Dog with Two Bones

Dog has this bone. It's the most important thing in the world to him; he carries it everywhere he goes. One day he goes down to the water and he sees another dog with a bone reflected in the surface. It's identical to him and his bone, and he wants that bone too. So he opens his mouth to grab it, and his bone falls into the water and disappears. It's gone. And he's left standing there, looking at himself, and he has nothing. Nothing at all.

But...

If the dog could learn, if the dog knew he could have only one bone, and he could do it all over again, which bone would he want?

Back to the Same Old

I brought a camera to capture the new Boston. Some things surely must've changed over the past year, right?

Wrong.

Stepping off Back Bay into the neighborhoods where I once lived and often shopped, I knew exactly where everything lay. It was, in fact, exactly as it'd always been. Only the window dressings changed, and there was a new Dunkin Donuts.

We roamed the streets I used to roam. We stopped at my favorite tea shop. We paused to admire the harbor and the crooked streets and the blooming cherry blossoms. Boston, as always.

I had craved Boston for many reasons: friends, family, familiarity, fun. It's safe and secure and I love it. I also have a thing about hairdressers, and in Boston, I found the first hairdresser I liked.

To me, going to the hairdresser is no different than going to the dentist. It's necessary, you feel better after the fact, but the whole process is painful and boring. Who wants to force awkward small talk with a stranger who's operating on you with due diligence?

Christine, however, was different. She was fun and talented; I not only liked what she did to my hair, I liked hanging out with her. I waited far too long to get my hair cut or colored just so I could do so with her.

And this was the first change I encountered in Boston: Christine quit.

But the hair was in desperate need of attention, so I found someone else to take up the charge. Within hours, my tangled mass of long multi-colored curls was transformed into a short crop of straight brown silk. Change #2.

I emerged needing something really familiar: My old haunt. My old lounge. My favorite bar.

I walked in and the owner dropped his jaw and opened his arms. He held me close, brought my favorite wine, and sat me down to hear stories and share his own. I smiled. This, my friends, is home. This is being welcomed back to the familiar. This is fun.

And thus a seven hour spree began, surrounded by friends and family. Some things really never change.

In Defense of Scars

An entire industry emerged to research, develop, manufacture, produce and brand cosmetic products that reduce the visual appearance of scars. Why, I ask, would anyone want to do such a thing?

I've long loved the adages "Chics dig scars" and "Scars build character." For me, scars tell stories. Every time I run my finger over the strange marks on my skin, I lose myself in the memory of how it first appeared. Good, bad, funny, whatever--each of these "imperfections" emerged as I adventured and misadventured my way to where I am now. When I look at them, I am immediately brought to the moment: to the feel of the air on my skin, the smells that surrounded me at the time, the voices and conversations and sounds that followed each incident.

Some are old but precious, like the chicken pox scar on my nose (age four), the welt on my leg from surgery (age 10), the curved reminder of ankle reparation (age 16), the scratch on my forearm from a particularly hilarious game of beer pong (age 18), and the tiny dash from the first time Tequila and I swam together (age 20). These are the ones that refuse to leave, and I welcome their lingering presence.

The newer ones worry me. I watch them anxiously as their pink or white stories fade more and more into the golden olive of their surrounding skin. India is captured in these marks--my foot holds the story of running a motorcycle into a wall, my shin tells the tale of fall off the back of a scooter. There's also the drawn out line across my arm from some strange Indian rash, and a tiny dot on my palm from an over anxious Jack Bauer. Each brings me back to the heavy Indian heat or cool grit-stained breeze, to the smell of the forest or the village waste, to the anxious laughter of whomever was with me.

It makes me sad as I explore my appendages and realize Paris left no physical mark on me. My adventure there is over--for now--and what do I have to show for it?

And that's a wrap!

Some times it's just easy.

I put as much of my life as possible in four bags without them being obnoxiously overweight. I mailed a package that cost more than its contents, but there was no line and the people at the post office were unusually friendly. I had breakfast with a  dear friend who then helped me set up Tequila's cage. 

