I am Vanessa, and I am addicted to sardines.

Ten days ago I had three cans of Matiz Gallego sardines in my possession…now I am down to one.

The Golem obsession is setting in. You see, I want to eat them, but then I will have none. This is a problem, née, a catastrophe.

Nom nom nom. Come to Mama...

Enter Amazon: my hero. Of course the sardines are represented; even a case of 25 of them (oh, happy day). However, they’re sold out or no longer available (I signed up for the “notify me when this becomes available” feature…whenever/if-ever that is), so I’m back where I started. Amazon fail.

I pride myself on generally sane behavior and raw eating and healthy habits, but I draw the line at Portuguese/Spanish sardines. If loving them is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

If eating them until I stink of them is wrong, put some Tiger Balm under your nostrils, because things are about to get fishy.

If soaking in a bath of the leftover oil from the cans is wrong, well, let’s just go with a don’t ask, don’t tell arrangement…

p.s.

Tomorrow is the THIRD eye exam for my freaky vision issue. Things are still in flux – sometimes blurry, sometimes clear – but at this very moment I can see pretty well…so here’s hoping.

Okay, sorry about that. Between the crazy pregnancy stories and the planetarium flashbacks, I managed to overly postpone my plans to tell you about my time in Paris.

So, I got there Wednesday -a week ago - after a typically restless sleep on the train. It’s mostly the rocking and rolling and related jostling, but it’s partly the subpar bunk-style Murphy beds.

Mister Corn. My new best friend.

And possibly they’re pumping poison gas into the air during the wee hours.

I have no actual proof.

But I do have suspicous anecdotal information.

Here’s the story:  As you may or may not remember, back in August on the train from Lisbon to Madrid, I accidentally slept with my ‘Day and Night’ contacts in. Supposedly you can wear these contacts for a month straight without issue, but my eyes will have none of that.

Anyway, I woke up in the middle of the night that night and my eyes burned like sulfuric acid, and I took the contacts out and didn’t put them back in for three weeks…just to be safe. And then when I did put them in, all hell broke loose, and I actually thought I may have scratched the cornea or something, but happily it all worked out in the end.

With the Louvre behind me.

ANYWAY, my point here is that I woke up in the middle of the night on the train from Barcelona to Paris last week, and I didn’t have my contacts in this time, but my eyes were burning something fierce, and it was exactly like I remembered it…without the contacts and the corneal scarring.

Suspicious.

Otherwise, Paris was lovely. I like to just walk the streets and take it all in. Except when there are monsoon-like torrential rains, which there were, so that’s too bad.

As always, I struggled with the language. I took four years of French in high school and some overachieving part of my brain believes that I should still remember all that stuff, but the bulk of my gray matter will not cooperate with this aspiration. 

One night I had a dream that I remembered everything I’d ever learned and spoke with a spot-on accent, and when I woke up I was super disappointed to to realize it wasn’t actually real.

Did I mention it rained?

By and large we could get by, and what I do remember was enough. More accurately, it had to be enough, so I made it work, but I find it very frustrating to be unable to effectively communicate. The major hardship came in with the handwritten menus  scrawled in white on black chalkboards at pretty much every brasserie in town.

This is charming in theory, but in reality it’s like taking an eye exam and a foreign language test at the same time. Minus a few key items (pommes frites, names of known pastas like penne or linguine, and escargots), what was delivered to me was often not exactly what I was expecting.

Sometimes it was completely left field of what I was expecting in a “oh. So THAT’s what ballotine or rissole or soissons means…”

Oh well.

A brief but glorious parting of the clouds at Sacre Coeur.

To ease the foreign-ness and take a break from the rain, we went and saw Angels and Devils in its unaltered form. The movie itself was all right – not great, not terrible. Tom Hanks is looking good. He’s seen doing laps in the Harvard swimming pool early in the morning, and he looked so fit I would’ve bet money that wasn’t him. Actually, now that I type those words, maybe it wasn’t him? Maybe it was a much more buff body double? Who would ever know? Except me and my eagle eye (once outfitted with corrective lenses, of course).

Anyway, the movie was mostly a welcome dose of American English, but specific to the situation, everything said in Italian (which was a fifteen minute chunk of talking, all told) was translated into French, so I found it something of a double whammy for my saturated brain (which still furiously tried to translate despite the futility of the effort.)

Me at Sacre Coeur.

Otherwise, I saw through the plot almost immediately. I’m a bad person to go to the movies with. Within the first twenty minutes I identified the ‘real’ bad guy, and  announced my theory. Due to the filmmakers need for an onslaught of unfathomable and unbelievable twists and turns, for a long time going there, it looked like I was wrong, but in the end I was oh so right.  As always.

So there you have it: food, movies, and rain. The rains in Spain may fall mainly on the plains, but the rains in France dump all over Paris. And then some.

