveled to Paris in college, we managed to hit most of the major tourist sites, and I'm pretty sure I won't be going back to the Louvre or the top of the Eiffel tower. Both involve major crowds and lines, which make me cranky, and I'm all, why be cranky in Paris. Don't shoot me. I'm still planning to go the D'Orsay, which I saw the first time and loved, and the Orangerie, which I haven't seen before. I'll go back to the Rodin, because I remember being mesmerized as a college girl, even though they're doing renovations to the building and Camille Claudel's work won't be on display. I'm also going to the Carnavalet museum in the Marais, which is appealing both because it's in a 16th century mansion and because it's free, thanks to the mayor of Paris, who also provided free ice skating all winter for Parisians at the Hôtel de Ville. I'm planning to go to Versailles, maybe into the Notre Dame again, and maybe in the Sainte-Chapelle. I don't know. This is starting to sound like a lot of sites and I really want to spend good chunks of time wandering aimlessly, sitting in cafes, reading and writing and just being in Paris. And drinking kir, of course, even though it is apparently out of style. I don't care.<br />
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What I'm Wearing:<br />
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More than once someone has looked me up and down and said to me, "You'll have to get some new clothes for Paris!" and I've been like, "I <i>am wearing</i> my new clothes for Paris." Obviously this doesn't bode well for how I'm going to fit in on the chic streets. What can a girl do? You either have the look or you don't, I guess. I have some black jeans and some black boots, I have a black leather jacket and a trench coat, I have two striped scarves. Recently I've become obsessed with lifestyle bloggers and I want to be one. I just want my life to look good from the outside. Then its like, who gives a damn how it feels on the inside? Leave it to me to get all angsty on a blog about Paris. Moving on.<br />
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What I'm Reading:<br />
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Rick Steves' guidebooks are the best. He is also hilarious if you read them through cover to cover which yes, I have done. So I'm taking him with me. Unfortunately his maps are NOT the best, so I went ahead and grudgingly ordered a second guidebook, Eyewitness Paris, for the map alone. It's laminated and easy to read, it has a lot of the smaller streets that Mr. Steves leaves out, and it covers almost the entire area inside the peripherique, instead of just the city center, which many maps feature solely.<br />
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For reading in cafes and on the plane I have three books, which is probably too many, seeing as how I want to buy one in Shakespeare & Co and get it embossed with their official embosser.<br />
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I think Rebecca Solnit's "A Field Guide To Getting Lost" is especially appropriate since that is exactly what I'm hoping to do. I also picked up the new editions of The New Yorker and Vogue (because hello, lifestyle blogger).</div>
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How I Prepared:</div>
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I've been practicing my French with the Duolingo app and a podcast called "Coffee Break French", which is produced by two cheery Scots who are probably inadvertently teaching me French with a Scottish accent. I know how to say "I have a reservation", "Can I make a reservation", "Do you have a free table" and "I'd like a glass of red wine, not too sweet, please" so obviously I am covered. Also "Where is the boulagerie", "Where is the patisserie", and "Un café crème, s'il vous plaît". TA-DA.</div>
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What I'm Taking on the Plane:</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jydNg7IJymw/VPcg4ca-XkI/AAAAAAAAR48/I5XD302gVc8/s1600/miniature%2Bthings.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jydNg7IJymw/VPcg4ca-XkI/AAAAAAAAR48/I5XD302gVc8/s1600/miniature%2Bthings.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Way too much stuff. Not pictured are the fancy purple damask compression socks I ordered on Amazon. COMPRESSION SOCKS. Wrinkle release spray. Tide To Go pen. Earplugs. Eyemask. Neck pillow. Why why why? Stupid lifestyle bloggers convincing me I need all these things. Last time I flew to Paris with nothing in my bag but a book and a discman and a tube of Dramamine. Dammit.<br />
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Of course new underwear, though. It's Paris.<br />
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Sorry I showed you my underwear.<br />
