As my mother never fails to point out over dinner, I have always been obsessed with food. The vast majority of my childhood memories are oriented around what food we ate where, from the salsa in the sublevel bar in Boston in 1993's dead of winter to fried bread in London in 2004, I always associate my experiences from place to place with the food I discover there.
When my darling friend Katie asked me where I should send her in Paris, I couldn't think of anywhere except the tiny, tres cher Mexican restaurant that Abby and I drunkenly rediscovered on one of our ridiculous nights out. Then, as an afterthought: Centre Pompidou (where we went the first day it got cold for tea and a croque monsieur)! Since the age of 15, the idea of drinks I've had has entered the equation, beginning with Pabst Blue Ribbon (party house on Dock St, Wilmington NC, 2004) all the way up to Delerium Tremens (Cafe des Artistes, 5eme arrondissement, Paris, 2009).
It's funny and also appropriate then that I know have self-imposed these dietary restrictions due to connectivity with my health, both physical and mental as well as, by extension, metaphysical and spiritual. Similarly to my education in AFAM studies, I actively engaged in research on a subject and found its extreme effects upon so many realms outside of what one would ever conceive of as being affiliated. But then, once you associate them, it's like, "duh."
Of course it's weird to drink milk from a cow or goat when it's only meant to transmit nutrients and high caloric fats to their spawn, i.e. NOT humans. We make a big deal out of drinking breast milk (challenges on Fear Factor; jokes on sitcoms, etc.) yet we load up on other animals' breast milk daily. In our coffee: cream. In our eggs and toast: cheese, butter. Grilled cheese for lunch, potatoes au gratin for dinner in front of the TV where we learn about cancers and diseases, all blamed upon genetics (because flashing, spinning images of DNA are just THAT compelling to the TV audience). But looking back, there wasn't a single green living thing in your entire day's worth of food. What nutrients did you intake, you know, for your health?
So we have people in poverty who are sick and can't afford to get better because they don't have health insurance. But they also don't have grocery stores in poor neighborhoods that sell fresh produce, whole grains, juice without added sugars. What's a lentil? you ask. I ask, what the fuck is the deal with this?
So I wonder what to do about it, other than (selfishly and from a position of relative privilege) eat a plant-based, leaning raw diet for my own well-being. That doesn't put an organic grocery stand in the inner city, though it just may get rid of my migraines and sinus issues as well as my penchant for depression or whatever other psychospeak I have put myself through. So, can't this work for more people? Of course, you might have to be as obsessed with food as me to really throw yourself into it, sacrificing night after night out in exchange for organic bread, organic clementines, leeks, kale, jicama, pomegranate, avocados, melons, apples, bananas... but is it really more expensive? Isn't your time and your well-being worth more than the $2 and 10 minutes you "saved" getting Wendy's? It depends upon how you prioritize.
For me, food is my priority. Plants and loaves of bread. I guess there's no getting away from it. I am a total foodie, but with a purpose. And it's not to liberate the local swine, but rather to save myself all the trouble of being sick as eff from my diet like so many people are. And right now, it's purely selfish (not only is it better for me, it's also undeniably cooler ;)) but I'd like it not to be forever. It's a positive activism, working for something instead of always pushing against, always pushing to no avail. Instead, it can build a community. I'm going to check out Food Not Bombs this weekend and will see.
Eating a clementine, drinking green tea. Cold as hayle. Bisous.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
I don't like coffee but I work at a coffeeshop
The irony of being a contemporary worker is infinite. Food service is what I am best at, employment-wise, but alas the discombobulated industry revolves ever around the profit margin, the "green"ing of restaurants refers to the invisible filling of bank accounts. Money is literally a made-up concept, yet we have set ourselves up with it as the central theme of everything: the goal of living, the meaning of life, something we work every day to have and yet are not happy with. We must wear hideous hats, aprons, uniforms (the ideal worker is nothing if not uniform), and to distract ourselves we take this invisible idea made of little sheets of green paper and exchange them for better things, substances, also green or liquid or paperback. Exchanging paper for paper? you might ask. It baffles me too.
But I know that in my moments of down-and-out overworked and underpaid anomie, when friends don't return calls and a day off seems to be more of a day lost to sleeping and not running errands, the solution is for me to go grocery shopping. This is a hobby, a joy of mine, and happily also a necessity of my modern life. I am drowning in my own ocean of the modern condition for the working class: awaken, eat, work, shit, work, eat, work, rest, work, eat, shit, sleep. Sometimes we read, mostly we watch. But in the emptiness around me when i miss and i miss, if i surround myself with raspberry-lime seltzer water, raw flax crackers and homemade pesto while drinking wine and smoking a pall mall or two inside, I may one day again be whole and not just on payday.
In other distractionary news, I am going to see Joanna Newsom at the Orange Peel on Friday. I cannot wait.
But I know that in my moments of down-and-out overworked and underpaid anomie, when friends don't return calls and a day off seems to be more of a day lost to sleeping and not running errands, the solution is for me to go grocery shopping. This is a hobby, a joy of mine, and happily also a necessity of my modern life. I am drowning in my own ocean of the modern condition for the working class: awaken, eat, work, shit, work, eat, work, rest, work, eat, shit, sleep. Sometimes we read, mostly we watch. But in the emptiness around me when i miss and i miss, if i surround myself with raspberry-lime seltzer water, raw flax crackers and homemade pesto while drinking wine and smoking a pall mall or two inside, I may one day again be whole and not just on payday.
In other distractionary news, I am going to see Joanna Newsom at the Orange Peel on Friday. I cannot wait.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Runaway
Have been reading the BOLG, a name which makes no sense but makes me laugh.
Spent my weekend getting schwasted with the Moores and Luke, my ostensible brother-in-law. Friday evening after getting seriously bored scrubbing the fruit freezer at work, I spent a few crucial hours painting my toenails and shaving my armpits. Biked downtown and met some fellow GS girlz for a beer and a snort or three of my Jim Beam (swaddled appropriately in a bandanna) and some bluegrass at the last Downtown After Five music fest. I don't know how many people have gotten to this point in their relationship with various cheaper whiskeys, but they basically taste like apple juice that burns all through your chest.
So the inevitable drinking of whiskey like it's apple juice began and I, with some help from the bravest of the bunch, finished my pint in a matter of a couple of hours just in time for dinner at Bouchon with the Moores. Actually we ended up having to wait for about 2 hours for our table, which only gave us time to get drunker and towards the end of our wait I could be found sitting in a storefront singing Patsy Cline. Loudly. We also went to a couple of head shops so that Luke could browse for a tobacco pipe and I could buy some hemp papers. Upon leaving the Octopus's Garden on Lexington, Connor in a moment of pure hilarity said that he didn't have any idea that there were entire shops dedicated to smoking weed.
Dinner was, to be expected, a miniature shit show considering our levels of drunkenness. Ashley actually doesn't remember dinner at all, though her lamb was to die for. She convinced me how much fun we would have if I came back to Waynesville with them so I drunkenly biked home and was scooped up by Luke, the only one sober enough to be driving other than Connor. Ashley was asleep in the backseat. I can't say I was surprised.
Spent Saturday cooking lunch, doing laundry and preparing a huge salad that I knew would remain untouched through a dinner of smoked ribs and chicken. Both were truly delicious, but my beets and jicama were too. Don't talk to me about trying to lose weight with a plate full of meat and potatoes. Jus' sayin'.
