sheesh kebab

While I yearn for Chipotle since it has been nearly 19 months without a tasty obese burrito, I have found substitutes and my favorite replacement from France is the kebab.

Just recently, my roommate Nadia and I found the greatest kebab restaurant of Bordeaux, par accident. It was late (late enough for things to close, so about 8PM), we were hungry, and since we were downtown, we just so happened to stumble across a random kebaberie.

Upon waiting for a few minutes, listening to the Turkish music that was blaring, and sipping on Oranginas and Cokes, we were handed the biggest bundle of joy. First thing to note on this kebab is its size. I guess normal kebabs are about the size of a papertowel. These kebabs, however, were the basketball players of the kebabs. They were so long. I guess I could say they were nearly the length of my forearm. The meat was so tasty and flavorful. The spices made my tastebuds do a raindance in my mouth.

Needless to say, I finished it. I finished every last bite of it. I soon realized what a food hangover really is. The next day, I could barely move, because I was still full.

Eat with caution. Not for the small stomach... maybe a good idea to share one with a friend or save half for later.

Located just on Rue du Parlement-Saint-Pierre, you shouldn't miss this kebab shop. I can't remember the name at the moment, but I will be sure to post the exact address and name along with pictures soon.

The place that sends you mad

Ok so to fully understand what the last three days of my vacation have been like- watch this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGtBovI735I

I need to demand a visa extension. Simple task, right? But wait, in France, nothing that deals with anything on that level takes less than an hour.

So vacation has officially started (as of last Friday). Where am I while the other assistants are wandering the streets exploring architecture by Gaudi? In Bordeaux, France. Honestly, it hasn't been that bad. The weather has been crisp blue and dry with highs in the mid 50s. This means my muscles aren't incredibly tense from freezing to death.

LUNDI
Anywho... So Monday marked the day that I would attempt to get my visa extension. Off to the rectorat. Wrong building. I needed to go to the prefecture. Tuesday seemed like a better day to get a fresh start on the task.

MARDI
Tuesday morning, I set off to the prefecture, but in France, lunch breaks take a while, so I had to go back to the office later on. I decided to do some research on who to contact. I did discover that there is an APP (American Presence Post) in Bordeaux, so I called to ask for advice. Voice Mail. merde! So I set off on foot to find this office. Perhaps they were on lunch too, one will never know, because when I finally arrived to this APP the only thing I found that was remotely "American" was the plaque on the side of the building with bust of our third president, Thomas Jefferson.
Feeling nearly defeated, I called the US consulate in Paris for advice. I needed to feel productive somehow...even if it was impossible to speak to someone in person. After waiting on the line for nearly 30 minutes (there goes my monthly allowance for phone credit- I need to contact Orange before they ground me again), I got through with an American woman. Unfortunately, she was unhelpful. She told me I needed to call the visa line and that I would be charged "a modest fee of 14,50."
Not worth it. The sun started to fade away as little droplets of rain started to fall. I jumped on the tram and went to the prefecture. It was a tad bit awkward since the "automatic door- do not push" would not open. I rung the night bell hoping that would signal someone to open this door. I was wearing rainbow sorbet scarf, I was harmless. So I wandered around to the other side of the building. The gate was open so I led myself in. The guards at the desk seemed a bit confused by my presence. I pulled out my passport, which is probably a bit misleading since my passport case has holographic cats sitting in front of windmills. Unidentifiable. I explained my situation. My words tripped out. They were as clumsy as myself, and less eloquent than they had sounded when I had rehearsed them in my head on my walk to the building. The woman then informed me that I needed to go to the other side of the building from 8-11 and that they were open on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.... I can't remember if she said the other days. My mind was elsewhere. Her words flowed out of her mouth in slow motion, like I was a child who had just done something wrong. After this, I went to the library and did some job researching.

MERCREDI
I woke up at 4 am. It was like Christmas morning and I was the excited child. Only I was incredibly anxious and ambitious. Today I was going to get it settled. I went back to sleep of course, because I still had 4 hours until they even opened. Drats! I woke up late. I woke up at 9 am. Out the door by 10 ish. The prefecture is pretty close to my apartment. The sun was out again. Lovely day for a healthy walk. I got lost along the way, so I showed up at 10:15ish. When I got inside the prefecture I thought I would see someone immediately, but in fact I was only being led to another room filled with eager people like myself. The line made a few zigzags. It was like being in line for a roller coaster at an amusement park, except less exciting. I became very anxious. There was a woman behind me whose baby was crying for nearly 20 minutes straight. Finally, we just let her pass us all. How is it that only one person was working at the window. Nearly an hour later, I was the third person in line and they opened up a few more windows. When I finally got to the window, I told the tired woman that I needed to extend my visa. Her response, "You need to go to the consulate to get that done, we can't do that here." I asked her where the consulate was and she said "I don't know, you need to go to the one where you got your visa." I could tell by the tone of her voice that there was no way to argue with her, beg, plead or even explain my situation. She was over me. I got my visa in Seoul, South Korea. Why would I go all the way back there to ASK for a visa extension and then come all the way back to France. That completely defeats the purpose of me wanting to extend my visa.

