Okay, so I’m about to share a truth about myself that might surprise you, especially since it is very incongruent with the stories I tell, and my social media presence:

I am neither outgoing, nor a ‘people person’.

When I say this, the first reaction most people have is ‘yeah, right’, because they’ve seen me holding court at a gathering, or have had long conversations with me, or they consider all the random people that approach me with their life stories.  However, the reality is that I can be outgoing when I know my audience very well (or if I’m a tad liquored up), but I’m mostly just a good listener, and that comes as a product of being painfully shy.  I can paste a smile on my face and make small talk, but 8 out of 10 times, I’d rather be by myself than in the company of most people, much less a stranger.

Last month, I joined a lady gym, which is mostly frequented by Baby Boomers (this is relevant, I swear).  I picked the gym because I figured working out with women older than myself would keep me from building comparisons between us.  It’s not a fashion show, they’re not scantily clad, and they just look like real women.  Great.  I’ve been working out there, and I feel motivated to keep going.  It’s wonderful, except, I forgot one key element to this, which was brought very clearly to my attention today:

Women, particularly moms and grandmas, especially when placed in a physical circle, REALLY like to talk to you.

And not even in a ‘oh, nice weather we’re having!’ way.  They.  Want.  To.  Know.  About.  Your.  Life.  They come from the old school, where people actually got to know the other people in their neighborhoods, at their local haunts, etc.

I’d just jumped into the workout circuit, a few machines away from a cute, stylish lady.  I smiled, and she smiled back, and that’s when it happened.

“I heard the bell ring, did you lose some weight?”

oh god, is she talking to me?  she must be.  that was my bell.  oh god, can’t i just work out?

“Um, yes.  I lost a little weight.  I thought it would be more, but it’s okay.  I lost a few inches, too, and that surprised me.” I rattled it out quickly, awkwardly.

“Wow!  Congratulations!  Way to work, honey!  Every little bit counts, you just keep at it!”

I thanked her and kept on with my workout, but next thing I know, she’s asking me something else about me.  Dammit.

“So do you have President’s Day off of work?”

I considered lying.  It was easier to say yes than to launch into my writing, my current unemployment, etc.  But then she was going to ask me what I do for a living, and it’s just a world of lies from there.  Ugh.  On the other side of that, if I told the truth, I’d have to explain so much.  This is when I realized that I do more listening than talking in my interactions with others -on purpose.  They might ask about me, but I’ll sum it up in a line or two and bring the conversation back to them.  It was weird to have someone interviewing me for once.

I ended up going with the truth.  Partly because it was way less energy than trying to keep up with a string of lies.  Partly because she struck me as a cool aunt type, who I’d feel bad lying to in the first place.  I mostly did it, though, because I felt such an aversion to it; I was out to prove that I wouldn’t die or be completely drained by giving my attention to this woman as we worked out.  It’s 30 minutes, and what else was I going to do with my thoughts?  What the hell?  Why not?

“I’m, um.  I’m actually not working right now.  I had an office job, but I’m taking some time off to write a book.”  I muttered, cringing at where this conversation was going to take us, though she surprised me.

“Good for you for following your heart!  Our brains try and get in the way sometimes, but if you follow your brain over your heart, you’ll be sorry.  That’s not to say go around living willy nilly, but it sounds like you mapped it out a bit.  An unorthodox plan is still a plan.”

From there the conversation was cool.  She asked a lot about me, but also shared a good balance of herself, too.  It turns out she’s also a writer.  She said she had taken two years off of work, also to write, and started taking singing lessons to open up her voice.  I told her I’d taken similar steps, and she just thought that was the neatest thing.  She reminded me that you can blend your other artistic abilities with your writing, and told me she’s preparing to perform a one-woman cabaret she wrote.  She also made a lot of suggestions to help me along -connections, workshops, shows and techniques that would assist with my creative process.  As I left, I told her I was very happy to have met her.  The funny thing is, I meant it.

I’d gone to the gym right before lunch, and emerged starving.  I’d planned to go to my local cafe for some food and to write a bit.  However, I got there, and it was busier than I’d ever seen it (fist shaking at National Holiday).  There was absolutely no place to sit, and the line was too long to even bother with a take-away order.  Ravenous, I walked out and dipped into the next place on the street, a Vietnamese restaurant.  They were super busy as well, but the hostess directed me to a large family-style table saying “you sit here until small table open.”  Fine.

Well, the waiter didn’t catch wind of this, because in 20 seconds, I got condiments, tea, and a menu.  Whatever, so I’m at a big table by myself.  What’s the worst that can happen?  As I think this, I hear “you sit here until small table open.”

What?  I looked up to find a young woman sitting awkwardly across from me, also thinking it’s temporary, until again, waiter comes with condiments, tea, and a menu.  My new table mate smiled at me and shrugged.  I returned the gesture and ordered.

Here I’d like to say that this whole “there’s no place to sit because there aren’t any empty tables” is mostly an American thing.  Many other countries I’ve been to will try and give you your own place, but they are not afraid to sit you at the one empty seat at a table with a family of 7.  This is apparently what had happened, and I was having lunch with a stranger.  No problem, it was fine.  She seemed nice enough.  It didn’t matter that we were facing each other.  We could just as easily be at a lunch counter.  Our food came at the same time.  We’re just eating.  It’s not like I have to talk to her or….

“Do you work around here?” my companion asked over the steam of her pho, startling me out of my thoughts.

“No, but I live just around the corner.”  I thought that would do it.  Keep it simple.  Leave it be.

“So, you’re off today for the holiday?”

dammit, really?  again?  i just wanted to work out in peace, and that didn’t really happen, and now i just want to eat in peace, and ugh!  dammit.  but…but…BUT!  i wanted to work out in peace, and ended up getting a lot out of it.  i got some much-needed encouragement, some great life advice, and some practice at talking about myself instead of just asking questions.  it was a good experience.  it left me feeling good.  i’m writing a book about the importance of human connection and community, and I’m shunning a perfectly nice woman who’s trying to make the most out of our being shoved together??

