Three Reasons Why My Housemate And I Were Meant To Be [Housemates]

I’m fairly certain that my housemate and I were destined to be housemates. We laugh a lot together, act as sounding boards and provide advice for each other when need be, and also know when (and how) to give each other space. Here are just a few recent moments that have reminded me of how well we fit/live together:

1. I’ve been introducing the Housemate to the marvellousness that is Freaks and Geeks, and she’s slowly but surely coming around. The other night, though, we decided to watch Legally Blonde instead.

Towards the end of Legally Blonde, a character called Chutney appears on the witness stand. Unbeknownst to either of us, this character is played by Linda Cardellini, who is none other than Lindsay in Freaks and Geeks.

The moment Chutney/Cardellini appeared on the telly, I gasped, pointed at the screen, and turned to the Housemate. At the exact same moment, the Housemate gasped and pointed at me. For a second we remained frozen in this strange me-Housemate-television–pointing triangular formation, then we both burst into giggles. It’s not the first time such a moment of synchronicity has happened, either.

Unrelated snackage. Did I open this bag and start eating before thinking of blogging it? Yes. Is the bag all crumbled in this photo as a result? Yes. Do I feel guilty? No.

2. I grin and bear it when she cooks bacon, and she indulges my tendency to get, erm, creative in the kitchen. (Tabasco peanut butter cookies or tasteless flax lumps, anyone?)

Somehow, these taste both like and completely unlike peanut butter. BUT I LOVE THEM.

3. Despite being embedded (like me) in the discipline of Sociology and, by extension, in the currents of cynicism that such embeddedness entails, the Housemate retains faith in the idea that, ultimately, Good comes to Good and Bad to Bad in this world.

Case in point: last night, we were watching Cruel Intentions (spoiler alert), which she’d never seen before. For those of you who don’t know, Cruel Intentions revolves around Kathryn, who is a nasty piece of work, making a bet with Sebastian, who is also nasty but redeems himself in the end, that the latter can seduce Annette, who is a Good Person. Here’s what went down in our house while watching the movie:

Two thirds through the movie, with Kathryn proving to be increasingly awful, self-serving, and malicious.

The Housemate: Kathryn’s going to die, isn’t she?

Me: I’m not saying a word.

The Housemate: She must. Yes, she’s going to die.

Later on, and Kathryn does more nasty things.

The Housemate: She has to die.

Me: I’m not saying a word.

About 15 minutes before the end of the movie, and Sebastian is fighting with another character on the street while Annette rushes into the traffic to stop them.

The Housemate: Oh, it’s Annette who’s going to die, isn’t it? She’s going to die!

Sebastian pushes Annette away from an oncoming car and gets hit by the car himself, rolling up and over the car before crashing onto the bitumen.

The Housemate: Oh. So it is Kathryn who’s going to die.

Let’s repeat that, shall we?

SEBASTIAN GETS HIT BY A CAR. BY A CAR.

The Housemate: Oh, so it is Kathryn who’s going to die.

Scene switches to Sebastian’s funeral.

The Housemate: Oh.

Me: *laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs*

(I defy you not to love my Housemate a little bit too, after that.)

Salty and sweet and melty and cute and I can eat dozens in a sitting without caring because they're so darn cute and tiny.

But just in case you think I’m trying to make myself look clever at the Housemate’s expense, take a guess at who the following happened to:

Girl walks to kitchen, wearing her glasses so that she can watch the news whilst getting a snack. Girl takes a spoon, dips it in the peanut butter jar, pops it in her mouth, and simultaneously decides to change out of her jacket and into a jumper.

Girl retains spoon sticking horizontally out from between her lips whilst pulling jumper over her head. Girl suddenly starts making strange clinking and choking noises.

Housemate looks up to see a jumper with naught but curly hair poking out the top flailing around the kitchen.

Yep. Girl = me.

My cousin made this for her two-year-old son's birthday. Isn't it awesome? I'm muchly impressed.

Moral of that story? If you try to pull clothing over your face while you’re wearing glasses and have a spoon sticking out of your mouth, the jumper will push the glasses down your face, the glasses will get caught on the spoon, the spoon handle will get caught on the jumper, and, erm, you might start panicking.

I think that was one of my sexiest moments ever, bar none.  

So you see? The Housemate and I are perfect for each other, what with our abilities to equally tolerate, understand, and entertain each other.

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[Wo]Man Vs. Wild [Toe]

Sunday: I wake up from a dream wherein my first tutorial had four hundred people in it and my second tutorial had five, one of whom was a Picasso impersonator and another of whom turned out to not be a student but merely someone using the PortaLoo (which was being stored in my teaching room for some reason).

Decide that I may not be able to control the placement of toilets in classrooms, but by golly I was going to wear proper shoes for my first week of tutoring regardless of what my stupid toe and its stupid over-a-year-long-saga had to say about it.

