These Are a Few of My Favourite Things

As I count down (2 days now!) to my departure from France I'm taking the time to appreciate the things that have become a part of my every day over the last 6 months. Lots of sunset walks, last jogs, bike rides and a lunch date with family-friend Mr. T have allowed me to approach my departure with a good sense of closure. I don't feel rushed; nor do I feel overly grateful or sad to be leaving. I feel like the time is right, the next adventure is exciting and the experience was worth more than I can even recognize at the moment. Of course I'm going to miss this beautiful area, spacious house and its quirky but warm occupants (that is, Juju and the 4Ls) but to say just how much will take another blog entry. For now I'll let my photos do the talking about how much this place has meant to me while I finish the last of my packing...

To Burn or to Bury?

Recently, Juju and I had a disagreement. It was over a small thing - a plastic bag thrown in the garbage rather than in the recycling bin. Obviously, there were some other underlying tensions prompting a rather violent reaction to my misplacement of the trash, but I found it an interesting example of the small, often imperceptible adjustments we have had to make since I arrived here.

Usually I don't blog about the day-to-day, sticking to story-telling about big events. But I feel the need to vent a little and point out that moving in with a new family (or boyfriend or even roommate, for that matter) requires concessions on such a minute level, they might never have occurred to you if you weren't being forced to make them right now.

The issue of my putting certain kinds of plastic in the garbage is the result of differing environmental perspectives. Juju thinks it better to send all plastic to the recycling plant where they will incinerate anything they can't use. Personally, the thought of plumes of toxic plastic smoke being sent out from a plant makes me queasy. I'd rather send my unrecyclables to a landfill where they can sit in tact for eons causing no harm other than being in the way.

After our argument I was so confused about how I should react - should I acquiesce and go against my own beliefs because Juju "pays the bills around here?" Or should I explain my stance? After doing some research about burning vs. burying plastic, I guess both options have an equal number of pros and cons. In the interest of conflict avoidance, I'm going to go along with Juju's recycling rules.

Just one of many trivial matters that became a surprisingly big deal in our attempt at co-habitation.

This is the Way Ladies Ride

With my time left in Europe dwindling and my weekends in France becoming increasingly rare, I was lucky to have stayed with the family on this one. Blessed with some beautiful spring weather, Juju and I made the most of our lovely surroundings while acquiring some typically French rural experiences.


While L-Daddy and Middle L were away on Saturday, Juju loaded Big L, Baby L and me into the van for an afternoon at a hidden gem - the Chateau de Sauvage (Castle of Wild) in Emance, just 20 minutes from where we live. Hidden behind a gate with tall hedges, we discovered an excellent zoological reserve filled with free-roaming exotic wildlife such as pink flamingos, peacocks and friendly wallabies (many with joeys poking little legs, tails and heads out of their pouches). As if six squawking, hopping kilometers of walking trail weren't picturesque enough, the scene was overlooked by a beautiful "chateau;" not the original Louis XIV one, unfortunately, but majestic all the same. Even with a tired Baby-L on our hands, we were easily able to spend two hours strolling the grounds and feeding the animals with crumbs of left-over baguette ends. With many more-famous chateaus (such as Versailles, Rambouillet, Chambord and even Maintenon) to visit in the area, it was a treat to find one so unique.

Sunday brought two of Juju's colleagues to the house for lunch and we left the 4-Ls behind to indulge in a little girl-time. After feasting on oven-roasted Turkey osso bucco (you can do anything with Turkey, apparently!) we drove like maniacs to our 2:30 riding appointment at the Galopard stables. Once we'd brushed off all the caked-on mud from our horses and shakily adjusted ourselves in the saddles, we took off through the streets of St. Prest Village and into the forest for an hour-long balancing act. Though we smelled overwhelmingly like hay after dismounting and couldn't sit for the rest of the evening, I was thrilled to be able to cross it off my "to-do-while-living-in-the-countryside" list.

Thanks Juju!

