A few different locales could could to be the leaders in the movie market. The first, and most familiar, is Hollywood. You know Hollywood right? That patch of grass in the South that produces an astounding amount of blood, sap and crap (Pardon that, please). Even without the machinery of Golden and Silver Age studios, Hollywood puts out a pretty aesthetically consistent and reliable product. American movies are appreciated throughout the world. How else do you explain Algerians asking me about frat parties other than the Universalist mood poem “Old School?” Bollywood, however, far outstrips American movie-making in output and global reach. Hundreds of Indian musicals, comedies and action films (often one movie) are made each year and widely regarded from Guyana to Georgia. There is a bit of common ground in American and Indian deficiencies as well. If lazy Hollywood remakes like the “The Longest Yard” irk, Indian film writers may be just as bad with their blatant rip-offs of Western film. For example: a 3 hour Indian film, set in Dubai, with hundreds of choreographed dancers and fighters that borrowed everything from “Something About Mary” (except for the ejaculate/hair gel gag). But if India and America are dual titans of world film production—regardless of quality—there is one undisputed king of movie consumption in France.

The French love film. A lot. The average Frenchman or Frenchwoman on the street has an “opinion” on current films and directors. An “opinion” is not your typical “it was funny but I’d wait to see it on video” that echoes through American cineplexes. The French will tell you about the high camera angles or the shattered narrative or how the film fits into a particular director’s oeuvre. Hell, the French even know the name of directors and often times the bad ones too; how many of us can name the directors of our worst movies (*cough* Juno *cough* Adventureland) like these folks?

But the French are not nearly the cinematic xenophobes as Californians. In fact, the French have what is akin to a tumultuous love affair with Hollywood. Whenever Quentin Tarantino makes a film, they dote on us. When they see the formulaic romantic-comedies of Matthew McConaughey, they slap us around a bit. But the French have a good sense of history as well. When they attend one of the many revival cinemas in Paris and see American Film Noir, they practically give us a Swedish massage in a candlelit room.

Not only do the French enjoy their own film, along with American movies, but the country is haven for worldwide cinema. Right next to “The Hangover” (translated into French then back to English: “Very Bad Trip”) on marquee might be a documentary on the tribes of Papa New Guinea.

So much is French passion for movies that those citizens who go above and beyond the call of cinematic duties earn a special title: cinephile. The word literally means a lover of film (I’ll show some charity and leave out any projections as to what that would look like figuratively).

I met my first cinephile at the Cinémathèque Française (like the Pacific Film Archive, except with more movies, a library, a film library, a bookstore, a museum, an extra screen, a cafe and a restaurant. It’s even situated right next to one of the nicest parks in Paris). Or rather I witnessed my first act of cinephilia. While at a screening of Robert Aldrich’s “Sodom and Gomorrah,” I witnessed a man stand up and shout down a pair of old women who had the gall to exchange “opinions” during the film. I dared not uncross my legs for the rest of the show for fear of being strangled with a cashmere scarf. And this was, mind you, while watching Aldrich’s worst movie. I’d hate to see what they’d do to someone who farted during Truffaut’s “The 400 Blows.”

My film professor at the UC Center is a cinephile as well. His passion for movies may even be more violent than my first sighting. Overawed by this affliction, I asked him how many movies he sees. “Now? Just one a week.” For a moment I was bit disappointed. Were the French a bunch of phonies?

But my doubts were assuaged as he added “But when I was your age, 20.”

Image Source:  deneux_jacques under Creative Commons

I did it. I have officially become a “real” or “great man” today, by Chinese standards. I prefer to identify myself as a real AND great WOman, but I think this differentiation was lost in translation. In any case, I feel like a real human and quite alive.

To achieve this new and prestigious label, I hiked up to the top of Badaling, one of five of the Great Wall’s main stops. For those of you who don’t believe that it was indeed a hike and prefer to believe in the fantasy that it is a pleasantly flat, single story set-up, you will be sorely disappointed when you see the stairs that come up to your knees. However, once you reach the top and look down through valleys that end in hazy cityscapes or striking mountains, it will be worth it. Promise.