The first day, while walking back to the apartment from the Eiffel tower we got caught in a torrential downpour. It was the kind of rain so ferocious you’re confident it’s going to back off at any second. But it didn’t.

It just got worse and worse, and I seriously started to wonder if I might get struck by lightening channeled through my cheap H&M umbrella which would blow inside out at the first sign of the slightest breeze. But after a while, you realize you’re so wet that you’re committed, and you’re pressing on even if an ark comes floating down the road.

That’s how I found myself totally drenched up to my BUTT (seriously, my jeans soaked up so much water that even my underwear was wet) and neither the denim nor my shoes would dry out the entire time despite the fact that they were lying over a heater. In fact, I had had to pack them up wet.

Thank you, Paris, for making my brand new sneakers smell like mildew.

I’ll remember you fondly each time I catch a whiff.

I’m back! Back in the US, back home, and back in an electronically connected kind of way. At least for now.

Highlighting the smallness of the train compartment...and the greasiness of my forehead. (Seriously, what is up with my forehead? It's like the Exxon Valdez spill up there.)

Through the magic of pushing ‘F12′ and some other brief keystrokes and about an hour of white text running across a black screen, the computer somehow miraculously looks like it did last week.  I in no way trust that this a permanent situation, but while it is actually working, I’m willing to run with it.

That stated, below is a post I wrote for you on Wednesday morning in a cafe on the Left Bank. I’ll also add some pictures you missed out on due to the unexpected technical difficulties. Anticipate a few days of back posts, and we can talk again ‘real time’ on Wednesday or Thursday.

French Rip Van Winkle

Actually, thanks to the rocking and rolling train from Barcelona to Paris, this is not at all true. Rather, I slept crappy, and although I don’t remember my dreams very clearly, I can only imagine they involved being out on rough seas or on a nauseating ride at an amusement park.

Rather, this title refers to my (henceforth unnoticed) title gaffe the other day. My first instinct was to call it ‘Spanish Sleeping Sickness’ and maybe mention tsetse flies – and you know what they say about trusting your first instincts – but clearly I didn’t, and instead made a reference that I now realize makes no sense.

Day one in Paris, and already the weather is turning foul. Happily, I was having a good hair day.

I was lying there in my train bed last night, mentally reviewing the message Shelley left me that (in essence) ‘Rip Van Winkle is the one who slept forever, and Rumplestiltskin something about taking or killing the lady’s baby,” and maybe she mentioned this (most likely) or maybe I remembered (less likely) but didn’t he also have something to do with spinning golden thread? Or a loom that made golden thread?

 And isn’t there also a weird booze called Rumplemint? What is that? Is it minty? Does it have anything to do with Rumplestiltskin? Two days ago I would’ve suggested it would make you sleep, but now I know that’s wrong. Does it help you make gold? Or is that Goldschlager?

Meanwhile, I started thinking about how it would be nice – but also slow going – to be able to make golden thread. And how do you sell it? By the ounce, I guess, because probably it takes a lot to amount to any kind of weight. Or maybe not. I’ve never handled the thread that goes into making brocade, but the finished product is damn heavy. Perhaps gold thread would be really heavy too?

The Louvre.

Anyway, now it’s clarified: Rip Van Winkle slept a long time, and Rumplestiltskin has something to do with gold thread (maybe) and infanticide (maybe).

So, from there, I started to get confused: What is the story where the parents steal cabbages and vegetables from some lady’s yard? I think she’s a witch? Is that Rapunzel? Curse you, Into the Woods and your musical storyline of mixing together a dozen or more fairytales. Now I’m all confused, and I can’t keep anything straight or remember the details anymore.

Or maybe it’s not Into the Woods fault? Maybe it was all the years I spent touring with the Rolling Stones and the hardcore rock and roll lifestyle? Enough years of heavy drugs and nameless, faceless groupies will do that to a person.

Oh wait. That didn’t actually happen.

Hmmmm….

It takes a serious hike to get to the Eiffel Tower.

In other news, I am now in a very quaint Paris bistro eating a croissant and drinking café au lait and listening to Snoop Doggy Dogg and Eminem. Not a total ambience killer, but definitely an unexpected juxtaposition.

Earlier in the week, I could have sworn the forecast was sunny and low 60s/high 70s…but now it’s low 60’s and rain every day, which fits in with my impressions of Paris. I’ve never been here when it wasn’t raining. On the other hand, maybe I looked up Paris, Texas by accident?

So anyway, we’re killing time because it’s only 10:30am, and we can’t check into the studio apartment we rented until around noon. So there you have it. There’s probably other stuff I meant to tell you, but I can’t think of it right now, largely because I’m tired due to the aforementioned restless night and the drug-induced brain damage that didn’t happen, so it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Or never. Either way.

Bernard Réquichot's 'Episode de la guerre des nerfs' at the Pompidou.

