They have bbqs in Paris??

It has come to be that I am now house sitting a three bedroom house with a back yard. Now if you have the luxury of a back yard, then you know it is your obligation to the rest of the world to throw at least 1 or 2 bbqs a week. However, if you know me at all, then you also know that I have a little OCD issue with cleaning, so this bbq business makes me start to twitch a bit. I love the idea of friends getting together to speak French around me while I stare blankly at the wall or clear plates from the table as much as the next guy, but when I spent all day excitedly vacuuming, dusting and laundering various items around the house to de-cat them, then the last thing I want to do is destroy my hard work. I look at cleaning like this beautiful thing I can control in my life. There are so few of these that I revel in every minute I get to spend in peace with the hoover.

So does this mean that I am socially screwed? Or more importantly, should I care more or at all that I am socially screwed? I am starting to slip further and further away from the desire to interact with humans, and continuing to feel quite contented with books, sun, and the little furry animals that are in my care. I am still soldiering on, 2 bbqs in a row in fact. Yesterday, I even inadvertently watched a 7 yr old for 6 hours and still managed to complete my housework and somewhat prepare for the arrival of adults. And, as usual, the company was awkward, aside from a few guests, and I ended up chilling with the 7 yr old and watching Catherine Deneuve in a rather f'ed up version of Cinderella called Peau d'Ane (English: Donkey Skin- this should support my claim of f'ed up.)

Well, I decided I would at least describe the differences in the French bbq. There are no hamburgers or hot dogs hitting the grill. Here we cook merguez, which is a red, spicy sausage from Algeria. I don't usually go for sausage, but it is quite tasty and goes really well with salad and red wine. The rest is your standard french fare, baguettes, cheese, and copious amounts of all kinds of wine. I have noticed a few interesting wine trends here: one, they add ice to white wine, two, they love rose in summer, and three, they don't necessarily care whose glass is whose as all drinks are community drinks. I do not go for this last trend at all, find it sort of disgusting, so I guard my glass. Perhaps they are not as disease ridden as we are in the US, but I'll keep my germs to myself and carefully select the germs of others whom I choose to ingest.

Tonight is round two, I slept well and the crowd will be completely different, so perhaps there is light at the end of the hoover. Today, I plan to relax in the sun, start a new book (Iris Murdoch's The Black Prince) and watch the cat follow the dog all around the house.

The Just Onces

Many travelers have a list of things to do when they arrive at their destination. I tend to be the opposite, as I usually don't even have a clue what a city boasts until I am knee deep in tourists and searching for an escape route. Well, I suppose that isn't totally true, but my list is always the same, search and consume all local food specialties. I can plan an entire day around fish and chips or gazpacho. I throw in a little site seeing for good measure, but the final destination (be it breakfast, lunch or dinner) is always chosen by my stomach. She is a pesky beast, but rarely leads me astray.

My recent excursion was no exception. Scotland, the land of the Loch Ness monster, castles and golf, also is the land of haggis, black pudding and deep fried Mars bars (all of which fall into the category of "you must try them, even if it is just once"). Since I don't believe in Nessie, nor Santa or the Tooth Fairy for that matter, and I have yet to find the idea of golfing appealing, I figured it was a safe bet to head straight to the pub for some of this mystery meat folks are so disgusted by. Ok, so it is a minced mess of sheep's heart, liver, and anything else lying around, simmered in some animal's stomach for a few hours, but how bad can it really be? It just so happened that on the day in question I had done a little hike up to Arthur's Seat and on the way down was caught in a rain shower (I can't really say that this was unexpected, but I was totally unprepared). By the time I made it to the Holyrood Palace I was quite wet and cold. I stopped under a tree to speak to an old Scottish couple, and here I learned that the weather report is just nonsense and you should always prepare for rain. The wife was upset as this was the first day this year she had braved wearing sandals. They were extremely sweet and made some suggestions as to where I should eat lunch. At this point, I was shivering, so all suggestions went out the window and I hit the first pub on the royal mile, Jenny Ha's. It turned out to be a lovely place and served up a nice plate of haggis with neeps and tatties. Not really knowing what any of the three items were other than a vague idea of haggis being something involving a sheep's stomach, I asked our friendly waiter to explain (by the way they also serve vegetarian haggis, but that takes a bit of the fun out of it). Haggis is mostly oats, but essentially mixed with all sorts of animal bits, neeps are potatoes and tatties are, you guessed it, potatoes. I didn't argue, as anything involving potatoes and gravy is fine with me, double potatoes sounds doubly fantastic. So, I came, I saw, and I ate every last bite of that haggis. Turns out that after a day of hiking and rain, haggis is just the ticket. Meat, potatoes, potatoes and gravy, there is nothing wrong with that at all...plate cleaned and I would do it again.

