Virus Beasts VS. Green Leafy Monsters

I completely belly flopped into 2013. Totally enthusiastic. Running start. Focused direction. Good air. BELLY FLOP.

With high hopes for a grand commencement to the New Year, I started out in a totally different fashion: with the flu. And so it continued for the next week, retreating then re-attacking. Until today, when at last I awoke with the feeling that I’m beginning to conquer this beast of a virus. And by that I mean — I got out of bed, did two productive things, then got back on the couch. But, I’ll call that progress! And – inspiration!

All of this sickness on top of the health issues I’ve already dealt with in 2012 has ultimately all led me to a beautiful, new place in life: the place of the green smoothie. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s happening: I’m officially surrendering my life over to kale, collards, bok choy, parsley, dandelions, and all other varieties of hard-to-pronounce, dark green, super leafy veggie monsters. I’ve heard miraculous tales of the green smoothie’s healing powers long enough – it’s time to find out for myself what these magical mixtures are capable of.

And so, in an effort to pull myself out of this flu rut, I whipped up my very first concoction this afternoon: kale, collard greens, mango, pineapple, banana and strawberry. I love vegetables so much I should be a rabbit, but still…kale and collards? I was waiting for the gag reflex to kick in when gulping down that combination. And yet to my delight and surprise, it was incredibly refreshing and tasty!!! And, according to my trusty healthy living books (nerd moment), just that one smoothie was chock full of vitamins I hardly ever consume, antioxidants I so desperately need, fiber that will love my insides, and all sorts of other life renewing things!

So, cheers to 2013 – to putting this belly flop of a New Year start behind me, and to swan diving into the rest of 2013! (I love saying “swan dive”….)

Oops, My Time Machine is Broken

I have my misgivings about time travel. Of course it would certainly be incredible to have cocktails with Zelda and Scott or a pint with Charles Dickens, but there are some very real dangers to consider. Lack of deodorant, time-machine malfunctions, raptor attacks, accidentally erasing the existence of Ryan Gosling – can you imagine?!!

That being said, lately I often catch myself feeling that I would risk it all (even losing Gosling) just to relive and redo past Raylene’s actions — or, better yet, to shoot myself into the future, bypassing all of the uninteresting, frustrating bits and finding future, less-lost Raylene. But then today I remembered this:

“The Dalai Lama, when asked what surprised him most about humanity, answered, ‘Man. Because he sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the the present nor the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.'”

Four months ago I was in Paris. Four months from now, I can only pretend I know where I’ll be. I’ll never be able to relive Paris, and I’ll never know what the future holds until it becomes my present. I’m forced to be right here. December 28th, 2012. Sitting at a table in Bloomington, Illinois. And as frustrating as that sometimes feels, I know that this moment is mine to embrace. Until time travel exists, that is. In which case, I may or may not risk a raptor attack just to find out that I actually wouldn’t alter a smidgen of past Raylene, and future Raylene is still searching for life’s answers.

Flowers Aren’t Forever

Whenever I have flowers, I try everything to make them last. I stress over changing water, trimming leaves, and adding nutrient packs. But despite my best efforts they always wither, their once vibrant petals dropping one by one. They are a fragile piece of momentary beauty and happiness. Because of this, I used to marvel at how people give each other bouquets. It seemed morbid to me: “I love you, so here, watch these die!” I shared this observation with a good friend recently and he replied: “But isn’t that what makes them beautiful and special? Knowing that they won’t last?”

We weren’t really talking about flowers.

“I held a moment in my hand- brilliant as a star, fragile as a flower – a tiny sliver of one hour.”  ~Hazel Lee

I Believe

I believe in chasing dreams and following your heart. I believe that a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet. I believe in picking up a piece of trash everyday to make the world a better place.

I believe money is meant to be given away. I believe its always worth opening up your heart, even if it means it could break.

I believe in flea markets and secondhand bookstores. I believe in libraries and vintage boutiques.

I believe in telling the truth, even when it hurts. I believe in showing kindness through little gestures.

I believe in Apple products. I believe that whoever cooks shouldn’t do the dishes.

I believe in looking up words I don’t know. I believe in spending rainy days under the covers with a stack of books and Ella Fitzgerald.

I believe in taking risks and staying out of the “comfort zone.” I believe that every person should have a passport, and that they should use it.

I believe in actions more than I believe in words.
I believe in forgiveness more than I believe in retribution.

I believe in kissing – good kissing, all the time. I believe in dancing and being swept up into a moment. I believe in perfume and lingerie.

