Peter Sellers - my primary doctor

My choice of doctor is simple, he/she should be close by, always available to see me at all times, and willing to lie to my employer if I don’t feel like going to work.. With the new medical insurance reform in France, we now have to choose our primary doctor. Dr. R is on top of my list, because he satisfies fully to the above criteria and with an additional quality – very entertaining.

Recommended by the pharmacist in the neighborhood, I came to know Dr. R a couple of years ago. His clinic is 200 meters from my apartment, next to my usual newspaper vender and before the butchery where I get good quality meat.

Dr. R is in his 40s, reliable looking honest man with black framed glasses. He has the most beautiful plants of all the doctors I ever visited ever in my life. The first visit I made to his clinic, he spent 30 minutes explaining to me all the plants he had on his balcony, their names and where they came from. This was also the time when I saw a very cool black and white picture of Peter Sellers on his shelf, Dr. R looked exactly like Peter in that picture. One other time, I asked if he was a brother or cousin of Peter Sellers, his answer was no, but then in his voice I sensed joy.

In a world where doctors and lawyers are rushing to serve you, get your check and push you out of the door. Dr. R is really one of a kind.

Every time I called him and he was always available and ready to see me, I don’t even have boyfriends who are this available to me. After some 30 minutes entertaining discussions, I explain my health problem. He would always look at me behind his glasses with an ample pause of at least 2 minutes, and then he would stand up and go his book shelf and pick out his gigantic medical dictionaries, sometimes several of them and lay them out on his table. He then would try to find the exact name of the illness and read the symptoms aloud to me. When these symptoms did not match too well to my problems, we would then go to another illness until we find the problem and also the solutions in those huge dictionaries. A very collective and interactive process indeed. If Peter Sellers plays in a new movie called ‘The Pink Panther Strikes Back in the Doctors Office’ or ‘The Party II – at the doctors office’, I could play the patient. This dream gave me strength and hope in life, and faith in my doctor.

I never doubted the medical competence of Mr. Peter Sellers, but by the time I had the prescription in hand and walked into the pharmacy, I somehow remembered to double and triple check with the pharmacist.

It has been 2 years and 3 months since I have become patient of Dr. R and I am still alive, he dealt all my little health problems with patience, grace and most importantly entertainment. Therefore, he is elected to be my primary doctor. Dr. R- Peter Sellers incarnated indeed.

Crackberries and their managers - London II

A guy friend once described all the cities he lived in with the nature of women he knew - If Paris was a woman, she would be this untouchable beauty that everyone wants to have, you do too, but you do not really want to live with. Barcelona, would be a great lover, fun and exciting, yet you also know that you don't have to be faithful to her and it is okay. Madrid would be a good friend, nice to talk to, and she is always ready to go out drinking with you. And London? London is a whore, you just need to pay wherever you go and whatever you do!

So London, the city where a one way subway ride is 3 pounds which equals 4.5 euros or 6 US Dollars or 45 Chinese Yuan; to pray at Westminster Abby costs 10 pounds which equals 15 euros or 20 us dollars or 150 Chinese Yuan, most people here exist for the existence of money.

I watched more financial news over the weekend than the past 5 years combined.

At diner tables, I am surrounded by investment bankers, stock brokers, fund managers and fund of fund managers.

Today the real symbol of being in the business is not the three piece suite nor the Rolex watch nor the convertible Porsche, it is a little handheld device called BLUEBERRY. As everyone sat down the table, everyone set down his or her blueberry on the table and it is considered acceptable to check the market during dinner or conversation. So as not to feel being left out, I also set down a little box of Kleenex which I bought on a recent trip to China, the little box is very nifty and high tech but very pink. To make it convincing, I keep turning it over looking at it and then turning it back and putting it back on the table next to my elegant forks and knives. Finally, an Indian looking fund manager asked what I was looking at.

Ana: This is a new device called STRAWBERRY. It is especially designed for women who do not understand numbers. You can send unlimited messages but never receive any messages at all. Microsoft put them out on the test market with limited editions just this month.

Indian Fund Manager: Brilliant! Let me see it!

Ana silently: Swell! He believes me…

I later learned that he manages an Asian fund which is worth at least a couple of billion euros. I really hope that he is not the kind that also has a Pilipino house cleaner with whom he sleeps at night.

Eurostar - London I

The best thing about being unemployed is the ultimate freedom to manage one’s own time. So I just picked up my bags and went to London for the weekend, two hours and thirty minutes from central Paris to central London, thanks to this great thing called Eurostar.

So convenient that I almost forgot that it was actually international travel and custom’s check was required. Luckily I had all the papers with me, stepping through French border control, 3 meters behind, there was the British border control.

Officer: What are you going to do in the UK?
Ana: Visiting friends
Officer: How long will you stay?
Ana: three days
Officer: Where are you staying?
Ana: With a friend
Officer: Where exactly?
Ana: ah….where !?(I hadn’t got the faintest idea, I just got one text msg from my girl friend in the morning saying it was okay to stay with her)

Ana: Well somewhere between Chelsea, South Kensington and Notting Hill. Somewhere there is tons of shopping, restaurants and very close to the city center.

The officer looked at me with great suspicion.

Ana: Well it would have to be SW –one digit…

Officer: I mean the address! (He stared me again)
Ana: Yes of course…but you see my friend hasn’t told me… Would you like me to call her? But she will not respond because she is busy, she is always busy and never responds to her phone like everybody else in London

I pulled out my phone, it says “LOW BATTERY”… and I just realized I did not bring the phone charger either.

Officer: What do you do in France?
Ana: (Nothing and collecting unemployment!!! Could I actually say the truth?) I work for XXX- huge French company, specialized cosmetics…

Five minutes later, I found my seat on Eurostar sipping on a Cappuccino and reading The Economist trying to understand the world. By that time, I already sent two emergency text messages to my friend “No Battery! Tell me where to go Please!” Of course there was no response at all!

If only working people could understand the stress of non-working people!

EXT, Coney Island, NYC, Day - New York City III

I saw a picture in the New York Times of a parachute jump thing out in Coney Island, so I took the D train out there for the day. This most legendary place is also famous for its more than hundred years old wooden roller coaster, nathan's hot dogs and very strange people on the beach.

It did not take me long to figure out that the red eiffeil tower structure has not spit a parachute for more than 30 years, the picture I saw was merely an ad of the Coney Island museum. The wooden roller coaster still works but yet closed for the day. Ample hot dogs at Nathan's, yet i missed the world hog dog eating contest in June, where a skinny japanese guy wins every time, his technique was to eat the dog and the bun separately and dipped in water, even the bun.

Sun was out, with a ocean breeze from the atlantic, on the beach, i was in high spirit.

A muscular man on a mountain bike stopped in front of me, who later introduced himself to be Michael, the electrician, next best thing to a plumber. It had to be a very seductive scene right out of a Martin Scorsese film. He insisted to take a picture of me with my own camera, because I was beautiful as he said and I believed him so. I now have a picture of me with the Conely Island city housing projects in the background.

Cut to, Nathan's hot dog stand at board walk. Sweet Michael bought me a original beef hotdog and started telling me the history of the island with the thickest brooklyn accent that you can imagine. I hate hotdogs, but had to let the story continue, I took the hot dog with no toppings no sauces as I insisted and he thought i was strange girl.

I wonder if Martin Scorses will arrange to have the two character fall in love right then. I put on a very sweet smile while wiping away the grise of the hog dog on my mouth, yet, love, did not happen. I then said that I would go further west on the beach to see some fishermen. Michael said with authority, 'if you really want to go, i will not stop you, but Just be careful and don't talk to any black guys'

There i said goodbye to the reasonably good looking and warm hearted white guy and ventured into the part of the Coney Island beach filled with negros and danger...

I saw the president -New York City II

After visiting the new apple store on 59th street, I saw myself slowing making my way down Fifth Avenue, guiltily, towards SAKS Fifth Avenue. Very original indeed! Staying at MOMA for a very cultural afternoon, or Metropolitan museum for some real art, I chose SAKS. As I was about to cross 49th street, I got blocked, security, police, FBI everywhere. It turned out that Bush was about to go through to attend some UN meeting. I could even smell various perfumes coming out of the first floor cosmetic department. I was dying to try them yet I was blocked right there. New Yorkers were even less patient than me, screaming on their cell phones, F-word in every sentence, “who voted for him anyways!” “he just creates so much peace in this world”…

Two minutes later, a bunch of black cars and police cars went through and there is a rolls Royce, he was sitting right there on the left side, waving at the crowd as he was passing through. I saw him very clearly with a figure smaller than I imagined him to be. The way he waved his hands felt as if he believed the people really gathered there to see him, but in fact they just had no other way of going up or down town, and half of them were just making fun of him or complaining how he cut their shopping time.

He really should avoid appearances in places like New York City, Florida or Texas might be safer places to be.