Random snack shot! These are Sahale Snacks’ Glazed Almonds with Cranberries, Honey and Sea Salt. Sadly, another U.S.-only creation. Though I guess I could be a Proper Cook and make my own version...

Find boots that are soft enough, and in a size big enough, to not squish my stupid toe. Ecstatically buy boots. (My first boots ever, actually).

First Round Goes To: Me.

***

Monday Night: Stupid toe rebels against my struggle for supremacy by taking giant leap away from healing. My mother and father, like saints, calm me down over the phone.

Second Round Goes To: Stupid toe.

***

Tuesday Day: After a discussion with Mum, I wear my new boots to a university training program as a confidence-booster. I really, really, really hate my Birkenstocks. Enjoy the program and meeting new people.

Boots! Smiley Face!

Third Round Goes To: Me.

***

Tuesday Afternoon: Toe really, really rebels against my struggle for supremacy by remaining far away from healing. I make yet another appointment at my doctor’s surgery for later in the week.

Fourth Round Goes To: Stupid toe.

***

Wednesday: Realise I can’t wear the boots to my first tutorial. Sigh a little, then get over it. Spend part of the morning with my mother, who treats me to a cookie and a caffeinated soft drink the likes of which I haven’t touched since I was 18. Go into uni and, for the first time, walk into my office, which even has my name on it. Suddenly realise I’m a trusted part of this place now, and that my footwear doesn’t change that fact one iota.

Birkenstocks and socks. Sad face.

Decide to own my crazy footwear with pride, and so introduce myself to my first tutorial by introducing the concept of Impression Management to the students in relation to my own need to explain the socks and sandals.

Fifth Round Goes To: Me. Stupid Toe, you may take my pretty heels away from me, but you’ll never take my dignity.

CVS Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Bites. Also from the U.S. Surely you're not surprised to hear that?

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Smurf Kitchen (And Some Stupidity) Revealed

Ask and ye shall receive.

When I first mentioned Smurf Kitchen on this blog, several of you asked to see photos of its wondrousness. It may have taken me several weeks, but I’m finally coming good on that request. Hurrah! I did mean to present you with a picture of the kitchen before we moved in, as the blue Smurfiness was particularly apparent when contrasted with the whiteness of the bare surroundings. Alas, despite taking over 250 photos of the apartment whilst filling out the inspection report, I failed to take a wide shot of the kitchen.

The following should give you an idea of the colour, though, and then you get to laugh at how the moving-in process brought out my inner nincompoop.

La la la-la la la Smurf along with me! (I had to google that. I had no idea if there even was a Smurf theme song.)

Laugh Along With (or Shake Your Head At) Me Moment #1:

Scene: Target Stocktake Sale, June 2010
Cast: Hannah, E.BestestHousemate, Target Saleslady

On a sunny winter’s day in Canberra, I picked up the wonderful E.BestestHousemate (EBH) from uni and drove to Target. After a brief stop in the sheets department, we successfully tracked down the super-on-sale-space-age-psychedelic vacuum cleaner and then, not long afterwards, the slightly-on-sale microwave.

While I peeked into the candy aisle, E.BestestHousemate hoisted the microwave box into the trolley, first commenting on how great it was that the microwave wasn’t too heavy.

Fantastic! I replied. I shall be able to get it up the three flights of stairs to our apartment myself this afternoon.

Book tetris! We haven't even got all our books in, and we've already had to double-up. (EBH is going to murder me for posting this photo. We haven't finished decorating, so rest assured this isn't up to snuff, aesthetically).

When we arrived at the checkout, EBH went to one cashier while I to another. The saleslady zapped the barcode of the vacuum cleaner box but couldn’t do so for the microwave, as the barcode was on the bottom of the box.

No worries, I said with a smile. I’ll just turn it around.

And so I did. The lady zapped, then stared at me for a few moments.

Are you sure there’s something in that box? She asked. I laughed.

Um, I think so? She asked me to check. I giggled a bit less certainly this time, and opened the box from the clearly-not-taped-shut lid. Sure enough, while the glass turntable was there, the microwave was not.

After sheepishly scuttling back through the store with an empty box and slowly, slowly, slowly, one-tiny-shuffle-at-a-time heaving a full-microwave-box back to the counter, I realised two pertinent things:

1. I clearly look like the kind of girl who could never in a million years hoist a microwave up in the air with utmost ease. While this is somewhat embarrassing, I prefer to think of it as embodying the Jane-Austen-era ideal of languishing female upper-crustness.

Wait. No. Scratch that. I don’t want to be crusty. Anyone know of a good pilates class in Canberra?

2. If someone tells you a kitchen appliance is as lightweight as a cardboard box, it probably is. A box, that is. Don’t trust them, even if they are your amazing new housemate.

