Asian flavor, kosher chicken thigh (The Bangkok Shabbat experience)

May 24

Hand me the destination and I'll track you down that kosher chicken thigh.

I'd been recommend by my D.C. rabbi and a family friend to contact Rabbi Kantor, Bangkok's Chabad (orthodox) rabbi who, coincidentally, is also my family friend’s rabbi and my home rabbi’s first cousin.

No surprise, really, that Jewish geography applies worldwide. 

Friday night rolled in, and Caitlan and I headed to Chabad—she had joined me for Shabbat dinner during her visit in Paris and, while not Jewish, she’s familiar with the Chabad environment.

We stepped into a cab, my iPhone in hand with the synagogue's address typed in. I love the taxi rides, staring out the window as the stream of the city blurs—views of the different neighborhoods, of the downtown and side streets, the shrines scattered among homes and markets. 

Our driver slowed after 45 minutes, turning to face us as he shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head apologetically. 

“I don’t know direction.”

Which was great, because neither did we.

We paid and wandered into the Holiday Inn across the street-- the hotel concierge drawing a similar blank. He stepped outside, asking a motorcyclist who talked to a cab driver who motioned us into his car, driving up to a street local who pointed him in the direction of the synagogue ahead.

The temple was barred off—an embossed menorah the only sign of any Jewish context. The security guard—a tall, bald Israeli man—asked for our ID, wanting to know if we had made reservations for dinner.

No, we hadn’t.

He let down his stern gaze, allowing us into the synagogue’s courtyard. Caitlan and I made our way up to the sanctuary, joining Shabbat services. The room had no windows—we could be anywhere in the world, tunes of a service that’s all too familiar and surrounded by a community no different than mine from home.

Chabad in Bangkok. The gate barring the synagogue from view.

Shabbat dinner followed—kosher chicken thigh, thankfully, on the menu. A South African, young man sat behind us, pulling over his chair to introduce himself—he had moved from Capetown to London to Bangkok, a lawyer by trade, a Thai boxer in his spare time. He introduced his Israeli friend, an IT professional who missed home in Israel—full plan to move back, he assured us.

The three, Israeli men opposite us hadn’t seen each other in 20 years—now in their 50s, the men reminisced over memories from their past and stories of their adult years. Only one of them lived in Bangkok after having spent time in Germany-- the other lived in Israel and the one directly opposite me had moved to Montreal and now in Aventura, Florida—the city I grew up in before 8th grade.

Small world.

To their left sat an Asian woman and Israeli man, I initially assuming she was Thai, joining perhaps her husband for evening services and dinner.

As we got to talking, I gathered she was an American-born Korean, having owned a store in D.C.’s Union Station and living in Georgetown before moving to Bangkok on a whim. She had met the Israeli man three months back, while on a business in Singapore.

She feels more Asian than American-- though Thais notice she’s different, albeit her Asian appearance, she said.

I've spent such time toying with the notion of identity, coming to terms that identity changes as life progresses. We adapt to context—adjusting the manner we define while maintaining a core sense of values and ideals to structure our lives upon.

The rabbi that evening spoke of the individual purposes and collective mission we each hold. We're to accept our faults while acknowledging our success- for in that way we can embrace humility, "the absence of arrogance in yourself," he explained. Our biggest problems, he said, is our self esteem. And in overcoming the areas we fall short, we’re able to achieve our mission, understand our purpose and perhaps, I believe, come to terms with our identity.

Developing connections is my purpose that guides my mission—one that remains constant among an identity always in flux. The connections within my life help frame the manner I define identity. I am Jewish above all—in part because it’s a community I can connect to no matter where I am in the world.

And here, at Shabbat at Chabad in Bangkok, I met those with connections to parts of the life I come from—the man who lives in Aventura, the rabbi who is my D.C. rabbi’s first cousin; And the people with stories of the life paths they followed, never knowing where it would bring them.

Somehow we all end up where we're supposed to be. It's our mission— the greater plan, if that's what you believe.

Follow your gut, the Korean-American lady told us before turning out that evening. "I never imagined I'd work in Bangkok," she said, turning to smile at the Israeli man seated to her right. "I never knew my life path would bring me here."

