Paris, this time with even more snow

From the top of the hill where Sacre-Coeur perches, the entire city of Paris looks almost manageable; of course, it isn't really, unless one has endless time and money. But it is a pleasant kind of unmanageable, the kind where I use the "submit and admit" mindframe so that I can relax and enjoy: submit to its charms, while admitting that I will never experience all of them.  With only four days in Paris on a student budget, it becomes necessary to trick my mind into forgetting this fact. 

This is a side street running along parallel to le Sacre Coeur, slick with ice. It was almost empty except for this woman. She looked serene and patient. Maybe she was there on a pilgrimage.

We could have taken a tram, clean glass and gleaming steel, all the way up the hill to the peak of Montmartre, but it seemed cheating, somehow. I didn't want to wait, suffocating in the hordes of others waiting for their turn to board; there was also a large number of fur-clad, elderly women and be-suited old men, so it would also have been a little shaming for two able-bodied youths to attempt to horn their way in the line. 

So we walked, placing each foot carefully on the next step, clinging to the rail, boots crunching on slush or sliding on ice. Once at the top, I surveyed my memory and remembered how I'd loved it up here as a girl, perhaps most of all, better than the Eiffel Tower or the artists' square.  Although I hadn't retained how vastly Paris spread out under me like an inviting, winter-tinged picnic spread, I did remember that white onion dome and the cobblestoned square in front of it. When we were here, vendors had taken it over, selling cheap trinkets and rubber balls and hot, sugar sprinkled crepes. Now, I suppose the cold and ice were too much for them. It was completely empty of enterprise. 

And finally, the Eiffel Tower. I was happy to revisit it, since it had been a decade since I'd last stood under its sturdy legs, sipping scalding hot chocolate. This was actually one of the first-nay, THE first- place we visited after our arrival. We exited the Metro stop and emerged into swirls of snowflakes; we strolled along the concrete, snow-softened banks of the Seine and made mitten-prints in the unblemished drifts. 

We knew the Tower was somewhere close, but it wasn't until my friend mentioned that she hoped we were going the right way that I looked up. I started laughing, and she followed my gaze and laughed too. It was there, looming out of the fog and snow, unimaginably huge, not 200 feet from where we stood. We'd been so taken by the snow and beauty (and a dead rat I'd found, perfectly frozen, curled in a snow-bed) that it had been growing closer and closer, without announcing its presence. It seemed perfect, iron grey and silent, modest in its dominance. 



In person, in is more gargantuan, and less iconic. The snow prevented us from ascention; this would prove to be the first of many such disappointments. The miser in me was relieved to not have to pay again; but since the last time I'd been ten, this must have been a senile, ridiculous miser, trying to rationalize myself into contentment. Because of all of the things in Paris that hold potential for disappointment, the view from the Eiffel Tower is not one of them. It is exactly like it should be. 

Paris: But more importantly, SNOW

Here's a little tease. What structure could that possibly be lurking in the background? Also: ducks waddling around the frozen pond. 

So, I'm going to whet your appetite for Paris photos, just a little; but don't expect to see any monuments or tourist traps yet. Well, mostly (see above note). As a California gal, born and bred, I don't get the chance to see much snow. As a California child, I remember melting into pools of excitement at the sight of it, usually on an occasional trip to Tahoe, the one place in the golden state guaranteed to wear white after Labor Day. The year we lived in England, it snowed, and although I realize in retrospect that it was barely enough to justify the snowman we were determined to scrape together, it was thrilling. It felt like being inside of a Christmas card. 

If that isn't a Christmas card picture, I don't know what it is. Okay, it could also be Narnia.

So I just wanted to try to capture for you the excitement I felt arriving in Paris on a Monday morning, tired and hungry from my trip under the Channel, only to find snow coating every concrete surface: still clean and soft, undirtied by the thousands of footsteps, at least for a few hours. And it was still falling from the sky, too, in magical swirls and gyres and tumbles. Beautiful, and edible, too. 

But not very filling

This park was actually closed, so I had to stick my whole arm through the gate to get this snapshot. Also, while we were doing this, a creepy Frenchman started trying to take pictures of us, for some unknown slimy reason. I shut him down but quick, very thankful I could tell him off in French.