Smurf Kitchen! (And yes, that is a Pineapple Chips 'n' Dip server. The pineapple leaves are removable spreader-utensils. GOLD.)

Laugh Along With (or Shake Your Head At) Me Moment #2:

Scene: The Abode of Smurf Kitchen
Cast: Hannah, E.BestestHousemate, the DVD Player

In the second photo of this post, you might have noticed a TV with a digital TV box and DVD player perched on top. Well, I brought the DVD player from my parents’ place (thanks parents!), and EBH and I decided, upon cooking our dinner, that the best way to settle in would be to watch Sex and the City all the way through, starting with season one, episode one.

While I chopped coriander in Smurf Kitchen, EBH popped in the DVD.

Hannah? Where’s the remote? She asked, staring at the screen with its list of language options to be selected.

I simply smiled, like a rainbow on a cold day breaking through clouds of sorrow with a beam of happy. Or, you know, like someone who’s realised they’ve done A Silly Thing.

You know what would be fun? I asked, avoiding her question. Seeing what happens if we just press play on the DVD player.

And you know what? It was all to the good. Sure, we had to watch six episodes in a row with Danish subtitles, but that rainbow must have come from a cloud with a silver lining, because I realised another pertinent thing (actually, EBH noticed this at the same moment, and oh how we laughed):

The Danish word for beautiful is “smuk”. And you better believe I shouted “SMUK!” every time the word appeared on screen. Which it did rather a lot, if we’re being honest.

I’m now home again for a few days house-sitting my arthritic old dog, but in four sleeps I’ll be back in Smurf Kitchen for good.

And that, my friends, is a rather smuk thing indeed.

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The Boathouse Might Be Good, But My Family Is Even Gooderer.

Having already chatted about the lunch celebration my Mum and I hosted for my Grandpa on his 90th birthday, it seems only fitting that I tell you about his birthday dinner at The Boathouse By The Lake, one of Canberra’s fancier restaurants. 

I must admit that I found the food this year a little less spectacular in innovation and execution than it has been in the past. Still, it was tasty, and more importantly the night itself was buckets of fun. I haven’t laughed so hard in yonks, and throughout the night I kept thinking how lucky I was/am to have such a fantastic family. 

I’m here sharing not only some of the night’s dishes, but a few of its moments of giggling too. My hope is at least something in here makes you smile. 

The freebies: an amuse bouche of Saffron and Mussel Soup, and a palate cleanser of Amaretto Sorbet. My soup was a vibrant orange whereas my neighbour's was a lovely creamy colour. I think hers was the 'right' way, for mine tasted simply like melted butter with some chilli. The Amaretto Sorbet was a bit too sweet for a palate cleanser, so my Dad valiantly finished off about four of them. Bravo, good sir!

Conversational Tidbit #1 (en route to restaurant):

Me: What’s a Chef de Commis? Am I pronouncing it right? [i.e. "commie"]
The Brother/E.TeacherLord: The communist chef.
Me: Ah, so I guess they make all the red sauces.
The Brother/E.TeacherLord: [spreading his arms wide] And then hand them out to everyone!
[pause]
Me: And then eat all your babies. 

My entree: Nine Coffin Bay Oysters with Ginger and Mirin Dressing, Yarra Valley Salmon Caviar. I religiously order natural oysters in fancy restaurants.

Conversational Tidbit # 2 [en route to restaurant]:

Me: I think I should have worn my contacts. Everything’s really blurry.
Mum: Why on earth didn’t you?
Me: Well, I got excited because, as I wasn’t driving, I didn’t need to wear my glasses. I didn’t think to put on the contacts.
The Brother/E.TeacherLord: But you just said everything’s blurry.
Me: Exactly! I was excited by not wearing glasses and I forgot that I can’t see. 

(Yeah. It took a second for what I’d said to sink in, and then there was much laughter. I’d like to think that the four people in the car were laughing with me rather than at me. Seeing as (ooh, pun!) I heard my brother retelling this conversation to my uncle later in the night, though, I think it was more at.) 

My main: Gippsland Shadows of Blue Cheese Ravioli, Caramelised Onion and Spiced Beetroot Salad, Kardinia Riesling Foam. This was, without a doubt, my favourite dish of the night. I have an anti-foam stance, but this version truly tasted like Riesling and played beautifully with the ultra creamy (albeit mild) blue cheese ravioli filling and the sweet beetroot relish. The highlight of the night, foodwise.

My dear seat-neighbour's Crispy Skinned Tasmanian Salmon Fillet on Avocado, Pinenut, Roast Capsicum, Sweetcorn & Rocket Salad, Mango Aioli. She quite liked the salmon, but the salad beneath suffered from the restaurant's tendency to over-sweeten some of its savoury dishes.