The answer will come

Washington and Virginia hit high during Monday morning’s office talk. Because from what I've gathered, the scope of globalization includes the misgivings of dear, Mother Nature.

The company I work for hosts their websites through a Virginia based server. And with the power outages that swept the East Cost this past weekend, so too crashed the three sites (and main service) the company provides.

I offered my condolences (partly to steer the conversation clear from any reference to my not having known about the site’s weekend status)-- throwing in my two cents that the power outages had stopped several of my D.C. friends from watching the game. I work with seven other guys; anything sports related, I sense they’d understand.

They laughed. And I’m going to take that to mean that D.C. and I are well off the hook.

____________________________

Four weeks pass quickly—no longer a surprise given time has a habit of moving faster than wanted.

Work’s going well-- I enjoy the environment and structure it provides for my weekdays. The assignments are repetitive-- intern work as its base. But it’s work that allows my summer stay, so no complaint out of me.

Dinner chez Madame continues as wonderfully as it began. Her son’s visits to the apartment have lessened over the past week; Perhaps Madame’s nagging about getting his hair cut, finally hit a nail. It’d been inching just below his neck-- typically gelled back so as to avoid draping his face. Although he did finally relent, surprising her one afternoon when he came home sporting a fresh cut. But now she’s on about the goatee, which Madame insists needs a trim.

Arien, the former homestay boy I lived with, left this past Saturday, replaced, on Sunday, by a friendly, Brazilian girl. Two new Italian girls, both sharing the tiny bedroom Madame owns two floors up (a room known as a "chambre de bonne," used back in the day as living quarters for domestic help), also moved in Sunday. We all had dinner together, a friendly gesture by Madame given I don’t pay for Sunday dinners.  

It’s funny how fast the flow of new faces come in and out of her home. I think she likes the company, the constant refresher of conversation and personalities. She takes in students from all across the world and I find it amusing to listen to her comments regarding the different nationalities. She believes Asian students are the cleanest (although she finds the smell of their cooking off putting), Brazilians are the friendliest, thinks all Americans are vegetarians and loves Italians' accents when they speak French.

It's fascinating opening your home to students. The loss of privacy it results in, but the vibrancy of a family- like atmosphere fused with a blend of cultures, it, if implemented well, can create.

Madame’s asked after my experience in my former homestay. I’ve told her about the shutter episode, of the toilet paper former Madame would hide from me, of the gifts she'd suggest I'd buy her and of the dinners I took, for the most part, on my own.

It was the dinners I ate alone, that most shocked Madame. For new Madame, dinner time is the most important-- a vital part in fostering a comfortable and natural living environment, while making students feel capable and confident to hold a French conversation past the superficial. From our debate over gay rights, to deeper, religious conversations-- she’s truly something, new Madame. By far different from my experience during my spring semester.

____________________________

Lili, Mariene and I set out to St. Maur- Creteil, a suburb outside of Paris, Sunday afternoon. We had been told of a Jewish get together (under the alias of barbeque)—and the prospect of meeting other Jews (on my end) and noshing (ok fine, gorging) on kosher meat, sounded quite appealing.

It took 25 minutes by RER to get to St. Maur- Creteil.

But of course:

a) I had lazily decided not to look up the address before coming

b) Lili’s phone chose the moment we arrived to stop offering a functional map and step- by- step, walking directions

c) The owners of the one kosher restaurant we passed (among the slew of Hallal restaurants) had never heard of the street, nor knew of any Jewish get together happening that afternoon. (Apparently not all Jews keep themselves in the loop for all things kosher.)

d) Budget aside, we figured we could splurge on a cab. But over the thirty minutes of the afternoon’s scavenger hunt, only two cabs drove by. Of which, both were full.

e) Only two of the many we stopped, recognized the name of the street. One pointed us towards the wrong road in the complete, opposite direction. And the other switched his motorcycle for his friend’s car to offer us a ride.

Right, because three, young Jewish girls getting into one random man’s car is ever a good idea. Every warning my parents have ever taught me flung into full force. That and the giggles-- mandatory addition to any situation that should mandate slight caution.