It was 37 degrees Celsius, but I was ready. I recommend wearing breezy clothes (preferably long if you’re sun-sensitive), a two-liter bottle of water, a camera, sunglasses and a hat. Unless you are one of the ambitious super sun-conscious sorts who also insists on toting a giant umbrella through steep and narrow staircases at other tourists’ eye-level, you’ll be well equipped.

I expected to be bussed out to the middle of nowhere and perhaps lose myself in a desolate desert, but our stop was surprisingly close to the city. A half hour bus ride from Peking University, I discovered a completely different character that China has to offer. There, lush mountains stain an inky black-green across a–get this–blue sky. The smog of Beijing hung like an ominous, yellowed thundercloud in the distance, but at Juyonguan, I could breathe.

With a renewed spirit for travel, I ran up the first stone steps. My calves started burn by the time I reached the first tower. At this juncture, I made the mistake of turning around and looking down. Mountains, tour buses and popsicle stands and miles of stony wall swarmed in my vision as I came to appreciate just how steep it was.

There were several more towers at increasingly steep grades, and my classmates and I frequently stopped in the rare shade of the towers until we were driven away by the smell of stinking piss, exacerbated by the heat. You see, historically these towers were used for defense purposes. Today, it seems that they have been reduced to garbage cans and makeshift toilets for tourists.

I entered one of the towers to revel in the shade and looked out one of the narrow windows. On the horizon a sweeping landscape greeted me; directly below, however, was an old man. He hunched over a plastic bag and souvenir refuse pile: plastic bottles, ice cream wrappers, cans. He separated the recyclables from the trash. I wondered if he was one of the migrant workers that had come to Beijing in hopes of carving out a better living, or if he was one of the middle-aged workers who had been released from their responsibilities when more business ventures became privatized and such workers lost their government support. These workers were making it, though perhaps in a slightly dusty and bewildered flurry. He wasn’t the only one, however. I saw even older men poking through the mountain brush as we continued our journey.

Finally we reached the top. I was tremendously relieved. I felt as though I had conquered something great. One of my Navy trained classmates joked that it was “the ultimate Stair Master workout”. I laughed, but as I took in what lay below I quickly stopped. Sure, the scenery was glorious, and the strength and tenacity of the men who built it were awe-inspiring. What was also peppering the scene nearly knocked the wind out of me as I realized something. Dozens of kiosks and snack shops were strung all the way up the Wall to the top. I had hiked the Wall once, but everyone who worked there or supplied merchandise hiked it every day.

Some huMAN I am.

Image Source: emms76 under Creative Commons

Dear Internet,

I found something interesting the other day when I was browsing you.

It’s a column by the adequately witty British writer/TV critic Charlie Brooker, about the truth behind museums and history.

Charlie Brooker on Museums

I’m going to put it here and hope that no one notices that this post took almost zero effort on my part.

Love,
-Kronosapiens

The glitter has settled into dust from the 2008 Summer Olympics, and the city is currently awash in a gray haze. Blue sky has not been present in the entire week I’ve been here. I looked out the window to see the sun. All that was visible was a miniscule, orange-tinged blur that melted into smog. This air almost has a physical form. I can practically cup it in my hands, blow it around with my breath.

I made the trek to the Olympic Park to see the fabled Beijing Bird’s Nest and Water Cube. Interestingly, though these are currently two of the most famous Beijing landmarks, a Chinese architect designed neither.

The structures are impressive in themselves. The graceful line of the Bird’s Nest would sweep across the sky if contrast between where the stadium ended and the sky began were more immediately discernible. Beams lace together and over each other as twigs, creating the thread of a common landing ground; it is made of steel, and the sky is a similar color. The smog settles on the surface, detracting from what was once perhaps a perfect sheen of newness. My friends and I posed for a scenic photo opp, but the results were mediocre, because the Bird’s Nest can hardly be seen in the background, despite its massive size.