To showcase how absolutely awesome my grandpa is, I’d like to share with you some of the 20 quotes he handpicked for us to read aloud throughout the night. You might be inclined to think that a 90-year-old choosing quotes for his relatives to read out on his birthday would opt for emotional, Hallmark-esque platitudes. 

In that case, you don’t know my family. 

Words of Wisdom Chosen by my 90-year-old Grandpa

Whatever women do, they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult.  (Charlotte Whitton, 1896-1978) 

Never try to keep up with the Joneses … drag them down to your level.  (Quentin Crisp, 1908-99) 

I spent a lot of my money on booze, birds and fast cars – the rest I just squandered. (Geo Best 1946/2005, Irish soccer player, who died of liver failure aged 59) 

Logic will take you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere. (Einstein) 

My uncle's Kobe Beef Fillet on Sautéed Garlic Desiree Potatoes, Lyonnais Onion, Parsley Coulis, Red Wine Jus, Shaved Foie Gras (Marble Score 9)

Conversational Tidbit #3 [returning from restaurant]:

Me: I actually wanted to order the venison entree, but my conscience wouldn’t let me because of the foie gras that came with it.
Mum: Me too. I felt too guilty to order it, so I got the kingfish ceviche instead. Foie gras’ production is horrible.
Me: I know. I couldn’t order it, even though I wanted the chocolate sauce and sesame puree it was served with.
Mum: Oh… I wanted the foie gras. 

My dessert: Valhrona Chocolate Soufflé, Pistachio Ice‐cream and Feuilletine.

Camille, remember how I thanked you for showing me that chocolate-based treats can be fantastic? I am tempted to take that back. Because of your influence, I went against my anti-chocolate-dessert instincts and ordered the chocolate souffle. 

Never again. This was not at all good, as the souffle tasted of nothing but egginess and sugar. Funnily enough, it was the only dessert to make the rounds of the table and be tasted by almost everyone, the majority of whom confirmed my opinion. Boathouse By The Lake? I know what Valhrona should taste like. Not only have I blogged about it, but I’ve eaten most of its range and have several favourites in my stash at the moment. Valrhona is rich, and deeply chocolatey, and this souffle wasn’t. At least the ice-cream was serviceable, and the cookie crumbs the ice-cream was served on were nicely buttery. Still, next time I’ll go with my gut and order the cheese plate. That, my friends, was tasty (I stole some from my dad). Apparently the passionfruit tart was pretty good too… 

Passionfruit Curd Tart, Crème Fraiche, Coconut Shard.

The Blue Cheese Ravioli truly was stunning, though, and nothing could dampen what was a joyous night. 

I think I’ll end this rather long post by co-opting the language of Generation Whatever-Is-Below-Mine… 

I heart you all, my family.

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A Year Ago I Had A Birthday Party

As I mentioned yesterday, today is my birthday and my main present came from a real estate agent: my very own Smurf Kitchen. I’m glad the universe was sorting that out for me, as amidst the house-sit ending, the apartment-hunting, and the ongoing anxiety about my toe*, I kept forgetting that my birthday existed. As a result, I have nothing planned for today, and it has turned out to be the most non-birthday-ish birthday I’ve ever had. And that includes the time I spent my 21st birthday alone in a hotel in Chicago (even then, my parents had organised for flowers to be delivered to my room).

I’m not fussed about this by any means – I’ve always been more comfortable celebrating people other than myself. In addition, my parents and I are going to my favourite restaurant for dinner, and I’ve cooked up some treats (To Be Blogged) that we can snack on while watching Masterchef when we get home. So really, it could be worse.

But there’s this blog, see, and I feel a bit silly not having birthday shenanigans to post about. Solution? Tell you about last year’s birthday party, whereby I invited friends around for a Wine And Cheese Soiree, and much gustatory guzzling fun was had by all (I hope).

The noms table - partly devoured.

I can’t remember the details about all the cheeses I bought, but I do know that they came from the now-burnt-down Manuka Fine Foods cheese room and included a cheese with truffles, a fancy cheddar, goat’s cheese, edam/gouda, Brie/Camembert, and several others that I replenished stocks with throughout the night.

I made a Hot Spinach and Artichoke Dip as an homage to my time in the States, my mum made a Danish Fireball (cream cheese mixed with glace ginger, rolled in toasted almonds and paprika) as an homage to the 70s-esque feel of a wine and cheese night, there were pickled carrots and marinated mushrooms, olives, multiple dips, breads, and these divine and addictive Nigella Lawson Union Square Cafe nuts.

Oh, and of course, lots of opportunities for wine:

This was me explaining that I don't know much about wine, despite hosting a Wine And Cheese Soiree.

Towards the end of the night, there appeared gluten-and-dairy-free mini friands and little pepperment meringues that I had super fun times quenelling. Alas! In those pre-blog times, I didn’t think to take photos of everything.