But seeing as our options were limited, and my craving for kosher meat outweighed my sensibility for our safety, we accepted. The three of us crammed into the man’s car, Mariene taking the front seat, as Lili and I settled into the back.

We all noticed how quiet the man got, as we approached the host’s house for the afternoon's barbeque—the sound of Israeli music blasting overhead. But it was Mariene who says she saw the man’s facial expression drop as he took in the swarm of men, all wearing kippahs.  

He shooed us out of his car. We thanked him for his generosity, shutting the doors close as he sped away.

___________________________

It’s a vibrant group, the French Jewish community. With dozens of events per week-- hosted by a range of organizations that target young, Jewish professionals-- they’re quite close, their network of contacts, large. Of the few people we initially interacted with, none were particularly friendly-- several making snide comments as to whether or not we speak French. Which is irritating because, bien sur, we speak French. But among one another, we’d prefer to speak English, merci beaucoup.

Lili, Mariene and I penciled our names onto the sign in sheet, forking over eight euros for lunch. I grabbed a hot dog (kosher chicken, a blessing) to slip into a baguette (because France has yet been introduced to the marvel of a hot dog bun), and settled into a spot in the back corner of the large yard.

It's easy to look on with dislike for the frankness of their comments-- the, in many ways, perceived arrogance that the visitor should speak their language. Even if, you know, they tend to stick to French when they're abroad. Or that my attempt to speak French is often more comprehensible than their English. Sometimes.

But it’s a culture thing. And all it takes is the one person willing to help you break into their circle for them to lessen their defense. It was the event photographer who took charge, that afternoon-- grabbing the event host to come talk to us who, giving us no option but to follow him, pulled up chairs for us to squeeze our way into a circle of people.

It's rare to come across a foreigner at their events. And so to be a new face with a foreign twang to the French accent-- it’s strange for them. It's why I think they guard themselves. It’s a cultural difference-- a difference that is easier to dismiss than let it irritate. Move on, and enjoy the afternoon.
____________________________
I didn’t have a chance to wish Arien goodbye, as he left early Saturday morning. We'd spent the past few days eating dinner just the two of us given Madame's had prior evening engagements.

Our conversations were interesting-- mostly centered on the differences of his Protestant practices and my Jewish beliefs. He expressed interest in my decision to keep kosher and was intrigued as to what happens should Jews not follow Jewish law.

Well, with 613 commandments, I’d be damned if we followed them all.

He asked if I have a connection with G-d.

A simple, straightforward question. One that should have initiated an immediate yes, on my part. But rather, it was one that stopped me, leaving me to sit there as I tried to think, do I?

I’m sure of my connection with the community, my connection to the religion through the community. But my connection on an individual basis?

And so we unraveled the question- him asking as to why I keep kosher. Because I can’t bring myself to not keep kosher. He wanted to know my thoughts on death, on the world to come. To which responded I don’t know-- it’s not a focus of our prayer, the guiding point for our faith. For him, life on Earth marks the process of preparing for the next world. He's strong in his belief that this world isn't it. But, in my own personal belief, I think it is. I believe in a focus on the fulfillment of our lives in this world. Of the value of family and community, of love for life-- all virtues I find through Judaism.

It took two days to think it through, to come clear to the answer as to if I have a connection to G-d. It was as I was leaving Chabad, Friday night, that it finally came to me- that yes, yes I do have a connection,

But it left me unsettled, that the question had stopped me. Because at the moment Arien asked, I felt that I should have been sure.

In life, I don't think we can be sure of everything. Life's a constant search for the answers, for the definition of ourselves, a validation for our beliefs. And while the answers do come, eventually, so too do they change.

I think that's the key to a stronger understanding of who we are-- of acceptance of the change and of constant reevaluation of the answer. It's honesty with ourselves, of our emotions, desires, thoughts and doubts. Because without the honesty how do we come to the understanding?

____________________________

I told Madame that it was the 4th of July, pointing to my red shirt and blue sweater I decided to wear for work. She wanted to know if it was also Obama's birthday.