Run Strong

While many were surely cursing the closure of some of Paris’ main roads last weekend, 22 000 runners were pounding their pavement with millions of footsteps during the Semi-Marathon de Paris. Having slid my name in just before registration closed in December 2008, I was one of them, challenging myself to a “best run.” Though it was officially my fourth half-marathon since I started running in 2006, this was the first one I was taking seriously. Having trained myself, I was now running the race alone. With no running buddies to set the pace, nor even friends to meet at the finish line, this was not only about achieving my ideal two-hour finish, but completing a personal journey. Even after three years of independent, sometimes challenging, travel, this was my final proof to myself that I could accomplish anything on my own.

As I exited the metro with a stream of other athletes on Sunday morning, I somewhat belatedly set three ultimate goals for myself: run hard, have fun and finish. My finishing time struck me as being entirely dependent on my ability to just accomplish these three things.

After a seemingly endless walk through the Parc Floral of the Chateau de Vincennes (on the outskirts of central Paris), I anxiously collected my race bib, clipped my GPS chip to my shoelace (checking twice to make sure it wouldn’t fall off), checked my bag and joined the crowd milling around the castle walls. The air pulsed with excitement as we warmed up doing laps in the Chateau courtyard and along the moat. We gawked at our competitors, searching their bibs for the colour that would indicate their expected finish time. Eyes widened with admiration for those with times under an hour and a half…true runners! Bracing ourselves against the cold wind and sunless sky, we eventually huddled together underneath the castle’s drawbridge portal then behind our starting gates (separating each time category from the others) waiting for the signal to bolt.

Two pacers with green flags poking high out of their shirt-necks moved to the front of our group, sparking a nervous chat about how fast we would actually have to run in order to make it in on time. I switched on my MP3 player to keep from thinking about the daunting “race pace.”

Suddenly there was a stir in the crowd. Someone’s watch beeped, signaling 10AM. We waited for a BANG, but it was too far in front of us to be heard. Instead, the vee-jay for the race signaled our departure through his loudspeaker. After a slow walk to the actual starting line, we were finally set free and people scattered in all directions searching to pass or be passed without collision.

Aside from the line of men emptying their bladders one last time before activating their race chip by crossing the starting line, it seemed that everyone regardless of size or age was flying by me. I wondered if my training had been for naught and looked inwards for a sign of what was slowing me down. Was I in pain? Not yet. Was my breathing steady? Just fine. Could I push myself to go faster? Should I? Finally I decided that this was not the time to start speed training, and a slow warm-up had always served me well.

I let the speed-demons float by, contenting myself with observations about their form, gear, shoes. Surely, I would pass some of them as we neared the finish line. I wondered how many thousands of people were in front of me and behind.

Kilometer 4.5 marked the first refreshment stand. Shiny orange slices streaked with blood-red pulp, banana halves, white sugar cubes and water bottles were grabbed by the fistful in a panic-stricken effort not to slow down, at least not to stop. Caught up in the mass hysteria, I crammed an orange and banana into my mouth, chasing them with water as I ran.

More runners passed me as we turned onto Rue des Charentons, en route for the Bastille. On our way into central Paris, the Bois de Vincennes had given way to old apartment buildings whose main floors have been turned into couture shops and cafes. Most of the shops were closed as per French Sunday morning protocol making the window-shopping less interesting, but smells of viennoiseries still wafted tantalizingly beneath our noses. Might they possibly serve croissants and coffee at Kilometer 10?

As the relief of the street changed I began to catch glimpses of the crowd in front of me – an entrancing ocean of bobbing heads, undulating up and down and steadily forward.

Kilometer 10 arrived after a loop around the Bastille. With no croissants in sight we wolfed down more oranges and sugar cubes, sucking water from new bottles and throwing them, still full, onto the sidewalks. I wondered about the ratio of clean-up-crew members to runners. We certainly were not a low-impact crowd.

By Kilometer 12, a blister was forming on the arch of my right foot. It occurred to me that I should have used the free anti-rub cream in my race package, despite the general wisdom that you shouldn’t try anything new on race day. 12 kilometers…More than half done. How long had we been running now? I made resolutions to buy a GPS watch before my next race and tried to turn my attention to the Senne now flowing gracefully beside us.

