Paris notes from a broad

In the spring of 2005 I ventured to Paris for three weeks with a dual purpose: Take pretty pictures and turn 30. I traveled with a good friend (American) in addition to meeting up with another good friend (French). About half the time was spent with friends, the other half alone. It was a lovely trip and a picture perfect place to pass the final hours of my 20s as I (forcibly though pleasantly, in the end) entered my 30s. This is a small and carelessly edited selection about the more (as well as less) titillating bits of my trip that I emailed home to family, friends, and foes. Bon appétit.

In an old house in Paris - That was covered with vines - Lived twelve little girls - In two straight lines. They left the house at half-past nine - In two straight lines, rain or shine. The smallest one was Madeline | Ludwig Belemans, 1956

Paris Dreams
Without consciously knowing it, I've been dreaming of Paris since I was a little girl. Perhaps your mother read you bedtime stories about Madeline, too. It's a funny thing to discover a whole city lodged in one's subconscious and not even know it'd been thriving there since before you can remember. Venice is different because I sought it out quite consciously and lavished it with daydreams. The pictures I found in my mother's coffee table books and magazines weren't accompanied by sweet little stories for sleepy little girls. Paris on the other hand had been ingrained. And deeply so. Not only did my mother lull me to bed with fictional Paris, but from time to time she'd talk about her experiences and memories of visiting the city and traveling through Europe. In the end it wasn't quite the way I'd imagined it for Madeline or my mother, I suppose. But then, it wasn't all that different either. At some point, childhood fantasy and photographic reality meet to comprise a city that is just what you would expect it to be: Magnifique.

Haute Drame at SFO
When I went to check in at SFO the nice Air France clerk suddenly morphed into mysterieuse mode and excused herself with an "I'll be right back," before disappearing behind a large set of compound-caliber double doors. Ten to fifteen minutes later she emerged with a blank look on her face and I asked if there was anything the matter. "No, there's nothing wrong. I had to photocopy your passport." Uh, come again? What legitimate reason would require that you need a copy of my passport? She mumbled something. What? She mumbled again. What? "You're on the FBI list." (!!!!!) What the fuck? Long story short, if one is a photographer who travels with any degree of frequency outside of the continental U.S. you're evidently automatically put on the/an FBI list. This is what a reliable source told me and I haven't done the follow-up footwork of my own to verify it as fact. I don't particularly see how or why my photo trips to Paris and the like would be of interest to the Feds or why a filed photocopy of my passport would come in handy, but there's a lot about my government's various rules, regulations, and policies that strike me as, well, odd. Anyway, Big Brother is watching. Now that I think about it, I've always had "special" treatment at customs in Europe where they require me to crack open my suitcase and any other bags in my possession to inspect absolutely everything. On the way home it's real cute when they even demand to see what's inside the bag that I assure them is just an uninteresting and dirty assembly of socks and underwear. Nice.

Captive at CDG
I couldn't have been happier when the plane finally landed at Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris. It was a long, direct flight from San Francisco and I was more than ready for it to be over. It was clear that my fellow passengers shared my enthusiasm for the end of our journey and couldn't wait to get the hell off the plane, too. Seatbelts were unbuckled and a cramped combination of milling and scrambling to collect carry-on bags began even before we parked at the gate. Stupid, anxious us. There was some kind of "probleme" that kept everyone on the aircraft without the flow of chilled, recycled air for 45 uncomfortable and excruciatingly molasses-like minutes. Five minutes more and there would have been a riot. I say this sincerely because I'm relatively sure I would have been the one who started said display of onboard civil disobedience.

Heavy Petting
This little tidbit is nearly just as I typed it from an Internet café to my friends and family back home. I've preserved this long paragraph in its original form because there is no better way to enjoy a startling side story that arises in said Internet café. Enjoy.