So again, I pushed myself toward conversation, and again, I was incredibly glad I did.  My lunch companion, Katherine, ended up being really cool.  I didn’t get the deep thoughts conversation I got at the gym, but I’m usually too serious as it is anyway, and lightheartedness does me well.  She was into Star Trek, and comic books, and wanted to make sci-fi movies.  She was surprised I hadn’t seen Firefly and urged me to stream it.  It was actually nice to chat about random stuff.  No negativity, no complaining, just two strangers bonding over a love of nerd stuff and vietnamese food.  She was on a work break and was taking her time.  I ended up leaving before her, and secretly buying her lunch.  It was cheap, and she was awesome, but I mostly did it to thank the Universe for my lesson in opening up.

The last time I went to the doctor, he was alarmed by both my blood pressure, and my weight.  He was kind about it, but suggested I start on hypertension medication immediately.

Wait, what?  Medication?  Like, daily?  Forever?  When did I become my father at 50?

I humbly asked if there was anything I could do in place of medication.

“Lower your sodium, exercise 30 minutes daily, eat whole foods, avoid processed food/meats.”  He replied.

“So, basically, lose weight?”

He smiled, and said yes, that would probably do it.  He agreed to let me try before putting me on meds, on the condition that I would monitor my pressure regularly, and come back for a prescription if it didn’t start going down.

I left his office, and my first thought was “Phew!  Second chance!”.  My next thought, however, was “Shit.  Now I have to change my life.”

I will not lie to you.  I didn’t change my life right away.  I kept living my same obese, high blood pressure life for a few months, feeling increasingly worse with every passing day, and wondering how much longer I could endure waking up feeling 80 at 36.

Cliche as it may sound, I decided the new year was the time to turn my life around.  I started with my eating.  I downloaded an app to my phone where I could log in my daily food intake.  This experience was astonishing.  I’d done it with Weight Watchers and points before, and I can see how that works for many people, but for me there was something intangible about seeing that my snack was ’25 points’.  I knew it was a lot, more than it should be, but okay, whatever.  With a calorie counter, I see that the “25 points” translates to 1200 calories.  Staring at something saying you ate 1100 meal calories total in your day, and an additional 1200 as your single, absentminded, 8:00 snack is a wake up.  I came to terms with two things very quickly: if I buy it I will eat it in one sitting, and therefore, I have to make smarter snack choices if I expect to lose weight.

The next thing I did was join an exercise program near my house.  It’s a 30 minute workout.  The people at the gym suggested I come 3 days a week.  At first I thought I’d commit to 7 days a week.  EXTREME WORKOUT!!  After some thought, I figured such a stringent commitment would lead to resentment, and consequently, quitting.  However, 3 days a week left too much opportunity to push it off.  I am quite familiar with the old “I didn’t go yesterday, and I don’t feel like going today, so I’ll just go the next 3 days in a row”.  I eventually settled on a compromise.  Non-negotiable workouts M-F, and a commitment to move more (walking instead of taking the bus, stairs vs. elevator) on the weekend.  This non-negotiable thing triggered something in me.  The 14-yr old girl trying to get out of Freshman P.E. awoke in me with a vengeance that first morning.

“I’m tired.  I pulled something in my calf.  I have cramps.  I think I’m getting sick.  My gym clothes are dirty….”

I had to go unsympathetic male coach on myself.

“This will energize you.  It’ll work out your calf.  It’ll make your body feel better.  Then run the damn lap in your jeans.”

I went, and something magnificent happened:  I liked it.  I left feeling like a new person.  It’s true that a body at rest stays at rest.  I had become one with my couch, and was waiting for the energy to get up and go.  I didn’t realize that getting up and going would give me energy.  My inner Freshman tried to pull the same shit the following morning, but quickly learned what non-negotiable means.  ”Do it now, or do it later, but it’s happening before you go to bed tonight” I told myself.  I went, and again felt incredible.  I was amazed at what a measly 30 minutes could do for me.

It’s now been a little over a week, and I already know I am forming new habits for life.  I’ve been down various versions of this throughout my lifetime, but this feels different.  It’s not a diet, or for any purpose (vacation, pictures, a boy) other than to take good care of myself.  That said, this morning, I had a bit of a freakout, and after some time with myself, I realized I’m afraid of being fit.  It seems silly when I read it back from the blog text box in which I just typed that, but it’s the truth.  I was literally born fat.  I’ve been thinner, but never thin, and I realized that some part of me is terrified of what that means, and what it will bring.  Of course I am.  The unknown is rarely comfortable.

Additionally, the two times I’ve been relatively fit in my life, I found relationships.  The first was a very deep extremity.  The second was a shallow extremity.  Both broke me in their own way.  I think in addition to the unknown, I’ve been afraid that losing weight would bring more complexity and emotions than I can handle.  But you know, I’m operating from a different space now.  I’m a different me than I was a decade (or more) ago.  I have the experience of those two relationships, plus a few more.  I have five years of intense therapy under my belt.  I am stronger.  I have made peace with myself.  How could I NOT handle all the life and opportunity being fit would offer?  Good or bad?  I am now acting from a healed (and continually healing) place.  The mere act of losing weight forces me to put myself first, thereby training me in the process to deal with a fit life.  It’s Mr. Miyagi-ing me, teaching me how to deal with the big event by training me subtly in daily life.  I’m choosing an apple over a candy bar.  I’m choosing to workout rather than getting stoned and watching cartoons all day.  How could this not bleed over into the rest of my life?  Wouldn’t it feel incongruent to treat my body as a temple and to surround myself with people, places, or situations that make me feel like crap?  Step by step, day by day, small choices, and then, I’m just doing it.  It’s not a high dive into a fit life.  It’s a transition.

