His Name is Loic

            Warm blanket, cozy couch, dawn’s creeping through the curtains slowly replacing the glare of last night’s streetlight. As I rise with the sunshine of my life, I have to pause her to take a call: Montaigne, 10H30 ça marche? Out into the cold to arrange a plate and recover from the effects of sore muscles and a slow mind. While I finish up drinking in the rest of that invigorating cup of beauty and take in the last bit of sunny-side up I grab that towel and jog off into the rain to catch that much needed tram.

            Salut. Ça va? Ouais et toi? This rough looking man of an estimated 46, a man whom I have encountered twice in my life offered me a solid board and led me to the Best Volkswagen Vanagon imaginable. This monstrosity was equipped with stove-top, sink, table, queen size, and Ben Harper.

            Sur la route, we pass that which has become of France. Campgrounds, Vacation houses, lessons for every endeavor that lay dormant until the summer months, pass by as we head west. Stories bounce back and forth with miscommunication flying everywhere. He’s met Kelly, he loves the Portuguese surf, he has three daughters, wait this phlegmatician is a family man?

            Boar hunting, fishing, woods, am I back on Mauka-side Hawaii? The emotions run deep, as I’m afraid to leave this home that I’m seeing for the first time; at which, point I remember I am only at the surface and I do have a place being kept warm across the Atlantic.

             Carcan! Excitement is only stifled slightly with a blast of cool wind and freezing temperatures. Il fait quoi? 8 degrees, et 12 dans l’eau. Ground conditions at the waterfront revealed solid off shores with dumpy little double-ups of about 4 feet. Inside I am jumping from the stoke, while I shake to keep from freezing. Suit on, waxed up I head out with two locals on patrol, grab a slow looking left that pitched ever so hastily at the top; it was the obvious choice of wave after a month of my waterless hiatus. By an act of god I made the drop and a turn before it closed, the rest of the session followed in similar fashion. A quick pee and deck change before I clamber with my clumsy numbness into the holy vanagon for a bit of defrosting. The ice came off my companion as well he was all smiles.

            With a slight interrogation of my future, I explained my realization of university, “ Il fait quoi?”. What am I expected to do with my degree and what does it give me? It was a great four years of self-realization, and awakening, but I am tooless in a society bent, founded on creation and innovation. He seemed to warm further and I can call this man a friend. A la semaine prochaine? Ouais et bon weekend. I remount that tram, back to the foreign, back to the apartment.

Thursday evenin'

            “So I got your text. Yeah you’re welcome to come to a friends party. Its themed so deguse-toi.”

            “Sweet I’ll be over ‘round ten.”

            In bitter disregard of the tram I turn right. Mounting a personal protest against that Bordelaise rail. My Senegalese stand never fails to conjure ancient memories I’ll never know. It smells delicious too. Martinique is always open beckoning to drop by for a chat and offering a small tub of tabouli. You’re in a foreign state when 10^o C feels toasty. At Quinqonnces, I begin to worry about the unfolding evening. Another French venue, with only small acquaintances; moral fiber anyone, I forgot to take my vitamins this morning. Here we go. Jeremy is a buddy I met last year in San Diego while he was on his journeys abroad. We finally met-up as he’s been busy. That sounds familiar. Last year’s thirty-hour workweek on top of a full course load quickly flushed itself over my memories. Now the roles have changed. I pass through a more lively part of town the rue Victor Hugo running through it. Spice, grease, and thick accents fill the air. Halal is on the menu. I reach 1, Victor Hugo and after the buzz, I mount the stairs to meet Jeremy, a roommate and Jeremy’s 12-year-old brother. The Italian serves the coffee, while we discuss out our winning costumes.

            Back out to the spiciness to grab beers from the friendly North African while the 12-year-old lights up a cigarette. “Wow, they sure do start ‘em young out here”, I judged. “What does it matter that he grabs a big Heineken as well.”

            We arrive sporting case, a bottle, backward caps and clothing, including, awkwardly enough, pants. The story was we were an American television show called ”Backwards”. When Ugly Betty asked, “When did the show arrive,” I was quickly and accurately able to say “the late 50’s.” Needless to say we didn’t win. A German squad of Les Simpsons took the rosé trophy. The music is American, the language French, the culture Bordelaise, and the students of Sciences Po.

            Turns out Jeremy’s little brother is 18 and in culinary management school. The world is much clearer without thinking.

