What I Have Learned This Past Year

Good evening friends, this is my 15th annual New Year’s reflection and I hope you enjoy!

To leave the exhibition at the Musée d’art contemporain de Lyon I found a staircase at the end of the show. I bounded down the square staircase and noticed a woman slightly ahead of me. I slowed down my pace not to have her think I was going to steal her bag. At the turnstile to leave the museum, she asked me something in French. I asked her if she spoke English.

Fatima happened to work in the Tourism Office in Lyon. Hence her mastery of English. We had lunch and she showed me her art studio in a dusty space above a dentist’s office. Paintings and spattered paint covered the floor next to boxes of old files. Fatima and I spoke about relationships. She told me about a man she knew that was in love with her. How he called her everyday. I told her about a girl named Alex. How we had met just a few months ago. How I thought it was different from all of the other girls I met. How we had this unexplainable spark.

Alex emailed me through eHarmony’s messaging service on Superbowl Sunday, twenty minutes before the game started. Five days later we had our first date. One date turned into another. And another. And another. This past year there would be crab cakes and baked salmon. Mornings at Golden Gardens. Brunches and sushi. Coffees at Victrola and the secret Starbucks. We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge in a brand new car and picked snow peas in Mount Vernon. There would be concerts and Sounders games. Warm summer walks and a Capitol Hill Block Party. We danced in a winery and got completely lost in Vancouver. And in two weeks we will get the keys to our new apartment together.

It is hard to believe that in the beginning of the year I went out with other people. The divorced wine lover with a second home in Walla Walla, the community college librarian nine years to my senior, and the woman who canceled our date because she had a negative result on her mammogram. Those dates seem like they were a lifetime ago. Now, when we are out at dinner or happy hour I love pointing out people who are on first dates.

Three days into the New Year I had my heart broken. See, I had been interviewing for a new job and I had gone very far in the process. It was narrowed between two candidates. And when I received the phone call from HR, it wasn’t an offer of employment but rather a conversation stating that they would keep my resume on file. Or in relationship speak, let’s just be friends. I went to their website a few months later and looked up the person they hired. She looked very happy.

Like people do in dating I kept on interviewing. I was overqualified for the position at the Catholic high school. My salary range was too high for the museum position. I didn’t make it pass the screening interview for the University position. And it was between me and another for the development manager position for a nonprofit helping people get legal services — I was not chosen. Then at a conference I run into an acquaintance who says the Pacific Science Center is in the process of interviewing candidates for a major gifts position and that I should send in my resume. Three weeks later I let Becky know that our last work trip to Walla Walla was unfortunately would be our last and I left PNDRI after 5 and half years.

I don’t know what more I can say about my trip to France that hasn’t been said already here, here, here, here, and here or through photos here. To be away from home in a foreign land by myself for a month was one of the most spiritual journeys I have ever done. To step on a plane in Seattle and emerge from the subway station in Paris only hours later was amazing. I felt reborn. And to turn 30 in Paris while eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant was most definitely a highlight of 2012.

Exactly one year ago I awoke to my neighbor playing an Irish drinking song on his bagpipes. His annual tradition. The sun shined through my window. I could never have imagined how this year would progress and how different my life would be one year later.

From Bainbridge to Paris to Iceland to Brinnon to Germany to San Fransisco to Allyn to Vancouver to Chablis to Portland to Healdsburg. To planning weddings. To attending weddings. To fried chicken parties. To evenings at Full Pull and happy hours at Kate’s. To staying at home for Thanksgiving. To game nights to two-poles. From Joule to Starfire to Leon de Lyon to the Madison Park Conservatory to Vito’s to Benoit to Shiro’s to Parc des Princes to the van ride from Colmar to Obernai along the Alsatian wine trail. 2012 has been one hell of a ride.