I’ve spent a good deal of time resisting the current of a healthier life.  I associated the stream with negativity, because it was hard, never realizing that the difficulty came from my fear and resistance.  But why so much fear?  The current is not going to drag me under.  There are no waterfalls in the stream of true self-care.  I will not drown.  It’s time to honor my fear, by feeling it, but it’s also time to honor and accept that the current is stronger than me.  It doesn’t have to be a hard and traumatizing trip.  I’ve been fighting it, but I can just as easily sun myself and dangle my feet over the side of an inner-tube as I let myself move toward a better version of me.

My nephew recently turned five.  To mark the momentous occasion, I decided to buy him his first bicycle.  He was super excited, but when he went to first get on, helmet on head, he hesitated.  He froze for a moment, then looked up at me and said “Tia, I never rode a bike before”.

“Are you afraid?” I asked, to which he nodded.  “That’s okay.  Everybody is scared of everything they do for the first time, but we try new things anyway, and most of the time it’s really cool.  Mama and I will be with you.  So it’s okay to feel afraid, but do it anyway, and I promise it’ll be a lot of fun!”

After about five minutes, we couldn’t get him off of it.

It wasn’t until much later when I was driving home that what I’d said to him struck me.  I’d said it without giving it much thought, but driving down the freeway I realized I needed to hear this as much as he did.  It had never occurred to me that way before.  Everybody is scared of everything they do for the first time.  I always obeyed the fear, thinking it was an indicator of true danger, when I now realize it is a default.  A trigger as old as time, our survival instinct making sure no lions are present when we sit to rest.

This fear applies to every little thing we do throughout our day, but the need to do something outweighs the fear for those things, so we don’t notice it so much.  Those little things also are regular, and often have a similar point of past reference (I’m not scared to order in this new restaurant, because I’ve ordered in restaurants 1,000 times and it’s all the same).  So the ones that stand out are the bigger things.  Asking someone out.  Sharing something we’ve done or made.  Following a dream.  Turning our world upside down for the sake of redirecting.  These bigger fears are generally the ones we escape, by suppressing the desire, and punishing ourselves for having fears or feelings around these new things in the first place.

“It’s JUST applying for a new job, why am I so scared?”

“I decided it wasn’t worth applying for that stupid job, anyway”

So we don’t allow the new opportunities into our lives, because we refuse to feel the associated fear. What we forget is that our inherent “fear of lions” doesn’t mean there are lions there.  It just means ‘don’t forget to check for lions’.  That’s a stark difference!  The fear is there to keep us on our toes, not to keep us from going after what we want or need.

We often give up because we think the fear will be too great for us to bear, but the reality is we have it backwards.  The regret of living a stagnant life will someday be too much for us to bear.  On the other hand, if we force ourselves to try the activity, much like the bike riding, the fear will be momentarily felt, and done with for good, and we’ll joyfully ride our bikes around the block ‘til sunset.

Day 9: Paris

Okay, so Paris and I have made up, and I’m a little bit smitten.  I’m not in the “I want to live there!” mode I normally feel after visiting a place, but I see the passion and art of Paris, and understand why it is romanticized so.

I slept in today.  I realized part of why I’d been so grumpy is that I had been getting up early and walking miles upon miles for the last 8 days straight.  I’d taken in sight after sight and hadn’t had a whole lot of time to process it all.  So, today I took my time.  What a difference that makes.  I woke up rather late (for me, anyway), around 9:30.   I laid in bed for a while, took a long shower, then set out to wander Paris a bit.  I’d heard that Vincent Van Gogh lived less than half a block from where I am staying, so I went to the house and took some photos.  There was a café next door, so I decided to stop and have a real breakfast.  I read once that language never leaves you; that it just lies dormant in your brain until you have to use it again.  This has proven to be true, and I was able to order my meal without issue and make small talk with the barrista.  I ordered a sandwich and a cappuccino.  It was absolutely delicious, and I allowed myself to be present.  I sat in the café for a long time, and wrote in my journal as I sipped my coffee.

I paid the bill, and with an ‘au revoir’, was off to see more of the city.  I decided I would go to Pere Lachaise, the famous cemetery.  It was an easy train ride, only transferring once, though it took a while.  I can’t complain though, the metro station is across from my hotel, and let me off across from the cemetery.  That’s about as easy as it gets.  The cemetery is huge.  It was nearly a small town.  I took a photo of the map at the entrance and used that as a reference as I wandered through.  There are about 100 famous people entombed there, but I decided that I wanted to pay my respects to four: Marcel Proust, Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, and Jim Morrison.  Being a Thursday afternoon, there were hardly any people there.  What I did not realize, however, is that Pere Lachaise is a fully operational cemetery, containing many non –famous, everyday people.  This was made apparent as I began to see a few people visiting their loved ones, leaving flowers, and clearing gravesites.  One man was sitting at a grave across from Morrison’s, talking to it, and weeping a bit.  I tried not to stare or make my presence known, but as I walked past him, my mouth operated before my brain could catch up.

“Je suis desole.” (“I am sorry”) I said.

“Merci boucoup” He replied with a warm smile.

From there, I decided to catch the train to Isle St. Louis, and to see Notre Dame Cathedral nearby.  These are referred to as Isles (Islands), but it’s more that the Siene runs on both sides of them.  So they kind of are islands, but you know, not sand and coconuts.  On Isle St. Louis, there is a world-renowned ice cream shop called Berthillon.  It is apparently the best ice cream in the world.  I thought okay, whatever, I’ve had great ice cream, but I figured it was worth trying.  Turns out I was wrong.  I have had good ice cream.  Berthillon is great.  There are no words to describe it.  I had a scoop of chocolate, and one of salted caramel.  Both flavors enveloped my mouth in a way where nothing in this world existed but me, chocolate, and salted caramel.  I had become the chocolate and salted caramel.  I literally took a lick, stopped dead in my tracks, and exclaimed “holy shit!” out loud, making some locals laugh and nod in agreement.  I also ordered this in French, and chatted up the clerk.  I don’t know if he was having a good day, or if he’s used to tourists not speaking any French, but he gave me a reduced price.  Thanks, France!