On that note, I have been eating 80-90% raw for the past week or so. Trying to get rid of my persistent headaches and bad skin, not to mention the quarts of toxins built up in my body from eating processed foods, fast food and unabashed chemicals. For the unfamiliar: a raw diet is a vegan diet of nuts, seeds, vegetables, fruits, grains (prepared by soaking and/or sprouting them), etc. Nothing is heated above 116-118 degree Fahrenheit since heat kills essential probiotics and enzymes extremely beneficial to biological existence and well-being. Maintaining a raw diet is very very difficult since it is pretty much impossible to eat anything not prepared in your kitchen. Almost everything is cooked except for raw fruits and veggies and hummus. Even veggie sushi has white rice, but depending upon your flexibility is still pretty feasible as a meal to eat out. My meals basically consist of salads, usually organic baby greens or romaine, with tomatoes, beets, carrots, cucumber, almonds, dried fruits (raisins or apricots), avocados and hummus. Add some Annie's organic dressing or some homemade garlic vinaigrette, maybe some sprouts and lentils, some minced garlic. Put on a huge plate and eat. Follow with an organic apple of kiwi or pear and some raw honey. It's delicious and I feel really healthy during and after. No more food coma! I'm also trying to do more yoga, bike, walk, stretch, drink water. A true raw foodist wouldn't drink beer, although some wine is raw (consult your local wine and raw food merchant, ask for organic wine without sulfites), but to eat raw in Asheville doesn't mean it's ok to drink raw when you're surrounded by organic beer breweries and blends.
All in all I'm feeling pretty good. I should probably do a lot more but one step at a time seems to be the best strategy for me doing anything. No one will probably read this anymore anyway. It's fun for me, I like to try new things like foods, which is why I maintain my freegan-ness into this adventure. ;)
Cheers.
Spent my weekend getting schwasted with the Moores and Luke, my ostensible brother-in-law. Friday evening after getting seriously bored scrubbing the fruit freezer at work, I spent a few crucial hours painting my toenails and shaving my armpits. Biked downtown and met some fellow GS girlz for a beer and a snort or three of my Jim Beam (swaddled appropriately in a bandanna) and some bluegrass at the last Downtown After Five music fest. I don't know how many people have gotten to this point in their relationship with various cheaper whiskeys, but they basically taste like apple juice that burns all through your chest.
So the inevitable drinking of whiskey like it's apple juice began and I, with some help from the bravest of the bunch, finished my pint in a matter of a couple of hours just in time for dinner at Bouchon with the Moores. Actually we ended up having to wait for about 2 hours for our table, which only gave us time to get drunker and towards the end of our wait I could be found sitting in a storefront singing Patsy Cline. Loudly. We also went to a couple of head shops so that Luke could browse for a tobacco pipe and I could buy some hemp papers. Upon leaving the Octopus's Garden on Lexington, Connor in a moment of pure hilarity said that he didn't have any idea that there were entire shops dedicated to smoking weed.
Dinner was, to be expected, a miniature shit show considering our levels of drunkenness. Ashley actually doesn't remember dinner at all, though her lamb was to die for. She convinced me how much fun we would have if I came back to Waynesville with them so I drunkenly biked home and was scooped up by Luke, the only one sober enough to be driving other than Connor. Ashley was asleep in the backseat. I can't say I was surprised.
Spent Saturday cooking lunch, doing laundry and preparing a huge salad that I knew would remain untouched through a dinner of smoked ribs and chicken. Both were truly delicious, but my beets and jicama were too. Don't talk to me about trying to lose weight with a plate full of meat and potatoes. Jus' sayin'.
On that note, I have been eating 80-90% raw for the past week or so. Trying to get rid of my persistent headaches and bad skin, not to mention the quarts of toxins built up in my body from eating processed foods, fast food and unabashed chemicals. For the unfamiliar: a raw diet is a vegan diet of nuts, seeds, vegetables, fruits, grains (prepared by soaking and/or sprouting them), etc. Nothing is heated above 116-118 degree Fahrenheit since heat kills essential probiotics and enzymes extremely beneficial to biological existence and well-being. Maintaining a raw diet is very very difficult since it is pretty much impossible to eat anything not prepared in your kitchen. Almost everything is cooked except for raw fruits and veggies and hummus. Even veggie sushi has white rice, but depending upon your flexibility is still pretty feasible as a meal to eat out. My meals basically consist of salads, usually organic baby greens or romaine, with tomatoes, beets, carrots, cucumber, almonds, dried fruits (raisins or apricots), avocados and hummus. Add some Annie's organic dressing or some homemade garlic vinaigrette, maybe some sprouts and lentils, some minced garlic. Put on a huge plate and eat. Follow with an organic apple of kiwi or pear and some raw honey. It's delicious and I feel really healthy during and after. No more food coma! I'm also trying to do more yoga, bike, walk, stretch, drink water. A true raw foodist wouldn't drink beer, although some wine is raw (consult your local wine and raw food merchant, ask for organic wine without sulfites), but to eat raw in Asheville doesn't mean it's ok to drink raw when you're surrounded by organic beer breweries and blends.
All in all I'm feeling pretty good. I should probably do a lot more but one step at a time seems to be the best strategy for me doing anything. No one will probably read this anymore anyway. It's fun for me, I like to try new things like foods, which is why I maintain my freegan-ness into this adventure. ;)
Cheers.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Beers on Deck
Art and I took a trip to Brusin' Ales yesterday, hailed one of the world's best beer stores. Initially upon our arrival the power was out which voided our trip. Bummer. However, as we turned to leave, crestfallen, the power miraculously came back on! The beers gods have smiled upon us.
Here's what we got:
Smuttynose BIG BEER Series' Farmhouse Ale (said to be styled after European farmers' beers in the olden days - drank it after a bit of whiskey last night and honestly can't recall)
Moosbacher Schwarze Weisse Dark Wheat Beer (smooth, almost like the silkiest pair of slippers, nutty even at a less-than-chilled temperature)
Julius Echter Hefe-Weiss-Dunkel Bavarian Ale (oh! its been opened and sat overnight. Won't be trying this one)
Olde Hickory's Table Rock Pale Ale (unopened as of yet)
aaaannd a growler of Craggie's Battery Hill (unopened)
Art felt obligated to buy some Craggie. Its popularity is sort of half-hearted, with good ideas for brews but too much bitterness, mislabeling of flavors, false promises, etc. The distribution work has been excellent though. That shit is available everywhere.
Anyway Bruisin' Ales is awesome. I appreciate their hyperactive Twitter account for they will respond to any question @ them within the hour. Too bad they're out of Bitches Brew forever.
Cheers
Here's what we got:
Smuttynose BIG BEER Series' Farmhouse Ale (said to be styled after European farmers' beers in the olden days - drank it after a bit of whiskey last night and honestly can't recall)
Moosbacher Schwarze Weisse Dark Wheat Beer (smooth, almost like the silkiest pair of slippers, nutty even at a less-than-chilled temperature)
Julius Echter Hefe-Weiss-Dunkel Bavarian Ale (oh! its been opened and sat overnight. Won't be trying this one)
Olde Hickory's Table Rock Pale Ale (unopened as of yet)
aaaannd a growler of Craggie's Battery Hill (unopened)
Art felt obligated to buy some Craggie. Its popularity is sort of half-hearted, with good ideas for brews but too much bitterness, mislabeling of flavors, false promises, etc. The distribution work has been excellent though. That shit is available everywhere.
Anyway Bruisin' Ales is awesome. I appreciate their hyperactive Twitter account for they will respond to any question @ them within the hour. Too bad they're out of Bitches Brew forever.
Cheers
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Cheese & Rice
Sorry to have been m.i.a. dear reader(s?!), but I have been making some long-awaited life adjustments, switching rooms, cleaning up the layer of grime left by couch guests and committed relationships. I and my pseudo husband are no longer together in the romantic sense, though we still share a domicile, though not a bedroom, a long-awaited moment. Now I may once again make proper use of furniture, floor space, wall space, putting things in their proper places, etc. Further, both he and our other housemate Sam have been very busy with work and/or school in the past few weeks, meaning that my days off are oft spent alone at the house cooking and watching Netflix. Or not writing, trying to finagle my reinstitution as a university student at UNC Asheville. My initial essay was deleted when Art closed my open tabs in Firefox, despite my requests to not close my open tabs as they may well be incomplete essays or some other important document. Oh well, ground rules are being laid.