Fatima asked me how we could have such personal conversations even though we had met just hours ago. I said, “It’s because we will never see each other again.” I may never see Fatima again but I hope to see you all soon. It is easy for us to get wrapped up in our lives and never make time for those people who shaped us to be the person we are today. It is easy to take all of our tomorrows for granted. But we must live life to the fullest and cherish every day. Life is too short for anything else. And if you see some tourist at the Seattle Art Museum, wandering lonely through the exhibits, stop them and ask them how they like it because you never know what might happen.

To everyone happy New Year!

Starving in the Famed Parc des Princes

With minutes before kickoff, proudly wearing my Seattle Sounders scarf, I asked the scalper how much he wanted for the ticket. His associate chimed in and said “€70.” I countered at €50. The scalper glanced over at his associate again and the associate shook his head no and said “€70, President’s Box.” I took the ticket and handed over most of the Euros I had in my wallet.

I wasn’t supposed to be at the Paris Saint-Germain (PSG) – Sochaux match. For months I had been planning on seeing the Olympique Lyonnais play FC Lorient in Lyon the night before. But the powers at Ligue 1 moved the game from a Saturday to a Sunday night. TV rights? Blackout? Taylor Swift concert at the Stade des Lumières? Who knows but my train to Paris was heading out in the morning with or without me.

On match day in old Paris, entire streets are closed off. People are running in all sorts of different directions. Rows and rows of Paris police donning full riot gear march up and down the cobblestone streets in perfect precision — yelling at the college-aged and families alike. And then you realize that PSG is trying to shed the ghosts of hooliganism and transform to a place that is welcoming to all (this process is certainly accelerated with the team’s purchase by some very, very wealthy Qatari’s). I handed a man in a orange vest my ticket (which I thought there was about a 50 percent chance of being counterfeit) and he pointed and said something to me in French. I nodded.

I arrived about one minute into the game, soaked and starving. I figured that since I was in a 48,000 seat stadium, in one of the largest cities in the Western world, that finding food and beer would be pretty easy, but for the life of me I could not find any concessions. The older couple next to me had packed a lunch. And they happily snacked away while blowing cigarette smoke in my face.

The scoring opened early for the home side with a screamer in the sixth minute. Six minutes later Sochaux scored on a flukey header over the PSG goalie. But in the 25th minute PSG scored off a set piece and never looked back. The match ended 6-1. Ici c’est Paris.

On my plane from Seattle to Iceland there was a woman with her family wearing a Sounders kit. When we arrived at the Icelandair Hotel, I asked her if she knew if the Sounders beat San Jose. She shrugged and said “I hope so.”

PSG finished the 2011-2012 season in second place with 79 points — the most points a second place team has ever achieved in Ligue 1. They also set the record for highest attendance average. Their match against Sochaux would end up being one of the bright spots of a very bright season. PSG’s new ownership has promised that they will build a club that will win the UEFA Champions League — glory, no matter the cost.

On my last night in Alasce, I spent the evening in my hotel room laying on my bed. I put Becky’s netbook on my belly, plugged in the headphones, and listened as Zach Scott headed a Caskey cross into goal. The Sounders won that game and like PSG would end up just short of glory by the end of the season.

After every goal the PSG supporters call out “Ici c’est,” and the crowd responds with “Paris.” And I could not help my mind wandering to those cold, dark evenings in Seattle. When we respond to ECS’s call of “Seattle!” with a spirited response of “Sounders!”

Seconds to Eat

Before my trip to France I watched this video. It is about a girl who took a one-second video, every day for a year. This got me thinking. I should take a one-second video every day I am in France. But then I realized that my video would only be 25 seconds long. Well, then I thought about food. And aside from the wine tastings I did and a couple of tiny cups of espresso, this is a complete record of everything I ate and drank for a month. Enjoy!

Five Hours with Miranda the Canadian

The crepe vendor in Riquewihr thought we were married. But I had just met Miranda, the Canadian from Toronto, a couple of hours before.

