Paris III.

148. Paris Gare du Nord. "Where you go?" I am asked. Standing in front of the ubiquitous Paris public transportation map and studying its colorful crisscrossing lines, I remain silent. It is not one of my favourite things, talking to people I barely know, much less some dark-hair, suspicious-looking African guy in checkered shorts whom I have never met before. Having just left the duffel bag in a locker at the station, I am trying to figure out the next step. "Where you want to go?" the stranger changes his question slightly, inadvertently making it a more accurate question to ask. For the first time, I am spending a day in Paris without an agenda, and, for the most part, without anyone to see. It is a rather strange experience: knowing exactly where you are but at the same time feeling lost. I am still not responding, less because I am wary of his ulterior motives, but more because I do not know the answer myself.

My self-appointed tourist guide does not give up easily. "What about Eiffel tower?" he points his chubby forefinger at the tiny iconic symbol on the map. I have been there, I want to tell him. In 1998, when, geographically clueless and technologically challenged, I believed that I could see Hanoi from one of the telescopes on the Eiffel tower; returning to Vietnam after my first overseas trip, I eagerly told my family (and practically anyone who bothered to listen) about the magical telescopes, until someone pointed out that Paris and Hanoi were diametrically opposite. In 2010, when Zoe and I, not wanting to wait in queue for the lifts, have run down the rusty metal stairs; immersed in the cold night air and in the bright yellow glow of sparkling lights, I felt like being in a fairy tale. And, again later in 2010, when, as two last visitors of the evening allowed to the top level, CS and I watched fireworks from afar; as tiny dots of colors flared up in the dark sky, it occurred to me that everything was simply a matter of perspective. 

"What about Champs-Élysées?" the African guy interrupts my wordless nostalgia. "You want go there?" Before he tells me yet another touristic place -- Notre Dame, I imagine, would probably be his next suggestion -- I tell him sincerely that I do not know. As I get on the nearest metro line, I realize, that sometimes it is okay not to know where I am going.
 
149. Avenue Daumesnil. Pushing a baby stroller with a 20-month old baby next to it, instead of inside it. Hair braided into three parts (one at the top, one on each side), she too is pushing the stroller and making, literally, baby steps alongside me. As other pedestrians do double-takes, I feel proud of her, for knowing to help at such a tender age, even if I am not her mother, even if she -- as I find out later -- isn't actually trying to help. A nanny has taught her to always hold on to something while walking.

150. Port d'Ivry. "Hey, I haven't seen you for..." I want to say ten years, because ten years ago I left Vietnam and I do not remember seeing her since, but she beats me to it. "Four, or five years? The last time was when we went swimming, you, me, and your sister." At her mention, the memory comes back to me. Visiting home one summer, I have persuaded my sister to take swimming lessons with me at a pool near our house, and my cousin, living nearby, has tagged along. Much younger but already an experienced swimer, she once had to rescue me when, suddenly panic, I started to swallow water at the deeper end of the pool. As I make a mental note to tell Zoe about someone referring to what I did as swimming (and to leave out the sinking part), my cousin continues. "You look different! Back then, you were like..." she gestures my former unspeakable size, not unlike the way Bowser once described a fat American burrito lady. It has never ceased to amaze me how much one can rely on a Vietnamese friend or relative to comment on one's weight as part of greetings, regardless of how long it has been since the last encounter. With this thought, I stand still, somewhat awkwardly, and my cousin, without missing a beat and most likely without noticing my slight discomfort, moves on to another topic. 

