Playing tourist in my own town

Pretending to be a tourist is a wonderful thing. Meeting new people and feeding off of each other, that's amazing too. Put those two together and you have the recipe for a spectacular day.

Everywhere I go, I tend to paint. Sometimes people question me and must stand and stare at me like I'm a performance artist or installation piece. Other times it is a completely peaceful experience and I never want it to end. Seattle, being the wet destination that it is, has few opportunities to really be engulfed in the sun and simply appreciate the city for all that it is.

Yesterday was an exception. It was an amazing day for painting. The sun was out, the wind was soft and the sights were many.

I met up with the Seattle Plein Air group and we got settled onto the docks and started creating away. Some people were more prepared than I, with their easels and chairs, but I found myself sitting on the concrete, sprawled out in the sun. This was the perfect way to get a fresh perspective of the marina though. Instead of just seeing the masts and the decks of the tugs, trawlers and sailboats, I was able to sit and stare at their reflections and what lay beneath the water.

As I painted, sailors would walk by and comment "Now, that boat there: that's the one you want to paint" or "I just pulled my boat in if you're looking for a new subject..." I think that next time somebody suggests a topic to me, I'll jump on it. I can always finish something that I've started, but if there is something that needs to be painted so badly that a lonely sailor suggests it, well, it would be foolish to keep passing that up.

Long story short, I love beautiful days on the water and enjoying fresh air while painting. It's the perfect day.

Notre Dame Heat

The day we went to Notre Dame, it was hot. One might say hotter than the blazes that once burned through portions of Paris, but that's another story for another day. As we headed towards the famed cathedral, we had the most wonderful breeze blowing off the Seine, but then, once on Il de la Cite the breeze stopped. The square in front of Notre Dame was one big field of heat. The queue to enter the church had a moisture cloud above it from the patrons' sweat.

Once inside though, it was cooler, more calm, quiet. It smelled of ash and wet cement. The light shining through the stained glass was amazing. The ribbed ceilings were so high. The artwork within: breathe taking. It's quite understandable why Notre Dame is as famed as it is.

After we went through the main public areas of the church, we decided to take it a step further and go up into the bell towers. Just because we decided to do this doesn't mean that we just got to walk up the stairs and have a million dollar view of Paris. It meant waiting in a long line for a long time before taking a long walk up the long stairs. I was sure it would be completely worth it though, and it was.

Waiting: We walked around to the port side of the cathedral where we saw the line go from the base of the bell tower at the front, all of the way to the end of the church. In comparison to the line at the Louvre, this was nothing. The Louvre, though, did move pretty quickly and it was being overseen by hundred of statues. The wait wasn't awful though: we were in Paris.

While my companion stayed in line, I took some time away to sit across the street and stare up at the enormous rose window. From the outside, it's not that striking, just large. When inside though, the color is amazing and vibrant. I sat there, staring up at it, planning out my painting, when I realize, "I am out of white paint!!" This is often a problem for me when I use opaque watercolors. I improvised through it and used the memory of the amazing colors you see from inside to paint the blah that I was staring at on the outside... (to be continued)

Learning to travel by train

My travel dictionary

Eurail: a pre-purchased train ticket that may or may not get you where you want to go or may unintentionally restrict you from being efficient or actually moving from place to place.

Oeuf: a condiment; a main ingredient in to-go sandwiches; an egg... in many forms

White: the watercolor that is most easily tainted and the first to run out of

Why do I pick these phrases? Let's start with the first and end with the last.

Eurail was always described to me as a brilliant way to travel from town to town. It's a ticket/system that allows a person to have a flexible travel schedule and make seeing Europe less stressful. Our first attempt at using our Eurail passes was indeed an epic fail.

We arrived at Gare de Lyon at a shockingly early time for Paris: 8:00 am. We found our way to the correct platform and were ready to board the train to Nice. Heading towards the train, we saw that our transport we were about to board was sold out...but we had a Eurail pass....and our plan was to ride this train....and the Eurail guide said that reservations are not required, but recommended...and now we can't get to Nice... Quickly, I started working towards a solution: the ticket counter!

