Down and out in Stratford

October 12, 2011
Stratford, London

As my surroundings in Paris had taken a somewhat Gone With the Wind-esque flavor, it seemed only fitting that my illusion of being in the deep south should spill over into real life.

In the movie, right after Scarlet O’Hara kills a northern soldier, she says, “I’ll think about that tomorrah.”

In real life, I had told myself this very thing about my return to London to gather the rest of my possessions. And now “tomorrah” was staring me in the face.

The last few days had been…eventful. Now, I was alone, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling of the dingy apartment that less than a month prior I had thought would be my new home. I was due back in Paris the next day, but I could barely walk (thanks to a mysteriously sprained ankle), my luggage outweighed me, and this was only one corner of the jigsaw puzzle disguised as my life that I needed to sort out. What can I say? I had risked it all. What was it that my friend James had said while I was in Seattle? Something like: “Ah, your heart has been scooped out with a dull spoon and plopped on the table.” Yeah, that was about right. My heart was mush. But there was something else there, too. Lying in the dim light I let the weight of my situation settle around me. Surprisingly, I didn’t cry or wallow. From deep down one thought filtered above all the others:

I’m not going out like this.

I'm not leaving London on this note—I’m going to bury these memories and make new ones that will eclipse everything the last 10 months has brought.

I thought back on all my travels and the memories of the people I had met, what I had experienced and learned along the way. I had tucked these away in my mind and now began to retrieve them one by one like pulling out old boxes from an attic. But, instead of being dusty and grim, they were like bright, shiny, precious jewels. No matter how heavy my luggage is, how heavy my heart; these memories carry no weight.

As I took inventory of my life, I thought about my trip to San Francisco, the one I took a couple weeks before moving abroad over 3 ½ years ago. Right before I left, I had expressed my anxiety about not knowing what was ahead to my friend, Boogie, who I had met years earlier on a plane headed for Boston. He had shaken his head, raised his pint of beer towards me and said simply: “You’re the flame, darling…we’re the moths.”

The corners of my mouth curved slightly at this recollection.

Well, flame fucking ON! Helloooo, London...

Euh, excusez-moi????

Oct 6, 2011
Paris, France

The stress over the past few months has taken its toll and I now have an eye inflammation that requires the talents of an ophthalmologist. Fortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to go to the eye doctor in Paris so I know the drill. Left unchecked, however, this small inflammation has the potential of becoming quite severe, as history can attest:

So, I’m taking myself to the American Hospital of Paris as they’re one of the few places that will see me right away. Of course, it comes with a high price tag from a French point of view, but compared to my lack of medical coverage in the US, it’s actually quite affordable. Yes, I’m still living in that void between countries, where I have no rights in my own because I’m not present and no rights in the place I reside because a mountain of paperwork and red tape stand between me and basic social programs.

Nevertheless, I was feeling pretty good about the ease in which I managed the appointment and saw the same doctor as before. He remembered me.

He did a quick perusal of the situation with his microscope and began to give me his diagnosis in French.

Now, when you’re not fluent in a language every interaction is a rapid-fire game of deduction. You don’t catch every word, so you have to extrapolate meaning from a limited vocabulary.

Take for example the following sentence meant to provide instruction. Someone might say:
“Try to feed the dog late in the evening because that way you don’t have to get up quite so early to take him for a walk, although even then he might have an accident...oh, but if that happens, don’t worry.”

In a foreign language, from a sentence comprised of 42 words, you might pick out only 8:
“feed” “dog” “evening” “early” “walk” “accident” “don’t worry”

In the absence of more data, your mind immediately tries to fill in the blanks like a madlib exercise on crack.

Okay let’s see….

I need to feed the dog, that’s clear, but when…probably the evening or is it DON’T feed the dog in the evening because he’ll have an accident? I also need to walk the dog, but are they telling me that I should walk the dog in the evening after feeding or do I get up early and do it or is it BOTH? What does the “don’t worry” part refer to again??? Can’t be about not feeding the dog, so it must be about the walking of the dog, but that can’t be right…this is where the reference to an accident makes sense...Ah…fuck it! The dog must eat, the dog must walk, if there’s an accident I’ll clean it up. Whew, glad that’s over…now just nod, smile and all is good.

That's 42 words distilled down to 8, creating an inner dialog of 130. No wonder my head hurts so often in France!

Meanwhile, back at the doctor’s office...

My mind is racing, trying to follow the doctor’s words, fill in the blanks, translate and differentiate between the pieces of information that are meant to educate me about what’s going on versus actions that I must take to get better. I’m nodding attentively, the doctor completely unaware of the fireworks going on inside my brain as the synapses struggle to make the connections fast enough to catch up to where the conversation is actually at. I’m falling behind quickly, he’s talking very fast, but if I stop to think about how to tell him to slow down, I’ll easily miss the next few sentences. It’s a bit like the adults talking in the Peanuts comic strip. It’s “whah, whah, whah, whah…” (but with a French accent). From the words I know, I pick out and try to make sense of what’s going on. Suddenly, 3 words stand out and grind everything happening in my head to a halt.