I continued on from Berthillon to Notre Dame.  I knew Notre Dame would be impressive, but I had no idea what it had in store for me.  I came up on it from the back-side, and was pretty impressed.  I took lots of photos, and oohed and ahhed.  Then I came around to the front, and holy wow.  To say it is impressive is to do it an injustice.  Massive, with incredible detail, and  somehow intact after all of these years.  There was a line 3 blocks long to enter, so I passed, but the outside was enough of a treat.  It was truly lovely.  Walking further, I came across an open market with books and antiques.  The books were all in French, so I didn’t purchase anything, but it was great to look at all the neat tchotchkes and titles.

I floated home, inspired by Paris, and wishing I had some more time here.  I bought a couple of souvenirs, bought some dinner to go, and came back to my hotel.  I went to the front clerk –the one who was mean to me a couple days ago- and asked, in French, to purchase a wi-fi card for internet.  She softened, and gave it to me, denying my money.  I asked if she was sure, and she said most hotels give it free, and it bugs her that they charge, and no one’s around, so just take it.  I blew her a kiss and told her she was too kind, merci, merci!  She smiled warmly and sent me on my way.

So.  Lessons?

1) I think the Parisians are the New Yorkers of Europe.  They can be perceived as rude, but they’re mostly just straightforward and not afraid to let you know when you’re irritating them.  They actually have a lot of heart.

2) If you’re in Paris, try speaking any French you can.  A poor attempt at French is received much more warmly than bewilderment, or a shrug and immediate (insert your first language here).  I learned to say “I’m sorry, I don’t understand”, and that got me so much farther than my previous deer in headlights silence.

3) Last, but certainly not least, I arrived closed-off to Paris, and I fully received a closed-off Paris.  You get what you put out.  There is an old saying that if you clench your fist, no one can take anything from you, nor can they give you any gifts.  I came here with a clenched fist.  I opened up, and so did Paris, treating me quite kindly.  A kiss for you, Paris.  Bizou.

Day 7 had me leaving lovely Amsterdam, and traveling by train to Paris, city of lights.  I had a few hours to kill between checking out of my hotel and my train time, so I decided to get a nice café breakfast, and spend that time writing and taking in any last bits of Amsterdam.  As I sat there, eating my delicious open-faced sandwich and sipping my cappuccino, I realized something: people in Amsterdam are happy.  In my time there, I didn’t see an angry interaction, hear a raised voice, or any altercation.  As I walked through the streets pulling my luggage, people I passed assumed I was coming, and gave me a warm smile and said “Velcommen!”.  It was calm, and sweet, and I was a little sorry to leave.

I made my way to the train station and got on my train.  As we pulled out of the station, I began to get excited for Paris.  Strangely, I figured I would have an easier time in Paris, because though most people in Amsterdam speak English, and most of the important signs are in English, many things are not.  There was more than one occasion where I had to leave an establishment because the menu was in Dutch, and no one in the place spoke any English.  I thought at least I understand and can read French.  Even if I find myself in a situation with a huge communication gap, I can figure it out.

The train ride was lovely, and I arrived to heavy rain in France.  I came out of the train station, and was immediately accosted by a crazy man yelling at me in French.  I understood 2 words, maybe.  Then he started screaming more slowly, and I got that he was asking me for cigarettes, and money.  I told him I had nothing to give, and he waved me off with a dramatic “BAH!” and walked away.  Welcome to France.  I made my way to a taxi and asked to go to my hotel.

“Hotel Atlanta Frochot, si vous plais” I said.

He didn’t know what I was talking about.

“C’est dans le Rue Frochot” (It’s on Frochot street) I said.

He asked me if I had it written anywhere.  I produced it, and he said “Ah, Rue Frochot”.

Didn’t I just say that?  Okay, my French is terrible.  Fine.  He takes me there, charges me $7 and change.  I give him a 10 and tell him to keep the change, to which I received a “pfffft”  Well, fuck you, too!

I went into the hotel, and using my French phrase book, stated that I’d reserved a room.  Actually, being that it was from a phrase book, the literal translation was somewhat stuffy.  Something more along the lines of “I retained a chamber in your establishment”.  The clerk looked at me and said (in French) “Are you trying to tell me you reserved a room?”

“Oui” I replied softly.

“You speak English?” she asked

“Oui”

Then she helped me in English, but only after a heavy sigh.  I got the key and went to my room and for a moment, couldn’t really understand what was the big fuss about Paris.  So far, it seemed like a dirty, somewhat dodgy place filled with rude people.

I took a quick shower, rested a bit, then decided to go out for dinner.  I told myself I would force a hard re-set here.  Paris and I had obviously gotten off to a bad start.  I left the hotel in search of some food with optimism in mind.

As I walked down my street, I realized there was a sex shop next door.  I thought this was funny, and seemingly a strange place for a sex shop, but (shrug) kept walking.  A couple doors down, wait, is that a gentleman’s club?  After that, a bar, wait, did the lady in that bar have no top on?  Whoa, there’s a sex theater across the street.  That’s when it dawned on me: my hotel is in the red district.  This explained why it felt slightly dodgy.  On the plus side, there are lots of cute men around –for all the wrong reasons, but still good eye candy.  Also, being in the risqué district, I’m only 2 blocks from Le Moulin Rouge, which is pretty cool.

Dinner proved to be more of the same.  Rude waiters, aggressive homeless people, lots of misunderstandings.  I was tired, and though it was early, I thought it best to go back to the hotel and hang out.  My travel companion, Ellie, was falling apart, and it was a good opportunity to put her back together.  I found a cheap sewing kit in a bodega near the hotel, and went back to watch French T V and perform stuffed animal surgery.