Overall everything is much clearer and less, um, fucking awful, now that I am back to my comfortable state of single FOR GOOD THIS TIME. No more of this back and forth shit. And since I am now out of Chapel Hill, there is no cause for relapse as a result of environmental pressures and general dystopia. No offense Chapel Hill, I just fucking hate you is all. Even you, little Carrboro. Some of your inhabitants are quite wonderful, and I am happy for them that they can coexist happily with your flat, hot, useless and yet pretentious little aura, but they can and cheers. Their college degree will look better than mine. Or will it? 35,000 students, half of undergrad courses taught by 22-year-olds (a group proven to have no brains), arbitrary distinctions between clever and workable into a corporation etc. vs. 3,500 students, liberal arts atmosphere (shame on you Chapel Hill for even using those words to describe anything on your campus), virtually no athletics or “school spirit” whatsoever (FUCK YES still my biggest draw to UNCA), tiny discussion-based classes. I choose the latter, obviously.
In the meantime I have been working downtown and all the while trying to find ways to make my ends meet on craigslist. I have done a bit of modeling and while the $25+/hr is nice, the gigs are few and far-ish between. I may have a more consistent gig set up starting this week, depending upon how the initial work goes. I have also volunteered at a couple of downtown music events, and while they don’t exactly pay, volunteers get between 3-5 free drinks plus shift drinks plus no one really notices if you sneak an extra beer. On Sunday at the LAAFF (Lexington Avenue Arts & Fun Festival), I sold beer from 6-8:30 and made $50 in tips, plus 4 free high gravity organic beers (Pisgah Belgian Tripel Solstice, 12% ABV). Everyone working with me kept asking me questions and when I explained that I actually didn’t know what was going on any more than they did they apologized saying that I just seemed so together in the face of the huge crowds. I wanted to just tell them to work at a restaurant for 3 months and they would be the same way. Maybe they wouldn’t, some people just don’t have the demeanor for customer service. All in all, it’s a good deal for something I do not find to be stressful and I get an invitation to a sweet party put on by the Asheville Downtown Association in November at this fancy bar downtown. Free drinks, free cocktails, meeting funny people. It’s not bad at all.
Trying to find a real second job is difficult though. I have a third interview tomorrow afternoon at this Italian café with two different restaurants in Asheville, both at unbikeable distances from my house. Oh well. There really seems to not be a choice and as long as I can hold out until May I can get a real life bartending job somewhere. The menu seems good though, the prices are high and the wine list is extensive. I could definitely work with that situation. I just really need a second job. 25 hours a week is not cutting it, not when I’m out of school. I’m getting bored playing house with myself.
However, much of my free time is being spent with new and old friends alike, including a lot of the chill people that went to Hanover as well as my co-workers at the Green Sage, all of whom are super fun, laid-back and down for whatever, an underrated quality. We have gone out a couple of times and my friend Heather slept over on my couch on Friday night. We made popcorn and watched the Boondock Saints, which is really a dumb movie but the cheesy rice I made halfway through totally made up for it. Last night after the LAAFF my friend Ellie and I loitered in front of bars with her dog Yula, ran into people we work with and drank vodka and liqueurs in a gallery on the corner. We talked about watching the X-Files on her projector (ah, projectors!) but were both to exhausted by the shitshow that was downtown all day to do anything but go to our respective beds and pass out.
My plans for the rest of the evening are similar to last night: have a beer (Starr Hill Lucy), read some of The Grapes of Wrath since I finished Despair last week (awesome!), watch the X-Files until I fall asleep, get up at 7 to bike to work. All in all, not a bad Labor Day, and a few steps up from the super pathetic feeling of loneliness that was ironically shed the second I uncoupled myself. Now I can be myself yet again.
Overall everything is much clearer and less, um, fucking awful, now that I am back to my comfortable state of single FOR GOOD THIS TIME. No more of this back and forth shit. And since I am now out of Chapel Hill, there is no cause for relapse as a result of environmental pressures and general dystopia. No offense Chapel Hill, I just fucking hate you is all. Even you, little Carrboro. Some of your inhabitants are quite wonderful, and I am happy for them that they can coexist happily with your flat, hot, useless and yet pretentious little aura, but they can and cheers. Their college degree will look better than mine. Or will it? 35,000 students, half of undergrad courses taught by 22-year-olds (a group proven to have no brains), arbitrary distinctions between clever and workable into a corporation etc. vs. 3,500 students, liberal arts atmosphere (shame on you Chapel Hill for even using those words to describe anything on your campus), virtually no athletics or “school spirit” whatsoever (FUCK YES still my biggest draw to UNCA), tiny discussion-based classes. I choose the latter, obviously.
In the meantime I have been working downtown and all the while trying to find ways to make my ends meet on craigslist. I have done a bit of modeling and while the $25+/hr is nice, the gigs are few and far-ish between. I may have a more consistent gig set up starting this week, depending upon how the initial work goes. I have also volunteered at a couple of downtown music events, and while they don’t exactly pay, volunteers get between 3-5 free drinks plus shift drinks plus no one really notices if you sneak an extra beer. On Sunday at the LAAFF (Lexington Avenue Arts & Fun Festival), I sold beer from 6-8:30 and made $50 in tips, plus 4 free high gravity organic beers (Pisgah Belgian Tripel Solstice, 12% ABV). Everyone working with me kept asking me questions and when I explained that I actually didn’t know what was going on any more than they did they apologized saying that I just seemed so together in the face of the huge crowds. I wanted to just tell them to work at a restaurant for 3 months and they would be the same way. Maybe they wouldn’t, some people just don’t have the demeanor for customer service. All in all, it’s a good deal for something I do not find to be stressful and I get an invitation to a sweet party put on by the Asheville Downtown Association in November at this fancy bar downtown. Free drinks, free cocktails, meeting funny people. It’s not bad at all.
Trying to find a real second job is difficult though. I have a third interview tomorrow afternoon at this Italian café with two different restaurants in Asheville, both at unbikeable distances from my house. Oh well. There really seems to not be a choice and as long as I can hold out until May I can get a real life bartending job somewhere. The menu seems good though, the prices are high and the wine list is extensive. I could definitely work with that situation. I just really need a second job. 25 hours a week is not cutting it, not when I’m out of school. I’m getting bored playing house with myself.
However, much of my free time is being spent with new and old friends alike, including a lot of the chill people that went to Hanover as well as my co-workers at the Green Sage, all of whom are super fun, laid-back and down for whatever, an underrated quality. We have gone out a couple of times and my friend Heather slept over on my couch on Friday night. We made popcorn and watched the Boondock Saints, which is really a dumb movie but the cheesy rice I made halfway through totally made up for it. Last night after the LAAFF my friend Ellie and I loitered in front of bars with her dog Yula, ran into people we work with and drank vodka and liqueurs in a gallery on the corner. We talked about watching the X-Files on her projector (ah, projectors!) but were both to exhausted by the shitshow that was downtown all day to do anything but go to our respective beds and pass out.
My plans for the rest of the evening are similar to last night: have a beer (Starr Hill Lucy), read some of The Grapes of Wrath since I finished Despair last week (awesome!), watch the X-Files until I fall asleep, get up at 7 to bike to work. All in all, not a bad Labor Day, and a few steps up from the super pathetic feeling of loneliness that was ironically shed the second I uncoupled myself. Now I can be myself yet again.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
AUGUST?!?!?
Next up I will relay my 21st (! yes you read it right!) birthday vacation to Boston, complete with new-shoe blisters, legally acquired bloody marys, and, perhaps the ironic highlight of TWILIGHT: ECLIPSE (read: EPIC). Still to come... perhaps tomorrow since I don't have to be up at 6:45!
FOR NOW: As if you needed a reason to come to Asheville other than dank beer, food, greens, and company, how about adding the best festival lineup this side of the Atlantic to the temptation: www.moogfest.com. The lineup has yet to be announced and we ALREADY know that Caribou, Big Boi of Outkast, and Jonsi of Sigur Ros will be HERE in Asheville NC the weekend of Halloween. Hell. Yes. Get your butts up here for the greatest 3 days ever.