Describing this party does, though, give me the opportunity to showcase one of my favourite pairs of heels (for those of you who have expressed interest before). I found these shoes in a little boutique in, or adjacent to, the Harvard campus, and fell in love.

This is me expressing my love for the friend who's known me her entire life (I was taken to meet her the day she was born, when I was 4ish months old).

Okay, so I couldn’t resist posting that photo because I love my friend’s expression, but it doesn’t really show the shoes off all that well. This is a better photo:

I cropped my top bits out of this because I felt stupid posting so many pictures of myself, but now I feel it maybe looks even stupiderer headless. So, um, just lookee the shoes?

Much better than those Parisian foot-adorners, right? Right?

* Did I mention that I’m back to the doctor tomorrow? It seems two surgeries, nine months of keeping my foot elevated and limiting movement, and enough antibiotics to surely have turned my insides pearly-white are no match for my foot.

Update: I just returned from a lovely dinner out and can happily say that it now feels very spectacularly delightfully like my birthday. Upon arriving home I opened my gifts, and I have to say that I’m overwhelmed with how wonderful they are, because they showcase how well my family knows me. I feel blessed, and loved, and to add to the happyhappyhappy, the Treats To Be Blogged are going down, well, a treat.

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My Birthday Present: A Smurf Kitchen

I have been keeping a secret about my life from you, dear readers. I do apologise. You see, for fear of jinxing anything and everything, I haven’t mentioned that a dear friend of mine and I have been searching for a place to rent together.

And when I say “searching”, I mean we looked on allhomes, found a place that looked good, went to the inspection with our applications at the ready, fell in love with the place (insofar as you can fall in love with an old apartment that is clearly fit only for two girls on student budgets), and began trying not to set our hearts on it.

From the moment I laid eyes upon the apartment’s bright-blue-feature-bench-top kitchen, I began referring to the place simply as “Smurf Kitchen“. Subsequently, my Facebook status updates in recent days have been along the lines of “Referees have been called; don’t slip away from me now, Smurf Kitchen“, and “Breaking news: Smurf Kitchen has a matching blue toilet, and I never again want to live in a place where the kitchen and toilet aren’t in sync.”

I told myself not to get too excited, and in the meantime contented myself with moving out of my house-sit (yes, I’m all done). With my high hopes appropriately muzzled, I wasn’t prepared for the phone call (a mere two working days after we visited the apartment) telling us that our application had been approved.

Smurf Kitchen, you are mine, and mine, and mine.

Oh, and did I mention that it’s my birthday tomorrow? It’s my birthday tomorrow. Thanks, universe.

My brother and I being silly/super suave before my Grandpa's celebration dinner on the weekend. I'm putting this photo here because a) The blue of my dress is nowhere near as crazy-bright as Smurf Kitchen, b) I'm wearing shoes that AREN'T BIRKENSTOCKS for the first time in over 7 months, c) I felt happy like this when I found out about Smurf Kitchen, and d) that's a new dress from Paris, although you can't really see what it's like or the pretty rosettes on its front. Oh, and e) I didn't want to leave you photo-less.

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The Wonders of Blé Sucré: Paris, March 23

We’re coming to the end of the Paris adventures now, folks. Saying that makes me sad, as I feel as though the trip is ending all over again. Thankfully I still have a few Italy posts up my sleeve, so on occasion I can close my eyes and pretend I’m back in the land where people frequently say “bella” without ever referring to the Twilight phenomenon. And that, I must say, is A Good Thing*. 

On my second-last full day in Paris, I met up with Camille for an expedition to one of her favourite pâtisseries, Blé Sucré, which can be found in the 12th arrondissement. 

After our canal amblings and Vietnamese lunches, I knew I could trust Camille to lead me to deliciousness. And lead me to deliciousness she did. 

Unlike the workers at Pierre Hermé, the Blé Sucré magicians were happy for me to take as many photos as I wanted.

Oh, beautiful pain! How to choose? The treats displayed here offered up flavours such as pear + licorice, mango + coconut, fig, salted caramel, peanut + chocolate, chocolate chocolate chocolate… 

And yet, for me, there was only ever one option. The creation that I first tried in Japan, the creation that (in Japan) made me long never to eat anything else, the creation that I had been keeping an eye out for throughout my Paris explorations and finally, finally, found a worthy manifestation of at Blé Sucré. 

The Mont Blanc.

Typically a mounded combination of whipped cream, chestnut cream, and a contrasting textural base such as sponge cake or pastry, Blé Sucré upped the ante of its Mont Blanc by firstly hiding meringue beneath the pipings of dense, true, chestnut sweetness, and secondly bookending the piece with glossy sheets of high-quality chocolate. 

