Bacon-Palooza

One day in English 209 Section N, also known as my Creative Writing 8 am class, we were assigned a ten-minute spill. The spill could be about anything, but to help mould our hazy minds, my professor told us to think about what we had for breakfast, or something we loved to eat for breakfast. So of course my mind went to bacon. Greasy, crispy, delicious bacon. And then my mind wandered to baking. The most simplistic ingredients come together to form decadent creations. Eventually I made the connection between the salty and savory flavors of fried bacon and the rich smooth flavors of chocolate. And then it hit me. Why not put the two together?

I know people have put chocolate with bacon before but this was the first time I myself realized it could be done. My writing then took me to a place I call crazy-town. I decided I would attempt to write a bacon-brownie recipe with less than three minutes left in my ten-minute spill, during a class that I was hardly awake for. But I did it. And boy was it a mess. The ingredients were definitely all there, but the amounts would have made the worst possible brownie ever. When I got home I scrapped the entire recipe, except for one thing.

That one thing? Bacon grease. Brownies usually use oil, at least the ones I like do. Butter is great, you all know how much I love me some butter, but there is something about oil that makes a brownie that much richer in flavor. So in my fury of half-asleep writing I decided to substitute the oil in a typical brownie with bacon grease. Yes, I did in fact consider how many hearts I would stop with this type of recipe.

I dawdled and messed with the recipe for a couple of weeks, and then finally got the gaul to go out and buy bacon. And I decided today was the day for Salted Caramel Bacon Brownies.

First I had to fry the bacon, and preserve all of the grease. The house was filled with smoke and I swear I saw Miss Di drooling more than Tachey. I may have even drooled a bit while leaning over the stove trying to soak up all the bacon fumes.

Then later tonight after track practice I got together all my traditional dry ingredients. 1.5 cups of flour, 2 cups of sugar, 2/3 cup cocoa powder, and 1 tsp. salt.

For the wet ingredients I changed things up a bit. Because I used 1/2 cup of bacon grease, I used 1/2 cup of vegetable oil. Typically I would use four eggs, but to make up for some of my heart-disease prone friends I decided to use only two eggs and then 1/2 cup applesauce. The moisture in the applesauce is a perfect substitute and let's be honest, it counts as a fruit right? Then I mixed in 2 tsp. of vanilla. After stirring it all together and almost gagging at the site of it I just poured it in and started mixing.

And what I got from all of these funny ingredients was the darkest, richest looking batter I've seen. I've made a lot of brownies, but this batter was smoky, rich, and deep in flavor. Which of course terrified me.

But then I poured half of the batter into the pan and threw on some chopped bacon and my worries dissipated. This is after all chocolate and bacon we're talking about, right? Into the 350 degree oven for thirty minutes it went!

As the concoction baked, I attempted to make a caramel drizzle sauce. And it was a total disaster. The first step was easy. Make a simple syrup, bring to boil, and shake until it turns an amber color.

But then when I tried to add the milk, not heavy cream, which was probably my biggest mistake, the mixture basically exploded and made my kitchen smell like bacon, chocolate, AND scalded milk. Gross. And of course my simple syrup thingamabob went hard and didn't mix with the milk.

But after a little cooing and a lot more whisking, the mixture loosened up. So into the pot went some vanilla and butter. Then I got this.

Which was basically liquid caramel, but after an hour or so it started to solidify. And then I wasn't so worried about keeping these brownies completely naked. With only crumbled bacon to cover up the naughty-bits.

So with a little patience, and a little bit of melted down leftover cream cheese frosting, I eventually ended up with a sexy-topping for my already diabetes-causing brownies.

Then of course Miss Di and I just had to dig in. And here's what we found:

1. A half of a cup of bacon grease is wayyyy too much. More like a quarter cup next time.
2. Sugar content could be reduced, especially because I decided to use applesauce.
3. Bacon should be fully crisped and not have a soft center.
4. Bacon grease takes longer to bake in the oven than expected.
5. Eat with caution. And without knowing the true ingredients.

Bacon Brownies
1.5 cups flour
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup cocoa powder
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. vanilla
1/2 cup bacon grease
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup applesauce
2 eggs
3-4 strips of chopped bacon

Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl. Pour half of the batter into a greased dish. Sprinkle with bacon bits, reserving some for topping. Pour the remaining batter into the dish and bake in a 350 degree oven for 30-40 minutes, or until completely cooked in the center.

Salted Caramel Sauce

3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup water
1/2 cup milk
1 tablespoon butter
dash of salt
pour of vanilla

Combine sugar and water, bring to boil over medium-high heat. Shake the mixture until it reaches an amber color. Remove from heat and whisk in milk. Place over low heat if the sugar clumps. Add in butter and vanilla. Once combined, cook and bring to boil for 2 more minutes. Remove from heat and allow to cool before serving.

I really need to go workout tomorrow morning. Desperately.

Peace, love, and food-comas to you all,
LP

Ramblings from a rookie.

I think it's time that I write something about my newest adventure. It may not take me out the country, or even to the other side of the city...but for now I think I'm okay traveling less than a mile to the high school up the street. About two weeks ago I was offered an amazing opportunity, one I thought I had been passed by for months ago, to coach the girls' track and field team at South Miami Senior High School. As a second semester senior at UM the opportunity for a 'real job' took me by immediate surprise. The pay is slightly higher than my current part-time job and the hours are less flexible, but a little less demanding. And of course the job itself comes with many perks and a few greater difficulties.

1. There is no track at South Miami Senior High. Problem? Not really, actually. Luckily for us there is a gigantic football/soccer field that happens to be pretty oval in shape, which makes for a lovely (yet short) impromptu track. Oh, and Tropical Park is only about a mile or two away. Which makes those practices a 2 for 1 deal.

