Final destination Papeete, French Polynesia on pause for Paris.

The snow has been prancin’ (Francin’) a little too much across the Atlantic, so we’re stuck here in LAX with the cranky babies and even crankier businesspeople. Thankfully though, it seems their attention(s) are (appropriately) devoted to a thrilling round of Angry Birds .

We’ve sprawled our bags and bodies across an entire row by the windows – watching new planes arrive and queued planes take off, while we wait for the storm in Paris to pass. It’s kind of nice – all of us here together in the same place, at the same time. It actually feels a little like home.

Maybe it feels even more like home. April Rhodes was right – a house is not a home. Not on its own anyway. And certainly not without friends, family and fruit.

A container with no contents serves no purpose.

I spent my Thanksgiving with my dad’s family in Stockton, where it always, and I mean always, feels like home.

Nothing really leaves this house. Take-out containers, rubber bands and letters from grandchildren, especially.

There’s so much old, but the fruit is always new. My mom will sit down at the table, grab whatever produce there is, and peel the skin away with a paring knife – in one, single spiral – perfectly, every time.

It seems time hasn’t touched a single thing – everything is exactly as I had known it since I can remember.

On holidays like these, there is nothing but hustle and bustle. Three boys, three girls – who refer to themselves as B1, S2, or Brother 1, Sister 2, as shorthand in email and texts – are now all grown, with spouses, children, etc., filling the place above and beyond its capacity. Someone’s always coming, going, and back again.

But I guess that’s what family is for – you leave, and you return, to find that everything is exactly where you had left it.

Like this album my grandma brought out, of my parents on their wedding day. They were practically babies.

The frenzy is usually (mostly) fruit-induced. Why this is, I don’t know. Gastronomic nostalgia for the sweet delectables of tropic Vietnam, perhaps.

But why not? Fruit is so, so good. And good for you, right? In what else is every bite a delicious reward for you and your health?

My uncle Ed has the greenest thumbs in our family, aside from my grandmother, who can nurture a nearly-composted leaf into a 6-foot, banana-bearing stalk in a matter of months.

Ed’s backyard yields enough produce to feed a small village. Crates-full of green apples and persimmons. Sweet, crunchy apples and persimmons.  And so, the touching, the smelling, the ooh-ing, the ah-ing began.

I think it took me all this time to not take friends, family and fruit for granted.

Happy Holidays, everyone. See you on the other side.

The past is like the present, only better. In what I like to call my period of collective memory loss, I forgot how similar 17, 18, and 19-year-old Nicole was/is to her (still naive, still young) 20-year-old self.

So with one swift click, I released all of (the old) nicole.fittingly.net,  and it was like unleashing the fury of Pandora unto the world, only worse.

I kid, of course, because nothing published here is meant to be remotely important, profound, or comical genius. Well, maybe comical genius. But in any case, the aforementioned is precisely why, after months of virtual hibernation, I’ve decided to return to my Etc. roots and become reacquainted with the selfish vanities of blogging. Or whatever.

As a technical aside to whom it will matter – yes, not all entries take advantage of this photo-driven WP layout and yes, I realize the ominous gray ??? is an assault on the senses but unfortunately no, as of now, there is nothing I can do.

Cheers.

Lest we forget that we can, and did, exist without modern technology, one only needs to see the sites of historic Paris. The beacons of architectural style that are the Notre Dame, Versailles and the Eiffel Tower are reminders that even jaded anti-tourists can appreciate sightseeing sometimes.

Versailles

The Notre Dame

The Eiffel Tower

Bisous,
N

It’s been a week now that I’ve been in Italy. I’m staying at a villa near Corciano in the Umbria region, which is most times beyond reality. This past weekend, I had my first ever hostel experience  in Florence but, more on that later.

First, to finish up Paris.

Well, not exactly Paris, because the airport in Amsterdam is definitely worth noting. The signage is clean, crisp, colorful ..a minimalist designer’s dream. The bathrooms have orange toilet paper. Those cute KLM uniforms are everywhere. That blue. Sigh. Too bad KLM is all brawn no brains, because their brand identity is just SO good. Anyhow, if in Amsterdam, MUST go to chocolate bar. MUST.

A KLM bread/creamcheese treat? Beats peanuts for sure.

