Travel Advice: items you should never travel without

Since I've traveled a lot, I thought I would include a list of items that I've found absolutely invaluable in my travels. Hope it helps.

Item #1: British guy

Indispensable for looking at maps, actually reading the guidebook, doing math, carrying everything, fixing things, and taking pictures. Speaks Italian, French and English. Is also good at being tall and therefore easy to find in a crowd. Lends jacket in cold weather. Knows a lot about geography.

British guy is reading something sophisticated.

He's holding up the "games" section for me. 

Downsides: You might find yourself spontaneously signing up for a marathon or cycling through the West Bank. Might possibly be a spy. Steals french fries.

Item #2: Running shoes

You never know when you might stumble across a marathon and feel compelled to sign up for it. 

This is how you should tie your running shoes to your pack to ensure that 

they don't fall off while you're racing to catch a train in Germany. 

Downsides: You'll have to actually run the marathon. 

Item #3: Petzl Tikka Headlamp

Strobe setting. Enough said. Also you can be that annoying person reading on the plane while everyone else is trying to sleep. Go ahead. Set it on the highest setting.

I didn't have any photos of just the headlamp.

I tried to find a funny photo. I even googled "cats wearing Tikka headlamps." 

Nothing

Downsides: It's really hard to look sexy with a headlamp on. You'll inevitably blind people while trying to talk to them.

Item #4: Scarf

Useful for covering oneself while visiting religious sites, shielding off the sun, and escaping out the window of your hotel (I've never done this, and if I did I would probably use sheets because that's what they do in the movies. But you never know. Maybe a scarf would work). Can also double as a towel. 

It was windy. 

Downsides: Sometimes gets caught in taxi cab doors.

Item #5: Passport

Customs officials get irritated when you try to enter a country without one. Also it's no fun to travel without at least 2 or 3 items that you absolutely 100% cannot lose or you're screwed. 

For added excitement to any trip, try this: 1. Leave passports in hotel safe; 2. Forget about passports; 3. Check out of hotel; 4.Start to get on bus going to another town hours away; 5. Remember passports; 6. Sprint through town to hotel, retrieve passports, sprint back; 7. Leap dramatically onto bus with passports; 8. Spend next 10 minutes sweating profusely on parked bus while bus driver has 2nd cigarette break. 

This is what a spy's passport looks like. 

Downsides: Completely screwed if you lose it. For U.S. citizens: Hard to pretend you're Canadian while carrying travel documents emblazoned with USA on them. 

Item #6: At least 5 books

Plenty of reading material. You can finally catch up on the entire collected works of Dostoevsky.

I just wanted an excuse to reference one of

 my favorite contemporary writers

Downsides: You won't read them. You won't even look at them during the trip. You'll wonder why you even brought them. The answer to this question will elude you until you're packing for your next trip.

To Keep Myself From Sighing

Today is easy street.
A nonsensical lyrical bit of English
floating through my head
as I repot the cilantro plants and move the basil into the shade
 a glossy look to their leaves
as the sunlight filters through the trees
overhead
where well-fed cats hang in branches
casting wistful looks at the coy blackbirds
they will never catch

A call from another world
the coffee machine beeps
flinging my flips flops off
I wash the soil from my hands, the scent of cilantro
clings to me, a reminder of
the sticky rice paper of Vietnamese spring rolls
and the images of home
that move me.

To keep myself from sighing
over the weather beaten couches
of a San Francisco coffee house
I pour the milk,
and stir the sugar in.
The methodical movement of my body
reaching for the spoon
is comforting
and now only an overpowering need
remains
to sit
and sip Italian coffee
out of the chipped cat mug
rescued from the recesses
of a cupboard
overflowing with tupperware
and mismatched lids

A mesh chair in the garden.
And a book--good or not
it doesn't matter
my mind is
always
somewhere else 

Alpe d'Huez Round 3: How I Finally Conquered My Arch Nemesis

The most popular blog post on my blog--hands down--is the account of my first miserable attempt to cycle up Alpe d'Huez and then my struggle to make it down without killing myself.