Senegalese men really think I'm hot. Apparently. (Apparently this segment of the male population is in dire need of some serious corrective lens disbursement—asap.) While I might have considered going out for a drink or even to dinner with a particular Senegalese gentleman that I met on this trip to Paris, the desire instantly disappeared the instant he pulled me close to him, mere minutes into a seemingly harmless and quite normal getting-to-know-you conversation (Where are you from? I am from Senegal. Oh, I thought you were from Mexique or Morocco, perhaps.) I suddenly found myself in a position far too similar to a chokehold with my head to his chest and him petting—yes, petting—my hair. Under other circumstances I would quite enjoy a fine-ass man stoking my hair, but in this instance it was definitely petting and was absolutely unwelcome. I halfway struggled to get away, but decided that it couldn't last for another moment or two so I should just "go with the flow." (Oh wow, pause—a guy just sat down next to me and logged on to a hardcore porn site! I only looked over because of the mumbled moaning noises he's making as he types and looks at the page. Good fucking lord. It's 10:26AM and we're in a hugely public Internet café. Get a home computer and an ISP buddy). Sure enough the forced and awkward affection passed soon enough and then he had the nerve to ask me out. I decided he had to be semi crazy to behave in such a manner in front of his coworkers and all the clients (he worked in a different Internet café from the one I'm currently patronizing), so I opted for the "Oh I can't. I have a boyfriend back home and it wouldn't be right." story. My imaginary man usually comes in handy and successfully wards off all unwanted suitors, but it didn't seem to phase this guy. He wouldn't take no for an answer so I followed up with "Well, maybe. I'm here visiting friends for my birthday and I have to check with them first. They have made wall-to-wall plans for me and so I really can't say when I'll be free next." He accepted the maybe and rejected my simple goodbye with more forced affection—this time a very over-the-top, more-than-friends, far too long and loving kiss-kiss on each cheek (Euro-style). I'm not sure now what's worse. The porn palace I'm presently writing from or the petting zoo down the way. Dare I try a third time to find a decent G-rated Internet café in this city? Does one exist??

The Louvre
It's not that you should skip the Louvre. Not entirely anyway. The museum is just so massive that you should skip the majority of the galleries and just focus on one or two that you really want to see. I've only been to the Louvre once in three visits to Paris. I'm a huge fan of Ancient Egyptian art and so this was the collection that I focused on. And this alone wore me out in a single afternoon. I managed to squeeze in the Winged Victory of Samothrace and called it a day. Personally, I like my art overload in smaller doses and settings. This time around I chose to OD at the more intimate Musee d'Orsay. Like several other museums in Paris, the Musee d'Orsay and the Louvre are admission-free for tout-le-monde on the first Sunday of each month. I took advantage of this on my last visit and got to the museum first thing that Sunday. Getting there early before the crowds made all the difference. My friend and I got to roam around for free with many of the galleries all to ourselves. It was really nice. And because the d'Orsay isn't a behemoth like the Louvre, we were able to breeze through the entire museum in time for an early lunch. Parfait.

Fun with Fondue
In general, I love French food. I've never ventured to try escargot or some of the other fare that I'm quite convinced would require a sprint to the nearest toilette for an upchuck, but whatever. Southern French food is my personal favorite. But I'm generally always willing to try something new. One night with a Parisian buddy as my guide, I had some typical French food that was absolutely atypical to me—fondue. It's not the way I'd always thought of or known fondue, with warm bread and gooey cheese. It was this other thing (I've already forgotten the name) where you're delivered a platter of raw beef and another platter of yummy potatoes. You cook the meat yourself in a little pot of boiling oil. Quaint. Dangerous. Disgusting? The meat wasn't seasoned at all (quelle dommage) and instead you spiced it up by dipping your questionably cooked chunks of cattle in two unmarked sauces, which both looked to be mayonnaise-based (C'est ou les toilettes, s'il vous plait?). It wasn't half bad and I left happily stuffed, in the end. If I ever go back to a place like that I want to try yet another kind of fondue where you cook your meat not in oil but on a small hot slab of stone. Several other tables had chosen that method of culinary French flair, and it looked equally, adventurously, fantastique-ly fun.

The French Grill
I'd like to comment now on French dentistry and oral hygiene, or lack thereof. My friend and I had a waiter one afternoon whose grill rivaled that of the infamously gnarled and tea-stained choppers of the British. I was prepared to write it off as a freak occurrence, rather than make a sweepingly generalized assumption that this was a prime example of the standard French or perhaps specifically Parisian smile. But after two weeks of so many jacked smiles I began to wonder how much worse teeth in the UK really are, or if in fact that's just a myth that the French created to deflect attention away from their own dire need for twice yearly cleanings and a mouthful of orthodontia.

Email, Porn, and a Little Self-Gratification au Publique
I ventured back to the super cheap Internet café and although no one sat next to me looking at porn there was a guy in front of me looking at porn with his right hand and with his left... Unbelievable. And there was a girl at the end of his row who was totally oblivious. Suddenly the 2,50 Euro per 15 minute Internet café looked attractively affordable.

