Loving (only) the idea of you.

So this is what happens when you take a three and a half hour nap...inspiration and thought. I had forgotten how comforting the quietness of night can be. For many years I found myself swaddled in darkness, yet afraid of the Universe. But one night we went walking and three things happened. The first, was a shooting star passed overhead-- the first I had seen as an aware young adult. So of course I took this as a sign of fate that we were somehow destined to be on this walk together. I in turn wished for your love. (Now, six years later I am remembering the phrase, 'Be careful what you wish for.') While you did in fact later love me, I believe that that very wish which forced you to love me, blinded my ability to see and feel what real love was. That passing star and subsequent wish lead me to wishing on every future star, never fully-able to be content with what I had. I previously mentioned that three things happened on this fateful night. The first, the darkened shooting star. The second, the birth of 'star-planet'. The reddish glow of what I believed to be a star of my very own was your first opportunity to point out harshly that I was wrong, and it was in fact a planet. What seemed to be specially placed in the sky for me was in fact the birth of a symbol of your constant criticism. But I, the ever-naive and optimistic teenager, took this disagreement as another sign of how you were meant to love me. But the wish I cast on that shooting star and the birth of star-planet did not create the picture-perfect romance I predicted. They were instead the backdrop to a mini-universe of chaos, pain, and suffering...a fact I would not realize for nearly four more years. The third thing that happened during this midnight walk was the moment when I convinced myself you were someone I should love. I had asked the universe for your love, but I had not asked to be able to love you. Instead, I fell in love with the idea of loving you. We were two jaded, bruised, and scarred individuals who had no business being in love; but I was convinced you could love me and I could love you...and in the end, we would save each other. For two painful years, I found myself cursing the stars and wishing for a lost happiness, without realizing I was never meant to love you; I was never meant to find happiness with you. As I gazed up at tonight's sky, I reflected on the person I was six years ago and compared her to the person I am today. I no longer wish on stars. I no longer vie for love. I am content walking among the stars alone or in the company of my wonderful husband and dog. The love I have for my husband was not concocted on a wish, it was found at first-sight...the best kind of fate; and over time it grew deeply within each of us individually and as a pair. While it may seem ideal to wish for love on a shooting star, you are never certain of what you may end up with. I find it best to just leave it to fate.

Love, food, and roller coasters.

It's 4 pm and I've hardly begun my homework. My mind simply cannot wrap itself around Anna Gavalda and her world-renound French nouvelles. Thoughts of roller coasters and theme park food race through my mind. Not to mention the close game of put-put that ended just hours ago. For his 25th birthday, Evan and I drove up to Orlando for a mini-vactaion. We spent two wonderful days at Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure. At first it seemed silly that neither of us had been there before, at twenty and twenty-five years old. But somehow, I'm almost glad I waited this long to go. I was able to spend the time with my best friend, acting like children on rides I would have been too scared to go on a few years back.

Sporting torn up red Chuck Taylors and a hot-pink Minnie Mouse fanny-pack, I set out with Evan to explore the depths of Islands of Adventure. Our favorite ride ended up being the first one we got in line for...The Hulk. I of course had to do the famous Wind-Clap he does in the movie...only I did it in public and without the same result. Needless to say, Evan was mildly embarrassed, but he covered it up well with the giggle and side-smile he shot my way on the way to the next ride. Making our way through the Toon Lagoon, we went on a few water rides. And the giggles didn't stop from there on out.

A hop skip and jump landed us into Jurassic Park Island, a place I had been dreaming about since we started planning this trip. At last, I would get to see a real dinosaur! Pulling Evan through the park, I assured him real dinosaur would pop out at any point in time so he better be on the lookout. To keep me from losing hope, he pulled me into a gift shop about midway through and showed me a few "real" dinosaurs. I wasn't impressed. I almost asked an employee where they kept the dinosaur eggs, but she was so enthralled by the split ends in her hair I didn't want to bother her with such a scientifically important question. Checking out the map, we decided we would only see a real dino on the water ride, which took us through the real Jurassic Park. But the line was over 70 minutes long, and we HAD to get to Harry Potter World.

First things first. They make you walk entirely too far around Harry Potter World to actually enter it. But it's absolutely worth it. Even Evan was impressed! The snow-covered buildings and castle are a perfect enough for me replica of what I envision/what is seen in the movie. Every one is dressed in character and they have their lines down to a tee. I of course got a Butterbeer, Evan got his celebratory big-boy beer and we set off to explore the grounds.

Sidenote: I must mention that this blog will be incomplete for a while because I decided to go old-school on my photography this weekend. All photos were taken with a disposable camera for full-on tourist effect. Therefore, it will be a while before I can post any photos.

Deciding the lines were too long for an afternoon adventure, we made a vow to wake up extra early in the morning to ride the Harry Potter rides and we pressed on to Dr. Seuss Land. And OH what a place that was! Clearly made for children, the entire Island is decked out in swirled scenery with pastel trees and fuzzy characters walking around. Their slushies are named Goose Juice and Moose Juice and they even has a store dedicated to selling all of the Dr. Seuss stories I grew up reading. The place is simply magical. I couldn't imagine a better design for that Island.

Of course I'm doing this place zero justice with my words, but what I can describe is the comforting feeling I'm taking away from this weekend. It's not only the comfort of spending 48 hours alone with my boyfriend, doing only the things we want to do with little to no responsibility, but it is the comfort of knowing I can take vacations, I can plan out what I'd like to do. And it can be fun, not hectic and confusing. This weekend I was able to be a kid 24/7, giggle at being splashed by dirty water, get scared by a dark roller-coaster and eat whatever I want without feeling guilty. And more importantly, I was able to share the weekend with someone I love very much. And even after knowing him for so long, I was able to see a shiny new side of him, one that relates to my inner-child more than I could have imagined.

Until next time...peace, love, and butterbeer.

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?

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.