At the expense of my brake pads, I managed to inch my way down 13.8 kilometers of 21 hairpin turns before coming to an ungraceful clattering stop in front of a group of Dutch cycling tourists. They smiled and waved as I spit a fly from my mouth and smeared grease stains across my face in an attempt to wipe away the tears and snot. When I pried my fingers from the handlebars in Bourg d'Oisans, I nearly sold my bike then and there.

I've spent the past year trying to piece my shattered dreams of being a competent cyclist back together. And while I still don't find spandex shorts especially flattering (I think it's the foam wedged into the crotch area that ruins it for me), I've wobbled my way up and down cols, valleys, cycling paths, and major interstates.

I've managed to get grease stains smeared across every item of cycling clothing I own and the tips of my white leather cycling shoes are scuffed and ripped. A screw is missing from the piece on my shoe that clips into my pedal. My helmet has scrapes, my water bottles are starting to mold, and I can almost pump up my tires without shrieking when my tires hiss air loudly and unexpectedly.

And last week, wearing my scuffed cycling shoes and grease stained cycling jersey, I managed to wobble my bike unsteadily up to the top of Alpe d'Huez.

Averaging 10 kilometers per hour and stopping once to set the world record for inhaling a Snickers bar, I pushed myself and my Trek bike to the top. Bourg d'Oisans fell away and became a series of flickering lights and small houses and the silence was only occasionally shattered by the sound of a car engine suddenly zipping past in a flurry of exhaust.

I cheered myself on each time I passed a sign marking the turns. 21. 20. 19. 18. 17. When I hit the 9th turn, I knew I was going to make it up. "Halfway there, girl" I muttered in a very different sort of pep talk from the one I had uttered last year in an attempt to convince myself I wasn't going to meet my death by cycling down.

With three kilometers to go, British guy came flying down to meet me. As the temperatures began to drop with the sun and the silence was only interrupted by my heaving breathing, his familiar orange jacket was a very welcome sight and the offer of a Snickers bar to boost my energy was even more welcome.

Spirits renewed and sugar reserves restored, I pedaled steadily up the last few kilometers. When I rounded the bend and saw the sign for Alpe d'Huez, I felt like shouting it out to the world. Or you know, updating my Facebook status.


Nikki Hodgson 21 hairpin turns. 13.8 kilometers. A 7.9 % average grade. 1071 meter elevation gain. Made it up to the top of L'Alpe d'Huez for the first time yesterday. Third time's a charm :)

Mourning Lili Cat

In 2008, in the midst of the three-week war in Gaza, a friend wrote to lament the fact that an opossum had been carelessly struck by a car in the middle of a Southern California residential neighborhood. The driver, she wrote, hadn’t even stopped to see if the opossum was okay (it wasn’t).

When I read her e-mail, I was in my hotel room in the West Bank flipping between Al-Jazeera and CNN while the Israeli jets flew low and fast overhead. Whether they were routine air exercises or part of the military operation in Gaza was impossible to say, but it was unsettling nonetheless. As I read over my friend’s rant about the opossum, I scoffed and felt an unfamiliar wave of judgment rising up within my chest. Who the hell cares about an animal when people are being slaughtered just as cruelly around the world?

I bit my tongue and simply ignored that section of her e-mail, but despite being an animal lover myself, I could not comprehend how someone could spend so much energy worrying about an opossum or a cat or a dog when there were so many crimes committed against humans on a daily basis.

But then Lili cat died. Just after wrapping herself around my ankles and gazing at me with bright green eyes, her tiny body was hit by a car rounding a bend too quickly in the middle of the French countryside. There was a resounding thud and her crumpled body was thrown to the side of the road in a matted heap of black fur and blood. The driver didn’t even stop.

Her owner, my friend, cast a devastated look at her small form and muttered “merde” under his breath as he turned his children away from the scene and went in search of a shovel.

Lili cat was placed in a cardboard box; her stiff tail sticking at an odd angle was all I saw as they carried her away to be buried. An impromptu cross was hammered together and her name was written with a Sharpie pen. Lili.

My friend’s five year-old daughter took my hand and somberly lead me forward to the grave under the bushes. "To say good-bye," she said. As I stood there, my heart ached for things that would never be. Lili’s sleek form stalking lizards in the grass while her kittens stumbled over each other in the kitchen, tripping unevenly on their tiny paws, their ears flattened down and their eyes sealed shut.