I walked through a hutong (historic alleyway) along a river. Aspiring musicians shared their talents from heartbreakingly beautiful guitar to what sounded like bad karaoke. The music floated across the bridges, and the dazzling neon signs that screamed capitalism and commercialization created ephemeral sketches on the surface of the water. A wide pavement park broke out the chatter of the locals as they sat on a bridge and chewed the fat, sold novelty lasers, kites and singing animals, and batted what looks like a badminton birdie like a hacky sack.

It competed with the throb of the traffic in the street that bordered it. Amidst the noisy chatter of humanity one man dragged what looked like a giant mop across the sidewalk. His quiet contribution was the temporal art of sidewalk calligraphy. The water strokes boldly poured out poems beneath by-passers’ feet before evaporating into the warm night.

My friend exchanged a couple kuai for a neon green laser pointer. He pressed the button and directed his souvenir toward the main gate, painted in bold blue, green, red, and gold. The full extension of the beam disappeared beyond the long string of kites that another vendor sailed beside him. He shined it across the river; the beam danced across the front of the building on the opposite side. It was visible because of the pollution.

I think the air is making me sick. I woke up with a cold and a bit of a cough, despite my best efforts to abandon the five-second rule if I clumsily lose a chopstick, religiously wash my hands, use antibacterial hand gel, and hydrate like a madwoman. That morning I brushed my teeth, and found gritty dirt in the toothpaste foam left in the sink. Facemasks and bandanas may not be in vogue for anyone but bandits, but I’m seriously considering in investing in one.

Image Source: Leo Laporte under Creative Commons

I’m going to let you all in on a little secret: I only go to Europe for the Kebabs. Specifically, the Döner Kebabs. Those of you who’ve never been to Europe, more specifically the Germania regions east of the Rhine, these Turkish delights are huge. Incredibly cheap, from 2-4 Euro.

There are no Döner Kebab chains, because you cannot be taught to make them. It must be known, the the way that lesser people have aptitudes in science, math, or art. Döner Kebabs are sold in small stalls (shrines, really) staffed by friendly, wise old hermits.

Here is how it works:

You start with a heavenly tower of beef, chicken, lamb, or pork (often adorned with a crown of juicy tomatoes and onions, saturating the meat with juices). Then your friendly Kebab-smith, with a wink and a surgeon’s touch proceeds to slice paper-thin strips about and inch wide onto a grill (occasionally he will use an electric saw). Meanwhile, multitasking like an Intel Xeon hexa-core processor, your hero is toasting your pita (but it’s not a pita, it’s some sort of trans-dimensional über-pita) in a panini press, and preparing the vegetables and sauces.

Once (using his sixth, seventh, and possibly eighth senses) the Kebab prophet determines that the grill has done its work, the assembly begins in earnest. It’s a beautiful process. First, a gentle layer of yogurt sauce coats the inside. Then, the first layer of meat. Then, tomatoes, lettuce, onions. The rest of the meat, followed by more yogurt sauce.

This concoction descends (much like the good lord himself) into a paper wrap and is handed to you, much like the Commandments were handed to Moses. With a napkin.

The flavors of the Döner Kebab have a certain harmony that puts Japanese cuisine to shame. The sweet meat and the warm, slightly tense pita provide the overture, with the initial waft of yogurt scent acting as timpanist.
You’ll spend a few bites in pure bliss before the produce enters (around act two) and you take a moment to recover. You power through, taking a few moments to reflect on how flawless your life is, really. Those problems you thought you had? Not so much. The clouds usually are blown away by this point, and the Sun usually makes a personal appearance to watch you finish the last few bites.

I’m going to go on a limb and say you cannot ever actually finish a Döner Kebab, because the word finish implies a return to some previous state. That doesn’t apply here. Before the Döner Kebab and after are two distinct states of being.

Photo by Daniel Kronovet

If it seems like every time a good thing comes along, I abandon you for it, you would be correct.

It’s been two weeks and I’ve missed you. But really, I can’t pretend to be sorry for something that I have every intention of doing again. I’m going to run out on you. It’s just how it works.

I plan to continue to treat you like a red-headed step child (I never got this reference, but my non-ginger Spanish teacher from high school thought it was hilarious). And the sick part is, you like it this way. Face it, I’m your best option. I don’t mean to be mean, but look at you. I’m a pull for you, anyway.