She is now a first-year university student in International Law, she tells me, and this morning was her first end-of-the-year exam. Over lunch, I learn much more about her, about how she has been working hard to improve her French, and as it progresses, so do her university grades, about how she has been watching all the TV news to keep up with current affairs in politics, economics and life in general, as part of being a lawyer-in-training, about how she hasn't made many friends so far, what with the hectic study schedule and cultural clashes, but she has all the same been proudly sharing Vietnamese culture, through organizing the Vietnamese Tet celebration at the dormitory and university presentations. As she talks, it becomes evident to me that she hasn't seen a Vietnamese, much less someone who knows of her in the past, for a while so she is doing the talking for nine months's worth of relative isolation. So I eat and listen, every now and then asking questions to encourage her to continue. Her stories remind me of when I first came to Australia, overwhelmed and homesick, but determined to take in everything and to learn fast to adapt and grow up in a foreign land without family. At nineteen, my cousin is older than the fifteen-year-old girl I was when leaving home, but she is still so young, I think to myself, with many fewer years of life experience compared to the twenty-five-year-old girl I am now. In an attempt to help her avoid some of the unpleasant parts that I had to go through myself, I think of talking about the things I have learnt in these extra years I have over her, but I realize that I cannot give her shortcuts. Life experiences are to be experienced, not taught. I continue to eat and listen.

When we leave the restaurant, she offers to show me her university, if I have nothing else to do. "Why not, it might be interesting," I agree, but let her know that I will need to go when a friend of mine finishes her meeting. On the tram heading to Porte de Versailles, my cousin tells me more of the university life. I am not sure how we get there, but suddenly she mentions a cold winter day going home in wet clothes. Puzzled, I ask her to rewind the story. Apparently, some fellow lawyers-in-training have poured water on her. "It's OK," she says, because it was only water and not Coke or something dirty. Sure it was cold but she did not mind, especially as it was already the second or third time it has happened so the element of surprise was smaller. That time it was just a little unfortunate because she had already been feeling under the weather and she thinks that wearing wet clothes all the way from university to home made her sick, which itself would still have been OK had it not been that the next day she had some exams. "Are they still doing that to you?" still stunned, I ask her. "No," she says, and hesitates a little before telling me the next part, that they recently pushed her down the stairs, and it hurt. "Do they even know you?" "No, they don't, but that's what racists do, they attack people even if they don't know you." "Shouldn't you tell someone about it?" "Whom?" she replies simply. "It's not highschool, you know, we are at university and there are thousands of students. No teacher to look over you. Besides, they did not mean to kill me, they just wanted to scare the little Asian girl for a minute or two. I am using my supernatural power," she waves hands in a supposedly witch-y way, "to pray that they fail the end-of-the-year exams, so that they switch to a different university." At this thought, she smiles, not in the way an evil witch would smile but in the way Cinderella would smile when her annoying step-sisters finally left her alone.

A text message comes. I apologize for not being able to visit her university, at least not today, and because I cannot think of anything remotely helpful to say, I tell her to take care of herself. As I catch the metro to Place d'Italie, it occurs to me that just because she has fewer years to gain experiences does not mean that her collection is any less rich than mine. I am unsure whether, at my older and supposedly more mature age, I would be able to handle racism with the same level of optimism and strength as she does. She will be OK, I try to convince myself. After all, between the two of us, she is the only one who knows how to swim.

Paris II.

145. The RER heading towards Paris center suddenly stops between two stations. An announcement is made, naturally, in French. There is, or rather, there was an abandoned package at the upcoming station, K. translates for all of us non-French speakers. Just to be on the safe side, without examining it, the police has blown up the package. Now we wait for them to clean up the exploded mess before the train can continue. We start talking about bombs, guns and threats. I ask about all the guards at Paris Nord who carry their rifles in ready position, patrolling the train station. Someone mentions France's heavy involvement in Libya as a possible reason for the extra cautiousness. I point out that the guards had already been there early January, before the Arab Spring really began. This discussion reminds K. of an encounter. 

"Once, in Israel," he tells us, "I was sitting on the bus. A beautiful girl got on, and then sat down in front of me. I was very happy, you know. As I thought to myself, yes!, she put down on her lap a gun, its barrel facing towards me. She didn't want my money or anything, and she was very casual about the gun, as if she was carrying a purse or maybe a book with her. It became a rather uncomfortable bus trip. I didn't think it would be a good idea to say hi..."

