So my first week as a stagiare (intern) is complete, and it feels pretty good. Friday was a little crazy in the kitchen- me and this other cook had to break down like 12 seabass and make about 5 gallons of onion soup, which means I had to peal about 50 onions, so I really had to put my knife skills to the test.
To bring you up to speed, knife skills are kind of a hallmark of how good you are as a cook. If somebody can dice a pepper really fast, or fillet a fish really well, it tells you something about them. They are experienced, fast, agile and precise. These are four words that I would not apply to myself at the moment. For example, a small dice is a dice of any vegetable or fruit that is exactly one eighth of an inch by one eighth of an inch. Pretty small, and that is pretty hard to do, but there are guys who can do that to 50 onions in like 5 minutes. I, however, need a bit more time. For example, I took a bit longer with dicing those onions because I had to pick out the pieces that had my blood on them because chef thinks that bleeding in the soup is "unsanitary." What a quack. I jabbed myself in the thumb pretty good; its not too big of a cut, but its deep. It really made me realize how often the thumb is used. I have been reopenning the cut all weekend. Sometimes I think this whole opposable thumb thing is overrated.
Later that same day, I was grilling some chicken in the show kitchen (where all the customers can watch), and I went to pick up a bowl of raw chicken that I wanted to prep. Turns out it was sitting juuuuuuuuuuuuust a bit too close to the, um, fire, and I burned my hand on it. You have no idea how hard it is not to scream when you are barbequing yourself in front of 12 Korean business men. They were polite enough not to take out their cameras to capture that precious moment, but still, if they hadnt ordered the chicken in the first place.....
So I am officially in the club. Everybody has these cuts and scars, and they are a kind of badge of honor, so I guess Im cool now.
WANG UPDATE:
The underwear are off the walls. He reports that he had washed them in the sink- the sink in our room - the sink where I brush my teeth- the sink that I will now use to throw up uncontrollably- and had hung them on the walls to dry. He "doesnt trust the woman who does the laundry" but only with his underwear. He is more than happy to let her wash the rest of his clothes, as though his underwear are some sort of mystic sexual artifact that this laundress is clearly too naive to handle. I dont know, I mean, I guess they could be. Mine are...
In other news, my Wang is having a hard time understanding the English accent. He tells me that he is trying to appear "more happy" in front of the Apollos guests because that is what his manager told him to do. He says he smiles all the time now, so they can see how happy he is to serve them. People, I have seen this guy do it. He walks around the restaurant with this enormous smile on his face that makes him look way too happy to be there; in fact, he kind of looks a little crazy, but he persists with this smile that looks like someone has tried to pull his mouth all the way around his head. Still the manager is unhappy, and this is where the accent problem comes in, because, you see, his manager didnt say "You smile" as some sort of command. No no, gentle reader, he actually told Wang "You smell" so poor Wang is wandering the restaurant, stinking to high heaven and smiling like he just won the lotto, and wondering what the problem could be. Turns out, the problem is that he smokes too much and wears his work suit while doing it, so it reaks of stale cigarettes. Why does it smell so when we have a laundry lady? Because Will doesnt trust her with that either.
This is what I live with. And you all felt bad for Ruta.
This weekend, I spent all of Friday evening and all of Saturday in Paris. I did some of the touristy stuff (Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, etc) but at night a new friend, Olivier, took us out to a club (Latin music). That was a good time; it was near the Bastille area, which is really young and fun. That was Friday. On Saturday, my friend Esteban and I were in the city, and stopped to have a beer on the Champs Elysees. Bad idea. Right now the exchange rate here is .5 euros to the dollar, which translates to half. So if I exchange 100 dollars I get 50 euros, get it? Thats REALLY bad. I ordered my beer, and this tiny little glass was delivered. I thought it was a sippy cup or something, but it was actually my beer. Three sips later, I was done, and we decided to pay and get the hell out of there. My bill? Ten euros for the beer. TEN. That was a twenty dollar beer, and on the left bank, thats pretty common. My days of beer snobbery have ended.