I have cramps and a need to watch the X-Files. Scully is lookin' extra fly these days.
FOR NOW: As if you needed a reason to come to Asheville other than dank beer, food, greens, and company, how about adding the best festival lineup this side of the Atlantic to the temptation: www.moogfest.com. The lineup has yet to be announced and we ALREADY know that Caribou, Big Boi of Outkast, and Jonsi of Sigur Ros will be HERE in Asheville NC the weekend of Halloween. Hell. Yes. Get your butts up here for the greatest 3 days ever.
I have cramps and a need to watch the X-Files. Scully is lookin' extra fly these days.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Marbles & Bouillabaisse
Above I wanted to include a photograph of a pan that my new housemate Rachael has left sitting full of congealing bacon fat since before I moved in, two weeks ago on Sunday. My new house is extremely old and crooked, just like the "historic houses" I always dreamed of renting in downtown Wilmington. Like if you were to set a marble on the floor it would roll to the corner nearest to the bathroom, bounce off the baseboards a couple of times and then rattle to a stop. I have tried this. It happens. Success #1.
Success #2 will come when I can successfully passive-aggressively get Rachael to clean her god damn bacon pan. It wouldn't be so disgusting if she hadn't cooked in it at least three times without washing it once. In my initial dish washing, I ran a sponge over the undulating fat to no avail and was therefore forced to make a decision I have faced many times before: let the filth sit and irk me until it gets cleaned (i.e. never) or clean it myself. Strangely, I chose the former, I guess because I refuse to act as house bitch ever again. Over the two weeks since my arrival, the pan has moved to cooked eggrolls and bacon two more times (Rachael feels that her choice to cook and eat an entire package of bacon for breakfast two days in a row is legitimate I guess), but has never once shown signs of scrubbing. Therefore, in my fifth round of doing all the dishes this afternoon, I chose to remove the pan from the sink, still coated in lard and general filth, and have set it delicately upon the arm of the horrifying pleather couch in the living room, still considering what my passive aggressive note will read.
Option #1: Dear Rachael, you and your cat are fucking fat and gross and this is why. Clean up after your god damn self. Love, Jesse
Option #2: I am not going to clean this. Please get it out of the way. If it is not clean in 48 hours, I will throw it away. Please do not use the kitchen again until you learn to clean up after yourself. I am not your grandmother/mother/maid/bitch. Thx.
Option #3: Maybe if you got up before 5pm you would have time to do something other than cocaine.
I think that Option #2 is the most tactful. You might be wondering why I won't just ask her nicely to clean her pan. Well, because I'm afraid of her. Art thinks that she killed Alex (his adorable barn kitten, formerly known as Frosty, now MIA). She's probably 40 pounds heavier than me (a feat for her 5'4"ish frame) and covered in weird tattoos and on her car, scrawled in what looks like White Out, "Sissy girls suck." While I may agree with this sentiment, I would never in a million years paint the mantra onto my car. This requires a certain degree of psychosis. These, coupled with her three legged cat Lucifer who hops around on his front stump of a leg, ensure my silence. On top of that, she's dumb, i.e. wants us to close the windows during the day to "keep the cool air inside." Now, even for those of us not well-versed in physics this seems a little counter intuitive considering that this house leaks air (old, remember?) and the temperature is never actually that hot (this coming from a former resident of the Piedmont, the true hell of North Carolina).
On the bright side, Rachael has BOUGHT a house on S. French Broad which she will be moving into at the end of the month (good luck living in total squalor, honey) and my other housemates, Sam, Art, and the temporary addition of Sam's brother Tom, are low maintenance. The three will plat Left 4 Dead on XBox Live until 4am. I am in bed by 1 most nights, exhausted from gallivanting around downtown looking for work. However, I seem to have found myself some employment at The Green Sage Coffeehouse & Cafe - just part-time for now but the FOH manager was SO nice and the GM made me laugh my ass off. Sounds like a good place for me. Apparently one gets scheduled in accordance with the quality of one's work, so I'm pretty much down. Furthermore, I discovered very soon after my interview that my old ILM friend Rachel works there as well. Shazam! Success #3.
Success #4 will occur when I actually get some hours. Waiting on my god damn security deposit refund from Sunset, but other than that and some generous contributions from my mother I am close to broke. Therefore, I am baking my own bread, will soon be making my own hummus once I wrangle up my food processor from Chapel Thrill. These basics, along with some occasional local tomatoes, oranges, and squash from the Moore garden are acting quite admirably as sustenance. I've made a number of pasta salads!
Success #5 is the free food and half-price drinks I get from Bouchon where Art is cooking five afternoons and nights a week. He gets Wednesdays and Thursdays off and we run errands, go out to lunch or dinner, watch Netflix instant play on the TV, buy puzzles, clean, smoke weed. It's all very domestic. The food is French country, from bouillabaisse to Crepes Suzette, the bartenders are very sweet and know my name (and don't card me!) (15 days!), and the wine list actually makes me LOL. And he looks so cute with his little glasses on, sautéing the evening away.
All in all I've been reading on the porch a lot (I have a porch!), driving through the mountains and getting all teary because I actually live in a place this beautiful. The Netflix is nice and I can't wait until I can contribute financially to my new home. It feels like that, you know. I can't explain it very well, but it's probably the $285/month rent.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Job Interview = Bonding Experience
Upon the rare occasion when a job interview feels oddly like a bonding experience, take the job.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Healing Waters of the Haw River and the Stratford Hills Pool
I was imagining today what I have imagined thousands of times: what my life would be like as a movie. Lots of great editing, capturing the ironic moments, weeding out the banal; a great and eclectic soundtrack; first-person narration (obviously). Like "This American Life" or a Christopher Guest movie ("Best in Show"), a mockumentary with subtlety.
I wonder how I could mockument my most recent escapades.
1) the omnipresent job search. Fuck my job. Of course my job would suck, but working in one of the richest towns in North Carolina doesn't make me wriggle with delight since it's necessary to act like a sycophantic moron and a TARHEEL 4 LYFE which is boring beyond all comprehension. Need 2 free ur minds, ppl. Or at least go on vacation, sheesh.
2) This hotass Piedmont weather combined with the SUNderstorms is slowing my roll.
3) Getting the hell out of dodge, aka Operation EMOFS (Ensuring My Own Future Sanity) by withdrawing from UNC and taking off a bit of time from university study in order to a) rest b) transfer somewhere that doesn't make me want to plant LSD or cyanide in the water supply (WATCH OUT OWASA - jk y'all). But seriously this TARHEEL SPIRIT makes me sick, but I'm going to try to think of the reasons why I want to move to ASHEVILLE instead.
1A [for Asheville]) Art (A!) is there, who I miss a lot.
2A) UNC-A is also in Asheville, the very school that I have, at least once a semester since beginning college, seriously considered transferring to in order to enroll in their awesome creative writing program as well as the academic opportunities for me at a less psychotically competitive rich kid school, namely good grades when I earn them as opposed to how much Adderall I take before the final. Fuck the latter.
3A) Fuck pooling tips and every shitty serving job I've had in this richass town. Just tryin'a serve (and eat!) some good, healthy food and serve/drink some legit beer, and, oh yeah, not to pool tips! I feel confident in the food and drink scene of Asheville being able to provide me with some gainful employment opportunities.
4A) The Piedmont sucks so bad geographically and meteorologically. Gotta get outta here.
So in the meantime (my move date is tentatively post-21st birthday), I am driving, biking, swimming, and walking aimlessly around town with people I like AND/OR reading and watching "This American Life" on my couch or in my bed with my cat sleeping next to me in my cute downtown apartment that I wish I had had while I could have appreciated it.
