Back to life... Back to reality...

Both times I’ve found myself in London – once as a silly 24 year old and again a few days ago – I was struck with the same feeling that I had when I set foot in New York the first few times.  In other words, that “I could live here” feeling.  There’s something about that city… its pulse, its rhythm, its neighborhoods that melt into one another, its buzz, its indescribable it.   Flash forward to an afternoon spent wandering around London’s East End (which is SERIOUSLY a dead ringer for Williamsburg – from the brick facades to the hipsters to the Brooklyn Lager signs… no really.  Seriously). I was paying for a jazzy little sweatshirt number with an off-center zipper.  I needed some warmer clothes for the upcoming jaunt to Iceland, after all.  (Side note to all those who consider traveling to 66˚ N: Check the weather report before packing.  This smarty-pants just assumed it was semi-warm everywhere.  Even in Iceland.)  The sales clerk asked for my ID and the following scene ensued:

Sales clerk with plugs big enough to put my thumb through: (with a somewhat posh accent that seems at odds with his “vintage” t-shirt and masterfully ripped jeans) Oh my god!  You live in New York!  That’s so cool!  I want to move there and start my shoe line.  Do you just love it there?

Joe: Yeah, it’s really great.  But you know what?  I love London.  I’d move here in a heartbeat if the opportunity presented itself.

SCWPBETPMTT: Really?  Why?

Enter Sales Clerk with Ironic Glasses.  She has overheard the conversation and eagerly jumps in.

SCWIG: I went to New York last year and loved it!  And my flatmate?  She is OBSESSED with America.

I think Sebastian the Crab said it best when he sang, “The seaweed is always greener in somebody else’s lake.”  How much time do we spend thinking about what would be or what could be if only x, y, and/or z happened.  What would I do if I married Prince William instead of that horribly unattractive, classless, overweight Kate?  (I kid.  I kid.)  If I lived in London, wouldn’t it be great to spend all my summer nights eating bhel puri as I overlooked the Thames (as I did with Mom and Dad on an amazing last night in London?).  I mean, that one perfect evening could be my everyday existence!  If only I lived there!  Life would be sunshine and high tea!

Poppycock.  Because if I moved there, then I’d probably be telling myself how much greater it would be to live in Madrid.  Or Mumbai.  Or Milwaukee.

Anyway, that same East End afternoon, I popped into the Whitechapel Gallery and spent quite a bit of time in a room exhibiting some of Fred Sandback’s work.  I’ve seen his sculptures before at Dia: Beacon, but considering the pensive mood I find myself in during my meanderings, I was really into it this time.  I was diggin’ it, man.  Ya feel me?

Basically, his work consists of yarn (I think) that appears to shoot out of the floors/ceilings/walls/ windows with laser precision, thus creating these geometric “walls.”  It’s an interesting experience to walk around his work because, logically, you know there aren’t really blockades but you hesitate to step through them.  Your mind has conditioned you to believe that walking through these barriers is an impossible task.  Imagine the stunned state of my instinct, then, when a pixyish girl tiptoed right through that wall.  I kept thinking about this story by Marcel Aymé our French teacher told us about.  Entitled “Le Passe-Muraille,” it tells the tale of a man who discovers that he can effortlessly pass through walls.  And here it was!  Happening in real life!  Right in front of me!  What sort of insight would she gain once she stepped through each of the seven walls?

What threw me for a loop, though, was when she stopped short of the second triangle, bent forward – the upper half of her body shattering that invisible wall, but then managed to twist her body to the left so that her head was outside of the “wall” and she was peering at her own feet.  She moved herself forward only to look at where she was currently standing.

Now that’s an interesting thought.  We’re so forward-oriented – sometimes so backwards-oriented – that we often fail to look at the present moment, where we currently stand.  Of course, this has been on my mind a lot since I’ve been reading The Power of Now.  “The present moment is all you ever have.”  How true!  I think I’m so much more cognizant of the present moment when I travel.  It not surprising, of course, because I strip away all likeness of a “normal” day.  It’s easier to appreciate the millennium of history at Westminster Abbey – not to mention ponder the royals’ ostentatious display of wealth – when that really is the only thing to think about.

So, what exactly triggers my inability to simply exist within the present moment?  While it might be fantastic (albeit a bit selfish) to continue to live in a state of perpetual vacation, void of responsibility, it’s not realistic.  Is it simply responsibility that makes me lose sight of NOW, though?  I doubt it.   Having tasks/people/expectations rest upon my shoulders doesn’t cause me to fret.  So, what is it, then?

Apparently, it took a hot spring in the middle of Iceland to help me figure that out.

Rewind.  After a few wonderful days in London with the parents, I hopped on an absolutely lovely Icelandair flight (the flight attendants were as beautiful and Icelandic as you can imagine them to be) for a brief 26-hour dalliance in this surprisingly ice-free (at least in the summer) country.  We can think of the brief stopover as a delayed reentry to normal life: two and a half weeks in Paris -> 3 days in London -> 26 hours in Reykjavik -> Brooklyn.  It’s like scuba diving – you can’t immediately return to the top.  You have to pause to avoid the bends.  Or, in my case, the reality blues.

Anyway, in an attempt to really milk every last second of vacation, I went to this stunningly gorgeous hot spring before going to the airport.  It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.  Nestled amongst mountains formed of black volcanic rock that have been dusted with brilliantly green moss, there’s this natural network of electric blue water with the slightest smell of sulfur, steam snaking away from its surface towards the sky.  As I lounged in the water, restorative silica mud smoothed across my face, I actually started to feel a bit stressed.  A glimpse into my mind:

“Okay.  I have two hours left but I want to go and have lunch.  I want to make sure to eat slowly since I’m being more French so that should probably take an hour.  But I haven’t been to the steam room.  And there’s that waterfall that’s supposed to feel like a massage.  And I have to take a shower.  But I don’t want to rush.  And I can’t be late for the bus.  Oh – I want to see how much their spa products are.  Should I have a glass of wine?”