That night, we all met up on the hill below Sacre Coeur, the church that is at the highest point of Paris. There were loads of kids there, but hanging out, looking down on Paris. It was a blast. It was the last weekend in Paris for a couple of guys from the hotel, so we were out to celebrate. Someone brought a bottle of whiskey, and it turns out that the more I drank, the better my French got. Weird. Later we all went to a bar in Place Pigalle (another neighborhood in Paris), and I got in at about 5am. It was a lot of fun, and I have absolutely no desire to go back to work tomorrow.
However, seeing as it is 11:30 here, I best be on my way to bed, as I have a feeling I will be losing a lot of blood in the morning.
26 August 2007
23 August 2007
chapitre deux
I wrote this whole awesome entry right after the last one, but the funky French computer kicked me off. Daccord; cest la vie. (Thats French for What you gonna do, ya know?)
In any case, before I start again; let me say for those of you who dont know, as I didnt, European keyboards are arranged a bit differently than American ones. if my spelling and punctuation are really strange; thats why. Also; there is no apostrophe here. I dont know why because the French use one all the time. Funky French computers.
So, where did I leave off. Well; I made it to the hotel; and things were pretty good: I had a big room, to myself. That was nice: the rooms are large and well appointed. I went into Paris right away and was immediqtely ripped off by a local: It made me feel right at home. Paris is gorgeous, as always. I took a long walk around Notre Dame and into Montparnasse to see all the cafes and beautiful Americanization. Embarrasing. Still, Paris is one of the most immediately stunning places that I have ever been to. It is a very modern city, but it is built on such seemingly ancient foundations. And everything we see in the movies is totally true: the accordian players, old men sitting with their coffees, all the lights. I mean I have seen it before, but it takes you aback if you havent been there in a while. I imagine it takes you aback almost every time. And this time of year is gorgeous: it is warm; but not hot. The sun sets late in the day, and the lights are on all night long. Its life made plain and obvious. I think that when I get caught up in all the stupidity of life that I will go to Paris for the afternoon; and that will remind me of what is really important in life: booze in public in the afternoon. Everything else is just the details.
So on Monday; i got my roommate. His name is Will, and he is Chinese. His full name is actually Will Wang.
Wang.
Truly, ours is a spiteful god.
I mean I know he is Chinese, but Wang? Thats pushing it.
In any event, those of you who know my history with roommates know that it is a long and storied one. This person is no exception. Aside from his unfortunate name, he also doesnt really sleep. If he does, its about 2am to 6am, maybe. He is always talking about how bored he is, but he refuses to speak to anyone but me and his girlfriend, whom no one has ever met. One last thing about my Wang, he feels it necessary to hang his underwear on coat hangers, and to hang those from the lighting rod in the room. Its very romantic.
In other news; the restaurant is amazing. I cant afford to eat the food I am making. The whole staff are required to be in full suits, and the service is impecible. The ingredients are so good. We use only Argentinian beef (very, very good); there is a cooler full of any cheese that I could ever want, and a locker full of edible flowers and truffles. We regularly stock foie gras for regular service, and the wine list is packed with bottles from Bordeaux; the Rhone and the Loire. Everything is locally grown and organic; its all in season too. Incredible. The actual restaurant is in the round, with curtains for walls. That room is set in a larger room whose walls are glass. Its pretty nice.
The Apollo serves a buffet of French Asian food and an a la carte menu. For the full buffet, not including a la carte options, it is 80 euros, which right now is roughly 140 dollars. One hundred forty dollars, for a buffet, people. I mean it beats the hell out of Old Country, but for those of you planning to visit, I would start saving now. I have had a good couple of days, to tell you the truth. I made the grilled rosemary salmon today, and yesterday a bearnaise sauce for the steaks. I made all the clubs for the restaurant; I made the caesar salads on the hot line yesterday, and I got to make naan with tandori chicken from scratch. I am really liking it. I mean, maybe that doesnt sound like too much to cook, but to be thrown in with no training, and to only be here for four days, I feel pretty good about what I have accomplished.