Yesterday I had run my hand over Lili’s swollen belly, imagining the little kittens that would soon be running about this renovated farmhouse. A purr rumbled through her body and she nudged her head against my hand. Lili cat. I heard the life being taken from her body, and now I cannot get the sound out of my head. I want to erase it, undo it, and bring Lili cat back.

I feel reasonably silly mourning a cat. In the grand scheme of things, my mourning energy could be better spent on more devastating acts of injustice.

It just seems ridiculous to mourn the loss of a small black cat when wars are being waged, natural resources pillaged and destroyed, opportunities snatched from most and handed to a few. I would feel ashamed to look someone in the eye who had actually lost something substantial in their life and tell them I was regretting the loss of a cat. 

 Still, when I think of Lili cat bounding through the garden and attacking my feet as I harvested berries and watered the herbs, my heart sinks lower in my chest. We will never do that again. 

I miss her. 

Halfway between here and there

Sitting in the garden with my feet up on the chair and my favorite drink in hand (half lemonade, half beer), I watch the sunset, gazing at the trees and the swarming masses of gnats illuminated by the beams of sunlight. It looks as if the bugs are trapped within these narrow streams of light, but I know that it is only my perception, or rather lack thereof, that gives the appearance of isolated swarms. In reality they are all around.

The 11 year old version of myself is nudged awake by this image. I can see myself running through the grass, trying to catch fireflies in the long evenings of Missouri summers. My Grandmother is stretched out on her lawn chair doing a word cross puzzle and my Grandfather is marching about the garden with his precise step; his pant legs tucked neatly into his socks and a floppy canvas hat looking decidedly out of place on the head of an otherwise meticulously dressed Englishman.

My Grandmother has been dead for nearly 10 years. My Grandfather nearly 4. But my daily life is still wrapped up in the memories of our lives together.

I am going back to the Middle East in a matter of weeks. Though it's only for the summer, it's filled me up to the brim with emotions for which I cannot quite find the words.

So I sit on this wrought-iron chair watching the stray cats romp through the tall grass of an unruly garden. I breathe everything in deeply. The trees and their delicate star-shaped leaves. The honeysuckle plant that British guy just planted over the weekend; its vines have been pushed against the trellis. I sip my beer and try to wrap my head around the mixture of yearning, excitement and fear rushing through my veins causing an impossible churning in my heart. That conflicted mass of emotion that comes from a desire to go, but a reluctance to leave.

France has become my home. I feel mixed up in it, my whole life tangled up in its complexities, idiosyncrasies and simple beauty. Like being tangled in the sheets and wrapped up in the arms of a lover, not ready for sleep, but still reluctant to get up and disturb the cozy equilibrium of two people wrapped up in each other.

But the Middle East is where I came to terms with myself. Somewhere between Arabic and Hebrew; the checkpoints and the confusion; the simplicity of a starry night on a warm rooftop and the complexity of an enduring conflict...I uncovered elements of myself I never knew existed.

And they were good.

10 Most Memorable Travel Moments

Food and water station at Toubkal marathon. 

1. Germany. Long summer days spent lazily dangling our legs into the water while sipping beer. I try to explain s’mores. My friends find marshmallows so I can demonstrate this American campfire phenomenon.

2. Netherlands. Largest student relay race. 4:00 a.m. I am shaken away and handed a jersey. I greet the dawn running through the low-lying hills of the Dutch countryside.

3. Mexico. Tarot card reading in the middle of the jungle. The monkeys howl from the trees and the candles cast shadows against the wall of the palapa.

4. West Bank Checkpoint. Israeli soldiers serenade us with  “Hotel California.” The stars hang above the hills and their voices echo back. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. 

5. Istanbul. Stuck in a hotel elevator. Laughing deliriously when the concierge tells us to stay there while he searches for help.

6. The Dead Sea. My Palestinian friends scatter to the shore, eyes blinking wildly at the silver expanse of salty water stretching all the way to Jordan.  They had never seen it.

7. Jordan. Sitting in a Bedouin camp watching the shadows stretch across red rocks as camels pad heavily into the desert.

8. USA. Greyhound bus. I pull out a map and eight of my new best friends huddle around me as we trace our route across the country.