Though no one will read this until I Facebook status it (and probably not then, after all, remember that France = U.S.A. but is still WAY less boring), I will miss some of you. Glad that you can do it here and that the Tarheelz will win at bball again someday, but I am moving on. Feel free to crash after an Orange Peel show if you feel inclined. Broken Social Scene is playing in September!
Friday, May 14, 2010
An Employee's Guide to Terrible Restaurant Management: an Ode to Butternut Squash
I've been thinking a lot about my brief and dubious employment at Butternut Squash vegetarian and vegan restaurant in Chapel Hill earlier this year (February-March 2010) and of the sorts of things that I found disreputable and irresponsible as business owners that the two Brits, Kelly and Maisie, instituted arbitrarily and rudely onto the staff.
Convinced that they cook and serve the best vegetarian food around (NOT true, anyone eaten at my house?), the owners' requirements for sustained employment at their establishment consist of: complete subservience to their every whim, from randomly changing the dress code and berating you for not adhering to the new dress code, actually personally insulting you and your style choices to threatening to cut your hours for neglecting to ask the kitchen staff what they wanted to drink and serving it to them instantaneously upon arriving to work.
It's certainly the only restaurant I've ever worked at that disallowed arriving to work 15 minutes early in order to finish opening side work before customers arrived (though they rarely did). At 4:45 my second day of serving at Butternut Squash, I parked at University Square (where Granville godawful Towers is, a certain indication of bad taste) and walked down to the front door of the restaurant, opened the door and was told by my boss that "staff may only use the back door." After I came inside, she approached me to say that it was inappropriate of me to show up for work early and I would not be clocking in until 5:00 exactly. It was just she and I and her daughter at the restaurant, no kitchen staff preparing the "fresh" vegetables for dinner. It was doubtful that we would have any customers at all, actually.
I must say, I got a lot of reading accomplished working at Butternut Squash. I certainly couldn't pay rent or pay the stupid electric bill, but I did look at fashion blogs from London on the computer at the host stand, which Maisie played solitaire on daily. The soup remained Butternut Squash soup with no garnish the entire two months that I worked there, and their tofu truly sucks, along with the $12.50 (!) seitan skewers (always burnt, but the peanut-lime sauce was good [but more about that later]). Vegs are nice people, usually tipped me 20% despite the mediocre and overpriced food. Totals never got above about $60, even for four people with appetizers and entrees, which really limits your money-making abilities. They insist upon further restaurant failure by not serving beer and wine, the primary way most restaurants make profits.
I'm pretty sure the last straw for them was when I asked Kelly, the chef, how the ginger flavor was added to the stir-fry and she showed me her ginger oil. I went out and bought some, mentioned it, and the owners tacitly decided to never talk to me about the food again. I told them I cooked myself and they said they were never going to tell me any of the ingredients again because then I could just go out and open up my own Butternut Squash. The problem with that is that my restaurant would be a million times better than microwaved brown rice with the peanut-lime sauce from a can. But after that, they were paranoid as shit and looking for something to fire me for, a difficult task since if you are not a fucking idiot then I will be an excellent employee, especially serving. However, if you are a fucking idiot (see: Domino's Pizza, Subway, Port City Java, Four Corners) then I will not obey your stupid rules (see: wear a uniform and baseball cap, don't paint your nails, don't ask for any time off ever not even to see your family, etc.) and I will not respect you or your stupid corporate establishment.
I don't think the ladies who own and run BNS are evil or even stupid, they're just delusional about their vision and don't understand the necessary components of a well-staffed, well-run, and profitable restaurant, and this benefits no one. Further, they insist that there is no other way but theirs, despite their extreme lack of experience working in restaurants and their more unfortunate extreme lack of communication and social skills with anyone except each other. They're lazy cooks and terrible managers, and I recommend eating somewhere more worth your money if you insist upon eating out.
Convinced that they cook and serve the best vegetarian food around (NOT true, anyone eaten at my house?), the owners' requirements for sustained employment at their establishment consist of: complete subservience to their every whim, from randomly changing the dress code and berating you for not adhering to the new dress code, actually personally insulting you and your style choices to threatening to cut your hours for neglecting to ask the kitchen staff what they wanted to drink and serving it to them instantaneously upon arriving to work.
It's certainly the only restaurant I've ever worked at that disallowed arriving to work 15 minutes early in order to finish opening side work before customers arrived (though they rarely did). At 4:45 my second day of serving at Butternut Squash, I parked at University Square (where Granville godawful Towers is, a certain indication of bad taste) and walked down to the front door of the restaurant, opened the door and was told by my boss that "staff may only use the back door." After I came inside, she approached me to say that it was inappropriate of me to show up for work early and I would not be clocking in until 5:00 exactly. It was just she and I and her daughter at the restaurant, no kitchen staff preparing the "fresh" vegetables for dinner. It was doubtful that we would have any customers at all, actually.
I must say, I got a lot of reading accomplished working at Butternut Squash. I certainly couldn't pay rent or pay the stupid electric bill, but I did look at fashion blogs from London on the computer at the host stand, which Maisie played solitaire on daily. The soup remained Butternut Squash soup with no garnish the entire two months that I worked there, and their tofu truly sucks, along with the $12.50 (!) seitan skewers (always burnt, but the peanut-lime sauce was good [but more about that later]). Vegs are nice people, usually tipped me 20% despite the mediocre and overpriced food. Totals never got above about $60, even for four people with appetizers and entrees, which really limits your money-making abilities. They insist upon further restaurant failure by not serving beer and wine, the primary way most restaurants make profits.
I'm pretty sure the last straw for them was when I asked Kelly, the chef, how the ginger flavor was added to the stir-fry and she showed me her ginger oil. I went out and bought some, mentioned it, and the owners tacitly decided to never talk to me about the food again. I told them I cooked myself and they said they were never going to tell me any of the ingredients again because then I could just go out and open up my own Butternut Squash. The problem with that is that my restaurant would be a million times better than microwaved brown rice with the peanut-lime sauce from a can. But after that, they were paranoid as shit and looking for something to fire me for, a difficult task since if you are not a fucking idiot then I will be an excellent employee, especially serving. However, if you are a fucking idiot (see: Domino's Pizza, Subway, Port City Java, Four Corners) then I will not obey your stupid rules (see: wear a uniform and baseball cap, don't paint your nails, don't ask for any time off ever not even to see your family, etc.) and I will not respect you or your stupid corporate establishment.
I don't think the ladies who own and run BNS are evil or even stupid, they're just delusional about their vision and don't understand the necessary components of a well-staffed, well-run, and profitable restaurant, and this benefits no one. Further, they insist that there is no other way but theirs, despite their extreme lack of experience working in restaurants and their more unfortunate extreme lack of communication and social skills with anyone except each other. They're lazy cooks and terrible managers, and I recommend eating somewhere more worth your money if you insist upon eating out.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Paris is less than OR equal to the U.S.
So, it may have taken me almost 5 months and a bushelful of random life experiences (Dean's List, rampant domesticity, Viewpoints, to name a few) to figure it out, but I now get why I was sort of (pardon my French) blase about the whole Paris thing.
You know, one goes to Paris assuming that its heyday of expatriatism and the tumultuous art/music/lit world has persisted into modernity and even the 21st century. What one does not expect is the elitism of capitalism has stretched its tentacles over everything in the whole city, where everything is based upon material wealth and possessions (so-called "fashion") and "art" exists only as the terrible jokes of contemporary art that one would put in a Hollywood movie (anyone seen Iron Man 2? That "painting" that RDJr. moves aside for his Iron Man poster that Penny/Gwyneth gets so upset about? It's a strip of black down the center of a canvas. This is 2010. Fuck that/you/your taste.).
Anyway, the point is that if you're rich and totally boring and uncultured, uninterested in compelling ideas and things other than buying clothes and spending a shitton of money on boring food and assume because it's French that it's all wonderful, then #1. your critical skills essentially do not exist and #2. you'll flip for Paris. However, those of us unburdened by the frivolity of extreme wealth are forced to wander the streets, cold and munching on the end of a baguette, seeking answers we thought would be here but have faded as the McDos pop up on every third block. My advice: give up on Paris, but if you're there, spend every second in art museums and parks.
