I've been busy working and running around in circles -- literally. Have you ever woken up one morning and thought, I think I'll run a marathon? I had one of those mornings a couple of weeks ago, and after mulling it over, I signed up for the Madrid Half Marathon. I can't decide if I'm crazy for doing this or just overly confident. I'm going to go with crazy. If I don't cross the finish line on a stretcher, maybe I'll sign up for the whole thing next year.
Maybe.
So I've been squeezing five-mile runs into my routine (I didn't even KNOW I could run five miles!) and eating healthy. I feel great, so even if my finish time is shameful, that's fine by me.
I've also been teaching myself how to use iMovie. It's no longer an ignored icon on my dashboard. Sure, I can write about the places I see and people I meet, but sometimes, I just have to show you.
So here's Paris and Madrid.
Have you seen "Up in the Air?" I loved it, even the twist at the end. I need to learn how to pack like George Clooney's character.
It's getting warmer here in Madrid. I've never looked forward to spring and summer so much in my life. I can't wait to wear sandals and sunglasses again. I can't remember what it's like to leave home without a coat. Los Angeles, you spoiled me.
(Thank you all for the fashion advice! Now if I could only get you all on speed dial...)
I'm pretty sure that 99.9 percent of my handful of readers are females. Hello, ladies! I NEED YOUR HELP.
(Hey, but if you're male, your opinions are still welcome, kind sirs!)
What would you wear if you were going to meet LOTS of English-speaking friends of friends from all over Spain next Sunday?
I have the dress and I bought a pair of black heels for 9€ at H&M today (the last in my size!) but I'm new to the whole matching your tights to your shoes and everything else without being too matchy matchy thing.
(Aaaaand I just lost all my male readers).
Basically, I can't decide between wearing pink tights or black tights. I believe this is called a First World Dilemma.
Back in LA when I wasn't sure if I was pushing the envelope, I'd knock on my sister's door and turn for her. She'd say "yes," NO!' or my favorite, "uhhhh." We also developed a rating system. You should always be a 10. Or aim for a 9, at the very least.
Because my sister is no longer down the hall but on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, I emailed her pictures. Her reply was succinct: "no, no, no, no."
Really? You're SHOOTING DOWN the HOT! PINK! TIGHTS? HAVE YOU NO HEART?
I suspect she's right about it being "too much", but she's been wrong before (She hated my wayfarer sunglasses when I first bought them. Called them Sponge Bob Square Pants glasses, she did. And then everyone was wearing them. Ahem.)
So I'm currently leaning towards the black tights. But I could always use a second, third and fourth opinion.
I want to be a 10. But I'll settle for an 8.5.
As a token of my gratitude, here's the devilishly handsome Matthew Goode, talking about babies, puppies and Colin Firth.
Eli is supposed to be back from Denmark today. I hope I don't throw my arms around her and beg, "DON'T EVER LEAAAVE ME AGAAAAIN" as soon as she walks through the door. That would be embarrassing.
But I must admit, I did have some fun in her absence. I played music louder than usual, which I'm sure didn't please my neighbors. Especially that one time I played Fiona Apple's "Criminal" over and over again in the kitchen.
After Nancy left, I had the entire apartment to myself. And it rained. Every day, all day.
Can I suggest something? The next time you're home alone (or just staying in for the night) take a warm bubble bath. Light candles, bring a bottle of wine and wait until your fingers prune. I couldn't remember the last time I had one but ohhhmygoodness.
I did all the things I'd be embarrassed to do if Eli was around. I sang "Ironic" as loudly as humanly possible (when I was a kid, I wanted to BE Alanis Morissette), some 90s pop songs and the chorus to this little gem. There was some splashing. After a while, I started falling asleep to the sound of the water lapping at the tub's edges.
Try it. Soon.
....
I finally sat down and watched "Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist", and all you people who said I'd love it were right. So cute. Best scene: When Nick realizes what a selfish loser his ex-girlfriend is while she dances in the headlights (what was that?!) and he drives away. Behind the wheel, he sees her lipstick mark on the windshield and wipes it away. Ohh symbolism. If only it were that easy, to wipe it all away and drive towards a better person (with even better musical taste).
If you haven't seen it, please do. And follow it up with a bubble bath. You totally deserve it.
The man at the bike shop was surprised to see her walk through the door. Te vas a animar? he asked, looking out at the rain. "You're really up for it?"
“It’s not raining too hard," she said.
She picked the bike with the basket, paid seven euros and left her library card as collateral.
It was raining harder when she arrived at El Retiro. The bike was a little big but she managed. Squinting through the rain, she pedaled over puddles and around joggers. Her boots were soon covered in mud.
The park was nearly empty and she could occasionally hear the sound of wet gravel underneath Charlotte Gainsbourg's voice. The rain finally stopped and the sun appeared through the dark clouds. Some of the steep hills made her nervous, but she came upon the perfect one that wasn’t too steep. Baby steps.
She stopped pedaling and allowed gravity to do the rest. It was like flying. To think she just learned how to ride a bike earlier that summer. Better late than never.
An old man was walking past as she rode by. Their eyes locked and she smiled at him. She's developed a soft spot for old Spanish men. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, took off his hat and mouthed "Holaguapa."
....