9. France. Hiking through the Alps in summer, stopping at mountain huts for homemade meals shared with fellow hikers.

10. Morocco. Spontaneously signing up for a mountain marathon up North Africa’s highest peak. 

This post has been entered in the Grantourismo and HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition. 

Story up at Women's Adventure Magazine

Boots, Backpacks and....Bears? Oh no. Swing by and check it out! 

Or...you can just listen to this song. It always makes me happy. 

Happy Thursday! 

Wordless Wednesday: My editor is ruthless...

Project Do One Thing Every Day That Scares You, Day 3

On Thursday evening British guy and I set off to visit a friend of his who lives about 60 kilometers from Grenoble. Because it was already dusk when we set off, we elected to take the train most of the way there and then cycle the remaining distance to this friend's restored farmhouse near the Vercors. Except I forgot my light and had to cycle in the dark (Very bad idea. Don't do this.) So that was, um, exciting. To say the least.

We spent a lovely evening celebrating the birthday of an adorable little 4-year old girl. Man alive, that girl has got spunk. You can see it in her eyes that she'll never let fear dictate her life. I love it when I can add a 4 year old to my list of inspirational people.

The next morning British guy and I packed our things and set off to ride the 60 kilometers back to Grenoble. Except that he was going over the Vercors and I hadn't brought very warm cycling clothes which meant that the descent would be freezing and I would be a very unhappy camper. British guy however was set on that route so that left me to cycle an alternative route by myself.

gulp.

Here's what was running through my head:
1. I am going to get lost. I have a terrible sense of direction. Terrible. I would get lost in a paper bag. I honestly don't know how I manage to get anywhere. If I have a map, I'm generally okay but without one...forget it. I'll end up in Spain before I realize I've made a wrong turn.
2. I'm going to get a flat tire and I won't be able to change it. Embarrassing. I'll have to hitch a ride back to Grenoble (hey, it's been done before).
3. I'm going to crash in the middle of some town square in front of everyone (also been done before).

The cop-out option was just to take the train back, but....I decided to take on the challenge. I really wanted to go out for a nice long cycle, and there isn't always going to be someone to go with so...off I went.

And it was beautiful. Spectacularly gorgeous morning, nobody in sight, and crisp cool weather. I stopped at a bakery along the way and picked up a pain au chocolate which I ate alongside the river on the cycle path heading back to Grenoble.

I made good time and felt really empowered for having taken on an adventure that I wanted to do, but had been initially discouraged from taking on because of fear.

Nikki: 3
Fear: 0

Wordless Wednesday: Oh California

Where you can order an avocado as a side order...

Le Bonnet de Calvin. Because hiking is fun

When British guy asked if I wanted to go hiking with his friend over the weekend, I was intrigued but also apprehensive.

"Is it a technical hike?"

"Yes, 3 or 4 of you will probably die."

"That sounds right up my alley."

"Ok, I sent an e-mail telling him you would get in contact with him."

"Wait, I have to send him an e-mail?"

"Yes, that's the idea."

"But....but...in French?"

"No, Chinese."

Making dry witty comments seems to be a British national past time.

After stalling for two days I finally worked up the courage to e-mail British guy's friend. You can read about that here.

If I'd known that I was going to have to wake up at 6:00 am, I might not have signed up. Luckily I didn't know that until it was too late to back out. I'm not really a morning person. Or a night person for that matter. I'm more of a middle of the day person.

At 6:00 am I leapt out of bed, excited to start the day. Haha. Yeah right. I hit the snooze button about four times on both of the (count 'em two) alarms that I set. Then I rolled out of bed and proceeded to put my underwear on backwards and my t-shirt on inside out. I'm still working on this whole getting dressed thing.

I staggered out of the apartment with my thermos of tea and made my way onto the tram heading toward the university to meet the rest of the group.

We hiked up to the top of this mountain. It has a name. A very good French name....that I cannot remember. (Edit: I've just been informed that it's Le Bonnet de Calvin. I knew that.)

Wait...we're going up there?! Let me look at the map!

Looking for Mens? Look no further. Ha. Ha. Incidentally I was the only one in the group who found this funny. Where's another native English speaker when you need one?

Some encouragement along the way....

View from just below the summit.

 The last climb up to the summit.

Almost there...

The view.

More view.

