Porto, Portugal and Port Wine

If you haven't heard by now, the Portuguese know their wine.  Producing it, aging it, consuming it and enjoying it.  So, you wouldn't be surprised if I told you that I can't recall too much about the weekend that the boy and I recently spent in Portugal, visiting his parents.

Except that I can...Because another thing that the Portuguese know how to do? Serve humongous portions of food.  Serve and eat humungous, colossal sized amounts of food, mitigating the effects of all the wine you're drinking to wash it all down.  And then, here's what happens: after all of this eating and drinking and "Oh, Lauren, you only ate one plate full; here are seconds, but save room for cheese and dessert," you're left in a coma the rest of the afternoon, in perfect synchronized time for the non-stop soccer matches that just happen to be playing on tv; and if you're me, this will further induce the catatonic state.

Thank God for the Kindle.

But in between eating and drinking and comas, we all managed to tour the beautiful waterfront city of Porto (Parents included).  And while I awkwardly tried to dodge parental discussions of marriage and my desire for him to move to California, we admired Porto's impressive architecture, lively squares, river-front restaurants and countless churches.  And here's what I thought:  It's nice, quaint and historic.  I envy their relaxing spirit, their incredible seafood restaurants, and their tolerance levels for alcohol.  I hope to visit again, because only in Portugal, is it okay to tour wine caves at 10 a.m. and indulge in every tasting.  As the Portuguese say with their wine glasses up, Ching Ching!

Why Antiperspirant is Important

A supposedly fun thing that I'll never do again?

Take a 11 hour flight sitting next to a ceaseless PDA couple.  I get it.  Really--You're young, you're non-conformist, you want me to know that lesbian is the new black.  No problem.  But on an extremely long flight with extremely little personal space, the least you could do is wash your dreadlocks and put on a little antiperspirant.

22 hours, two failed naps, and one double-espresso later, I finally made it to Lyon, via a seemingly endless Amsterdam layover.

Sunshine and Starbucks could only keep me grounded in California for so long.  I became nostalgic for the French. For the city life. For the language....and obviously, flan.  But even more so, for a certain someone.  A certain French someone.  Did I mention I've been dating a French man?  There, I said it. 

Let's back up.                               

Once upon a May 2010 ago, I met this French someone.  However, after ending a long distance relationship a few months earlier and being the quintessential commitment phobe that I can be, I was timid to start something new.  But along he came promising to never have dreadlocks and to always wear antiperspirant, and so I thought, why not just one date?!

And well, one date turned into two and three, which progressed and turned into a year.  The truth is simple: he's a man who makes me laugh, treats me well and as a result, I missed home, less.  He speaks four languages, eats the same two chocolate croissants for breakfast every morning, and has a penchant for ironing.  He loves scuba diving, soccer and me.  The language barrier is difficult at times, but he has a patient soul, a swoon-worthy 5 o'clock shadow and a kiss that makes my knees weak.  He didn't give up on me with my indecisiveness; Instead, he stuck around, planned weekends away and romantic dinners in French towns I had never seen.  He does, however, critique my inability to sing, but in return, I remind him that he can't pronounce his "H", because well, he's French.  "It's not an ug; it's a hug!" 

Somewhere between living far from my comfort zone, and his ability to make me feel so comfortable, I let the proverbial guard down and a love story transformed.  Except that for a girl that's absolutely not French, and a boy who is sometimes too French, that love story transformed into long distance.  That's what brought me back to France for two weeks. 

And you were thinking it was because I missed being an Au Pair. 

Eat, Pray, Love..and then some

“Do you think colored toilet paper will color your ass?”

Internet, meet Rachel. College educated (yes, I promise), 5ft (5’1 on her better days) and full of spunk and sass. She frequents good restaurants, is soon to be married (to a chef) and can be found spending her Sunday mornings in a sweaty, overcrowded dance class, strutting and pirouetting to every Britney and Lady Gaga infused jazz routine.

The thing is this: I’m not sure if Rachel actually chose to be my friend. From what I can gather, once upon a February ago in that sweaty, overcrowded dance class, our dance teacher expressed his worry about my health and asked her to take charge. She’s like that. She takes charge of situations; creates a strategy; and then invites you to her place to dine with her and her boyfriend over Curry vegetables and brown rice.

