In quest of Tango...

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Last night I was in San Francisco. This morning I am in Los Angeles.

…I own one pair of shoes. One. (Ok, that’s not really true, but only ONE pair that I can wear in public & that fit). The last few weeks, I have been walking around the streets of Oakland & San Francisco…with massive holes that went all the way through the soles…leaving my feet & socks to be what actually hit the ground each time I set foot to pavement. Holes in every pair of socks I own now: not good. Broken glass, dirty syringes & who knows WHAT else touching my feet: very not good.

Something had to be done.

So, the day before yesterday, I (completely accidentally) found a lovely, obliging older man in a shop, who for a (rather ridiculous) sum of money would put new soles, both on the inside & outside of my shoes. Overnight. Expensive, but done. (And still cheaper & easier than buying new ones). I accepted.

I knew this was going to be an interesting voyage however, when I called last night, a few hours before my bus would depart the Oakland Greyhound station, only to find that this same ‘lovely’ gentleman had decided he was closing the shop half an hour early & under ‘no circumstances’ would he hold the door (despite offers of money mixed with near sobs & pleading that this was the only pair of shoes I owned), not even an extra 10 minutes so that I (or someone else) might pick those shoes up…

Los Angeles. The city of beautiful, expensive & stylish people.

And I am stuck wearing….a pair of torn-up Puma’s that are two sizes too small which give my feet blisters & cause me to waddle like a duck only 10 minutes after application…  Well. Ok. Could be worse…perhaps I will….buy some flip-flops…? (Sigh).  I mean…you can get away with that in LA, right? A sexy black minidress…and flip-flops? Right?   …(I certainly hope so). However, this trip has turned out to be serendipitously good, it would seem: Long before my shoes decided to stay cooped up in the Powell St. mall, I wasn’t even sure if I would make it here.

You see, I am living on a less-than-poverty level allowance these days, (by SF standards…actually, by most standards) so journeying to a foreign city, let alone arguably the most expensive one in the country, to volunteer & dance for a few days might seem reckless…but Tango calls & I must follow. (I really don’t have a choice in the matter). (No, really: I don’t).

Each time I have all but given up hope of this trip even happening, it seems something…extraordinary occurs. First in the transportation: how on earth was I to get to Santa Monica,  on a budget like mine? No one wanted to carpool. No rideshares seemed to be leaving, no matter how often I checked…(oh they left DAYS earlier, but where would I stay? They left days after, but that would defeat the point of getting TO the festival, now wouldn’t it? Airline ticket were ridiculous. Amtrak & Greyhound…oy!)  After weeks of searching & nothing doing, I am nearly about to call & cancel, when…just as I am about to hit send on the e-mail, I decide one last time to log onto Greyhound…and, low & behold there is an ‘express’ bus fare for $29. And it gets me there (well, to downtown LA) in under 7 hours. Overnight. Hot damn!

…(Children, cover your ears).

I buy it. (I don’t actually have $30 I can afford to spend this month…but this is Tango. Who needs to eat, when you can dance…right? Hmmm. Well…I have incredible faith that something will happen. And I just got work for the summer, so I am willing to be a tiny bit reckless).

Then comes sleeping arrangements: I am surfing the couch-surfing netwerk, like you would not BELIEVE (despite the fact that I am have never used it before & have been warned by many women in the area, ON the site that it is very dangerous to do here, DON’T trust guys, but sorry you can’t stay with me, etc.). Yet, I am a mad woman: sending out all sorts of requests, looking up hostels, trying to crash on people’s floors…anything. Again, to no avail. But I’ve already bought the ticket…

So, just as I am about to put down a deposit on 4 nights in the cheapest youth hostel I can find (a feat that would cost me $130, a ridiculous sum in my allowance), again, while I have received no e-mails in reply for the tons of messages I have sent out… I decide, for some reason, One. Last. Time. to check the couch surfing website itself. RIGHT before I press the button. And…low & behold, though it did not post to my eail address for some reason, there is a message from a lovely woman, living a 20 minute walk from where I need to be, who says: cool. Come stay with me & my cat, Mazzy.  J

I figure there has to be a catch, somewhere… but no.