It was at that moment that I realized that this type of thought is my enemy.  When presented with a smorgasbord of possibilities – whether it’s spa treatments or health insurance plans or a list of friends to call – but a limited amount of time, I get wrapped up in indecision which leads to inaction and, ultimately, unhappiness.  Let’s go back to the lagoon: If I hadn’t been conscious enough to step back and look at my thoughts – as opposed to letting my thoughts dictate my being – I would have continued in that indecisive circle.  I would have ended up doing none of the proposed activities.  I would have left Iceland – the last stop from this summer’s adventure – in a state of regret.

So what did I do?  I simply accepted the circumstances.  No matter which combination I picked I was still at a freakin’ hot spring in Iceland.  I mean, that is not a stressful situation.  So I didn’t make it to that steam room.  BIG DEAL.  I’m not delusional enough to think that my day was less than ideal.  No one’s crying for me – nor should they!

My biggest lesson, then, was simply to accept the present moment.  It simply is.  This moment is what it is.  I can choose to be paralyzed by that reality or I can do what one person can realistically do right now.  That idea certainly isn’t complicated – on the contrary, it’s quite simple – but I know that it will be difficult to uphold now that I’ve safely landed back in New York and am once again presented with a “normal day.”

So, as I sit here tucked in bed, the alarm set for my first day back at work, I’m going to keep that image of the doe-eyed girl in London’s Whitechapel Gallery firmly planted in my mind.  Even if I feel my body being pushed forward, I need to make sure to look at where I’m currently standing.  That’s when I’ll know that I’ll be happy standing on my own two feet – no matter where in the world those feet might be resting.

A bientôt, Paris. Hello, London.

A bientôt, Paris.  Hello, London.

As I sit on the Eurostar next to Chippy and G-Funk, watching the French countryside dotted with windmills and steeples (sadly, no vineyards – at least, not from this vantage point), I find myself attempting to process the last 18 days.  What did I take from this experience?  Verb conjugations?  Oui.  A deepened appreciation of good food?  Oui.  A reaffirmed belief that wine can make every day a wee bit better – and a wee bit tipsier?  Oui.  But what else?  In my mind, those few things don’t embody my Parisian adventure.  I don’t travel to cross things off a checklist.  Some people do.  Go up Eiffel Tower.  See the Mona Lisa.  Eat a crêpe.  Perhaps for some there is great joy in that checkmark – whether it’s physical or purely mental.  And you know what?  That’s okay.  In this month of thinking about leisure and happiness, I’ve realized that what makes me happy doesn’t necessarily float someone else’s boat.  Maybe we need to think of our happiness as bodies of water – each with its own level of salinity.  You’re the Pacific Ocean and he’s Lake Michigan and I’m the Dead Sea.  What floats here is dead weight there. 

And that’s okay.  I have to keep telling myself that.  And that, too, is okay.

I think travel is the best teacher.  While I’d like to fancy myself a great educator, I know that what one would learn in those fleeting moments with me is a pittance to what one could learn out THERE.  Sights and conversations, architecture and music, art and observations – that’s the real teacher.  So, what exactly have I learned throughout this brief dalliance with the French?  If I had to sum it up in a catchy mantra-like phrase that is sure to rock my world moving forward, it would be this: BE MORE FRENCH.

What exactly do I mean by that?  In a sense, it means to slow down.  It’s inevitable that I will feel rushed when I resume normal life.  It happens.  But what I appreciate most about Paris is people’s apparent ability to simply enjoy.  Does stress exist here?  Of course.  Do people make to do lists?  Sure.  But, despite that, they don’t look bogged down here.  If you’ve ever been on a New York subway in the midst of a workday, you know exactly what stress looks like.  Hell, I’ve even had total strangers tell me, “Come on.  Smile.  It’s not that bad.”  A stroll around Paris in on a Tuesday afternoon looks – and feels – different.  It’s happier.

How do I recreate that little bit of Paris in my corner of Brooklyn?  Since I’ve been trained to break down a big idea (Be More French!) into more manageable standards and measurable objectives, here goes:

1.    Talk.  And listen.  No doubt that the Musée Rodin and the Église Saint-Eustace are stunningly beautiful places, but my favorite site in Paris was the people – more specifically, people eating.  Of course, I adore food, which may prove to be a glaring bias in this observation, but it was a scene to behold if nothing else.  It was downright cinematic.  Never have I seen so many groups of people simultaneously engaged – I mean, really, truly, enthusiastically engaged – in conversation.  It’s as if every noun, every preposition, every dramatic pause was a Ladurée macaroon and they were quickly devoured by waiting and eager diners.  Not to say that my conversations with my friends and family are lacking pizzazz, but I just don’t think I’m as active as a participant as my French counterparts.  So, to become a French conversationalist, I commit to the following:

1.1 Mirror.  I have a horrible memory.  It’s true.  I’ve forgotten to call on birthdays.  I forgot that my family took a trip to Disneyworld a few years ago.  I even missed a dear friend’s wedding because I apparently forgot the nuptial date and bought plane tickets for the wrong weekend.  Mirroring what I hear, though (i.e. “ It sounds like you’re frustrated because you explained…”), can mitigate my memory lapses by making sure I’m truly listening.  Furthermore, it validates the thoughts of the speaker, thus strengthening our connection – whether that’s friendly, romantic, or somewhere in between.