After a small inner-celebration at Kilometer 14 for having survived the first two thirds of the run, I dug deeper into my reserves of willpower to keep my pace up. How I longed to walk! My mouth watered at the thought of more oranges and sugar waiting at Kilometer 15 and my chest ached as I remembered to force in a few deep breaths. Another internal check showed an achy left hip, sore right foot and slightly waning morale. Rue de Rivoli, with its awkward cobblestones, was too long! Kilometer 17 became my salvation point. If I could make it that far, I could finish the race. After all, I could whip off a quick 4-K any day.

In an effort not to slow down, I looked around me for others who might be sharing my plight. Girls in pink tank tops ran by and I followed from behind, trying to imagine being pulled by a magical invisible rope strung between us. As the pink turned from tank top to speck on the horizon, I gravitated toward the cute boy on the right whose pace was closer to mine. I mentally conversed with him, inventing his story as we went along – his name was Marc, he was single and liked my Cambodia t-shirt. I flattered myself thinking he might appreciate my running alongside him, but finally he too slid ahead and slipped away.

By this point I could see the sign announcing Kilometer 17. I ran towards it imagining it was the finish line, then hitting “reset” as I continued onwards to Kilometer 18. From there on I would no longer be counting my kilometers done, but counting down to the sweet relief of stopping what suddenly struck me as an insane physical challenge. My mind alternated between being excruciatingly connected to my legs and blissfully lost amid the sounds, smells and movement of the herd of runners around me.

At Kilometer 19 I was yanked out of meditation by a comment beside me. “1:46! Come on guys, we can make it!” Some hazy mental calculation told me I might not be far from my goal time. With my psyche refreshed, I narrowed my eyes purposefully and pushed the last drops of energy I had left into my legs. The runners around me were either doing the same or slowing to a walk, having forgotten to “save some for later.”

Our feet beat like hoofs on the now-gravel road re-entering the Bois de Vincennes; we were no longer an ocean, but a stampede hurdling desperately towards the finish line. We crossed Kilometer 20, another imaginary finish line. Stomach cramps signaled exhaustion and dehydration. My brain had abandoned my body and was already savouring more oranges 1000 meters away. I tried to speed up just so I could stop, searching the horizon for the red archway reading “FIN.” Suddenly, it was there, looming like a mirage, even shimmering deliriously in the rain. With crowds cheering, I fantasized that it was all to see my final dash towards the end. My smile widened impossibly as I sprinted across the last red line and finally, FINALLY, walked.

The chronometer read 2:14:23, but we could hardly be sure of our real time since the 500 meter walk to the start line had set us back. My legs and lungs told me it didn’t matter…we had run hard, had fun and finished. Most importantly, I, I, I had done it from start to finish alone! This was hardly really true when I considered the moral support given to me by Juju and L-Daddy, my running partner, friends and parents. But as I collected my finishing medal and began the endless walk to the chalet to collect my bag, I knew, even without being able to explain why, that I had needed to be alone.

Throughout all my travels, people had been telling me that I was “strong” to be striking out on my own. I longed to prove that this was true, but in my moments alone, sitting in hotel rooms or dining in busy restaurants with only my inner-mind to converse with, strength had too often given way to insecurity. It seemed an interminable struggle to enjoy my own company. Often, I would think about an Eastern European woman I met at the Sapporo Youth Hostel, who told me that traveling alone would make me stronger than I could even imagine. I knew she was right; unfortunately I could never quite imagine the ways in which I was becoming stronger.

Walking away from the finish line, medal weighing heavily on my ever heaving chest, I was finally convinced that I had become strong. Later, I would treat myself to lunch alone in a brasserie and chuckle confidently to myself about accidentally ordering veal kidneys from the “Menu du Jour.”

That night, after receiving a hero’s welcome from Juju and the 4 L’s I melted my muscles in a specially drawn aromatherapy bath and drifted comfortably away from the challenges and revelations of the day. When I finally remembered to look at my actual finish time before bed that night, it was already an almost-distant memory. As it turned out, my chip time was 2:06:48. Just six minutes shy of my goal time, it still made this my “best run” for speed and motivation. If I had to run it again, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Five days later, as I type this blog alone in a German airport, waiting for my friend Jordin to meet me with our plane tickets to Turkey, I still feel proud about my race and have even let out a few confident chuckles as I’ve relived it in my mind. I know my smile and squinting eyes are attracting looks, but I don’t mind them. I’m strong now and I’m enjoying my inner-conversation.