The beginning of the descent. The more conventional members of the group elected to walk down. But who wants to be conventional when the alternative is a homemade sled? Yeah. Me neither.

Oh. Sorry. I thought this was the photo shoot for the cover of Outside Magazine.

....

Should I stop posing now?

Project Do One Thing Every Day That Scares You, Day 2

Yesterday's challenge was to send an e-mail in French to sign up for a potentially uncomfortably awkward social situation. I sent my e-mail, and then rewarded myself with an Oreo. I'm big on self-rewarding. Especially with Oreos. By 8:30 pm I still hadn't heard anything, and thought maybe the hike had been cancelled or there was no more space left, and that I would be off the hook. But then I received this e-mail:

Ok pour toi. Par contre, le rdv est avancé à 7h30 au local de l'ESMUG, vers la piscine universitaire.
Tu vois où c'est?
Si problème téléphone moi <---(HAHA. Telephone someone. In French. That's funny)


In case you didn't get that, it basically translates to: Ok for you to come. Meet at 7:30

Half excitement and half apprehension, I packed my stuff and set my alarm clock for 6:00 am (gulp).

Which leads me to today's one thing that scares me: go hiking with a group of people I'd never met before AND be required to speak French the entire time. Does that count for two? I think it should. No? Fine.

Here's why it scared me:

1. I'd have to get up at 6:00 am. Just kidding. Sort of.
2. I would have to speak French. The potential for making an idiot of myself substantially increases when I'm required to speak French.

And aside from a minor fear of falling to my death, that was it really.

Hm. Interesting that my fear of speaking French seems to supersede my fear of falling to my death.

I'll write about it in more detail tomorrow, but facing up to my anxiety paid off. I had an amazing time with some great people, enjoyed France's spectacular mountains, and stumbled my way through enough French to satisfy myself that yes, it is slow going, but I am learning a lot.

So today's tally is:
Me: 2
Fear: 0

Project Do One Thing Every Day That Scares You

Do one thing every day that scares you. -Eleanor Roosevelt

Truth be told, I'm afraid of most things. There's your standard fears: flying, heights, spiders, death. You know, the usual. Then there are my own personal fears....falling while cycling, falling while skiing, falling while climbing, just generally falling, making mistakes,  calling people, social situations, people judging me, speaking a language that isn't my own, not doing anything meaningful with my life, not being intelligent enough, good enough to do anything worthwhile. I battle with it constantly. Some days I'm more victorious than others. Small victories really. Other days I feel like staying in bed safely under my covers. Other people live safe lives. Why can't I? Because I'm afraid not to take risks...afraid that if I don't face up to my fears I will "face my death with the realization that I have not lived." (Thoreau)

So. I've decided to do one thing every day that scares me. Nothing new, I know. But I'm going to blog about it. See what happens. Document the process. Maybe it will be depressing, maybe it will be enlightening. One thing is for sure though and that's that it will definitely be entertaining.

Let's get this show started.

Today I have to write an e-mail in French to sign up for a hike that is taking place tomorrow. See, British guy has gone skiing with his friends on a trip that is way beyond my skiing level. To prevent me from sitting on the couch all weekend eating cheese and watching reruns of Friends, he got in contact with a friend of his who is part of a mountaineering club. The mountaineering club is going on a hike tomorrow and British guy asked if I could tag along. Now all I have to do is write and say that I do want to go and arrange a time to be picked up. That's the situation, and this is what it makes me want to do:

Please note: I did not do this to the cat (Oddball is his name). He wedged himself in-between the two pillows. Probably because he had to write something in French and would really have preferred to sit on the couch watching reruns of Friends. 

Here are the things I'm afraid of:
1. Potentially awkward social situation. I don't know any of these people.
2. Writing an e-mail in French. My command of the French language is shaky at best. Sure, I've improved a lot over the last few months, but I still feel like a complete idiot whenever I try to write/say anything. I could write in English, but that's sort of copping out isn't it?
3. Tomorrow I will have to speak French. All day. With people I don't know. It will be full of extreme awkwardness.

Cop-out option:
Don't write the e-mail and stay home instead.

Why I don't like that option: It's lame. I want to go hiking.

Ok. On-y-va.