So haggis is checked off, what is next? I actually wasn't really sure what culinary adventure I would have next, so I opted to dine at a very old restaurant called the Cafe Royal. It is a very beautiful spot, close to the Princes street shopping nightmare, but slightly off the beaten path. You really have to know where you are going in order to find it. It was supposedly the hang out for literary celebrities and is a stop on the literary pub crawl (which I missed by one week). Anyway, I sat at one of the side tables beside the bar and surveyed the menu. Immediately, I see Cullen Skink with Arbroath Smokie, and since I can't even begin to imagine what the heck that is, I order it. I soon discover that it is a fish and potato (shocker) soup, bones in, so watch out. For the main course, I ordered the seafood platter as I was making an attempt at eating something healthy. One of the main draws of this place was that they feature an oyster bar, but I was sad to see my three oysters just sitting there sans ice. Lukewarm oysters are not ideal, but then again, just three oysters is not ideal either.

Here I would just like to say that Edinburgh was an amazing trip for me. I stepped out of the train station and could not believe my eyes. I was in a fairy tale, castles, uber green grass, flowers everywhere, the sound of bagpipes, and not an uncastle like building in site. I walked towards my friends' house and couldn't stop giggling. I have never considered myself to be a princess kind of gal, but I suddenly wished that I was wearing a huge ball gown with glass slippers and riding a white horse. I spent those few happy days just meandering through the streets snapping what turned out to be about 300 pictures. That was the most touristy I have ever been, but I couldn't help myself. I almost attempted to go into the big castle at the end of the Royal Mile, but then got my normal twitch once I got to the gate and saw the mass of tourists that I would be forces to walk beside. So, I snapped a pic of myself at arm's length and stamped it a close encounter. I was happy that I escaped the mind fog of castle mania in order to gather myself. I walked until my poor little feet could no longer carry, and then I went home (well to Guillermo and Cecile's home). Each night I was greeted so warmly at the door and stuffed with a homemade dinner courtesy of Cecile. After dinner we would sit and chat (and laugh) over ice cream and herbal tea. I really could not have had a better vacation if I had truly planned it. I can wholeheartedly say they I would choose a quiet evening with good friends and good conversation over drunken nights out till 4 AM any day. I felt so relaxed and welcome, oh and did I mention that I could speak guilt-free English for 4 days. I think I talked more in those few days then I have the entire 2 months I have been in France. I digress...


Anyway, as a thank you to my lovely host and hostess, I took them to dinner at the restaurant of their choosing. They chose Blonde and they chose well! It was like an eater's dream. Warm salads, so many types of local meats, braised, stewed, mashed, all words I like to see. I ordered the warm salad with black (or blood) pudding, raspberries and walnuts for a starter, then the casserole of venison, slowly braised in a red wine, root vegetables and chocolate (yes, chocolate!) and topped with mashed potatoes and parsnip crisps for the main course. Guillermo had the mussels to start and the grilled swordfish for the main course. Cecile had the Aberdeen Angus rib-eye steak, lemon and green peppercorn butter, stir fried vegetables and fries. We shared the raspberry creme brulee for dessert. I highly recommend this restaurant.

To end, this was such an amazing, but too brief, adventure. My only regrets are that I couldn't stay longer and that I failed to find the fried Mars bar. I haven't even touched on all of my adventures, perhaps I'll write a non-food blog. The take home message for this blog is that you should always try the local food, you don't have to like it, but you can say you've done it, even if it is just once.

I'll leave you with a shot of the castle I did explore (almost alone), Craigmillar Castle, and an unreal photo I took of the flower of Scotland, the thistle. Enjoy!!