Back to Paris. In the States, it’s all about the plastic. Bags, cups, packaging, tampons… you name it, it probably comes in plastic. I can’t really explain what makes eating creamy yogurt out of a glass container or drinking ice cold milk out of a glass bottle better. It just is. And while it may seem like a waste to throw so much glass around, remember that the French are a bit ahead of our time in the sustainability department. Bring your own bags to the grocery store, or walk the walk of shame out the door.

Reuse!

What’s a vacation without Vietnamese food? We got a little home away from home with a little Little Saigon at a place we stumbled upon. Scouring the streets for Japanese, we were dumbfounded when, all that time, we had been standing in front of a Viet place.

I’m getting a bit nostalgic looking at the photos from Paris, but I can’t wait to show off what the villa looks like.

Next, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, and the Tour Eiffel.

Bisous,
N

I’ve since left Paris and flown to Rome. Obviously, I have a lot of catching up to do. This next series of entries will take the remainder of my Parisian adventure in two parts: one, eating, and two, seeing. Both equally exciting and important in this city.

Although, right now, three of five family members are very, very sick, which doesn’t speak very highly of our eating and seeing activities, does it? Dad has gout, Mom has a stomach that rejects absolutely everything, and Nick hasn’t eaten a real meal in two days. That’s saying a lot – this growing 13-year-old has a love for food that trumps all. If Aunt Monique is somewhere out there reading this, she’ll know what to do.

Now, the food.

The past 7 days, there were coffee-and-croissant meals, bread-and-cheese meals, Michelin-star meals, Are-we-in-San Jose? meals, and This-is-a-meal? meals.

The fun with food lies mostly in the discovery. Most deserve an S for satisfactory, few deserve superlatives. But once in a while you’ll find that hidden food gem that leaves you with the memory of the first, and the second, and the third bite because it was JUST that good. Since most places in Paris really are just that good, it’s important to be wary of your senses. Or face stone-cold food coma. Like I did. Hence, the lack of updating.

L’Epi Dupin

Across from the grocery/department store mega-plex Le Bon Marché is a little side-street Rue du Dupin, home of L’Epi Dupin, the refined side of gritty French country cooking. They started us off with a milk carrot purée, a flacky artichoke tartelette and a tantalizing duck confit pastry.

Nick had a silky red snapper with friend vegetables over a seafood sauce, while Mom and I shared a lamb with a vegetable/butter/honey glaze. The meat fell so gracefully off the bone. Dad had a lapin rôti, roasted rabbit, an image I’ll spare you of.

The dessert fared even better than the entrées, featuring a peeled peach with sesame-ginger crisp à la mode, a pineapple cocktail with coconut foam, and a gooey hot chocolate pudding.

Vin et Marée

In all sorts of ways, this dinner was an escapade. One, finding the place. Two, deciphering the Da Vinci code of a menu, with the non-english speaking maitre d’. Three, the food. Oh, the food.

The images speak for themselves.

More to come,

N

The French are known for funneling public money into the arts, championing the education of art history, music, ballet, etc. And why wouldn’t they? Throughout history, the French have touched each of those artistic mediums in a profound way – shaping the fundamentals and setting the standards.

The Musée de Louvre is perhaps the most glorious testament to the French love of the arts (and the arts’ love for the French). It began as a fortress under Philip II in the late 12th century then – after multiple renovations, expansions and renovations again – became a museum for the masses during the Revolution in the late 18th century. The Louvre is known for its world-class collections, due to the resident King Franci I who began collecting art for the Royal palace in the 1500′s. And not just the art of the French – the works of the ancient Roman empire and the Italian Renaissance too.

Art was grand enough to appeal to the aristocratic senses, and  powerful enough to cross the political divides that existed between the European entities. The most renowned of all the Louvre’s acquisitions, the Mona Lisa, represents all that the Louvre is and was. Lisa del Giocondo is a woman, not of noble descent, not of distinguished royalty, who was eternalized in portrait by Leonardo de Vinci. Francis I  wanted badly to own a piece painted by the great Italian artist de Vinci, and he found what he was looking for in the Mona Lisa. Art for non-political purpose. Art for the love of art. Art for art’s sake. Très cool, if you ask me.

The day didn’t exactly start with the Louvre. For Boojie and Dad, tennis takes no vacation, so they walked to the Palais de Luxembourg for some court time. Meanwhile, on the other side of the sixième, Nick snoozed away his allergy and I ate du yaourt et des fraises with Mumsie. The Bulle brand is the best. Like little scoops of heaven.

