Sitting by the dock of The Bay

Tomorrow finally arrived and it is now today. It's 2 am on the west coast, 11 am to Paris, the rest of continental Europe, and my internal clock. I caught about two hours of sleep on the flight from Philly to Vegas and am now in the warm embrace of the fog, sourdough bread, family and friends.

I just got out of a shower I didn't want to ever end. I can't remember the last time I felt the need for that kind of warmth and actually got it. It's like quenching a whole body thirst.

But I had to get out. I've got a queen bed with my name on it, and I can hear the call of the dead geese that gave their feathers for my comfort calling me with their... swan song, I guess.

Over the next week or so I'll post pictures here, as well as links to more pictures elsewhere, so if you're still reading, feel free to waste more time at work while I remember the past 14 weeks of my life.

It's good to be home. Thanks for all your messages.
-zac

"The longest day of my life." - Jack Bauer

Update: No other flights from Philly to the Bay Area so we land at 1 minute to midnight (like the doomsday clock). Ah Phoenix, you're almost California.

In other news, we just ate a really good three course meal, Tor. And it was pretty cheap for Paris. I had Mousse de canard au porto (mousse of duck with porto), echine de porc grillee aux herbes (pork grilled with herbs), and creme de marrons chantilly (chesnut puree with sweet whipped cream).

I think I have gout now.

"Little kids who speak French are adorable"

Last day in Paris. Last day in France. Last day in Europe.

Tomorrow, the Paris Metro strikes, so that sucks. The once €2 trip to Charles de Gaule will now cost €18.

In better news, US Airways got back to me quick and offered me a two-hour stay in scenic Phoenix (airport) on my way home tomorrow night. I asked if there was a direct to San Jose or Oakland, but if not, I'll be off to SFO, via PHX, landing at just before midnight, or 9 am to my body. December 12 will be about 33 hours long.

Not really ready to leave the adventure yet, but I am excited to see people and do things familiar. Parting really is such sweet sorrow.

But, to paraphrase another writer of English words, if you are lucky enough to have visited Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast.

See you soon America.

People let me tell you 'bout my best friend...

Soon, I will put you on everything.

We're back in Paris after spending two nights in Saint Marcan, a small village of about 500 people on the northern border of France. We stayed there to go visit Mont St Michel, a tidal island with a medieval town and huge abbey atop it, overlooking the English Channel. It looks like this: but cloudier and rainy.

As soon as we walk through the drawbridge, we run into Nick, an Aussie friend of ours from Lagos and Lisbon. Such random events are common and unsurprising to us anymore, so we just went with it and hung out with him for the entire day.

Last night for dinner, we went to the other restaurant in town (having gone to the first one the night before) and got handed free glasses of brandy by the barman/owner (an expat from Manchester) about halfway through our meal because he was toasting with the other expats in the bar/restaurant and said, "We can't leave out the Americans."

One of the Canadians gave Kate his card and told us to call him if we missed our bus to the train station and needed a ride. We didn't, but should have called anyway to save €3.

Two more days in Paris, including the Louvre tomorrow. You can bet I'll go to the bathroom Langdon threw the bar of soap out of.

The return of AWang

When I was in school, one day a friend instant messaged me. It was a Wednesday night about 11 and I was reading at my computer while he was at the Daily Bruin, getting ready to finish it up. He asked if I'd be interested in seeing Star Wars Episode III, which would be opening at midnight.

I told him that it was for sure sold out, since the theater in Westwood is kind of historic and really nice but he corrected me. He didn't want to see the first showing. He kind of wanted to see the second showing at 3 am.


I said that's crazy. I have class at 10 in the morning and yes let's go. It wasn't that full, and those that were there were more casual fans than the midnight freaks. Andy and I walked up, bought tickets, and sat down. Camping out is for weirdos.

We walked out of the theater as the May sun was coming up and went back to our beds (we lived near each other). He graduated a few weeks later, while I had another year. We saw each other sporadically over the years since, and frequently chatted on IM. He worked with Kate at the Daily News for a while, before they both quit to have lives that weren't made miserable by that place. But now, we are all in Paris at the same time doing Parisian things. Tomorrow, we do them together.



He's an amazing writer, with a dry wit that will make your throat hurt and your lips chapped. He comments frequently on my blog, and you can read his blog here.

Where do I go now?