Balance in the universe

Thirteen years seems like a long time. In that period, I went to college, then grad school, worked in SF, moved to NY and now reside in Paris. I was just a kid, just months from being 18, but on this day 13 years ago, I grew up. Life suddenly became very real and very finite. One phone call is all it takes to change your life forever, makes your hatred for certain adults very focused and founded in their basis. It is also all it takes to realize all of the "what ifs," " should haves" and "never agains." What if I had never been cruel, what if I had been home, what if I had disposed of the source of the pain long ago. I should have done all of those things, regardless of the drastic change it would have had on my personal life, but would have spared others. Never again will I get to share a story of my life, you will never meet anyone that is important to me nor be there for any momentous occasion. Of course, the memory will not disappear and thirteen years is nothing compared to knowing you for 14 years. I understand why you chose to leave, I applaud your bravery and determination. It was no easy decision and I am sure it was not made in a day. I saw your pain, your walks in silence around the dining room table when you thought no one was watching. You were not meant for this world, but you were a beautiful part of it. I am so thankful that you were in my life, and your death has made me a stronger person. I will not let anyone hurt me, and I will never let (if I can help it) anyone hurt those that I love. I do not love carelessly, and when I do love it is unconditionally. I see people for who they are, almost instantly. I do not trouble myself with false friendships and try to avoid the toxic people I encounter along life's path. I may not always succeed, but because I know that in one day I could lose the one's I love, there is no other way to love than unconditionally and specifically. I also know what it is to love myself, and seek to find joy within me so as not to rely on others to provide it. There are walls, yes, but there are also doors and windows.

So, forever, I will remember you, but not with sadness, but with great pride and appreciation. I am sorry that I could not help you, but I hope that you found your peace. In remembrance, I will make this day, July 18, a happy day. It brings me great joy to know that a little boy is celebrating his first birthday party on this day. He has the love of a wonderful family, a family that I consider to be part of my own. I know that there is balance in the universe. Happy birthday little Donovan! p.s. I'd like you to marry Kate unless of course, I someday reproduce...just putting it out there. Regardless, the Bortner-Palmer family is my little Brooklyn family, and you all have been a great comfort for me. It is nice to feel that I have a true support team and people that I can rely on to help me when I need to throw a mattress off of a sixth floor balcony :) Go team StellKat Van!






Jerrod, you will always be here, I love you and miss you and will forever.

90:10

Now I'm not one for dressing up or spending too much time worrying about how I look. I prefer to go for comfort over style, and less is more when it comes to makeup and accessories. So, why is it that I keep getting this very unwanted man attention? There is no cleavage to be gawked at or uber high heels and dresses to show off my legs. Is it that the only vocabulary these men know in English is of a vulgar nature? Whatever it is, I am over it! I don't like people touching me in general, and when drinking is involved I don't like to feel hunted. I end up completely miserable, uncomfortable and desperate to run back to my hermit hole and hide. I miss my true male friends! There are those guys out there that can be friends with a female, have actual discussions about something other than sexual positions, have no ulterior motives and would be sure to take care of you should you have one too many. Here, I really just don't feel safe. And, in reality, I know most of the guys are harmless and I am sure that it is meant to flatter, but I still can't stand it. I'm not looking or trying and if I was, you would know it because I'm not shy. So, not that any French men are reading this, but back the fuck off, cause you are ruining the joy of my evenings out in Paris. I suppose the bonus is that I am drinking more water and saving money on booze :) Must find that silver lining...

So, as the title states, my plan of attack for going out is to hit the 90:10 gay to straight ratio. I want to go dancing and not be molested or propositioned or really even spoken to. I'd like to close my eyes, sing out loud and dance in my nice little air space free of other inhabitants.

Ok, so that is my rant for today. I would also like to say that I have met a few nice guys so this doesn't apply to everyone, and there may even be one that can enter my air space.

Dear Catastrophe Waitress, can I get the coq au vin?

In Brooklyn, there is this cute restaurant called Le Barricou that my friend and I frequented. He always ordered the grilled chicken sandwich with fries and I, the coq au vin with mashed potatoes. It is this magical dish made of common ingredients (chicken, pearl onions, red wine, bacon), but concocted in such a way to produce chicken (technically it is supposed to be old rooster, but who knows) that is juicy, falling-off-the bone delicious. And to top it off, the entire dish is swimming in my favorite thing...sauce. A red wine reduction with hints of bacon that marries with those mashed potatoes so perfectly that I literally lick the plate at the end. Now my hope upon arriving in France was that I could get this dish, a rather traditional, old school, french country staple, and it would make Le Barricou's version look like something from the freezer section. So every day, I walk by tons of restaurants and quickly skim the menu looking for it, and alas, it is never there. Beef tartare, duck confit, and hamburgers are always there. I want to cry.