In any case: here I am, in LA. I was dropped off in (apparently) one of THE most dangerous parts of LA, at the greyhound station this morning, half an hour before schedule. I walked out of the station JUST in time to see the downtown bus I needed to catch, cross the street & walk RIGHT onto it. The gentleman at the door took one look at me & said,

 “You a martial artist?”  …(The exact same thing the security guard at the Oakland station said, the moment I walked in the door). I said…kind of. “Where you coming from?”

“San Francisco.”

“Oh! Frisco!  …..You an artist? You an artist, huh?” (I thought for a minute…‘Why? Do I look like an artist? It took me a minute to realize – oh. Of course. White female, in here late 20s – early 30s…of course. Only someone in the arts would go from SF to LA on a greyhound & ride the city bus. Anyone else could afford a plane ticket. Huh, indeed).

Did you know, they have TV’s, even on the busses in LA?

But long story, not much shorter…I have arrived. My host informed me she may or may not see me much while I’m here, but Mazzy the cat is, as she said 3 times, ‘a cuddle-bug,’ which is very true. She, herself (my host) is utterly charming & sweet: (we have already bonded over the necessity for certain B-rate movies and generous beyond belief. My key to her apartment is on the table, as is the code to her bike lock, if I should wish to use it; there are 2 pull-out beds, I am in a relatively safe neighborhood…and the beach is a 15 minute walk down the street. Oh, and there’s pasta in the fridge.

I……..don’t know what to say. Shoes aside, I am overwhelmed by the trust & kindness of this stranger & of my good fortunes every way I turn so far. I am afraid of jinxing something by say too much, too soon….but if this is how the weekend goes…LA?  J

 …I think I’m gonna like it here.

I have already found great espresso…now, off to find some shoes. (Cross your fingers…and toes).

Til the festival begins, all the best in your wanderings,

~   Genevieve, The Whistler

Journeys begin, even when they end...

Hello again, to all of you out there in the ether.  :)  

Journeys abound & I begin again.

It has been so long since I have written here – years in fact. And so much more than so much…has happened since last we spoke. Here.  

I have never been a girl to do things the easy way: I must never do one thing when I can do twenty, and so (as some of you may know) I have two blogs now…Yes, two: one for my general writings, ramblings, midnight thoughts, bad poetry & hopeful musings on the world & life, both in general & particular.

The other…is this one. Which I have neglected for far too long. 

I began this blog (again, as many of you may know) to document the fascinating & comical happenings in my travels & adventures around the world. But my world ‘adventures,’ I thought, had ended. Paused, prematurely.

I realized today, that is not so. When I began this & sought to travel, I was desperately seeking an awakening; food for the fire that burns bright in the soul & makes life worth living…

I thought there was only one kind of journey: to leave it all behind, forsake friends, family & ordinary life, as we know it, for the open road, hardships, chances….foreign lands, foreign beds, foreign words & foreign companies...   And one could not return to ‘life’ as we knew it.

Well…for me, that was wrong. I came back to America, but I have not returned to a life so ordinary…  I want to learn everything. Everything I can. I want to BE everything & everyone I can. I want to see, feel, hear….well, you get where I’m going with this. And so, my life is now purposefully peppered with all sorts of adventure, learning, exploring & trying to stay alive.

I live in San Francisco now. (Well, the Bay Area, for the time being). But I intend to travel, as much & as often as I can. I have goals & places in mind. I dream of many particulars…but in the meantime, my semi-smaller adventures will be the matter of my postings here.

Follow if you choose.  :)  And open roads, with open arms & open minds to all of you. May something magical & scandalous happen to you all, today or soon.  

~  The Whistler

Welcome Back, Ol' Friend...

"....there are too many people in the world who tell you to 'find your bliss,'

and in the same breath tell you that you can only have one.

I want to dance until my feet cannot hold me. But I also want everything.

And I don't see why I shouldn't have it...""

...Oh, my. When you begin by quoting yourself, you are either amazingly arrogant...or in trouble. I would say I am hoping for the latter...but than I would be hoping for trouble.

...(Perhaps I am hoping for a good sort of trouble). :)

It has been exactly a year since I have written.

I did not know that until I looked up just now. Seems appropriate.

It is, then, more than a year since my travels ended. And here I am, in Portland, again. So much has happened since I tried to leave the country and run away.