The real question was how to get these two large bags, giant bag and excited dog to the airport. I had dreamed up this complicated plan of getting a taxi for the stuff and taking that to the airport, while either my friend or I takes the RER with Tequila and we rendezvous somewhere within the monstrous maze of Charles de Gaulle-Roissy. Then my friend said, "Why don't you just take everything in the cab?"

"Well," I responded, thinking of drunken adventures with Tequila in Boston, "no cab will take a dog."

"Catherine, it's Paris."

So I pulled out my laptop, searched "dog" "taxi" "paris" and discovered Dog Taxi in Paris. Suddenly everything from pooch to carry ons were loaded into a van and we were off to the airport.

At CDG, there was a cart mysteriously waiting by the parking spot the taxi took. The driver, with whom I bonded over our brief journey, loaded cage and luggage onto the cart. With Tequila by my side, I marched into the airport.

The woman at check-in proclaimed herself the dog expert, having checked-in two smaller pups earlier. We chatted about her life, my adventures, our respective trips to Mauritius and elsewhere. Within minutes we were BFFs. When my bags proved to be overweight, she ignored the extra kilos. When she looked at the weights and fares for dogs, she frowned and pretended Tequila too was a small dog. "It will only take 45 minutes to put the dog on the plane, so come back at 12:15. Otherwise, you two are free to walk around!"

And thus we did. I met Tequila's co-passanger, a boxer whose owner is an interior designer splitting his time between Boston and Paris. I had a delicious lunch with a man who was wearing a Red Sox baseball cap.

"It is baseball season," I thought with a smile. I could almost smell the peanuts and beer of Fenway; I could see the perfectly tamed florescent green grass contrasting the neatly trimmed mud red diamond within. I imagined running my fingers over the baseball's stitches. "How are the boys doing?" 

When it was time to board the ship, I dropped Tequila off as arranged and found my window seat. I didn't have to worry whether Tequila made it or not; her barks echoed through the near empty aisles. (Ok, so there were several minutes of tension as I wondered if she'd cry for six straight hours, but the good girl that she is settled quietly quickly.) I befriended the cute attendant with glowing blue eyes, sprawled out across three seats, and watched Paris disappear beneath me. 

Next?

Last but not least, arrival proved surprisingly easy as well. Tequila started barking as we were landing, so I knew she survived the trip in fine form. The bags came quickly. The customs agents didn't bother me because I had an obnoxiously loud animal in a cage with me. And upon exiting, I discovered my family waiting with Dunkin Donuts iced coffee and reservations for the better burger joint in America. 

Welcome back.

On to the next challenge...

I remember, vaguely, when I found Paris difficult. Those were the days where I wrote about the absurdities of my life, when each day was an exciting challenge to overcome. But those days don't exist anymore.

Yes, sometimes the French can be impossible... like last night, when the first cab driver refused to take me and we fought in heated French about why I wouldn't be his fare. Yes, sometimes the city deals debilitating surprises... like when I walked into the metro and discovered it'd been closed without warning. Yes, the language barrier still exists... like when I asked questions at a local restaurant and the server laughed at me. And yes, things still are inefficient and/or unreliable... like the failing internet, self-credit-eating phones, and ridiculous banking rules.

But it's easy now. I already encountered the deepest challenges and found somewhat appropriate solutions; the struggles I have yet to discover or am in the process of dealing with suddenly don't seem so intimidating. I know which metro lines lead where and what streets I need to walk anywhere. I'm so confident, in fact, I gave my map away. I even give tours and make damn good recommendations for visitors. Somehow, on some level, I've adjusted... which means it's time to go.

"So you're leaving?" asked a friend when I told her of my epiphany. "But you LOVED Paris!"

"I still do," and it's true. Sometimes I walk these streets and am awed by the age, architecture, magic, je ne sais quoi of this city. "I just have nothing left to do here."