Upper East Side - New York City I

3rd day in the city, I am already eating my fifth bagel. Served by some Joshua with one of those little black hats, this sesame seeds bagel must be the most authentic one. It has been almost four years since I last came to New York City, this time I am staying with friends on the upper east side, not exactly the Woody Allen Park Ave upper east side, but 84th street and 2nd avenue upper east side. The upper east side where you find a manicure and spa place on every single block, which makes you thinking that women in NYC must have beautiful nails, check it out next time you are in NYC. This is the upper east side which is dominated by Jewish people, all meat you can find is koshered and all bread you can find is hollow. Taxis stop as soon as you raise your hand, people talk very loudly on their cell phones and you never have to worry that pastas are overcooked. I tend to believe that those Italians stay in Brooklyn or Bronx, but they made sure that people on the upper east side learned cook pasta correctly, how responsible people they are! Africains, either security guys at shoe stores or shop keeper in grocery places just love me, because I speak French to them. I tried to enjoy the sunny afternoons at central park and eventually cross over to the upper west side, supposedly the more happening part of up-down, however after a few twists and turns, I came out of the park, still on the east side, just 10 blocks towards downtown.

I might just have to stay on the upper east side all week!

auto école

4 months ago, I lost my driver’s license, not due to speeding, nor one thousand accumulated parking tickets, only because I lived in France for too long.

The French authority allows certain foreign driver’s license holders to exchange their driver’s license the first year when they move to France and only the first year. If you decide to do it one year later, too bad, you have to pass the exam. So Feb 20th 2006, I became officially license-less.

In order to get a new license, I will have to be enrolled in a driving school and study for the traffic rules, pass the written test and do 20 hours of practice on the road and then the road test: turn left, turn right, stop and pull into the alley ... What an insult to a veteran driver with excellent record, 10 years of driving history, never in a accident, no speeding ticket, not even a parking ticket (not in my name anyway).

This afternoon, I called every driving school in Paris, basically tried to bribe them to avoid the 20 hour driving lessons. No one agreed to it. At 16H55, I was on my bike heading towards my only hope in the 13th district, there I saw a small office marked in big letters “auto ecole” next to Notre Dame. I walked in, I explained my problem and five minutes later I got a deal. I will subscribe to the normal class, pay a bit less and he will just mark the 20 hours I am supposed to do with a black pen and I then will pass the exam.

I hate the French authority but I have to love the French people for their imagination and flexibility.

l'estate violenta (violent summer)

After Valerio Zurlini’s l’estate violenta (1961), I walked out of cinema Quartier Latin, slowly making my way home to the other side of the river, without forgetting to stop at Amorino’s for a gelato (bacio, café and yogurt), yum. I couldn’t stop thinking about the love story in the movie and how the war (1945) separated them eventually, so bitter sweet.

As soon as I walked into my apartment, I see this on my table – a plastic bag from duty free shopping in the airport of Beirut. A friend of mine brought me a gift a few weeks ago from Lebanon, since then the airport is bombed and the whole country is being bombed. This friend could not help but sitting in front of the TV every evening watching news, only bad ones. I manage to cut myself from news and continue live my Parisian life - cinema, Gelati, firemen’s parties, picnics on Ponts des arts, Champagne on my roof top, BBQs in the countryside and motorcycle rides on the river banks … Yet this little plastic bag sitting on my living room table reminds me that it is summer and a violent one indeed!

Few weeks ago, I still thought Beirut would be the destination for my summer vacation this year together with Syrie and Jordan. I am not really afraid of going today, but I just don’t know how to explain to my aging parents about my vacation plans in a war zone.

I think about my friends in Tel Aviv, I wanted to call or write them an email to see how they are and what they think, but I did not. I did not even call my Lebanese friend these past few days, because I don’t know what to say.

When there is no easy solution to long lasting problems like this, and comprehension is totally beyond my capacity, I want to say: Hey, Israeliens, Palestinians, all Jews and Arabs, just come live with the Chinese and we eat roasted ducks together, there is oil in those things. In this country, we have lots of lands, uncultivated lands, choose which ever piece you would like. Take Tibet, it is a very peaceful place; the Himalaya will be high enough to separate your problems. Take Taiwan, the most romantic island with lots of bananas; it is far enough from your home and close enough to the Americans. Take every stone you want and need from the great wall which protected the Chinese for thousands of years and that should help you build your own great wall and protect your family.

L’estate violenta, and I, hate!!!

fireworks, firemen, i am on fire

July 14th is Bastille day and national day of France, this year like any other year, they shoot up fireworks next to the Eiffel Tower, the only difference is that I really got to see it up close and personal this time. On the balcony of a friend who moved into a new apartment with a grand view of the Eiffel Tower, we opened numerous bottles of champagne and watched the whole set of fireworks with Mozart in the background. It was so close that ashes and residuals from fireworks, got into our hair, eyes, mouths, clothes and champagne glasses. Smoke from the fireworks blocked our view of Eiffel Tower, the entire thing just disappeared in front of us, until it was lit and glittering in the dark again.

My face was almost black by the end, but maybe that set the tone of the second half of the evening – firemen’s party. It is a French tradition that on Bastille day, in every neighbourhood, all cities in the country, firemen’s hold parties in their lodgement. There I am, surrounded by some very good looking and fit men in uniform, continue to drink champagne and celebrate the official entry to summer. I saw a girl in the arms of a good looking fireman, I said to myself, “did they knew each other before or I got to the party too late?”

In the firemen’s station, surrounded by dozens of fire trucks and, all sorts of fire fighting equipments and an army of fire fighters, my lighter just decided to shut itself off completely, I think it is due to his own psychological fear. The entire evening I had all excuses to have handsome firemen lighting cigarettes for me, I kept wandering weather they were there to put off fires or to light fires.

4h00 in the morning, I decided to call it a night, in order to avoid asking homeless people for light, I had to light a new cigarette before the old one went out. Here is my new method of measuring distance between two places – the firemen’s station is exactly 8 “chain smoking” cigarettes away from my apartment: so far away yet so close!!!

Do I feel the sense of security that someone near will always come by to put out the fire? Or, am I more afraid to be set on fire and burn ?

end of the world cup

The world cup finally ended. Before the final, I told myself that I would be equally happy either the French or the Italians won, yet I can not really describe my emotion to be joy. Was it because I, after all, favour the French more than the Italians? Was it because now at the beginning of the summer, me like the rest of 60 million French could not find a good reason to drink champagne and party all night long? Well, that, I believe the French will find a solution very quickly.

My real disappointment is that the final game was not so spectacular and what football has become today. I quote lines from a fellow blogger:

“People who don’t understand anything about football think the World Cup final is about 1 billion people watching 22 Frenchmen and Italians kicking a ball around. They’re wrong. It’s really about 1 billion people watching 22 Frenchmen and Italians, falling all over, getting penalties for non-existent fouls, grabbing their calves and performing spectacular dives which drama students worldwide could do well to study.”

· So is it more of a game of tactics of simulation of fouls and corners? Or is it a game of emotional harassment and psychological control?

· These past few days, all explanations people are trying to give to justify Zidane’s behaviour were just pathetic.

· The Italians deserve the champion, not for their performance in the final game, but the outstanding game they played against the Germans, with two goals within the final 5 minutes of over time.

· The Italians deserve the champion because they are good players and they just got rid of Berlusconi for all Europeans.

· So what about the French who played well against the Spanish and Brazilians?

· A pity that Argentina lost to the Germans, but in regard to that game, my friend who came to the bar with me that day is to be blamed. As a supporter for Argentina, he somehow changed positions in the middle of the game, because of a pretty blonde German girl sat next to him. Ever since he started flirting with the blonde German girl, Argentina started losing. This very person, who used to be my partner for tango lesson every Thursday night is officially fired!

· One player I really like is Cissé, but his injury was directly caused by a friendly match with the Chinese. And the Chinese, my country men will not make it to qualification even in another 20 years.

So here are all my regrets and shall we wait for the next world cup to resolve all of today’s regrets?

Vik, the happy purple bee

camp the tent

After some mass text messages to friends the day before taking off to Iceland asking to borrow a tent, I realised that none of my friends is outdoor type, because the answer is uniform. “No, no tent!!!” and “What do you need that for?”

Camping is not something I fantasize only, I have done so in my life and several times. Although that does not correspond to the usual urban cosmopolitan Ana image, camping is truly something I enjoy.

Despite the only encouraging response of one person who offered to make me a tent with his body, I decided that it would have been too heavy to carry, I packed my sleeping bag first and with much determination, I walked into Go Sport to look for a tent.

After more than one hour of consultation, I picked up this light weight, dark blue tent for two people, and an important detail, it was water proof for 3 days. We were going for the midnight sun, yet rain is not uncommon this time of the year. Did you notice the “light weight” part? For me camping is not to set up the tent next to the car, but carrying all the stuff in a back pack, hiking for at least 2-3 kilometres, climbing over a few hills, crossing a few creeks and finding the perfect spot in a valley… so “light weight” is after all important.

Yet the idea of sleeping in the nature, breathing the same air as wild animals and chasing after hurdles of sheep were not exactly shared by my travel partner. Day 3, the sun was warm and bright all day long, I started my marketing champagne over “camping out under the sun”(there is not evening anyways). “It will just be like taking a nap in the afternoon” … “we don’t even need camp fire, it is bright out look!”