2. There is no budget for uniforms. A few years ago the team fell into some bad luck and had most of their uniforms stolen. So that means what we do have is outdated and won't cover the entire team. Luckily for me though is I spent most of my high school career trying to fundraise for marching band, JV cheerleading, Varsity cheerleading, and even sometimes for track. So I will be using a few of those tricks I have hidden up my sleeves.

3. Age difference. I was mortified to think that some of my new athletes would be barely three years younger than I am. But again, luckily for me, most of my athletes are freshmen or sophomores and the few that are seniors-- have hardly figured out just how close in age we are.

4. Experience. I've never coached a track team before. Sure I know how to put together a running program for myself or another person, but I've never truly run a track program from start to finish while trying to accommodate at least ten people. But here's where my somewhat-annoying habit of keeping everything falls into place. Not only did I write down the majority of my running workouts from high school track, but I also wrote down the majority of my lifting, running, and jumping workouts from UM. Can you say, cha-ching? 'Cause I just did. So far the pre-season workouts have been a breeze. The real task will come when I get all the basketball girls around February. But by then I should have found my stride.

So now my desk has three piles of scattered yet organized stuff. Schoolwork, baking, and track magazines. And I guess you can count the looming stack of bills as a separate, not-so-exciting, pile. Twenty-one years old and getting a taste of Part I of three dream jobs. And did I mention the pay was pretty sweet? Too bad I don't get it until the end of the season...I guess that just makes it an extra sweet graduation gift.

Enough about me and how excited I am to mold this young bunch of athletes. I want to talk about my kids now. Sorry, my young ladies and gentlemen as Coach Reinisch used to call us. I've taken a lot of his advice over the years and am trying to model his coaching style when it comes to handling the athletes...though I would hope I have a better time communicating with the ladies about their lady-questions. No offense if you're reading this, Coach!

Every team is made up of the following types of athletes: the good ones, the newbies, the attitudes, and the question marks. The good ones pay attention, try their hardest and never say never. The newbies are just as excited to be out here, but have little to no experience in what we're doing. Sometimes they can be even better than the good ones with a little time and a little more patience. The attitudes are the ones that could be great, but refuse to accept it. There are constant scowls, the 'I don't wanna do this' face, and an overall look of disgust when the coach speaks. The question marks are the ones that come in with no experience, very little obvious interest in track, yet they are the ones who probably try the hardest at every single task placed in front of them.

I will be upfront and say that I will not be using names, unless it comes to their successes at track meets. I will not allude details to any individual athlete of mine, and I will not degrade their hard work. I will however, attempt to use their successes and failures to contemplate my coaching styles, approach to practice, and overall personal attitude.

So far the practices have consisted of a lot of learning. For both them and myself. New warm-up, new drills, new way of running. New lifts, new stretches, new core work. Some of the kids have never heard of the things I throw at them, but they do it anyway. And some of the things they tell me about past practices I have never heard of. So we meet somewhere in the middle, with my say getting just a little bit more pull than theirs.

The season officially starts on Tuesday, with a thirty-minute study hall period before practice commences. I've been trying to come up with a few goals for the season, aside from making it through the entire season and not having the entire team quit on me...Maybe by Tuesday I'll have something a little more optimistic.

For now, as long as I reach them in some positive way and maybe get them a few PRs, I'll be happy.

From my running shoes to yours,
Coach Phipps

It's all in the fun.

The trick is to merely soft-boil the eggs. If you over boil them, then there is very little point to using le coquetier. To the French, hard-boiled eggs are actually just American eggs. What we call hard-boiled or diced eggs topped with salt and butter, they just consider another American "delicacy".

The real art rests with the soft-boiled egg. It's really very simple if you think about it.

1. Boil water.
2. Place egg into boiling water.
3. Wait 2-3 minutes.
4. Remove newly soft-boiled egg.
5. Place newly soft-boiled egg into le coquetier.

But then the fun begins. This is one of the first meals a child is able to eat all by themselves, fork and knife in hand. Once the hot egg is placed in its holder, you cut off le chapeau, or the hat of the egg as the French call it, and eat the top of the egg white off the inside. With most of the egg white still concealing the inner yolk, a small piece of baguette is used to break the seal and dip its way into the core--soaking up the runny yolk.

Now it's not just any old baguette. This baguette has been thoroughly salted and buttered and ripped into many small pieces...and is usually just placed on the bare table for anyone to share. Crumbs litter the table top and bits of salt find their way to the floor. But as soon as the baguette bit hits the yolk, the butter melts into the heated center and the process continues until the liquid center has been absorbed.



Luckily, the coquetier holds the egg in place. I'm sure one reason Americans choose to hard-boiled their eggs and then smash them to bits is so that parents don't have to worry about their children handling a hot, rolling egg shell. Or maybe French children, like Julien-Francois are just more sophisticated than their American peers.

As a nineteen year old exchange student, learning this common mealtime activity was very humbling to say the least. But Madame Dru walked me through every step, showing me how to cut the chapeau, prepare the baguette, and even explaining to me that because bread was once impossible to find, it is now for everyone...a major reason they just break bread and pass it all over the table. I found it a little funny when comparing it to the American practice of everyone having their own Pilsbury croissant sans another's germs.

After soaking up the precious yolk, a thin delicate spoon is used to remove the insides from the shell. The pieces of egg-white along with the occasional over-cooked egg yolk are scooped up, sometimes placed on more pieces of baguettes and slipped into the mouth.

Want to know what the typical first joke a French child tells?

When they have finished their soft-boiled egg, and all that is left inside le coquetier is an empty egg shell, they will wait until their mother's back is turned. Quickly, they flip the egg shell over, hiding the open top, revealing an unbroken side and yell out to their mother,
"Regarde maman, je n'ai pas mange mon oeuf!!"
(Look momma, I didn't eat my egg!)

And of course the mother plays along saying,
"Oh lala, c'est mal. Pourquoi est-ce que tu n'as pas mange ton oeuf?"
(Oh no, that's bad, Why didn't you eat your egg?)