Enough of these sweet nothings, here’s what you want:

Two weekends ago, my friends and I went to Porto, which for you geographites is in Portugal. We had our reservations about going, but only after we booked. My counselor sold it the way a pastor would describe premarital sex, it was awful, sinful and shitty. It was the “Culo del mundo” she said (plug that into freetranslation.com). After all, she’s from Vigo, Spain and she was dying to get us to go to her hometown. It had the world’s best beaches, food, women, booze and unicorns. Money even grows on trees in Vigo.

So being the only decisive person in the group, I did my research. I checked Vigo. My LonelyPlanet book’s description read something like this, “There isn’t any must see sights in Vigo.” This is LonelyPlanet, dammit. They can get rich white people into East Oakland with its “gorgeous street art, vibrant night life, dedicated sports fans, colorful street characters.” And they give me, “Vigo is a nice city.”

Asshole of the Earth or Vigo. I went with the place that represented more of me– You are where you travel to?

Claro, she was wrong. Porto was one of the best cities I have been to in Europe. It had it all.

Because you are a very simple person, here is an easily digestible list of my favorite parts of Porto, listed in chronological order.

1. After sleeping in the airport (yes, a recurring bed during my trip in Europe), we spent almost two hours looking for our hostel. We walked by it a dozen times, only to realize that the only thing that marked the hostel was a sticker (about the size of the fist I wanted to crack skulls with–didn’t that sound gangster?) on the side of the wall next to the door. Other than that, the Rivoli Hostel Cinema has one of the best staffs of any hostel I have stayed at. Sangria nights on a terrace, movie themed rooms, a PS2 and movies, make this hostel unlike any other. We stayed in The Godfather room, even though I hoped for Scarface, because I had some pretty funny “Say hello to my little friend” lines saved up. I settled for making them offers that they couldn’t refuse.
2. Our rooms weren’t ready at 9 am, so we took a train to Miramar beach to sleep. The beach looked straight out of the 1950’s– little striped tents, spotty patches of grass, rocks and a church on the rocks reminded me of things from movies. Oh and it was overcast. So we slept without sunscreen. I’ll save the story, I’m still peeling. Yet it was quiet and cute. One of the most refreshing naps, I have ever taken.
3. Nightlife- We walked around the city at night and the place was alive. We went down to the canal and the cafes were loaded with chairs and tables and people. However–excuse the expression–the bar raped us with a service charge. Damn, I can’t even follow my own advice from Venice. 22 euros for 2 beers, a jack and coke and a liter of sangria. In Madrid that’s 15 max. Balls. But we made up for it, as my personal guide, a high ranking intramural official, took us away from the water to a series of cafes, where people flowed into the streets. These things are just cafes during the day, but at night cafes stock five bartenders. Caipirinhas are like mojitos combined with margaritas, with a boatload of sugar. It’s some kind of sugar cane liquor, but really, who cares? Point is, the thing tastes like a girly drink, but can floor a giant. I have seen it. It took me a while to realize that we were drinking outside of a church, which I was quickly assured is completely normal in Porto. Who am I to judge?
4. Sightseeing- We walked up to the Cathedral. We were quickly greeted by a tour promoter. He wanted 7 euros a head for a winery tour and a ride around Porto in a mini train. Being an amateur scalper/ professional barterer, I gave him my “ha!” which translates in any language to, “You have to be bat shit insane if you think I am paying that.” He quickly brought it down to 5. Nope. We paid 4. The wine tour was good, I guess. I’m no expert, but we did get to try a bunch of Port wine. And you vinos know that Port is 20 % alcohol, and you girlies know that makes it like Malibu. And you frat boys know that 20% is enough to make the buzz worth suffering the taste.
5. After the small train tour (read: fulfilling my desire of going to Santa’s Village-google it), we went down to the other side of the canal. We hung out next to the water for about 10 minutes before we were assaulted by another tour hound. Insert same interaction as before, only start at 10 euros ending at 7. This time we got two free wine tours and tastings and a boat trip up and down the canal. You have to love a place that a good tour must be bookended with wine tastings (Hint: to UC Berkeley tour guides.