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Let the final countdown begin.Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-60063760791726286412015-03-03T21:54:00.000-05:002015-03-03T21:54:18.169-05:00Things You Think About At Night Before Traveling AloneWhen I was in New York with my dad, one day we were riding the subway and my dad was looking at a map. I was not about to look at a map on the subway and mark myself as a tourist, but my dad was too--we'll go with <i>mature</i>--to care, and rightly so. There was a man sitting across from us with his daughter in a pink stroller. She was about two. He got off at the stop we did and then he asked if we needed directions. We took him up on his offer. He picked up the stroller and carried his little girl up the steps of the subway station and out into the sunlight. We followed him. He had a light accent and Asian features and I realized he was probably an immigrant himself. But now he was at home, now he was the one who knew. He spent a few minutes with us there on the busy sidewalk, pointing in every direction and telling us what was to be found along each way. It was comforting to have a sense of place in that great storm of a city. I still think about that man from time to time. I think about how kind he was. I hope somewhere someone is being nice to him. I hope he felt good afterwards, and that he knew he was helpful.Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-39356575278427661592015-01-27T10:03:00.000-05:002015-01-27T10:03:07.323-05:00Too Much<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PmuijJ2yjXw/VMeoZ5rvd2I/AAAAAAAARp4/VxvYrXxrTiA/s1600/brittany%2Bparis.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PmuijJ2yjXw/VMeoZ5rvd2I/AAAAAAAARp4/VxvYrXxrTiA/s1600/brittany%2Bparis.jpeg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I woke to the white light of perfect winter. The house was quiet. Now it is snowing from a gray and blue sky, tiny flakes that fall lazily and will amount to nothing.<br />
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I can't sleep at night because I am buzzing with excitement to go to Paris. I'm like a child on Christmas Eve, but the trip is still more than a month away, and this kind of heightened state can't last long, it must collapse eventually into something, or it will ruin me. I whiled away the entire day yesterday plotting routes from the apartment I've rented on airbnb to all the restaurants I want to go to, realizing I don't have the time or the budget to eat EVERYTHING in Paris, though god help me, I will do my best. I will stop talking about it now, because the only bad thing about going to Paris is that people kind of hate you when you tell them about it.<br />
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It really is doing the most magical thing outside my window right now, with the sunlight turning to orange and the snow flakes falling so slowly they are almost still in the air, fixed like stars.<br />
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Noah was out of town over the weekend. I went to work, and then the girls and I went and hocked Girl Scout Cookies at the brewery. We came home exhausted and late and the girls went to play with their Kindles in their rooms, as they are allowed to do at bedtime on the weekends. It was around ten when Ayla came out of her room crying. I asked her what was wrong and she said her movie was sad. "What are you watching?"<br />
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"The Gabby Douglas Story."<br />
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I asked her what was sad about it. She told me how Gabby Douglas had had to leave her mother to go train with Coach Chow and how the family didn't have much money, I think--I don't really know, I just know that Ayla was overwhelmed. I wanted to laugh and cry a little bit with her. I asked her if she had finished the movie. She hadn't.<br />
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She did this once before with a Thora Birch movie in which, at the end, the girl very nearly loses her pet monkey before the monkey escapes from the bad guys and goes running through a park in L.A. to be reunited with the girl. Ayla turned it off at the part where Thora was crying and the monkey was distressed. It is too much for children, to see animals in distress. With Gabby Douglas, just as with the Thora Birch, I put the movie back on and we watched the end. Alicia Keys sang as a montage of Gabby winning competition after competition played on the screen, sort of hurrying the climax along if you ask me. I had to explain to Ayla at the credits that Gabby had won not only a team medal at the Olympics, but the gold medal for best overall. I wanted Ayla to be giddy with relief over this happy ending, and she was soothed, but I sensed that my cheery "see how everything worked out in the end!" attempts were falling on something deeper and softer within. Either way, I kissed her and put her to bed, and she drifted off, cheeks dry but a million miles away, that girl, buttoned away inside, just like her mother, unknowable to me even though our cells still live inside one another.<br />
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It's still snowing so prettily, but nothing will come of it.<br />
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<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-82494501602180493882015-01-04T16:06:00.002-05:002015-01-04T16:06:17.640-05:00It Has Always Been Raining<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday we had big plans but they didn't pan out because we had to take the car in to the shop an you know exactly how all that goes. This time, they gave the car back to us in worse condition than it was in when we entrusted it to their care (Charlie's Tire in Brevard is the place to avoid) and so tomorrow we'll be dealing with the car again and may I add a few hundred dollars shorter.<br />
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We did have an awfully fun time eating ribs and playing Cards Against Humanity with some friends, and we did all this late into the evening like Europeans, not like the tired parents we all are. So it wasn't a total wash, even though it has been raining for as long as I can remember and the ground is soggy like food you'd spoon-feed to an invalid.<br />