1.2 Ask questions.  I confess: I’m insecure (Aren’t we all to some extent?) and I don’t like admitting I don’t know something – often to the point of being bullheaded and (though I’d never say so at the time) wrong.  I smile and nod in response to “You know what I mean?” when half the time I really don’t.  Why the hell do I do that???  Lame.  I need to open myself up – via the art of conversation – to what I don’t know.  Plus, as an extra added bonus I’ll be fulfilling Be More French standard #3, listed below.

1.3 Reach out every day.  It’s both a blessing and a curse that many of the people I love live around the world, from Milwaukee to Mumbai, LA to London, Phoenix to Frankfurt.  (Okay, I don’t actually know anyone in Frankfurt.  But I couldn’t think of another f-sounding place.)  On the plus side – I have a place to stay when I travel.  On the downside, I don’t see them often… and I’m total shit at staying in touch.  Phone conversations get pushed off to do more mundane tasks – laundry, grading papers, finding cat hair sculptures in the corners thanks to Rufus’ never ending follicle growth – and then so much time has gone past that I think I need a half a day to catch up with someone.  Reaching out, though, doesn’t have to take long.  One idea that I really liked from The Happiness Project is to stop putting off things that would take less than a minute, no matter the task.  And, let’s be honest, how long does it take to write a quick email?  Let’s find out:

Joey Jo Jo Shabadoo!!!  I can’t believe I’m going to be in London and you won’t be there.  Qué triste.  I’ll be reminiscing – and therefore laughing – as I wander around aimlessly without your insider guidance.  Clearly your job should send you to NY soon… Can I pretend to be a wealthy art collector who needs your personal assistance???  Miss you oodles, my dear.

Abrazitos,

The other Joey Joe           

                        That took 37 seconds.

2.    Be worldly.  When 20 minutes under the English Channel completely changes the language, the culture, the politics, the news, the celebrities, the food, LIFE, you have no other choice than to be multilingual and multicultural.  Should I speak French to you?  No?  Let me switch to English.  Still no?  Oh – you’re German.  Let’s switch to that.  That seems like such a monumental and extraordinary characteristic at home (“Wow.  She must be brilliant.  She speaks four languages!!!”), but here it is what it is.  For many, it’s simply how you get around.  We’re geographically isolated and thus enveloped in a thick American cushion.  We lose certain sensibilities and insights.  Well, maybe we haven’t lost them – they weren’t there to begin with – but is it up to us to learn them? 

Uh oh.  There I go projecting my own happiness on others…  Let me rephrase: If we’d like to learn them, we should.  :)  And so, to be more French, I will:

2.1 Keep taking French classes.  Will I ever be fluent?  Probably not.  But maybe I’ll find myself in France again – or Africa or the Caribbean – and I’ll probably want to chat with someone.  Besides, I simply like language classes.  Some people go gaga over golf, others – comic books or needlepoint.  Me?  Flashcards with vocabulary. 

2.2 Read INTERNATIONAL news every day.  While my morning routine usually involves nytimes.com and huffingtonpost.com, I often adhere to familiar geographical areas (New York, Milwaukee, Latin America) – at the exclusion of, oh – I don’t know, THE REST OF THE WORLD.

2.3 Learn a new Spanish vocabulary word every day.  While my current paycheck comes from what I’ve already picked up along the ruta, by no means will I be employed by the Real Academia Española any time soon.  Language continually evolves – I should try and catch up. 

3.   Learn something new every day.  It would be easy to stick to my comfort zone – Romance languages – in my quest to become more French.  Yet, I imagine that in order to be a great French conversationalist (like the French appear to be), I need to be at least conversant in things that go beyond my area of expertise.  As much as I could talk about the placement of direct object pronouns or the need for more high-performing charter schools, I understand that not everyone (including my closest friends/family members) may not.

3.1 Ask questions.  Refer back to 1.2.

3.2  Read.  Again, the key to success here is to step outside of my carefully constructed box.  Instead of bypassing the business section of the Times, spend a few minutes to read an article.  Why not???  What do I have to lose?  One of my friends, Holley, randomly received a subscription to Field and Stream as a joke.  But instead of simply laughing and tossing the monthly journal into the recycling bin, she actually reads the articles and now posts highly amusing updates about tackle boxes and fly fishing on Facebook.  I mean, this is a girl who lives in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  Unless they’re wearing it to be ironic, hunting orange and camouflage are completely foreign to her neighbors… but I bet Holley can engage them all in a chat about the differences between large and small-mouthed bass.  Cheers to you, Holley, for being so French.

3.3  Take a class.  Introductory jewelry making?  Knife skills?  Excel for excelphobes?  Beginning S&M?  (Ha.)  One of the great joys of living in New York is that there are experts on everything – why not learn from the pros?

4.    Take time to vacate.  Most of Paris shuts down on Sundays.  Well – not quite.  Let me rephrase: Most of Paris’ businesses shut down on Sundays but its citizens are as alive as ever.  The parks and canal shores overflow with picnic blankets dotted with wine bottles.  Marais buzzes with laughter over coffee.  And then August comes along and many businesses completely shut down.  For an entire month.  With a simple sign on the door that says “We’ll be reopening on August 27^th after vacation!”  Can you imagine that in the US???  Never!  We don’t take vacation (whether it’s one day a week or an entire month) that seriously.  Why not?  Could there be a direct link to our skyrocketing stress levels?