Giggling with every word uttered, the child takes the small spoon and cracks open the shell, shouting with excitement,
"Je blague!"
(Just kidding!)

Well thought out, kid. Sure makes Why did the chicken cross the road? look a little silly, doesn't it?

I could find beauty anywhere.

Today after the rainstorm ended I decided to jump in the car and use the DSLR to take a few pictures at Creve Coeur Park. I'm not sure what I plan to do with them but I had a great time walking on and off the trails, snapping life as I see it through a lens.

So here's just a few sample photos from my walk through the beautiful park this afternoon. I know this isn't a "photoblog" but I thought I'd share some of my work. Enjoy.


"Calm After the Storm", Creve Coeur Park, 2010


"The Power of a Broken Heart", Creve Coeur Park, 2010


"Natural contrast at its finest moments." Creve Coeur Park, 2010


"A Daydreamer in Motion" Creve Coeur Park, 2010

The end has come.

I won't necessarily call it the end because I know it's not really the end. Something inside is telling me I will be back, with certain people, or I'll at least be able to see them. I know I'm not finished learning from Rosine's plethora of knowledge and wisdom. And I know in my heart that the Three Musketeers will be reunited in Philadelphia, or in Miami. Part of me wishes it was easier to see everyone again, but nothing in life is ever truly easy.

It's raining in Paris today. Storming actually. The first relief from the summer heat in almost three weeks. Sure it rained a little one week, but nothing like this. It always seems like when I am sad to leave a place, the sky cries with me. And it's never just a few tears and then sunshine bliss part two. It's a day long event of torturous feelings, consuming the lives of everyone. Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic, but what's Paris without a little drama?

I don't know if I can bring myself to truly believe I am leaving. Maybe it's because the end approached so quickly, none of the group could really grasp that it was in fact coming. We spent the last few days together talking about how our trip ended up circling back to where it all began.


"Tours", The Loire Valley, 2010

"It's so funny because this all started with just a couple of bottles of wine among 12 strangers in front of the Louvre and now we're ending with just a couple of bottles of wine among 12 friends in front of the Eiffel Tower along the Seine." --M.E.P.

I don't weep for leaving people behind. I weep for temporarily leaving people behind I have yet to even begin to understand. It only took a few weeks for me to fall in love with a few of them, but it will be months before we see each other again. And I can only hope that we do in fact see each other again.

Sure, I made a lot of mistakes while I was in Paris. Missed the last metro a few times, so I had to stay out all night. I slept through a couple of classes and even missed one small excursion so I could nap. But I know that I came here to figure out why I make the messes I do. I came here to understand myself just a little bit better, and to start to grasp the world around me just a little bit more as well. Not only have I learned a lot about how my mind works and why sometimes I make the mistakes I do, but I learned a lot about how the world itself functions. I could finally see how an entire city interacts, on foot, and I saw firsthand how strangers can become friends without doing so in the boundaries of a classroom.

I fell in love with a few new friends, an entire city, and a lifestyle I hope to always follow. When I arrived in Paris my heart was much smaller-- not Grinch sized, but smaller. And now as I start to leave Paris I know my heart has grown a tremendous amount. I'm not afraid to walk up to people and vice versa; I'm not afraid to be approached for directions, in fact I now welcome it. And after seeing how people suffer here, I have much for respect for the lives they lead and for the help they deserve to receive.


"La Fontaine a Saint Sulpice", Marche Bibliophile, 2010

Top 12 Events in Paris: (in no particular order)
1. Marching along the Seine at sunrise to lay down at Notre Dame.
2. Fireworks show at Saint Cloud
3. Lunches at Luxembourg Garden
4. Centre Pompidou
5. Sitting like school children in every Art Museum for Art History Class.
6. Street performances every night at Saint Michael's Fountain
7. Madame Mellado's grammar class
8. Playing/Talking in the forest at Chenonceau
9. Dancing late into the night
10. Going to Musee de l'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris with Rosine.
11. Shopping with Corinne on Rue Mouffetard
12. Sacre Coeur & Montmartre afternoon excursion


"Chere Rosine et Moi", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

To the beautiful city of Paris, you now possess a large part of my heart and even larger part of my soul. Take good care of it for me until I return.

My Amazing Hippie House Mom

Rosine is an incredible woman. Very thoughtful, intelligent, well-spoken and respectful. We knock every time we want to enter a room, but at the same time, when I may have accidentally walked into the unlocked salle de bains while she was getting out of the shower, she was okay with it and said I need not apologize. She just illuminates grace and comfort in every sort of way.

When I was sick, she gave me three kinds of cough drops, when I got stitches she took me to the pharmacy to get better supplies to wash my wounds, and had the pharmacist re-wrap my stitches after we had been walking along the Seine. And she will cook for me whenever, even though I don't ask her to. I can genuinely tell she wants to teach me, not talk down to me for my very simple mistakes.


"A Warm Welcome", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

And while her outlook on life is at a different point than where I find myself, I can very easily see my future ressembling hers. She is not active in politics, but she holds very strong opinions on how the world functions and what could be changed. We had a fifteen minute conversation about how silly it was that people spend their whole lives trying to pay off a mortage, when having a roof over your head is probably the single most important thing you need in life. And we talked about how globalization has completely diminished the lives of small farmers, who work their entire lives to provide for their families. But with importing and exporting goods taking over every market system, it becomes impossible for them to stand on their own two feet.


"Les Escaliers", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

Today we had an afternoon date planned to go the Modern Art Museum of Paris, and possibly Palais Tokyo, an industrial art museum with a pretty funky twist. I came back from class to take a nap since I haven't been sleeping well with my stitches. Rosine said, ok, bonne sieste and I'll see you soon. Around 3 pm she meekly walked into my room and said, "Excusez-moi Lauren, je vous revez." Looking at my clock I realized I overslept by an hour and immediately got up. She told me to take my time because she was preparing some meat for us to eat before we left.