Day 8 started well.  I hit the road early and set out to see the Eiffel Tower and the Arc De Triomphe.  I saw both, and so much more, and it was beautiful.  I bought a sandwich near the Eiffel Tower, and had a lot of trouble ordering or dealing with the clerk.  It was painful.  In addition to problems with speech, it was like I suddenly had no concept of money, though I’d been using Euros for days now.  I made my way back to my hotel to rest, and realized what it was that I hated about Paris so far.  I felt vulnerable.  I didn’t understand anyone who spoke to me, and though I do generally understand French, and can speak it conversationally, it seemed I was choking.  I knew how to order my sandwich.  I know the words, but when it came time to use them, I went blank.  It had been that way with everything.  I don’t know if it’s embarrassment of speaking poorly, or nervousness, or what, but I knew so much more than I was letting myself speak or understand.  It was this inability to speak or understand that was making me feel so wretched.  Sitting in my room, I told myself that it didn’t matter if I felt stupid speaking –I really don’t like not being good at things, for Chrissakes- I had to TRY.  I committed then and there to try.

My feet hurt, but I decided today was a good day to get to the Louvre.  The things I want to do tomorrow are not in that area, and the museum is open late on Wednesdays.  If you go after 6, the price is reduced, so I figured I could get in for cheap, and probably beat some crowds.  I was right, and it was an amazing experience.  (The Mona Lisa is TINY!  Maybe 12in. x 16in.).  On the way there, I used my French every chance I got.  I took the trains, bought my tickets, and made my way around using only French.  Slowly, it was coming back to me, and I found that I understood what was going on around me.  I felt myself relax thoroughly.  After the museum, I went for a fast food dinner and ordered in French flippantly without thinking.  The girl spoke back to me, and we had a whole little conversation.  I paid, and took my food to my table, but the interaction didn’t hit me until I sat down.  I did it!  It’s all coming back.

While beautiful, I don’t feel I have bonded with Paris in the same way I did with London or especially with Amsterdam.  It is a cool place though, and I’m grateful to be here.  Apparently, the lesson I needed to learn in Paris is to try.  It’s okay not to be the best at something, but it’s not okay to refuse to make an attempt and then get upset when things don’t go your way.  Well, I guess that’s okay, but you can’t expect it to make anything better.  Much like the rest of this trip, Paris brings a stark message to speak up, own your ability (or lack thereof), and to try.

I walked so much yesterday, that by the time I got back to the hotel, my feet ached like never before.  Having been on a go-go-go schedule for so many days, and being that the sun doesn’t go down here until after 10:00 pm, I decided it was time for a lazy morning.  Rather than getting up at 7:00 to start the day fresh, I decided to sleep in, then hang around in bed reading.  It was exactly what I needed.  Day 3 started bright and fresh, around 11:00.

I knew I wanted to see the Anne Frank house, but these last couple of days, the line has been down the street and around the corner.  I hoped that being a Monday, the crowd would be a little more tame.  Fortunately, I was right.  I only had to wait about 15 minutes in line before entering the museum.  I went in knowing it would be sad, but had no idea of the emotion I would be feeling.  I managed to get through the general areas of the museum, but once I walked into the main office and saw the bookcase, the tears began.  I got through most of the secret apartment with minimal crying, until I came to the entrance of Anne’s bedroom, which had the children’s growth marks next to the door jamb.  I entered the tiny bedroom, saw Anne’s clippings glued to the wall of the room she shared, with its blacked-out windows, and had to stifle a loud sob.  A woman near me put her hand on my shoulder as we stood there weeping together.

In addition to the secret apartment, the museum contained the original diary, family photos, and the camp rosters containing the names of the family.  It was a lot to take in all at once.  Leaving the museum, I had to go find a place to sit, and process everything I’d seen.  After my initial feelings of sorrow had passed, I began to feel confusion and anger.  How did something like the holocaust happen?  How did no one step in and say “hey, wait, what the fuck is going on here?!”?  I mean, I know we did, eventually, but why did it take us so long?

Then, I remembered something I’d heard once about natives and Columbus’ ships.  Apparently, there is a theory that natives didn’t see Columbus’ ships until they were very much upon their land, even though they were approaching in the distance for quite some time.  The theory being that since natives had never seen anything like these ships, they couldn’t process what they were, and therefore didn’t even see them.  The ships didn’t register.  It occurred to me that perhaps we couldn’t see the impending horrors of the holocaust, because we couldn’t conceive them.  Being born in a post-holocaust world, I think ‘why didn’t you stop it?’, but maybe we didn’t know there was anything to stop.  Maybe we were completely unaware of man’s full potential for evil until after it was happening.  This thought helped me to accept history, while maintaining hope and respect for humanity.

Once all the emotions had gone through me, I continued to walk through the maze that is Amsterdam.  I had hit all the major points on my checklist, so I decided to wander where I may.  At the end of every street, I decided to take a left or a right in whatever direction my spirit felt like taking me.  It began raining, but not hard enough to keep me from walking through the city.  A sea of bicycles, canals, and flowers everywhere I looked made it easy to walk around without realizing how far I’d gone.  I eventually made my way back to the hotel, with my feet aching all over again, and my heart content.

Day 4 had me leaving London.  I booked a flight because it was easier (1 hr, versus 4 hr train ride), but my day ended up being all about travel.  Once I got to Amsterdam, the taxi driver had no idea where my hotel was.  I knew the vicinity, and had him drop me off, thinking I was 2 blocks away, but ended up being about 2 miles from my hotel.  I started walking.  I’d easily walked many times that in London, but after 6 hours of travel, and with all my luggage, it was a bit difficult.  Fortunately, the scenery was so beautiful, I nearly didn’t notice.  I was weary once I got to my hotel, but immediately perked up once inside.  The hotel is in a residential area, so it almost looks like it’s in a house.  There is  a little lake right behind it -the whole area is picturesque.  The clerk was very accommodating, and my room is cute and comfortable.  I cleaned up, rested, then went back out to check out my neighborhood and get some dinner.