I cannot say much about this beyond that it was magnificent. The chestnut flavour came through brilliantly, the chocolate was lovely and complex, the meringue was perfectly sweet and the pastry perfectly crumbly, and even the cream on top was valued by this avowed pointless-cream-hater.

See the hidden cream, meringue, and pastry shard beneath the chestnut cream? (And in a distinctly non-edible tangent, this photo reminds me of a particular breed of dog with long shaggy hair, but I can't for the life of me think of the name. Does anyone know what I'm talking about?)

The clever ones amongst you might be thinking “but there were two of you on this afternoon tea adventure… what did the other lovely lady order?” Well, your over-the-internet question shall be answered with the following photo: 

Camille opted for Le Vollon, an intensely dark, glossy dome of chocolatiness that I hadn't given a moment's thought when peering into the pastry case.

Dear Camille, thank you for choosing this gloriously rich sphere of unctuous chocolate. Had you not, I might have continued on in my misguided belief that all Solely Chocolate desserts are dull. I’m not saying that my Lemon Delicious love has been replaced, but it is good to know that, in the hands of the masters, chocolate desserts can be winners. 

Oh yes I did.

And if you’d like a little more Blé Sucré food porn in your life, make sure to head over to this post of Camille’s, which only accentuates my sorrow at no longer being in Europe. 

*I watched New Moon for the second time on my flight to LA and was astonished, as I always am, by how much worse the series becomes the more I read/see/think about it. “Twilight and Its Nauseating Social Message”: Vague PhD Idea #425.

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The Pilot And I Soar To/Line Up For Great Heights: Paris, March 21st

When visiting a city like Paris for the first time, there are certain boxes to be checked. Sights to see, eats to eat, experiences to experience. Some of these, like peering with googly eyes around the Louvre, would likely be on every traveller’s list. Others, like savouring the fragile beauty of a Pierre Hermé creation or meeting a new friend who immediately feels like an old friend, are goals unique to, say, food devotees or lucky people.

I’m sure you can guess what I’m referring to when I say that there is one big To-Do in Paris that everyone expects you To Have Done.

The Eiffel Tower. Climbing it. (And no, sitting in its shadow eating ice-cream doesn’t count.)

Okay, you have kinda seen this shot before, but that was a different photo. This is more... artsy. Yep.

Now, Vaala, before you say anything, this isn’t me making you wait even longer. This story follows on from the day of tofu and tears. Some of you might recall, at the end of that post, I made mention of a fellow whom I met and chatted with for hours at the hostel, and who rendered me speechless through his admission that he owned a plane?

That, readers, was P.ValuablePilot. The Pilot bit I’m sure you can figure out, but the Valuable?

That has to do with my following piece of advice:

If you attempt to ascend the Eiffel Tower at any time that isn’t the middle of summer, make sure you have someone with whom you can penguin-huddle. I don’t care if, like me, this someone is a person you’ve known for less than 24 hours. Just make sure that he or she is willing to snuggle. (This makes the person valuable to have around, see?) Otherwise, you may catch hypothermia and end up in a Parisian hospital, and as someone who’s been-there-done-that? I don’t recommend it.

The beginning of the Eiffel Tower Debacle began on the night I met P.ValuablePilot when, at about 9:30pm, I mentioned that I hadn’t yet braved the crowds to ascend the Tower. Being a rather adventurous lad, PVP suggested we dash off that minute and try to get a ticket before the 11pm cut-off. A part of me wanted to shout “Forward Ho!” and scamper for the stairs, but the bandaged part of me knew I couldn’t risk damaging the toe through such madcap-through-the-rain scampering.

However, when an hour or so later PVP and I hadn’t decided to pretend we’d never met, we decided to rendezvous in the morning and make Sunday March 21 a day of Eiffeling.

Next Morning:

After a hearty breakfast of lentils and smoked tofu in vinaigrette... (Oh, what a bald-faced lie. Breakfast was, as always, the hostel's free honey and/or nutella on a baguette. But how could I resist posting such a pretty *ahem* photo of lentils?)

March 21 was not a pleasant day, weather-wise. And we lucked out, in the bad sense, with that curse of European travelling: The Dreaded Line of Doom.

In short form? We left the hostel at 11am, all we did was ascend the Eiffel Tower, and we got back at four in the afternoon.

I’d expect that on a beautiful day, but not on a drizzly freezing day at the very beginning of the tourist season. There is no way I would have survived the line without the cuddly and conversational company of P.ValuablePilot, because within an hour I’d lost feeling in my feet, was shivering like all crikey and, for anyone who’s seen my facebook photo, indulged in some very Parisian but unHannah-like behaviour.

So. Many. Lines.

A line for the ticket office, another for the elevator to the second level, another for the elevator to the third level, another for the elevator back to the second level, another for the elevator down to the ground… then sweet, sweet freedom.