It was, indeed, a running away of sorts. I wanted it to last much longer; wanted to be like all the heroines and heroes in the books I read; to take up my penny whistle, a sack, some shoes, and just walk...singing all the way "Heigh-ho! Nobody home..." But I wasn't. I didn't so much as play a note, though I DID sing to myself often when I was afraid.

To seek an adventure is one thing; to be taken in, lustily, by the call of the open road... To run from what you do not want is quite another matter. It will surprise you wherever you land; by sea, land, or sky, it makes no matter: wherever you go, there you are.

And you cannot run from yourself.

**Forgive me if this is a bit self-indulgent or philosophical tea-house of me: the hour is late (or early, rather) and I tend to lean towards an almost drunken state when I become this tired, so forgive me. I am sure you will.**

In any case, here I am. A year later, drawn to the computer.

I am filled again with questions.

(Usually when I have questions, the answers cannot simply be found or sought, because the answers are already in my head...or other various extremities. But I do not know them, until I begin to speak).

So here I am...writing again. A step away from actual speech, but hopefully helpful, nonetheless.

So much has happened, internally as well as ex...

...and so, I begin again. The questions before me now lie with the direction I choose to take...

But for now, it is time to sleep.

Until the morrow...

~ Genevieve

The Re-Turning Point

I am writing again. ...Well, obviously.

I last posted, it would seem, on September 25, 2008 ...and it is now November 10th. Obama has won the election. The leaves have changed their colors to a warmer tone and are learning to fall again. America is America; Europe is Europe...And I am no longer in Europe.

And I have a yearning to write. Or eat. Or stare out the window. Or sing or scream or cry or...something.

So, hello again, and I am writing. Obviously.

I am back in Portland, Oregon. I don't know that anyone still reads this, and I'm not sure that I really want to know for certain: if you know the people who read your ramblings, you have a way of editing rather than speaking truth...I wonder if we didn't edit what we say or do in the company of those we care about or have to encounter on a constant basis...would we all be much happier? I doubt I would get as offended by some remark on how I look or what I like or my measurements of success or failure in the world, if EVERYONE were just straight forward all the time... and if I had the courage to say what I really think to those around me, rather than being polite?

...It has been hard to come back to the computer: I have intended to write each day since I returned (a month ago, actually) but somehow...it has felt-- very literally-- as though a 7 foot tall, five foot wide block were standing smack! in front of my computer, so that, even when I WOULD turn the darned thing on, it was there in the pit of my stomach, nagging at the corners of my brain and my breath, both to get the hell out, and magnifying that pit of guilt in my organs, saying, "you know you should; you know you promised; you know you WANT to..."

The truth of it is... I feel like a coward. I feel like a failure. I feel all those unfinished assignments and broken promises and years of little white harmless pointless lies have been blasted through a megahorn... and now the world knows-- if they ever doubted it in the first place-- just what kind of a person I really am.

This sounds terribly self-indulgent and over-dramatic, I am well aware... but it is nonetheless true.

For all my big talk and stories of promised adventure and strength and self-confidence and heroism... I came home. Not even a month later. I spent the last of my savings on a plane ticket...and gave up.

My mother says to her students, "Courage is the willingness to be afraid, and act anyway." Strong, moving words...no? But who wants to HAVE to be courageous every waking moment? To know that, yes, you CAN survive and defend yourself from all the men who intend you ill and all the people who wish to steal your pack or your money... but it will mean that you forgo forever a good nights rest, or letting your guard down in enjoyment or life without...FEAR.

Or, perhaps, the real lesson was just to let go. But it seems to me, the world of adventurers was, indeed, built by men. And made for men. It disgusts me and frightens me and angers me. But it is true, nonetheless... or maybe it was just a really cold autumn.

I never realized until this trip just how female I actually am-- not feminine, but female.

On one hand, when you are a woman traveling the world, alone, it inspires and moves people. On the other it shocks and confuses...sending out all sorts of unintended messages. On still a third, it puts you in peril that I doubt a man will ever understand.

An interesting revelation-- and not one I am keen to admit, even now. I am a creature who truly wishes for equality...I think. But the world shifts when you are alone in the world. People react to you differently...or maybe you just learn to notice.

In any case...

Better late than never...right? To write, I mean. Or to...well...

