Tag: travel

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Sheep Lawnmowers in Paris

Named for the palace that no longer exists since succumbing to revolutionary forces of the Paris Commune, the Jardin des Tuileries stretches from the foot of the Louvre to the obelisk of Place de la Concorde and further to the Champs-Elysées.

Cooling my heels on a green park chair, basking in what I thought would be my last days in Paris (I was mistaken, happily), with the Louvre to my right and the carousel from the carnival ahead and the goats munching away. Continue reading “Sheep Lawnmowers in Paris”

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Can’t Travel Without: a Small Notebook and Pen

Indispensable during my travels was my small, purse-sized notebook where I wrote many of my thoughts, phone numbers of new friends and addresses of flats, restaurants and hotels, and still more musings, rants and suppositions. 

The first iteration was a staple-bound, craft paper, unlined beaut’. I picked it up at a street festival in Chicago, the Renegade Craft Fair, where, with two of my girlfriends, we traipsed up and down Division Street that summer weekend. In the notebook, I listed out the business of moving one’s life, chronicling, to use a favorite idiom, where all the bodies are buried. It was a pleasant reminder of home, all that I’d done to get on the road, and it fit right into my vintage leather purse from Detroit. Continue reading “Can’t Travel Without: a Small Notebook and Pen”

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Tokyo, Japan: Waiting in Line for Mass Transit

The funny thing about traveling to other countries, to paraphrase what the character Vincent Vega tells Jules Winnfield in director Quentin Tarantino’s 1994 Pulp Fiction, is noticing the little differences: Search and seizure based on reasonable suspicion, recreational marijuana, the use of the metric system, and, of course, Le Big Mac. Sidenote: I cannot believe this film will … Continue reading Tokyo, Japan: Waiting in Line for Mass Transit

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Chess explained, Centre Pompidou, Paris

Two people. Sixty-four squares.

We met while touring the Opéra and decided to hang out. His name was Joey and I decided he looked trustworthy enough to take my picture with my fancy camera. Because until now all the selfie photos I’d taken were of me in mirrors and I was pretty sure I could catch him in a foot race. He was Canadian, harmless.

Opéra Garnier, selfie.

We were just passing through Centre Pompidou, on our way to a classical concert. Funny about plans, how quickly they can change.

Centre Pompidou is a cultural center I’ve heard characterized by more than a few guides as a building with its insides turned out, its multicolored exoskeleton that’s hard to resist imagining myself climbing all over like a giant jungle gym. A 2D Salvador Dalí– esque mural peers over his fountain’s lidless eyes, faceless lips and makeshift futbol field. None seem to regard his absurd Shhhhh (or Chuuuuttt en français). Continue reading “Chess explained, Centre Pompidou, Paris”