I think the relationship between the words “vacation” and “vacate” is an interesting one, especially within the American context.  The etymology of the two words is clearly linked, but “vacation,” of course, has a very positive connotation whereas the verb “vacate” is usually negative.  Vacate the premises.  Vacate the country.  Well, forget that.  I’m reclaiming “vacate” as a positive action.  Vacate the stresses of the day.  Vacate worries.  As Eckhart Tolle explains, vacate the constant chatter of our mind to discover our true self and, subsequently, joy, love, and peace.

4.1 Eat slower.  I love food.  Making it, eating it, alone, with friends, on a date, at Thanksgiving, at home, in the park, in a fancy restaurant, Indian, French, Midwestern casseroles… I love it all.  It’s an experience.  So why the hell do I eat so quickly???  The few times that I really do slow down – what’s that spice?  What herbs are in this?  How was this cooked?  Can I have a bite of yours? – I find that I’m relaxed.  I’ve vacated.  There’s no reason I can’t recreate that even if my meal is eaten at my desk and out of Tupperware.

4.2 Walk slower.  This is going to be doubly hard.  First of all, my height means I walk faster than most.  Secondly, I’ve grown accustomed to New York walking which is roughly equivalent to Olympic speed walking but in less sensible shoes.  Nevertheless, upon arriving to Paris I was surprised that I blew past everyone, my head down and my destination firmly planted in my mind.  What did I miss in doing that?  Well, what DIDN’T I miss?  There was this precious, historic urban scene unfolding around me and I was looking at cobblestones.  I missed the music, the actors, the backdrop… but I got to my ending point two minutes quicker.  So what???? Did I get a prize?  Nope.  What else am I missing in my normal life by not allowing myself to vacate my mind as I walk down the street?  Do I really need to race to the grocery store?  The drycleaner?  The subway?  No!  Especially considering those three things are within a one block radius of my apartment.  I need to use that time to look around and appreciate the life happening HERE and NOW.

4.3 Run.  Clearly, this is an ironic resolution to follow “Walk Slower,” so perhaps I should distinguish the two as “Walk Slower to a Destination” and “Run to a Vacation.”  As I’ve become more of a runner over the past year, I’ve realized that uncomplicated thought and peaceful moments are surprisingly easy to achieve somewhere after the first couple miles.  Maybe that marathon training program I’ve been looking at is an assured way to a little bit of daily vacation…

4.4 Shut down.  In other words, RELAX.  I’m really bad at it.  I don’t know how to sit and DO NOTHING.  Give me a massage (hint hint) and you’ll soon realize it’s true.  My body and its many knots are a vessel for feeling overwhelmed, feeling bad, feeling stressed.  For my own health, it has to stop.  It’s time to have a conversation with my mind that looks something like this:

            Joe: Hi, mind.  You must be pretty tired today.

            Mind: Go water the plants.

            Joe: Wouldn’t it make sense to do that right before we shower since

we have to hook the hose up to the showerhead?  Let’s just sit.

Mind: Check your work email.

Joe: It’s 9:00.  Nothing dire has happened since you last checked at 6:00.  Why don’t we lie on the couch and read?  Or watch Modern Family?  Or play the piano?  Or you know what?  We can just lie there and not do anything.

Mind: Not okay.

Joe: Definitely okay.  We need to vacate.  End of story.

So, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.  My (very verbose) resolution to be more French.  Will it be easy to stick to these?  No.  Habits die hard, and I’ve spent 30 years shaping myself into someone who feels like he constantly has to be in motion.  Stillness, though, is perhaps the greater goal – one which I hope I can attain by adhering to these simple aims.  And I invite you (whoever you are) to hold me accountable.  Ask me what I learned today.  Ask me how I plan on vacating today.  Ask me what I’m reading.  But be forewarned: I’ll be sure to return the question (It is part of the Be More French plan, after all) so you better be reaching for your beret and your baguette and have a good answer ready.  I’ll be listening.

Les conjugaisons de la vie

Time for a pleasure check. 

If this is the summer to indulge in my little pleasures, those many amuse-bouches that together nourish my Being (capitalized à la Eckhart Tolle), how am I doing?  Am I partaking in les petits plaisirs that I set out to do?  Well, considering where I find myself, it’s pretty fucking hard not to.  I mean, pastry cases and espressos are as prevalent as planned work signs are on the G-train in Brooklyn.  Museums are Paris’ Starbucks.  And I’ll accept your Lincoln Center bid and raise you this Palais Garnier.  This city is an unbelievable package gorgeously wrapped in the French language.  Silken sentences float around me just waiting to be grabbed and relished… although that doesn’t make them any easier to understand.  Hey – I’ve only had five days of class.  Gimme a few days…

I suppose the better question, though, isn’t if I’m partaking in these pleasures, but rather if I’m even noticing that they’re there.  I’m not disillusioned enough to think that my normal life in Brooklyn is void of tiny pleasures.  On the contrary, I know there is a smorgasbord of luxuries and joys – both big (summer trips abroad) and small (a great bakery on the corner) – that I often take for granted.  Here, though, when I’m stripped of the weight of distraction, they’re so much easier to see.

I encountered a petit plaisir as I lazily sat at one of the countless cafés and a small parade of preschoolers marched by – hand-in-hand with their partner – singing with their daycare teacher.  There was the realization that our fancy cheese at home – the kind that you only find imprisoned by a glass case – is just cheese here.  Just Cheese.  Not Fancy Cheese.  There was the realization that cell phones work on the metro here – but no one uses them.  Tranquility is still sacred in some places.  There was the grandeur of the Musée d’Orsay and the surrounding arrondissements juxtaposed against the graffiti and hipsterdom of my own Parisian ‘hood, Belleville.  There was the first glass – and the first bottle – of wine.  There was the video chat with my family as I gave them a tour of the apartment.  There was the moment when a group of British tourists walked up to me and said, “Excuse me?  Do you speak English?  We’re trying to get to the Opera House.”  Ha.  They thought I was French.  There was the realization of my Parisian dream: riding a bike along the Seine with a baguette sticking out of the basket.  