This weekend I met a restaurant owner who said that it has basically gone out of style. How weird that I can't get a yummy, stewed chicken dish because it just isn't cool anymore. I understand that it was a poor man's dish, and that there is nothing particularly special about it. But, that being said, I love duck and beef and fish far more than I normally like chicken. In fact, I would say that it is rare that I order a chicken dish of any kind. Ok, I'm not a picky eater either, but this dish is really freaking delicious, so much flavor...and sauce, how can it be too old school? I am still on the search, I've heard rumor that it may be served at a restaurant called Chez Georges. Now my only dilemma is to determine which Chez Georges it is. One, which caters to the stock exchange crowd, is in the 2nd arrondissement and has the history I like, opened in 1964 and run by three generations of the same family. The other is in the 17th and has been around since the 1920's, so really either option seems appealing. Bonus points to the one in the 2nd for being within walking distance from my house. Chez Georges (whichever one) has moved to the top of my "must eat" list.

Wish me luck...

I don't because...

I don't cook because I love to eat.
I don't dj or produce music because I love to dance.
I don't write because I love to read.
I don't act because I love to watch.

This short blog is simply a statement of appreciation to those who create the things that bring joy to my life. Thank you beautiful chefs, artists, singers, playwrights, actors, writers, producers of all entertainment for being so talented and sharing your gifts with the world...and me!

Burritos, margaritas, chips & salsa, oh my!

I can rarely use this statement, but google failed me! I searched for "burritos Paris" and received a very unsatisfying list of blogs bitching about the lack of just that. The results ranged from Paris Hilton in Rio to David Lebovitz's conversion from self-proclaimed San Franciscan burrito king to Parisian le poulet roti boy (that's right, I said boy). So too bad for you losers, cause I hit the Mexican food jackpot today.

I was just minding my own business on the Rue Dauphine, headed straight for the Village Voice to pick up some new reading material when I happened upon the word "Fajitas." I did an about face and marched right back to that word. There it was, "Fajitas Mexican Restaurant." I have walked down this exact street at least five times already and somehow, I just missed it. All the things I love and miss were on that menu, margaritas, chips & salsa, guacamole, and BURRITOS!! Since I knew exactly where I was, there was no need to bust out the journal and write down the address. It exists!! A burrito in Paris, so close to my house no less, exists! I wasn't hungry, so I kept moving, but the joy of knowing that I had a weekly spot just waiting for me was fabulous!

Today was great! I purchased some new books, ordered some others and hit the Jardin de Luxemborg for some sun. Sitting in the sun doesn't usually make you hungry, but it does make you want a frozen margarita...and some aqua! I trotted happily back to Fajitas and, just as I suspected, was greeted so kindly by the staff. I ordered a frozen margarita and chips & salsa, thinking I wasn't hungry. I downed that, the chips were exactly like I like, thin, crispy and perfectly salted and the salsa was delicious. To me that is the indicator of a good Mexican restaurant, perfect chips and salsa. I ordered another margarita and settled in for a bit to start reading The Sun Also Rises. I learned that the waitress was Colombian and the other lady (the owner) was from Massachusetts. The owner, Amy, then came over, to correct the waitress who said she was from Boston, and we struck up a conversation. She came to Paris to study abroad while in college and fell in love. She has been living here for 2o yrs. She married a man from Veracruz, Mexico and he, Miguel, is the co-owner and head chef of Fajitas. They opened the restaurant 9 years ago, and the menu was created by Miguel. The atmosphere is just what you would expect from a Mexican restaurant, even one in France, relaxed, comfortable and welcoming. They all speak perfect English, Spanish and French, so there are no worries when heading inside. You just get to enjoy your time!

After my second margarita, I decided I was hungry enough to try out some small appetizers. I ordered the ceviche and taquitos con pollo. Amy was super sweet and attentive, made sure that everything was good, gave me some extra jalapenos and even a tequila shooter after I paid the bill. Let's just say I was completely happy, and maybe a wee bit tipsy. I let them know that they better ready a table because they'll be seeing me at least once a week for my burrito fix (I'm be ready next time!)

So if you are in the 6th and want to have a nice, yummy meal, then head to Fajitas, 15 Rue Dauphine!! I'll probably be there! Sorry, Lobo, I love you too!

With a full belly, I walked home in the perfect weather, crossing the Seine at sunset, which by the way is around 10-10:30 pm. Not a bad day, if I do say so myself!

Tomorrow is the big shopping sales day Paris-wide, better rest up! Saint Germain, Rue de Seine, here I come!