Miranda worked for the English government in London. And after she got laid off, Miranda sold her car, gave up her flat (as she called it), and came to Paris for a month-long intensive language class. She told me about partying in Luxembourg and dancing until dawn. She loved Paris but thought it was dirty.

I met Miranda on the exact mid-point of my trip. I wasn’t exactly lonely (Skyping with Alex and daily facebook posts seemed to negate the physical difference between Seattle and France) but traveling alone, and experiencing all the wonderment, joy, and daily moments of self-actualization in solitude, was beginning to drain on me.

Miranda’s language instructor told her to work on her accent. And even with my French being one step above incomprehensible, I still found her accent jarring and slightly embarrassing when she ordered her nutella-filled crepe. I just smiled.

Dupak (our van driver), Miranda, and I were the only ones left after we dropped everyone off in Colmar. The sun was setting and we still had an hour. I didn’t grab Miranda’s email or Facebook or even her last name. I thought it would be more beautiful if our friendship only lasted for the past five hours. I hopped out of the van in front of my hotel and waved. The van, turned the corner, and sped away.

Lana Del Rey & the Icelandic Convenience Store

Most of my last few blog posts have been long, maybe too long. So I decided that I am going to start writing some posts about my trip that are 250 words or less. Enjoy.

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When I was alone, in a strange land, and everything (the stars, the sky, the light, the language, the people, the smells, the buildings, the signs, the writing, the culture, the style, the clothes) is different, I found great comfort when I saw things from America.

After walking in a jet lagged haze around the desolate moonscape that is Iceland, I found myself stumbling into a 24-hour convenience store looking for alcohol (to help me sleep), vitamin water (I was so terrified of getting sick at the beginning of my trip), and lunch for the flight to Germany then Paris when Lana Del Rey’s Blue Jeans played over the speaker.

Her soft, dream like voice, and references to American culture didn’t answer my question, “How the hell did I end up in an Icelandic convenience store?” But it made realize that despite how different everything was, I was okay.

I clumsily put my items in the checkout “ramp,” and the clerk scanned my Icelandic malt beverage (whoops), crackers, ham(?), and vitamin water, and asked if I wanted a bag. I declined. “They’re free,” she added. I relented, why fight her? “751.11,” she said. I gulped hard as I handed her my BECU debit card without knowing how much 751.11 króna was in dollars.

Lana finished with “say you’ll remember, oh baby, say you’ll remember, I will love you till the end of time,” as I left the store. And a few hours later, I left Iceland.

The Outsider(s) and the Perfect French Couple

Sometimes in Paris people would speak to me in English before I even said a word. “Would you like an English menu?” Why yes, yes I would. That is how I found myself outside the Louvre eating a forgettable croque madame monsieur (I ordered the madame) and a glass of Chablis that ended up costing 23€.

No matter how nice I would dress up, no matter how fast I walked, no matter how crazily daring I crossed the street, I was an outsider and everyone knew it. All eyes were on me. This was especially true of all of the places outside of Paris. Take me, a hairy, beardy, Asian man with a faux-hawk with a mastery of French language worse than a two-year old child and you will see all the French natives fix their gaze on to me with a laser-focus that is uncomfortable whether you were on the subway, the tram, or waiting for the bus. The worst were the children who keep staring at you even when you flashed them a glare smile.

What I didn’t know at the time but would learn later is that my 23€ lunch would have a lasting impact on me. I discovered that often, the street food in France was superior to the mid-level restaurants like the one I got the disappointing croque monsieur. I could save money and eat better by hitting street stands and then spend my Euros on places that would not only blow out my tastebuds but also my wallet.

Fast forward to Lyon where after a day of pouring down rain and another day of bitter cold, the clouds cleared, the rain stopped, the sun erupted and Lyon shined in a brilliant light. I confidently walked into Leon de Lyon and requested a table for one.