But my greatest pleasures over the past week have been with this language that is undoubtedly trying to woo me into its bed with its fluidity, its sensuality, its smooth and seamless flow from one word to the next.  Ooh la la.  I’ve grown accustomed to practicing my numbers in French as I climb to the apartment on the seventh story.  I eavesdrop as I eat my crêpe, sometimes forgetting to appreciate the mushrooms and oozing cheese as I attempt to dissect the message of my fellow diners’ conversations.  I smile after every interaction – whether it’s requesting my second pain au chocolate of the day, asking for directions to Fontainebleau’s chateau, or simply asking my professeur what her thoughts are on the Mona Lisa (Granted, I couldn’t fully understand her answer but that’s neither here nor there.  I was simply thrilled that I spontaneously came up with a question that pertained to the conversation at hand.)

As strange as it sounds to many, I’m sure, I’m finding great pleasure in verb conjugations.  There’s something so systematic, so orderly about it that I find beautiful.  My notebook is quickly becoming my own work of art, one filled with tiny verb charts sprinkled with multicolored circles and arrows pointing out inevitable irregularities that veer from the orthographic path.  For those unfamiliar with the often bemoaned task of verb conjugation, it’s basically the process of taking an infinitive (to walk, to run, to love, to relax) and changing its form so that it gives us two major pieces of information: 1) the subject, and 2) the tense.  I walked.  You are running.  We love.  She will relax.  Voilá.  You’ve conjugated.

The Romance languages are unique in that every verb can be conjugated six times in each tense.  Of course, these conjugations depend upon the subject:

French: je, tu, vous, il, elle, nous, vous, elles, ils

Spanish: yo, tú, él, ella, usted, nosotros, vosotros, ellos, ellas, ustedes

Portuguese: eu, tu/você, ele, ela, nós, vocês, eles, elas

(I know, I haven’t included Italian and Romanian… but I haven’t learned those yet. J)

Perhaps the joy I find in conjugating a verb appropriately is similar to the satisfaction felt by a mathematician who correctly solves an equation.  The difference, however, is that while an incorrect answer to an equation may derail subsequent mathematic endeavors, an incorrect conjugation may go unnoticed or unacknowledged in an everyday conversation: “Where be the bathroom?”  “I eats foie gras last night.”  “We wearing a bindi in that picture.”  While incorrect, you would be understood, and it’s unlikely that someone would correct you despite hearing the error.  So it goes in real life, I suppose.  We sometimes fill in the blanks with people/things/experiences that we think are right – but in reality aren’t meant to be there.  Often, those on the outside notice the mistakes before we do, but most choose to remain silent.  The life grammarians – those who bring a red pen to what we might otherwise overlook – are priceless.  And far too rare.

What’s interesting in French – and unique amongst the Romance languages, at least to my knowledge – is that there are a series of conjugations which are spelled differently (i.e. J’aime, Tu aimes, Ils aiment) but pronounced the exact same way.  Ironically, then, you may conjugate a verb incorrectly in your head but those listening would never know.  No matter how many life grammarians you’re able to surround yourself with, sometimes it’s only through the arduous process of self-editing that we arrive at bliss – grammatical and otherwise.

Maybe my meanderings are my attempt at facilitating that process.  Autocorrect à la Microsoft Word doesn’t exist yet.  Have I been filling in the blanks of my life with the right ils and elles, hes and shes and its and theys?  Have I given of myself enough to my friends, family, and community so that I can truly say there is a nous/nosotros/nós/we?  Have I maintained a positive relationship with tu and vous?  Am je/yo/eu/I focusing my energy on those aspects of my life which promote my own happiness?

Clearly, these queries cannot be answered in a single sitting.  However, to jumpstart the process, maybe tu should hop on a plane, je will pick up some wine, and nous can discuss.  D’accord ?

Bonjour, Paris.

A year has passed.  

Last July’s afternoons of temples and chai, monsoons and mosques have given way to this July’s adventure, one decidedly distinct from the last.  While the 29-year-old Joe sought to fulfill a lifelong dream of South Asian adventure – packing lightly, boarding a plane/train/bus/scooter/camel every few days and heading somewhere new – this 30-year-old Joe was looking for one thing: leisure. 

Bienvenue à Paris.

Don’t get me wrong.  I had moments of serenity in India which I doubt I’ll ever be able to duplicate.  Lying at the base of the Taj Mahal, letting my legs, back, arms, and head come in contact with the greatest manifestation of human capability.  Lazily chatting and laughing with Mangala as the monsoon beautifully raged around us.  Eating countless paranthas as I stared at Udaipur’s floating palace.  Those moments have sustained me over the last year.  When the to do list seemed unending, when the bills seemed daunting, when my bed felt empty, when I felt too far away from the ones I love, when life decisions seemed really fucking hard… well… I probably should have gone to a therapist, but instead I opened up iPhoto and clicked on “India”.  It was cheaper. 

Reliving the moments with the smiling and giddy kids in Delhi’s Hama Masjid, I definitely shed a tear or twenty – happy ones, of course.