Fear a bargain

There was a great deal here at the Hilton in Valencia. An amazing deal for one of the highest rated hotels in the whole city. Five star luxury for only 70 euro a night. Unbeatable!

Me after a day of warm Valencian sand (and some sun.)

What I should have asked is why.

Why so little for such spectacular lodgings?

In answer to that question, let me share some of the alternate titles for this blog:

Greetings from The Outer Limits

Deep Space Nine and Ten are really pretty interchangeable

Who knew Timbuktu was in Spain?

Affordable luxury in no man’s land

Everybody knows this is nowhere (although I felt like I’d used that before)

The World’s Most Expensive Internet Access Any Time, Any Place, Anywhere, Ever.

How much, you ask?

Are you seated?

Are you ready?
Are you seriously ready?

Are you without a doubt seated and ready?

(And, again, this is not Dubai or Tokyo or Antarctica or the moon)

$20 Euro an HOUR

Me in front of the fountain in the main square in Valencia.

Try $17…all thanks to Lucky/Dr. Buzzard and Brad and their ‘buy me a beer’ contributions. (And THANK YOU!!!! Dr. Buzzard and Brad!)

Speaking of which, we are bearing down hard on the first year anniversary of this blog. An entire year of blogging. To think, just a year ago this seemed like such a good idea. Or a fast ticket to fame and fortune. I so had no idea what I was getting myself into…

In other news, I’ve logged a few hours on the beach both in Valencia and Barcelona. The beach here (Valencia) is incredibly deep and soft, and the sand is so warm I just want to roll around in it. I almost wish my towel were thinner so I could suck the delicious heat up better. It’s unspeakably wonderful.

Scene in the lovely Valencia square.

In Barcelona, you are approached every three minutes by someone selling beer and potato chips and Asian ladies carrying pictures torn out of anatomy books offering 15-minutge massages for a mere 5 euro. Here in Valencia there are just the massage givers and some African guys selling sunglasses, and they’re much fewer and farther in between.

I’m baffled on many levels by the beach-side masseurs.

Why are they always – without fail – tiny Asian women?

Where are all these ladies coming from?
Why is it you never see any Asian people anywhere in Spain, and then you get on the beach and the place is teeming with these masseuses?

Is it some kind of black market slavery ring?

They abduct you from your home and make you sell foot massages on the beaches of Spain?

And seeing as you never see a single person take them up on their offer, how are they making a living and eventually buying their freedom back from their captors?

And if you, as a sunbather, did succumb to the considerable pressure (this one chick WOULD NOT leave and kept touching me until I actually started to get mad), would they just straddle you right there on your beach towel, temporarily borrowed from the cheap but faraway Hilton? Ride ‘em cowgirl?

The other excitement at the beach was my fellow sunbathers. Today I saw a man – who had to be at least 80 – wearing an orange string thong. String. Two pieces of floss in the back and a small satchel in front. Which is not something you see every day. Thankfully.

There was also a woman bathing totally nude. And sitting Indian-style for the bulk of it.

Actually, I kind of admire their willingness to shake their groove thang without the slightest concern for personal modesty or good taste.

Speaking of good taste, I’ve hit my Spanish food wall.

I’ve had enough.

Minus the olives stuffed with anchovy paste (which I am ridiculously in love with), I’ve had my fill of ‘tortilla’ (the potato omelet thing), ham, cheese plates, shrimp with their heads on, paella, dry sandwiches, and oversized calamari for the time being.

Especially the calamari.

When I think of calamari, I think of little tiny, itty bitty squids all fried up nice and crunchy and miniature octopus-like.

Instead, they keep bringing me a plate covered with battered “Livestrong” bracelets. Not what I had in mind…

Nonetheless, the tapas and I will not be for much longer, as tonight we board an overnight train to Paris, and then it’ll be all baguettes and brie and escargot and cassoulet and coq au vin and whatever the hell else they eat until I get totally sick of it or head home on Saturday, whichever comes first.

Even though my earliest memories are all nightmares (some so persistent and detailed that my mother can recall  the storylines 30-odd years later), I have a pretty early recollection of Easter.

Although I went to Catholic school, I’m not entirely sure I appreciated the ‘true’ meaning. In fact, let’s just assume I didn’t get it. Case in point: I was 15 before I understood that the communion wine (of which I was a big fan and consistent consumer) was believed to be converted to the blood of Christ. Blech.

That stated, what I recall is that my mother would bust out the baskets (as the same set were used year after year), and I would spend the next week skipping through the house singing, “Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail, hippity-hoppity Easter’s on it’s way…” on a constant loop.

If there are more lyrics to that song, I never learned them, although - in my own defense - I was probably four or five years old.

Along with the celebratory song, most of my joy centered around the imminent advent of candy. Much as Christ would reappear to the Disciples, I knew that candy was preparing to make a rare comeback in my own life.

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