146. Answering, involuntarily, more questions for someone else's presentation than for my own. Those PhD years, with or without a formal defense at the end, were useful for something after all.

147."In Japan, it is 13," I commented, as part of our discussion on the legal age of consent for sexual activities. "And in Vietnam?" V. asked. "18, I guess?" "What about in Thailand? Four!" then, turning to his beautiful wife, V. complained, "Why don't you stop me from making these horrible jokes?" We all laughed, because the joke was horrible, and because after over an hour of laughing, everything seemed funny, politically correct or not. I thought of teasing him by pointing out, that at least the joke was better than his impromptu composition and performance of a New York-inspired rap song. But, the little musical act was actually good, just like their home-cooked dinner, which had started quite late, partially due to my awesome ability to estimate distance and time. 

"It probably takes half an hour," I had concluded, after superficially glancing at the Paris map, given to me by one of the Spanish fellow drinkers at Le Rive Gauche. The French guy was not convinced, but he did agree that it would be a nice walk along the Seine. By the time I entered the secret code to let myself into the apartment, it was an hour later. "Coke or water?" I chose water, and looking at the empty dining table, I wondered how hungry I would be by the end of the evening, after having only a pina colada as some sort of dinner.  But, then came the delicious salmon and leek, and, after lengthy conversations on why Carla Bruni chose to be pregnant just before the election (several conspiracy theories were speculated), and on DSK (even more conspiracy theories, as if we all had been all there in the hotel room), then also came the yummy, freshly-baked apple pie.

By the time dinner was finished, V. offered to drive me home because it might not be very safe to walk from the RER station to my hotel at that time. As we were driving, it seemed odd to me that, past midnight, Paris streets were still full of cars. "Where are they all going?" I asked V. "I don't know. They are Parisians, crazy and going out at all sorts of hours," replied the Parisian. More likely, these people were heading back home after a night out, when, if lucky, they were with people that made them laugh at nothing and everything.

Paris I.

142. One of the stranger notes that I have ever written. "I, Gazpacho the Soup, hereby give authorization for the hotel C., at X Rue Y, to charge 200 euros to the credit card of Mr. So-and-So."

Of course, in reality I did not refer to myself as Gazpacho the Soup, but that does not reduce the absurdity of me giving permission for the hotel to charge a credit card belonging to someone else.

143. Temporary home.

144. Twenty-five years, by Adam Zagajewski. To his sister, Ewa.

Your dream pulsed in the depths of time, 
a calm, light breath: so travelers sleep
when overtaken by a brief storm at a station
in Tuscany, in a town with dust and wasps. 

You'd be twenty-five now, 
listening to those songs that I can't stand, 
maybe nursing a newly broken heart, 
and I'd be busy making fun of you.

Your calm dream pulses in time's depths; 
children forgotten by their nurse sleep on like this, 
and never waken, and don't leave
the underwater rooms where dolphins weep.

London IIb.

52. Early morning. On the way home. In a car that has collected a few tickets overnight, due to the impromptu extension of our trip.

"What was the best part of the trip?" I ask the driver.

"Sunday night..."

"What was the second?"

"Monday morning..."

"OK, what was the third?"

"Hard to say. I don't remember anything else..."

53. The glass bottle is standing inside the little plastic bucket, or perhaps I should write, both halves of the glass bottle are standing inside the little plastic bucket. The two smiling butterflies on the glass bottle are now separated, almost cleanly, each butterfly on each half. Water is partially filling up the bucket, surrounding the glass bottle. (Is it still called a glass bottle if it no longer acts as one? An ex-glass bottle?)