Not quite.

It's unreal how little time I have left. I've looked into changing my plane ticket, leaving a few days later as a friend invited me to go to Nice. But it's a steep fee to change the date, and I guess at some point, I'll have to come home anyway.

I'm lucky to be here-- lucky for how remarkable of a journey these past five months have turned out. I remember a conversation with my mother, the second Friday after arriving in Paris, telling her about my evening at Chabad and the walk Kathryn and I had taken, following Shabbat dinner, from the Champs Elysees to the Eiffel Tower. The experience had all seemed so new, so fresh. I had no way of knowing how close of a friendship I'd develop with Kathryn, how quickly I'd fall for the city. And I had no idea, at the time, how significant of a role Chabad would play in my experience of this summer. I remember telling my mother that I wonder if one day I could make a life for myself here.

Who knows where I'll be a year from here, where my career, where my life will take me. 

To that, I don't have the answer. But that’s ok because eventually, the answer will come. 

The shortened Chabad experience. Never ceases to surprise

Tonight in bullet points:

• Met up with one of my camp best friend’s friend, Ari. He's in town, alone, as a result of a three day (planned) layover from Israel after a semester of studying abroad. Of course I’ve taken charge, leaving him with an itinerary for the weekend, planning meet ups to keep him company, inviting him along to a party tomorrow night, and taking him this evening to Trocadero to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle and Pont Neuf for a stunning view of the city.
• My camp counselor from my first summer in Israel—who, I should note, my camp best friend had tried organizing that we meet up with during my visit to Israel—was AT CHABAD THIS EVENING! How small of a world we live in. And how incredible of a surprise it was!
• Lili (my German friend who I had met last week at Chabad) and Mariene (the UK nanny) were there—Mariene and I having met up to ride the metro together for services and Lili texting me to tell me she’d be running late. But of course, she got there before us. The three of us had gone to a Jewish get- together this past Wednesday, so it was nice being able to spend the evening together again!
• And now I’m home, with plans to meet up Ari for a picnic lunch by the Seine tomorrow. And then plans to go to a party with Lili, Mariene and Ari. Except I have to leave early because I’m meeting up with another friend for dinner later that evening. Although honestly, I’d prefer to just cancel and stay out with the girls and Ari. Too many options for a social life—if only that were the worst of my problems.

I love ending off my weeks with Chabad. I love the social life its introduced me too, the common basis of our shared religion and culture we work our friendships off of. Tonight was good. And this weekend, I have no doubts will go just the same.

A summer social life

There’s a small basket of candies laid onto the desk, as you leave my gym. It's sort of like the lollipops the dentist dishes out after a visit. It all defeats the purpose.

I made my way out of the gym, leaving the bowl of treats untouched. The board read 16-minutes until the arrival of my bus, and so I sat myself down, scooting over to the edge of the metal bench as an elderly woman approached. She nestled into her spot, titling her head as she slowly took me in. You get funny looks for walking outside in gym gear. They don’t do that in Paris. And so the strange stares, should you dare break the fashion rules of Parisian dress, are to be expected.

The woman cleared her throat-- she wanted to know why I looked so flushed.

She and I got to talking-- her commenting on gyms in Paris, I gushing over food in boulangeries. She asked what I was doing in Paris, wanted to know if Obama was nice and spilled out her unbridled opinion on French president, Francois Hollande. 

An elderly couple joined, the wife squeezing into the middle space between myself and the other lady. She remarked on the weather and, after hearing my American- laced- French accent, asked where I was from. It was a shame that I was seeing Paris with such awful weather, she said. But I assured her that I've seen Paris sunny, I've seen Paris snowing. And now summer, I see Paris cold and raining.

Not to worry, I responded. None if it changes my mind. Because five months in, and I’m still in love with everything about this city.

______________

I approach the city differently, now that I’m working. There’s no time to tackle the sites—a good thing given I’ve exhausted Paris as a tourist. I spend the weekdays at work, stretching my legs during my hour lunch break, often strolling down to the Jardin du Luxembourg to watch locals play tennis. 