Trekking toward the Louvre, I felt much obliged to a second petit déjeuner. Tasting Paris is just as important as seeing it. Un café crème et un macaron en vanille pour emporté, s’il vous plaît. Although, if given the choice, one should not take their coffee at Paul’s emporté, to go.  The rustic wooden tables, the leather-upholstered chairs, the smell of freshly baked pastries… ingredients for the ultimate lazy afternoon.

Marc Jacobs said that in New York, free time feels like failure. In Paris, free time feels like success. I know what he means.

But it may be that the grass is always greener somewhere else. Just as some Americans dream of Paris, Parisians dream of the US. They heart NY, a lot. The Vespas say so.

In my opinion, American bigger might be better in regards to toilets, sidewalks and washing machines, but les petits poulets rôti, the small rotisserie chickens slow-roasting en plein air, filling the street with the aroma of crackling butter and the unique French mélange d’herbes, prove that big gifts come in small packages.

The Louvre is the ultimate style contradiction. It’s old meeting new, private meeting public, minimalism meeting baroque. All of it makes for a striking spectacle.

Of all the Salon-esque, Académie des Beaux-Arts-type works, these four pieces were my favorite.

1. The statue of Athena Nike, landing atop a sailing vessel. 1,000 years old. Seriously.

2. The column capitals in the Roman/Etruscan art sculpture garden, previously a hunting and horse stable. Each column had its own thematic animal carved atop it. Rawr.

3. Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People. Recognize the pose of the Madame Liberté and the little boy? Our very own Statue of Liberty, a gift from the French, perhaps? Coincidence? I think not.

4. Decamps’ La Défaite des Cimbres. That landscape. Oh my whoa.

And because I had too…. here is Mona and her tourists, velvet rope, bullet-proof glass and all. Featuring none other than… Dad.

À bientôt,

N

After a long night of traveling par avion, we needed nothing more than to sleep, eat and sleep again. At Charles de Gaulle, we were met by family friends who came prepared with two cars because, apparently, my family’s hefty luggage habits are known around the world. My life could not have been in any more danger as we navigated streets small and getting smaller, absolutely packed with pedestrians and cars and scooters and motorcycles and bicycles and small children, all who seem to have a complete disregard for each other. Parisians, however, maneuver skillfully, whether it be around a tight corner or around a kitchen. Espescially skilled in the latter.

Our apartment faces St. Andre des Arts in the 6th arrondisement, with the River Seine and Notre Dame to the north.

The rustic interior is has a Tahoe-lodge sensibility, but with the poise of Paris. My family of 5 sleeps in two bedrooms, two in each, and, being the fifth, I sleep on the couch. But I don’t mind that much, because my favorite part of the whole apartment are the brawny wood beams that hang above the living room and kitchen. Well, “kitchen”. Suddenly, my humble college abode doesn’t seem so humble.

Not even a power nap could save our jetlag, but the sweet smells and bustling sounds of the street below drew us from beneath our blankets to the delectable treats that awaited us. We took des boules, bulging scoops of gelato, to the road, then to the Seine. We hopped on a boat that took us to the city’s monuments – la Tour Eiffel, les Champs-Elysées, Nôtre Dame, Musées D’Orsay. We didn’t hop off though, because the jet lag took over and the hunger set in.

It wasn’t until 10 p.m. when the sun retired completely. We ate, as most French do, late. As the night progressed, more and more Parisians came out to dinner, and continued to party all night Saturday. This remarkably quiet Sunday morning is a perfect antidote to last night’s bruhaha.

If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past 24 hours, no matter what accomplishments are credited to the French – artistic, political, cultural, etc. – it’s their food putting the Triomphe in the Arc.

À bientot,

N

It doesn’t look it, but it smells, tastes and feels it. It’s still me underneath all of that pretty rollover. Sorry if you’re still on IE6, this theme doesn’t really do IE6. Shame on you for not going Safari or Firefox anyway. My thoughts on Chrome are unknown. For now.