The chef is great; his name is Christophe. He is very welcoming. He does this thing where he doesnt yell at you for doing something wrong, but he is always wathching you, and if you mess up, he just kind of calls your name and smiles. He leaves it to you to fix, unless he knows that you dont know how to fix it. I like that, youre on your own, but supported.
The other cooks here are great. I am making friends with a couple of guys: Roman, Marc, and Frederico. The other interns are cool too. Its like the mini UN here. I am the only one from the US. The other interns are from Korea, France (duh), Spain, Morraco, China (Wang), and Mexico to name a few. Hardly anyone speaks French, but everyone speaks English, so communication is broken but easy.
One last thing of note, the other day I was called into la departement de directeurs des resources humaines (HR to you and me), and I was told that I would have a chance to tell them anything that I needed, so I was surprised when I entered a room full of men and women in suits, in theatre style seating. Still, I thought Well, maybe thats how they do things here, so I started composing in my head- Je mappelle Marc, et je voudrai une autre coleurcoutere parce que il fume et il met ses slipes sur les furnitures. Aussi, a quelle heure est la dejuner, parce que jai faim?
There were several other interns in the room with me, so when it was my turn, they only said- This is Mark from Kendall College in Chicago. He is working in the kitchen.
We were all told to leave then. Turns out that I was actually in the room with the hotel executive committee, so I was very pleased that I didnt have the chance to recite my little speach because I would have told this very important group of people- Hello, my name is Mark, and I would like another roommate because he smokes and puts his underwear on the furniture. Also, when is lunch?
So thats what is new. I miss home a lot and I am not able to speak with my family or Ruta very much at all, but I am learning a lot, so that is good.
Going into Paris this weekend to maybe watch some football (soccer) and hang out at a cafe after. Thats the plan anyway.
More soon, and goodnight!
In any case, before I start again; let me say for those of you who dont know, as I didnt, European keyboards are arranged a bit differently than American ones. if my spelling and punctuation are really strange; thats why. Also; there is no apostrophe here. I dont know why because the French use one all the time. Funky French computers.
So, where did I leave off. Well; I made it to the hotel; and things were pretty good: I had a big room, to myself. That was nice: the rooms are large and well appointed. I went into Paris right away and was immediqtely ripped off by a local: It made me feel right at home. Paris is gorgeous, as always. I took a long walk around Notre Dame and into Montparnasse to see all the cafes and beautiful Americanization. Embarrasing. Still, Paris is one of the most immediately stunning places that I have ever been to. It is a very modern city, but it is built on such seemingly ancient foundations. And everything we see in the movies is totally true: the accordian players, old men sitting with their coffees, all the lights. I mean I have seen it before, but it takes you aback if you havent been there in a while. I imagine it takes you aback almost every time. And this time of year is gorgeous: it is warm; but not hot. The sun sets late in the day, and the lights are on all night long. Its life made plain and obvious. I think that when I get caught up in all the stupidity of life that I will go to Paris for the afternoon; and that will remind me of what is really important in life: booze in public in the afternoon. Everything else is just the details.
So on Monday; i got my roommate. His name is Will, and he is Chinese. His full name is actually Will Wang.
Wang.
Truly, ours is a spiteful god.
I mean I know he is Chinese, but Wang? Thats pushing it.
In any event, those of you who know my history with roommates know that it is a long and storied one. This person is no exception. Aside from his unfortunate name, he also doesnt really sleep. If he does, its about 2am to 6am, maybe. He is always talking about how bored he is, but he refuses to speak to anyone but me and his girlfriend, whom no one has ever met. One last thing about my Wang, he feels it necessary to hang his underwear on coat hangers, and to hang those from the lighting rod in the room. Its very romantic.
In other news; the restaurant is amazing. I cant afford to eat the food I am making. The whole staff are required to be in full suits, and the service is impecible. The ingredients are so good. We use only Argentinian beef (very, very good); there is a cooler full of any cheese that I could ever want, and a locker full of edible flowers and truffles. We regularly stock foie gras for regular service, and the wine list is packed with bottles from Bordeaux; the Rhone and the Loire. Everything is locally grown and organic; its all in season too. Incredible. The actual restaurant is in the round, with curtains for walls. That room is set in a larger room whose walls are glass. Its pretty nice.