She’s frank; she’s authentic and what started out as an altruistic invitation, expanded into what is now a balanced and genuine friendship. I convinced her to give up her Saturday mornings for Company dance rehearsals and in return, she convinced me to give complex carbs a second chance. She stays true to her word, so I knew that when she promised to visit me in France, that I would be seeing her sometime between January 2010 and 2011. She finalized her LAX to Paris airline ticket and took off the end of July.

Dear Ms. Elizabeth Gilbert, I realize that your traveling was about eating, praying and loving. While that is all good and well, and I really loved your memoirs, our ten day adventure was slightly different. We ate baguettes and goat cheese on the go. We prayed that we wouldn’t contract Typhoid, Hepatitis, or worse, Stupidity, from the seemingly contaminated home of our Couch-Surfing host in Provence and lastly, we loved the fact that whenever a French local provided us with directions, the place we were looking for was always the opposite way of what they said. But just like you Ms. Gilbert, we learned, we were mindful, we repacked our backpacks more times than I can count and yes, above everything, we did love the journey.

There are two types of love. (Okay yes, being the commitment phobic, a-bit-too-cynical-when-it-comes-to-relationships type self that I am, I may not make the most qualified to speak on this particular subject, but what the hell, therapy over the years has taught me a thing or two). The first type of love is patient; it’s honest and it’s attentive. It takes its time, stresses the importance of communication and it’s a pattern of devotion. This is the type of love that good relationships and marriages are founded on. You risk everything you’ve got; you give it your all; open up your heart and cross your fingers that you’ll live happily ever after.

Paris isn’t like that. It’s the other type. It’s dirty, it’s blunt, and before you know it, you’ve been harassed, belittled and left with a drained bank account all while wanting more. Paris is sexy, it’s rushed, it’s lustful and it’s the only reason I believe in love at first sight. It never agreed to reciprocate feelings, but you keep coming back and you keep loving it anyway. Rachel, like me circa 2006, also fell hard for Paris.

We didn’t spend time appreciating the art in the Louvre. No, we didn’t wait in line to admire the views from atop of the Eiffel Tower and we didn’t marvel at the gardens of Versaille. However, we did France the Locals’ Way: We had our patisserie and café (avec juste un petit peu du lait, s’il vous plait!) every morning. We packed a lunch and spent the afternoon sitting on the dirty cement next to the Eiffel Tower discussing current and past relationships. And being the good Jew that Rachel is, we spent an obscene amount of time in Le Marais quarter (which is my favorite, favorite, favorite quarter of Paris. Did I mention it’s my favorite?) getting lost in conversation about life over a plate of hummus and pita bread with an overflowing glass of Bordeaux. We mastered the metros, argued with French Police and when it was all said and done, we packed our jazz shoes and spent the afternoon heat taking a dance class.

As the cliché goes, “Quit while you’re ahead.” So after four short days in Paris that could’ve easily been ten, we packed our bags into the trunk of our rented Peugot and impulsively set out for the South of France.

“Avignon. Ever been?” Rachel asked as we approached the turnoff sign.
“Nope,” I replied. “The only thing I know about Avignon is the French children’s song. Do you know it?” I asked, as I attempted to sing it.
“Sure don’t. But let’s stop anyway.”

Avignon, I’m convinced, is the Fairly Tale Funhouse of France. Think New York City Broadway, the performers of Hollywood Boulevard and France’s Belle of the Ball have a love affair together that produces a baby which is this city. A bit ostentatious, a bit jazzy with spectacles and people swarming at every step, and all banded by four kilometers of preserved stone walls. There’s nothing to do but sit down with your French baguette and goat cheese lunch and observe the madness.