I broke my compass. Just now, sitting on the stool checking my email. It almost made it.

Also, do you know how long a small, travel-sized can of shaving cream will last? Just a week shy of long enough, that's how long.

And how cool is it that the window from my fifth-floor dorm room has a view of the Eiffel Tower? So cliche cool. And they said it was just a Hollywood fallacy that every window in Paris opens on that huge glowing structure.

I don't know ...

I'm pretty sure I could go to Eastern Europe and buy a kid on the black market, skin him, and make my own gloves for less than €29. Course then I'd need cashmir and a sewing machine so maybe these are worth it.

"Muchas gracias, por todos los memorias"

Or, to use another quote from Bumblebee Man, "Ay, naranjas en la cabeza!"

Thank you Spain, for being wonderful. This has been my favorite country I've been to, and I have now been to all the countries I will be to on this trip. The food, the atmosphere, the people, the lifestyles, the weather even (it's 5 degrees C now in Madrid, but it's OK) have all been fantastic.

My favorite city is still Berlin, my favorite place is still Cinque Terre, but my favorite country as a whole is Espana.

I am off to the airport (or as I keep mistakenly calling it, the plane station) to catch a 5:45 am flight to Paris. Why so early? Cause it's only a penny (well after taxes and fees it's 20 euro, but still).

OK America, I'll see you in a week or so.

Ree-ahl football

Of the four football clubs I know, one is in Madrid - the others being Arsenal and the Manchester teams. So while in Madrid, on a Saturday, I thought it would be cool to catch a Real Madrid game if it was cheap enough. Spanish fans are supposed to go nuts, and I was going to miss the UCLA-USC game (which I now know we lost, ending our streak at 1) and wanted to be around football fans - even if it was soccer.

The home team was set to play Real Racing Club de Santander (just Spanish league, not Champion's), so I checked up on them to see what color I should avoid wearing so as to not look like a Racing fan (which they say as Rah-seeng).

I got a bit worried looking at that Wikipedia page because my new (and now only) sweatshirt is grey with bright green stripes. Here is Racing's away jersey:

It's been cold enough to see your breath all day long in Madrid for the past few days, so even I need to bundle up for a game that starts at 8 pm. "I may get killed at a Real Madrid game tonight," I thought. But I'd die warm.

Friday night I had been chatting with a few Americans who are studying in Spain, visiting here for the weekend, and I mentioned my thoughts on the game. Their faces lit up, because they had been thinking about it all day and we decided right then that it was on.

The four of us (Kate opted out - too cold, uncertain and probably expensive) set off for Estadio Santiago Bernabeu to find that all 80,000+ seats were sold out. But everywhere there were shady guys offering us tickets. Luke was leary, having heard horror stories about fake World Cup tickets, but they looked legit enough to me.

¡¿€30?! (which is the sticker price) No, €10, Robert tells him in Spanish (they all spoke better Spanish than I did, so I just listened and chimed in every so often). The guy, rather indignantly in Spanish, tells us we can go watch the game on TV for €10. Es verdad, so we walk to one of the other dozens of guys frantically trying to sell tickets to a game that started 5 minutes ago.

Four for €80? Yeah, alright. As we hand over the cash, two Spaniards walk by and one laughs and says, in Spanish, "You won't be able to get in." We don't get too worried (Erica did a little) and head up to the gate. We have to go in Gate D, which is half way around the stadium. The guy who tells us this starts to close Gate B.

Oh. I get it now. The tickets are real, but they won't let us in this late. We sprint and despite losing a KitKat from my pocket (give me a break, pocket), make it in as they're closing up.

We find our seats (well not really, we gave up when we found our section and just sat on the steps in the isle with the three guys dressed as Santa) and as I look around worry leaves me. I'm in a sea of green (but there was no sky of blue or a yellow submarine). We were in the Racing section. I fit in. Was welcomed and hi-fived as I sat on the cold cement for most of the first, and all of the second half.

Unlike the Bruins in the Rose Bowl yesterday, the home team won. It was a shootout of sorts, 3-1, with a lot of saves by both goalies and I was not at all surprised how much more enjoyable it was live compared with on TV. The hits were harder, the passes more impressive, and the shots more nerve-racking. But that's every sport, which is why I did it here. That and, come on, when's the next time I can see a Real Madrid game?