Rue de Rodents
There's a pharmacy off the Rue de Rivoli that has a huge window display of rats in old steel traps caught in Paris in the early 1900s. I laughed out loud in passing because not ten minutes before I saw a strikingly similar rat the size of a well-fed kitten strolling down the gutter. I guess they haven't set out too many of those traps for a while.

Prelude to the Paris Riots
On the way to drinking, after a movie, my friend and I had to walk through Les Halles, which is supposed to be a bit unsafe at night. We made our way through about 20 police officers swarming around to ask any and every Black, African, or Arab looking teenager for his or her papers. My friend said this is typical and of course, unfortunate. A couple of the officers were eyeballing me, but I just started speaking English louder with my White ami and we strode through without any trouble. Sigh.

Age Ain't Nothin' but a Number
When my American friend was in town she kept commenting on how youthfully dressed the geriatrics are here. I always seemed to be looking the other direction at a monument or something, and missed these freakish episodes of over 70 French fashion. But one day, finally, I came face to face (or back/ass to face, as it happened) with one of these hip older ladies. I was walking home (I fell in love with my hotel. It genuinely came to feel like home.) from the Place des Vosges and found myself admiring the shoes trotting along in front of me. They were what I like to call mini-stilettos—about one inch high as opposed to three or six—and they were to die for. Then I noticed the ultra chic jeans and began mumbling to myself in disgust at all the tiny figures here who sport overpriced denim. I gave the coif a look and thought that was pretty amazing too—professionally colored the most delightful multi-faceted blonde—and just when I was about to speed-pass this twentysomething fille, I noticed the hump. She had a hump in her back to rival Quasimodo's and it was really protruding quite unfortunately underneath her fancy white rabbit fur coat. I was so shocked that I almost tripped and catapulted myself into her bobbing hump. But thankfully I didn't because surely I would have taken her down with me and inevitably broken her 90-year-old hip! I raced ahead to get a glimpse of this lady's face and sure enough, to my utter shock and dismay, she looked to be days, perhaps hours, from a rapidly approaching death. I think the pope looked better his last few days than this woman did. Despite the layers of Lancôme, there was no hiding the fact that 80 was well over ten years ago for this grande dame. I thought about asking her to stop and pose for a picture, but couldn't think of a way to do it without laughing and inspiring her to beat me with her oversized Louis Vuitton handbag.

Black Like Me
In talking to my mother about my trip, I realized that I forgot to include one interesting aspect of the chokehold-petting story. The headlock took place right after I answered the question about my nationality and then my ethnicity/race. I should really give more consideration to just sticking with a claim on Hawaii as a place of origin, I guess. When I explained to the Senegalese Frenchie that my father was Black and my mother White it was at that precise moment that he went for the affectionate, if not affectionately scary, embrace (peppered with petting) as he mused, "Ahhh! You're Black like me!!" Yes, yes I am. Sort of. But after he released me and before I bolted for the door, we had a brief exchange about my father. "Where in Africa are his people from?" Uh, are you kidding me? Hello, slavery! I can't be any more specific than somewhere in West Africa. "But he does not know where his people are from??" he replies in utter shock and confusion. No, no. He does not know where his people are from, as is the case with the vast majority of Black Americans.

A Stroll in the Gutter
I really had to rely on my Berkeley jaywalking skills here. I don't recall this from past visits but in trailing my friend from bar to bar, much of the trek took place in the middle of the street it, seemed. Parisians walk in the road, in the gutter, and are constantly being missed (just) by speeding cars. It reminds me a bit of crossing streets in NYC but a pinch less life threatening, though it appears to be far more dangerous. Go figure.

La Tour Eiffel
Third visit and I still haven't made it up the tower. Not even half way. For some reason, it just never happens. And now I can't decide if it would be more interesting or somehow romantic if I never ventured up. You know? Or maybe I roll the dice and save that treat for some sad visit in my old age when I think I'm seeing Paris for my last time. That would be kinda cool, too. Or maybe I finally go up and the dashing man on my arm proposes to me when we get to the top! Okay. Now I'm just getting carried away. Leave it to Paris to get you dreaming up all of the most idyllic or ironic scenarios.