I just sent an e-mail in the most rudimentary French EVER saying that I would like to go tomorrow.

I'll let you know how it goes. Funny how empowering doing such a small thing can be. I know most people don't think twice about these sorts of thing, but when you're afraid....something inconsequential often seems impossible.

Here's the recap:

• Time it took to getting around to sending e-mail: 2 days
• Time it took to actually write one-line e-mail: 5 minutes
• Time it took to work up the courage to send one-line e-mail: 15 minutes

My Cycling Saga Continued...

Today as I was comfortably plowing my way through a bag of cashews (I acknowledge that I have a problem) and trying to figure out what I was going to eat for lunch, British guy suggested that we take advantage of the warm, sunny weather by going cycling.

My initial response is less than enthusiastic. I flop myself on the bed as he begins to assemble his cycling gear.

"Where exactly are you going to cycle?"

"By the university. In the sun."

"Are there a lot of hills?

"There's one climb, yes."

"Is it a big climb? How steep is it?"

"Not as steep as Alpe d'Huez."

"That's like saying the Sahara isn't as hot as hell."

"It isn't?"

"How long are you going to go for?"

"An hour or so."

"How fast are you going to go? Is there going to be a lot of traffic? What are the road conditions like? How cold will it be? Are you going to eat lunch before or after? What are you going to wear?"

This is what I sound like when I am attempting to gauge the likelihood of a) sheer mind-numbing exhaustion; b) dramatic and humiliating crash in the town square; and c) death.

You'd ask a lot of questions too.

British guy pulls my bike out of the gear room. (Yes, we have a gear room.)

"Why don't you just put your bike together and get your cycling clothes on."

Heaving a dramatic sigh, I grab my cycling shorts and try my best to re-assemble my bike before British guy rolls his eyes and takes over. I'm not very good at that sort of thing.

The last time I had to put my bike together, I asked British guy if it mattered which tires went in the front and which went in the back. If you don't get this at first, go find a bike. See the chain? See the tire with the cassette on it? (I just want you all to know that I just googled: "What is the thing called on a bike that the chain goes on." It's a cassette). Anyway, turns out it does matter. Who would've thought? (Probably anyone with a functioning brain....)

British guy replaced my pedals because if you will read here, you will see that I've had a bit of trouble with the new pedals I purchased. I fell over last week because I couldn't unclip in time. Luckily I'm used to this sort of excruciating embarrassment and it didn't phase me. But British guy replaced my pedals anyway.

After getting ourselves sorted (re: British guy assembles my bike) we ride out past the university and along the river, the mountains rising up in all directions and the rolling hills speckled with church steeples and farmhouses. We veer off of the river path and cycle through a small town before we begin climbing. British guy surges ahead. We've reached a tacit agreement that he goes on ahead because it is physically impossible for him to cycle as slowly as I do and I don't want to get myself all sweaty cycling as fast as he does. Just kidding. There are no steroids known to man that would enable me to keep up with British guy. I've looked into it.

Occasionally the silence around me is broken by cyclists overtaking me or zooming downhill, giving a quick nod and a sharp Bonjour before whizzing around the corner and out of sight. I wonder why on Earth these people are out for a ride at 1:00pm on a weekday. Don't they have jobs? Maybe they're bloggers.

And then the silence returns. The cityscape falls away as I climb and I can see Grenoble spreading out beneath me. My heart turns into a gooey mess. Grenoble does that to me. The sound of my own breathing is echoing in my ears, my heart is racing from the exertion and my legs are tired from a week of hard workouts. Church bells clang from somewhere above me and occasionally I hear a cow lowing. A small dog waits in the shadows of an old farmhouse before suddenly deciding that I am threatening. He runs after me barking excitedly at my rear tire.

Up above I can see a red dot moving quickly down the road. It's British guy descending. I stop my bike on the side of the road, managing to successfully unclip from my pedals instead of my usual method of wobbling to a halt and then slowly falling over into the grass. My life is essentially a testament to The Three Stooges or [insert any slap-stick comedy where actors repeatedly walk into things, fall over, hurt themselves, etc].

Due to a little thing I like to call gravity,
 this is usually what happens when I get on my bike

I consider myself lucky that British guy finds this amusing. Whenever I bite my lip and wobble unsteadily downhill on my bike with a death-grip on my brakes and a less than orthodox technique, British guy gives me a few pointers, but mostly I think he finds the whole business entertaining.