Meat = hamburger + tomato salad = nomnoms.

So we leave around 3:45, after she made sure I thoroughly cleaned my stitches of course, and set off to find her car. It took us about thirty minutes and three cigarettes later to find her car. We were on the verge of aborting the mission and taking the bus when we turned on one final rue. The whole time we talked about her neighbors and her childhood, and Elisa's half sister. It was nice to just walk around the streets and hear her talk while she strutted along in her Birkenstock sandals and black flowing skirt with a long matching sheer top.

Wind blowing through our hair, Rosine showed me a few places on our way across the Seine. We talked about anglacismes, idiomatic phrases, and pollution. When we got to the Modern Art Museum we realized the permanent collection was a look-alike or a second-hand collection, meaning certain artists mimicked other works of art. It was pretty interesting to see different interpretations of famous Matisse paintings, or Warhol prints, or even Pollock tosses of paint. And the whole time, Rosine would look at one, guess the name and run up to the sign to see if she was right. And she was about 99.99999% of the time. We went through the whole museum in about an hour, but somehow discussed nearly every d'oeuvre.


"Le the et les noix.", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

After sharing a Diet Coke on the Terrace we stepped into Palais Tokyo to look at the funky gift shops. She bought me a 1Euro postcard that has the name "Aurore" written in graffiti on the front. Then she took me to a pharmacist and bought me new cleanser for my arm and made sure my dressings were clean enough. We walked along the Seine for a few minutes and discussed how I can get back to this area tomorrow for class. The evening was so nice, we even got to see a little garden at the back of the museum. On our way home we stopped at a supermarche for some things for dinner. It was a very light selection; some endives with pears, seeds, ham and olive oil. Then peaches with ice cream for dessert. Wonderfully simple.

Elisa got home after we finished dinner so we caught up for a few minutes and discussed the permanent collection we had just seen. And she asked me about my adventure filled weekend and if everything turned out okay. Rosine made a joke that everything bad happened when she left, and I said, "Oui, aujord'hui a Sweet Briar, j'ai dit que quand ma mere d'acceuil est partie, l'enfer est arrive! C'est comme, when mom leaves for the weekend, all hell breaks loose!" She laughed and said, "and so it goes..." (Is she not perfect or what for making a Vonnegut reference?)

When Elisa left the kitchen Rosine told me this beautiful story about when the French had a fete for the Americans after WWII when they sent thank you gifts to the States. Each gift had a name and address of the family who sent it. Her mother just so happened to send a doll of some kind, and there was an American woman who sent her a letter, asking where she could find one because she had a daughter, who happened to be about Rosine's age at the time, who wanted one. Instead of just writing back a response to find the doll, Rosine's mother sent the woman a doll of her own and they soon became pen-pals. In the late 1950's, Rosine's father traveled to the states and actually met the woman. But her mother never did. And until the two died, they continued to write each other, telling stories of their lives in the kitchen and around the family. One Christmas, Rosine told me she received a great package with things she had never seen before. One-piece pajama sets with footies, Rice Krispie treats, Popcorn, etc. She said it arrived a few weeks before Christmas but she had to wait, but it always stood out in her mind. I thought it was beautiful that Rosine's mother found such a great hobby to start, and that she was able to create a wonderful friendship that lasted until death. That would be so hard to do today, there are no more celebrations of countries helping one another, no connections made between absolute strangers. It's a different time now though.


"L'amour est un caillou riant dans le soleil.", Jardin du Luxembourg, 2010

Then we moved on to talking about her wall of memories. For 15 years she has built this wonderful wall, and I was envious for a few weeks because she was keeping these memories to herself. But tonight, I had the pleasure of going through just one set of keepsakes on the wall. We took down a small handbag full of old tickets and notes from the past years. I was happy to see this because I have been saving my movie theater, museum, and theater tickets for years. Seeing her face light up when she pulled each ticket or handout from inside the purse was priceless. She would quickly pick up her green-framed glasses from the chain hanging on her neck, place them on her nose, and say to herself, "C'est quoi ca....OH! Je sais! Oh, c'est incroyable!" And then the story would start. For nearly an hour she dove into past adventures, surprises for her children, and even little notes she wrote herself from a series of photographs she once went and saw.

One quote stood out to me, "You are not the only who is lonely." I couldn't read the signature beside the quote, but it reminded me of one of To Write Love on Her Arm's creedos: "You are not alone." So I got to tell her all about the organization I try to help out with, and how its for suicide prevention. She thought it was great and she seemed surprised to hear me say I helped out with a non-profit organization, probably because I already have so much on my plate.

We talked, and talked, and every time her eyes lit up, I felt mine light up. I thought to myself, This is really someone I want to be there when I walk down the aisle, when I publish my first book of short stories, and someone I'd like to send photos too every few months. After a day like this, who would want to leave Paris so soon?


"Hoarders Paradise", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

Childhood is calling.

I love seeing other people enjoy themselves and the people around them. It's like hearing a secret, or getting to watch something truly amazing. Little kids running around wild brighten my day, but in addition to those moments where their chocolate covered faces are screaming, and they're kicking at pigeons, I look at their parents or the adults around them. They all have this same look in their eyes, but it's one that's masked with fear-- with maturity. Somewhere deep down they know they want to get up and run around with this little wonder. But instead, they sit idly, thinking about the childhood they once possessed.

Childhood is calling.

Last night I climbed a statue on the street and sat on it's lap. People walked by, some gave confused looks, but others smiled and understood I was just imitating the figure. I jumped down off of it and skipped up to catch up with my friends. But I Elf-hopped across the cross-walk. Drunk? No way. And I hate that that even has to be a question, or that's just the thought that comes across someone's mind when they see a 19 year old climbing statues, or chasing pigeons. "Oh, that girl must be on drugs", or, "I bet she's had a little too much to drink tonight."