It's like America: all obsessed with themselves, their silly Western language and American top 40 music. Voila!
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Exploring Nautical Themes
I learned the difference between Holland and the Netherlands. The Netherlands is more like the region of the world (i.e. north) and the area brimming with canals and low land. So why are people and things from Holland called "Dutch?" The mystery remains.
My hostel receptionist sent me to find "The Library," which I assumed was like a big bar or tourist trap, but actually ended up being a library. The building is hyper-modern and very fabulous and they've filled it with 5 stories of books and contemporary technology, including chairs that follow you through the sitting room so you'll always have a place to sit. They also have computers that anyone may use whenever to surf the internet (they won't look at porn on them since it's not forbidden in their normal lives). The top floor is a good-priced restaurant where I will be having lunch. The Dutch word for "library"is "biblioteek." This should look familiar to any romance-languagers.
Last night I ate Indonesian food and drank whiskey while writing and looking again like the wacky foreigner, then met a Scottish guy who lives in Amsterdam and works as a debt collector and I asked him questions about Holland. Then someone stole two of my sweaters (sort of bizarre, actually. Like I know they were cute but come on.) and I went to sleep.
They have a bar in the library and a smoking terrace to be, you know, considerate of humans. I wish I weren't so hung up on Holland, but the whole damn city of Amsterdam is lined with canals and houseboats. This may become my new goal in life: houseboat in Amsterdam. It's sort of like a floating trailer, but totally charming.
Meeting my CS host tonight. She lives in the "hip neighborhood." I want to live there.
I still don't know what's going on with Tiger Woods and I've decided to completely stop following American politics since I'll be ex-pating any day now because of things like this: BEER BIKE.
My hostel receptionist sent me to find "The Library," which I assumed was like a big bar or tourist trap, but actually ended up being a library. The building is hyper-modern and very fabulous and they've filled it with 5 stories of books and contemporary technology, including chairs that follow you through the sitting room so you'll always have a place to sit. They also have computers that anyone may use whenever to surf the internet (they won't look at porn on them since it's not forbidden in their normal lives). The top floor is a good-priced restaurant where I will be having lunch. The Dutch word for "library"is "biblioteek." This should look familiar to any romance-languagers.
Last night I ate Indonesian food and drank whiskey while writing and looking again like the wacky foreigner, then met a Scottish guy who lives in Amsterdam and works as a debt collector and I asked him questions about Holland. Then someone stole two of my sweaters (sort of bizarre, actually. Like I know they were cute but come on.) and I went to sleep.
They have a bar in the library and a smoking terrace to be, you know, considerate of humans. I wish I weren't so hung up on Holland, but the whole damn city of Amsterdam is lined with canals and houseboats. This may become my new goal in life: houseboat in Amsterdam. It's sort of like a floating trailer, but totally charming.
Meeting my CS host tonight. She lives in the "hip neighborhood." I want to live there.
I still don't know what's going on with Tiger Woods and I've decided to completely stop following American politics since I'll be ex-pating any day now because of things like this: BEER BIKE.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Dutch Doors
One more thing! The Dutch believe in leaving their doors and windows open. This includes in winter. Every entrance to a building is something like a sliding door, an open archway, or some sort of inbetween lobby. It's fabulous.
Holland pt. Deux
Pretty much every single bar or cafe or "coffeeshop" here in Amsterdam has posted that no tobacco smoking is allowed by ordinance of the Europe-wide smoking ban beginning 1 July 2008. Then you wander off to the W.C. and notice an entire other room, either upstairs past a tiny ice cold black metal spiral staircase or perhaps down the tiny corridor to the sinks. This room will be full of chairs or couches and loud loud funky music, probably American hip hop or pop or minimalist electronica, and people will be sitting around smoking and watching crazy art videos or animated screensavers (of underwater scenes, matching the huge mural of mermaids and lionfish spraypainted over all four walls). This particular "coffeeshop" is called The Dolphins, so it's only appropriate. They have Wi-Fi, which is a plus for me since my hostel's WiFi doesn't work on my computer for whatever reason. It is necessary that I email my first and final CouchSurfing host, who I am to meet tomorrow. Her name is Maaike and she's very adorable and will hopefully like be there and answer her phone and not be insane.
I just went to go have a piercer change my septum ring and I asked him my standard questions: "Are you Dutch?" if yes, "Man I'd like to learn your language." If no, they proceeded to tell me why they moved here (world too corporate, bored at work, fascism, etc.) and I tell them that I don't blame them. The piercer practically spit when I mentioned France: "why don't they just fucking learn English like everybody else stuck-up bastards." I flinched only a little, mainly laughed since coming to Holland really proves that the French are really rude to every other European country by refusing to speak any language other than French to anyone. When they travel they speak French. How obnoxious is that.
On the other hand, I got stopped on the street today by this Dutch couple and they asked to take my picture for their fashion on the street assignment. !!! OK !!! I was wearing this new hat that I got at the flea market this morning. I will post a photo of it very soon.
I've been walking around all day feeling very positive and LOVING Amsterdam. It's FREEZING and everyone is SO FRIENDLY and cute and chill. I've decided it's a bit like Wilmington if it didn't have such a scene, plus Weaver Street and an independent movie theatre. Blend well, add winter. Voila! Amsterdam. People are friendly like in the South and open-minded like, well, the Dutch. They don't give a damn what you do, in fact they don't even have curtains in their huge Dutch windows in the apartments lining the canals. Because if you're doing something weird, everyone else is probably doing something else weird.
I just got myself really distracted by only being registered for 6 hours next semester until I realized that it doesn't matter at all since I'm going on the first days of the classes so duh. I hate week #1 and week #done the most out of every week of school since everyone is like ridiculously stressed and irritating. Luckily I still have 3 weeks before I have to go back to school. I still need a job, if anyone knows of anything I might like.
I'm almost done reading The Omnivore's Dilemma and am going to start a book of poems next, I think. Amsterdam is very cold and I walk everywhere, which is nice. I can't believe I'm going home on Tuesday and it's Friday what on Earth is happening? Christmas is in a week. Everyone is going to have to forgive me, I have run out of space in my suitcase to get more souvenirs for gifts, etc. I believe a dinner will have to be in order.
Anyway I'm about to read the news and make dinner. Maybe a sandwich of some kind...or soup from the sports bar, hmm.
Bisous.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Holland
So I might be sort of obsessed with the Dutch. The thing is that their design aesthetic is fabulously empty, with some black and some white and some beige. Everything from the amazing beige ones in the Van Gogh museum to the bar with a smoking ban, but only for tobacco.
Van Gogh and I bonded today in a way you wouldn't believe. I read about 200 pages of his letters in this fabulous English translation. My computer is nearly out of batteries and I'm busy watching football.
Bisous
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Day of Marijuana Law Exploration
Holland: just weeks ago I did not know what the difference was between Holland and the Netherlands and so with great thanks to Wikipedia I learned. Holland is a part of the Netherlands, namely the northern part, which is where you will find one of many spectacularly cold and progressive Dutch cities called Amsterdam. The most famous aspects of the city are its canals, its chilled-out populace, its legalized prostitution, and, of course, its lax marijuana laws, making it possible for anyone over the age of 18 to purchase and smoke weed at one of the many many many "coffeeshops" scattered around the city. Now, native Amsterdammians (?) do not necessarily visit these coffeeshops, but the the population at large considers marijuana and even other soft, typically psychoactive, drugs to be perfectly acceptable options for intoxication. Like having a beer after work, you roll a spliff and cook dinner. It's pretty wonderful.