Today on the ride back home along the river, British guy tries (again) to teach me how to draft. I've gotten to the point of just barely being able to keep up with his "easy" pace, but I am so scared of getting too close and causing a crash that instead of being inches away from his rear wheel, I'm usually at least two feet away and thereby defeating the entire purpose of drafting.

"You'll get it eventually," British guy reassures me.

Yeah. Right. Watch out Lance...

Wordless Wednesday: When Camels Shop at H&M

"I can't believe we showed up to work wearing the same blanket. "

Retail Therapy: Men in Tights (tight tights)

"I'm going to a yoga retreat this weekend. In the Redwood forest"

He smiles shyly, and my heart warms to this tall, lanky man with a frizzy beard and a thin grey ponytail who has just stepped into this small outdoor retail shop situated in the heart of California's notoriously eccentric Humboldt County.

"I know that it's short notice, but I'm leaving tomorrow and I really need some appropriate clothing for the retreat. Do you have men's yoga clothing?"

"Well..."

I trail off. I don't want to disappoint him, but the truth is that while we stock a wide variety of women's yoga clothing, there isn't much in the way for men.

I head to the men's section of the clothing department and start pulling climbing pants off the rack.

"These aren't specifically designed for yoga, but since they have a loose fitting cut and a gusseted crotch, they should work just fine."

But he isn't paying attention to me. Halfheartedly pulling at the leg of the pair of pants I'm holding up, his eyes are roving the women's section of the clothing department. Dropping the pants he walks to the women's sale rack and grabs a pair of extra-small lilac Patagonia tights.

"These. These will work perfectly!"

His eyes light up as he circles the rack excitedly, pushing hangers from side to side. Pulling a matching flower print tank top with a built-in bra from its hanger, he turns to me. "I'll try these on. Can you please unlock the dressing room?"

"I....um."

Faltering, I glance around desperately for my manager, but she's nowhere in sight.

"These pieces are a lovely selection and perfect for yoga, but I'm concerned that perhaps they are not the correct size for you."

He mulls over my diplomatic attempts.

"So, you think I should grab a small too? Just in case?"

"Is there an extra-large?"

"Oh, I think that will be too big. I need this to be very close-fitting. It's for yoga."

Reluctantly, I turn to grab the keys for the dressing room and he slips in to try his selections on.

Out of morbid curiosity I hover nearby. I can hear the seams splitting one by one as he stuffs himself into tights that would be difficult for my 5'2" frame to slip into.

There is a tapping from the inside of the dressing room. "Miss?"

I freeze.

The door creaks open and he pokes his head out. "Can I get your opinion?"

And suddenly there he is in full form sporting lilac tights that he has not quite managed to get over his hips and a matching floral tank top that stops just below his chest.

He circles hesitantly.

I stare back just as hesitantly.

"I'm just not sure about this. I think it would be better if it were a one-piece, don't you?"

"Undoubtedly, sir."

"Do you have any leotards?"

"I'm afraid not. We're primarily a climbing and backpacking shop, but there is a dance store just down the road. They might have what you're looking for."

"Oh! I hadn't thought of that. I'll go there next. Thank you. It's too bad because I love this floral print. What's the company? Patagonia? You should tell them to consider making leotards with this print."

"I'll tell them."

I watch him walk down the street before turning my attention to the ruined tights. Filling out the "defective merchandise" form, I hesitate momentarily above the line "Why is this product being returned?"

Customer insisted on trying them on despite being obviously too large for said tights. Suggests that Patagonia design men's leotard in this print.


Sincerely,


Humboldt County 

Wordless Wednesday: Cheese + A Few Words

Whenever I reach for the cheese at various dinner tables across France, people look at me quizzically, even a little incredulously. "But...you are American. Americans don't eat good French cheese. You eat [insert look of utter disdain and contempt] cheddar."

Au contraire mes amis, au contraire. I mean, we do eat cheddar (and good cheddar is delicious), but we love other cheese too. At least, in California we do. I snapped these photos in a Bay Area grocery store the last time I was home.


Mmmm, cheese.