Out of sympathy or maybe even “love”, she eventually said “Yes”, and I was ready to show her the best part of life she had missed all these years. We had this nice spot where we could see the glacier on one side and the ocean on the other side, 22H00, the sun is still high up. We had our fancy picnic of smoked salmon, smoked lamb, cucumbers, tomatoes, wheat bread and a bottle of chilled rosé. (On the land of Ice, everything is chilled at all times, the temperature is usually between 0 – 8 degrees centigrade.)

At 23H00, I curled up in my new tent, well covered by a sheet, sleeping bag and a thick warm hat. I sent a bunch of text messages to my city friends just to show off, and then I put on one of those eye masks from Air France just to trick my biological self, so that my body would recognise that it was evening, and put me to sleep.

I was fast asleep smelling the fresh grass underneath me and thinking maybe I could get up at 3 o’clock in the morning and taking some pictures under some amazing sunlight… somehow, I did not fail to wake up at 3 o’clock in the morning, but I only heard strong wind blowing outside and rain drops hitting the side of the tent.

Ananas: I don’t think this tent is water proof, not even for three hours,
certainly not three days!
Ana: Hmmm…. We are still dry right?
Ananas: I am not, my hair, face, all, all is wet.
Ana: Are you cold? I think I am okay, should we wait till the rain stops?
Ananas: ok, I am cold…
Ana: Drink some wine! where is the wine bottle?
Ananas: I am cold.
Ana: I need to go to the bathroom, I think…but maybe I can wait…so cold!
You are right it is cold.

As I unzip the sleeping bag, I realized both of my feet and the bottom half of the sleeping bag was basically soaked in water…

There is the first water proof test of my new tent, and I guess this is what I call “when nature shows its power”! At least I was able to show THAT to my friend – Things not to miss in life, when nature shows its power…

introducing vik anadottir - the purple bee

Iceland is a magical place where we feel like being on the moon at times, and the people there have names which are just from the moon! Everyone’s last name ends with something “Xdottir”, meaning the daughter of X; or “Yson” meaning the son of Y. The “X” or “Y” are usually the first name of the father, or sometimes the mother. There I adopted my first daughter, Vik Anadottir. She is a happy bee with purple stripes, who swings with the wind, loves the beach and kisses anyone who brings her sunshine.

According to Iceland tradition, my name could be something like Ana Gudmundsdottir (that would make me the sister of Björk, we could share the same father who goes by the first name of Gudmunds). And if I were to marry someone called Djüpak Smithson, our son will be called Lysühöll Djüpakson, imagining the four of us: Ana Gudmundsdottir, Djüpak Smithson, Vik Anadottir and Lysühöll Djüpakson with four different last names trying to check into the same hotel, people will never believe that we are actually related.

Despite all the confusion, brave Vik is proud of her nationality and named herself after Reykjavik, the capital and Vik a seaside town on the south side of this land of ice. Vik is also short for Vikings and Victoria. After her first adventure, she brought home some smoked salmon and she wants to invite you to a rooftop picnic, at the house of Anadottir’s… so what do you say?!

wednesday lo-fi

scanned from silver gelatin print, may 2006

Yesterday I found a piece of paper at the bottom of an old suitcase, it is from 8 years ago, it is my handwriting, but the words are somewhat shocking to me, as I cannot imagine those would be my words. Yet they go very well with the photo I took a couple of weeks ago.

"his extraordinary gift for hope vs. his shrewd perception of actuality
his almost renaissance love of fame vs. his awareness of the confused reality of success
his understanding of love vs. his conscienceness of the grubby actuality of mere sex
his ecastatic delight in the fresh responsiveness of youth vs. his sharp sense of the fading emotional energy with the passing of time..."

hope I wasn't writing about my boyfriend at that time, it doesn't seem romantic to me or if it is from a book or film, maybe someone will tell me where from.

masse à la mer (sunday mass)

Grew up in a Buddhist Communist Atheist Catholic family, the choice of my religion was not that easy. Baptised Catholic in a church not recognised by the Vatican (in fact no Catholic church in China is recognised by the Vatican), I was never forced to go to church, my childhood memories of bible studies were sitting in the lap of my grandmother, leaning on her round and warm shoulders, her sweet voices telling me bible stories, the touch of her silk Chinese dress (Qi Pao), the mixed odour of her perfume, powder and cigarettes. Her favourite brand was Mu Dan, gigantic flowers on a bright red packaging, she actually allowed me to have a puff or two from time to time.

When Grandmother passed away, I almost forgot that I was Catholic except when I was exempt from all communist political studies in teenage years. I once thought it was romantic and very “Thorn Birds” like to be a Catholic and that I would certainly grow up to fall in love with a priest one day and finish my life fighting between belief and desire.

Years later, I ended up in a protestant school in America, a Methodist one; instead of converting to Methodist, I actually tried to compensate my 3 hour weekly religious study of John Wesleyan’s teachings by Sunday church in a local Catholic Cathedral where I prayed, sang, balanced my check books and wrote love letters; but most importantly I thought about my grandmother and I missed her immensely. I often went to church in a Chinese dress thinking she would probably have liked it.

Ever since I came to France, my guilt of not going to church reduced to zero, because this is the largest Catholic country in the world where least people go to church. From time to time, I would walk into a wedding or funeral service in Paris, or hear the choir singing as I am passing in front a church. The little moment of peace brought me joy and memories of my grandmother. I believe she has been watching over me all those years, one of the proofs being that I still cannot quit smoking, as that is one of the habits she gave me at my early child days.

This Sunday on the coast of Normandy, after two naps and a few strokes along the beach, I lit a cigarette, the favourite brand of my grand mother – Mu Dan. That was my Sunday mass in memories of my dear grandmother in her silk Chinese dress...

Ana's Crystal Ball

Would you like to know what kind of car you have? And where your parking spot is? Come consult with world renowned psychic - ANA and find out what the future holds for you!

Specialised in
-Mediumship
-Clairvoyance
-Tarot
-Angel's
-Crystal
-Palms

Conveniently located on Rue Saint Honoré, Ana’s psychic allows you to do Shopping and Psychic Reading all at once.

How do you like the ad for my new business? Actually I don’t know how to do any of the above: mediumship? What is that? Tarot, I have seen those cards, a bit bigger than normal poker cars. Palms, I have, just don’t know how to read them. Crystal balls are cool, let me try that.

A trader friend once explained to me how they, at Morgan Stanley, build trading models based on historical data of the stock market, and then use them to predict future performance of a particular stock. That must work since Morgan Stanley seems to make lots of money and hire lots of people in suits and ties. In order to beat the market of psychic sisters, I shall employ some modern day science.

If we take the first name and last name of all women/men you have dated in your life time; and let’s suppose that these letters are statistically non-correlated; we can then run a linear regression on that, and build a model to predict the name of the future “Love of Your Life”. This will be the secret to my crystal ball.

Before opening ceremony of my new business, I decided to test my crystal ball on myself. I successfully plugged in all letters came from first names, last names, middle names and nick names of my past and current loves. I got a model, very linear indeed. I have two top letters:
P & G. hmmmm… that is some kind of shampoo, I believe. I decided to include the third letter which was “I”. With all the creative juice I have on a Friday morning, I can only come up with one word – PIG!

With these words, I shall spend the whole weekend sleeping which corresponds to the habits of my future ….. just give me a crepe from time to time… and dear friends hope you come visit my store soon on rue saint honoré!

Good weekend to you all! And all my sincere excuses to those who contributed to those three letters.

heLmet nOt?!

For some stupid reason, I accepted to race against a scooter with my cute little bike. However, if you have seen this scooter you will then believe that I might not be that stupid. A serious sports woman I am, I took my bike for a pre-race morning training. To test endurance and flexibility of my bike, I put some heavy load in the front basket. Right there in the middle of traffic, it broke completely: the basket, the front light, the break, everything. Terrible!

Midday, I walked into a bike shop in the 7th, nice shop keeper, chatty and eager. I realized a very strong and familiar accent, “so where are you from?” asked Ana. “Ah, Napolie!!! Italie, you know?” All of sudden I just see this image of my dear little bike getting a serious surgery, all parts removed and replaced with plastic body parts shipped directly from China. So much for my trust in Italians and especially Neapolitans. I felt bad, “Sir, I think I might just come back later tonight, because I have to go back to work now”. I pushed my bike quickly out of the store, not even daring looking back.

Later in the evening, I walked into a bike shop in my hood, run by some honest French guy, who once pumped my tires for free. I like this shop, because it is full of gadgets for serious bikers. I don’t even know how to explain their functionalities.

Shop keeper: It looks pretty bad, but we will get it fixed.
Ana felt so relieved.
Shop keeper: Are you riding around Paris with no Helmet? That is not a good idea.
Ana: It is okay, I go slow.
Shop keeper: You go slow, but the buses and motorcycles don’t.
Ana: You are right.
Shop keeper: I have some simple stuff, if you want to try while waiting for your bike
Ana: ok, yeah I guess!