News from Down Under

I heard back from the folks at the Best Job in the World today - they've decided to let me go back to Canada. Ahhhhh....decision complete. Looking at the applications they short-listed, I can't say I'm too discouraged about being one of 33,950 people that didn't make it into the top 50. The candidates they picked are WAY impressive, and there's a good pool of Canadians in there too (they've got the best videos, if you ask me)! Check out the potential winners here.

Don't worry, that's not all I'm going to post for this entry. I know I've got some atonement to do for my last leave of absence. I'll sign off with some photos I took during a shoot-and-run through Maintenon on Saturday. Now that winter has been beaten off by an extra hour of sunlight, we've had a spate of picture-perfect days. Great timing for me to capture all my favourite landmarks, viewed with growing appreciation as my countdown to Canada progresses...

Painstaking Decision-Making

It may look like I’ve been on a blogging hiatus since my last post was about three weeks ago. To be honest, my problem hasn’t been lack of inspiration, but a lack of coherent thoughts to express. I hesitate to say that I’ve gone a little crazy since my January posting in which I realized the inevitability of my return to Canada; but that’s only because it invokes images of me bound in a straitjacket and locked in a padded white room. My room is blue.

Since announcing that I needed to come home I’ve been agonizing about the actual timing of it all, considering three options that presented themselves in front of me.

On one hand, I could swallow my pride, pack up my bags and buy a plane ticket home post-haste. On the other, I could stay and keep half-searching for work, hoping but not trying to make new friends and dreaming about the fun I’d be having in Calgary if I were back. On the third hand (here, for some reason, I can’t help but imagine a many-armed statue of Shiva weighing each choice for me) I could apply for an international “career” job that would go against everything I stated I wanted in January, but would save me from having to face my unfounded fears of settling into the monotony of stationary life.

With each option as enticing as the others, and my decision-making skills out of practice from 5 years of knowing exactly what I would like to do next, I fell into a despairing inner search for answers. I spent hours cleaning, running, biking, walking and writing in my journal hoping Shiva (or someone, anyone!) would appear in front of me and show me the direction I was supposed to take, or at least give me a sign.

In the end, I guess that’s what happened, though it wasn’t Shiva. At first it was my running partner, who mentioned that her company might have a temporary position I could fill. The job sounded interesting and corresponded vaguely with my all-but-forgotten International Development background, so I applied and waited for an answer, telling myself that this would be the decision-maker. I waited and waited but despite some initial enthusiasm about my resume, three weeks later it looked like the job might not exist at all.

Heeding this as a sign, I initiated an emotionally charged conversation with Juju in which she supported my departure and revealed that, anyway, Big and Middle-L were still having trouble adjusting to my presence. As I angrily and tearfully acknowledged that my year in Japan hadn’t magically given me the ability to ease myself gracefully into new situations, I also thanked fate for saving us all from the potentially miserable eight months that remained.

Ironically, two hours later Juju was calling from a girls’ night out saying that her other friend, an anthropologist (I actually minored in Anthropology in university), might have a part-time job for me in Paris. Suddenly it was as if that afternoon’s conversation had never taken place and we were all getting excited about this new way to get me out of the house while keeping me in the country. I was once again committed to finishing my year here, albeit with a different approach to the older Ls. When I thought about it, it really would be a shame to just give up after all the work we had done to adapt to each other, however futile it might have been. At this point, at least things were likely to get better.

As I waited for my unofficial interview with the Anthropologist aboard a Paris-bound early-morning commuter train, my heart and mind continued their tug-of-war about what I should actually do. I couldn’t stand the thought of surrendering to my homesickness, yet my heart was secretly buckling under the pressure of my isolation here (about a thousand times more profound than what I felt in Japan since I’m not only unremarkable to the French, but there are no other visibly discernible expats in the area with whom to commiserate about all the subtle incongruities between France and home).