I walked away feeling completely defeated.

Friday wasn't even better. My roommate Nadia and I trekked all the way out to Bordeaux Lac to apply for CAF. Basically welfare. We get money back for simply living in France and not making a ton of money and paying rent that consumes nearly half of our income. The same sort of situation. The angry woman at the desk snatched my papers and told me I needed an October paystub which does not exist, since we were not paid for October- we got paid for October in our November paystub, which we tried to explain. No use. The woman had already made up her mind. So there will be a few more trips back to Bordeaux Lac to come in the next few weeks.

Basically it all depends on your luck of who you get and on that person's mood. My luck wasn't so great to me.


In case you need this:

Bordeaux (American Presence Post)
10, place de la Bourse, B.P. 77,
33076 Bordeaux
Tel: 05.56.48.63.80
Fax: 05.56.51.61.97
E-mail: usabordeaux@state.gov
Website: http://france.usembassy.gov/bordeaux.html

Seoul Searching

My favorite doppleganger from Big Bang, G-Dragon (photo from NYLON)


The streets are flooded with tourists and eager shoppers. It is only Monday afternoon, but since it isn't rainy and it isn't completely freezing outside, the whole city deems Monday as a good day to go out in the city. I can hear the chitter-chatter surrounding me, but somehow the words are meshed together in a blurry mess of a foreign language which I cannot understand.

I close my eyes for just a moment, imagining I am in Seoul. Nope. It doesn't smell like Seoul. The pungent wafts of silkworms and dried squid hasn't turned my stomach yet. However, I must say- "Bordeaux, you aren't smellin' too hot yourself."

It has been only six months since I left a small piece of my heart in Seoul. That's weird to say. Six months... my heart- Seoul? haha

If you would have told me that I would miss the crazy ajummas who glared at me on most of my walks to work in the morning or the crazy long work weeks... I probably would have laughed. But now, not a day goes by where I hope I can hear someone speak in Korean.

Seriously, I am getting to the point where it is borderline creepy. I find myself lingering behind anyone I suspect might be Korean.

A trip to the Korean market in Paris brought me one sack of kimchi closer to happiness. Later that week, I went to my friend's house for our weekly dinner. This particular night, I brought the kimchi to share with my friends. On my tram ride there, I spotted a Korean couple. The whole time, I hoped they would notice my Kimchi sitting atop my bag. I purposely waved it around like a child trying to flash it their way. Really I don't know what the point of that was.

That would be like a French person desperately searching for an English speaker and waving McDo in their face.

My ringtone is "Haru Haru"- one of the first KPop songs I fell in love with and had on repeat when I first moved to Seoul. I love you Big Bang. If I am in the presence of someone who may be Korean, I pray, hope, and even wish my phone would ring. What are the chances of that happening? Who calls people anymore these days?

So what happens if I get lucky and actually get to encounter someone from Korea? Well, I have it all planned. For instance, one scenario that could take place is that I could accidentally bump into them. And since I know how to say "I'm sorry" in Korean, I could mumble this and then they could get confused and wonder to themselves if some random girl just spoke Korean to them or if their French is soo good that they can't even distinguish between the two languages (I mean, because this is what I automatically think of when I randomly hear English these days). Then they would let it sink it... the syllables "chwe°song°ham°ni°da" would dance around in their head like children on a playground. And then it would go from there... however... I don't think it would go very far since my Korean is limited... in fact I would say very limited... to the point that the conversation would go as far as them asking me if I speak Korean.

Actually, nothing would happen.

Two Fridays ago, I got on the train and sat next to a young lady about my age. She answered the phone "Yo bo sa yo."

That was my opportunity. I had three hours sitting next to her and I said nothing.

I guess I am not as much of an awkward monger as I thought. Instead, I was passively awkward and watched Kkotboda Namja on my BlackBerry and fell asleep.