Next thing I knew, I was trying on this Pink Helmet for professional races, it costs 130 euros! My entire bike doesn’t even cost that much. But I have to say it looked really good on me and felt even better.

“I will think about it, thank you for fixing the bike…”

I managed to leave the shop without the helmet, but the whole night I have been longing for this Pink Helmet. Should I have trusted the Neapolitan? What is the catch with the French? Now I am lying in bed going through all potential reasons to justify this purchase… Helmet? Not?

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

For someone who has no car and no driver’s license I had the pleasure to be in the passenger's seat for a few hours over the weekend, this few hours of experience were so exceptional that I had all the time to think about the most philosophical issue in life.

Finding the right person to love in life is exactly like finding a parking spot on the busy streets in the middle of Paris Friday evening. There are beautiful people on beautiful streets with beautiful cars everywhere, yet parking spots are scarce. The rule of winning this game is simple - you need to be at the right place at the right time. There is no science to it, only luck!

The best and most sweet spot supposedly is just downstairs from your apartment, yet how many times can you park right in front of your front door?

- You can always turn up the music in your car, singing to your favourite songs and keep circling around the block, saying “I am not in a hurry, I will keep looking”. This is the bachelor waiting to find the perfect love of his/her life.

- After you circled around the block 5 or 10 times, you are so sick and tired and you finally decided to enlarge the scope, you go beyond the normal circle. As soon as you surrender your car to a sweet spot 5 blocks away, you walk yourself home, along the way, you see 2 spots that are much closer to your apartment. These nice spots move their hips around in the most erotic way and singing to you in pussycat dolls’ voice :

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?
Don't cha
Don't cha
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me?
Don't cha
Don't cha

Don’t you wish you had waited? That’s called “I settled too early”.

- Sometimes you can get really frustrated and desperate that you decide to double park. That is when you date married men or married women, it is not recommended, and you know you will get a huge fine one day, but it is convenient for the moment. So what the heck!

- For those who would like to plan ahead, they actually pay for a parking spot monthly. They cannot park any where else except where they paid for a spot. Guaranteed space yet lack of surprise and flexibility. And it costs money. That is called being in a relationship which requires high maintenance.

- Occasionally, you can successfully park right up front, you say “God, I am never gonna move ever again”! As you turn around, there is a panel that reads “Wednesday morning street cleaning starting 7h30” or “Saturday morning farmers market”, that is when I know the guy has a track record of relationship of no more than three months and I am still willing to give it a try. Do I get to move the panel or simply move my car and myself Wednesday morning?


Dear friends, how to solve this modern day urban issue of “where do I park”? Don’t you just want to go to the countryside where you have all the space to park and re-park and open all four doors of your car? Wouldn’t life be too easy that way?

So those who take taxis, are they ignoring the fact that we all need a spot somewhere? And are huge underground parking lots whore houses? You just need to pay to get in?! So then what would be valet parking?

Tired and perplexed, I took the metro home tonight yet I couldn’t help looking to see if there are nice spots downstairs from my place.

happy international children's day

Some of you might not be aware, but today is the international children's day, it is a holiday dedicated to kids.

After having indulged in some chocolates from michel chaudun, I have decided that I am still a child and I never want to grow up and I will continue to celebrate this holiday for the rest of my life.

Happy children's day to you all!!!

a woman with passion

Ever since I was little I was told by my mum that I had a very bad sleeping habit, because I slept on my stomach, and she said I crashed my lungs, my heart, my stomach, my breasts and they would never function properly and that I would have small breasts all my life and that one day I could have an heart attack in my sleep. She also said that the best way to sleep is to sleep on one’s back, like her. I never followed her advice like every other advice she gave me about life, not only because I was rebellious but more importantly I just COULD NOT SLEEP on my back.

As time go by, I remember waking up in the morning in my teenage days, checking to see if my breasts got completely crushed and became airport runways. Luckily they grew bigger and bigger everyday, such growth stopped a few years back of course, and I continue to sleep on my stomach.

Recently, I learned a few things about sleeping positions and personalities: those who sleep on their back are confident and ready to confront the world; those who sleep on their stomach are shy and reserved. My position is not simply on my stomach, it is called “free fall”, that is when you sleep on your stomach, with arms around the pillow and head turned to one side. Only 7% of the population on earth sleep in this position.

Personality wise, it says:

You have a passion for everything - including sleeping. Yes I completely agree!!!!
Outgoing and brash, you tend to still shock those who know you well. Maybe!
You tend to be selfish. You are the most likely type to hog the covers. What? I guess I don’t like critics, :))
You gravitate toward comfort and don’t like extreme situations.
I am sleeping for god sake, of course I want comfort, do you want to sleep in extreme situations?


What position are you? and your personality?
http://www.dribbleglass.com/sleep/sleep1.htm

And when you are with your loved one?

http://www.wimp.com/sleepingstyles/

do you have kids?

http://www.babycenter.com/refcap/baby/babysleep/7586.html

I finally understood why I am still single, I take up too much space, I mean the whole bed, and even when there is someone else, I fill the whole bed in a “free fall” with “Passion” of course. At least I know I will not eventually die of heart attack because of my sleeping position, or 7% of world population will do so just like me.

I sleep with passion…because I have passion... I am a woman with passion...

...long lost love

« hello Ana … »
« yes ? »

A lazy afternoon lying on my couch, smoking a duty free cigarette from Finair, I got a call from him. Who? Him? Which who? which him? some guy from Dubai, someone I met 6 years ago on a flight from Paris to Shanghai.

I vaguely remember that due to overbooking, I got upgraded to first class and there I chatted with this French guy. I have zero memory of his face nor figure nor what he did for life, but apparently I gave him my number. Was it because he was cute? or simply rich? Or that after 12 hours sitting next to each other I could not say no?

6 years, it has been 6 years, he moved from US to Swizterland and then to Belgium and then to Dubai, he kept my number the whole time, I am so touched, and then he called me using “vous” (vousvoyer as the polite, formal and distant form in French). He was so proper and calm and confident on the phone I could not make an excuse and hang up.

This is all so intriguing:

- He did not call me 6 years ago, because he was married or engaged? 6 years is enough to get married and have 2 kids and then divorced… or maybe he is still married…just looking for an adventure?
- He did not call me 6 years ago, he was working for the secret service? Now the war (whichever one) is over, he is retired? But retired in Dubai?
- He did not call me 6 years ago, because he was a gigolo, supported by some rich 80 year old woman, now she is dead in her armchair surrounded by 20 cats and he inherited all her assets?
- He did not call me 6 years ago, because he misplaced my number and after all the moves, my number suddenly showed up on his desk?
-He did not call me 6 years ago, because he was not sure if he liked me, and now he finally made up his mind.
- He actually called me 6 years ago, and we had a great time together, not sure where, and had wild sex in his hotel, but I just don’t remember?
-So Sunday afternoon, he must have been extremely desperate and lonely after having called everyone whom he could have called in his little black book, left him no other numbers except mine.
- He actually remembered what we talked about 6 years ago, so maybe I told him I was with someone, yet no questions asked this time, only an invitation to dinner?

So he is in France visiting family and proposed dinner Sunday night, should I?

- What if he is a complete waco?!
- What if he is short and fat and ugly? I have no memory at all and I could not ask him that over the phone either. “hey, are u fat?”
- Would you invite a girl you met 6 years ago to dinner? What if she is fat and ugly and old and pregnant now?
- What the xx, I need some excitement in my life.
- He could send whoever to dinner, I wouldn’t even know. And I could send whoever to this dinner and he will not notice either. How perfect!
- Maybe it is a scam, he will ask to borrow money …and then disappear in the bathroom.
- Maybe he will kidnap me although my family has no money at all. Should I ask some friends to go to the same restaurant that evening to protect me? Just in case I mean.
-Maybe I got partial temporary amnesia from this recent trip, he is really a long lost love of mine?

Should I at least pretend from now on until Sunday that he is indeed my long lost love? Isn’t life all about faith and believing? Isn’t love all about convincing oneself? To my long lost love of life.

water world

humidity aisa

Finair, the finest airline of all time

Creative minded me chose Finair for a 12 and half hours journey from Paris to Guangzhou, China with a stop in Helsinki; the real reason behind it of course is it is cheap. Since Helsinki is way up north, it is sort of on my way to China, the transfer only adds one hour to the entire trip.

As soon as I was on board, I started worrying, I only had 25 minutes to make the connection, if I miss that, I suppose I would be stuck in Helsinki getting an extended sauna until the next flight 24 hours later. As I expressed my concern to one of the flight attendants, I was suddenly surrounded by 3 or 4 most beautiful blond flight attendants with the most strange accent trying to explain to me how small the airport was and that I needed worry. If I were a guy, this could have been the most wonderful moment in my life. They must have expressed my concern to the captain as well; the plane actually landed 35 minutes before schedule. I wonder if the captain was blond as well, and how they manage the airport with planes arriving early just like that.