I explained the situation to the clerk at Gare de Lyon who was quick to become frustrated with me because I was holding the most detestable object in all of the European travel industry: a Eurail pass. She was able to help us and booked us on the bullet train to Marseille and then the stop and go train to Nice. After completing this booking, she told me "You MUST go to the Eurail desk in Nice, otherwise you can't go anywhere." That turned out to be true as we struggled to book the remaining train trips. On a side note, we weren't completely successful and had to fly from Venice back to Paris.

Oeuf. Who knew that eggs were so versatile and found in so many un-refrigerated places? When I think of putting a hard boiled egg on a sandwich, I'm thinking about Egg Salad: light, fluffy, slightly indulgent. Parisian sandwiches have changed my view: hard boiled eggs are to be used in place of sliced of jambon or poulet. I now enjoy the hard boiled egg as a snack or main ingredient. Also, if you're traveling abroad, you might not ever see scrambled eggs on a menu... I think that the rest of the world might consider them not too classy.

Bianca, Blanche, Blanco... White adds such a wonderful balance to a picture or painting. When traveling through Paris, everything is so yellow or brown or beige, that the white on buildings and it the sky creates lacing around everything. What happens when you're painting on beige/light brown paper and...you run out of white?!?! You improvise. Hence forth, my frustrating day in Gare de Lyon forced me into painting with many shades of green. I had to teach myself to take a new approach and I loved it.

Upon arriving in Nice 10 years later, I was able to purchase more paints, including white.

Night at the Rialto

Venice is confusing. End of story. No, there's more to the story.

After spending time in France and western Italy, Venice seemed like a completely different world. We arrived in the early afternoon at the train station, Santa Lucia, in the blazing, stagnate heat. The smells of the lagoon and the bustling city were...um...amazing. The first view of the Grand Canal was the busy vapretto depot. People were yelling across the canal, the street vendors were selling fruit and drinks, everybody was going somewhere. With all of the bustling and a huge backpack, there just wasn't the time to take in the amazing first impression of the Grand Canal.

We jumped on our vapretto and headed off to the Lido where we were staying. It was a whirlwind view of Venice, zig zagging across the Grand Canal from boat stop to boat stop until we whizzed past St. Mark's square and out into the lagoon. Wow. The sights, no matter how quickly they passed, were inspiring.

We got to our hotel on the Lido and relaxed for a moment before running up the street to jump into the Adriatic. The water, warm; the surf, shallow; and the swim wear, wee. Nothing could have been better to help unwind after a long day of traveling. When beach time was over and we left the sounds of the gentle waves behind us, the twinkling city across the lagoon started to beckon us towards adventure.

If you've ever been to Venice and went exploring on your own, you know that getting lost in inevitable, but that's okay. For some reason, I thought that my sense of direction was stronger that the labyrinth that formed 1600 years ago. What was I thinking, indeed? After wandering through tiny alleyways, crossing countless bridges and running into dead ends that were just steps into water, I finally made it into the open air. The key to finding the way out is to try following the strongest echo. An echo in Venice is like prairie dog in the Great Plains: there are millions and you'll never catch the same one twice. That being said, I did find one and it led me to a sight to behold, the Rialto Bridge.

Everything in Venice is amazing and breathtaking and memorable and more than you dreamed of and magical and surprising and so much like a fairytale that it's difficult to take it all in. Meeting all of these descriptions was the Rialto Bridge. The night was black and crisp and the palazzos along the canal gave off a soft glow. In contrast to that glow was the bridge: a immense stone structure reflecting more light than all of the glowing palazzos combined. The light, the noise and the mystery all teamed together to draw me out of the maze that is Venice's alleys and out into the wonder that is Venice at night. There began the adventure that took me from being a tourist lost in the alleys to an explorer wandering through the market places and enjoying Venice for all that it is.