The next few days were a winged, whimsical and whirlwind tour of the Provence region, from St. Remy and Les Baux de Provence to Aix, Fos sur Mer and Marseille. It was the most delectable blend of French countryside and French cliffs; fields of sunflowers, rows of fresh lavender, endless lines of olives trees and enough wine vineyards to inebriate all of France while they lay on the beaches of Marseille. If that’s not enough to woo you, every single backdrop involved a chateau and every single village housed a kickass chocolate shop. Welcome to Provence. When it was all over, when we felt like we needed a vacation and detox from our present vacation and sugar high, we set out for the final leg of the journey.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Let me start by admitting that there’s a whole lot of stuff about France that I don’t know—Enough to fill all of the Boulangeries of this country. I don’t know how to speak French fluently, how to use those simple-looking-but-not-so-simple-when you-try-to use-them French Presses and I still don’t understand how Steak Tartar (a fancy word for completely raw hamburger meat) is safe to eat. I don’t know how to correctly pronounce the word squirrel in French and for that matter, how to correctly pronounce most of the vocabulary. I don’t know how the Patisseries make their Flan Nature so much better than mine (although I have a feeling that it involves full fat milk and extra egg yolks) or why all French Administration find gratification in being miserable to the world. And in full disclosure, I barely even know where the keys are on this French keyboard, which reminds me that I really really don’t know why my Macbook continues to break only in this country.

But there is something that I do know: Thanks to our road trip through France, I have discovered the most beautiful, the most stunningly gorgeous, the most fill-in-your-adjective-of-choice place in France that I plan to use from here on out for every mindful and guided imagery exercise. It’s a local secret; a place not yet swarming with tourists. It’s a place that only a literary genius (which coincidently, I also don’t know) could detail accurately with words. However, thanks to a nifty portable invention, I can present you with these:

And well Ms. Gilbert, that’s my version of a three part vacation—Some love, some chaos, some pure beauty and relaxation. We did what you said and asked locals for the best pizza in town and I think we found it in Aix en Provence. We followed your lead and treated ourselves to gelato. We even did some Yoga on the lake of St. Croix. But Ms. Gilbert, I think I had an advantage because I got to experience all of that with one of my best friends and when I forget a detail, she’s there to remind me. We talked, we exchanged stories and we analyzed every aspect of our past while dreaming the future. We got lost—in conversation, in the streets of Paris, lost on the highways of Marseille but we never lost our patience.

With the vacation drawing to a close, it was time to say an Au Revoir to the most beautiful place in France. But, just when we thought we had seen it all, we woke up from a morning nap in our Peugot (looking sleep deprived, in desperate need of a shower and hair that hadn’t been washed in three days) to a note on the windshield that read:

Bonjour Sleeping Beauties—If you’d like a café or a drink later, call me.

We wiped our smeared mascara, looked around and were a bit flattered until we anxiously realized upon departure, wait, what kind of weirdo watches people while they sleep?! Add that to my list of things I don’t know about France. Time to go.

Croatia!

You know you’re in good hands when your pizza comes accompanied with a bottle of ketchup and hot sauce. Welcome. To. Croatia. A place that sits on the Eastern side of the Adriatic Sea, across from Italy. A place with more shoe stores per capita in the city of Split, than any other city in the world. A place of hedonism and history. A place where I decided, somewhat impulsively, that I had to see –Alone.

I’ve traveled on my own plenty, but as far as vacationing alone, I was a virgin. I had considered it an achievement when I once saw a movie by myself at Irvine Spectrum (And if I told you that it was a real movie (The Express), and not your standard chick-flick, you’d agree it was an achievement as well). The thing is, I like people just as much as the next extrovert. I enjoy company. Conversation. Sharing experiences with friends to laugh about later. And because I’ve never had problems persuading people to be in my company, it’s a fair assumption that people like me back. But here’s the thing about being around others: There needs to be balance; you know, some downtime.

After six months of living under someone else’s roof; after 26 weeks of being around kids and a family larger and louder than my own; after one-hundred and eighty-something days of someone always wanting to accompany me without any downtime, I found that solitude was banging at my door. So I answered.

The plan was this: Fly into the city of Split. Stay there three days. Island hop the rest and fly out of Dubrovnik. Days of Travel: 10

I land and I immediately loved Croatia. Aside from Ryan Reynolds, my diamond ring and those incredibly overpriced black stilettos I saw last week, Croatia is undoubtedly, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Roman ruins, medieval architecture and a buzzing atmosphere, all situated on the shore of some of the most stunning unspoiled beaches in Europe. The history of Croatia runs deep as this country has only encountered peace, free from war and violence, for the last fifteen or so years. There’s also something about the fact that my hostel is to be found within the Diocletian Palace, one of the most impressive Roman monuments that is concealed from the rest of the city, which makes this place even more alluring.