I wonder what my teacher at Cornish would say if, five or more years later, she finally received my unfinished "Songline" project that was never turned in...what would she do?

It's so easy to say that it's too late to do something, but it never is...really. And if you do not finish the things you begin, they stay with you forever...is the lesson I think I am learning...

So, in short, while I will not probably write much more in this entry, I am choosing to write again.

No, I am not still on my journey around teh world (in Europe)...for now. It has come to an abrupt...pause. I just can't force myself to say "end." And I do not believe that it has, at any rate.

I am in a state of confusion. I do not know why my words should be important to anyone, now that I am not on the greatest of adventures...

I am a little thrown off by the constant knowledge in the back of my mind that any of my co-workers, friends, family, and connections could be reading this...

But, I feel I need to write-- and write truth-- just the same.

...and what's more, while this writing is more for me than for anyone else...I am hoping for some advice...some connection...some...one out there.

I ran into a friend yesterday, and we commenced to talking a bout another friend of ours who is going through a difficult time with a boy, and she said something which caught my ear,

"I want to be supportive; I don't mind if she wants to hang out, as long as bitching about him isn't the ONLY reason she wants to hang out with me..."

And all I could think in that moment was, well what if I needed to vent but what I wanted more was your ADVICE...

It's a strange thing, but in my rather large amount of listener/best friend/ fixer of problems and comforter of the sad (now that doesn't sound stuck up, does it- haha) I have found that when people want your advice, your advice is rarely ever what they want. What they NEED and long for is someone who will actually hear them...and so they can hear themselves...because that is, after all, how we recognize the truth-- it's a way to get the other persons point of view...sort of, anyway. In any case, I realized that I really did, for the first time, want advice. But more than that-- when I dug a bit deeper-- what I wanted was connection.

I am a self-proclaimed hermit, it is true. And the last thing in the world most people would think would promote connection, would be to sit down at a computer and type, but...

Well...words seem to touch people. And I need my words to go somewhere.

So I think better than keeping just a journal or diary, or confiding in one friend or another, than turning around to confide about that same friend to another...

I want to write.

I'm sure I will re-read this entry a thousand times and judge it harshly and feel stupid for posting, but as I found in school, writing papers 2 hours before class bagan, my best writing comes through when I just stop THINKING... and let someone else do the editing.

So for now, here I am.

And, until tomorrow...or the next day, or the next,

"Goodnight and good luck," (haha)

~ Genevieve

Here we go again...

So, I am actually leaving Paris this time, today. I had an amazing day yesterday-- instead of doing a walking tour or scrambling together more funds to see this or that, I simply walked back to Montmartre and spent a good 2 and 1/2 hours walking around the graveyard and reading my book. I think it may be the most beautiful place in Paris, actually. And it was the first time I felt at peace in Europe...strange, but true. Haha.

Then I went back up to the steps of the Sacre Cours and sat there, reding, writing, and listening to music for hours.

A very good day.

Now for where to go.

I think I may attempt to walk to Poitier:

I have 19 days to get there. It's only 184 miles...

I realised I had come here for adventure, and all I was doing was going from place to place, miserable, as though my life could end at any moment. Life must be lived full of adventure or it is not living, I think. All I have done is spent money on buses and hostles. But I am carrying a very heavy tent on my back for a reason, and if I wanted the buses, I should have stayed home on the greyhound...after all, I came here for the countryside, did I not?

The other choice is to take the bus down to Aix-en-Provence (if it's even possible, I don't think Eurolines lets you go from city to city within a country, but we'll see today) and walk to Marseille (a mere 33 kilometers away) and then spend a few days one the beach...or go to Barcelona and then to Poitier...

...Or I could just be random about it and go to Germany (a language I actually speak moderately well) or to the Czech Republic...


OR.......................... ?

Well, we'll see. I'm off to the bus and train stations again. Let's see where the road goes, and I'll do my best to follow it...

...or go the other way. ;)

Maybe it's just time for an adventure...eh?

...Who knows when we shall speak again, but all my love,

~ Genevieve

Maybe I'm getting old in my young age...

I am still in Paris. Yep. I'm still here.

I checked on line. There was a bus to Bologna. I was supposed to be on it. The was a bus to Bologna. Departing tonight. At 5pm. Tonight. I checked.

...Online.