Over two weeks into my trip to France, I was pretty comfortable eating alone. But I always felt a little out of place. Like a book that is ajar in a perfectly neat and orderly bookcase. I sat down and ordered a Kir Royale. French cheese puffs, two types of bread, and an olive and oil spread were brought to my table.

On my right were two women eating salmon in a cream sauce (I still don’t understand how the French remain so skinny — the cigarettes?). A middle aged couple and their teenage daughter sat to my left — they reeked of cigarettes. A man by himself sat across from me on my diagonal. Across from me sat a man and his wife and their two daughters — aged maybe 3 and 5.

If Paris is the city of love and light then Lyon is the city of food and gastronomy. And Leon de Lyon was mentioned in every guide book I had and received high praise from my Lyon tourist office friend Fatima. Leon de Lyon is famously known for surrendering its two Michelin stars. Chef Jean-Paul Lacombe wanted to prevent his restaurant from escalating prices and uncontrollable fuss associated with Michelin recognition — whether that is fact, fiction, or merely legend, it doesn’t matter when you push open those heavy wooden doors (the same doors that President Clinton pushed open 15 years ago).

The man and the woman with the two daughters were the perfect French couple. The man was smartly dressed in a black suit coat, no tie. The woman was in a white breezy summer dress and golden blonde hair. In a room full of elegant, well dressed people, they stood out, by a good measure. And their daughters, in petite matching dresses, also stood out to that late arriving French lunch crowd. But not for good reasons but rather for their bad behavior.

In a restaurant good enough to serve an American president (and the rest of the G7), they are going to treat squirrelly children with the same attention, class, and respect as they would any one else. In fact, Leon de Lyon took it up a level. The two daughters received soda water, dyed bright green, and finished with a long colored straw. Their buttered chicken pasta was brought before the perfect French couple received their first course. And these two young girls sat perched during their meal on these padded ornate booster cushions (forget those ubiquitous brown booster seats).

Like most children in a room, these two were the center of attention. And if any background music played through the darkened restaurant, it was not heard over the mother’s constant, curt, quick, and loud shushes. The children crawled over their father while he checked his phone (probably looking for any reason to excuse himself from the table). The perfect French couple let their eldest daughter go to the toilet by herself but she came running back perhaps a bit too shy to go by herself.

My dessert arrived — a chocolate brownie with ice cream that may be near (or at) the top of the list of the best things I ate in France.

Before, I took my first bite, the perfect French couple paid and fled with their children. Their table, a wasteland of uneaten food and overturned cups, was quickly cleared and cleaned and any evidence of the two daughters vanished. And I felt a little melancholy when they left. For the first time at a restaurant in France, I didn’t feel like I was the center of attention. I didn’t feel like I was the one that didn’t belong. I felt like another book in a full bookcase. While others in the restaurant were visibly annoyed with those two daughters and the perfect French couple, I couldn’t have thanked them more.

I didn’t know it at the time but that day would end up being the clearest and warmest day of my trip. I pushed open the doors of the century-old brasserie and walked out onto the cobblestoned street. It was mid afternoon and I didn’t have any plans so I just started walking.

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The rest of my meal:

Outside of Leon de Lyon

Cream of mushroom soup, homemade croutons, and chevre

Duck breast with steamed(?) veggies

Espresso (of course)

Every Bit of French

The end is near. And I am thinking about work again. It is hard not to, as when I come back I will have a new boss (random/weird timing). But before I leave for Seattle (via Iceland), here is a comprehensive list of every French word/phrase I have said since being over here:

• Bonjour
• Bonsoir
• Je m’appelle Nicholas Peyton
• Merci
• Merci beaucoup
• Oui
• Non
• Parlez-vous anglais?
• Je voudrais ______, s’il vous plaît.
• Pardon
• Uh, for the mademoiselle.
• L’addition s’il vous plaît.
• Ça va
• un
• deax
• trois
• Petit

Who knew you can spend 25 days in France with an understanding of French language that is surpassed by the end of the week in high school French class?