Overall, the place was awesome. Staying out all night the last night to catch a plane back to Madrid was a great idea. It makes for a great one-sentence story– I spent three nights in Portugal and only spent one night in a bed. Don’t you wish I would have figured that out sooner?

This went way overtime, meaning I must save Valencia and my summary of Madrid for later. Don’t worry, I leave for London tomorrow and I hear that they are fans of the internet, so I’m thinking of several posts in the coming days.

And really, go get some help. No one wants a needy puppy.

Image Source: Portuguese eyes under Creative Commons

Bejing huanying ni! Sound familiar? If you don’t speak Chinese, you probably recognize it from ye ole days of yore, the 2008 Summer Olympics. Still don’t ring a bell? Think of the ridiculously cute and energized mascots (you know—the bright little guys with arms outstretched for a big hug, elaborate decorative head pieces, and legs sprung into action that look like they’re ready to kung fu pound someone). Here is a visual to jog your memory:

The phrase at the top is derived from the syllables of their first names. Translation: “Beijing welcomes you!” And, in an odd sort of way, it does. Unless you are going through tourist hot spots or organized groups, Beijingers generally don’t stop to stare or go out of their way to talk to you because of your foreign status (though they will eagerly engage to sell you things), unlike other cities. In fact, they may ignore you altogether with the assumption that you don’t speak Chinese based on your appearance (I’m half Chinese, but look pretty white so I am frequently bypassed for my more Asian looking friends in casual encounters, though they speak less Chinese than me—sad face).

They simply engulf you as a part of their functioning mass and usher you along so you don’t impede the flow of things. For example, when taking a public bus, no one will baby you or cordially invite you to embark. You’ve gotta fight. Elbows, shoving and pushing are all fair game. If uncertain about how things work, one benevolent soul is sure to give you a helpful shove (quite literally) in the right direction, and pack you in. No one will communicate with you verbally, and more than likely you will never have had any previous contact with your fellow travelers. Because of the lack of any excess space, however, there is a de facto understanding that you will physically prevent other people from falling and they will provide human cushioning for you. The tightest club dance floors have nothing on a Beijing bus. The claustrophobic and meek need not apply, so toughen up before you attempt a joy ride.

Sara Hayden is an arts writer for the Daily Californian.

The first is a free class held every morning in the park by my grandmother’s house. They practice Qi Gong, and the class is entirely populated by older women. Qi (pronounced “chee”) is the Chinese concept of internal energy, similar to but different from Indian Chakra, Korean Kihap, and Japanese Kiai. I wasn’t completely impressed with the class when they set up the stereo for soothing traditional music, but I was excited by the prospect of doing esoteric energy cultivation. Somewhere along the line, however, the gentle melodies of respectable Chinese instruments gave way to upbeat pop music, turning the class into a sort of jazzercise session. My one guess is that old people need to get their heart rates up for an extended period of time, and traditional Qi Gong exercises didn’t quite accomplish that goal. Whatever the reason, I left the class feeling more confused than connected to the flow of the universe.

The second school I attended was an established kung fu school in the city, with a coach famous for his training. My uncle signed me up for the school when he learned I was a martial arts enthusiast. I’ve done a variety of training in martial arts styles, and I can easily say this was the most physically demanding to date. In my judo training, you’re given a lot of time on your own to practice techniques with a partner, but here you’re on your own with directions from the coach to keep practicing the same thing until he gives you something new. When I did capoeira, the physical challenge of the training was that you were constantly moving, but here the challenge was the opposite. Given a strenuous pose with strict form guidelines, you’re left to hold yourself frozen as best you can to develop the muscle strength necessary for the perfect position. I had a small amount of wushu training in the past, but the training here seemed much more dedicated to producing athletes and competitors for competition, rather than simply learning the forms and movements I had done in the past.