For the five hours PVP and I spent working our way to the top of the Tower? We spent five minutes, at the most, at said top.

The face says “whee, I’m above all of Paris!” but the hands say “my ears are froze, and my nose is froze, and my tail is froze...”

In a way, the adventure was worth it for the exhilarating rush of joy we felt upon escaping the claws of that metal hell-beast. There is something to be said for laughing and clinging together against the wind as you make your way back to your hostel for a triumphant glass of wine.

Did I mention that, when we left, the line was about a quarter the size of what it had been when we arrived? I thumb my nose at you, European queuing.

And about that plane? Yep. He has a plane. You may well hear more of P.ValuablePilot if he holds true to his word and comes visit me in the next few months.

I’m not going to let him fly his own plane here, though. It’s a wee lil thing, and I’d rather he, you know, survived.

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A Single Man With Tofu and Tears: Paris, March 20th

After my Ispahan adventure on the 19^th of March, I woke up on the morning of the 20^th with my toe in very bad shape. I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I immediately called my mother in Australia (as opposed to my mother in, erm, Uzbekistan… yep). I told her I had to come home early because I couldn’t bear the thought of struggling with the toe for another month (oh, Hannah, how little faith you had in yourself). 

Luckily for me, my mother is a rather calm and supportive lady, and she pointed out that I had been walking around for 8ish hours every day since my first visit to the Parisian hospital. Which, you know, isn’t altogether great for healing. She suggested that instead of throwing in the travel-towel, I could perhaps spend two days keeping my foot elevated and see whether the toe calmed down at all. 

Fine, Mum, be clever and rational. I might remind you that I’m still the one with the university medal *sticks out tongue*. (Fat lot of good that’s doing me, though. I wonder if I could pawn it?) 

I was initially planning a "Glorious Cookies of Paris" post, but instead I'm going to slip mentions of them into other posts. These cookies were the first to blow my mind, and they're called Crêpes Dentelle de Quimper. So delicate and crispy, they broke apart into a million burnt-butter-dark-sugar-esque crumbles in the mouth. I thought I'd found my mecca of cookies, but I hadn't. That came later. Also (will this caption never end?) David Lebovitz likes these. Validation!

Conveniently for my keep-it-simple-and-elevated plans, my hostel was situated right near Paris’ MK2 cinemas, which screen movies in the original (and therefore often English) language. I trotted/hobbled over to one of these cinemas, first stopping at a bookstore to buy Pride and Prejudice in French for my mother’s birthday, and Le Petit Prince in French for myself. 

Y'all should've known I couldn't resist showing you at least one photo of Pierre Hermé's macarons.

For anyone interested, I went to see A Single Man, and I can state unequivocally that I sobbed like a baby throughout the entire film. While this was partly to do with my already-tenuous emotional state, it was also because the movie tapped into a lot of buried thoughts/memories that wouldn’t mean much to anyone else. (Eyebrows, tying ties, puppies, to name a few. And yes, I never in my life would have expected eyebrows to make me cry.) 

After the movie, I had a restorative Parisian moment:

My Restorative Parisian Moment…

 

This was tasty, but after trying a great many of the other available flavours, I have to say that my favourites were the Croque Tofou aux Algues (seaweed!) and Croque Tofou aux Olives (if you can't work that one out... metaphorical slap on the hand).

 

… involves sitting by the Canal de l’Ourcq with two delicious tofu-burger-patties from Canal Bio (also situated in the 19ème), happily munching away while people- and dog-watching. (I particularly liked the woman who wore a voluminous and brightly-coloured ankle-length skirt with sneakers, and the business man who strode past carrying nothing but an enormous bag of fresh broad beans. Who needs a briefcase when you can have beans?).

I planned to finish my day of quietude by hunkering down in the hostel with my laptop and several boxes of cookies and macarons. This went mostly to plan, but the night did shift a bit when I met a friendly fellow from Alabama. We talked for hours that night, although I must admit a good half-hour of that was taken up with me shaking my head and stuttering:

“I’m sorry, you have a plane? An, I’m sorry, what, a plane? Really? You have your own plane? I’m sorry, what do you mean by your own plane? You have a plane?”

But more on plane-boy when we get to March 21st.

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I’m Sorry, When Was I Pregnant?

I love New York. Broadway, beautiful shoes, and a plethora of gourmet stores stocking my favourite edible treasures: high-end chocolate and ingenious dairy-free/vegan foods. Having visited New York three times in the past four years, I decided to dismiss all feelings of tourist obligation this time around. Instead, I planned to spend my two stop-over days in the Big Apple enjoying myself in a laid-back fashion. I would wander around in the warmth, shop, eat (and eat and eat), and revel in feeling the way New York always makes me feel: happy and slightly envious of everyone around me. 