I believe that “in spite of everything, people really are good at heart.” If Anne Frank could believe that, I certainly can believe that. I believe that happiness is a choice.

I believe in home cooked meals and family holidays. I believe that a house without flowers is a sad place to come home to. I believe that laughter cures everything.

I believe in writing letters and sending postcards. I believe in telling the ones you love how you feel – everyday.

I believe in the life changing power of a smile. I believe in surrounding yourself with positive people.

I believe that a life lived for others is the only life worth living.

— What do you believe?

 

Sunday Morning in Paris

My eyelids flutter open. Sunlight streams across my duvet and the distant echo of children’s laughter wafts through my open window. There’s the familiar symphony of the honks of Peugeots and the “pin pon, pin pon”s of the ambulances whizzing by on the street below. Ah yes, I’m in Paris.

Coooo cooooo, coo coo, coooo …An unrelenting pigeon is perched on the rooftop. I stretch and breathe in the freshness of a new day.

After sleepily slipping into a pair of flats and throwing on a tattered scarf, I meander down the winding staircase from my seventh floor chambre de bonne. Once I’ve at last emerged from my Cinderella-like home, I cross the street and look to my right – L’Arc de Triomphe standing in all of its morning glory. Wow. It never fails to steal my breath from me.

“Bonjour mademoiselle!” the round-faced baker trills as I step into the corner Boulangerie.

“Bonjour!” I smile – I know just what I’ve come for – “Un pain aux raisins et un croissant au beurre, s’il vous plaît.”

The baker wraps the treats into a tissue paper, winks, and tosses in three chouquettes. This has become my Boulangerie in Paris, and the baker knows just how often I’ve hungrily eyed those little pastry puffs decorated with large bits of sugar. “Aah, merci Monsieur, c’est gentil.”

On my way back I munch on the chouquettes and observe the awakening city. A woman passes me, her rat-like dog prancing along side her. I’m suddenly inside a cloud of cigarettes and Chanel No. 5. A young couple bickers on a bench nearby. The girl taps her boot impatiently, lights a cigarette, and dramatically releases her first puff into the direction of her lover. A man in a fitted suit bumps me slightly in his rush. “Oh, pardon,” he manages to say in between a rapid phone conversation. Apparently he thinks he’s in New York. Doesn’t he know Parisians go to parks on Sundays, not offices? As I wait for the street light a homeless man in a wheelchair plays a jingle on his violin. He’s missing at least one string and the rest have certainly never been tuned but I dig in my pocket for leftover bakery change. Street musicians unite. I continue along the avenue and an old woman shuffles along, a baguette under one arm and a bouquet of roses under the other. She hums something under her breath as she walks.

“Merci!” I chirp, as an elderly gentleman holds the door for me.

He nods chivalrously. “Je vous en prie.”

Back in my room, I collect my breath. I’ve earned my pastries after climbing seven flights of winding, steep stairs! I water my flowers and set them by the window. I pour a cup of coffee and lay out my pastries. Through the window I gaze at the awe-inspiring Parisian architectural structures of the surrounding streets. Right here, in the center of it all, I’m sitting and taking it all in. I reach for my notepad and scribble a note I heard in a film recently: “That Paris exists and anyone could choose to live anywhere else in the world will always be a mystery to me.”

I open my laptop, already brimming with inspiration.

Dimanche matin à Paris…

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Pieces of Paris

Molding (no, not green stuff taking over your refrigerator)

French Block: When one’s mind completely blanks or just simply refuses to think, speak or comprehend anything French. This is officially ‘French block’ week.

Anyone who has uprooted themselves and started a life abroad can tell you that it is by all accounts an overwhelming undertaking. And, mastering a new language is just one of the many aspects of the journey. Finding a place for yourself, making friends, getting work, building a life – all within the context of a new language and culture. And this week, the transition has me feeling a little lost.

People are always talking about “self-discovery.” I don’t think that “the self” is something one finds, but instead something created from every moment of our unfolding stories. Our experiences and relationships, coupled with our responses to both, shape and define us. The transformation is continual throughout the course of our lives if we remain open and mold-able. I think that whoever views the world the same at age sixty as he did at age twenty has wasted forty years.

Walking “naked” into a different country certainly triggers a massive amount of self-molding. Stripped of the labels of our past lives and placed in a fresh environment, we find ourselves disoriented all over again. And, the avalanche of new people, ideas, and experiences inevitably breeds an onslaught of questions: “Who am I?” “Who do I want to be?” “Who have I been all this time?” But, I find solace in the words of Henry David Thoreau:

“Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.”