When I first started writing this, I had a point- some great meaning, but since I haven't spent an ample amount of uninterrupted time in front of the computer, I am afraid to report that if you are looking for a point there is none. It is just the random thoughts of me missing the Korea.

À Votre Santé

I guess I could say I am known for being a hypochondriac.

This dates back to when I was a child. When I was younger, I was forbidden to watch classic familiar television shows such as "Touched by an Angel" and "Dr. Quinn," not because of adult images or for foul language, but because they showed these people with serious ailments, which would in turn cause me to stay up all night crying in my sleep. I was afraid of contracting necrotizing fasciitis (flesh eating disease), elephantitis, and leukemia.

For the average person, shedding hair during the summer was normal. However, for me, it was an omen. It was summer of 1991 when I first noted that I might be critically ill. I was taking a bath and noted that I was losing a substantial amount of my artificially colored locks. My first instinct was that I had cancer. At this time, I believe I had just watched something on television about a girl who got leukemia. I remembered how she lost her hair, but I didn't understand that she lost her hair because of her chemo treatments. I just assumed it was because of the cancer. I immediately informed my sister that I was dying of leukemia, which I pronounced as luke-mia. My sister, who usually would go along with such crazy thoughts informed me that I was ridiculous and then explained chemo therapy to me. She then informed me that I probably had mange. In Italy, stray dogs with patches of missing hair exposed their flesh frolicked around our neighborhood just the same as pigeons trot around Bordeaux. I was six years old when I learned about mange. My sister told me that it was in fact possible to contract this just by touching one of the dogs. I scanned through all the different events that had happened in the last week and remembered that I did in fact accidentally pet one of them.

The only way to retain the remaining hairs on my head was by using half a bottle of conditioner to glue the rest of the hairs in place to my scalp.

After my treatment, I sat in the living room and enjoyed the company of my mother's best friend. She began playing with my golden waves and informed me that I had very beautiful hair. I then retorted very matter of factly that, "I have mange."

I have never seen such disgust on a lady's face until this moment.

Thanks to webmd, I no longer have to rely on my sister's misinformation and thanks to the loss of my computer, I am no longer freaking out about anything and everything that could possibly be wrong with me while I obsessively scan this dangerous search engine- complete with symptom checker.

However it wasn't until last night at dinner with some friends, that I realized how abnormal my health is. My roommate Nadia and I openly discuss our health issues after, so it seemed quite ok as we sat at the dinner table talking about our recent visits at the doctor. The conversation changed from health care-doctors visits-vaccinations-strange bug bites-health ailments-awkward within a matter of 30 minutes.

Nadia and I began making comparisons between our health ailments.
I have eczema, so does Nadia.
I have scoliosis, Nadia has what we think is arthritis.
I have acid reflux disease, Nadia has an ulcer.
I have a heart murmer, Nadia has cardiac arrhythmia.

I imagine this is a typical and appropriate dinner topic for 85 year olds, but not twenty-something ladies. I mean it felt normal for me to talk about this. I guess I am completely shameless about somethings, particularly with health problems. Our two friends were so puzzled and could not understand why we have so many problems at our age.

"What did you eat when you were younger?!" was the only thing that one of our friends could respond to after we threw our health conditions out on the table.

"While we are on the topic of eating, is it normal to feel cold after eating?" I asked.
"Generally, your body temperature increases after eating," someone replied.
"hmm... maybe I should get my insulin checked," I said.

This made me think of Kiki the diabetic cat I met on my train last weekend who was drooling because it was time for her to have her insulin shot. Maybe that was a hint.

I am thankful to be living in a country where health care is accessible to everyone- health obsessed or not. It enables me to be even more health enlightened.

Punk à Chien

So for Valentine's Day, I am going to profess my love

My biological clock is ticking. It is time for me to settle down- pick a city, invest in a flat, get a real job with a normal schedule, and>>> get a puppy!

Off and on for the past 24 and a half years of my life, I have had some sort of bread of at least one dog in my presence. It has been over 12 months- which is pretty much the longest time I have gone sans puppy love.

I live in France. Signs of puppies/dogs/chiens are everywhere- whether it be the clothing boutiques that provide that French elegance and sophistication for pups big and small or random piles I make my job to avoid each day while walking the streets.

Even the beggars get puppies. I know, I know= I shouldn't be fantasizing about having one of these since I am in no place to own one nor take care of one. This is a lesson from the past that I have learned. My track record with dogs isn't so great... and I know I shouldn't boast about this. I am not posting this to brag, but rather to remind myself that I should not have a puppy right now.