The Apollo serves a buffet of French Asian food and an a la carte menu. For the full buffet, not including a la carte options, it is 80 euros, which right now is roughly 140 dollars. One hundred forty dollars, for a buffet, people. I mean it beats the hell out of Old Country, but for those of you planning to visit, I would start saving now. I have had a good couple of days, to tell you the truth. I made the grilled rosemary salmon today, and yesterday a bearnaise sauce for the steaks. I made all the clubs for the restaurant; I made the caesar salads on the hot line yesterday, and I got to make naan with tandori chicken from scratch. I am really liking it. I mean, maybe that doesnt sound like too much to cook, but to be thrown in with no training, and to only be here for four days, I feel pretty good about what I have accomplished.
The chef is great; his name is Christophe. He is very welcoming. He does this thing where he doesnt yell at you for doing something wrong, but he is always wathching you, and if you mess up, he just kind of calls your name and smiles. He leaves it to you to fix, unless he knows that you dont know how to fix it. I like that, youre on your own, but supported.
The other cooks here are great. I am making friends with a couple of guys: Roman, Marc, and Frederico. The other interns are cool too. Its like the mini UN here. I am the only one from the US. The other interns are from Korea, France (duh), Spain, Morraco, China (Wang), and Mexico to name a few. Hardly anyone speaks French, but everyone speaks English, so communication is broken but easy.
One last thing of note, the other day I was called into la departement de directeurs des resources humaines (HR to you and me), and I was told that I would have a chance to tell them anything that I needed, so I was surprised when I entered a room full of men and women in suits, in theatre style seating. Still, I thought Well, maybe thats how they do things here, so I started composing in my head- Je mappelle Marc, et je voudrai une autre coleurcoutere parce que il fume et il met ses slipes sur les furnitures. Aussi, a quelle heure est la dejuner, parce que jai faim?
There were several other interns in the room with me, so when it was my turn, they only said- This is Mark from Kendall College in Chicago. He is working in the kitchen.
We were all told to leave then. Turns out that I was actually in the room with the hotel executive committee, so I was very pleased that I didnt have the chance to recite my little speach because I would have told this very important group of people- Hello, my name is Mark, and I would like another roommate because he smokes and puts his underwear on the furniture. Also, when is lunch?
So thats what is new. I miss home a lot and I am not able to speak with my family or Ruta very much at all, but I am learning a lot, so that is good.
Going into Paris this weekend to maybe watch some football (soccer) and hang out at a cafe after. Thats the plan anyway.
More soon, and goodnight!
22 August 2007
What, me worry?
This is going to be a really long entry (or a really short one if this wi-fi card runs out), so I will put it into chapters- so as to create more edible bites for you people.
Chapter the First
So, it was Friday at 4am, and Ruta drove me to the airport. I was scarred and nervous and not sure if I was even going to get to New York, much less France since I was flying standby. Needless to say, I made it out. New York was great (and it seems like a million years ago). I arrived and talked to everyone I could think of on my cell, since I won't have a cell phone for the rest of the year. It's like I'm in 8th grade again. Wow, no cell. Weird. Anyway, I went into New York and headed where anyone who knows anything at all about New York goes when you only have three hours and need something to eat: Zabars. It is my favorite deli on the upper west side, and I go everytime I'm in the city. I had an egg salad sandwhich and a vegetarian tofurkey salad with a pepsi. It was the best egg salad sandwhich I've ever had. Granted, I've had like three in my life, but regardless...
I sat in the park and watched the runners and cyclists and unicyclists and the Korean kids playing dodgeball with eacheother (there were only two kids, so when the one kid hit the other, the game was over, and they just went home. It was intense). I really love New York, and I thought, "I had better suck this up now because it's Adios Americanos for the next five months." So, I sat in the sun and just hung out. It was awesome. I already miss home.
So, finally I'm done eating and head for JFK. I got there early, and went to check in to find a line longer than I thought imaginable. I finally got through it and got to my gate only to find that it had started raining, and other people from other flights with baby piolts who are "too scarred to take off in the big bad rain" were being transfered to MY plane. And yes, it is MY plane. I own it.