I alternated between frantically searching for jobs and cheap flights home and marveling at how nice it would be to enjoy having a pool in the summer, take advantage of 5€ plane tickets to destinations like Florence and Madrid, and continue my progress with Baby-L (who, unlike his brothers, had taken a liking to the strict but personalized attention I gave him). In spite of all these great reasons to stay, by the time I finally met the Anthropologist, I had still applied for a position as a Canada World Youth project supervisor, submitted a video application for Australia’s Best Job in the World and created a profile on every Canadian job-search website.

But one day at the Institute of Human Paleontology, tagging along on lab-tours and caressing ancient skulls, was enough to change my mind again. I would stay. And maybe I would discover that I was meant to be a Paleo-Anthropologist’s Assistant all along. With everything but the contract signed, we were just waiting for the Director to return from Ethiopia to give his “okay” and formalize everything.

More waiting…after 5 weeks, it should have been easy to wait a little more, but the anticipation was unbearable. I was paralyzed but I desperately needed to take some sort of action – either to work in Paris or start planning my return to Canada.

Finally a week later, after an inexplicably dreary day of babysitting, I got the Anthropologist’s e-mail entitled “Mauvaise Nouvelle (Bad News)”. As if to say, “I tried to tell you this the first time,” fate had sickened the entire Ethiopian scientific team, requiring the Institute to repatriate all of them and annihilating their budget to hire me. As I closed the e-mail, I swept my fleeting anthropological aspirations back under the rug and gave Juju my official resignation.

It should have been smooth sailing from there. All I had to do was get myself home and resume the happy Calgary life I’d been fantasizing about. But with this return being for good, my desire to find a job that will be challenging and fulfilling without requiring a new degree or years of experience in anything other than traveling, eating or administration has kept me in panic mode. The good news is that my weekends in Europe are fully booked until mid-May, which means another few months to keep frantically searching and applying for jobs.

Never Leave Home Without Your Camera

I wonder if it's coincidence or perception, but the most magical moments always seem to take place when there's no concrete way to capture them. I've done a lot of walking and running lately, training for the Paris Half-Marathon in March and trying, at the same time, to clear my mind of recent anxieties. Yesterday I decided to take advantage of the recent snowfall to click some more pictures of my favourite long (12km) trail, thinking they'd be stunning. But the sky was gray, which rendered the scenery rather bleak.

Today, after a full day of cleaning house I jetted out for a quick walk on a nearby trail just to breathe some air, and was greeted by the most magnificent sights: tiny icicles hanging like prisms from tree branches, spikes of hoarfrost making ice-flowers on stems, a fluffy red fox, crunchy white snow, a cloudless blue sky illuminated by hazy sun. As I walked I tried to notice everything - the birds, the smells, sounds, the feeling of cold on my cheeks.

I try to file moments like that in my memory in the hopes that they'll come back to me unexpectedly some day and I can remember the sheer joy I experienced. Chances are I'll be in some other country doing something completely random when this clip comes back to me...the way memories about Mali occur in the middle of a jog through the village. I'm looking forward to the day I remember this walk in the fields, but sadly have nothing more to share than my description above.

Strike One

After complaining, mostly for the purposes of embellishing my last blog entry, about French bureaucracy, I have to admit I may have been a little harsh in my criticism. Actually, considering the pain it's been to get my Visa card back (still waiting 5 weeks later...) I think my critique was justified. But I would like to express my admiration for the solidarity shown by public sector workers during last Thursday's strike.

Living in my little country bubble, I've been happily exempt from the effects of the economic crisis going on in that big scary world out there. Juju and L-Daddy have expressed dismay about the state of the economy, but don't appear to have cut back on spending for groceries or household items. And as far as their entourage of friends is concerned, discussions continue to revolve around the latest motorbikes and ATVs, not about "l'économie".

Thus when government workers descended on Paris last week, halting public transit and keeping the kids home from school, I was not very sympathetic and a little annoyed at having to keep all three boys quiet so Juju could work from her home office undisturbed. Of course, I didn't really understand why people were striking, which was of much less interest to French media than the debate about whether it was a good idea or just a self-defeating waste of resources.