From the ashes of confusion emerges a masterpiece…Although there may be a temporary barricade between me and the French this week, I can feel the wall between who I was/am and who I’m becoming crumbling. And, that’s certainly worth all of the frustrating ‘French block’s I’m sure to face in the coming year.

To Smile or Not to Smile

Ok. It’s time to get this out in the open.

Lately I’ve been frustrated with the feeling that people seem to pick up on my American origin before I can even say “un, deux, trois.” I’ve struggled to find the solution. Should I wear more scarves? Should I make a cigarette a more frequent prop in my daily life? I’ve queried endlessly until a French friend informed me (While wearing a scarf and smoking a cigarette, I might add): “Raylene…parce que tu souris tout le temps.” (Because you smile all the time.)

Apparently, my pearly whites have been the cover-blowing culprits. And, it’s certainly a fact: just as Americans find Parisians to be particularly scowl-y, the French complain that Americans seem to be reenacting a toothpaste advertisement every second. From the French perspective, “the law of diminishing returns” applies to beaming—the more often you smile, the less potent it becomes.

And yet, despite all the cultural pressure to put on a serious visage, my facial muscles refuse to submit. After all, I didn’t endure two years of braces for nothing. The French may reign in fashion, but Americans have the best teeth – I’m truly sorry to be so right about this. (Apparently you can take the girl out of America but not the American out of the girl.)

My smiling quandary has hung over me since my friend’s analysis. Until this morning. As I often do at the start of my day, I popped into a tabac for an espresso. This tabac was as authentic as they come—the kind of place where weathered, old French mecs convene for their 10am glass of 1664. From the moment I coupled a happy-to-be-young-and-alive smile with my “Bonjour” I could tell the barman was thinking, “Why so bubbly, American interloper?” It was definitely a “one of these things does not belong” situation.

Thankfully, the owner was a friendlier fellow than his barman so we exchanged some banter as I sipped my espresso. He seemed intrigued, not offended, by my “joie de vivre.” We ended up chatting about the everyday things that make life beautiful and smile-worthy. On his list? His Pétanque ventures with friends (a form of the French game of boules) On my list? This amusing conversation with a new-found friend. As we parted, he left me with: “Gardez toujours votre sourire” (always keep your smile).

So, after receiving the support of a 60-something tabac-owning French man, I’ve decided once and for all to embrace my unshakeable facial tendency. Sure, frequent grinning can be a handicap and a dead giveaway of one’s non-French status; but it’s also the expat’s greatest weapon. In a sea of local scowls, foreign smiles open doors. So prepare yourself, Paris, because I plan to fearlessly challenge French societal structure—one unabashed grin at time.

Pictures: My Solution For Writer’s Block

Is my writer’s block evident yet? Maybe it was my bad head cold, the chilling January temperatures, or just my pure laziness, but I’ve managed to let a week go by with an empty page staring back at me. So, as I begin to redeem myself this week, I’ve decided a picture is worth a thousand words.

Très chic. Très français:

French advertising at its best:

Parisian vitrine magic:

The French enjoy the little things:

Portrait of an afternoon at a Paris cafe:

Everyday inspiration in unexpected places:

Grands Boulevards Twirling, Dipping, & Wooing

Grand memories are to be made at Grands Boulevards – especially on a Friday night in Corcoran’s, pub-turned-club after midnight. As I rub my sore feet and let “Gettin’ Jiggy wit It” roll around in my brain for the hundredth time today, I reflect on the blissful memories of last night’s dancing extravaganza.

I’ve always adored the scene in “White Christmas” when Danny Kaye twirls, dips, and woos Vera-Ellen in “The Best Things Happen While You’re Dancing” routine. This song’s “dancing soon becomes romancing” message remains just as true today as during the time of this movie’s release some sixty years ago. True, our dancing looks a little different than in those days. But, the point is – dance and romance are wonderfully inseparable.

Last evening I was reminded once again that French men seem to have grasped this notion ages ago and have thus evolved into magical creatures of swingin’ love. Just when women believed that men were no longer capable of truly dancing and romancing in our modern society, French men redeemed liaisons and authored the “savoir-faire” of charm and passion on the dance floor (not to mention elsewhere).

And so, as the moon became a sun over Grands Boulevards, I found myself being twirled, dipped, and wooed by my own Danny Kaye (French version, bien sûr). On a Friday night in Paris, could a single girl hope for anything grander?