Anyway, I also found out that I was 15th on the list to get on the plane, so my chances of getting on were, to quote the flight lady, "um.... well.... I think, um..... we'll see."
I waited for an hour, called Natalie who called friends so I could stay with them in the city if I didn't make the flight, called Ruta, bought a snikcers, and did Sudoku to calm my thoughts. An hour later, they announce that I did make the plane, and "unfortunately" there were no seats available in coach, so I would "have to sit" in first class. "Unfortunately"- like, since I'm flying standby, I'm obvviously too poor to appreciate the wonders of first class. Let me tell, you: I am not.
I sat down, and no sooner did ass hit chair, than a woman was asking if I preferred a mimosa or "just champagn." I opted for "just champagne." Later she brought me a china bowl that she had warmed with some toasted nuts and a beer. I pulled the television out of the arm rest and had my choice of like, all the movies that have ever been made or WILL ever be made. I chose "Blades of Glory" for its cultural relevance. It was superb, as I expected.
Later, Plane Lady asked if I was hungry for dinner. Note: she did not say, "Here is your box of warmed brown sludge that we are passing off as 'veggie lasagna' from 1984." She wanted to know if I was hungry. I told her, "Listen Plane Lady, you obviously dont know me, because I am always hungry." So, she gave me the menu, and I ordered the mixed greens and vinaigrette, the summer squash ravioli in a brown butter sauce and the cheese plate. She brought it all out on real china with a nice linen tray-table cloth. Later, after my third glass of a nice Spanish red (I had my choice of 6 wines), she asked me if I would like to watch her make me a sundae. It was the most perverse thing I had ever heard in my life. She presented said sundae in a large chilled bowl and said, "There, I added carmel sauce too, just in case you like that." I told her that I had brought a snickers from the airport, just in case they didn't have anything vegetarian. She giggled and told me I was cute.
It was then that we fell deeply and madly in love.
Hours later, the plane landed, and I stepped out into my new home. I grabbed my luggage and headed for customs with my passport, visa, social security information, a copy of my insurance card, my drivers license, a bank statement and a picture of my dog (in case). I presented myself to the customs lady, and she took my passport and stamped it so quickly, she almost missed. SHE DIDN'T EVEN LOOK AT MY VISA. She is my mortal enemy now. All that visa stuff, and she couldn't have cared less. That woman is dead to me.
I got on the Navette (French for hotel shuttle) and headed to the Hyatt.
Chapter the First
So, it was Friday at 4am, and Ruta drove me to the airport. I was scarred and nervous and not sure if I was even going to get to New York, much less France since I was flying standby. Needless to say, I made it out. New York was great (and it seems like a million years ago). I arrived and talked to everyone I could think of on my cell, since I won't have a cell phone for the rest of the year. It's like I'm in 8th grade again. Wow, no cell. Weird. Anyway, I went into New York and headed where anyone who knows anything at all about New York goes when you only have three hours and need something to eat: Zabars. It is my favorite deli on the upper west side, and I go everytime I'm in the city. I had an egg salad sandwhich and a vegetarian tofurkey salad with a pepsi. It was the best egg salad sandwhich I've ever had. Granted, I've had like three in my life, but regardless...
I sat in the park and watched the runners and cyclists and unicyclists and the Korean kids playing dodgeball with eacheother (there were only two kids, so when the one kid hit the other, the game was over, and they just went home. It was intense). I really love New York, and I thought, "I had better suck this up now because it's Adios Americanos for the next five months." So, I sat in the sun and just hung out. It was awesome. I already miss home.
So, finally I'm done eating and head for JFK. I got there early, and went to check in to find a line longer than I thought imaginable. I finally got through it and got to my gate only to find that it had started raining, and other people from other flights with baby piolts who are "too scarred to take off in the big bad rain" were being transfered to MY plane. And yes, it is MY plane. I own it.
Anyway, I also found out that I was 15th on the list to get on the plane, so my chances of getting on were, to quote the flight lady, "um.... well.... I think, um..... we'll see."