Anyway, during my little sejour at The Flying Pig Party Downtown Hostel last night, a hostel notorious for its extreme amounts of partying, I found that the Amsterdam international scene consists of the sort of "partying" that I did much more of in my high school days, including sitting in one room for hours and hours talking and smoking and drinking cheap beers and then staying up all night trying all sorts of psychoactives from the local herbologist and then passing out around 10am the next day. This to me for people ages 22+, not to mention 26+ is sort of desperate. I mean I of all people understand the need/want to party, but for instance one girl was relaying some adventures of hers in Italy etc. last year and bragging about having spent 800 Euros on piercings, tattoos, and hair dye on her trip. She was something like 29, but sounds remarkably like an 18-year-old to me. Congratulations that you did SO MUCH ECSTASY but, like, get a job. Also this self-righteous little brat from Israel was super-keen on trying to act discriminated against in every country in the Western World I was like are you kidding please get a job.
But I did meet some nice young people in their smoking room, a couple of kids from Colorado, another Canadian, another Australian. We chatted for a while, had some wine, smoked numerous spliffs. I went upstairs and watched half of 'The Dreamers,' more effecting since my Paris time has ended. Smoked a joint by myself in my room which I was sharing with three very tall Swiss-German boys and all their incomprehensible Swiss-German jokes. The weed that I bought was carefully selected after the "coffeeshop" owner across the street showed me every variety of weed that he had and taught me about pot law (not legal, but they always look the other way if you follows rules about amounts on the premises, under 18 statutes, cultivation, etc.), from the 2008 Cannabis Cup winner at 11.70 Euro per gram (a bit pricey, but just like back home really - Amsterdam weed is cheaper than you imagine) to the Royal Noir Afghani hash brick the color of tar and softness of leather. I chose "Blueberry Crush" since it reminded me of Ludacris and subsequently of Sunset Drive. Plus I found the buds, etc. to be quite fragrant and appetizing-looking. So, at the fairly good price of 7.90 Euro for a gram, I took one and proceeded to roll a little spliff with my new Dutch Drum tobacco and Dutch rolling papers.
Dutch is a hilarious language, kind of like English but harsher like German. The young men I met at the Marijuana Hemp and Hash Museum today who let me sample their vaporizer with crop from their huge grow operation on display behind them taught me some words in Dutch. One of the fellows was from Ohio and had moved to Amsterdam when W. got elected because he hated it so much. Now he manages a seed shop connected to the Museum selling these super-famous Dutch seeds made by Sensi Seeds. I asked the girl selling tickets how she liked her job and she said she loved it, and it wasn't just all the smoking, but the whole culture of pot in the Netherlands and their advocacy work for the utilization of hemp and their work with the crops. Jeezus. Sounds like a fun job to me. The museum itself was quite informative and interesting, with the Hemp Gallery down the street chronicling the history of hemp in the Netherlands, laid out in a super minimalistic and very Dutch sort of way with great electronica on the speakers. Got French and English translations of the signs around the museum and went through browsing lots of interesting history of Dutch "coffeeshops" and attitudes on the hemp plant.
Walking back to my hostel for a bit of relaxing and some supermarket searching (found one where the cashiers spoke English thank god; bought apples, clementines, loaf of crusty bread, CHEDDAR CHEESE, dried Dutch sausage (whatever, but it's delicious), some nuts, and pear juice), I unknowingly walked myself right into the middle of the infamous "Red Light District" where ladies of the night (or day) prance in windows along the street in tiny bikinis, wearing glasses or leather, but generally looking like normal ladies. I walked by and smiled at them, obviously not their desired customer. Got extremely lost looking for streetnames like Zeedijk and Sint Annenstraat (see, Dutch is kind of like English actually) and crept back into my Asian-owned hostel and sports bar The Globe Center (why "center?"). Now I'm posted up in the smoking room on my computer transferring money, blogging, drinking whiskey to combat the cold, and generally feeling like the wacky foreigner in the dark wooden bar in wintertime, here to overcome my crippling writer's block and find a Northern European lover. It's only half-incorrect.
Bisous for now.
The Dutch seem to value similar things to myself: casualness, general positivity, alternative forms of transit, making fun of themselves and everyone else, and beer. Also, they're really selling me on canals, which I am finding to be really lovely and full of ducks and swans even in the dead of winter.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
"There's Like A Scene in My Hostel"
It’s five days in a row now that I’ve seen the sun come up, the most in succession since high school. Each day it’s to go somewhere new and as long as I can nap a bit on the way, I’m ready to go every morning by 7h30. This morning I found myself up at 5h30 off to Paris Gallieni international bus station to catch the 7h30 to Amsterdam. After printing my ticket at the 24-hour internet café near the Pantheon and after a few minutes freaking out that I hadn’t given myself enough time to switch metros 3 times AND because of the continuous strikes on the RER B I had to walk a few blocks to get on the 4 instead of just hopping on the train at Luxembourg like always.
So now I’m on the bus sitting next to two semi-bilingual Dutch boys, thinking about all of my international travel buddies and friends and that in one week I will be flying back to the States, back on my home soil for the first time in almost four months.
After all the madness that has been France, learning French, discovering that I like French, resenting French, being decent at French, etc., it has been really welcome to get out of Paris, dirty city of too many angry people, into places like Marrakech, dirty city of a lot of friendly people and too many tourists, and further into the real life of Morocco, albeit on a van full of tourists. However, our journeys to Ouarzazate, the Dadès Gorges, some villages in southeastern Morocco, and finally to the Sahara Desert allowed us a rare opportunity for Westerners to get to know even vaguely what life is like in a developing nation like Morocco. We learned to tie turbans and make mint tea, play Moroccan drums properly and say various curse words and questions in about 6 other languages.
Tuesday when I arrived at my hostel I met my Argentinean-living-in-London roommate Solé and the two of us went out to Moroccan dinner, as mentioned in my previous post. Our other roommate, a Finnish girl named Marina, was keen on napping through the evning and writing a letter to her 33-year-old girlfriend back in Finland. She had decided that she needed a vacation and up and left for Morocco for three weeks, including through Christmas, to the dismay of her girlfriend. She had also chosen to tell her mother that she was flying to South Africa to learn English for a few weeks, knowing that there was no way on earth her mother would let her come to Morocco by herself. These conflicting wishes along with a day of flying from extreme cold to actual sunlight must have been exhausting, so an evening sleeping in Marrakech, while typically a faux pas, was in this case well-deserved.
Upon our return back to our hostel there was a boy who had arrived and was chatting with the hostel owner (a very kind be-scarved woman) in French, much to my joy and delight. Yes! Someone to practice with! I proceeded to hop on the computer immediately, checking email, Facebook, and of course blogging a bit while Solé and Christian the Australian and French "bloke" on summer "holiday" from “uni” in Canberra (remember, the Southern Hemisphere’s seasons are reversed) chatted a bit about Morocco and their plans and consulted Christian’s copy of Lonely Planet: Morocco, which would become our bible over the next 5 days.
The four of us proceeded to get extremely lost, meet some locals and translate what they were saying in French into English for the non-French enthusiasts, learn about spices, visit various palaces, eat more tajines and couscous than you can possibly imagine, and generally enjoy one another’s company to the point that when Solé and Christian expressed interest in taking a weekend excursion to the desert and Marina followed suit, I didn’t have any interest in staying in Marrakech without them. Not to mention that Timothy “You Can Call Me Mister” Spencer had arrived at our hostel, swinging a Jack Daniels bottle and his misogynistic ways about. A former heroin trafficker and long-time traveler and wooer of women, Mr. Spencer took a liking to Christian and told him his entire life story while chain-smoking cigarettes in the night. After one too many stories of fucking Portuguese prostitutes on the beach and running from Interpol, along with other debaucherous activities, Mr. Spencer told Christian that he couldn’t believe that he was in bed with one of the girls, and Christian took this opportunity to get the hell out, saying that he might as well try to get with one of us, grabbing his sleeping bag, and coming to sleep in our room. Needless to say, Mr. Spencer was sure proud that he could bolster the sexual confidence of a strapping young fellow such as Christian, and proceeded to get drunk the entire next day, much to the terror and irritation of our Islamic hostel staff, and he was asked to leave the next night. In the meantime, the four of us went to a contemporary art museum in an ancient palace, ate more delicious tajines, planned our trip to the Sahara, discovered the only bar in town, and Marina and Solé tried Orangina for the first time.