Good night!

Soul Mates

If you know me at all, then you know that unless forced to do so, I never choose to rise before 11 AM. Even with the best intentions, I only manage to get out of bed by 9:30. I'd love to be that kind of person that enjoys the morning by walking through the open air markets and sampling the freshest foods...all before 11 AM. Well, that will probably never be me, so that is why I came to Paris. I remember on my previous journey to Paris that I bought clothes near the Bastille after a late dinner which ended around midnight. The city had me at "open at midnight." And the markets are no exception, those of us that prefer afternoon to morning for productive ventures can still enjoy them. There are two open air markets near my apartment both of which have days of the week when they open in the afternoon: Marche Saint Eustache Les Halles, Thursdays 12:30-8 pm (Rue Montmartre) and Marche Baudoyer, Wednesdays from 3-8:30 pm (Place Baudoyer btw Rue Rivoli and Rue Francois Miron).

And so goes my journey to the Place Baudoyer:

Still a bit ill at ease in this fair town, I kept the headphones on and the head down avoiding all vendor eye contact. I walked by lovely fruit, vegetables and flowers. Then there were olives, dried fruit, nuts, all things I loved. I must have been looking, because the charming gentleman behind the counter said something to me and pointed at my headphones. Startled, I walked over and did the whole, blah, blah, I don't understand French, do you speak English spiel that I have down. Enter Baptiste. Not only does this guy have olives, dried fruit and nuts to offer, but he is also adorable, charming and speaks perfect English, awesome. We talked for a long time, I tasted 5 kinds of olives and one was a Kalamata the size of a fig. I could probably do a whole blog on him and our conversation, how this is his family's business, how I told him that when he decides to go off to some other career, I will take his place (we shook on this, so it is gonna happen), where the food comes from, our new business model to be a traveling horse and cart market (think NY taco truck, but with horses), and our shared love of dancing. So, the story is short, but the thesis is that I found a friend. Oh, and did I mention that he is 23 and was shocked, that's right, shocked to hear that I was 30, even made me show him my license. I love France! To end this market segment, I purchased some olives with garlic, dried pineapple and dried apricots, on which I am currently munching! Thanks, Baptiste!

Ok, so I got a bit off topic, but I had a real mission for this venture and it was paella. Through my vigorous and relentless googling, I had located Francois, the paella man. Screw crepes and bullshit sandwiches, for 7 euros I can get a huge pile of paella, just say done and done. The only questions in my mind were how many I should order and how long they would last in the fridge?? So there I was, I spotted the van clearly marked Paella Plats. I decided to make my attack from the south, sneak around so I could get a look at the merchandise without having to make direct contact. Oh lord, this huge, steaming 3 ft pan filled to the brim with mussels, shrimp, squid, rice, peppers, peas and tomatoes comes into view. I could smell it from across the street. And not only do I see paella, but there are two other pans, one with boeuf provencale and another with some sort of delicious roasted chicken and pasta concoction. I probably had that deer in headlights look. I still had a couple of other missions for my restaurant research journal, and carrying steaming hot paella along did not seem like the best plan. So, I hurriedly finished my research and returned to Francois, dear Francois. He kindly scooped up a very generous portion of paella, then added a big piece of roasted chicken and extra shrimp till it was literally spilling out. I handed him 20 euros for my 7 euro plate, and he was going to get change. I decided that it was silly of me to get only the paella, so I added on a plate of the boeuf provencale. This could be the beginning of a beeeuutiful friendship!! See you next Wednesday!

Today, Paris gave me, wrapped in the Place Baudoyer, a market that brought together all things that I love, late afternoon, olives, dried fruit, nuts, paella, saucy beef dishes, and nice people. Dare I say it, I'm in love!

And back to food

As you've probably noticed, I have veered away from food up to now (minus my depressing crepe conundrum). And now, we're back on topic. I had a week of mini-depression because I came to the realization that I am, in fact, not on vacation. Usually when I travel, I eat out for every meal, and do so with the knowledge that my job is waiting for me upon return so I can pay off those pesky credit card bills. This adventure is a wee bit different, I quit my job and now have a 3 month lease on an apartment in Paris. I must really think about the money I spend.