I waited for an hour, called Natalie who called friends so I could stay with them in the city if I didn't make the flight, called Ruta, bought a snikcers, and did Sudoku to calm my thoughts. An hour later, they announce that I did make the plane, and "unfortunately" there were no seats available in coach, so I would "have to sit" in first class. "Unfortunately"- like, since I'm flying standby, I'm obvviously too poor to appreciate the wonders of first class. Let me tell, you: I am not.
I sat down, and no sooner did ass hit chair, than a woman was asking if I preferred a mimosa or "just champagn." I opted for "just champagne." Later she brought me a china bowl that she had warmed with some toasted nuts and a beer. I pulled the television out of the arm rest and had my choice of like, all the movies that have ever been made or WILL ever be made. I chose "Blades of Glory" for its cultural relevance. It was superb, as I expected.
Later, Plane Lady asked if I was hungry for dinner. Note: she did not say, "Here is your box of warmed brown sludge that we are passing off as 'veggie lasagna' from 1984." She wanted to know if I was hungry. I told her, "Listen Plane Lady, you obviously dont know me, because I am always hungry." So, she gave me the menu, and I ordered the mixed greens and vinaigrette, the summer squash ravioli in a brown butter sauce and the cheese plate. She brought it all out on real china with a nice linen tray-table cloth. Later, after my third glass of a nice Spanish red (I had my choice of 6 wines), she asked me if I would like to watch her make me a sundae. It was the most perverse thing I had ever heard in my life. She presented said sundae in a large chilled bowl and said, "There, I added carmel sauce too, just in case you like that." I told her that I had brought a snickers from the airport, just in case they didn't have anything vegetarian. She giggled and told me I was cute.
It was then that we fell deeply and madly in love.
Hours later, the plane landed, and I stepped out into my new home. I grabbed my luggage and headed for customs with my passport, visa, social security information, a copy of my insurance card, my drivers license, a bank statement and a picture of my dog (in case). I presented myself to the customs lady, and she took my passport and stamped it so quickly, she almost missed. SHE DIDN'T EVEN LOOK AT MY VISA. She is my mortal enemy now. All that visa stuff, and she couldn't have cared less. That woman is dead to me.
I got on the Navette (French for hotel shuttle) and headed to the Hyatt.
16 August 2007
Stop, stop; this old thing?
So since my last post, I've had a pretty crazy couple of days. Let's see: so Uncle Julio's Hacienda (which is Spanish for "The Third Circle of Hell") is finally over. I got that job in mid-March, and hated every fricking second of it until about two months ago when I really started to make some friends and warm up to the other servers there. Misery loves company, and what not. Anyway, if you had asked me three months ago how my last day at the Hacienda would go, I would have told you that I would have come in late, punched the general manager in the gut (her name is Sylvia), and set the place on fire. But instead of general assault and arson, the servers there threw me a going away party, complete with cake and ice cream, followed by shots of Jameson. I had no idea the two went so well together- made me wish my mom had served Irish whiskey at my childhood birthday parties. Well, now at least I'll know to do it when I have children.
It was really odd though. Some of the friends I've made at Uncle Julio's Tex-Mex Dungeon of Humiliation and Degredation will be people I will certainly stay in touch with, but there are others who are really, really cool people that I just know I will not see again. And that's cool. You know, when you're twenty or late teens or something, and you go on a class trip or graduate or something- you always say you will keep in touch with the people you meet. Then, a week later, one of them calls and is like, "Hey, it's Susan!" and you're like, "Susan? I don't know any Susan. Stop calling here." Anyway, this was totally different. It was really honest. People were like, "It has been great knowing you, and I wish you all the best. You'll be missed." But there was no, "We're totally gonna be BFF (that's "best friends forever" for the older readers here)." It was honest, but more than that, I guess those guys could have said, "I'll never see that guy again, why am I gonna spend my hard earned money on someone I'll never talk to again?" But they didn't. That party was one of the most generous things I think I have ever recieved. Genuine, too. Odd that people being generous and genuine is so unique. Maybe I just don't notice it enough.