Also we exchanged many a story, including family recipes, native cuisines, and breakfasts around the world.
--------------------
The bus driver has put on te second film of our trip. The first was “Wild Hogs,” in which William H. Macy, Tim Allen, Cedric the Entertainer (?), and John Travolta have a midlife crisis and take a motorcycle trip. Or something inane like that. We watched it in French. Now we’re watching “Step Up” or one of those movies like that with dancing and bad hip hop and Channing Tatum that stupid actor who looks like a soldier in every film he’s ever done. Movies like this make American look bad, and as the only American on this bus, I resent the choice. On that note, one woman was speaking English to me to tell me what to do in like for the toilettes at the gas station so I just replied in French. If you insist on being a bitch to me, I will plead ignorance.
In Amsterdam, busy meeting strange people including my three massive German roommates.
Bisous.
Monday, December 14, 2009
International Players' Ball
Back in Paris in the flat of my lovely Danish girlfriend from CCF Sophie, where this evening we have made dinner (spicy vegetarian tomato pasta dish yummm with bread - obviously - and smoked salmon, and wine for the first time in too many days) and watched Harold & Maude (my perennial film of choice to share with fellow moviegoers such as myself), followed by watching of Palme d'Or winner trailers and Lady Gaga music videos. She lives on Rue Monge with an older Polish woman in a very French apartment with big windows and a Christmas tree. I am sleeping in the living room with the Christmas tree (frankly a nice change of pace from an Islamic country) and will be awakening in about 3 hours to catch a bus to Amsterdam. My strategy with early morning travel is as follows: stay up as late as you can with the people you love and then sleep en route in the morning. That was my M.O. staying up until 3 last night watching "Slumdog Millionaire" with my Morocco gang, and I subsequently slept the entire flight into CDG by pulling down my tray table and covering my head with my winter coat and passing out for 3.5 hours.
With regards to Morocco, it's going to take me a long time to write up all the joy and thrills of our time in the Kingdom, and I say "our" as opposed to "my" since, by the grace of Allah or perhaps just the travel gods, I stumbled upon the most wonderful group of people one can possibly find in an impossible-to-find, last-minute hostel one's first time in a developing nation. Much more to be said on them and our myriad adventures later. In the meantime, you may view said escapades via my Facebook album entitled "Morocco," filled with the glory and cold that is North African winter.
Bisous, and hopefully my 8-hour bus ride will provide sleep and a looong post au sujet de Maroc.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Souq On This!
Dinner last night consisted of walking through Jama’a el-Fna square through the enormous numbers of food stalls that they set up every night at sunset. There are around 100 and every stall sends out a bunch of men dressed in chef uniforms to track down hungry looking people and get then to eat at their stall. Each menu is in about 16 different languages from Japanese to Portuguese and further, and every single man speaks every single language. It was pretty incredible. The girl I met at my hostel speaks Spanish and Italian as well as English (she’s from Argentina but lives in London) and I speak French and English (the two most useful languages here other than Arabic – by far). I feel very accomplished lapsing from French to English and back again with everyone we meet. Every time we were stopped by another chef they asked where we were from and when I said America every single one said “That’s what I’m talking about!” or “Obama!” accompanied by a thumbs-up. Of course.
Our menu: 2 tomato salads, one filled with hot peppers, the other very light and fresh with just a bit of pepper, a large, thick, pita-type bread as a utensil, a tajine with various squashes, cabbage, chickpeas, and LAMB, an olive salad (which I actually ate some of, shockingly), a salad of rice, cucumber, potatoes, tomatoes, and beets, and delicious Moroccan mint tea, and of course Coke Light. Oh. My. God. So delicious and amazingly fresh. All of our chefs spoke French and English, as well as the other 14 languages, and insisted that we take photos with them wearing their chef hats and “working” i.e. scooping chickpeas onto a little saucer.
Came back to the hostel, got on the internet, and talked with our fellow travelers about Marrakech and how cold our hostel is at night, only to realize that it's because there is no roof, just a courtyard with rooms surrounding it and the ceiling open to the sky. A. Mazing.
Woke up at 11 this morning and prepared myself for a long day of getting supremely lost in the very hot sun, including layers, maps, camera, water bottle, tobacco, and sneakers. Since my 3 hour trip from sketchy CS host's house yesterday with 20 kilos of luggage, my feet are fucking torn up, as will always happen when you add 20 kilos to your weight and walk through a dusty-ass, rocky and very hot city in Africa searching for a place with no street signs or numbers. Sneakers were essential today. I had made plans with my roommates from Argentina and Finland to go exploring the markets north of Jama'a el-Fna square (very near our hostel) for jewelry, leather bags, dyed fabrics, meat, olives, and spices. We met a boy from Australia last night who is also traveling, meeting his family in Paris for Christmas, and speaks fluent French, and he joined us for an afternoon of exploration. First the girls and I had breakfast ('petit dejeuner,' of course) which consisted of mint tea (Moroccan tradition), fresh orange juice, chocolate croissants, and crepes (though a bit rougher than the traditional French) with honey and butter. This all cost us 18 dirham (1 Euro 80), which would have run about 9 Euros in Paris. Excellent.We drank our tea, fended off a bunch of bees (it was around 80 degrees - ahh!!), and learned a bit of Arabic from our funny waiter. People here are extremely friendly and while most tourists seem to take this cheerful and helpful attitude as a scam to make money, it's actually just people being legitimately interested in where you're from and excited to hear about why you're visiting their country. They like to learn other languages and ask you questions, and once they start saying lewd things it's really easy to just laugh and walk off. I was telling Christian from Australia about how the whole experience of being in a place so outside of your zone of norms is making me feel much more confident about my abilities to figure things out. i.e. I keep thinking about how other girls from the Consortium program would have dealt with Jamal and the entire country. It makes me laugh and it keeps me sane when I feel totally lost and baffled.
We then proceeded to get ourselves lost in the souqs, or markets, in the Northern region of the city. These tiny stone alleyways wind and twist for what seems like ever, and our running joke was the impossibility of giving directions in a place like this: "Yeah, you go under the arched doorway, past the stall full of silver jewelry, then when you see a booth full to the brim of leather bags of every color, take a right. Then you'll see a bunch of tea pots and dinnerware on your left, pass the embroidered tunics and the leather sandals and the old Moroccan men drinking tea and fixing bikes and you're there. If you get to the chicken carcasses hanging from hooks next to the Mosque you've gone too far." The joke is that every single area of the general souqs can be described exactly like this. Over and over again. It's pretty amazing. So, we got extremely lost, decided to find our way to the Musee de Marrakech, near, yes, a mosque and some leather bags. The museum was gorgeous, with an astonishing contemporary art exhibit of collaged scrapbooks and paintings of various parts of the world, from India to the USSR. There were couches all over the place and the descriptions of things and history were all in French and Arabic so we translated for the non-French speakers among us, in the meantime learning a lot about the history of the Kingdom of Morocco.
Then we wound our way back to the square for a mint tea and a bit of a rest at the hostel before heading back out to brave the crowds for dinner at one of the many tents again.
Dinner menu: Lamb tajine (again), lamb couscous, fried shrimp (actually fried, not battered in flour and overcooked), bread, tomato salads, chicken & delicious frites, grilled aubergine, lentil and spice soup, and water. We chose a different stall than last night and shared everything in true Moroccan fashion, eating with our hands and licking our fingers unabashedly.
After dinner we decided to find a bar in this land where it is illegal to drink alcohol within sight of a mosque (i.e. everywhere, though that law is gratefully and largely unenforced). More on the search for beer later.
Bisous!
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