Chatting with my running partner, a public servant herself, yesterday brought me into their camp. As she explained their reasons for protesting I realized that they weren't so much advocating for themselves (this wasn't about getting a pay raise) but begging Mr. Sarkozy to stop making spending cuts to the programs they administer.

I doubt this applies to the police service as I'm not sure WHO they help, but it sounds like the French poor are being pretty hard done by these days. Apparently there have been cuts to all sorts of services including psychiatric care, handicap transportation and school lunches for poor kids to name just a few. In the end, it sounded like a great call for change to have millions (the number quoted by organizers of the strike but disputed by police) of people marching for a day.

Sadly, it seems their strike was doomed before it started, as "Sarko" doesn't appear to have the power to change his spending habits. But it was a noteworthy effort that made international news, and will definitely be something I remember about the power of the French people.

Red-Tape Revolt

Shortly after Ryohei left I had another run-in with the French bureaucratic system - this time not quite as light-hearted as my Christmas-package-retrieval expedition to a far-flung post office. During his visit I had the misfortune of losing my new Visa card in a Paris Metro station. Of course, "misfortune" is the word I'm using to avoid saying that I got what I deserved for carrying my card in my coat pocket; and in the end I was quite fortunate to find that it had been turned in at the ticket booth by a VERY Good Samaritan.

This could have made a great story about how the French don't deserve their reputation for being self-centered and inconsiderate if it weren't for the fact that, once found, my Visa card became a hostage of the Lost and Found labyrinth controlled by the Prefectural Police and the RATP (Paris public transit system). As I watched my Visa card slip from arm’s reach into the depths of a plastic bag and disappear into the safe behind the counter I was assured that it should be available to me at the Police station in no more than 3 working days. I could wait that long.

Watching my Visa card slip away from me...

Ten days later, having given the bureaucrats a little extra time for good measure, I rode into Paris (a two-hour, 20€ return trip) to retrieve my beloved credit card. I practically waltzed into the Police station, one of the first visitors of the morning, armed with every piece of ID I owned and sure that they would have my card at the ready. Not so. The white-collared man behind the counter made a taut grimace as he sucked his teeth and told me that my card was nowhere to be found, the Metro probably hadn’t sent it yet.

I cried.

The man became a little more sympathetic, switching from grimace to watery smile as he searched the system one more time and gave me the phone number to complain to the Metro, who told me, in turn, that they had sent my card the day after it had been lost and found. I walked back into the Police station, now filled with people retrieving everything from umbrellas to passports, and cried again.

“It must be in storage,” they told me. Shoulders shrugged as colleagues united to defend the most inefficient administrative system I have encountered in all my travels; and I wished for the first time ever that a little baksheesh transaction were an acceptable means of rectifying this unexpected “delay”. I left with a bitter taste in my mouth accompanying the salt of all the frustrated tears I had shed.

Suddenly nothing was right.

As I pounded my heels into the pavement on my walk back to the train station my spirit began to revolt. Good wine and cheese were not enough for me to love a country! Good sushi and a beautiful language were not enough for me to move back to Japan. Even the prospect of building a life with a wonderful man was not going to be enough for me to spend another year on the road.

I had to go back to Canada. After a year of rationalizing my every plan – from extending my career-break for a year in France, to the way my life would evolve when I moved back to Japan to be with Ryohei – I lost all sense of rationale. My heart was saying loud and clear, “you need to go home, to communicate, understand the things around you and feel comfortable again.” In the space of a train ride my life plans transformed themselves from an exciting adventure to a hellish nightmare in which I could only envision a very tired me going crazy trying to change who I was at the core.

After two and a half years of wandering the earth trying to find where I fit in best, I had to stop denying that I could ever be anything but Canadian.

I agonized over what to say to Ryohei. If I wasn’t moving to Japan, I was narrowing to the size of a sliver our chances of ending up together. In the end I dashed our hopes and dreams – every plan made in the course of the last year – in one 25-minute Skype conversation. He took it stoically, said he’d be in touch and disappeared.

Juju and L-Daddy, luckily, were compassionate as I poured my enlightened heart out at the dinner table. Unlike me, they weren’t surprised that I was suddenly aching with desire to get back to the place I truly belonged. They experienced the same sensation when Big-L was born and they made their hasty return back to France from Canada.