Day 5, part 1: Van Gogh Museum

I had one thing in mind when I woke up this morning: The Van Gogh National Museum.  I got up, got ready, and took the bus directly over to the museum before it got too crowded.  It seems I made the right decision, because in the brief time it took me to get through the short ticket line, the people behind me grew down the block.  Once inside, I saw the flow of the museum was as such: First level, early drawings; Second level, main bodies of work; Third level, lesser known works, mixed with the work of his teachers and the artists who inspired him; Fourth level, lesser known works, mixed with the work of his peers, and an exhibition about the Parisian posters and prints of the impressionist period.

I went through the first level of early works.  It was crowded.  I decided to reverse-traffic the group by taking the lift to the top floor, and working my way down.  In retrospect, I’m SO glad I did this.  Rather than seeing his master works second, and ending with teachers, peers, and prints, I saw all of those other pieces first, and ended my time with Van Gogh’s most well-known paintings.  I didn’t quite realize the impact of this, until I reached my last level, turned a corner, and saw Vincent’s bedroom.

Continuing through the timeline, I saw them, one after another -every print I’d ever hung in my room, or studied in various books.  The floor ended with what is argued to be his last painting, though there is no certainty.  If not the last, it was definitely one of the last, and I believe you can see the mindset of someone on the verge of suicide in the imagery.  I reached this painting, and involuntarily began to cry.  Standing before it, seeing the vibrant contrasts, the thick globs and strokes of paint, knowing so much about his life, I felt the energy of the painting.  I was inexplicably overcome.

I made my way through the gift shop, then went walking the streets of Amsterdam to process what I’d seen.  Along the way, I had a stark realization.  Van Gogh left this world believing he was a nothing, and with the world telling him the same.  Though he didn’t sell anything in that time, he continued to make his art, producing 864 paintings (and even more drawings) in 10 years.  So what did I learn?  Do it anyway.  Whatever it is.  Do it because it makes you happy, express yourself freely.  And don’t kill yourself, because it obviously does get better.

Day 5, part 2: The streets of Amsterdam

After the museum, I wandered endless miles in Amsterdam.  Bricks, bicycles, and flowers everywhere you look.  It’s interesting, Amsterdam is a large city, but feels like you’re constantly walking through a small village.  Every street with its bright colors, and stone streets.  Every turn with something new to look at.  One thing I learned rather quickly: sidewalks look like streets look like sidewalks.  It’s all runs together, so you have to watch where you’re going.  It’s been lovelier than anything I could have imagined, though, and the people are incredibly kind and helpful.  I’m thoroughly enjoying my time here.

I spent my final day in England by going to visit my friend Jonathan and his partner Igor in Brighton, about an hour outside of Central London by rail.  I headed out of the hotel early, for Victoria Station in the heart of London.  There I could upgrade my underground daily pass to include rail service out of the city.  I will say now that overall, England has been polite, and efficient.  However, when it comes to the rail service, I learned of another world.  The above ground rail (kind of like an Amtrack train) doesn’t post which terminal the train will depart from until it pulls in and is ready to go.  There is a waiting area, where the passengers gather, eagerly watching digital departure readouts to see from where their train will leave.  Once announced, you have about 10 minutes to get through the turnstile and board before the doors close and you’re shit out of luck.  That said, the moment the train pulls in and the platform is announced, the hungry, waiting crowd becomes a mad dash for platform such and such.  I went from standing idly to being caught in a tsunami of men, women, children, strollers, wheelchairs, luggage, and dogs.  I saw two altercations break out as I pushed my way rapidly toward platform 19.  However, once on the train, it was back to polite, England.  Cheerio, and isn’t the scenery lovely, and I’m going to a wedding, where are you going today, love?

The train ride was gorgeous, along the greenest countryside I’ve ever seen.  Little brick houses appearing every so often, a burst of township or industry, and then back to lush grass and the occasional livestock.  Brighton proved to be lovelier than I could have imagined.  Jonathan picked me up at the station, and took me to Igor’s tailor shop so we could all go grab lunch.  We walked along the streets and came to an Italian place, a flyer with Igor’s face gracing the front door, advertising his haberdashery skills.  A local celebrity.  Upon entering, the owner and the wait staff greeted them warmly.  Igor!  Doctor!  Friend of Igor and Doctor!  It’s nice when everybody knows your name.  We ate a lovely meal, filled with great conversation, and finished with coffee and tasty amaretto biscuits.

After that, we dropped Igor back at work and took to the streets of Brighton.  Jonathan took me to the heart of town, which proved to be an eccentric artist’s dream of whimsy and color.  We navigated a maze of streets, each full of local boutiques, art, and a fair amount of kitsch.  It had Claudia written all over it.  We eventually came to a building that looked quite a lot like a mini Taj Majal.  It was the Royal Pavillion, built by George IV in the early 19^th century.

“Would you like to go in?”  Jonathan asked.

“Sure!” I replied.

£10 earned us entry, as well as an audio guide in the form of a cordless telephone.  At each stop, you could dial the number on the plaque, and hear the history behind the room, or whatever it was that happened to be in front of you.  It seems George IV had a taste for Asian art.  He had converted the family’s farmhouse into this Indian looking building, and furnished it inside with a mostly Chinese décor.  Giant portraits on the walls, enormously opulent chandeliers made to look like dragons breathing fiery lotuses, golden phoenixes everywhere you looked.  It was bordering on tacky, but when you took all the components apart, there was beauty, and it left you with an awe of the workmanship.

We were standing in what was the kitchen, looking at a menu from 1817, when I realized “This menu is older than all of modern San Francisco”.  It was incredibly humbling to consider that all the things I conceive to be ‘old’ are actually quite new in the big scheme of the world.  This has been a constant reminder in my three days in the UK.

All in all, it was a magical day, and a perfect end to my time in England.  Jonathan and I parted amidst warm hugs and ‘until next time’, and I dove again into the mad dash of boarding the train back to Central London.  I arrived at Victoria station, had a lovely curry dinner, and made my way back to the hotel happy, and incredibly grateful for kind old friends and lovely new cities.