Graduation from high school:
Darla was the first pug I got. She was my graduation present. My mom brought her to school to surprise me. She was so tiny that she fit in just one hand. It was the happiest moment ever. Then my future roommate informed me that she did not want a dog (after we had already discussed the possibility of having a puppy and she was all for it). My mom offered to care for her during my freshman year of school. Instead my mom decided she wanted more pug puppies and played match maker to some other pug. She barely reached one year when my mom called me at school to tell me the "great news." Unfortunately, Darla did not make it through delivery and only one puppy survive... named Skoshi (who was the runt of the litter... and who later became the fattest pug that I have ever seen).

University:
Elliot, the sweetest spunkiest black pug ever. We shared personalities. He loved to wear clothes and enjoyed twirling in circles biting the air. One afternoon, he disappeared from my front lawn and was never seen on Mimosa again.

Korea:
Penelope was just a baby. I bought her from a pet shop off somewhere in Chungmurro. This will be the last time I every purchase any animal from a pet shop. She was ill with parvo and only spent two weeks with me.

Anywho... I have been so tempted to linger around McDonalds and Galerie LaFayette where I am sure to find someone with a dog. In France, there is a certain group of people, called punk-à-chien, who hang out on the streets and beg for money and cigarettes. I guess they could be homeless... I am not sure. They all have dogs whose ribs stick out and they are tied on ropes. They aren't treated very nicely. In fact, as I have been informed (not sure if this is 100 percent), they supposedly have these dogs, not for companionship, but rather to keep them out of jail. In France, if you have are living on the streets, but own a dog, the police will be less likely to arrest you and put you in jail, because they have insufficient housing for the dogs.

This leads to a lot of animal abuse.

It truly breaks my heart each time I see these poor dogs. If I could start an NGO in France, it would be a dog protection housing. If only I had sufficient space and more time in France to save them... one puppy at a time.

In the meantime, my friend Kate, who shares the same adoration for dogs as me, and I have talked about how we could spend our free time by starting our own dog walking business. haha

The ideas of a 7 year old trying to make a quick buck to go to the toy store to get that new Barbie transferring to two animal loves who are sadly deprived while living abroad. However, our desire to do such a thing is much deeper than money. We simply just want to hang out with puppies and since most French women are pretty particular about people around their dogs, this seems to be the only way we could do this.

The way to my heart is with puppies... particularly pugs.

The Mentalist

So I guess I have a talent for attracting interesting people to me.

I recently discovered one of the random people I have met since I have been living in France was an acrobatic cabaret performer in Paris. You are probably asking yourself "Gee... what could possibly top this?"
My response to you is: A mind reader/life coach and his black diabetic cat named Kiki.

I have been invited to have a drink with him to find out more about being a mind reader.

Dear friends,
I assure you that I understood this man correctly. He even showed me a magazine article published about him.

How I accidentally went to the cabaret

Weekend Paris trip was pretty great... I mean it was alright... just Paris.
I was so happy to meet up with David- this will be the last time I will get to see him in who knows how long.

So... a few months ago, I went to Paris and met up with David. I think this was one of the first times we hung out in Paris together since we all lived in Columbia, MO. We randomly decided to go to the Salsa club, Pachanga which is near Montparnasse. Slightly sketchy atmosphere, yet really cool for the character it has.
Anywho, while we were sipping on mojitos and cuba libres, we heard some other English speakers, so David approached them and asked where they were from. The girl was Russian and the boy was Australian. Cool- new friends.
They were both performers in a show in Paris. The boy told me he was an acrobat and said that if I ever wanted tickets to the show, then he would get me some.

I have been thinking about the circus a lot lately, and as I have no idea when I will have the chance to get to Paris for another weekend excursion, I decided to take my friend up on his offer for these tickets.

Before the show, I looked up his act on youtube just to get an idea and saw a clip where he was topless- to show off muscles, right? As a joke, I informed my friend Kate, who went with me, that they get topless in this show. His act was first and we were waiting for the shirts to come flying off, but we got more. The pants came off too exposing small underwear with the English flag.

It wasn't until a few acts later that we realized we were not at a circus. This woman came out and did a magic show. No big deal. After her act, her clothes were in random places in the audience, because she had flung them off in order to prove that she did not have the handkerchief hidden anywhere in her clothes.

Welcome to the cabaret! The show was pretty good, even if it was unexpected.

In the end, Kate and I were speechless and still gitty over sushi.

Paris je t'aime