With their sanction to stay if I want but go if I need to, I’ve begun to seek out other opportunities that will bring me back to my home and native land. Though I still don’t have a definite return date, it’s quite likely I’ll repatriate myself before I reach the 11-month mark of this latest leg of travel-challenge. In the meantime, I’m indulging in a little extra good wine and cheese (and family time, of course!) to make up for what I might miss out on by leaving early.

Bonne New Year Omedetou Gozaimasu!

Despite the excitement of celebrating Christmas in a new country, it was actually December 27^th that I had been anticipating most in 2008. Not usually an important day, this year it brought the arrival of Ryohei from Japan.

For those who don’t already know our story, Ryohei is my Japanese boyfriend, whom I met quite fatefully as we were each hiking on our own in the Northern Japanese Alps in summer 2007. With his good English skills and xenophilic tendencies I found in Ryo a hiking partner for the mountains and a friend with whom to share a few days in Tokyo. Even though I left Japan two weeks after our first meeting, Ryohei and I stayed in touch and have developed our relationship through lots of Skype chats and semi-annual visits to one or the other’s country (wherever we happen to be residing).

Thus it was on the afternoon of the 27^th that I made my way, heart aflutter, to Charles De Gaulle airport to meet up with Ryo for our second New Years week together. Since Ryo and I share a mutual love for travel, we always make the most of our visits from a tourism perspective. This year the major destination was Paris, with a little jaunt to the countryside thrown in for authenticity’s sake.

For sleeping we rented (via the internet) a sweet little light-blue room inside an apartment in Paris’ “15^eme Arrondissement,” one of 20 unique neighbourhoods in the city-centre – walking distance from the Eiffel Tower and the Seine and conveniently surrounded by metro stations for access to all the other important sights we might want to visit.

Though we started low key on the first night with some dinner and drinks at a local café, we spent our entire second day on foot climbing the stairs of the Eiffel Tower, window shopping the Champs-Elysees and skirting our way around the Louvre before catching a show at the Moulin Rouge.

Sadly, by the time we actually sat down for the dancing and champagne at the cabaret, we were so tuckered out from the walking that we spent half the show asleep on the table. I have to say, though, that from what we did see the performance was amateurish and should be nixed from itineraries in favour of one of its competitors like the “Lido” or “Chez Ma Cousine.”

Days 3 and 4 brought more walking, non-shopping around the Galeries Lafayette and a very special dinner with L-Daddy’s mom and companion at the Café du Commerce brasserie – a well-hidden gem serving up French specialties to locals and tourists alike (Ryo and I split a giant medium-rare steak fit to rival the best cuts of Alberta Beef).

Having seen what we could of Paris, we made our way to Juju’s house for a little quietude and Ryohei’s initiation to another version of French life. Since the family were all skiing their hearts out in the Alps, we had the house to ourselves and spent our evenings sipping wine, watching movies and trying out different cheeses and foie gras. We also squeezed in some day trips to nearby Chartres and Versailles to visit the Cathedral, munch savoury crepes and tour the Castle – newly modified with a bizarre exhibition of Jeff Koons’ modern art…

All our activities were grand, but I think the moment de resistance of our countryside stay was our celebration of New Years Eve with some of the family’s friends. Though I originally thought they had invited us to a giant bash, it turned out to be an intimate gathering where they plied us with specialty dishes, wines and cheeses from all the most “gourmand” regions of France. It was a cultural experience the likes of the ones we hope to have when we embark on “home-stay tours” in countries like Thailand and Vietnam – except 100% authentic. Even the language factor was authentic as only one other guest spoke English! But everyone was interested in Japan and after a few glasses of champagne all three languages (French, English and Japanese) were flowing more freely.

This was a perfect near-end to our tri-cultural vacation; the only thing obstructing perfection was the fact that I got the stomach flu on Ryohei’s last night here…darn those European super-germs! So we didn’t get the romantic goodbye we’d both hoped for – more a squeamish half-kiss (I was so scared I would throw up on him). But we’ve vowed to meet up again someday. In the interim here’s hoping for a healthy and happy 2009 for everyone!