Vacating in France
It's fun listening to French people lament their short vacations of 25 to 27 days, respectively. "It's just not enough! I should find another job where the employers are more reasonable. My friend Jean-Claude has 32 paid days off." So the conversation went as I laughed. French people that I've met generally agree that although it might be fun to work in the States for a few years, they couldn't handle the inevitable lack of paid leave and so they stay in France, where life is more livable. Even with only 25 paid days off in a calendar year. C'est la vie, indeed!

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Camogli notes from a broad

In the fall of 2003 after visiting a friend in Paris and then traveling together to Antibes, I tripped on by train alone to the Ligurian town of Camogli. Like Villefranche, I based my burning desire to visit on a single photograph I'd seen somewhere online. I'd been curious about this entire region and thought that Camogli would be as good a town as any to call home for a week or so of riviera exploration. Happy to say I was right.

Camogli? How do you know about Camogli?
I have an adorable and wonderful friend whose family is Croatian-Italian with roots in Istria and Camogli. Nobody much talks about the town of Camogli so when I told this friend that I was going to be staying there she was shocked that I'd heard of (or remembered her mentioning) such a small and out of the way Italian town. She was even more surprised that based on a single photo I had decided to stay there for a string of nights. Part of her surprise was also concern, I think. From Genoa to La Spezia, the coast of Italy is dotted with small seaside fishing villages. Many of which are still small and minimally touristed. In recent years however the region has become an increasingly hot travel destination for Americans and Europeans other than the Milanese crowd that has always flocked here. Or at least flocked earlier than the others. Perhaps they were the trendsetters. Whoever started the Cinque Terre craze, Rick Steves has certainly perpetuated the excitement. As Steves has said on his show and in his guidebooks, Vernazza is his favorite of the five terre. And it's no surprise then that the town is hopping with hordes of Rick Steves cohorts, guidebook in hand. And of all the towns spread out over this stretch of coastline, Portofino is perhaps regarded as the biggest sellout to mass tourism. These towns are small. Tiny, really. And so any influx of outsiders completely alters the ambiance. I'm certain that in high season tourists outnumber the locals by a landslide. My friend's concern then is understandable. These are still living towns, if you will. Like Venice, they are populated with locals trying to strike a balance between the tourist industry and normal, daily life. Camogli definitely felt like an Italian village. There were few tourists and I got a lot of looks from the locals like, "Who are you? Why are you here? How do you know about Camogli?" Not in a bad or unwelcoming way. More like a, "Oh shit. First Portofino, then the Cinque Terre, now Camgoli. It's the beginning of the end." So long as everyone and their mother doesn't open up their homes like a hotel for rent the way they do in Vernazza, I think the people of Camogli can sleep easy and nearly overnight-tourist-free for the near term.

Day Trippers' Delight
It's easy to see why this area is so adored by outsiders. It's crazy cute and delightful. From Genoa to La Spezia you can hop on and off the train all day, day after day, checking out new towns and beaches. I absolutely adored each of the Cinque Terre, Camogli, Portofino, Portovenere, and Sestri Levante. The only town I didn't feel particularly warm and fuzzy about was Bonassola.

Bonassola Bitter
If you end up checking out the town of Bonassola, you'll probably find a little bakery-focacceria di (or is it da?) Marisa. Good food. Stank Marisa. I was so tickled to see my name on a shop and to meet the owner that I repeated several times for the focacceria Marisa, "Sonno Marisa anche. Mia nome e Marisa! Anche!!" She clearly wasn't as tickled as I was. She didn't even crack a smile. She did, however, give me several Euros worth of change in 10-cent or smaller pieces. I was pissed, but what was I to do? I decided to take the high road and show this manner-less Marisa that I was above her petty pennies. Being a woman of a color other than Lily White, I never know if the funkiness I sometimes encounter abroad has to do with a generic chip on someone's shoulder or if I'm on the receiving end of a little old-fashioned racism. It's not always clear. If I spoke more Italian, I would have asked the woman point blank. From one Marisa to another.