Anyway, speaking of the spirit of love and generosity, I went to the French Consulate on Wednesday to find anything BUT those two great ideas. I sat there for an hour and a half waiting to hear if they would have time to squeeze me in for a visa appointment. If you have never gotten a visa, let me just say here, that I don't recommend it. This is my third now, and, well, frankly, everytime it gets more and more difficult. The visa area of the consulate is small, and cold and beige. It is filled with people who don't know you and don't want to and who are ready to step on your face to get the hell out of there and just start abusing the closest substance they can find, just so they can attempt to erase the entire experience from their memories. Sounds like Christmas dinner with the surviving members of Black Sabbath.
Anyway, the guy tells me that they stop taking appointments at 3:45 or so, so they can process all visa applications at 4pm. So I sat there, reading my magazine while babies screamed, mothers blabbed on their cell phones, students lamented waiting so long to come to the consulate. Finally, at 3:40, the visa dude calls my name and processed the application. FIVE MINUTES before the cut off point. I swear, I was so elated that I thought I was in a musical or something. I ran out of the room singing and tap-dancing.
So it's on. I have my plane tickets. I have my passport. I have my visa. I even got new pants (thank you, Mom.) All that's left to do now is sit down with my loving wife, enjoy a nice dinner and watch a Sopranos marathon (that's really what we're doing), because nothing says, "I love you and will miss you all the days we are apart" like watching New Jersey deigos slaughter eachother.
Really warms the heart.
It was really odd though. Some of the friends I've made at Uncle Julio's Tex-Mex Dungeon of Humiliation and Degredation will be people I will certainly stay in touch with, but there are others who are really, really cool people that I just know I will not see again. And that's cool. You know, when you're twenty or late teens or something, and you go on a class trip or graduate or something- you always say you will keep in touch with the people you meet. Then, a week later, one of them calls and is like, "Hey, it's Susan!" and you're like, "Susan? I don't know any Susan. Stop calling here." Anyway, this was totally different. It was really honest. People were like, "It has been great knowing you, and I wish you all the best. You'll be missed." But there was no, "We're totally gonna be BFF (that's "best friends forever" for the older readers here)." It was honest, but more than that, I guess those guys could have said, "I'll never see that guy again, why am I gonna spend my hard earned money on someone I'll never talk to again?" But they didn't. That party was one of the most generous things I think I have ever recieved. Genuine, too. Odd that people being generous and genuine is so unique. Maybe I just don't notice it enough.
Anyway, speaking of the spirit of love and generosity, I went to the French Consulate on Wednesday to find anything BUT those two great ideas. I sat there for an hour and a half waiting to hear if they would have time to squeeze me in for a visa appointment. If you have never gotten a visa, let me just say here, that I don't recommend it. This is my third now, and, well, frankly, everytime it gets more and more difficult. The visa area of the consulate is small, and cold and beige. It is filled with people who don't know you and don't want to and who are ready to step on your face to get the hell out of there and just start abusing the closest substance they can find, just so they can attempt to erase the entire experience from their memories. Sounds like Christmas dinner with the surviving members of Black Sabbath.
Anyway, the guy tells me that they stop taking appointments at 3:45 or so, so they can process all visa applications at 4pm. So I sat there, reading my magazine while babies screamed, mothers blabbed on their cell phones, students lamented waiting so long to come to the consulate. Finally, at 3:40, the visa dude calls my name and processed the application. FIVE MINUTES before the cut off point. I swear, I was so elated that I thought I was in a musical or something. I ran out of the room singing and tap-dancing.
So it's on. I have my plane tickets. I have my passport. I have my visa. I even got new pants (thank you, Mom.) All that's left to do now is sit down with my loving wife, enjoy a nice dinner and watch a Sopranos marathon (that's really what we're doing), because nothing says, "I love you and will miss you all the days we are apart" like watching New Jersey deigos slaughter eachother.
Really warms the heart.