Needless to say, second part of the journey started smoothly as well. Finnish have the reputation of being rather quiet, yet my neighbour was not one of them; he quickly introduced himself, a training manager for Nokia. Apparently he has been to China more than 10 times already, through this sweet and gentle engineer of Nokia, I quickly understood that more than half of the passengers on board worked for Nokia or affiliated companies in telecom. It is only natural, China is the number one world mobile hand set market now.

My sweet neighbour soon expressed a strong desire to chat through this long flight; with no delay, he pulled out three different models of Nokia cell phones and started explaining to me the differences, their pros and cons… I wish I had taken swiss air, maybe there would be someone explaining to me the different percentage of caocao changes the taste of chocolates and I would have to taste chocolates during the entire trip.

“you know what, I really have to sleep,” I felt so bad when I said that, yet his words on mobile phones were just way more effective than sleeping pills.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to look for some snacks, that is when I realised the real catch of Finair. SNACKS ARE NOT FREE!!! All of a sudden I missed those good old days with Air France when there is unlimited supply of fruits, sandwiches, ramen noodles, ice creams and lion bars, who need the blond girls, I want FREE SNACKS!!!

Boleo – by the light of the moon...Part II

Now that I know I have the attention of the white hair Argentina man, the only question is when and how he is going to come and ask me to dance. And more importantly, how am I going to actually “dance”, I kind of hoped that I still had time for a few more lessons.

Ana: Don’t you think it is time you went dance with some other women? People probably think we are married you know.

Friend: We make a wonderful couple, no? (my friend in need obviously sensed that he was no longer really in need; rather a friend in obstacle, but he is playing along to annoy me a bit).

Music came to a stop, it is the end of the third tango, this is also when they put on some fast rhythm which doesn’t mean anything at all. However, for people in the club, it is the moment which meant everything: it is the moment for changing partners and real conversations. I searched my white hair Argentina man in the crowd, he is taller than the majority men in the club, probably in his 50s, but his white hair makes him more than 60 years old. I cannot really describe him as good looking; yet appearance probably takes on a very different perspective in a tango club like this. Being a good dancer, his confidence and charm brought him all the power to march into every corner of the club with grace and ease. He had a few words with the girl he danced with and then walked to the bar to join a buddy of his. He had his back facing me, I wondered if he was talking to his friend about that girl he just danced with, or about football and politics, or about his wife and kids…

I hear the music changing and quickly stood up, “Let’s dance!” I probably wanted to say, “Let’s practice!”

Friend (stood up slowly): I thought you were trying to get rid of me.
Ana: Just dance!!!
Ana (trying another strategy, this time big charming smile): I like dancing with you, they say tango is the dance of love, you better be careful, you might fall in love with me.
Friend: I am already under your charm.

Did I mention that he was French? And very French? I realise this friend can be a real friend, like a cushion in certain occasions; or a coach for seduction; or he might want to play competitor. But who cares, I am up for the ride.

Ana: So was that an Argentina woman you were in love with? And that inspired you to learn tango?
Friend: And you are just in love with tango, which will then make you fall in love with Argentina men?
Ana: I realize not only you are using plurals form “Argentina men”, but also you responded my question with another question. This is just all too intellectual for me, I better focus…

Before I could focus on my steps, I saw this couple on the dance floor, they must have arrived just as I was busy talking. This time I could only notice the woman, she was absolutely stunning, dressed all in black, a tank top and knitted pants, as the bottoms were too large, she put a knot on each side to hold it up. Red shoes with heels of at least 10cm. Long curly dark hair worn pulled to the back. What I loved most was on one side of her ears she wore a piece of red feather, just enough red and black to tango in the light of the moon. With her partner, they took up all the space on the dance floor, I was certainly not the only one who noticed them. My eyes followed every step she took; I would not want to take a single breath if that will make me miss one of her movements. I was enchanted and mesmerised.

The third tango, we did not dance, I just sat and watched. Yet I could feel one side of my face burning, the white hair Argentina man was looking at me, I know it, but I never took my eyes off the red feather woman.

Ana: Is he still watching me?
Friend: Yes!
Ana: Are you sure he is from Argentina?
Friend: Yes, I heard him talking. You are afraid you get a fake one?
Ana: LV bags can be made in China, this guy could just be French like you, in that case I want my money back.

I turned to the right and smiled at my Argentina man, he had been smiling the whole time, seemed to be highly amused.

Ana: If you just go to the bar after this tune, he might be ready to come and talk to me.
Friend: I don’t think this guy will worry about my presence, I want to see the details.
Ana: Fine!

Music stopped, the Argentina man stood up and went to the bar.

The next round of tango started, I just sipped on my Perrier didn’t even look for him. I was pretty sure that he would turn up just like that and ask me to dance, in proper French but a slight Spanish accent.

As I looked up, there he was …on the dance floor…. with the red feather woman!!! Of course!!!

All that sweat coming from the dance floor mixed with various type of perfumes, cigarettes and alcohol and beautiful music from the past and people whispering in a language I don’t understand, skirts, high heels, red, blue, black and many more… I could only think of one word TRAGIC, written upside down, backwards, in French or in Spanish, it is still T-R-A-G-I-C, TRAGIC!!!

- by the light of the moon...

Boleo – by the light of the moon...Part I

There are two types of Argentina men who are worth meeting in one’s life time - the sexy long haired football player and the old and ugly 70-year-old tango dancer. Since the world cup is starting in a couple of months, no footballers within my scope, why don’t we go and meet the old and ugly tango dancer tonight.

Escorted by a friend who knows how to tango (two years of tango lessons under his belt), we ventured into a local Latino club where they alternate between various Latin dances. Half past ten, the small club was half packed. We found a little table against the wall, we put down our motorcycle helmets and quickly changed into our dance shoes. The helmet is an important detail, since I came on a motorcycle in some baggy jeans, that gives me the right to go to the bathroom and slip on my little red skirt.

My friend went to get us some drinks at the bar like a real gentleman, my eyes are completely glued to the dance floor, fascinated by how people dance. The crowd is rather mixed, people anywhere from 25 to 70 years old. Many look like regulars, they come in groups. I have always loved tango, it is so emotional and dramatic.

This is my first tango ball, I only had 2 lessons.

Before I had time to think what I was supposed to do to pull off this first ball, there is already a man in front of me inviting me to dance. “no, Ana, what are you doing!” I got up and whispered to his ears, “ I happen to be a beginner, but I am very willing…” he smiled and led me into the dance floor…

The tradition in a club is the following: tango dances are in groups of 3. Usually, men will invite women to dance, they dance 3 tangos without changing partners. If he leaves her before the end of the 3rd tango, it is considered rude; however, if he stays with her after the 3rd tango, it is considered INTERESTED.

This first one is not yet too difficult, I guess my partner just decided to walk the tango. I asked to leave and find my friend after the first tango before any further embarrassment.

Friend:
Let me give you some background information. In a tango club like this, there are only 4 types women: 1. beautiful women who dance well, once men find them, they will let them go; 2. ugly women who dance well, they have difficulty getting started, but once people see how they dance, they will do fine; 3. beautiful women who don’t dance well, they get invited fast by lots of people, after a while, it will be okay; 4. ugly women who don’t dance well, they should go home right away.

Ana: Thank you for the analysis, to satisfy my self-esteem, I got invited before you even got me a drink, which makes me the type 3 women, but now everyone knows how badly I dance, no one will invite me anymore.

Friend: The night just started.

Ana: Thank you for being here, you are a friend in need, a real friend indeed.

I took a big sip of my Perrier and stood up ready to conquer the dance floor, my friend had this naughty smile on his face, I had to add “your mission is to make me look like a real tango dancer”. “My honour, your majesty!”

I did the classic salida, ocho and followed by a slick boleo, except that boleo was slick enough to kick un unknown leg.

Friend: Easy Ana, you are not on the stage, it is a club!
Ana: I should get a mojito, that should help!

I suddenly caught a glimpse of the guy who asked me to dance the first tango, he was with a Japanese woman. Rice Cooker he is, not sure which model though. I have to say they dance a very Zen type of Tango, must be the rice and soy sauce thing.

As I was intrigued by all the little details of each couple on the dance floor, my friend drew my attention to this white hair tall Argentina man who just walked past us and sat down at the next table.

I then started follow his movements, a real good dancer and very skilful with women. He only dances with the best and the most beautiful. Women in his arms are just surrenders.

Before I knew it, he was dancing just in front my face, with the most sensual movements, the beautiful woman with her eyes closed. It was so close I didn’t know if I was supposed to focus on their legs or other parts of the figure. Music stopped, he was looking straight into my face, “how are you?”

As I smiled back politely, music started again, he danced away with his partner.

My friend commented in the background: “You are in!”