That got me thinking: When else have I cried?  Not because of heartbreak or life’s menagerie of mini and major tragedies, but rather of sweet nostalgia and unbridled, pure happiness.  I know I mentioned some of these in last year’s blog entries – but over the course of many full moons a few other joyful moments inevitably join the list:

• ·      Seeing Isaac and Sydney peacefully sleeping for the fist time
• ·      Hearing the symphonic cacophony of crashing waterfalls and tropical bird calls at Iguaçu
• ·      Bundling up under the shadow of the massive electric blue Perito Moreno glacier in Argentina
• ·      Turning the corner and being beautifully slapped by the grandeur of the Taj Mahal
• ·      Hearing the eloquence of a group of UCHS students as they recorded their own “It Gets Better” video to end anti-LGBT sentiment (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bo3cSFN9tTI) 

Maybe it’s coincidence or maybe it’s the universe telling me something, but this question of happiness has continually been on my mind lately.  As evidence, reference my nightstand book pile: The Big Five for Life by John Strelecky (Thanks, Maya!), The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin (Thanks, Christine!), and The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle (Thanks, Josh!).  While distinctly different books, they all focus on living passionately, living happily, living unburdened.  In the last of the three, for instance, Tolle tells us that we are not our mind, not the byproduct of our thinking.  The string of thoughts that incessantly pelts us, on the contrary, is separate from our true Being.  It’s in those gaps between our thoughts that we are truly able to connect with our core.  I like to think of it as those times when I really – I mean, REALLY – exhale and appreciate what’s around me – or more generally, when I appreciate life. 

 

So, when does that happen for me?  What are the five things that really make me happy?

It may seem like an easy task, but as Teri, Kim, and I started to come up with lists over wine and Parisian treats last night, it became apparent that this is a harder task than originally thought.

24 hours later, I’ve come up with a preliminary list, of course subject to change as I continue to find out what really makes me happy:

•  ·      Travel – Considering three of the five moments I mentioned above took place while traveling, this should come as no surprise.  Travel, I suppose, shouldn’t be limited to the type that requires a plane ticket and a passport (although I do consider a world map to be more of a challenge than a guide).  I do still find immense pleasure in hopping on my bike or slipping into my running shoes and “traveling” to some unknown part of Queens or the West Village.  I get the same rush when I stumble across a great restaurant, too.  Is travel synonymous with discovery, then?

• ·      The human spirit – I struggled to classify some of my happiest moments: the Christmases with my family, the “orphan Thanksgivings,” the “ah-hah!” moments in the classroom, the night of the presidential election in a dive bar in Cambridge, the total awe of the Taj Mahal and the sculpture wing of the Louvre… but all of them boil down to the human spirit and what we as a species, as a group of beings, as a community are able to accomplish.  We – you and I and every one that has walked and will walk this rock – are pretty amazing when you stop to think about it.

• ·      Possibility – Similar to my last point, there is something sublimely beautiful about our ability to accomplish something once thought to be impossible or never done before.  Fighting for civil rights or simply striving to be a compassionate and empathetic individual requires us to believe in the possibility of a better world.  When I find myself dreaming about possibility – what can be rather than what is – I am truly happy.

• ·      Beauty – Does this make me vain?  I suppose if I defined beauty as whatever the Kardashians tell me is beautiful, perhaps.  But the beauty that really makes me happy is the kind that I see when traveling (either abroad or in my own backyard) or observing fleeting moments of human interaction.  Beauty is a carefully planned meal.  It’s a silly game between a mother and a child.  It’s a painting.  It’s a well-designed dress.  It's Notre Dame.  It’s a side-splitting improv show.  It’s a cascade of flowering plants coming down the balcony of a Parisian apartment.  It’s whatever makes me smile simply by looking at it.

• ·      Leisure – There.  I said it.  I like leisure.  Isn’t it funny that it’s almost a dirty word in our society?  “Man of leisure” has such a negative connotation.  It conjures up some trust fund baby whose life revolves around clubs and cocaine, cars and courtside tickets.  Compared to the 35-hour workweek of France and the café culture, we Americans don’t know how the hell to relax.  We are so goddamned uptight and afraid to simply ENJOY.  Fuck that.  I like to relax.  I like to sit and observe for no other reason than to sit and observe.  I’m thoroughly enjoying drinking this 1,45€ bottle of wine and watching the rain fall on the Sacre Coeur.  You’re hearing it here first: From this day forward, I declare myself a man of leisure. 

If I am most at peace – my mind, my usually tense shoulders - in the calming shadow of these happiness pillars, then am I a slave to my mind in the absence of one?  Two?  Three?  While afraid to admit it, I think I am.

So, why am I in Paris?  The leisure, I suppose.  It is increasingly more difficult to step back and appreciate the tiny moments of relaxation and joy at home – so my hope is to rediscover those little treasures.  I love the common use of the word petit in French – petit déjeuner (“little lunch” meaning breakfast), petite mort (“little death” meaning orgasm), petits fours (“little ovens” meaning small confections or sweets) and petit ami (“little friend” meaning boyfriend), so this trip is my attempt to find les petits plaisirs – “the little pleasures” that exist in life.  I will no longer feel bad for reveling in them.  After all, as the essayist and lexicographer Samuel Johnson wrote, “It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of having as little misery, and as much happiness as possible.”

Food and farewells

Number four on my list of things to do while in India was to eat, eat, eat.


Not surprisingly, I have succeeded marvelously.

From the richness of vegetable korma in Delhi, dry fruits sweetly seducing the bite of the chilies, to the heat of the Goa’s fish vindaloo, food has been a central part of this journey. Breakfasts of papaya and idlis lazed into lunches of masala dosas. Dinners teemed with possibility, my stomach usually opting for a curry of sorts. Of course, there were countless mango lassis and gulab jamuns along the way, as well. They were attempts at replacing the mid-afternoon temperature highs with sugar highs. The sugar faded. The heat did not. Nothing a watermelon juice couldn’t solve, though. Or maybe a lime soda. And oh-my-food-network, the chai. Odes must have been written about you. Just in case they haven’t, here we go:

From trains to rooftops, the kitchen to the sidewalk,
You are always there, my sweet and spicy drinkable companion.
Whilst many solely call on you in the morning, perhaps eight o’clock,
You, my chai, were a continual and constant source of devotion.