The workday ends at 5:30; Most days, I hop aboard the 20-minute bus to the gym—a productive way of channeling the day’s build up of energy. Other afternoons, I’ll walk home, taking my time as I weave through clothing stores and art galleries, hidden side streets and open- air markets.

What I hadn’t expected, however, was to have friends to share the summer with. Save the scatter of friends who plan to visit during the next two months, I hadn’t given thought that anything would develop out of the few, Parisian acquaintances I’ve met during my time abroad.

But life’s got a funny way of dishing out the unexpected. And this time, all it took was four months of Chabad, Shabbat dinners and one night of chance, for life’s surprise of a summer social life to fall into place.

______________

It started last Friday; I had received a message from my friend, Amelia—a 23- year old, AEPHi from UC Irvine, spending her ten months post- grad as an au pair in Paris. She wanted to know if I’d be at Chabad.

I’ve been going to Chabad since my third shabbat in Paris. I like the crowd—a mix of individuals, the majority visitors from all parts of the world. Among the new, there are also the few regulars—roughly around my age, a mix of students and au pairs.

And so I met up with Amelia, she arriving at our agreed upon time, and me—30 minutes late, because G-d forbid I ever actually get somewhere when planned. We sat for dinner with two other Californian AEPHis, in addition to Amelia’s friend, a British nanny who moved to Paris permanently. I got into conversation with the man sitting opposite me, and smiled at his friend, seated to my left. But for the most part, it was just me and the girls—the first night all week that English, once more, became the main, spoken language.  

It was as I was leaving, that I bumped back into the two men from my table. They were in conversation with a girl who had sat at the end of our table, but I hadn’t spoken to. She was visiting Paris alone.

Alone? Hmph. Based off my week alone while in Italy, I believe there’s no way you can reap the all of a city when you’re taking it on as a solo traveler. So I quickly offered to spend my Sunday with her —the boys suggesting we meet up in the evening for drinks in Montmartre.

And then we proceeded to switch names.

The girl introduced herself as Michelle, a 26- year- old, Canadian, med student spending a week in Paris, before meeting her friends for a trip to India.

We walked to the metro together— the two of us huddled under Michelle's small umbrella as we made our way up the Champs Elysees, towards the Arc de Triomphe. There were 15 minutes left until midnight. I wanted to know if she had time to spare—there was somewhere I wanted to take her.

We got to Trocadero a minute before midnight.  It was there that Michelle got her first, close- up view of the Eiffel Tower-- the enormity of its slender slopes and, at the turn of the hour, the beauty of its lights as the bulbs flickered to initiate the midnight, five- minute light show.  

Five months ago, that was me—my first time at Trocadero, gazing ahead as I watched the tower come alive. I had looked on, overcome with emotion for the moment I was experiencing and excitement for the unknown of the six months to come.

It’s special to pass the moment on—to give Michelle, in my own way, a hand in experiencing this incredible city for all that it can offer.  

________________

I returned home to find a Facebook message from a woman I had met at Chabad, a few weeks back. She invited me to a get together for the following Saturday night.

I responded with an enthusiastic yes.

The evening was lovely, spent among the company of Jewish, young professionals. A friend I had met at Shabbat, about a month prior, appeared halfway through the evening. And so I spent the rest of my night with him, a wonderful, 26- year- old who, as I’ve quickly discovered, seems to know everyone and their mother within the French, Jewish community.

He had interned in Haifa years back, spending the summer on his own before discovering a social scene the two weeks before his departure. He hadn't enjoyed his experience fully until the last two weeks, he said. And so he’s taken me under his wing, leaving me with a rundown of Jewish events I can tag along for.


I had ended off my workday, the afternoon before, with no plans for the weekend. And by that Saturday night, I had the next few days booked with people to see and things to do. 


I don’t know how it all works out, but by chance, by stroke of luck—it does. 
Somehow, the pieces fall into place. 

________________

I spent Sunday with Michelle-- taking her from Opera Garnier, to La Defense (Paris’s business district—an area I absolutely detest) and the Champs de Mars, for an afternoon picnic.  