I’m escorted by a friendly native to my hostel and drop my luggage off. I then spend my first day of solitude exploring the fortress that is the Diocletian Palace, also known as the Old Town of Split. I walk up the alleys and down through the piazzas. I have no direction. I walk left. I turn right. I’m sure I’ve circled the same area several times. I don’t care. I have no one to tell me otherwise. I browse through the open-air market, stopping to admire the array of local products. I stop for a café. I take my time. I take pictures. I buy a cheap magenta-colored beach towel and I spend the rest of the afternoon perched on the rocky cove with my nose in a book as the sun dissolves my skin's paleness. I know, my life is rough.

I come to the primary conclusion that solitude can be quite therapeutic. Okay, yes, I do encounter what we’ll go ahead and call first-day jitters accompanied by anxiety about being on my own and alright, fine, it’s true that I even consider cutting the trip short, but I recognize quickly that I will absolutely be okay. I’ve survived half a year of the French; this should be a walk in the park (Or more accurately, the beach). And I have a hunch that being alone with my thoughts will be a good thing. It’s necessary. Suddenly, I’m calm and for the first time in a long time, I’m in the present moment. I’m content.

Ten days of exploring, ten days of reading, ten days of thinking, sunbathing, swimming, traveling, island hopping, reflecting, journaling and introspection, and here is what I have come to discover:

Discovery #1: As my friend Ife would say, “I can’t be bothered.” What I mean is this: Life is short. The planet is overheating. Gas prices keep increasing and employment rates are decreasing. Everyone is agitated, everything causes cancer, and soon, gravity will take its toll on us all beyond the aid of Botox. Until that day comes, I’m going to enjoy my youth. I’m going to celebrate wellbeing. I’m going to stop feeling so self-conscious, being bothered by insecurities, and so help me God, I’m going to benefit from those evenings I once spent at the gym, in a dance class or some fitness activity—I’m going to get nude at the Nude Beach on Brac Island and I’m going to stay there until cellulite and stretch marks find me in old age; Or maybe just for the afternoon. And so I did… and it was thrilling.

Discovery #2: Typically, I’m a planner. I am delighted by schedules, by lists, by [somewhat obsessively] crossing off the completed chores. I take joy in the sense of control that it offers. I misplaced this trait, I’m assuming, somewhere over the Adriatic Sea. I went into Croatia with an itinerary. Three days here, one day there, two nights in this place, and a day trip to that place. I didn’t follow the itinerary at all. I didn’t plan. I didn’t worry. There was more than one occasion, when I arrived in a new place, decided I liked it and found accommodations for the night. Normally, this would warrant me an Ativan and a panic attack, but something had changed. Somehow I knew that everything always works out….and it did.

Discovery #3: I love traveling. I believe it transforms, transcends and takes the soul to new heights of understanding. My love for travelling has been continuous and constant, and at times, I’ve been more loyal to travel than to my own romantic relationships. I listen to stories of people who have cycled through Europe; who have climbed to the top of mountain peaks; who have trekked trails that spread over multiple countries; people who do all of these amazing feats. I follow their stories with amazement; “Wow, I want to do that!” But let me distill an accuracy that I learned about myself: In actuality, I don’t want to do those things. I just wish I were the type of person who actually wanted to do those things. Maybe I lack a certain je-ne-sais-quoi or Spirit of Adventure, but I have no desire to set out on an arduous quest to prove myself. I am more exceedingly proud that I can now drink Italian espresso; or when I step off a plane in one piece after a two-hour flight next to colicky infant; Hell, I’m pleased when I’m able to retrieve my baggage directly after a flight from the baggage claim and not one month later. It may not compare, but I’m now okay with that.

I learned this the hard way when I arrived in Bol (with my luggage), on the South side of Brac Island; a place that is considered the jewel of the Adriatic. A place with secluded coves, stunning beaches, rich in vineyards and olive trees, but not congested with tourists. Drunk off it’s beauty and only that, I thought, “Sure, why not hike to the hilltop that overlooks the ocean and camp at the campground?! I could totally do that. I am woman; I am strong. Aren’t I?” So I tried it.