Finding Home in France

As I step into the boulangerie, the baker flashes me a smile of recognition. There aren't many other Americans waltzing in every morning and mangling the pronunciation of everything in sight.

With my baguette under my arm and a pastry in hand, I stuff the change into my pocket and walk down the street to the farmer’s market.

Moving to Grenoble wasn’t a conscious decision. One day passed and then another and suddenly seven months have swept past me and I'm still here, slinging a basket over my arm and parading from shop to shop in preparation for dinner.

 I brush the flaky bits of pastry from my jacket and swallow the last bite of my chausson aux pommes before pulling out my shopping list.

 Tomates, courgettes, champignons. I load them all into my basket.

The cashier, engulfed in a Gore-Tex jacket, stamps her feet to keep warm as she weighs my stack of misshapen tomatoes.

C'est tout?

Directing my gaze to the rounds of cheese behind her I purchase 200 grams of comté because it's easy to say.

Later as I’m slicing tomatoes and dancing to Serge Gainsbourg, my friends burst into the kitchen, twirling around and theatrically singing along. I smile.

My France is not the Eiffel Tower or the walls of Avignon. It’s the baker grinning as I mispronounce yet another French word, my friends rifling through my cupboards to find the wine glasses, 200 grams of my favorite cheese carefully wrapped in paper. A litany of small beautiful moments that create a familiar space: home. 

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition. 

Wordless Wednesday: Breakfast!

The U.S. 

The UK 

Italy. What? 

France.
...
Just kidding 

France. For Real. 

Germany 

Morocco 

Palestine (if you're me...) 

France: Awkward Bike Moment #6,702

Today while walking through downtown Montpellier, British guy and I watched a woman roll past us on her bike. As she made her way effortlessly across the tram tracks, British guy turned to me with a smirk on his face.

"Look, she didn't fall over." 

Glaring at him, I tried to suppress a smile. 

He was referencing an experience I'd had last summer. I'd just purchased my new-to-me road bike, and I was still getting the hang of, well, riding it. 

I'd hopped on the train with my road bike in Geneva to meet British guy for a weekend of cycling in the mountains around Grenoble. He met me at the station and then we jumped on our bikes to ride back to his apartment. 

Wearing a light summer dress and flimsy sandals, getting on my bike was anything but an elegant affair. With one hand on my dress and my knees clamped together to try and keep the fabric from sliding up, I did my best to keep up with British guy who was whizzing through traffic like some sort of crazed video game character. Crash Bandicoot comes to mind.

Darting around cars and slipping neatly into the small pockets in the mid-day traffic, I was just barely managing to keep up with British guy. And then we started crossing the tram lines. With narrow grooves just wide enough to snag the tire of a road bike, they're a potential hazard for the novice cyclist. 

We cross our first set of tram tracks. No problem.

Second set of tram tracks. No problem. 

British guy turns to me at a traffic light. "You're doing well going over the tram tracks. Sometimes beginners have a difficult time and get their tires stuck in the tracks." 

This hadn't even occurred to me. 

Tram Tracks aka The culprit. 

Third set of tram tracks going through Victor Hugo square. I turn my bike to ride over the tracks and the next thing I know I'm heading straight for the pavement, headfirst and with no time to stick out my arm to brace myself. I can already hear the collective gasp of everyone around me. 

Hitting the ground with a resounding thwack I don't even have time to register what has happened before I'm bounding to my feet and trying to assure everyone in broken French that I'm perfectly alright...I think. Adrenaline is surging through my veins and as British guy wheels his bike around to see what all the commotion is about, all I feel is sheer humiliation. 

I pull my dress down, checking the girls to see that they're still restrained behind the flimsy fabric, and wipe dirt smudges off my face. My hands are covered in grease and all I succeed in doing is smearing grease across my face and dress. My attempts at being sexy are completely and utterly thwarted. I look a mess, am burning red from the shame, and I have a mild concussion to boot. 

Great. 

British guy helps me drag my bike to the sidewalk. He looks concerned and then amused when he realizes that I'm fine. He helps me to pop the chain back in place and suggests that we walk to a café.

I sit down and British guy follows with a glass of water for me and a coffee for him. I look at him sheepishly.

"I can't believe I fell off my bike in front of the whole town."

British guy grins. "I can."