We met back up that evening in Montmartre— the boys taking us for drinks on a rooftop bar overlooking the city, and dinner at a wonderful, salad restaurant.  

There was a slight strangeness to saying goodbye to Michelle—the day had flowed so naturally, so effortlessly. She commented on the fact we’d probably never see each other again—realistic, yet odd. Our time together had left me with a sense of fulfillment for helping add to her experience in Paris. And it was touching when she said she would do the same for another, should she come across a solo traveler.

I wanted to spend the time with Michelle partly influenced by the remnants of my feelings from my week alone in Italy. My other friend had experienced Haifa alone, aware of the difference it had made after discovering a social scene. We take the lessons we learn and apply them as we move forward.

And now, it’s one passed on to Michelle.

It all comes full circle.

_________________

I spent Thursday evening with Mariene, the British nanny, and her friends, enjoying the evening’s Fete de la Musque (Paris’s national celebration of music with artists playing all across central Paris. But actually, the one night Paris turns into a drunken, hot mess.) 

As for this past Saturday, I headed out to Torcy, a small, quaint city about a 35- minute, RER ride out of Paris. An American couple, both in their early 30s, had invited me for dinner to the apartment of the women they live with. They’re friends I had made in my French Grammar class— a lively, warm pair who had moved to Paris in attempt to learn French and pursue their work as missionaries. The woman they live with-- a lovely woman, originally from Madagascar-- joined us for dinner. Given she speaks no English, we spent our three hours at dinner, conversing in French.


The evening was wonderful-- well spent in good company.

__________________

It’s taken four months to build this base—however small—of Parisian friends. They’re not quite as interested in becoming friends with the visiting American, but once you’ve got a hand in helping break into their crowd, the process becomes a bit easier. Surprisingly, many are eager to practice their English, leaving our conversations a mixture of Frenglish.  

I like the scene—a good mix of young professionals, mostly in their late 20s or early 30s. We often talk about their careers, them always asking after my internship. I find it easier to just respond that I’m managing the British website of a French company. Which at the most basic level, sums up my weekday work quite well.

I hadn’t expected this social life—hadn’t expected having friends to text or a flow of new people to meet. Strangely, if this time in Paris were permanent, this would be my process of building a new life.

I love this life abroad—I love the experiences and opportunities it’s given me. I’m grateful for how it’s all somehow  fallen into place.

Yet beneath the excitement, there’s always that lingering feeling of missing the life I’ve left, however temporarily. I miss my friends and family, I miss the ease of American life and I miss being surrounded by English. But to leave this new life, it’s not going to be easy either.

Because this, I’m going to miss too.

You can't be torn between two worlds, two lives at the one time. Nor can you have it all.

And so my take away is the importance of appreciation: Appreciation for each moment, for none of it lasts forever. Savoring the taste and soaking in the experience.

I had left off my last blog post with my question as to what really defines home. In many ways, I see home as my life in D.C. But home sounds permanent, sounds as if it’s a never- changing base. And as for the permanence of life in D.C., well there’s no certainty to that either. Who knows where the future will take us all. 

And so appreciate the now, because life changes quickly. It's not easy to leave one life in lieu of a new one without turning back. There’s always that something you leave behind.

But it’s the something that provides the pieces to start back from, come your return. Unless there’s no return, and then it’s that something that reminds you of that the time well spent, of the moments well appreciated.  

I believe that no part of our experiences truly ends. Rather they build—build into the chapters of our stories, the lives we continue developing and the person we end up becoming. We keep on moving in life. And it’s this constant change that leaves our worlds refreshed, our experiences renewed.

For every little something left behind, I believe there’s always a greater something to be had ahead.

Jardin du Luxembourg during my lunch break

The main in church (as seen at the end of the road) in Torcy

Fete de la Musique

Thursday and Friday, in review

I’m really not one for providing daily itineraries of the everyday explorations. 

That all being said, however, last Thursday and Friday were exceptionally extraordinary days. And they, I believe, are well justified in deserving a bullet- pointed itinerary post.