I’m abroad for the next seven weeks, hoping that the miracles of the Internet will keep me blogging until I’ve touched back in SFO. Miracles like in-flight wifi, free on this Delta flight. Though my middle seat allocation makes me uncomfortably close to my aisle and window neighbors. It hurts to blog under their peering eyes. Look away! It’s a SkyMall! The free wi-fi (almost) makes up for the endless list of grievances concerning Delta’s overwhelming lack of organization at the counter. Three kiosks, international and domestic, in the domestic terminal, together. Really now. I’m talking long lines that made grown men cry.

But, nonetheless, I’m making slow progress toward my destination of long-time affection, Paris. First, an apartment in the 6th arrondissement overlooking the croissant-abundant, cultural capital of Saint Germain. Then, I head to Rome to meet my UC summer abroad cohorts and spend the next six weeks prancing between our villa in Umbria, Rome, and wherever else our hearts desire. It’s not all play, though, it’s work too – drawing in the sights and scenery of the places that were once the epicenter of the Renaissance and the Baroque, live and in-the-flesh, all day. See? Work.

Should be a great ride.

N

March 31, 2010

“What’s your favorite occupation?”

“Well, one always returns to writing. I resist the temptation to say that good fucking is really my favorite. One is now too old to talk like that.” – Norman Mailer

This, from a man who first studied aeronautical engineering at Harvard, then later revolutionized the word ‘fug’ as a euphemism for fuck in a book he titled, The Naked and the Dead. Bet you can’t find that shit in space.

I enjoy the irony in his prudence.

It brings you back to the daydreams when your mind joyrode the highway to hell, doesn’t it. When you believed that all sinners went to heaven. Like dogs. When the world had no rules, no theory. Just stealing, killing, and adulterating.

Hugo Boss suit and world-class profession, a must.

And, oh yes, all the  James Bonds, Don Drapers, Thomas Crowns and Danny Oceans lived happily together in the co-op of your mind. The women looked like Brigitte Bardot, but wrote like Simone de Beauvoir. The children – who am I kidding – there were no children.

Danger and glamour were the married couple who sometimes got bored of each other, but never stopped having a great …fug. It was all fun, games, and Red Bull.

Until you woke up, realized that people get hurt, you’re all alone and no one is watching. When the allusion becomes illusion, the dreams die and you begin to forget the reasons you dreamt them in the first place. You learn, and infiltrate your brain with nothing and everything. Nothing is yours, everything theirs. You drink coffee to get by. You walk fast. You say no.

But then a new dream comes along. A strong wind peddles its way to your feet, picking up leaves, pollen, paper and …you with it. Happiness dawns in the distant horizon. The idea of a smile, not unimaginable.

And now – for all the times you used to say no, you say yes.

November 26, 2009

After having professed himself Jedi Knight, Luke Skywalker launches an expedition to save a frozen Han Solo from the vile, fugly, red eyed Jabba the Hutt with Princess Leia & co. in tow. What I’m trying to say is… this is me, out to save my frozen fittingly from falling into some black hole in cyberspace. Because nicole.fittingly, I am your father. [End Scene]

The days leading up to Thanksgiving holiday were hard to power through, given all the sleepless nights I’ve been having. It’s that time again – a two week-long surge of anxiety, restlessness and desperation. Might this insomniatic behavior walk, talk and smell like Finals? Yes. With a capital F.  The pressure of getting an exceptional GPA to become an ideal job candidate in a less-than-ideal economic climate irritatingly hangs over me like my brother’s cowlick hangs over him on a bad hair day.

So, yeah. That’s the red-eye thing.

The other thing is how the other day I rediscovered old parts of myself rereading this very blog and how that realization brought me to this very moment. Some house faves: OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OHMYGOD, Three’s a crowd (but eight’s a family), Sweden isn’t just good for civil unions and heavy metal, “Welcome to UC Davis”, The California Aggie & the acronyms I didn’t know, Shits and giggles. Since then, both nothing and everything has changed. I’m still antsy, still dreaming – but I’ve outlined a different model of success and of the future for myself. There are projects to be unveiled and cities to be seen. Anticipate long-overdue Chicago adventures with Mills and Bel real soon. Studying in London and Paris also in the (near, and not so near) future. Speaking of, I’ve had a real education in lust and love and I think I’ve finally graduated. More soon.

And lest I forget…

Happy Birthday, Phillip James Loury. For you, a cake baked with flour, eggs, security envelopes from Wells Fargo and lots of love by yours truly.

May the force be with you,

N