(to be continued)

when called up by a girlfriend

When called up by girlfriend because she has relationship problems, the wise thing to do is to is always listen and repeat what she talks and then occasionally throw in something like “I can’t believe he did that!”; “I am so sorry to hear that!”; “he will finally grow up one day” “really, oh my god!”…

That was exactly what I did, when this girlfriend told me about her boyfriend cheating on her and thinking about breaking up. This was a typical perfect couple, the girl is Chinese, guy French, used to live together in Paris. Six months ago, they decided to move to China for a new adventure and get married over there. They both found jobs, but one ended up in Beijing and the other in Shanghai, the two places don’t seem to be so far away seeing from here, it is after all 1h 30 flight a part. Numerous fights during the 6 months and she caught him cheating couple of times, now seems everything is too late. I ended the conversation with her not giving much real advice other than some politically correct BS. A couple of hours later, it bothered me so much, I called her back:

Ana: I thought about it more, I think if you still love him, you should forgive him
GF: how? Even if I forgive him, how can I trust him?
Ana: Then try trusting him
…

Maybe it is only easily said, would I be able to forgive just like that? What if she never found out that he cheated on her, wouldn’t it have been easier? Am I just lucky to have dated honest guys in the past? Or were they just better liars? Or because I never tried to find out the truth? So is my girlfriend just suffering because she made too much effort to find out about the truth?

I suppose I only want someone who is sincere about his feelings, but I don’t need all the truth, I am not interested in knowing all of it if it is going to upset me.

A few boring words on “the secret life of words”…

Tuesday nights are not the best nights for movies, as in Paris, the new releases come out every Wednesday. Despite the low ratings from critics, I went to see the new movie from Isabel Coixet – “The secret life of words”.

This is my first movie of the Young Spanish Director, it would be difficult for me to make any comparison with her earlier works. Story is set on an oil rig in the middle of no where, Josef (played by Tom Robbins) suffers from severe burn injury from an accident and also temporarily lost his eye sight. Hanna (played by Sarah Polly) a former nurse was brought to take care of him. The bedside conversations revealed stories and past in both characters and in the end led to a strong emotional tie between the two. Hanna being a war refugee from ex-Yugoslavia now Croatia, lives an isolated and simple life in Copenhagen working on an assembly line of a plastic factory to forget her past. The encounter with Josef and the rest of the crew on the oil rig was accidental, yet it revealed much more about people who want to be left alone from the society to live a very particular life on an oil rig.

I quiet enjoyed the movie, as both Sarah Polly and Tom Robbins were excellent in their roles and the characters were very interesting. I am personally very intrigued by the this type of encounters. Overall, conversations rather witty and followed a rhythm of the ocean waves. The soundtrack is amazingly good, I am going to download it illegally soon. However, there are many things which bothered me:

- As Josef (Tim Robbins) walked out of the hospital after his recovery, he looked just a bit too healthy and sexy with a pair of too expensive jeans; must have been Armani or Dolce & Gabbana. Sorry for noticing these details, but it was just not credible.

- The scene of the Josef meeting Hanna’s consular was too forced and a bit awkward. The director was accused of making the same movie by the press (I imagine she already used this subject in a previous film), which did not bother me; yet an open talk about the pain and suffering from Armenians, Jews and ex-Yugoslavians was a bit too much.

- The relationship between Josef and Hanna is intimate in a psychological and emotional way, it goes beyond a simple love affaire. When Josef finally found Hanna, a French kiss is just strange to express their emotions, not to mention the huge difference in height (between Tim Robbins and Sarah Polly) which made this kiss even more difficult.

- Happy ending of the two getting married and having two kids were so un-necessary that I almost wanted to defend the director by saying “it probably is the idea of the producer or the marketing team”. Who knows.

These are my words, I probably focused a bit more on critiquing than appreciating. It is still worth seeing if you haven’t; if you have, what are some of your thoughts then?

rocker the rollers

I spent all my teenage years dreaming of becoming a rock star, yet I never became one and I don’t even listen to rock ‘n roll that much these days, is it because of my new bobo life style or the slow aging effect? Last night, however, I relived my teenage years at a rock concert, screaming, dancing and falling all over the place…

A normal Thursday night, people are ready to go out and are looking for reasons to go out. I was invited by a friend to this pop rock concert, because her boyfriend is playing. Small club in the Marais, unknown group. I decided to stop by, because it was 5 minutes walking distance and like anybody else, I was looking for a reason to go out.

About 11 o’clock at night, the basement of this little club was packed, group went on stage, it consisted, a singer, two guitarist, one base player, on drummer. Here comes the inevitable question again, if I want to become a rock star which position should I play?

For the longest time, I thought the best position was base, because I could wear my hair in a curly puffy explosion, smoke cigarettes and play base in the back. Somehow, this was tightly associated with the idea of living in Austin, Texas, where I would have gigs every night with different groups and never get bored of the same music. Then, after, I thought the drummer was really cool. Because I could cut my hair really shot, dye it orange, and be the kick ass female drummer of the century. In that case, I would live in Charlotte, North Carolina. Or should I just be the key board player, highly high tech with head set and sunglasses all the time; there, I would live in New York City. The idea of playing guitar and singing once crossed my mind, but I could only imagine me playing rather slow and sad songs, and I would end up living in Louisville, Kentucky which would make it even sadder.

Here I was sipping on a virgin mojito, and almost falling in love with the singer who does not even play one single musical instrument, I finally realise that the best position is always the lead singer.

As I was walking home at 2 am, I hear myself singing an old song by Pavement, rather amazed how I managed to actually remember the words…

Darlin’ don’t you go and cut your hair
Do you think it’s gonna make him change?
I’m just a boy with a new haircut
And that’s a pretty nice haircut
Charge it like a puzzle, hit me wearin’ muzzles
Hesitate to die, look around, around, the second drummer’s drowned
His telephone is found

Music scene is crazy,
bands start up each and every day
I saw another one just the other day
A special new band
I remember lyingI don’t remember lies
I don’t remember what
But I don’t care, I care, I really don’t care
Did you see the drummer’s hair?

don't eat bread!

I believe Jews and Chinese are naturally friends. I love the jews, because every Sunday the entire Paris is closed, I can always go to the jewish neigbourhood and continue my shoe shopping spree. Many jewish friends in America go to Chinese restuarants during Christmas time, because those are the only ones open.

Yesterday however, late at night, I went on a website of a store in NYC to order a piece of camera equipment, the entire website was closed. It is in fact closed all week. I know for fact that it is run by orthodox jews in Manhattan, so I called a Jewish friend who confirmed to me that it is indeed a big jewish holiday. So I suppose jewish people are just so thorough in their religious celebrations, they even shut down their internet sites, not like they need shop keepers for their websites.

I am really very impressed, and so for that, dear friends, don't eat bread!!! Whatever you do, just don't eat bread!!! Although I am not entirely sure why they don't eat bread for this holiday, to pay jewish people some respect, let's not eat bread.

(*we chinese just eat rice :)), that's why jews and chinese are friends by nature*)

aMbitious gardeneR

Ambitious is definitely a positive word in American English, so I tend to think that ambitious is indeed a good thing.

In the small 40 something square meter apartment, I have a virtual garden which expands to almost 50 acres of open land. Here are some previous, current and future attempts to cultivate this land:

- Basil leaves: I bought these small envelopes each of which were filled with at least a thousand basil seeds. I was thinking if I plant those seeds in various pots, they will grow, and I will have lots of basil leaves to cook with: basil chicken, pasta sauce, omelets, salads, etc. Since I have many pots, I will pick from one pot to cook one dish one day, and another pot to cook another dish another day; and as I keep picking, they would keep growing. Wouldn’t that be cool? Sadly, I only saw some green stuff coming out of the mud, they never turned into actual basil leaves. My land must not be rich enough.

Narcisse are these beautiful white flowers often used to decorate the house in winter time as I was growing up. Despite the objection of the florist (he said I should plant them in a pot), I insisted to put the bulb in the water thinking as long as I put enough nutrition, they will just grow fine. Result: it took 5 months for the leaves to come out, but now they are almost a meter high due to daily nutrition supplements. They certainly don’t look like innocent and feminine narcisse anymore; I believe they are ready for the NBA recruitment season.

Cactus: to ensure desert climate, I put them on the indoor heater during the winter season to create a micro-climate within my apartment, and they became like this….

Orchids: I love orchids and I keep buying them, they have a very low metabolism I believe. Not that they will not die on me, it just takes soooo much longer before they actually die… it at least gives the ambitious gardener some hope in the long dark and desperate winter.

Should I tell you more?

It is Spring time again and the perfect season to plant ….something… I am thinking:

· I love olives, if I get an olive tree, maybe I can eat olives in the Fall and pickle them, and put them in jars and give them to my friends as Christmas gifts.
· Tomatos: they are so good when picked fresh. I would like to have a few different kinds, those pink ones, the cherry one, and those green ones, they are so good. But maybe I don’t have enough light in the apartment; hum...I am sure I can find those high tech lamps that will provide all the necessary lighting.
· Should I get cactus again, it is really pretty easy, I will just leave it alone this time, no more heaters.
· Bamboos, they make the apartment look so Zen, and I can even organize tea tasting parties and people will come in there hats as if they are invited by the Queen to the buckingham palace.

Dear friends, what do you think?