Walking Warning
It's been so long that I can no longer recall which guidebook misled me to believe that the walk from Santa Margherita to Portofino would be a short, sweet stroll. If I could unearth this info from memory, I'd write the authors a nasty note. It was flat. I'll give them that. Short and sweet it was not. Try long and sweaty. Longer and sweatier if you're mentally unprepared to trek alongside a winding two-lane road being navigated at unnervingly high speeds by stereotypically wild Italian drivers. I'm lucky I made it to Portofino in one piece. The walk itself was memorably scenic. To your right is the road and to your left is the water. Winding in and out along the coast, you can never quite see what's around the next bend, and you're constantly sure that beyond the next jut of land your final destination will be revealed in all its picturesque perfection. Nope. More trees on the hill ahead and a spattering of houses. But no Portofino. Not for a-ways. Without food or water to sustain me on this journey, I relied on anger to keep me going. Of the few fellow trekkers that I passed along the way, all reassured me that I was headed in the right direction. Well, that was at least something. Trudging along, I raced against the setting sun and stumbled into Portofino on the cusp of twilight. The light was wonderful and the beauty of the buildings aglow in the fading light was enough to quell my furor and quench my thirst for vengeance. I bought an overpriced San Benedetto Frizzante and a candy bar from one of the few shops still open, took a five-minute zip around the tiny harbor of a town, and caught the next bus back to Santa Margherita. Journey and giorno complete. I slept that night, I do recall and quite clearly, like a sack of sore and intermittently cramping bricks. Oh wait. I just Googled "walking to Portofino from Santa Margherita" and guess who I found touting the trail. Steves. Rick Steves. From About.com and I quote: "Travel guru Rick Steves says that the trail between the two towns is one of the favorites of hikers. The distance is only about 3 miles, or 5 kilometers." Three miles doesn't sound like much for the physically fit, but try that walk and tell me if it doesn't feel more like five or six. Maybe if I hadn't started the walk starving it would have been faster and more enjoyable. I'm not so certain the distance was spelled out in exact miles. I swear the recommendation gave the impression the walk was a quick 20 to 30 minute saunter. Oh vell. At least I know now. And so do you.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Antibes notes from a broad

In the fall of 2003 I was invited to spend a few days in the South of France with a childhood friend who was then living in Paris. After first visiting in Paris, my friend and I flew down to the Cote d'Azur and stayed in one of her friend's empty houses in Antibes. Pretty brutal connections I have, eh? It was a once in a lifetime trip (the friend now lives elsewhere) and I can't say that it wasn't delightful.

Day Tripping on the Train
While my friend baked herself on the beach, I (who suffers from easily excitable and horrifically unattractive heat rash) spent the majority of my afternoons shuttling from one town to the next on the train. I love it that Europe is so jam-packed with adorable destinations, one after the other, so many of which are easily and affordably accessible for the day by rail. I stopped in Cannes or Nice and didn't make it out of the train station. Seemed seedy and dirty and I couldn't muster the enthusiasm to venture into the city itself and find the cool, clean bits. So back on the train, I headed first to Villefranche and then futher on to Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo was beyond clean. You could eat off the streets there and not worry your pretty little head about ingesting so much as a single germ. Less sterile but no less delightful was Villefranche. Based on a single picture I'd seen before I left for France, I knew I wanted to try and get there if I could. Villefranche is now my favorite village of the Cote d'Azur, after cute and compact Cassis. A pastel pedestrian paradise, I'd love to go back and spend a few nights one day.

Juan Les Pins
On the Cap d'Antibes you have the city of Antibes where you'll find the old town or Vieux Antibes and around the cap you've got the modern Juan les Pins. We were staying in Juan les Pins. Nice beaches but no cute old town. Juan les Pins is dreamy (great beaches, bars, clubs, etc.), don't get me wrong. But Vieux Antibes has all the charming old character that you'd expect from this region of the French Riviera. If I had it to do over again I think I'd prefer to crash in Antibes proper. I have a soft spot for waking up in the center of picturesque European fishing towns or medieval villages. The charm is tangible.

That's all I recall. The rest of the time, which is to say the majority of the time, I was lit on pina coladas.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Barcelona notes from a broad

In the spring of 2002 I went on a quick trip to Barcelona with a friend who was living and studying in Amsterdam. I spent a little over a week in the capital of Catalonia and was unfortunately feeling pretty under the weather for a significant chunk of the trip. Even still, I sincerely enjoyed Barcelona and would return in a heartbeat. It is a beautiful, vibrant city that I didn't get to enjoy to the fullest. Maybe only a quarter of the carafe (of sangria, of course). Sad, huh?