I woke up late today.  My body swore it was early, and it was, in San Francisco, but here, it was quite late.  I got ready and headed to Central London to wander around and get some pictures.  Upon arriving at Picadilly Circus, I realized I was starving, and went to have a very late breakfast (i.e. early dinner).  I went into a nearby restaurant and ordered a traditional English breakfast (for dinner).  Sausage, bacon, fried egg, beans, sliced tomato, thick-cut toast, and chips (fries) with coffee.  It was delicious, and filling.

As I was getting ready to leave the restaurant, I accidentally knocked my travel companion, Ellie (the orange elephant) off the table.  She fell to the left of me, between the booth and the wall.  I tried to reach down and grab her, but the space, while big enough for her to fall through, was too small for my arm.  I tried to reach around from the front, but the front of the booth was made of wood.  It seems Ellie had fallen into the only place the booth opened.  I couldn’t see her.  She had fallen under the booth.  I made several attempts to stick my umbrella under there to push her out to no avail.  I tried to come at it from every angle, but just couldn’t get her.  I eventually gave up, and decided it didn’t matter.  I’d simply give her up to the English booth Gods.  She only cost me 20 baht (about $0.60) in Thailand anyway.  What did it matter?  I paid my bill, packed up my stuff and was about to leave, and I suddenly felt like I was going to vomit and cry all at once.  In the time it took me to stand, I reverted to a five-year old and wanted nothing more in this world than my stuffed elephant.  In that moment, I decided I wasn’t going anywhere without my Ellie.

I called over my waitress, and said “I dropped something very important.  It went under the booth and I can’t grab it.  You have smaller arms than me, do you think you can get it?”  She tried, but couldn’t get her arm in there either.  She began to DECONSTRUCT the booth entirely.

“What am I looking for, exactly?” She asked me over her shoulder

“A small stuffed elephant” I replied softly, somewhat embarrassed.

“A what?” she asked, turning around fully to look at me.

“It’s…it’s…a little elephant.  You’ll know it when you see it.  It’s my travel companion.”

She rolled her eyes a little bit as she removed the seat from the booth with great effort and pulled Ellie out from among the dust bunnies and loose change.  My heart swelled.  I thanked her profusely and gave her a bit of an extra tip before heading out.

Once outside and out of sight from her or anyone else, I gave Ellie a tight hug and a kiss, and apologized for even considering leaving her behind.  In doing so, I couldn’t help but wonder, why is this inanimate object so important to me?

It could be the nostalgia.  Ellie has been with me for a few years now, and has travelled quite a bit with me.  It could be that I’m a silly human that is still five years old on the inside in some way.  I mean, the fact that my intense attachment is to a $0.60, googly-eyed, stuffed elephant is not lost on me.  “But she’s MY $0.60, googly-eyed elephant” I said to myself in response to my thoughts, and there was the answer.  In a strange place, all by myself, Ellie is a taste of home.  She is my only familiar.

While travelling alone is great, it is lonely.  There is no one to share the experience with, or to turn to and say “Wow, would ya look at that!!”.  In the absence of a travel partner, Ellie has filled this gap for me.  She has laid at the mother of pearl feet of the giant, lounging Buddha.  She has seen me cry in temples.  She has stuck her feet in the sandy beaches of Phuket with mine.  Eaten Laksa in Singapore, wandered the streets of Indonesia, and kept me company on many a flight.  Countless times, I have turned to her and said “WOW”, when there was no one else.  If this elephant could talk, she would have many tales to tell.  She is the keeper of my memories, and if by chance, I lose her someday, so be it, but I was damned if I was going to just leave her, and all of our collective experiences behind.

So…what does this teach me?  Today I learned to speak up for my needs, no matter how petty they may seem to someone else.  That waitress looked at me like I was crazy as she was on her knees, pulling an entire booth apart for what –to her- seemed like a stupid toy.  But fuck that waitress.  I lost my Ellie, and needed her back.  I wasn’t hurting anybody.  Sure, it was a little inconvenient, but I made up for it in gratuity.  I would have been angry with myself if I had gone home without Ellie, and realized later that I didn’t even try to retrieve her due to shame of asking.  As petty as I felt to ask for her, it would have been so much more petty to leave her out of embarrassment.  So that is what I share with you all today.  Speak up.  Speak your truth.  Even if it’s embarrassing.  The embarrassment lasted mere seconds.  Being untrue to myself would have hurt forever.

 

My flight to London consisted of one leg to Charlotte, N.C., a 3-hour layover there, and then on across the pond.  My first flight to Charlotte was delayed by 2 hours, which was fine overall, though I was concerned the connection in Charlotte may be tight.  I arrived in Charlotte to find the next flight had also been delayed by 1.5 hours, which suited me just fine, since I did not miss the connection, and the delay gave me the opportunity to get some real food, use a real toilet, and stretch my legs before being confined to a tiny seat for 8 straight hours.  We finally boarded, sat on the runway for 30 minutes, then were kicked off the plane due to ‘mechanical problems with the wing’.  We were told the flight (originally scheduled for 6:00, then moved to 7:30, when we boarded) would be leaving at 9:00 pm.  By the time all was said and done, we left at 11:00 pm.  In this timeframe of waiting and flying, I met two distinct people, whom I believe hold a firm lesson for me, which I will share with you now.