13 August 2007
Mene
So, it's Monday of the week I am supposed to leave for France, and in typical Mark fashion- there are plenty of things still up in the air. For example, I still have to call the Chicago French consulate to see if I can get an appointment for to get my visa, so I can actually- you know- go to France. The woman there said that it shouldn't be a problem to get me an appointment, even if the whole month's appointments are booked online. So, I guess that shouldn't be a problem.
The other night, it occured to me, "Holy shit, I am actually going to France. Wow, I don't have any pants to wear." That was my actual thought: I have no pants. Not, "I'm going to miss my wife and family." Not, "I hope that my culinary skills are up to the challenge." No, I worry that I don't have any pants. But seriously, I don't have any casual pants other than jeans, so I'm gonna stick out like a sore thumb. And speaking of my jeans, they're old as hell, so not only will I certainly look like an American, but also, because those jeans are so crappy, I'll probably look like the only homeless American wandering the streets of gay Pariee.
To recap, I have no visa and no pants. An auspicious start, to be sure.
Regardless of my visa-less/pant-less situation, I'm scarred as hell. Really, I'm starting over in a field that demands perfection. I'm good at what I do, but when I get nervous, I kind of clam up. I hope that I'm up to this really. The French are pretty psycho about their food, and I admire them for that. I just don't know if I can meet their standards. I guess the defeatist way of looking at things is that even if I suck in France, I'll still be pretty good in the States. Well, yippee.
The other night, my family and I were at the Pritzker (here's a picture I took of it) to hear/see a flamenco show for my mom's birthday. It was great. Everybody was laughing and talking; the wine was good and the food was too. In the middle of the celebration, I noticed the moon, and it floored me. I guess it was beautiful but also comforting to know that I can look up and see it in France. I got some good shots of it, and it's like a connection to everybody here. So, there, I guess I really will miss everyone. I didn't doubt it, but it's easy to forget how much you have to leave behind, how many people love you, how much there is to accomplish, how frightening it is to be "old to start over in this field" when you're only 30, how much there is to lose and how much to gain. It's easy to forget to worry about all of that stuff, when you don't even have your visa yet and when you don't even have any pants. But I digress...
So, I'll leave you with this, to quote my wife, as she quotes her favorite Columbian crooner, "Ladies and gentleman, I give you- the moon."
The other night, it occured to me, "Holy shit, I am actually going to France. Wow, I don't have any pants to wear." That was my actual thought: I have no pants. Not, "I'm going to miss my wife and family." Not, "I hope that my culinary skills are up to the challenge." No, I worry that I don't have any pants. But seriously, I don't have any casual pants other than jeans, so I'm gonna stick out like a sore thumb. And speaking of my jeans, they're old as hell, so not only will I certainly look like an American, but also, because those jeans are so crappy, I'll probably look like the only homeless American wandering the streets of gay Pariee.
To recap, I have no visa and no pants. An auspicious start, to be sure.
Regardless of my visa-less/pant-less situation, I'm scarred as hell. Really, I'm starting over in a field that demands perfection. I'm good at what I do, but when I get nervous, I kind of clam up. I hope that I'm up to this really. The French are pretty psycho about their food, and I admire them for that. I just don't know if I can meet their standards. I guess the defeatist way of looking at things is that even if I suck in France, I'll still be pretty good in the States. Well, yippee.
The other night, my family and I were at the Pritzker (here's a picture I took of it) to hear/see a flamenco show for my mom's birthday. It was great. Everybody was laughing and talking; the wine was good and the food was too. In the middle of the celebration, I noticed the moon, and it floored me. I guess it was beautiful but also comforting to know that I can look up and see it in France. I got some good shots of it, and it's like a connection to everybody here. So, there, I guess I really will miss everyone. I didn't doubt it, but it's easy to forget how much you have to leave behind, how many people love you, how much there is to accomplish, how frightening it is to be "old to start over in this field" when you're only 30, how much there is to lose and how much to gain. It's easy to forget to worry about all of that stuff, when you don't even have your visa yet and when you don't even have any pants. But I digress...
So, I'll leave you with this, to quote my wife, as she quotes her favorite Columbian crooner, "Ladies and gentleman, I give you- the moon."
See you soon.
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