For someone used to doing competitive and combative sports, both of my experiences have been very different from what I was expecting. The focus of the training is off of defeating an opponent with athleticism or techniques, but on you as a single unit alone. It’s hard for me to train without some kind of game or objective to accomplish, but I definitely can imagine the mental fortitude possessed by those who have trained this way for extended periods of time. The Chinese philosophy of constant repetition and dedication is apparent, placing the responsibility on the practitioner to refine his technique and body to perfection. No flaw is too small to address, no detail too minor to fine-tune. I’m not entirely sure how long I’ll last with these training methods, but I’m excited to see what results they bring about. If anything, I’ll at least have something to bring to the weekly aerobics class.

Photo Credit: Thomas Tan

It’s been a while since I’ve written. I don’t want to be a bore and list all of the things that I’ve done in Spain. But …  I’m going to, anyway.

Last night I experienced a Real Madrid futbol game and before that I went to the Museo del Traje, where they have an entire exhibit on high heels! Today I was at the famed Museo del Prado where I presented one of Goya’s paintings from his Pintas Negras called “Saturno devorando a un hijo.”

I spent this past weekend in Barcelona. My first impression was not so good. Right after the long, uncomfortable eight-hour bus ride, one of the girls in my group almost got pick-pocketed. We were trying to get on the metro but this woman wouldn’t move out of the way. She had a sweater over her hands … which was over my friend’s purse. She finally left the metro once she realized that we realized we knew what she was doing, but this left us a bit upset.

Barcelona’s official language is Catalan so it was a bit more difficult to understand signs and menus, but we managed. Our hostel was pretty clean and I shared a room with 8 people, some from Portugal, some from Greece, some from Australia. We didn’t do much when we first arrived besides check in, eat breakfast and walk around a bit. They have this great market, though, and I bought a delicious mango juice. The thing about Barcelona is that it’s very touristy and the businesses there know this. So it’s expensive. And menus of the day are a bit more expensive here than in Madrid. They seem like a deal though: bread, entree and dessert … until you want to buy a drink, which is 5 euro.

I was sick for a while with everything that could possibly go wrong- the sore throat, the cough, running yet stuffy nose, headache, fever. I got cough drops first, then went back to the farmacia and got this magical powder. You mix it with water, drink it and 3 hours later, everything is (almost) all better.

Thursday night, the program treated us to a flamenco show, Bodas de Sangre, based on Lorca’s story. It was a bit strange and I liked Carmen better.

Wednesday was spent at Segovia where we saw the Roman Aqueduct, the Alcazar (some say Disney designed Snow White’s castle after this) and a cathedral. The famous dessert there, ponche, is sold in pastelerias.

Tuesday I was at the Museo del las Sciencias Naturales. After a nap, I went out for a tapa and sangria at a place called Malaspina. We stopped by a Cuban place, La Negra Tomasa, for some music. Then hopped over to another bar and ended up at Sol y Sombra, where we met some friendly Brazilians. They mainly knew Portuguese but it was still fun to practice Spanish with them.

Monday I presented my word of the day: cucurucho. I bought some fruit at the local grocery store and went to the Jardines de Palacio Real… and finally saw some pavos reales (peacocks)! We stopped by Plaza Mayor to window shop and see all the interesting (read: strange) street performers.

Sunday was spent at the Rastro, a flea market, where most people are expected to haggle. However, I didn’t have any luck. I think I negotiated my way down to 11,50 euro instead of 12. It’s something, I guess. Later, the group and I went to a bullfight at night, something that was interesting as far as a cultural perspective but sad for the six bulls they killed.

Saturday the 18th was spent at the Museo del Archeologio, a nice lunch at Café de Principe and a tour of the Biblioteca Nacionale. They had tons of old books and lots of artifacts concerning Braille. We spent the evening at Kapital, a famous discoteca with 7 floors of dancing. For 15 euros, you get admitted with 2 drinks. The terrace was the best part but I got harassed a bit too much to enjoy it fully.

Friday I was at the Museo Thyssen where I fell in love with a Dali painting, one that copies in books or internet do not do justice. I stopped by Caix, where they had a really interesting exhibit on ancient Arabs. We stopped by Templo de Debod, a gift to Spain from Egypt, to watch the sun set and eat some watermelon. We went to this old cave that was turned into a bar called Cueva de Sesamo and danced at a club called Sol y Sombra.