Flower outside The Pod Hotel, highly recommended. The hotel, not the flower, as I doubt the latter will be as lovely in the future.

With this intention surrounding me like a pale fern-green miasma, I didn’t expect to have much to blog about. 

What’s that they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? 

The Day Begins

The first half of my day followed my easy-breezy scheme, with some Food Network-watching, some Coffee Frappuccino-drinking (even if it did melt rather quickly in the warmth and honey glow of 5^th Avenue on a sunny Spring day, but one can hardly complain about that), and some non-food shopping*. This last was a rather novel experience, as I am usually inordinately bored by any shopping that doesn’t end with me digesting the results. 

Darn tootin', New York sidewalk.

Then Gets Slightly Less Sedate, But I am Still Emotionally Balanced

Did you know that the subway machines won’t let you buy an $8 pass with $20? You have to buy a $20 pass. And the people in the subway booths give only information, not tickets. No worries, thinks me, I’m young and a cripple fit, what’s another 20 blocks to walk after the 17 I’ve just done, even if I’m now laden with duffel bag, backpack, shopping bags, and handbag? 

So I walked to Union Square for my HEAPS BIG UNRESTRAINED CHOCOLATE BUYING, and it was eight parts glorious, two parts sunburn. Not too shabby. 

Flutterbys! (Macy's Spring display.)

Hello Stranger, Would You Like Two Babies?

First stop at Union Square: The Food Emporium. Chocolates bought: Many. Second stop: Trader Joe’s. Muffins bought: yummy. Long lines to the checkout entered: one. 

Here’s where the day got interesting. 

In front of me in the line was a woman with a large stroller containing one (1) toddler and one (1) baby. Behind me were a couple (2) in their early 60s. After snaking halfway around the store (it was a long line), the mother before me turned and said “I forgot something. Can you push the stroller forward?” And off she sauntered, leaving me with one (1) duffel bag, one (1) handbag, one (1) backpack, two (2) full shopping baskets, one (1) enormous stroller, and two (2) strange children, all of which I had manoeuvre through and around assorted other shoppers and aisles with my two (2) hands. 

I heard an harrumph from behind me, and turned to see the older lady shaking her head. Her husband offered to take the mother’s shopping basket from my care, while the wife told me I was really too kind, and that the mother shouldn’t have wandered off. 

I smiled and said I didn’t really mind making sure someone’s children didn’t get stolen (or eaten by a dingo). 

Macro Vegetarian Brown Rice dish from Whole Foods. Sesame seeds, tofu, broccoli, brown rice, corn... just the ticket for a 22-year-old mother. I mean traveller.

At this point, a Trader Joe’s worker approached me and asked what I needed help with. Confused, I soon ascertained that the worker had been told to look after the mother with the two children and the stroller, and so I was being approached as she. 

“Oh, no, sorry, no, these aren’t mine, some lady just left me with them,” I babbled. 

Harrumph, from behind. 

The worker fervently agreed with such harrumphing, thanking me profusely for my generosity in spontaneous-child-rearing while stating that the woman ought not to have bequeathed her children to me. 

Eventually the mother returned, at which point the worker semi-politely chided her and left. The mother promptly dropped her carton of eggs on the floor, peeked inside, muttered “of course”, and placed the carton on a nearby shelf of chocolate-covered edamame. 

Harrumph. 

Having relinquished my pseudo-children, I watched as the mother started sharing a pear with her toddler. I’m sure this was a lovely bonding moment and all,  but the line had moved forward to the extent that, metres and metres away, she was now technically next in line, and the rest of us were stuck behind her. 

The woman behind me leaned forward and whispered “I’ve never hated someone in line before”. I simply smiled and joked “You sure do things differently in America”, not wanting to get caught in a cross-generational-grocery-store showdown. 

As I watched my children being rolled away, I shed a tear for all the birthday parties and tantrums and first-days-at-school I’d never get to see… and then I looked down at my carton of chocolate-covered sunflower seeds and decided I’d got the better deal. 

Macro Vegetarian Macro Sushi, made with wild rice, brown rice, sweet rice, nori, daikon, carrots, tofu, kale, apple cider vinegar, agave syrup, spices, and sesame oil. Did I mention I love New York?

Spawn-less, the Day Shifts from Hilarity to…  

Well, you’ll just have to wait and see. Because this chickadee needs her dinner, and suspense is good for the soul. 

*A skirt that makes me feel like Little Ragged Blossom, two jackets, a duffel bag for the planned chocolate splurge, and a pair of heels. This last was an accident, as I was honestly just going to try one shoe on my right non-bandaged foot then leave the store. Except what’s a girl to do when a stylish New York lady interrupts her own shopping to say that the shoes look amazing and must be bought? The girl has to buy them, obviously, even if she couldn’t try on the left shoe to make sure it fit, and so it subsequently may not. But shhhh.

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