But in reality, it apparently only runs every other day.

So here I am.

I spent the entire day, miserable, wandering in the rain. Going from subway station to subway staion. Excuse me, "metro". Asking and re-asking the prices, times, and dates of buses trains, etc.

Crying when I was tired and wet and cold. Searching hotel after hotel when it was apparent I would have to stay the night.

...I won't bore with the details, but eventually I made it back to the hostel I stayed at before-- tonight I will be sharing a room with two lovely girls from Melborne, and pity them having to deal with my cough all night...hope I don't alienate them too much-- and have been happy ever since.

I'm not going to go to Bologna. Not yet.

Since I began my journey, all these relatively aweful, but manageable things have been happening. I have been in a constant state of panic and frustration and homesickness; waiting and holding my breath to MOVE ON to the next place.

I think the world is telling me to slow down.

After all, if I'm not enjoying myself here...than why am I here? I didn't leave a job in the US so that I could just get up and work in Europe...and for no money...did I? Or did I?

When is my vacation?

Growing up, it was always such a foreign concept to me. We didn't really have vacations. We couldn't afford them or there wasn't time, or maybe the fact that my parents were doing what they love the most meant they didn't need a vacation as much...I don't know.

But I want one.

I have decided, that unless something huge changes, I will be going home when my ticket returns on December 2nd, mostly because I have realized something I never thought: I love my friends and my family. Now that sounds harsh and awkward and is not meant to be so, but perhaps what I really mean is that I didn't realise how MUCH I love them.

Until I saw a whole beautiful world and realised none of them were there to share it with.

I like being alone...no, I don't, but it seems to be a preference of sorts and I do value alone time, and NEED it-- it is something I have not had in a while. But I saw the Eiffel Tower last night, and I couldn't point to it and look at Annie and see the smile on her face. I couldn't kiss Michael on the lover's bridge or talk about how we'd love to sing in the Sacre Cour one day with Jenny, or squabble with my sister over who gets the bigger piece of Gateau...

I need these people. I would fight for and hold close all these people who are my friends and family.

Sorry to get mushy, but it has been a bit of a huge revelation.

...in any case, I am staying in Paris. For 2 more days.

I am going to stay in the hostle and pay the 21 Euro per night-- an incredibly cheap price by the way, but still huge for me...if I weren't "on vacation" or on a journey or...me.

I couldn't wait to get out of the city.

So it's time to stay.

And then I'm heading south.

We'll see where the road begins...

Sweet dreams to everyone. I'm thinking of you. All.


...not like Big Brother...

A list of things to note in Paris...France...Europe.

1. Note that when you are in Paris you will spend an exorbitent amount of cash. If you don't you are stupid. Forget the sightseeing ploys for cash. Just wander the streets and eat: Tarts and Quiches and things you will never in you life be able to pronounce. Try everything. I have spent the equivelant of 2 weeks money in 2 days of sightseeing. And I regret none of it...instead I walk.

2. Remember this, ladies: you can wear men's clothing and dress yourself to look like a big puffy no-shape marshmellow and hide all your hair under a hat and attempt to look as relatively celibate and unnatractive as possible. They will still hit on you. But if you are in a tight spot, you cannot run in heels, and you can only fight in them if you train first in Hollywood.

3. The idea for the musical Urinetown came about when one of the writers was in Europe and had the choice between using his last money to use the toilet or buying something to eat. In Europe, you have to pay to pee. You may not like it; protest all you like. It is how it is done here. Now, I have found however, there is a fast-food chain here called Quick (red sign, big white letters). Often their bathrooms are unlocked and unattended. Don't even try McDonald's there is always a guard dog.

4. Every once a month or so the museums here are free. Plan accordingly. I did not.

5. For the cheapest (relatively-- nothing is cheap in Europe) and strongest drinks, go to an Irish pub. They are everywhere and almost always friendly. For the cheapest most filling food, go to the store or go to the Chinatown-- every great city has one. Chinese food is cheap and good.

6. Remember when you journey on a tiny budget that you came to enjoy yourself. It's easy to forget. Oh, and be that person that tips.

7. Everywhere you go in Paris you will see the young people drinking something that is almost a neon red clour in a beer stein. It is a Monaco. It is delicious, cheap, and very sweet, but will not get you drunk. try it anyway. Why not? It's pretty!