Even the drains in the Champs de Mars are lovely! I give credit to the snow, which makes everything fresh and perfect, at least until it turns into slush. In spite of the sub-freezing weather exacerbating my terrible cold, shutting down my immune system, and turning my lightly-shod feet into painful ice cubes, the child inside of me was simply thrilled to be dancing in the snow. 

Southend; proper name: Souf-end

Southend on Sea is the more popular, more well-known sister to my own tiny Leigh-on-Sea. She is no London, to be sure; she isn't even a Birmingham. But as a child, she was the exciting city just around the corner; one with a theme park (however ramshackle) and a pier (however windswept). So on Boxing Day, we decided to take our post-dinner stroll there, only a short car-ride away.


And Southend, too, has changed. The waterfront, especially, looks different; it is cleaner, sleeker, and of course, a much nicer place for money to exchange hands. It doesn't really bother me, I suppose. Just past this spaceshippy pier front entrance, there are the same familiar, grungy streets full of shoddy arcades, fluorescent chip shops, and poorly carpeted trinket shops.

How I have missed ye, Adventure Island!

Farewell, Southend. I hope I'll see you again sometime; I feel that our visit was incomplete. We were foiled in our attempts to walk along your pier, which turned out to be closed at dusk. We could only stare nostalgically at the Adventure Island sign. Most of the shops on High Street were already closed. Things in England don't stay open past the setting of the sun, which, here, usually comes at around 4 in the afternoon.

But I already have you preserved in my mind, perfectly- your freshly fried doughnuts at the end of the pier, dusted in sugar; the open square above the Odeon cinema where we could chase pigeons; and your beautifully tacky, colorful theme park where we would be set free for an afternoon, until dusk fell and everything would close, exactly on time.

Home Sweet Home: in which I return to the abode of my childhood

At the tender age of 11, almost a decade ago now (pardon my involuntary shudder; it is still shocking to me that my life can now be separated into decades) this was my home. As a family, we willingly transplanted ourselves from sunny California- the Golden State, the land of ocean and vineyards and hippies and mountains and pine- to Essex, proud patron of the "Essex girl" jokes, the mud flats of the retreating Thames, and marshes. However, as I was barely into my double digits, all I saw was that we were on an adventure.

For the holidays, my sister Mimi came to visit, which was an absolute delight. Despite my utter lack of what some would euphemistically call spirituality, Christmas has always been important to me. It is the rituals: the baking of the cookies, the cutting of the tree, the same songs sung every year, the huge, sprawling family parties. So knowing that I would be away from home, I fretted. I wondered how I would fill that void where all of the old traditions would normally be. And then Mimi announced that she was coming over for the holiday. It was a relief, to say the least; wherever we went at least I had family with me. 

And so we went to Leigh-on-Sea, to visit the family in whose house we lived for a year. 

As the Thames tide withdraws, it leaves behind it acres of mudflats and stranded boats. Often we would see children playing footy in the mud, hundreds of feet out into the flats.

I don't want to be cruel, but the juxtaposition of that sign and the beach itself is sad, in a hilarious way. 

That Gatsby-esque green light is actually a fish and chips cafe, featuring the logo of a chef bumblebee.

Most of you probably haven't heard about the death of Woolworth's, popularly known as Woolie's. It is, or was, a UK store chain that sold everything from candy to toasters to hair dryers to movies. And now it has gone broke, and shall be no more. It saddens me; we came upon this Woolie's in the town centre and I felt a faint wash of melancholy. It was a staple of High Streets across England; not fancy or posh, but sturdy. 

Things change, I suppose, even in England. The church graveyard was no different; the tombstones didn't seem to have drunkenly slouched over any more than they had before. The Leigh Library was the same; I could see into the dark room on the top floor of what was once a Vicarage, into the room where we would sit for hours on hard wooden benches, reading French comic books. I remember, with a clarity that surprises me, being a young girl looking at an extravagant ivory wedding dress in the windows of a shop on the corner near the bakery where we would buy chocolate haystacks; now, if it is not the very same dress still in that window, it is certainly its doppelganger. 

But the house that we used to live in changed; there were new carpets and the shed in the garden was different. The room that Mimi and I slept in had a new set of closets, and the attic that had seemed so haunted at the time was now just small, dark, and ordinary. We had left a decade ago, and now were interlopers in a place that had been gradually changing without us there to notice it. 