"Fountain at Luxembourg", Parisian Gay Pride Parade, 2010

My childhood is always calling.

I say hi to people when they step on to the metro. I look at them with girlish wonder, trying to figure out where they've come from and where they might be going. Maybe if more people in the world would just listen to their inner child they wouldn't be so grumpy, so afraid to open up.

The ultimate childhood called last night.

The fountain at Saint Michel was filled with rose scented bubbles. And everyone, I mean everyone was running around, throwing bubbles at each other. The funniest group of people out of everyone was a mother, possibly grandmother, her two black cocker spaniels and a four year old boy. At first the dogs, who were hooked to a double-leash, got away so the woman chased them part way up Boulevard Saint Michel and left the boy to play with the bubbles. When she got back, she tossed one of the dogs in to cover the black coat with the white foam. When the boy got a little smart and tossed some bubbles on her, she coyly led him over to the fountain...and pushed him in! His look of utter astonishment wil never fade from my mind. And what followed his look was even funnier, the woman ran away, giggling, leash in hand, to hide from the boy who had already scooped up an arms' full of bubbles snd was on his way for retaliation.

If that wasn't the perfection example of giving in to a childish urge, then I don't know what is. I only hope to maintain my childlike spirit for as long as possible, playing pranks on my friends and family, seeing the beauty in everything in life and never stopping my search for happiness.


"Running Child", Centre Pompidou, 2010

Nostalgia.

The phrase "wake up slow" has never really been something I understood. Sure I sleep in sometimes, but I never really allow myself to just lay in bed and absorb the world around me. This morning, however, I was greeted with a beautiful beam of sunshine around 8 am. It wasn't the kind of sunshine that blinds your sensitive eyes upon opening them. The rays were gentle, warming and beautiful. I turned to look out my window and saw the day had already begun, but there were no hustle and bustle sounds outside. There was a calm, serene feeling. So I moved myself a little bit to let the sun rest on my face, and blinking a few times I wondered if I looked like a Black and White actress who had just been awakened by her true love. Batting my eyes like a starlet, I smiled and turn over on my side to feel the sun on my back.

Facing the corner, I saw the sun didn't just stop on the small of my back, it was shining over me, projected onto my white wall, broken into little drops of sunshine as it came through my lace curtains. Moving my body once a little once more, I felt my face illuminate and I smiled again, falling back to sleep.

I wake up an hour or so later, and realize it's Saturday. If any day is a perfect day for waking up slow, it's Saturday. My agenda for the day, get lost in Centre Pompidou and look at every piece of Modern Art that catches my eye. The other piece of agenda, capture every moment of Parisian weekend life I can. There's less than 7 days left in my adventure, and while I've taken full advantage of every opportunity that has come my way, part of me thinks there is still more to be uncovered.

I won't lie and say I'm excited to return to the states. Sure, I'm excited to see my friends and family, and play with my dogs, but as far as living in the U.S. goes, I can't pretend like I feel at home there anymore. There's a major difference in feeling accepted by your friends and family and feeling at ease in a city surrounded by strangers. I could never leave my family behind, but I didn't realize how differently I live my life compared to the people in Miami. The University is great, but I realized that I constantly tell myself the fast paced life of Miami is too much for me, it's not my style. And then I just kind of laugh it off and move onto a new subject. But I can't keep ignoring that. The drivers are not nice, you can't stop and talk to a stranger for more than 30 seconds to ask for directions, and you certainly can't just spend 2 hours in a little restaurant with a friend. And I can't think of many places in the U.S. that you can do that.

I love my country, and I love the people in it, but everyday I am here, I realize there was a huge piece of me missing. It's the piece I've been searching for since I was old enough to make my own decisions. The piece of me that's been missing this whole time is a connection with other human beings that's more than just passing each other by on the street. I'm not saying the French are the most friendly people in the world, but people aren't afraid to ask you for a lighter, a cigarette, which metro is closest, etc. People in bars are genuninely interested in what you're doing in Paris, what kinds of things you've done. There's no one way street here, everything is personal and shared.

Okay, so not everyone here is as peace and love, recycling is awesome, and free-spirited as I am. But they get it. They don't mock it, and they see the genuine love in my eyes when I talk about my tattoos, or when I talk about political issues in America and attempt to explain how not every American agrees with the war. They can see a more passionnate side of a younger person, and its refreshing to be valued as an equal here, and not a minor, or just a student with sometimes radical beliefs.

I know I said I would try to find myself along the way, and I knew that was a bold statement to make with just 5 weeks to do so. But looking back after only 4 weeks in Europe, I really have found myself. It's not just wishful thinking when I say I want to change the world one heart at a time, it's a creedo. It's my creedo. And I think it is safe to say I have sufficiently started that process here in Paris, with my own heart and maybe a couple hearts around me.

To the Americans who I've been so lucky to meet, I hope we can stay in touch. And to the Parisians I've quickly become great friends with, and who look out for me at night, or who smile at me when I walk by the fountain, I hope I can look back at these places in a year or five years, or thirty years and know that I changed their life for the better, and they changed mine as well.

Noontime next Saturday I will be making my way to the airport, with a tear in my eye and a bag full of memories.

Those Familiar Baby Blues

There are few things in life more comforting than a big pair baby eyes staring up at you from inside of a stroller. And when those happy, sparkling eyes are paired with a toothless grin and a sometimes stuck out tongue, the combination is impossible to resist.

Today when I stepped on the Metro at Chatelet to go to Centre Pompidou, I noticed a younger woman struggling to get situated with her normal sized red stroller. The baby inside was fussing a little, but nothing alarming. So she bounced the stroller a little bit to get him to calm down, and she tried to hang a jacket over the edge of the stroller to maybe block whatever was in his visual perameters-- just typical Mom things to do to make your baby calm down. I hadn't seen her little boy yet as the stroller was facing away from me, but I could tell by his soft whimpers and almost playfully toned cries, he wasn't a pain in the butt baby I've seen a lot of lately.