8. Everywhere you go there will always be stands serving fresh hot crepes. They are not like the ones in America. They are better.

Until we meet again--

~ Genevieve

I finally found it...

Well, the couple I stayed with did indeed convince me to stay in the hostle and I am truly glad of it. I have decided to buy the bus ticket tomorrow to Bologna...it is only for a week, but what of that? This was supposed to be a trip for pleasure and discovery, was it not? And as Christian, the gentleman whos family I stayed with for the last few days, pointed out in broken English mingled with French, "I think, you do not come here to stay at home and walk these childrens to schools, Non?"



And it is so.



I am glad he took me to this hostle where the sights of Paris are only a 15 walk away, because today, for the first time, I really was IN Paris. Not just in body, but HERE was I. Since I arrived in Europe, I had noticed the beautiful architechture, the amazing tastes and look of these wonderful cities, but all through a fog of homesick and loneliness and...boredom? No, not boredom, but something just as suffocating and mute.



But today I found it. Today I came home.



I had forgotten that St. Genevieve is the patron saint of Paris.

Today I found Montmartre...and my heart found it's resting place. I wandered the streets to Montmartre until I came to the cemitary, and suddenly I was walking with a song in my mouth. Of course I came too late to go in, and thought for a moment how funny it was that most everyone else in the world was trying to avoid ending up in a cemmetary, while I was desperatly searching for the door... I climbed street after street as the sun began to set, warming the beautiful buildings, the streets you dream of when you think of far away France, reminding me just a bit of the hills of San Francisco, but so much more beautiful. I was determined to find a cafe and have one good drink with my book, but I passed by cafe after cafe, the climb itself urging me to climb farther. At one point I almost turned back, but the little voice in my head said-- no, no. You do not want to do that. It is good, but it could be better-- so much better. CGo on and climb the stairs to the upper streets where you might see the sun really setting. And I did.

Somehow, following winding streets and the tops of towers in the distance, i rounded a corner and again, like when I discovered Hyde Park, I came upon the Sacre Cour. Now, they may tell you that Notre Dame is beautiful. It is noisy, advertised, and full of tourists. The Louvre? I went down inside, bought 2 postcards and turned around and went back up, preffering the streets. But this building was truly made for God. And the view from the top of the hill, is more beautiful than you could ever imagine.

People lined the steps below where a man with a guitar was singing Wonderwall with all his heart. I stared at Mother Mary trying desperately not to cough. I wandered more and stared at the Eiffel tower in all it's splendor.

Today I found Paris.

Today I came home.

Bologna... or walk?

I was picked up at an Autostoppe, running away from a kindly, though not all well-meaning Turk. Outside a shop, I stopped to ask a gentleman for directions to Paris, and he just stared at me like I was crazy. The Turk had told me I was in Paris, but in reality I was in Neuilly-Plaisance, a tiny town on the outskirts of Paris, approximately 18 kilometers away.

Eventuallty after some argument over the idea of me walking there, he and his wife invitred me to stay the night. And then the next few nights, so I have been seeing Paris by day, and spending the evenings with an amazingly generous family, with two of the most adorable little girls I have ever met. The children and their Grandmother speak no English and the parents a bit, and I of course speak only a tiny bit of French, but somehow we manage to have amazing conversations together. The Mother, Abigaïl, even went so far as to buy me soy (or soja) milk and yoghurt-- some of the best stuff I have ever tasted! If they could only have stuff like this in America, perhaps I never would have left.

I am very sick now, but we went to the store and, would you believe, medicine here is only the equivelant of $6??? I hope we get Universal healthcare, is all I can say. It would make things soooooo much better!

Today I leave. I was all set to pack my bag and follow train tracks to... wherever, but Abbi and her husband are intent on me staying at least one more night in the city, at a hostel that her husband used to work for. He is going to show me and intends to get me a discount, I think. I don't understand a hundred percent, but we all make due.

However, I just received an e-mail from another host family in Bologna who needs help for a week or two with picking grapes-- this sounds perfect to me, however, the trains, buses, and airtickets are sooo expensive, I wonder if I should... the warmth would do me and my cold all the good in the world, howeevr, so I think there isn't much of a choice...we shall see.

All my love,
~ Genevieve