Barcelona III: Everything Else, and: Up Another Mountain

The Sagrada Familia was initially a sad sight; it was past dusk and the spires had disappeared into the black sky by the time we arrived. Disappointed, we wandered around the stalls on the neighboring street, picking through the scarves and magnets and souvenir lighters. Then, just as we were about to wander off, the lights at the base of the cathedral suddenly switched on, flooding the building with light. 

The Fairy Bar. When I first heard the name, I assumed it was actually the Ferry Bar, and was underwhelmed; but upon stepping through the doors, I quickly realized my mistake, as the entire place has been transformed into a magical indoor forest. Tiny lanterns dangle from the fake tree limbs, the ceiling dimly sparkles with stars, and miniature waterfalls into rocky pools. Overpriced drinks, of course, fill the menu. 

The KFCs here have truffles on the menu

One night, we attended the lights show at the fountain at the foot of the mountain. We'd heard about it; although none of us were quite sure what exactly is was. "It" turned out to be a huge fountain that at night becomes a magical stage for musical medleys and softly shifting lights. The first song mix was, incongruously, a medley of Disney songs; in Spanish, of course. The colors shining through the water were nothing if not carefully planned; "Under the Sea" featured a vast array of blues and greens. The next medleys were bombastic and fabulous: movie themes, and then classical. It was oddly mesmerizing. 

We then wandered off into the nighttime streets. 

The next day, we decided we would accomplish things. We would go places, see people, take pictures. So early in the morning (please remember that "early" is a relative term) we set off to conquer Mount Juic. But not on foot. 

I adore trams. Something about them just sparks my plug; they seem such a 60s throwback for some reason, with their sleek futuristic design and promise of a world where honest citizens will never have to hike up any mountain ever again. 

Everything looks nicer on top of a mountain

We left Barcelona the next morning, at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning. This, of course, meant that we had to leave the city proper at 2:30 in the morning, to catch the taxi that would take us to the bus station where we waited for the bus to take us outside the city to the airport. Travel isn't usually fun, now that the novelty has worn off. But it has to be worth it. Why, otherwise, would we keep doing it?

Wining and Dining Barcelona

I won't blabber too much. I shall let the vittles and potables speak for themselves. 

All of the previous are from an indoor market in Los Rambles. There were also skinned pigs' heads, but I was too disturbed to take a picture. They seemed to be gazing at me reproachfully, although, of course, they shouldn't have been, at least not at me. I would not harm one hair on your formerly hairy  chinny chin chins, I wanted to protest. 

Longingly gazing through the window of a patisserie

Oh, gelateria, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Hazelnut. Catalan Creme. Tiramisu. 

And if you thought I would leave Spain without a taste of sangria, you are very much mistaken. 

Barcelona II: A trek up a mountain to see Gaudi

The next day, we slept until 12:30. Our alarm was set for 8:30. In retrospect, we were entirely too optimistic for people who were functioning on a few hours' sleep on an airport floor. By the time we left the house, it was closer to 2, but we were refreshed and ready to tackle any tourist-trap that beckoned to us. 

Parc Guell is a park that sits atop a hill, designed by famed Spanish architect Antoni Gaudi for a wealthy patron; it is endearingly excessive, dotted with bright tile human-sized lizards, undulating walls, and rustic pavilions and walkways. It was a good thing we were so abundantly rested, as the hike up the city streets turned into a hike up what seemed like a mountain to someone who, yet again, decided to wear heels. (Which one of us am I talking about? It is a puzzler, to be sure, unless you've ever met me before.)

Some graffiti-ed catci on the way up

Beyond this slithering wall, there are stunning views over the city. However, I have so many upcoming panoramic photos I'll spare you for the moment. In the neighboring plaza, there were shacks selling ice cream and wandering visitors and enterprising vendors who had spread out blankets covered in trinkets, scarves, and jewelry. I had my eye on some of their wares, but by the time we returned, the urban guardians (or, as most would call them, the po-po) had shut them down. (Note to parents: po-po means police.)

I like how the columns look like spindly, pigeon toed legs.

Be careful, Hansel and Gretel

The weather was beautiful, once more, the air crisp, and the architecture whimsical and delightful. It was almost a shock to descend once more to the bustling, earthbound streets of Barcelona.