Thank you Pont des Arts

Nothing wears you out in the way that long international air travel does. It's odd. You are sitting, your mind being the only part getting exercise, yet you lose all energy. You're not storing it anywhere, it is just being sucked into the altitudes. I thought that I would just get more and more excited as I got closer to my destination, but the mounting excitement surfaced as lethargy and a sour disposition. What a way to start a trip.

To top off the foul mood, landing at Charles de Gaulle airport was not what I was hoping for. For some reason or another, I imagined landing, well, at the Louvre...not in a cement wasteland. The bullets falling from the sky added to my dreariness. French hail is an experience, rivaled only by Texas hail, I'm sure. Either way, I was in France, and once I heard nothing but French all around me, and saw nothing but Dior ads, and saw people eating croissants...I forgot that I'd been awake for 28 hours.

The train into Paris seemed to take forever. It was crowded with wet people, hot because it was July and smelled bad...because a large percentage of the train's population had never heard of Old Spice or Secret... 'Nuff said?

...But then, I exited the train at Grands Boulevards and the sun came out. There were birds chirping, cafe attendants drying off the wet tables, steam rising from the streets. It was perfect. I dropped my luggage off at my hotel in Montmartre and went exploring.

Having friends already in Paris made the first day feel like I was still home. We picked up right where we left off, but this time it was with a few bottles of wine and Paris all around us.

I was told that we were heading to a place called Pont des Arts. I had no clue what it was, except that it would no doubt be a bridge. It was Bastille Day, so there were already a lot of people out and about, both tourists and Parisians, but when we got to the pont, it was a different world. The Pont des Arts is a wooden foot bridge crossing the Seine, just down river of the Ile de la Cité and Pont Nuef. Although it is a thoroughfare, it's also the most prime picnicking locale in all of Paris...and the Parisians know it. The view from the bridge is spectacular, but the camaraderie is even better.

Before heading to France, I was told by all too many people "oh, the French don't like Americans. Have fun with that." My first evening on the Pont des Arts disproved this often-told lie. We sat with our bottles of wine, our cheeses and baguettes, and me with my watercolors, and soaked in the people around us. Our neighbors all made such strong efforts to welcome us in English. We shared wine with complete strangers. One man gave us lessons on how to pick a good bottle of French wine. He defined the different regions and then explained what you'll get with vin de table vs Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée. He told us about what it's actually like to get to live in Paris... for real.

This was only my first night in the city of lights. What a way to set the stage for the amazing adventures to come.

Wine and Cheese

Think of Paris. What is the first experience that comes to mind? Is it standing in a long line to see the Mona Lisa? Or maybe going on a dinner cruise on the Seine? Or is it sitting on a balcony or hanging out a window, drinking wine and eating cheese? For me, I had thought of that last option as just a bonus between outings. Not so though. It is an attraction and experience in itself.

When I look for wine, I seek out something that has an interesting label or that's been a personal recommendation, but most often I do base my decision off of the label. So, what does one do when all labels look the same and nothing is in English? Well, naturally, pick the one that stands out for other reasons: the bottle is mis-shapen and it's a rosé. Two characteristics that no other wine seemed to have, problem solved. I must've struck gold.Now then, cheese. When in Paris, fromage is everywhere. Camembert, beaufort,

chevre, blue, brie, époisses... The list is almost endless. To make the choice even more difficult, cheese also can come soaked in wine or brandy, in a skin or nude, as a wheel, block or a wedge, soft or hard...or rolled in nuts or fruit. I'll be honest, since I was a little kid I have been in love with raisins. They are my comfort food. As I peered through the glass front of the cheese case, I made my decision: Chevre en robe (goat cheese rolled in raisins).

I opened the wine and the tart smell overtook me. I unrolled the cheese and couldn't slow myself down. At that moment I understood what so many cheesecake makers have tried to create: the perfect balance of tang, sweet, creaminess and perfection, add to that the plump, still juicy raisins, and it was the perfect pairing with the most unusual wine I could've found.

I opened my window and looked out over Montmartre. The smell of Paris wafted in and mixed with my sweet afternoon snack. The sounds of the street joined forces with the squishing and popping of the raisins. I was encapsulated by my surroundings. This is the experience that I didn't plan on or even imagine could've taken me away the way it did. I understand now why Paris exists: to surprise you with every moment.