In the fall I had school, a good job, attentive family, good friends, and the ongoing project of learning Paris. The school turned out to be a poor fit, so I quit. I'd been with the company for four years, so it was time to move on. My family realized I had adjusted and no longer needed their pampering, so they returned to their busy lives. My friends will be scattered all around the world by August. And I read enough books and lost myself enough times to learn the city sufficiently.

Plus, after India, living in Europe is full of luxury... and expenses.

So, my friends and family, I'm returning to Boston--for a brief time--before moving on. See you April 22.

A Time for Haircuts

People say dogs look like their owners. Walking the très chic streets of Paris, I see what they mean.

The old lady and her tiny scotty have matching matted gray hair. The blond and her tiny chihuahua are both always perfectly presented and adorned in pink jacket and collar. The man with the german shepherd is dark, mysterious, dressed to be tough, presented as hard. In this city you can learn a lot about a person by the beast by their side.

I laughed at the chubby boy walking an overweight bull terrier that was so silly he couldn't intimidate anyone. The boy too pretended to be tough, but you could tell he was one of the truly sensitive ones. Amidst my giggles, I realized something shocking.

Here I was with my dog. She's beautiful in a graceful way and she radiates happiness. But she's also remarkably clumsy, friendly with absolutely anyone in order to get what she wants (usually love or food), and embarrassingly lazy. At the moment her beautiful hair is also unkempt and filthy, and she's way too fat for her own good.

I looked at my reflection in the store window. I hadn't showered and was wearing the only clean clothes left in my apartment. One hand held a Quick! hamburger and the other ran through my once beautiful curls, which at the moment are part golden, part brown, and haven't been cut in ages.

"Shit, Tequila Rose. We both need a bath and haircut."

Walking through Spring in Paris

Sometimes you just have to follow your feet.

Today was that kind of day for me. Sure, there's a lot of computer work that needs doing. Yes, I have to clean my apartment. Ok, I should probably unpack that last suitcase... But it was 21 degrees, and even the dog wanted to do something fun.

By 9:30 a new mission for the day had emerged: Spend all of it outside.

Tequila and I started by looking for the vineyard on Montmartre. (Why is this thing always so tough to find?!) The artists in the market seemed pleased to see me again; it's been a long time. (Ok, they're pleased to see anyone interested in their work.) But the streets of the 18th are just too familiar for me, so Tequila and I ventured to uncharted territory.

I have no sense of direction. I had no map. We just walked. And walked. And walked. We weaved our way along the Seine, visited the few dog-friendly gardens in the area, and marched on.

But our feet grew weary. "Time for lunch," I announced, and realized I had left the house with nothing. No book, no notebook, no nothing. Just a wallet and some doggie-doo bags. What's a girl to do? Can't lunch without entertainment.

"As soon as we find a notebook, Tequila, we'll rest." Who knew it'd be so hard to find? We started searching by Pont Neuf along the Seine, found ourselves on St. Germaine, and still... no (affordable) librarie in sight. By the time we reached the Eiffel Tower, I was even dragging my feet.

I decided a coke would be fine and marched into a tabac, just like all the other tabacs on all the other streets all over Paris. It was worth asking, "Do you have a little notebook?"

"Un bloc?" the lady behind the counter asked while fingering old receipts.

"Um, yes? Maybe?"

Like a magic elf she disappeared behind the counter, crouching low as if she was descending a secret set of stairs to her hidden room of special treats. Flustered, she returned with a simple notebook in hand. I sighed bittersweet. Yes, it's there, but once again better vocabulary would have made my life easier.

There were extra pens on the country. For 3€ I was on my way.

Grabbed a sandwich on the go, let the dog off the leash, curled up in the grass.

Now here I am: Watching Parisians march along in their day, capturing my wild mind on tabac-purchased papers. This, to me, is spring in Paris. Green grass, good food, and a bloc de notes.

back to the night life

It was just going to be one glass of wine.