So here is the master plan. Each week I will go explore various areas of Paris in search for the ideal cafe. My initial judgments will be based solely on the location (sunny, not on a main street, looks tidy), the look of the clientele (smiling faces in front of delicious looking meals) and the specials on their boards (is the plat du jour deal look appetizing as well splurge worthy). I will bring along my trusty notebook to jot down the street & restaurant names, then go back to my apartment to do what I do best...google! If you have seen my facebook page, I am a sucker for the historical factoids about locations. So the older, more exciting and obscure, the more willing I am to spend more money at the place. All of those factors will play into my two meals out per week. I am giving myself one lunch in the sun and one romantic dinner-for-one per week. The rest of the time, I will be hitting the Monop! and enjoying the gazpacho & bread combo that has sustained me thus far. Oh, and I rediscovered chocolate pudding, so good!!

So now, it is 73 degrees and beautifully sunny, so I am off to explore Le Marais for my first "week in food" installment. I already spotted a few places last weekend, but did not write them down, so I have to hope that I meander in the same direction and stumble upon them again.

Have a lovely day, les enfants!

Never judge a person by the quantity of black attire

I have to admit, when I did the google map search of my Parisian address, I was a little surprised by what I found. I would be living above a goth clothing shop. Upon googling the shop (http://www.boyloovegirl.com/), there were images of vampire kids and folks of all ages clothed from head to toe in black. Admittedly, I did some stereotyping, profiling, whatever you'd like to call it. Granted this group of individuals doesn't necessary bring up any sort of specific fear, as even in my mind they only wander about in groups, quietly displaying their inner angst via black platform lace up boots and long coats. I'd take that any day over noisy, drunk clans of young people. Besides, who doesn't love vampires these days!?! If you can rock that look like Alexander Skarsgard, then please, by all means, do so!

Regardless, all of my ideas have been completely blown out of the water. The owners of the store (I believe it is a husband and wife) are two of the sweetest people ever. The man, and he just told me his name and I've forgotten already (it is as if I have a mental block against absorbing any words that sound french), has been one of the nicest and most welcoming people I have encountered. He did not judge me at all for not speaking French, and easily slipped into English. I think I won them over with my tattoo, or at least that is what sparked our initial conversation. And today, he just invited me to meet him and the other guy that works there for a beer on Friday. In addition, he said that if I have any trouble with the apartment or anything in the neighborhood to let him know. How awesome is that!

Just a happy note...

The Act of Learning-Part 1-Intl Pet Travel

From international pet travel to the appropriate time of day to do your laundry, I plan to make a "what I wish I had known" list for future travelers. I would say that the days leading up to my actual journey here were some of the most stressful of my recent years. I had a series of events that all hit at the same time, move out of my 6th floor walk up apartment, drive my car with the belongings I deemed keep-worthy to Alabama, visit various family members along the way, say goodbye to my friends from NY (as I may choose to inhabit a new city upon return to the states), and the acquisition of all of the documents required for international pet travel.

The last item was by far the worst, both for my bank account and for my patience. There was no website that clearly outlined this process and new developments, forms, tests, trips to the airport cropped up endlessly along the way. And for what? Did the fair continent of Europe give a flying f**k that I had a stack of paperwork the size of most PhD's dissertations? The answer is a clear and painful "NO!" I entered Europe via Zurich and went through a swift customs check there. I even asked, "I am traveling with an animal, would you like to see his paperwork?" The very nice gentlemen said, "hmm, well you are going on to France, so I don't need to see it, they will check it there." Well as I learned, that was it for customs, once in Europe, you are IN Europe. I just walked right to baggage claim and out the door from CDG airport. I considered walking right back in and demanding that someone look at all of this! I have now translated the Swiss custom agent's answer into, "well, you aren't staying here, Switzerland doesn't care if you take some diseased dog into France, so have a nice flight." I suppose it is better than the alternative which could have been some problem with the paperwork and my poor little weiner being shipped back (at my expense, of course) to the US. That would have been pretty devastating.

So, if you are thinking of traveling with a pet to the EU, here are the tips and tricks in a normal, logical list:

1) The international health certificate translated in English and the language for your destination. For the French version, you can find it here or you can simply google Certificat veterinaire and you should see the pdf document. The good news is that the form is pretty clear and each section has the corresponding English translation with the description of each box. Many of the sections are only necessary if you are traveling to specific areas and those are outlined at the bottom of the form.
2) The key elements on this form that will require a trip to the vet are the microchip, the up to date rabies vaccine (note that you will need to manufacturer, date and lot information for your pet's last documented shot as well as the due date for his/her next one), and the signatures of your vet and the USDA approved vet. You will also need to have a print out of the animal's vaccine record as additional proof of the rabies vaccine. I believe that you must visit the vet for the final checkup no earlier than 5-10 days prior to your departure time. I had the major checkup a month or so in advance just in case there were issues (which there were, he had Lyme's) that needed to be resolved.
3) Most vets are sadly not accredited aka Competent Authorities, so you must go to an official vet for the endorsement of the form. For me, I had to drive to an office near JFK airport, pay $35 for a guy to stamp the form and confirm that I had all of the proper documents attached. Here is the pdf list of "Veterinarians in Charge" by state for the eastern region. Note that you do not have to take the animal to this official vet, so just gather all of your paperwork and get this stamped a minimum of 5 days prior to your departure.
4) Make sure to stock up on your pet's medications, heart worm, flea/tick, and any other items so that you don't have to worry about finding a vet while you are away.
5) Your vet can also prescribe Xanax for your pet if you have a long flight or just to chill them out a bit. Don't be frightened by the dosage, as it is considerably higher for dogs than humans as they metabolize it differently.

Just one other thing, when looking for flights, the rules for carry on pets are very different than just traveling domestically. I only found one airline (Swiss Intl) that allowed a 14 lb dog to fly under the seat. Most other airlines would require that he fly in cargo, so definitely check out your options in advance. I had to work with an agent at Swiss to get a flight itinerary that would accept him for the connections. Lucky for me, the flight was actually cheaper than the other options, so the research paid off in the end. You will have to pay, regardless, for your pet. The fee for his flight was $200 each way, and you have to buy his ticket when you get to the airport on departure day so factor that extra time.

With all of that information, you should be set to fly away and have no one look at the fruit's of your labor :) I hope that someone out there find's this blog entry useful. Good luck and feel free to comment if you have any questions about the process. My dog is pretty blissed out here in Paris, and having him here is really nice. It is always a good excuse to go explore the city, and people are really nice to you when you have a petit mignon chien!

Bon voyage!

Can somebody get this girl a crepe?

I am not sure how it happened, I have theories, but it appears that I have lost the ability to go and just order food. I pace back and forth down the Rue Saint-Denis, looking longingly at the crepe man, hoping to hear "hey you, yes you, American girl, come get yourself a crepe." I mean, maybe he did say that, but since it was in French, I immediately tucked my head, stared at a building, pretended to be extremely attentive to my dog and made a beeline for the blue door of 8 Rue du Cygne. So let's explore the theories.

Theory 1: They all know that I am here for more than a week, how dare I not speak fluent French.
Ok, so this is a stretch, but there is this element of guilt involved in knowing that you have decided to take residence in a country where you have no knowledge of the language. When I traveled here in 2004 I didn't actually care that I didn't speak French because I was only here for 8 days. I am not one to need help navigating a city, I can read a map and I am pretty confident that near every subway entrance there will be one for the reading. So, without this need for human interaction, I can usually fly under the radar for quite sometime. Museums are safe, entrance fee on the ticket window, quiet enforced on my little safe haven inside. But, a girl has to eat. Herein lies the terror. It isn't as if I don't know what I want, the menus are generally translated into English. It is the three seconds of complete confusion that is the entrance into the restaurant or the walk up to the crepe man. What the hell did they just say to me? The annoyance of having to admit my stupidity and be "just another American that can't speak this language and assumes that everyone speaks English" is just too much. I simply can't do the dumb stare anymore. I don't want to be the dumb American. I love Paris, this country, the continent, the world. I understand that it is unrealistic for me to fluently speak all languages, but I chose to live here, so this is really my bad for poor planning. Guilt, guilt and more guilt!

Theory 2: You don't have a job, you can't afford to eat crepes.
This is for realz, I have no income, so my love of overpriced coffee and pastries was the first thing to go. I stare at people calmly sipping their tiny espressos, and though I envy their ability to sit in sunny cafe seats, I don't envy the small quantity of beverage they have purchased. I need coffee, and lots of it, especially if there is a delicious crepe in accompaniment. I am sure it isn't posh to shoot your espresso tequila style, then demand another maintenant. And so it is, I just stare, keep walking my dog, and hit up the Monop! I suppose the upside of this is that I am saving money and "cooking" for myself.