Sunday

            Chop, chop. Add the olive oil. Turn that knob, who cares of the inconsistencies of that electric range. Toast the rice. Don’t forget to shake those hips to the beat of the tremendous Cat Empire. Broth must be less watery. Oh tears of delight fall as onions work their magic and the sweet pain of white wine as it steams into each cavity. Don’t be too late with the broth. Wow Australian musicians never sounded so frantic until they hit the Bordelais air. Shallots wont dice themselves boy. Gentle stirs, and mind to not let it dry. Since when did wine and vinegar evaporate so quickly? Never mind, do not fret, quickly add more in the name of beautiful shallots and care of the tarragon tang. Stir. Oh where has all my chicken gone, that greedy bastard of a fridge, relinquish what is mine. Coat and prep the pan. Stir. The yolk begs for that concoction as it sits in a pot on a pot, so strain quickly and precisely. Stir. Whisk. Only a little butter at a time we cant let her get too wet. Stir. As the chicken slowly gains flavor I tenderly explain that I’m busy for the moment, but with enough time to change the track. Stir. A bit more butter as it’s needed for her to get saucy. Tarragon flakes to the béarnaise. Wine, veggies into the risotto, and add pepper all around, that dirty yet necessary village bicycle. Stir. Let out that risotto. The sauce is done. Check the chicken. Presque fini.

            Vegetable risotto with Camembert, and crushed peppered chicken covered in béarnaise sauce.

Free Admission to the Show at the Bleau

            I voyaged out to Fontainebleau a village/forest just Southeast of Paris only a forty minute train ride. This is a place I’ve wanted to get out to but haven’t been able to due to time, going alone, and many other unreasonable justifications. I went alone, scolding myself for being so afraid, or boring, or lazy, or whatever reason was holding me back, without a map a clear plan or any idea of the weather situation; it is winter. I buy tickets but do not validate them, as is the French custom, I forgot to on the trip there. It was a good thing I wasn’t checked by the ticket controller. I arrive at the Bleau with a slight drizzle, a slight daze and glaze over my eyes as I realize I have no idea of direction. After wandering the streets I am able to orient myself after a couple bus stop maps and set off in a direction leading straight into the forest.

            Its wonderful the red, green, yellow colors of the trees and the sweet smell of dying leaves and the cool air cement a smile on my face even though the threat of becoming irrevocably lost looms around every turn. I reach a look out point; take a few snapshots and I’m on my way, only to run into a person! I nod with the courteous bonjour, only to get the bumbling of an Irish man. To my credit I understood every word. It turns out we were both climbers and I happened to bring my shoes and chalk if the occasion arose where I could climb. We talk of politics, women, and occupation. His ungraceful manner of conversing eases my mind and lets me open up as well.

            The local spot is wet, so he offers to drive to another. We hop in his dinosaur of a rental car, another great story of luck and his Irish innocence. But we make it to the boulders guided by a bunch of curious Germans and set up shop. Climbing is climbing I do not need to explain. I’m dropped off at the station with plans to return the next day for grander endeavors. The high from the day, the fatigue, the blistering hands prompts me to test fate again and not validate my tickets; blast those appeals of being a stowaway. I’m back in Paris again, the usual fashions, the usual tourists, the usual smells, the usual cold, I cook the usual meal, all of which have never tasted so great.

            I return the next day well welcomed and eager to climb despite the hurt of my body. A new zone, interesting and still resembles any climbing community back in the states, complete with dreadlocks, hammocks, slacklines and polite grungy personas. The climbing is only oddly conventional, as I’ve seen these people before walking around and chatting about in Yosemite, Joshua tree, Idyllwild; the only difference is they speak Japanese, Swedish, German, French. Yet, they are somehow able to laugh and joke as if they all spoke the same language. I engage and understand how easy it is to partake in the joking despite the obvious communication barriers. An occurrence that strikes me as amazing, and impossible, this doubt, of course, stems from my American origins.

            We meet some Swedes, Andreas and his sister Sandra. Great people and apparently well versed in the art of travel and “vacation”, both easily summed up with the word “life”. They are superb climbing partners and offered us diner, the only demand on us was the dessert, which was easily remedied by rum raisin ice cream and butter crackers. The night was rare as I am used to harboring foreigners in San Diego from Australians to California road trippers, and here we all are in a foreign place getting along discussing lives, travels, occupations, and philosophies. We exchange palettes and simple recipes. I feel this is not a rare event in Fontainebleau but significant nonetheless to all who partake in such meetings. I feel these are people who are able to let go and roam with some cash in their pocket and with out a fear of awkward conversation. Andreas uttered a mantra, one already having blessed these ears yet always brings a revelation; there are two types of people, those who lead their lives out of fear from doing and those who lead their lives from desires. I reflect and see me filling both roles at certain times, and I fear that I am moving towards letting my desires design my life; a scary transition yet calming.

            I still have my tickets, and I plan on using them to get back every weekend until I get caught. Wish me luck

French Pastries

  Medium height, a naturally bronzed complexion, a slender frame topped with a crooked head holding that smile, a smile offering humble welcome yet mischievous intentions. A smile of those pretty young things, accustomed to satiating their every whim. She’s smart, and is quick to bring up that shallow, quick wisdom always discussed in stand-up comedy and popular culture outlets. One easily succumbs to the jovial attitude provoked by such an elegant attraction. Her stress seems trifling and it is easy not to hear such meaningless grievances while falling under the influence of those rhythmically dancing lips. The emptiness of her head and the fullness of her appeal is a sweet juxtaposition, one, I must say, I do not wish to indulge in.