The first person I met was Diane.  Once we found out we were not leaving until 9:00, I decided to go find an outlet to plug in my phone and poke around on Facebook, text people, etc.  Being that Charlotte is the only airport I’ve ever seen with NO outlets anywhere (seriously, Charlotte, look into that…), I ended up sitting on the floor of the main hallway/concourse between drinking fountains and restrooms.  I was sitting there contently, when a woman in her 40′s came and sat next to me to use the other half of the outlet for her phone.  Whether it’s merely my face, or some other pheromone I give off, I’ll never know, but just like everyone else in this world, this woman decided she needed someone to talk to, and that someone was me.  Diane’s story:

She had recently been in a horrible car accident (obvious wounds still healing) that was absolutely not her fault (“some shithead ran a light and t-boned me!”).  Shithead had no insurance, so she is stuck paying for her totaled car.  She left the hospital early to go to the UK to see her daughter compete in some event, and now she is stuck in Charlotte, with a concussion, missing some portion of the event because of US Airways.  Diane had decided that US Airways was the root of all her grievances, and a force much in need of retaliation.  In Diane’s mind, as she told me repeatedly between the hours of 6:00 and 11:00, this trip was “RUINED”.   She’d powered through her physical pain for NOTHING.  To her, this waiting was bullshit, nobody knew what customer service was anymore, her whole trip was flipped upside down, and someone was going to pay for it.  She swore up and down that there would be “HELL.  TO.  PAY!!!” once she got back home and gave anyone who would listen at the airline a piece of her mind.  I kept trying to talk her off the ledge –asking her where she was from, what she did, what her daughter was doing in the UK.  It turned out that nearly every subject turned into a rant of sorts.  The only two things she seemed interested in talking to me about were Orlando, which I spent more time in than I care to reminisce about, and her Tea Party beliefs, which was a rabbit hole I did not care to jump down.  So there we were, commiserating about how life was awful and her precious trip was ruined, and how she thought I should be equally pissed for missing out on one of my precious days overseas.

Fortunately, once we got back on the plane, we were not near each other and that was the last I saw of Diane.  Enter person two:  Brian.  I went and sat in my seat, next to a daughter and mother.  They asked if I was willing to switch seats with their third party, and it was another aisle seat, so I said of course.  I ended up next to a crotchety grandma who didn’t seem to be so into sitting next to anyone, much less me.  But, BUT!!  As fate would have it, she was also separated from her party, and the person sitting next to her husband offered to switch with her, so old lady exited stage left, and I ended up next to Brian.  Brian’s story was much more simple than Diane’s:

“I just spent a week in Vegas, which I now know is 4 days too long to be on the strip, I’m hung over, I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow, I haven’t slept since I don’t remember, and I just want to be home.”

Fair enough.  I too just wanted to be in London already, and the airline was seemingly dragging on with this vague repair to the wing.  However, rather than having to listen to Brian drone on about how everything was ruined, he decided instead to laugh about it.  He was telling me stories of Vegas, talking about kooky Americans he met, and making fun of the plane situation.  Within 15 minutes, still taxiing at a snail’s pace down the runway, he and I were laughing so hard that the people around us were giving us judging looks.  At one point he was joking that we were waiting for the glue to dry on the wing, and the man in front of us asked an attendant what we were waiting for, to which the attendant replied “We’re making sure the epoxy we put on the wing is cleared for takeoff”.  Brian and I laughed until we cried.  “Holy Christ, I was JOKING!” He exclaimed under his breath to me, grabbing my arm.  I couldn’t speak, I was laughing so hard, because it was one of those moments you couldn’t make up if you tried.

Brian and I laughed through dinner, and passed out soon afterward.  At one point, I awoke groggily to find his head on my shoulder, and my head on his head.  At first I kind of had a freak out “you’re a stranger!” moment, then realized what the hell.  It wasn’t creepy.  He was a family man.  His hands weren’t on me.  Besides, it was comfortable, so I rested my head back on his and fell right into my slumber.  I didn’t stir again until he woke me to tell me it was morning and they were serving drinks and muffins.  He with his tea, and I with my coffee, began to chat more about my trip.  “Wow, you’ll have missed half of your day” he mused, considering the delay we’d experienced.  But then brightly followed that up with “No bother!  Look….” And proceeded to tell me about very central places to go to cover a lot of ground at once and make up for lost time.  “Take the tube to Picadilly Circus, and from there you can easily knock out the palace, the eye, the abbey, Tower (London) bridge, then run over to SoHo and Chinatown”.  He was certain I still had ever opportunity to make the most of my time in London.  He got more and more excited as he told me about his homeland, and that got me excited about the trip all over again.  Who cares if I was landing late?  I was going to be in England!

I was initially due to arrive in London just before 7:00 am, then with the sight delay, closer to 9:00 am.  I ended up getting here and through customs by about 12:30 pm.  Then, it turned out my hotel was about 2.5 hours by (multiple) train(s) from the airport.  AND there happened to be a fire and a burst pipe somewhere on one of the lines, so it ended up taking me FOUR hours to get to my hotel.  I arrived at 4:30, dirty, exhausted, and not wanting to do much of anything.  I found myself saying “but…but….I was supposed to be here 9 hours ago!!!”  And then I realized this:

Every moment I spend being a Diane, I am missing out on the opportunity of being Brian.  He was exhausted, hung over, late for work, had no way to call his wife to tell her not to pick him up at 7:00 am, and no way to call his job to say he’d be late, because he’d accidentally packed his phone in the checked luggage.  He was having a hard time, but beyond the initial “I just want to be home”, you would have never known it.  We laughed until our sides hurt on that plane.  He did not have anything Diane didn’t have.  He merely chose not to waste time feeling bad about the situation.

So, this was my first lesson in London.  As I waited for the 3^rd connecting train, and I began to think “I planned to see the palace today, and all I’ve seen so far is the inside of a bunch of train stations”, I slapped myself and said “I’ve seen a bunch of train stations IN LONDON.”  I got to see and talk to all kinds of new people. I got to eat yummy station snacks -awesome tomato and cheese baguette!  Best 2 pounds I’ve spent!  I’ve gotten to see a lot of the countryside, which is beautiful.  Also, I now REALLY know my way around the London underground –I get it.  So what is bad about that?  That it’s not what I scripted it to be?  Isn’t the unscripted stuff better anyway?  I could have never written Brian into the story of my life, but he enhanced it far more than any other character I could have imagined.  So I didn’t see the palace today.  It’s raining out anyway.  I’ll see it tomorrow, or the next day.  Regardless of how many minor setbacks I’ve experienced, this trip is awesome, but that perspective relies solely on me.  We all have to choose to see adventures rather than disasters.