Rice Cookers and those who made them…

“How aaa yiu, am flom Jaaaapaan…”, “I am from shanghai, do you know how to eat with chopsticks”, “I am Vietnamese.” “ I grew up in Soeul, haaav ui eard off Soeul, it is a big city ….”, “ I am from Taiwan, not China”… I am not sure since when, Saturday evening at night clubs, you see these Asian women everywhere, London, New York, Paris, Berlin, Rome… wherever you go, these skinny, flat faces and small breasts dressed in sexy outfits are moving their bodies to the rhythm of 21st century invading the entire planet. They think they are goddesses and western men love them.

Hahahaha, stop laughing, yes, I am one of them, I have to confess. No matter how often I bleach my hair and how many steak tartars I eat each day, I amstill Chinese. To be more precise, made in China, re-assembled in America and exported to France. I speak English with a Chinese accent, French with an English accent and Italian with a French accent, all this just to add more charm to my rather plain physical appearance.

Rice Cooker, is a term loosely defined as occidental men who appreciate Asian women, maybe in a rather excessive way. Asian meaning: Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Vietnamese, Malaysian and etc but excluding Indians (they eat rice, but without chopsticks, so, sorry out!).

• Rice Cooker Model I: occasional Rice Cookers, men who date Asian women but also interested in other women.
• Rice Cooker model II: dedicated Rice Cookers whose only mission in life is to cook rice, no vegetables, no meat or anything else.

Occasionally, Model I can slowly become Model II through genetic mutation.

Did Rice Cookers came into being before Asian Goddesses ? or did Goddesses make the Rice Cookers? It is such an profound question which have been troubling many modern day sociologists, and is a topic which deserves some in-depth discussion.

As a Chinese myself, I would like to think that we women created men, so we converted normal, intelligent and sensible men into Rice Cookers. Me, myself is a research and development centre of this particular type of cooking utensils. I successfully turned all my ex-boyfriends into Rice Cookers; as they go on with their lives to cook other rice other than Chinese rice, I hope they remember to pay me royalties in the future.

Yet the dilemma being that, I don’t like Rice Cookers, I am scared of them. I tried to hide my identity so that my blog spot does not attract Rice Cookers, especially Model II. They often mistaken in the following ways:

- As long as I am rice, I want to be cooked
- As long as they are western, they have the right to cook rice
- All Rices are the same, Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, Philippines, all the same
- I am submissive Asian woman with smooth skin and no dazzling personality

Many Asian women share these feelings, yet we continue to convert men into Rice Cookers every day, faster than the rate we actually give birth and raise our own children.

What should we do to save the world from Rice Cookers and those who made them?

masculine & feminine

One of the great things about living in France is that I feel my memory chip just got upgraded to handle those additional grammatical requirements in the French language. The most fun part is masculine and feminine of each noun.

To help myself get into the French mood, I start the day bright early (not in literary terms). After a nice hot shower to wake me up, I start running between the kitchen and my bedroom trying to get dressed and having breakfast at the same time.

I speak aloud to help myself remember: So, here is my bra, I put it on, it is masculine. I suppose French people just would like to think that everything that hold a woman’s breasts should be masculine. Then the string, it is masculine as well; but be careful if it is a panty, it is actually feminine, I suppose they have decided panties are not sexy enough to make a males worth while. Skirt, feminine of course.

Here I am in the kitchen, a bowl, masculine; spoon, feminine; cereal, not sure, I guess if the object is from modern day American culture, it is not worth defining its gender from French people’s view. I pour some milk, masculine; after a few spoon-full of cereal, I run back to the bedroom.

I find myself a nice silk shirt; alors, women’s shirts are masculine and men’s shirts are feminine, it is only logical this way.

I go back to the kitchen, finish the bowl of cereal and make myself a tea, masculine, even the honey I put in there is masculine. Honey can only and should always be masculine, of course!

I then go back to the bedroom… I will not bore you with more details, but this process obviously takes a bit longer than if I were to speak English.

Here I finished my breakfast and all dressed, all these nifty masculine and feminine objects on me, and I am ready to go out and confront the world full of other problems other than gender issues.

Yet I still spend my day wonder:

• Why would an orange be feminine and an orange juice be masculine?
• So when a Frenchman brings you flowers they are feminine and when a Italian brings you flowers they are masculine ?
• You sail at French coast, the sea is feminine, once you arrive in Italy, it is masculine? Not sure what will happen again as you approach Spain or Portugal. Some one, enlighten me please!
• Some words actually change sex when they go from singular forms to plural forms. (example in French: délice, orgue; in Italian, way too many) How does that take place? It is as if a boy, born as a boy and when he is older, he wants to be a woman. No, not that. A boy is a boy but when there are several, they all become women? What?! Whatever…
• Are there equal number of masculine and feminine objects in each Latin language to make sure each can find their loved ones? Did they take into account some might be homosexuals? And others might decide to marry other nationalities like Japanese and English of which gender does not exist?

looking for my twin

Many years ago, an early Spring evening, it was cold and crisp like today, I met one of my twins, we were born the same year, same month and same date. His name was Reid.

I walked into a neighbourhood café in Chicago, ordered myself a bottomless coffee and an Indonesian vegetarian plate. I was a chain smoker, heavy coffee drinker and vegetarian back then, perfect combination right? Like any other nights, the café was packed, some local musicians were playing. I opened my notebook and a folded San Francisco Weekly, as I was in the midst of moving to San Francisco, this was the night to circle out the potential future apartments. Chicago is a great city but up until then it just gave me such a uncanny feeling of coldness, probably a bit too dark for my taste. My stay in the city was way too short to allow me to really feel anything.

Musicians were not bad, they played mostly folk and country stuff, several of them went up and down the little corner stage of the café. I was still concentrating on my own affaires until I heard this voice, rather original, low and strong, accompanied by an acoustic guitar, the songs were kind of like Palace Brothers meet Elliot Smith. Pop yet folky, or I should say a bit sadcore. He kept on playing and people just cheered on; apparently he was also a waiter in the café. Friends and fans packed half of the café.

I don’t remember if it was because of his songs or simply I had lots of work to do, I stayed until closing and actually got to talk to him for a few minutes as he was cleaning up.
“I loved your songs,” big smile, me.
“Thanks, do you play the guitar as well?”
“hum, I wish I could…” I really wish I could, any instrument really, “ I don’t think I have talent for music …”

Conversation went on, somehow we realised we were both Pisces and born on the same day, February 20th. Wow, so he was my twin from the other continent, I finally met him. Reid, meaning red haired, however, that did not describe him at all physically; he was more dark haired slightly barding and always had a coffee mug in his hand.

He said he would teach me guitar, I couldn’t be happier and was curious to find out about my new “twin brother”.

2 weeks, 3 guitar lessons and four cords after, I had to pack up for San Francisco. I was memorized by how similar we were and did not know what to think. At the last lesson, Reid played a new song he just wrote, called “San Francisco”, and then he gave me home work to do: “write a song with 3 cords!” He said that if I weren’t to write songs, there was no point learning how to play the guitar. What a harsh professor! He also said that the best songs ever written only used 3 cords, I had 4 to choose from.

Months later, I was in San Francisco, I wrote a song about a waitress in mini skirt working in a sushi bar falling in love with a clown who made balloons for kids at the union square. The 3 cords were: A minor, E minor and C major, probably extremely romantic yet horrible to listen to. Reid wrote me a postcard saying that I needed to stock my fridge with beers and my drawers with gummy bears because he was coming to visit me soon.

Few years later, I moved again, he never came, and I never wrote another song…

Maybe I left San Francisco too soon, or maybe he never made it there. If he is reading this blog, his twin sister is now in Paris now, he better write a new song for Paris…

I think about this encounter from time to time, it is so hazy and dreamy that I am not sure if Reid really existed. Sometimes I wonder how many twin brothers and twin sisters I have on this planet and how many of them I will actually have the chance to meet in this life time. Am I allowed to see them again if I lose sight of them completely?

... where is this going?

many talks on the cyber world and the real world

I remember an old egyptien saying - "an image is like a thousand words". So here you go, my thousand words... and this where we are going...

successful match maker going on the black list

Aside from washing hair for bartenders, I actually have a day job – professional match maker for my single friends. Due to some mere luck, I keep a very high success rate in this profession regardless of the season, traffic conditions in the city, nationalities of my clients and my own personal status (single or couple format). What I have learned in this profession over the years is that one need to take real joy in the joy of his/her clients to be really successful. One other thing I have learned is that people can be re-formatted relatively easily from “single” to “couple”, or from “couple” to “single”, as if you are formatting those diskettes from apple format to PC format. To ensure continuous flow of clients, I never ask any questions when one wish to change his/her format, I service them like a professional. The business is not that profitable, I would have to say, taking into account a few free Perriers on the initial “set-up” drinks and occasional thank you dinners from real sensible clients. I can almost safely say that I run a “non-for-profit” organisation. Hopefully the authority will soon recognise me as a warm hearted foreigner and make my salary 100% tax deductible.

Occasionally I also lose money, that happens when single friends actually cross out my name from their little black book (address book, I just learned this term). Why? Guys are worried that I keep bringing young eligible men to their new girl friends to create natural competition for them. Girls are worried that I take their men to sleazy places like Hustler’s Club on Wednesday nights (school nights are more discrete as I once educated my clients) and corrupt their souls. Result: I am the only single person left on earth. No one to hang out with, I am officially on the BLACK LIST.