Strolling along the Champs Elysees

Starting the day, determined to act like a tourist, we leave our humble digs in Ménilmontant and head for the heart of Paris: the Seine. Daily, we've strolled along it, sat beside it, sat above it, watched the boats float by. Today, it is our guide to the Paris we've avoided: The Tourist Core.

We board the Metro at Père Lachaise. There is a lady deep in the tunnel singing loudly. It is bouncing off of ever tile, only interrupted by the occasional train. Although it's early in the day, the stagnant air in the Metro is stiffling and ripe; it's unpleasant, but it's the most memorable scent in all of Paris. We ride the rails until Réaumur - Sébastopol where we exit and stroll through the strange vestibule-labyrinth that is Les Halles. We make it out of the shrubbery and metalwork and exit into a sliver of neighborhood whose sole purpose, I believe, is to provide amazing croissants to those heading to the Louvre.

Seemingly, the street we've escaped to is all flats and art dealers...except for one cafe. Being Americans who naturally (or unnaturally but out of habit) wake up early, we are some of the first customers. The stools are still upside down on the bar. The pain au chocolat and pain au raisin are just being put out. In stark contrast to the Metro, the only smell in the air is now beurre...butter. The cafetier looks at us with the "Non-French speaking tourists..." look. "Bonjour, Je voudrais deux espressos, un pain au chocolat et un pain au raisin, s'il vous plaît." The odd look quickly turns to a smile and we are granted the best breakfast-on-the-go experience that Paris has to offer.

As we approach Rue de Rivoli, the bustling sounds of the day make their way down the alley. Tourist busses, taxis, stout little cars, velos, people on foot: they are all making their way. The busses are heading to the Louve, the taxis to the Bourse, the cars to their random, miniature parking spots and the bicycles, taking their riders to work all around the city. We join the crowd on foot and follow the flow. Some break off and head into the Louvre, some cross the Pont des Arts and we head down in the Jardin des Tuileries.

Walking through the Tuileries is like walking in another world. There is art; perfectly manicured gardens; people quietly strolling, both Parisians and tourists alike. There are sparrows everywhere, singing like Edith Piaf: it's the music of France. The birds are the singers, the boats are percussion and la Tour Eiffel is the conductor.

At the end of the Tuileries lies Place de la Concorde: a whirlwind of golden statues, cars, tourists, L'Obélisque and amazement. The Seine beside us, the Tower looming close by, the Champs Elysees takes us away. We stroll amidst the trees. There are cars on the Champs, but you don't hear them. Unknowingly, we veer onto Voie Georges Pompidou, a picturesque pathway above the river. Park benches every few meters, a stone wall to guide you, statues watching over you: it is an epic walk.

We enjoy a sit watching the boats float down the Seine. The houses across the water seem imaginary: "Who in the world would get to live there? Impossible." After giving our feet a rest, we continue on until we get to Pont de l'Alma. We cross the river; the sound of tourists growing; la Tour Eiffel has disappeared. We continue walking towards where the tower must be, wondering "How can it just disappear like this?" Just a few blocks further we arrive. The base is enormous. Thousands of people are standing, all with their heads back, fighting to see the top. More languages than I could imagine were whirling about.

I played tourist myself. I am now the proud owner of a photograph of me...with my finger touching the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Leave him alone. Let him paint.

Walking out of my hotel in Montmartre, I take a deep breathe and look around. "I am soooo in Paris." That's all I can think. I start to walk to my right and realize that today is going to be a day of decisions and will hold the potential for getting a bit lost. Within one minute of being in the morning, Parisian air I realize that this city is reflective of a spiderweb that's been through a storm and is no longer a simple, circular pattern.

I make my decision and proceed down a narrow street, no map in hand, no plan in mind. The quiet street quickly changes and I discover that I am walking through the fabric district. That's right, I didn't mean fashion. There are men carrying bolts of fabric, throwing them to each other. There are undressed mannequins sitting in the back of a van. There are stylish women...smoking. Yes, this is the Paris I was expecting existed beyond the Louvre.