Attempts to satisfy our palettes and our stomachs, of course, are central to our existence. Shouldn’t they be a focal point of our travels, as well? Over the past month, on days when I actually made an agenda (they were few and far between – Wake up and wander suits me much more), plans were made just as much on the lunch locale as they were on train tickets. After all, could there possibly be a more accessible peek into the soul of a region, of a people, of a family?

When I arrived in Udaipur, then, I was thrilled to discover how food was so integral not just to the lives of its relaxed residents and its sizeable tourist population, but almost to the landscape, as well. Perched around Lake Pichola, Udaipur is a swath of creamy buildings, nearly all of which have rooftop restaurants. They’re like some sort of culinary buffer between the lake and the Aravalli hills, between the narrow, sloping roads and the occasionally cloud-free sky. Being able to dine while gazing at the two mid-lake palaces, both of which seemingly float like royal yachts, was godly. Udaipur quickly became my favorite city in this massive subcontinent.

As I stepped into a stairwell to avoid an Udaipur traffic jam of a cow, a rickshaw, a donkey carrying bricks, and a group of students, I saw a sign on the side of an azure structure. For me, I suppose, it wasn’t just a sign. It was The Sign. I was being called. Beckoned. Summoned by hand painted letters which gloriously stated, “Shashi Daily Cooking Classes.” Cue singing angels.

My next steps can be assumed, and the following evening I was seated in Shashi’s living room, she in front of me, her son to my right, two British girls to my left. In my hands were nine pages of recipes, all of which would be revealed to me over the next five hours. Thinking back on the moment, I don’t know if I’ve ever been so anxious. That’s not hyperbole. Not only would we make chai, paranthas, naan, curries, cheese (who makes their own cheese?!?! Shashi and me, apparently.), pulao, and chutney, but we would also get to eat them. Cue even more singing angels.

Before donning a floral apron and ducking into her diminutive kitchen, I listened as Shashi explained her own journey from village girl to cooking maven. It is by no means my place to tell her story. I could never do it justice, but let’s just say that it involved death, the caste system, an Irish tourist, and chili powder. She communicated it brilliantly with English that she has picked up solely from travelers. It’s amazing, I think, how impactful a story can be despite the absence of grammatical tenses.

Shashi’s story aside, I was continually impressed how such simple ingredients can morph into such morsels. Take, for instance, the chapatti. It is the tortilla of India, equal parts carbohydrate, eating utensil, and napkin. Similarly, it consists of only three ingredients: wheat flour, water, and salt. Just like every other flattened bread from around the world (isn’t it odd that every culture seems to have one?), it’s beautiful in its simplicity. The process of making them – the kneading with your knuckles, the rolling, the cooking on cast iron, the bubbling and ultimate browning of the dough – is strangely therapeutic. I derived such satisfaction from seeing a chapatti pile form on one of the few remaining empty spots on Shashi’s meager countertop. The chapatti is, if I had to compare to one of the stops along this adventure, just like Kerala – the relaxed state stretched along the Arabian Sea. There are such elementary ingredients (in Kerala’s case, water, land, and good people) but the end result is so comforting. So necessary. So calming. So centering.

Mumbai, on the other hand, is the stuffed parantha. Like Kerala/chapattis, it ironically starts with the same ingredients: water/land/people – water/flour/salt. However, the parantha formation veers in a somewhat greasier direction as you add a few tablespoons of oil during the rolling process. Then comes the potato, onion, anise, garam masala, and chili. The extras are mashed together, plopped in the middle of what was once the oily cousin of the chapatti, and then rerolled. Mumbai, it seems, is the same. The purest elements are the same as Kerala, but then all the extras –the skyscrapers, the foreigners, the chaos, the swarming markets – are rolled into a larger, grimier concoction. It’s delicious.

Delhi takes appetizing grime to a new level. It is, without a doubt, the paneer pakora. For my Midwestern brethren, this tasty treat is akin to a fried cheese curd, an amuse bouche that screams with artery clogging palatability. Again, it starts with flour. Yogurt is added and then a handful of spices until a soupy, somewhat gritty, paste is formed. Dip the salty paneer in the mixture, drop in bubbling oil, cook to your stomach’s content, and enjoy. It is unabashedly fried. Your fingers will glisten. Your stomach will thank you. Your heart will not. Pakoras were one of the first treats I tried when arriving in India and were indubitably a marked departure from my typical snack of carrots and hummus. My taste buds were overwhelmed. It was like that first moment I stood amongst the madness of Old Delhi. You simply grow to accept the ceaseless movement and urban melodies. You begin to relish its flavor. And then you reach for more.

Then there is the deliciously sweet parantha. Once again, it’s the same combo of flour, water, and salt, this time with a bit of butter – but you also add shaved coconut and powdered sugar so that each bite is this blissful marriage of its savory outer shell and its tropically sweet center. It is, in a word, divine. Make no mistake, though, it is not a light dessert. It does not apologize for its buttery glaze or the sedentary state in which you will assuredly fall after a few bites. And so it goes in Udaipur, I suppose. The setting is so perfect, so sweet, so appetizing that you can’t help but only seek pursuits of a rather inactive nature. I couldn’t even begin to tally the number of hours I spent simply staring and trying to absorb the calm surroundings. Maybe it was my attempt at cataloguing those feelings so they could easily be pulled out of the recipe box upon my impending return to Brooklyn. There, quietude can sometimes be scarce. Frankly, I’m frightened to go back and fall back into my checklist routine. Wake up. Have breakfast. Make list of the day’s task. Complete as many of the day’s tasks as possible. Order food. Mindlessly stare at TV/computer. Fall asleep.