Am I suffering from the demon of my own success?!

My next marketing slogan should read: “ Forget about the black list, you might be a returning client one day”!!!

Dangerous Game

of bathroom items...

I am so naturally beautiful that

I use WATER!!!

Interested?

I order cocktails and then drink water. I listen to people and ask a lot of questions. I brush my teeth before going to bed. I am not French, not English, not Cuban, but I can be blonde if you wish. I read. I sleep on the right side of the bed and only the right side. I am converted communist, baptised catholic but a want to be Buddhist. I don’t drink coffee. I don’t vote. I lost my driver’s licence and quit public transportation. I walk. I wear skirts…sometimes...with pants underneath. I do makeup within 5 minutes. I cook. Often. I don’t eat pizza. I am comfortable with my weight. I eat steaks, medium rare please! I forgive. I am not always happy with my wardrobe it is too full and too empty. I buy and I bargain. I am international, logical, rational, sentimental and emotional. I am on time. I screen my calls. I smoke sometimes. Between parties, movies, museums, concerts, sports, restaurants, parents, friends and lovers, I choose… all of them!!! I don’t do dishes. I don’t iron. I don’t do drugs. I don’t date, I just seduce…not always. I am against strikes, potato chips and spam mails. I dream, night and day. I am a woman - with lots of potentials and those potentials stay potentials… with me, I , I am me.

midnight riding

For early April, skirts might not be the best choice, especially on a speedy bike. Yet the bright sunshine came through my bedroom window in the morning called for it, so here I was riding across town after midnight in my mini-skirt. It must have been –1 degrees, I could see my breath, almost, freezing my guts out. The only solution to that is peddling as fast I could, ignoring all one way streets signs and “do not enter” signs. The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by fences, no way out. Unfortunately, the street lamps lit up me and my little skirt. Two fully armed policemen walked towards me, I suddenly realised that I was at the side door of Elysée looking like I was trying to enter the garden and attack the President of the Republic. Oh no, just let me go through, Mr. Policemen! I will never do it again. Otherwise, I have to back up 2 kilometres (actually more like 500 meters).

Those two kindest policemen showed me what “non-negotiable” meant, finally, found my way out of the blocked fences, the temperature dropped at least another 5 degrees. As I peddled away like lightening through the sidewalk in front of Hotel de Crillon, I almost hit a door man…

This morning I feel like I gained 3 kilos of muscles in my legs. Yet well protected by some safe jeans.

Arsenal vs. Juventus

Despite the smoke and beer drinking crowds, I actually enjoy football games, I believe it is one of the rare sports which is worth watching even from TV. Tonight is the second game of Arsenal vs. Juventus. If I am writing an episode of Sex and City, this looks like a tactic for urban ladies to meet guys in a highly male concentrated area – sports bars. Main character would put on some sexy dress and some beautiful Prada shoes, after crossing the bridge (ponts des arts) in the spring rain, she enters this crowded bar called Metz at Odeon, wetted hair. She made eye contacts with …..There, at least 100 Italian men, supporters for Juventus, to choose from, and another 100 – 150, English, French and other mixed nationalities. By the end of the game, she should find the love of her life.

Well, my story isn’t quiet the same. I was invited for the first game last week by a close friend from Torrino, my football buddy, they lost to Arsenal 0 : 2. As an impartial football appreciator, I really thought it was a good game, for Arsenal, yet I could not quiet cheer for them as my friend was sipping on a huge cup of beer looking all sad. Arsenal will win again tonight, so I might end up eating pizza again? (I secretly don’t like Pizza) Yet for Italians pizzas are really cures for all problems in life. Should I make up some lame excuses: dentist appointment? yoga class? Birthday party (the one I did not go to yesterday)? And then watch the game in a different place? Or hoping that Juventus wins and we get to eat sushi instead?

stRike ‘n steak tarTare

Two things I love most about Paris are strikes and steak tartares. They are both unique to France and so bloody and juicy in their own way.

I love strikes as they remind me constantly that I live in a socialist country and that we do not only value money like those Americans. When the entire public transportation system goes paralysed, I feel the blood of revolutionary French pumping in and out of Palais de Justice, across île de St. Louis and beyond boulevard exteriors, places I can not really say that I know. Today is national strike day, it gives me enough reason not to be at work on time, although my office is only 20 minutes walk and 10 minutes on my bike from home. It also gave me reason to refuse to go to an acquaintance’s birthday party which is in the 11th. Due to pure snobbism I oftentimes end up entertaining myself in one-digit arrondissements, strike day is perfect for a steak tartare - a plate of raw meat mixed with ten different sauces and a raw egg.

As a specialist, I can probably rate all the bistros in Paris according to their steak tartars, well maybe only the ones in one-digit arrondissements. A classic tartare mixes lean ground beef with Dijon mustard, ground cumin, pepper, salt, chopped spring onions, lemon juice and a raw egg. Of course there is also Olive oil. Some places also give you steak sauce, tobasco sauce, ketchup and etc. Although raw egg is optional, I believe it to be essential, it adds consistency to the meat and softens the taste. It probably isn’t the most healthy thing you can eat in the world, but this is place where you can drink and smoke whenever you want. “liberty, equality and fraternity” all expressed in this one single little plate. What I hate however is when they give you the self-service version : a pile of raw meat and a big basket of sauces. I usually use too much creativity and end up with a post modern version of steak tartare. What I really love, a little embarrassed to say, is a tarare “aller-retour” meaning slightly cooked on both sides. For most bistros, this is entirely unacceptable and the chef will just scream. Despite the screaming and chaos it might bring, I think it is always worth trying, you might just get lucky that day.

Tonight, I met up with a friend in a bistro next to Beaubourg, we both ordered steak tarare with salad and no French fries (a rather conscience low carbon hydrates diet ;)). And strike day is a lucky day for me, so I got mine “aller – retour” ed. As I was enjoying the last bit of my plate, I saw my friend eating bread with ketch up … “haha, what don’t you just get some French fries?”

It was a good day.

winter lady

Trav'ling lady,
stay awhile until the night is over.
I'm just a station on your way,
I know I'm not your lover.
Well I lived with a child of snow
when I was a soldier,
and I fought every man for her
until the nights grew colder.

She used to wear her hair like you
except when she was sleeping,
and then she'd weave it on a loom
of smoke and gold and breathing.

And why are you so quiet now
standing there in the doorway?
You chose your journey long before
you came upon this highway.

Trav'ling lady
stay awhile until the night is over.
I'm just a station on your way,
I know I'm not your lover.

teSt dRive

Italian boyfriends are like convertible cars, you just need to have one, at least once in your life time. But you realise soon enough that the beautiful convertible is not practical: when it is raining, it is no use; when it is cold, it is no use; and they make those loud noises on the high way. So you think you might trade it in for another car - a van this time! big and stable, you never get a speeding ticket in this one, and you can even sleep in it... What sort of men would be considered "van"? You still haven't found an answer for this one, you say, "well, vans are good for the winter season, now it is spring time, isn't it the perfect season fora convertible again?"

Saturday evening, house warming party thrown by an English Journalist, invited is a big international crowd. I arrived late with an slippery entrance almost dropped the champagne bottle in hand yet managed to draw attention to a good number of guests. My close friend came up to me wanting to know my view of the male presence at the party. I pointed out this very good looking guy way behind the bar. According to my friend, he was an Italian Architect, a friend of a friend of a friend of the host. Measuring the distance from my nice spot on the sofa to the bar, I decided to take on my usual strategy "passive agressive" strategy in other words-"no action". Music got louder and people started dancing, the next thing I knew I was dancing with this unknown architect who spoke french with a thick accent and very interesting grammatical errors.

In the arms of this charming Italian seducer, I suddenly realised that I was having my first test drive of the season. What sort of model is this convertible? yet to be discovered ...

Flossing and Squash

Do you ever floss your teeth before a dentist appointment ? Well, I do. And today I ate carbon hydrates from morning until evening because I had a match of squash at 21h00.

Friday night, when most girls are on their hot dates and others (less lucky ones) are home watching a cosy movie eating unhealthy pizza with their loved ones; I , played SQUASH for one hour and LOST. Yes, I lost!!! To some blond skinny looking English barrister, how could that be possible?

1. Barristers are good with words, but not supposed to be strong physically, and he did not seem to be, I have to re-evaluate these potential correlations of one’s profession and physical condition .

2. He showed up with a tee-shirt says “Foot Ball”, that just really confused me. What kind of guy would go to a squash match wearing a t-shirt saying “foot ball”? Blame on his nationality.

3. In the middle of the game, we started a debate on whether or nor people should kiss on their first date. I guess I was hoping to at least win that one, but he was ruthless.

4. Squash is perfect for those who are not so good at Tennis and want to impress people by playing such a violent game. I never thought it would bring such grief and sorrow. Maybe I should try chess instead.

Okay, the next game is Wednesday, what should I do until then? Eating carbon hydrates and flossing my teeth?