But soon a few more passengers stepped on, politely moving past the woman and her baby, never looking into the stroller to note the precious cargo eyeing every one who passed by. A few bumped the stroller and quickly said, "Pardon" or "Je m'excuse" but after that, their days continued. The paper still had to be read, a metro-appropriate novel was flipped open, and iPhones were pulled out for entertainment. Since this was the first stop on the Line 11 Metro at Chatelet, I assumed a lot of the passengers had a long way to go.

When the doors shut, the Mom had the opportunity to resituate herself once everyone else had either taken a seat, or who, like me, grabbed onto a pole and just eased into the ride. As she moved the stroller around, I subtly changed my position on the train so I could peer inside to get a look at what was making such cute sounds.

I peeked around the corner of the stroller cover and was greeted by these large blue baby eyes. But these weren't just any blue eyes. Most of the time, when someone says "baby blue" you think of a very light, but brightly toned, blue. Almost like sky blue but with more color variation because it's an eye. These were not baby blue. Well, they were baby blue, but not baby blue. Instead, they had this richer quality to them, with subtle hints of grey and darker blue. But the grey helped maintain their lightness quality, rather than being a darker blue like most adults have. They were simply gorgeous.

After already being thrown off by him having such mature looking eyes, I realized the metro had suddenly become much quieter when we locked glances. His mouth closed, and he just breathed softly. Of course I smiled a little, wondering how this baby could stare at me for so long with such amazement. I couldn't tell if he was a subtly flirting baby, or if he was intrigued by me, but I could tell he was deep in thought. So I stuck my tongue out and watched as he opened his mouth a little bit as if to mimick my motion. Not quite to that age though. So then I expected a little giggle, or something along the lines of flirting. Instead he just closed his mouth again and recommenced the stare.

Almost afraid his mother would think I was staring at her child for too long, I looked away every few seconds, all the while the little one maintained his stare. I couldn't help but think it was a sign, and a great one at that. You can't ever go wrong with a pair of baby blues, so it must be a great sign. And I know in my heart it's a great sign I can carry with me.

And like I said, there are few things more comforting than a pair of baby eyes, and while that's true-- there are few things more inspirational than a sign of fate on the metro. The metro stop I got off at approached far too soon, because all I wanted to do was figure out what he was trying to tell me. But I decided I had figured out enough, waved to him goodbye and wished his mother good health as I stepped off the train and into the Parisian wind. I knew it would be a great start to an even greater afternoon.

Good ol' baby blues.

The Rain in France

The rain here isn't like it is at home. Sure there are grey clouds covering the sky that cast shadows on murky puddles, and people bustle down the street with their rain jackets and umbrellas just the same. But I've noticed in Paris the rain just doesn't drip down on top of umbrellas and rooftops, it falls on the heads of a countless number of homeless people. We can all spot a homeless man on the street. They have the "typical look", long hair, a couple of missing or damaged teeth, and tattered layered clothing. There's usually a bottle in a paper bag sitting next to him on one side and either a cup for donations or a dog on his other. It's not a hard scene to find.

What I think a lot of people don't notice while they hurry along the street to their corner office buildings is that the rain only affects their life for a moment. Maybe ten minutes at the most. Between taking public transportation and wearing some kind of rain gear, they only get wet for a very short amount of time. I personally like walking in the rain, there's something refreshing about such a pure element falling on top of me I can't help but smile. I generally don't walk into a building after choosing to walk bare-headed in the rain complaining about the weather and how my hair is ruined. Hair never falls the same way twice so why would I expect it to stay the way I place it before leaving my room? It's not a feasible request.

But for someone who doesn't have a brush, access to a haircut, or maybe not even a secure cover from the rain, the homeless have a much bigger say in how the rain affects their lives. So, while people run down the street, newspaper in hand, racing to catch the bus that's about to leave, even though the next one will inevitably arrive in three minutes time, they cease to notice the suddenly greater number of homeless people wandering the street. They wander without shoes, sometimes with soaking wet socks, looking for a vendor who will allow them to rest on the stoop for a few minutes. Most of the restaurant and grocery store owners look them up and down and tell them to move on. The parks aren't dry enough to sit under a tree and all of the benches are exposed to the crying skies.

At the end of La Rue du Val de Grace, there is a homeless man I have seen every day since the day I arrived who sits on the bench all day long. Sometimes he stands up to stretch his legs, or is laying down taking a nap. But when he begins to greet someone, or lay his head down, something strange takes over his body. I'm not sure if it was from an accident, a disease, or what-- but his head cocks to the side and almost rotates his chin clear up to the sky. The first time I saw it, I was a little scared but then I took a closer look and realized he is smiling the whole time. I'm sure it's so he doesn't scare people walking by, but I see something more genuine about his smile. It could just be how I see the world in general, but the past few days I've felt bad because I know the cafe owner doesn't necessarily want him sitting on the bench next to his establishment, but it's clear this man isn't an insane drinker and has nowhere else to go. So this morning I saw him walking around while I ran by, his socks were soaked, and it was evident his coat had been rained on all night long. But he just paced the street, wearing a dry smile.

Walking back up the road to school I stopped in a Boulangerie and ordered a Croissant au beurre and a Croissant au chocolat. I paid the man 1.80 Euros and grabbed the paper bag. Stepping back out into the rain, I opened my umbrella to protect my iPod and felt the warmth of the bag in my hands. I started to smile a little as a Brett Dennen song started, "Aint No Reason". It's a very, very powerful song, and usually has the ability to bring tears to my eyes with just one line. But it's inspiring nonetheless. So I told myself it had to be a good sign the song came on shuffle as I was about to give this man some breakfast.