Theory 3: I lost my balls.
Now this one hurts. Could it be that I just lost that fearless traveler thing right when I need it the most? I mean I traveled to Indonesia alone for Pete's sake and I didn't even (and still don't) know how to say "hello" in their language! This one gets a big WTF! I have little pep talks with myself before I leave, try tactics like putting money in my pocket before heading out with the dog, even google translate "may I please order a crepe with butter, sugar and banana?" Still, I duck and run. How did this happen? I ordered a crepe and coffee while exploring Paris the first go round and even have a picture to prove it. I wasn't sent to the firing squad then, so why would I be now?

In conclusion, there is really no rational reason for this new fear. I need to get it together, get off of the guilt train, pick my balls up at the ticket counter and get out there and order a freaking 3 Euro crepe.

I think I'll do it in another arrondissement...

A blog is born!

Well, ladies and gentlemen, yet another blog is born today. I will start with a brief introduction focusing solely on my life as it pertains to food.

My name is Lindsy and I was born in a very small town in Alabama to a mother from southern roots (think fried pork chops and turnip greens) and a father of southern Italian via Philadelphia roots (chicken cacciatore and meatballs in gravy). My mother was very disinterested in food, not one that enjoyed the art of cooking, but she could make the heck out of a Peter Pan peanut butter "flatsy." She hated casseroles "every bite tastes the same", tomatoes, olives, anything gooey and basically all sorts of things that I later learned to love. My siblings and I, all of us quite scrawny and lanky, sustained on mac-n-cheese, peanut butter sandwiches, pop-tarts and copious, if not obscene, amounts of kool-aid, mmm Purplesaurus Rex. We had a five-night rotating set of dinners: chicken and rice soup, spaghetti & meatballs (grandmom's recipe of course), "little men" with sides of broccoli and mashed potatoes, leftover pulled chicken (aka little men) with bbq sauce on buns, and chicken nuggets with sweet and sour sauce. The other two nights were affectionately referred to as "fend for yourself" and usually consisted of pizza, cereal, grilled cheese or pb&j. I was never what you would call a picky eater and still to this day, I admittedly like Campbells condensed soup and kraft singles made grilled cheese. Judge as you will.

At an early age, I opted out of home made lunches for school lunches and began to explore the other opportunities in the food world. I worked at the ball park concession stand, Baskin Robbins and finally at the food mecca that was (and may still be) Outpost 72. Oh Outpost, many a day was spent stuffing my face with pulled pork sandwiches, strawberry pie, made-from-scratch biscuits with ham & egg, backed potatoes the size of small dogs piled with pulled pork, sour cream, butter, cheese, bacon (yes, pork on pork), and chives. I darn say that this may have been as close to a religious experience as I may ever get. Who needs goals when you have such delicious surroundings? Sadly, I did move on, and the jury is still out as to whether or not it was to bigger and better things. During college, I was at a food plateau, forced to live on cafeteria fast food, Dominos pizza dorm delivery, and ramen noodles. I did, however, become acquainted with Starbucks and thus espresso in those years and that is not a relationship to overlook.

Grad school was really the beginning for me. The move out of rural Alabama to Berkeley, California was a digestive wake up call. Where had sushi and burritos been all of my life?? Forget chemistry research projects and course work, I had to learn to use chopsticks and correctly identify the raw fish I would be pulling from the sushi boat canals. The creative roll combinations, sauce options for Mongolian BBQ, burrito fillings, Ethiopian vegetarian dishes, the difference between Spanish and Mexican, Japanese and Chinese, Korean and Thai, I was hooked. Thankfully, the monetary limitations of grad school prevented me from gaining 200 lbs.

It was during this time that I also discovered travel. It started small with a trip to Italy & France with a friend from Alabama, then a trip with a boyfriend to Costa Rica, and finally to a road trip across the US. After those rather unsatisfying adventures, I discovered that the key to my travel happiness was being untethered. And so I leave you here, day 1 blog, with a hint of what is to come. My travel plans became about me, and solely me, where did I want to go and what was I going to eat while I was there. No longer would I be forced to eat at McDonald's because the idea of ordering from a French menu was too scary for my travel companion.

We will look at my trips to Chile, Indonesia, Spain and finally to my current place of residence, Paris!

I hope you enjoy the first installment. I want to make it clear that I do not consider myself to be a critic by any stretch of the imagination. I love food, plan and simple, thus one can't be truly critical if you love and appreciate everything. I do not cook, so the idea that someone took time (and dirtied dishes) to prepare a meal for me, counts for more than a Michelin star in my guide. Obviously, along the way, I will throw in some other interesting tidbits from my journeys.

Until then, Bon Appetit!