“whah, whah, whah, whah….couper ton oeil…whah whah..whah..c’est ca,” he says, smiles, stops and looks at me expectantly.

I blink and stare at him, a few seconds of awkward silence transpire as my brain catches up to my ears and sends out a red flag with three words written on it “couper ton oeil!” “couper ton oeil!” it waves. On the other side of the flag my brain has helpfully provided a call to action in English: “Quit blinking like an idiot, he just told you he is going to cut your eye.”

Okay, enough’s enough, it’s all fun and games until someone says “couper ton oeil!" This French lesson has now come to an end. “Euh….et en anglais s’il vous plais?”

“Oh,” he smiles again and chuckles slightly and begins to explain to me that indeed the only way to address the issue is with surgery and tells me he has next Wednesday available.

I ask him what the recovery time is for something like this.

“Bah…I don’t know, it depends on how much it bleeds.”

Right.

He describes the procedure, which involves me completely awake as they inject a needle directly into my eyeball.

“Well, it will be so close that you won’t be able to focus on it,” he confides to me.

I leave the office a bit shell-shocked. Uh, seriously? On top of everything else, I'll be sans an eye? I try to imagine for a second being a photographer with a patch…merde.

My New Roommate?

October 5, 2011
Paris, France

Is this my new roommate or a physical manifestation of my emotional state?

Of all the apartments in Paris…really? I end up sleeping next to a giant scary Gumby?

The other disturbing thing about this apartment, besides the spider that Barbara and I battled (and lost, mainly due to my scream of terror as she was trying to kill it…), was what was in the bathroom: Sean Penn’s head as a toilet paper holder. I stare at this as I go pee, at a loss, thinking back to that fateful night in Haiti, the expression on his face then was not too dissimilar. But, that is another story altogether and one that I’m not at liberty to discuss.

For the last few days I have woken up, not only NOT knowing what apartment I’m in, but not even being able to identify which country.

I’ve slept in 11 different places in the last 2 weeks and have hauled my luggage back and forth across multiple cities and 4 different countries. Normally, this level of movement and travel wouldn’t bother me, but this time I hadn’t signed up for it. I am utterly exhausted in every possible way and the idea of making decisions about my life has left me head-in-my-hands sobbing on Barbara’s couch for several minutes today. Every aspect has been tossed up in the air and instead of coming back down so I can DO something, it’s as if they are all suspended in mid-air keeping me in limbo forcing me to only exist in the present. Being in the moment is one thing, but not when the present utterly sucks.

Tomorrow I move to yet another new place: Savannah. At least, that’s what I refer to Brian’s apartment as. It’s a beautiful Parisian flat on the 6th floor in the 18th not far from Montemarte.

With its pale blue walls, antiques, tall bookcases, dark blue velvet curtains, ceiling fans, and collection of decanters; I'm reminded of the deep south and I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to watch Gone With the Wind and have a mint julep.

However, looking out the window shreds any imagination that I'm actually in the US, as the silhouette of countless chimneys against a rose-colored sky is quintessentially Paris.

The logistics relating to the apartment hopping have become infinitely more complicated thanks to several unwanted “guests” found at Joe and Gerhard’s, known in the scientific community as Cimex lectularius. Now on top of having my possessions spread between 3 countries and probably 6 or 7 flats, most of my clothes that I’ve been traveling with have been quarantined as the exterminators fumigate. Additionally, Brian’s friend who was holding the keys to his apartment has been unexpectedly hospitalized, which has kept him (and the keys) M.I.A. for close to a week.

So here I am, stuck between a scary Gumby and even scarier Sean Penn. How did this happen? How did it come to this? Well, I can’t even begin to write about all the twists and turns and ups and downs my life has taken. All I can say is that I couldn’t have gotten by without A LOT of help from my family and friends. You know who you are; in fact, you’re probably reading this blog. Thank you for making me laugh, letting me cry, protecting me from the elements, helping me move my shit over and over, forcing me to eat, and providing loads of free alcohol.

I started this blog about 5 years ago and have gone through long periods of time where I haven’t updated it, either because of lack of time, inspiration, or, in some cases, lack of electricity. It began because I wanted to keep everyone back home updated and entertained...to be able to chronicle my adventures/misadventures while pursuing a career in photojournalism and laugh at the unexpected that's cropped up along the way. Maybe this is my version of self-therapy, who knows....but I definitely believe that life is much more enjoyable when you don't take yourself too seriously.

Lately my life has been so unpredictable and complicated that I feel like I’m no longer in the driver’s seat and all I can do is sit back and see what unfolds. So, if you’re reading this and you want to come along for the ride, saddle up. Keep in mind: I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. So it begins…(again).