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Tomorrow the girls have to go back to school and I feel like crying for them. They've spent the last two weeks blissed out, playing with new Christmas toys and art supplies, obeying the natural rhythms of their bodies, doing what they want when they want it. Mostly doing it in the house because of the whole Eternity of Rain thing, but still, it's been nice.<br />
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And I don't want them to go back because I will have to figure out what to do with myself in their absence. This used to be an easy task, but now it isn't.<br />
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I'm reading "Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar" by Dear Sugar who is in fact Cheryl Strayed. It is a gorgeous and wondrous book and the book I needed in my life, right now, this very moment. It's made me cry over and over again in the good way. And it turns out that the quote on the mug above is from Tiny Beautiful Things, from an essay Strayed wrote for a writer who was lost along her way. <br />
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I certainly can't write like a motherfucker right now but there's a time for everything.<br />
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So there is is, Brittany. This moment in your life. This day beneath the gray-washed sky.Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-61646039421394000302015-01-02T20:45:00.000-05:002015-01-02T20:46:26.318-05:00January 2nd<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Paris, March 2002</span></div>
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I thought maybe I would microblog, a little bit every day, even though I don't exactly want to. I won't hold myself to it, I don't make resolutions, I don't believe in all of that.<br />
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My brain is very sick. When my brain gets sick like this, I can mostly do a good job of pretending to people that it isn't. I can look like I'm home and sound like I'm home, but inside, my brain is in such distress that I can't find myself anywhere. It's like that scene in Home Alone (forgive me) when Kevin fools the robbers into thinking a great party is going on. The lights are on, the music's blasting, there are people moving inside. From the outside everything is normal--lit up, even. But in reality, the inside is empty. There isn't anything good. Anywhere.</div>
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So there's your John Hughes/Depression analogy of the day.</div>
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Finally I said all of this to Noah, which was incredibly hard, so so hard, but I felt better afterwards. I felt better today. I'll be on Wellbutrin again soon. </div>
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Last night I was doing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXU591OYOHA" target="_blank">Yoga With Adriene</a> and she said something about "trauma to the emotional body". That was it, exactly. My entire body felt bruised and sore, like I had been beaten. My brain had been beating me for weeks. </div>
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Let's see.</div>
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In March of 2002 I went to Paris with three girlfriends. Travel has always been one of the most important things to me--I used to think it was more important, even, than writing. That was when I was writing but couldn't travel. Now I'm going to travel, but I can't write. Of course, now writing feels utmost, travel second. Of course. In March 2012, despondent that I hadn't been back to Europe in ten years, I made a solemn vow to myself that I would go again by 2022. (I know it is ridiculous to be despondent over not going to Europe) I called my best friend and made her witness to my vow. I assumed I'd be getting my passport stamped somewhere close to midnight on December 31st, 2022. Then, a few weeks back, my husband found himself in a position to buy me a ticket to Paris. Knowing how much Paris means to me, he did. He bought it for me and I'll be staying there for two weeks, by myself. Traveling alone is something I've always wanted to do and I can't believe it's going to happen. You probably can't tell from the tone of this blog but I am thrilled, I'm so excited, I could cry. I have bought lots of clothes in black and white and I am READY.</div>
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Okay. That day, the day I made the solemn vow, I still believed in signs, I was hungry for signs. I vowed that one day I would go back to Paris and then I put my tiny daughters in the minivan and got on the highway. A clear blue day, it was March, so I would have been coming out of my depression, or about to. I was wondering if I would really make it, would I ever really go back. A car passed me on the right. Its license plate said, "Oui."</div>
Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6916416825093476865.post-79581290904061298582015-01-01T21:36:00.000-05:002015-01-01T21:36:13.297-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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on new years day I knew two things:<br />
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1) I am going to go on wellbutrin again<br />
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2) in 70 days, I am flying to paris<br />
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<br />Vesuvius At Homehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02783271096885148080noreply@blogger.com4