Catalan Valentines
If you're ever in Barcelona on April 23rd and you find yourself stumbling through a sea of red roses and books of all colors, you haven't lost your mind. It's Sant Jordi. The Catalan "Day of Lovers" celebrating Saint George, the patron saint of Catalonia. Book sellers and florists set up shop outside all over the city to sell roses to the men (for the women) and books to the women (for the men). It's true that you'll be hard pressed to find a woman without a single red rose in hand (you get one red rose as opposed to the dozen an American novia would expect). In 2002, I was that lone woman. My travel companion had already returned to Amsterdam and I was left to explore more of Barcelona on my own. Not one for crowds and feeling very sadly single, I spent most of the day in my hotel room. La diada de Sant Jordi feels like a national holiday of love as compared to Valentine's Day in the States. No one was working, that I could figure, other than the rose vendors and the stalls selling books. Everyone and their mother was outside basking in a public pool of adoration and emotion. It was a beautiful thing to behold, but without a novio to buy a book for and receive a flower in return I felt quite the spectacle and just wanted to get the hell inside. Maybe one day when I'm happily attached I'll return to Barcelona on an April 23rd and take a dip in the sea of love overflowing to all corners of the city and surrounding towns, too. (Before finally escaping to my hotel, I hopped on a train to Sitges and was met with a miniature version of the same sap-happy scene.)

Gaudy Gaudí
For Gaudí's 150th birthday, 2002 was "The Year of Gaudí" in Spain. The festivities in Catalonia were particularly rich and enthusiastic, with Barcelona at the center of the events. I want to be on the bandwagon, but people would see through my cheerleading in a hot second. I'm just not into Gaudí. Or Dalí, for that matter. Parc Guell is nice and has its charms. And the chimneys at Casa Mila I do really dig. But on the whole I find Gaudí to be quite gaudy. That said, I respect the man for being an individual and an artist and making his passion his lifework. That is commendable and beautiful and not gaudy, at all.

Singing Sambos
Sometimes you see things abroad that make your jaw drop. "Are you fucking kidding me?," you ask yourself aloud in mumbled astonishment. Strolling down the Passeig de Gracia past the Corte Ingles and on to the Bari Gotic, my friend and I encountered the singing sambos that you see pictured, above. There were actually more. I didn't have the heart to include a shot of the rosy-red-lipped (grossly oversized, of course) jiving Aunt Jemima's in their colorful 'do rags, too. I figured one racist photo would suffice. That's the funny thing about Europe. There's madness going down here that strikes you as universally offensive, but get into a conversation about the singing sambos with a person of color who was born and raised in Spain, and you might be more shocked by their nonchalant, "Who cares?" perspective. The friend that I was traveling with happened to also be of Black African descent (her daddy was born and raised in Africa while mine was part of the African Slave Trade diaspora). We were equally and utterly appalled at the White Western European woman playing a Louis Armstrong tune while making her big-lipped Black dolls sing and dance to the music. I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. The audience of locals and tourists was way into the performance and many people left her a Euro or two after the "show" was over. Some of those people were Black. Black from where, I don't know. But not the U.S.! I can tell you that much for sure. After snapping myself out of shocked paralysis and incoherent muttering, I managed to hold it together long enough to take a few pictures before alerting my friend that if we didn't leave immediately I might grab the lady's puppets and clock her with one of them. Or something to that effect. My friend, just as livid as I was, agreed and that was the last time we saw the singing Spanish sambos. Five minutes of that bullshit was five minutes too much. And I'm still not sure what to make of the onlookers. Especially the ones who should have clued in to the fact that it was their lips and looks that were being degraded and disrespected.

Sweet Swine
I try not to make a habit of real bacon and salami of any sort at home. Pigs are filthy animals and I don't care what organic bounty you feed them or how pristinely clean their pens are kept, I just as well have turkey bacon and a smoked turkey sandwich. Like so many others trying to adhere to a no pork diet, my trouble lies in my acute gastronomic memory. Bacon tastes good. Salami tastes good. And unlike chicken, I haven't found a meat substitute to match the real thing. While it's easy not to slip up at home, it's harder abroad. Bacon I can safely avoid, yes. But salami... More readily available than turkey and in a million different varieties to choose from, I find it near impossible to turn down a salami sandwich or fresh cheese and salami straight up from the grocer in Italy and in Spain. Nearly every day I spent in Barcelona was a day I overlooked the rules and ingested with guilty pleasure at least one, if not two, salami and tomato or cheese sandwiches from the Farga near my hotel. Spanish salami is something to crave. It's spicy and fantastic and if you've ever had pork before at some time in your life but have taken vows to steer clear of the stuff, I suggest you also steer clear of Spain (and Italy too, while you're at it) because chances are you'll cave at the first whiff.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Amsterdam notes from a broad