It’s telling, then, that I started writing this blog with a checklist. These are five things that I must do. My trip to India will only be valid if I complete these tasks. Without them, my meanderings will have been a failure. Doesn’t it have the potential to completely limit your experience? What if I had spent hours simply trying to cross them off? Would I have been oblivious to the rest of the symphony that was beautifully being orchestrated around me? Maybe. I did manage to see a Bollywood premiere and there were plenty of elephants (although I declined paying $20 to ride one for five minutes). I didn’t make it to a wedding, but I’ve been invited to two (One of which falls December 28-30. Christmas in Kolkata, Mom and Dad?). The eating? Duh. And the last item? My existential desire to become a different person? I’ll explain shortly.

The moments I’ve savored the most, those tiny insights into what could be overly generalized as “Indian life”, could never have appeared on a preordained checklist. I simply had no idea they would exist and that they would so profoundly impress me. I have grown to love and will deeply miss:

• The urban grey/brown/slate blue that is continually punctuated by brilliant saris.

• Sitting to do business. Whether it’s a house or a handbag, pants or a pillow cover, everyone sits to negotiate.

• Cardamom cookies.

• Families of four amazingly balanced on the seat of a scooter. Potholes and Mario Cart-esque maneuvering simply do not phase – or unglue – them from their perch.

• Chai stands. Unlike the Starbucks of the Western world, there is no to go option. You stop, order your chai which appears in its minute glass, and then converse with those around you. It’s so communal, so personable, so gently human.

• The peaceful music and chanting floating out of picturesque tiered temples

• Taking off your shoes in a respectful gesture. It is this surprisingly effective removal of barriers that is such a reminder of the power of touch. In our creation of personal space, we deny ourselves the opportunity to come in contact with the world beyond our clothes.

• “Kya Soorat Hai.” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_28DEnD-lsE) This is all thanks to Mangala and her continual renditions of the campy, overly ridiculous song. (“No one’s so SAX-y, in the whole ga-LAX-y.”)

• Street food served on tiny squares of yesterday’s newspaper.

• The Indian head nod! Is it yes? No? I’m happy? That’s great? Okay? All of the above? Whatever its meaning, the bobbling gesture is so jovial.

Beyond the Taj, apart from Varkala’s beach, aside from Jaipur’s stunning Amber Fort, these are the passing scenes that flickered in my mind as I boarded the plane to head home. Funny, I suppose. After 16,208 miles of flights, 1716 miles of train journeys, countless rickshaw rides, a handful of frightening taxi voyages, a stiflingly hot bus adventure, and a singular ride on the back of a scooter, I’m sitting here contemplating a head nod. So it goes, I guess.

And we’re off.

India is some 35,000 feet below us. Its border, quickly approaching the nose of the plane, will just as swiftly fall behind us. I know this, of course, because our current location is displayed on the shining LCD screen before me. Staring at the flight path is oddly entrancing. You so easily become fixated on the silly airplane icon, taking a surprising amount of joy from seeing it ever-so-slightly tick across the screen. Look! We’re passing over Kabul! Did you know St. Petersburg was so close? I wonder what’s happening in Minsk. Yet, it’s so odd to see the world minimized on a screen with a clean dotted yellow path that marks our way. It’s so two-dimensional. Overly simplified. It’s peanut butter and jelly. Comforting, yes, and maybe even interesting (Will we fly north or south of Iceland? Should I have creamy or chunky?), but not at all representative of the smorgasbord of other experiences. Just like no one should limit themselves to PB&J when there are so many curries and appams and dosas to be had, we shouldn’t deny ourselves actual life that flourishes 35,000 feet below glowing pixels meant to symbolize it.

That brings me to the last item on my list: come back a changed person. It would be impossible, I think, to spend a month in India and not look at even the most mundane in a different light. I’ve realized that I must make a conscious and continual effort to stay away from a PB&J life. I must seek out the anise and the oregano, the palak paneer, and the puttus of human experience. Why stay at the salad bar when there’s an entire buffet? We are so fortunate to have such varied opportunities stretched before us – to read, to talk, to jump out of an airplane, to hug, to dye our hair pink, to tap dance, to sing, to love, to meander – so why don’t we take them? Even if we choose not to skydive, why don’t we at least take a moment to examine what that experience might be like? How it might impact us? What draws our peers to such an endeavor? This is not idle thought, but rather a way to actively engage in the lives of others and to attempt understanding their psyche. There was a time that I was much better at this. I looked at the world with such open possibility, but somewhere amongst school, work, falling in and out of love, and generally becoming an adult, I lost it. My scope narrowed and my thoughts tapered.

India, then, has been my cure for myopia. It has reopened my eyes, perhaps wider than they have ever been. For that, I will be eternally grateful. To Mangala, Natasha, and Ajay. To Kemps. To Khursheed. To Haji and Abdul. To Miraj. To Shashi. To the innkeepers. To the students in Bangalore. To those three French girls. To those two British girls. To that couple from Belgium. To the rick-wallahs. To everyone who showed up Saturday night in Mumbai. To the countless strangers who engaged me in conversation and thought. To each and every one of the one billion souls that call India their home.

Thank you. I hope to see you soon.