Thursday

• The morning's metro car performance featured two men rapping/ using the pole for gymnastics/ blasting hip- hop instrumental music. The metro car transformed into the party car—a factor I found amusing as none of us possibly had a say in the matter. Not that I minded—the performance absolutely put a smile on my face. Not the same reaction from all seeing as a woman stormed past me in fierce agitation, muttering“l’horreur” (the horror), as I got off the metro. Such a typical French response. 

• Decided would get off at Chatelet to find a boulangerie, before heading to the Jardin de Tuilleries for lunch. Took a good 15 minute wander before finding a boulangerie. You can tell the quality of a boulangerie based on the line wrapped outside its front door. For this one, the queue stretched a good bit outside. I purchased my favorite—a camembert, butter baguette sandwich. 

• Walked along Rue de Rivoli before grabbing a bus to hurry the commute to the jardin. Sat in the garden for two hours, enjoying the warmth, the view, the atmosphere. It’s extraordinary to sit in a palace garden as if it were ordinary. Because it really is anything but.  

• Spent the following two hours in the Louvre. Veered clear of the Louvre’s tourist galleries (love the Louvre, love the art, detest the heaps of tourists). Found some art pieces we’ve been talking about in my art history class. I find seeing art pieces in person is about the same as seeing a celebrity in real life.

• The Louvre rendez-vous ended when I decided it was about time to find les toilettes. But obviously all inside the Louvre had to be out of order and the one in the Louvre’s shopping area cost 1.50 euro. And I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m paying the same amount to use the bathroom as I would to buy a pain au chocolat. Such a chutzpa. The solution: the McDonald’s along the Rue de Rivoli.

• Wandered along Rue Saint-Honoré. I love how calm the streets are along the first arrondissement (at least away from the touristy Rue de Rivoli). There's a French phrase that says lèche-vitrine (literally, lick the windows, actually: window shop. Me: drooling while staring down the exquisite fashion behind the windows). It's an abominably expensive area, but the fashion, colors and designs—ah, it’s magnificent.

• Found a Zara. Had no choice but to enter. Left with items, but it's not like it’s actually a permanent buy. I am absolutely allowed to make returns should I change my mind within the 30- day limit.

• Strolled down to La Madeleine, a church to commemorate the greatness of Napoleon’s army.

• Met up with friends for an evening picnic on the Champ de Mars, the grass patch right opposite the Eiffel Tower. You know, casual.

Friday

• Met a friend, (in town visiting) at Vavin, the metro stop next to my early morning grammar class. Took him to my 2^nd favorite boulangerie for the eggplant and cheese sandwich. Had lunch in the Jardin du Luxembourg. Took him on a tour of the Pantheon and a stroll to St. Michel to get patisseries from my 2^nd favorite place to get patisseries from. Ate in the garden next to where I have phonetics (right opposite the street from Notre Dame).

• Walked to Chatelet; parted ways at my metro stop. Met up with another friend in town. And off we went to the Paris Art Fair held in the Grand Palais.

• Recognized work by an artist I've seen at Miami’s Art Basel. The show was a commentary on the modern world, our loss of identity among the commercialization of our lives. My favorite piece was of a woman with her face painted with a Facebook home page. Modern art so often seems to trace back to identity: How much of who we are is a mere reflection of society and our environments? How much of our public virtual image represents our private, actual selves?

• Art fair: I was in my element. I love art. Although, I do find it difficult to sit through a two- hour Art History lecture without losing focus (um try sitting in a dark room for two hours, just staring at images), I love applying what I lean to new pieces I come across. I find it incredible how modern day artists refer to works of the past, how it always stems from a commentary, in some way, of the world and our lives. And I love observing how people respond to art because that too becomes a part of the piece.

• Walked to the Champs Elysees. Went, with a few friends, for drinks at a cafe just off the Champs Elysées. The five of us, all Jewish minus one, left for Chabad at 8.

• Met a mother and daughter at Chabad who I know the older daughter (not present at dinner) from camp and they know my best friend from school. Jewish geography actually never gets old.

• Left the evening talking to a group of Australians who have been backpacking for the last six months. There are always new people at Chabad each week, new faces and new stories. Although that would be a post on its own.