The Verdict: Camping was too quiet, too secluded and yes, too lonely. I felt isolated, agitated and afraid of the dark. The wind howled, I didn’t sleep and I was wide-awake when the sun rose at 5 a.m. I packed my bag and headed off the island, never wanting to camp again and learning that I don’t need to prove everything.

Discovery #4: Since arriving in Europe in January, I’ve been something else for someone else—mostly an Au Pair/nanny/volunteer/help/etc. I’m not complaining—I swear. I kinda-sorta knew what I was getting into. But after the last six months of asking others what they want (What do you want for breakfast? What do you want on your toast? What do you want to wear to school today? What movie do you want to watch and book do you want to read? Where do you want to take your timeout at?), I’ve decided it’s my turn. So without further ado, here is exactly what I want:

I want to live. Live with intention; live with grace. I want to continue to travel, to experience, to admire beauty and encounter new cultures. I want to achieve balance and practice patience. Let go of hurt, forgive others for the past and forgive myself. Bygones. I want to trust; people; myself; that I’ll be okay; that it will all work out in the end. I want to be fortuitous, act mindfully and keep my head in the present. I want to maintain my dreams; live with passion and to follow that passion. I want to love; love fully, without acerbity of the past so I can be open to relationships and possibilities. I want to communicate; with friends; with family; with lovers. I want to pause and reflect. Recognize and release. Take deep breaths. Take my time. Be confident but humbled. Stay headstrong. Be assertive with compassion. Be swept off my feet. Continue to care and continue to live with gratitude. Be a good friend, a loving daughter and devoted sister. I want to make myself happy, too. I want to enjoy life, enjoy people and if there’s still time left over, brake for a piece of dark chocolate, a good Merlot and a good laugh.

Discovery #5: Yogurt Gelato conquers all.

Croatia was my vacation and all mine. It was a few days in Split, one night at a friendly hostel in Brac, one night camping in Bol, a few days on Korcula Island meeting travelers from all over, and one night in the beautiful but overly-touristy-overly-expensive-as-we-try-to-charge-five-euros-for-an-Espresso-Dubrovnik. I can say now that my satiety for solitude has been met. I’m ready to head back to France for a French vacation with my friend Rachel and try to find a gelato that compares.

Island of Korcula

Bol, on the Island of Brac

Split

The Au Pair Winter Holiday, Week 1

In France, the middle of February is well known. An abundance of roses start to surface in florist shops, carefully crafted chocolate assortments are sold, suddenly you’ll see posters with red hearts and the word “love” plastered everywhere, restaurants in town formulate price-fixed couple’s menus, and the French being known for their amour, well, they leave town. While the French may be serious about being lovers, they are more serious about skiing during their winter holiday; and during the two weeks they have off beginning the same time as lent, skiing is exactly what they do.

There are two types of French people: Ones who take their vacation to the French Alps during the first week of vacation, and ones who take their vacation during the second week. My host-family went first. I decided to go the second week, except not to the mountains. With the fresh snow brought on by the storm before they left, I figured that our neighborhood would suffice as a perfectly adequate bunny-hill, if my desire for skiing suddenly emerged (It didn’t). So, I politely declined their invitation to join them in the Alps, and instead, agreed to watch over the house while trying to appear regretful about missing them, especially Cecile.

When the children are away, the au pair will play (And as I write this from my Corsican apartment, overlooking the Mediterranean in Adjaccio, I‘d say that I did it pretty well). However, the week they were gone, I took advantage of the calm atmosphere without kids or routine and set out to explore Lyon. That same week, my ____(insert definition for someone you’ve been dating for the last nine months but haven’t committed to the proverbial relationship title)___, Trevor arrived in Lyon. The plan was to relax a few days and discover the city’s charm before departing for vacation the second week, to somewhere that involved above-zero-temperatures… And that is exactly what we did.

Being that Lyon is the second largest metropolitan area in France (after Paris, of course), we were expecting a required week to see all of the sights. A good 3 days later, we had conquered the highlights of the city, and even some that weren’t mentioned in guidebooks.

The week that included:

Seeing all of the major sites, from Place de Bellecour, to Notre Dame de Fourviere...


There were date nights in the city that included seeing the new Valentine's Day movie in Voice Original...