I continue on, not sure where I'm heading. I move my way through either a Turkish or a Kurdish neighborhood, I'm not sure. It is quite mixed and it is, so far, the loudest place I've experienced in Paris. True, it's only day 2, but still, the cacophony of languages and clattering knick knacks is more than I can process at once. I will say that it smelled amazing, like roasting nuts and spices, with a twinge of city odor.
Moving out of the little pocket of the East, I cross Boulevard de Magenta. There in front of me stands a church in desperate need of either pressure washing or baking soda. It's amazing. Eglise St Laurent stood before me. Black spires, tarnished roof, dirty stained glass: it is the perfect Parisian church. I have to capture it. It must be painted. I sat on a bench, blue sky above, and started dabbing my watercolors.
Not long after I began, a little girl stopped dead in her tracks. She looked confusedly at my flip book of paintings then put her finger in my wet watercolor palate. "Laissez-le tranquille. Il est la peinture" her mother said (Leave him alone. He is painting.) I told her not to worry: "Ne vous inquiétez pas. Elle est bonne." She smiled and walked away with her daughter. Others walked by and glanced down, smiling slightly. It was as if they knew that the purpose of Paris is to paint.

The American Wake Up

I woke up this morning, completely confused.

I swear, two minutes ago I was walking in the Tuileries and so happy to be back in Paris...and then my alarm went off. I will say, this was the most vivid dream I've had in years. I woke up with the smell still in my nose. My feet hurt a little from walking so much. I even felt a little floaty like I'd been enjoying some beverages on the Pont des Arts.

Spending a week in Paris this summer has either damaged me or made me better, I can't tell. I keep thinking back to sitting in the Jardin du Luxembourg, drinking wine from plastic cups, eating chevre rolled in rum-soaked raisins, and painting what lay before me. It's 8:00 o'clock. The police sweep the park and we all must leave and find a new place to people watch...where we sit until 3:00 am.

It's not like that here.


In Paris, you wake up like an American: early, and with the feeling that you have things that must be done. This all changes though when you walk to the window, look outside and realize where you are. There is a little stream running down the street from the nightly street cleaning. The only shops that are open are patisseries and bars serving espresso. There's one or two people walking with briefcases, but you know that they are actually international business people...because Parisians don't force themselves to work early or stay late.

Once you've stared out the window and talked yourself into spending the day like somebody in Paris, then you can truly start to relax, unwinding from the 30 second panic you had as part of your American wake up ritual.

North Pole ahead!

Every day seems too short. The sun seems to set so quickly. The next day is always just around the corner. This seems to be an eternal truth for everybody. I actually had a day where this wasn't the case.

4:30 PM, Pacific Standard Time: board Iceland Air SEA -> KEF. Final destination: Paris, FR.

It's summer in Seattle which can either mean amazing, golden sunshine, or moist drizzly rain. This day was was like most others: a combination of both. The skies had mostly cleared though and I was taking off, out of the Puget Sound area and heading north...far north.

Missing most of the peaks on the west coast, I do get to spy one familiar sight before I head towards a world I've never been before. Rising up in the distance not long after take off, I see Mt. Baker. It is nearly at the Canada / US boarder and still covered in the winter's snow. The golden sunshine that Seattle sometime does get is falling across the mountain. The clouds are hovering just below the summit. It is the perfect sight to say goodbye to as I head out on my European adventure.


Being summertime, sunset happens very late, and the farther north you go, the later it is. When you fly out in the afternoon and pass through the Arctic Circle, that same sunset seems to chase you. Or maybe you're chasing it. It's too hard to tell. Either way, the flight around the Earth is long and the sunlight continually streams through the towering, monumental cloud formations of the Arctic.

Time seems to stop, but actually, you've just managed to skip through time a bit. That sunset that you never want to arrive never does. The sunrise that starts your day, it never comes. You get to continue on. It feels like you've gotten to steal time from somewhere, but it's just travel. It's one more reason that adventures are magical.