(Ok, that's not true. Amongst fun friends there really is no such thing as one glass of cheap rosé.)

It was just going to be one bottle. But one bottle became two... and then one more... and then a fourth. Soon we were having dinner that was far too nice for our current state and wine chic enough to match the meal (if not us) with American businessmen we teased incessantly about the crisis like the little jerks we can be. What?

It quickly became obvious to me that it was time to go home. We all amicably parted ways and I turned to walking the cobblestone streets of the City of Lights. I love walking Paris. It's so small, so safe, so easy. So easy, in fact, that I knew exactly where to go after being gone for so long. So safe I didn't hesitate to walk it alone. So small I ran into Americans who also studies in France who I befriended in India.

"What are you doing here?!" they demanded.

Lacking an answer, I responded with a question: "Where are you going?"

"A party. Want to come?"

"Why not?"

Thus I returned to the life of the young and reckless à Paris.

I just don't remember the next day hurting quite this much... Advil, anyone?

Recurring Dream

This is how it feels like I live my life.

And this feeling manifests itself in my dreams, day and night, and I finally just have to write it down.


I'm standing on the roof of a skyscraper. The building is irrelevant; the city below is nondescript. I'm staring across the flat ground to the edge. And I smile. Here comes the best part.

With all my might, I run and run and run across the roof and with impressive grace spring from the edge with a perfectly placed foot, launching myself proudly into the air above the noise some deathly distance below. I glide.

I hang high in the air for what some seems like an extraordinary length of time before gravity kicks in. I fold my body into a beautiful swan dive and begin the decent. I know what's coming.

As I fall, I grow wings.

With these wings I fly back to the roof, but the ascent is exhausting. I'm left huddled, overwhelmed, broken, curled up by the roof's edge. But I stand, recover, wait. I get bored, antsy. Then I smile.

It's time to run again.

Where am I right now? Maybe on the long, hard return to the rooftop. Or maybe I'm still waiting for my wings. Either way, I know the best part--the run, the jump--will come again...

Vet à Paris

Years ago, I sat in the vet's office with jaw dropped and glazed eyes. She spoke such rapid, provencal French I could not follow. "I just want to take my dog home," I kept thinking. Visit after visit, I cringed as my money fell from my wallet to her pocket, and Tequila acquired passport and paperwork and further instructions.

I can't say the vet in the south of France was the best experience of my life with Tequila. Naturally, I was therefore hesitant to visit the vet in Paris.

I knew that even though my French is better than it was four years ago, an English-speaking vet would make the whole flying-a-dog thing much easier. So I consulted the online forum that frequently saves my life and learned that it is illegal to publish which vets are English speaking in France. Because the French hate making my life easy.

Alas, I wondered the streets of Paris looking for a vet close to my house and found two or three within a reasonable distance. On the morning walk yesterday, I decided to just do it. I hadn't showered, I was still wearing a pajama shirt, and Tequila is in desperate need of a bath herself. But we needed to see the doctor if we were going to get her home.

I marched in expecting an appointment weeks away. "How about tomorrow?" the receptionist asked in French. "Mais bien sur!"

"Vous êtes américaine?" she asked when I told her I needed the paperwork for her to travel to Boston. I told her yes, and she said en français, "You will be happy. The vet tomorrow is anglophone."

Lucky guess.

"She's such a happy dog," the vet kept saying as he gave her shots and drew up her paperwork. I looked at my pup with glowing eyes. Someone in India called me "gypsy lady" from time to time and it made me smile; I liked that I identity. Tequila had been drawn into it too. In our years together, she had never spent more than 9 months in the same location.

I asked the vet what he thought of this. "Look at her," he replied. "She's a really happy dog. I think whatever you're doing, you're doing it right. She seems to like the bohemian life too."

I smiled at Tequila Rose. "Ok, Babe," I asked. It was only fair she gets to participate too. "Where we going next?"

Ah, if only she could speak.