And admiring the city's lights...

There was walking... lots and lots of walking...

And climbing up the hill to Fourviere, because the tram wasn't in service and well, what else did we have to do?!

Sneaking into museums... and then sneaking pictures inside of the museums

People watching and culture comparing...

And of course, snow... which actually formed some beautiful backdrops for photos.

There were good times, good laughs, and good company, that were followed by far-from-perfect situations and arguments as pungent as French cheese. But we conquered and by the end of the week, boarded a plane to Corsica (more on that trip, later). Trevor was able to see for himself, the setting of my new life and I was able to see that Lyon is actually, well, somewhat pleasant. It’s a far stretch from Parisian life and definitely not what I expected of a “metropolitan” city, but in respect, it has its ostentatious charm.

Gratitude:

• I'm sitting on an island that overlooks the Mediterranean
• The sun is out
• Everything ran smoothly the week that the host-family was away
• Traveling during the off-season
• My family... I miss them a lot.

2 Days in Paris

Such a great movie. Check out the trailer here. It's follows the relationship of a Jack, a classic neurotic with his hypochondriac traits, and his girlfriend, Marion, the sexually liberal Parisian, as they spend two days in her hometown, Paris.



I'm on my way back from a journey—two days in Paris with my dad. I'm exhausted as I sit on yet another late-night. delayed train back to Lyon. Hopefully we'll depart before midnight, putting me into Lyon two hours later, but four hours past my anticipated arrival time.

Whatever because I LOVE Paris. The city of lights and cliches. Croissants, fromage, and espresso. Patisseries, boulangeries, and brasseries. Boots and scarves and classy fashion. It's also the city where lovers walk hand-in-hand through the city, partly in fear of falling off the overly narrow and busy sidewalks. There's as much art and culture as transportation strikes, and as much entertainment as there are metro lines. It's the European Manhattan.

We arrived into the city on Saturday at 3 a.m., due to snow storms in Lyon that delayed all trains, including ours that was set to depart Friday at 8 p.m.. Have I mentioned how much I hate the snow, yet? Four hours in a subzero station, three bags of luggage, two hours on a train, one hour in a taxi, two double-espressos, and more clothing layers than I can count. Finally, we made it to Paris, but more importantly, our hotel with a hot shower and the most comfortable bed I've encountered in 2010. To make things easy and because familiarity is calming, we stayed in the same hotel that I stayed at two years prior, and it was just as amazing as before.
Saturday morning, the sequel, started around 11 a.m., a billion times better off than the day before, and thrilled to be in Paris. Scarves, gloves, ski socks, hand warmers and any other clothing item that is synonymous with heat, we put on and set out what we came here to do.

It was 2 days that included: walking around the city...

The Louvre Museum...

...with weather that turned the fountain pond into...

...an ice skating rink.. Until I was yelled at, by Dad...

There were statues...

...and famous pieces...

...and people watching...

...Oh my!

There was a walking tour to Notre Dame...

...but we didn't climb the 386 stairs to see the Bell Tower and view from the top, like I did in 2007 with my mom!

There were lunches in local cafes...

...and dinners in the Quartier Latin

There was a lot of walking, a lot of pictures, a lot of site-seeing, a lot of culture-comparing, a lot of talking, and a lot of laughs.

...and maybe even a Starbucks (x2).

I am also heading back to Lyon with an extra bag, thanks to Dad, who took me boot shopping! For the first time in 8 days, my feet are dry and can move! Snow storms? Bring.It.On!! All in all, it was an amazing 2 days. I love exploring Paris with different people to see their take and desired "must-see-places" which always presents a different experience than the last. I am infatuated with the city and would live out the rest of my Au Pair Project there, if I could, but alas, it's back to the suburbs, back to the kids, back to Lyon.

Thank you, to my dad, for a wonderful mini-vacation to Paris!!

Daily Gratitudes:

• New boots and a new scarf, all which are so warm! Best part: I didn't break my New Year's resolution!
• After this evening, I feel confident that my dad will be able to navigate around Paris for the next week while I'm back in snow-ville.
• I was able to Skype with my mom before heading to the train station. Being in Paris brought back good memories of being here with her a couple years ago.
• I start "school" this week.
• Ipods and mini candy-canes.