I turned the corner and touched his shoulder and said, "Bonjour Monsieur, c'est un croissant au beurre et un croissant au chocolat que j'ai achete pour vous." He started to grab the bag and asked me to repeat myself. So I did and he replied, "Ah, merci mademoiselle c'est gentil mais non je ne peux pas les accepter." My heart sank and I replied with "Non, ce sont les croissants pour vous. S'il vous plait, il pleut maintenant, je voudrais vous aider un peu." And it went on for a few more seconds until he placed the bag back in my hands and held them for a second as he thanked me again.

There aint no reason things are this way, it's how they always been and they intend to stay. So I held the bag of croissants and walked away from the man. My heart continued to drop and I felt tears well up. I understand he probably felt like a charity case, but it's those times when I feel the most helpless. Not that I'm helpless, but that I don't know what to do to make a difference. Maybe it's silly to think that I can change a person's life by buying them one meal for one day.

The wind blows wild and I may move, the politicians lie and I am not fooled. You don't need no reason or a three piece suit to argue the truth. It seems overwhelming at times to think that just one person can make a difference, can reach out and change something. Today feels like one of those days. The rain rolls down the window of my classroom, my apartment room-- my shelter. But what about those who aren't as fortunate as I am? The rain rolls down their damp clothing, their faces, and when it reaches the roots on their scalp it sends chills down their spine.

Two croissants don't change much in the eyes of a homeless man and maybe that was his reasoning for not accepting them. I'm a firm believer in Aesop's quote, "No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted." And maybe it's easier for someone who has belongings, a shelter to run to from the cold, and the ability to perform such small acts of kindness, to see how successful they can be. But in the eyes of someone who has nothing, and who wouldn't be able to return the favor, the croissants might taste bitter. It's like when Charlie opened the chocolate bar present and didn't find a golden ticket. It wasn't an answer to his problems, it was just a bar of chocolate. Bitter, and almost useless.

So the rain continues to fall, and the number in my head grows as I count more and more homeless people walking down the street, holding themselves closer to keep warm each time a cold drop hits their body. Hopefully the sun will come out, even if just for a few minutes to warm the heart and soul of those who need it the most.

I can't explain why we live this way, we do it every day.

Love, Truth, Beauty & Knowing.

Day 1: I have decided that there are few things in life that are more entertaining or more exciting to see than watching your 79 year old, almost 80 year old Grandmother remove her shoe, pull her knee up to her chin & tap her foot to realign her meridian...while sitting on the window seat of a 7-hour flight. Gotta love those anti-jet lag exercises. The idea is to tap on acupuncture points for a minute, based on your starting and arrival time-zones. And you perform this every two hours, changing the point on the body as the time changes. But I digress, back to my grandmother bending her leg the same way her 19 year old granddaughter is doing. Surely the German guys sitting next to us, returning home from a Las Vegas trip, are thinking we're crazy Americans, but then again, the one sitting directly across from me has been asleep on his buddy's shoulder in such an intimate way for the past two hours. So who's really crazy here?

"Oh would you look at that swagger? Holy mackerel!" --Grandma Pidge
Did my Grandma just use swagger the way it's meant to be used? Yes, yes she did. The first class seats on the flight to Zurich resembled something out of an Austin Powers movie, and I half expected one to spin around, revealing Doctor Evil, pinky at mouth, stroking his cat. The dome-like seat with extra leg room gave the first-class cabin this ultra-modern feel. We ooed and awed a little and made our way to 36A & 36B.

We pull out our novels, and stow away our bags. Hmm, I've got a Ted Bell novel, and she has a John Grisham...and did we both just place our bags in between the seats so we can prop our feet up later on? Spooky. So the flight takes off and we get our pretzels, drinks, and eventually the dinner comes out and a movie pops on the screen. I can't sleep. Not out of excitement, but rather this maternal instinct takes over whenever I'm with a grandparent and I want to be fully alert if something should happen. So I let her sleep and I watch part of a movie and just close my eyes so they won't be strained when we arrive in Vienna around noon. I've been travelling since 9 am central time. It was now 8 pm and we had 6 hours to go just to get to Zurich...

The sunset was majestic. Shades of pink, orange and purple were mixed together, creating a wonderful work of art high above the clouds. And then-- darkness. A few stars speckled the night sky, and every once in a while a distant red jet light was seen blinking through the night. But what was truly beautiful was the sunrise. Never have I seen such a sunrise, and it started just as breakfast was being served. Streams of deep red light rose from underneath the plane, but the cloud-line hid much of the show, leaving my imagination to run wild, wondering how much the world below me could be enjoying the view. A few minutes passed and the red stream rose higher yet, and a deeper orange began to show beneath it. The sky suddenly seemed to glow, in a peaceful way. Not in a deadly fume, mushroom cloud sort of way. The clouds parted a little bit, revealing the blue depths of the ocean and the colors continued to blend through the skyline. The yellows were playfully added into the deep oranges and the red rose further into the sky, fading to a dull pink above the plane. Then, as breakfast was being cleared the sun peaked its head over the wing of the plane, revealing it's brightness and splendor. Kind of makes you wanna buy property 7 miles above the ocean. If you ever get the chance to be flying slightly south but going east, during a sunrise, take that opportunity and soak it all in. A couple of hours later we were starting our descent into Zurich, Switzerland. And you would not believe how fairy tale like the land looked from 10,000 feet in the air. Little villages appeared to be painted along a vast scenery of farmland and dirt roads leading to new farmland and smaller villages. Tiny cars moved along the dirt paths and the Swiss Alps in the background pieced the work of art together. Surely fairy tales take place here everyday. All I could think was how lucky I was to be flying in over such a quaint little area, with the Alps painting a beautiful background along the way.