In the spring of 2002 I ventured to Amsterdam to visit a good friend working on her Master's degree abroad. Having heard so much about Amsterdam (mostly the red light district and the easy access to ganja) I thought I knew what to expect and expected not to care for it much. While I did find a lot of non-surprises, there was plenty new and unexpected to discover. I particularly enjoyed the cafés and the shopping, day tripping to Haarlem and Keukenhof Gardens. And then there was the outdoor party with oh, say 500,000 folks, despite the rain.

The Queen Mother of all Parties
On April 30th each year, the Dutch pause to party in honor of Queen Beatrix' mother, the former Queen, Juliana. Queen's Day is a spectacle, indeed. And a very orange spectacle at that. There is nothing but orange, everywhere, on Queen's Day. The current Dutch royals are from the House of Orange, thus all the citrus-colored clothing, food, drinks, fountains, etc. on this day. In addition to partying with between 500,000 to 2,000,000 people in Amsterdam (the numbers of revellers depend largely on the weather, I think), you can also enjoy open air shopping, en masse. People are allowed to sell anything and everything in the street on April 30th, without a permit. Flea market mania. It's a great day and great fun. A bit soggy the year I was there, but we still managed to have a good time. Just got a little wet in addition to wild.

Cuckoo for Keukenhof
I like flowers. Especially in a nice outdoor garden. Who doesn't? But when was the last time you were so bowled over with giddy delight at the lay of a landscape that you actually had to take time-outs to take it all in? For me, the year was 2002. End of April, early May, to be exact. And the location was Keukenhof Gardens in Lisse. A nice day trip from Amsterdam via bus. I thought I'd seen a pretty tulip or two in my day, but by golly I had no idea what a truly tantalizing tulip was until I experienced the thousands of blooming bulbs in this expansive outdoor paradise. The number of flowers is simply dizzying—nearly 7,000,000 bulbs are planted and strut their stuff annually. According to the park's planners, the ideal time to view the blooms is the last two weeks of April or the first week of May. This is the timeframe I was lucky enough to go and I can tell you firsthand that the display is well worth the price of admission and then some. Absolutely fantastic.

Yep. That's all I got on Amsterdam. Disappointing, I know.

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Brief autobiographical notes on the broad

I grew up in one of those typical American middle class families whose financial obligations and frivolous spending sprees never seemed to include funds for a proper vacation. Going to Disneyland a couple of times as a kid counts for very little as you enter your teenage years and your friends around the block are gearing up for skiing in Chamonix, hiking in the Bavarian Alps, or snorkeling and volcano exploration in Hawaii. Unable to fathom a life unlike that of my parents, I imagined weeks at large overseas to be largely out of reach and forever over budget. Plodding along in this frame of mind, I finished college and entered the working world. Swept up in the excitement and riches of the dot-com economic boom, I found myself with enough excess income to take that real vacation that I'd been so sadly, tragically denied in my acne-prone youth. First Hawaii, then Europe. And then something truly wonderful happened. I lost my fancy job and padded paycheck and used nine boss-free months to mull a fork in the road. Along the way I'd rediscovered old interests (calligraphy and photography), developed new ones (book arts), and accumulated sufficient compliments on my artistic endeavors to warrant their pursuit more seriously. So I chose the road less traveled, a sizable pay cut, and a flexible job to bankroll my monthly expenses and annual excursions. Et voilà. C'est moi.

Correction. C'était moi. Maintenant, the arrangement is a little different. Or a lot, actually. As of December 2007, I opted for a new day gig (which I'm loving, by the way) to fund the artistic endeavors and world travels. I am happy to report that my latest source of bacon is travel-related, although it does not afford me to actually travel for work or nearly as much, for pleasure. Though I tried to negotiate a similarly flexible paid, plus unpaid leave package for myself, I was unsuccessful. 12 days paid leave per calendar year. 15 days paid leave after three years with the company. Period. Which is to say, more work, less travel. Not an ideal vie, but c'est la vie. For now. And not such a bad vie, at that. Overall, still pretty magnifique.