Thursday was an easy day at Templo de Debod.

Wednesday was Toledo, an old town where marzipan, swords and armor are famous.

Tuesday was the Annie Leibovitz exhibit, Caso de Campo where I rowed a boat with some of the girls in the group and enjoyed an ice cream. We shopped on Gran Via and I wrote some postcards.

Monday, July 13 was my sister’s birthday! I was super bummed that I was missing her birthday but I was able to Skype with her later. I went to the Botanic Garden and later El Tigre for tapas and sangria.

That weekend prior was Pamplona …  a crazy weekend. Before we left, though, I spent the afternoon at the Museo de la Reina Sofia, where Picasso’s Guernica is housed.

I’ll have to reflect more on my trip in a few days. We are wrapping up with a group dinner tonight in La Latina district and have our final Friday. In between that, I hope to get to rent a bike at Retiro Park, go to a flamenco bar and maybe take a side trip to Salamanca. I did have a chance to buy a mix CD of Spanish songs so hopefully that will hold me over til the next time I get back to Spain.

Words: huesped no deseado, esposas, porro, burlarse, cremallera, bocadillos
Phrases: “Vale la pena” , “gracias” and the response “a ti”, que´de coño, no me tocas

Image Source: gushnu under Creative Commons

One thing I’ve realized after living in Paris for 5 weeks: the most amazing things you’ll see are not the things you seek out. Yes, the big tourist attractions are epic, but they’re so embalmed that you’ve got almost no chance of finding the pulse.

If you want to catch a glimpse of some real magic, see something really special; form a routine. This might sound like backwards logic: how can doing something boring on a regular basis translate into singular moments of being so radiantly alive?

Here’s my theory: When a person travels, they briefly (for the duration of the trip) decouple from the world everyone else lives in. Nothing is exciting for them because everything is exciting. Constantly stimulated in an unfamiliar place, all of the normal sensors go on the fritz. Is this guy offering me a golden ring he found initiating me into a European fairy tale? Or is he scamming me, his partner slipping his fingers in my pocket?

A somewhat ridiculous example, but you see my point. A spark and electrocution both involve electricity.

So what to do? How do you, Joe (or Joanne) Journeyman see through the constant newness? How do you reclaim the ability to recognize something special?
Just form a routine. It could be anything. Find a baker you like and go there all the time. Find a store and browse there frequently. The more unnecessary the better. The farther away the better.

For me, it was jogging. Almost every night I would go running from my hotel at Place d’Italie to Notre Dame. I would take Blvd de l’Hospital to the Seine and run along the Quays until I got to Ile de la Cite. Then I would walk around the church and head back.

I’ve seen many cool things on this trip, but the stuff I saw on my nightly jogs tops it all. I’ve interrupted not one but two movie sets, seen people folk dance on the Quays, and discovered the finest performance artist I’ve ever seen. This guy is one of the fire spinner / contact juggling types.
The Seine is a complete party at night; people drinking excellent (and cheap) wine, sharing baguettes, smoking like chimneys. I swear a few of them were wearing berets.
One time during his fire spinning act he took out two gray pouches and put them aside. Near the end of his (incredible) act, which involved spinning, throwing, twirling so fast the extinguished, holding the fire in his hand to relight it, accidentally throwing too far once and almost hitting a woman (he apologized profusely), he stopped and picked up the new pouches, lit them, and started spinning. A few seconds passed and bright sparks started flying out. A few more and streams of flame started emerging. Then I realized: this guy was literally spinning fireworks. He was surrounded by a 4-meter radius of sparks, with trails of bright flames spinning all around him. It was one of the most incredible spectacles I’ve ever witnessed; all on a routine jog.

While abroad or on the road, our natural sense for what’s normal and what’s extraordinary shuts down. Forming a routine, however mundane puts that system back online. If everything you do is intended to be incredible, nothing can be.

You should never feel like traveling is a chore. If you’re getting road fatigue, this is why. Stop looking and you’ll start seeing.

Photos by Daniel Kronovet