Zurich to Vienna was just the same, every hill and dirt road just captivated my every thought. And the car ride to the hotel, along the Danube canal was just breathtaking. While my grandma scoffed a little at the graffiti taking over the surrounding walls of the canal, I tried to catch a closer look at the detail of the graffiti, taking in this new culture with every kilometer we drove. The main road to get to Habsburgergasse where our hotel (Pertschy) is located in the center of Graben, the town square, looks like a more inviting version of the Champs Elysee in Paris. Some name brand stores, but mostly little boutiques and specialty shops lined the street with a myriad of people making their way to unknown destinations.

The hotel entrance is in the little alleyway, big enough for one car to pass at a time. Our driver let us out, and helped us with our bags into the teeny-tiny elevator. TIf you stand in the courtyard he is parked in, and look up, a square shaped balcony surrounds you, for 5 stories up. The check-in is on the 1st floor, which is actually the 2nd in US homes, and our room is on the 3rd floor, or the 4th in the US. Our door opens out onto the balcony and if we look down we see the courtyard and every other balcony of the hotel. People stand out there sipping coffee, or smoking a cigarette, enjoying the cool 12 degree Celsius breeze. And the room is just charming. Not exactly what Grandma had hoped for, but that's what happens when they renovate the room you've been staying in for the past 20 years. The walls are white, and there is a dresser with matching closet, and classic molding outlines the doors of the closet and the drawers. Little flowers dance along the edges and the legs are all the classic European shape. The bedding is a light yellow, and each bed looks like combination of a cot and a twin sized bed. Extremely comfortable, just petit. And the bathroom, ooh the bathroom. There is a step up to get into the white-tiled room. There's a deep set sink with a few different knobs for adjustments, a hanging toilet with two options for flushing and the bathtub is just to die for. I've never seen one like it in America. The tub is long enough to lie down in, without having to bend your knees...And there's a nice little fogged window that sits about halfway down the tub to give extra privacy. Cozy and beautiful is the only way to describe the room.

Enough about the hotel and the room though. Onto Vienna :)

I'm still trying to memorize the 12 letter names of places, but I got smart and decided to gather a few souvenirs to help me remember. We started the day out at an Italian restaurant for a light lunch. I ordered an asparagus salad with chicken and when I tried to add a little pepper the whole thing dumped out onto my plate! So the waiter kindly brought me a new one and away we went. Then Grandma showed me this wonderful sculpture that was crafted during the Middle Ages when the Plague was affecting all of Europe, and especially Vienna at this time. The sculpture was intended to be a gift for God, in His honor, and in return he would stop the plague. So there is a scene of people dying on top of one another with gold inscriptions and honoring all around. Then we walked to the underground transportation system and bought tickets for the week. The tickets not only work on the Uriban, but the streetcars and busing system as well. Coming out on the other side of the Uriban station we just walked into, we stopped in front a giant Cathedral and laughed a little as tourists snapped shots of the gothic structure. And by we, I mean Grandma. Hey, I'm a tourist too after all, right? Then again, I have a gazillion pictures of the cathedrals in Paris so I didn't need many of this one :)

Then we took a streetcar tour of the little city, noting how the History Museum & Art Museum face one another. And then we saw the famous Opera house, and all its splendor. What I didn't know was that the front piece is the only original section, because during the war, the Americans bombed the Opera house, leaving little left to preserve. I started to nod off a little bit on the ride back, so Grandma suggested we go to her favorite little cafe where she usually gets her 4 o'clock coffee and the occasional pastry. So we sat down, and I ordered a Einspanner (one shot of German coffee with whipped cream) and Grandma got Viennese coffee, I believe. I noticed the whipped cream in Vienna, is actual whipped cream, not vanilla extract, sugary, whipped cream. So this was the first time I truly enjoyed espresso in its full form. And I let Grandma pick the pastry we were to share, expecting something small, with little sugar and no gluten to accommodate her dietary needs. Low and behold, the waitress comes out with this chocolate dome...I'm wondering what's inside when Grandma licks her lips and cracks the dome in half. The dome is solid chocolate mousse. I guess Grandma didn't lose her sweet-tooth after all! I noticed the chocolate was rich was but not unbearingly so. Maybe there's not a stick of butter involved in the preparation of this dessert like in Paris, or my house. So we sat, listened to a few lady's conversations, trying to pick up bits of the German language intertwined with the French language, and then headed back to the hotel for some rest.

Around 6 we got our jackets back on and headed to dinner. A place called Gosser Bierklinik, this dark pub/restaurant. Since we had eaten plane food and a light lunch/dessert already, we decided on a small but hearty dinner. So looking over the menu, I recognized Gosser on the drinks list. I asked Grandma if they brewed their own beer and she said well yes I guess so, since they call this place the Beer Clinic! So I said alright, well I guess I will order myself one to try....realizing how bold this statement probably sounded coming from a 19 year old's mouth first day in Vienna, I quickly added the old, If that's okay with you, onto the end of my sentence. "Well sure, we're not driving and I'm not responsible for your underage drinking, and they won't care anyway!" So I ordered my Gosser Spezial and the waiter was surprised I ordered the small size, and just one. Must be a pretty good beer then! I ordered a Hungarian stew called Goulash and Grandma ordered a cheese/spinach souffle, which in the end we decided was a quiche. And miraculously enough, the spicy Goulash was complimented nicely by the light Gosser beer. So it ended up being a lovely evening! And when I got back to the hotel, after calling Evan and Mom on the payphone in the Uriban station, I found out the rooms have WiFi, so I will be able to keep up with emails and research on common phrases.

So far I've learned how to greet someone with a sort of blessing which is used in everyday life, how to properly say I'll see you later when you leave and then of course Danke. It's not pretty, but its getting there. One baby step at a time.

And right now, nothing sounds better than soaking in the tub for a while, finishing up Hawke and then maybe, just maybe reading a chapter or two of this new book I've been working on the past few weeks :)

So, as Willy Wonka says to Mrs. Gloop, "Adieu. Aufwiedersehen. Gesundheit. Farewell."

(for now.)