Sitting at the bar at Hernani, with a café con leche and a damp copy of Anna Karenina, she glanced at the group of tourists sitting next to her, consulting a guide book. There was something really cute about the way they pronounced street names and places. "We have to get to SOUL," one of the men said.
She opted against taking the metro and walked the long way home, past Banco de España, Palacio de Comunicaciones and down Gran Via into Sol, where the festivities were already getting started. Walking is the best way to really get to know a city. Walking is also the best way to clear your head.
Sore and tired from the two-hour ride and walk, she curled up in bed, trying to sleep, trying to shut off her brain. Everyone is where they should be tonight. At home.
....
At 11 p.m., she put on her coat and boots and walked back out into the empty street. There was a blue moon that night.
She didn't want to be alone. She wanted noise, the company of strangers and fireworks. Lots and lots of fireworks. So she headed for Sol, and was startled by several firecrackers along the way.
Sol was chaos. There was confetti, broken glass, grapes, prostitutes, drunken singing and brawls.
She laughed (and half-screamed) as her body was crushed and knocked about in the crowd.
I'm picking up my friend Nancy at the airport in a couple of hours. Oh how I've missed her. It will be nice to have another Valley girl around. I can OMG, LIKE NO WAY! and ARE YOU SERIOUS? as much as I want without feeling deranged. She's here until Tuesday and as her tour guide, I plan on making the best of our limited time together and the bad weather.
....
My friends have all flown back home: Los Angeles, Ireland, Finland, London. My roommate leaves for Denmark tomorrow night.
My family is in El Salvador visiting my mother's side of the family, for the first time. It pains me that I'm not there.
This time last year, all four of us were exploring Jamaica. We drove the entire length of the island, from Negril to Port Royal, with the windows down while listening to Bob Marley. Little did I know we'd soon be scattered about the globe.
I spent most of my time in Paris huddled underneath an umbrella, shivering violently and avoiding puddles. But as cold and as wet as I was, I couldn't stop smiling and awwing at everything. I find most metro lovers in Madrid pretty gauche (I once tried drowning out the slurping noises by turning up the volume on my iPod. It didn't work.), but in Paris, I couldn't help but smile at them. Good for you. Please, carry on with your public displays of affection.
I licked powdered sugar from my fingers, wiped Nutella from the corners of my mouth and gleefully cracked my crème brulee with a spoon at the count of three.
Paris turned me into a child.
We rode a ferris wheel near Champs Elysee in the rain and a carousel near Sacre Coeur. A song by Edith Piaf was playing.
Oh and then there's that famous tower.
We waited in line for more than an hour to climb the Eiffel Tower in the coldest cold I have ever felt in my life. I swear I felt my heart rate slow down. My feet turned into blocks of ice. But leave now? Yes, we are delicate Californian flowers. But quitters? NEVER! I wrapped my scarf around my face and clutched Raya's arm.
Finally, about 700 steps later and more than 1000 feet above the ground, we reached the top, only to find that not only was it colder up there, but windier.
We ran across "le etoile" (the star), the area surrounding the Arc de Triomphe, which Zoya explained is not covered by insurance companies because it is notorious for car accidents.
We were the only people there, or so we thought until two French guards appeared. Zoya charmed them with her impeccable French and they asked us how we got there because the Metro passageway to the Arc was closed. We ran, she told them. "Well, that's the only way you can get back!" they said.
Cars honked as we dodged traffic in the rain. We laughed nervously, madly, from the adrenaline rush.
We had coffee at Cafe de 2 Moulins, also known as the Amelie cafe. She was everywhere.
The Amelie cafe is just a short walk from Moulin Rouge, in Pigalle, which should always be said with a wink.
We took a muddy walk through Les Tuileries.
I spent my last day at Pere Lachaise, where I paid my respects to Chopin, Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde.
The cemetery cat was there to greet us.
We finally found Oscar's grave. I totally kissed it.
....
I was in Paris for four days and I wish I could tell you everything. What it's like to be on the Eiffel Tower when it lights up. How unbelievably small you feel in the shadows and candlelight of Notre Dame.
Paris is magic. You just have to see it for yourself.
Here’s what I can tell you: The French were nothing but friendly and helpful. You can’t have a bad meal in Paris. It will make you lovesick but here, have this macaroon that just melts in your mouth. Better?
But if you were here now and really prodded me on and asked, "Come on, what was it reaaally like?" I'd say it was like experiencing a series of those unexpected pulse-quickening moments that send you spiraling – and you become very still when you encounter one because what if you startled it away, like a bird?
Something like that.
....
Zoya was glued to her map, as she was for most of the weekend. We were outside the metro station by the opera house, when I saw them.
They were standing across the street. There was nothing overtly special about them. Just another couple in Paris whose preferred mode of transportation is by motorbike. They were on their way to dinner, I was sure. He removed her helmet and her hair fell like a curtain across her face. He brushed her hair away from her eyes, tucked it behind her ears, his hands poised at her temples. It reminded me of a line from a Billy Collins poem. "You hold a girl's face in your hands like a vase."
I just stood there, witnessing this quiet little moment unfold on a wet street corner. That, right there, I thought. That’s Paris.
*Special thanks to Zoya for letting us stay in her flat and for being our unofficial tour guide. You are awesome. And as the French would say "ELLE EST CANON!"*