It is not one of the first sights I expected to see, upon returning after my UK trip. The bottle was my favourite purchase here. Having never really lived alone, it was a rather new experience when, after arriving in Brussels, I had an apartment all for myself. The apartment was furnished and fully-equipped, including, among other things, different types of beer glasses and a crazy cleaner. The bottle was just about the only addition that I made for the apartment, so in a sense, it was a little piece of mine, and there was something comforting about drinking a glass of cold water from the bottle, while looking at the colourful, friendly butterflies. When Arielle and I were briefly considering abandoning Coke Light for a better life and consequently getting a water bottle or filter for our office, I came back to Casa to get another butterfly bottle but there were only frogs and cows. We stuck to Coke Light. The butterfly bottle remained unique, to me. 

Now, I suppose, both halves are unique, and not just even to me. As Gaston was with me over the weekend, it is not hard to guess who the culprit might have been. What puzzles me, however, is why the ex-bottle is where it is, inside a water-filled bucket. Was it broken before being placed inside the bucket, which was then filled with water? Or, was it being placed inside the bucket, then broken, and how? 

Gaston just comes home. I ask him for possible explanations. What has Tintin done? Gaston does not know. He has seen the bottle there some time after my departure and before his. There was some ice around it at the time, he says. 

Then I remember. It had nothing to do with Tintin, and everything to do with a bad combination of a hot afternoon last week, the desire to have immediate cold water, a freezer, and my ever absent-mindedness. 

RIP, my butterflies.

54. A day off work, but still plenty of math.

A 25 euro racquet = A 15 euro racquet + a (post-birthday pre-birthday-party) dinner at Mamma Roma => buy the 15 euro racquet.

"Declined, did you say? Strange, it's barely halfway through April. Could you please put 10 euros on the card, and here's a fiver..."

The remaining 10 euro note = birthday card + a (smaller) dinner at Mamma Roma

(getting lost on the way from Port de Namur to home)

The remaining 10 euro note = a secondhand second-edition of An Autobiography by Gandhi + a(n even smaller) dinner at Mamma Roma

I hope my ability for making birthday cards is as good as my mental arithmetic. 

London II.

49. At the British Museum.

Greek Mythology 101 

English 101
"Oh look, a bathtub!"
"No, Gazpacho, it's a sarcophagus." 
"Is that, like, a fancy word for bathtubs?"

How To Make Chess Sound Less Nerdy 101

Good Life 101

50. At the Blackfriars Millennium Pier. The dangerously-named Virgin London Marathon was on. Spectators were gathering alongside the run, shouting out names of, I had imagined, their friends and loved ones. None of mine was participating, but that did not stop me from feeling and acting supportive. "Come on, PEOPLE!". Gaston pointed out that I needed to call out actual names, which, now that he mentioned it, could easily be read on the chests of the runners. Being lazy, I took the easy road and repeated whatever the little girl next to me said. 
"Come on, Pauline!" the girl yelled. 
"Come on, Pauline!" I yelled. 
"Come on, Mike!"
"Come on, Mike!" 
"Come on, lady bug!"
"Come on, lad- what?"
There was, indeed, a human-sized lady bug, running and smiling. Just as there were a Chicken Little, a cake, a pumpkin, and other colorful outfits, worn by those who must have thought running the marathon itself wasn't challenging enough, so they went ahead and added a few extra kgs of a Halloween costume. Accurate as my head cheerleader might have been, there probably is an age limit for shouting out "Come on, Chicken Little!" in public. I left the cheer squad and joined Gaston on the grass to discuss age-appropriate things like five-year plans ("So, you are 32..." "No, I'm 27." "Imagine you were 32..." "Then I would like to be King...") and intellectual masturbation. These two topics might or might not have been related.

51. Maya Angelou once said, that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights. I would like to add, that you can also tell a lot about a person by the way he handles a missed train, especially when he missed it because of someone else. While the real reason for the missed train is still not funny to write about (yet), I am glad that I got to see a new side of Gaston's, the side that, after being escorted out of Eurostar check-in area by security, calmly walked along Euston Road and said, "Look, full moon! How many times do we get to see a full moon in London..."

London I.

46. St James's Park. We are standing on the bridge across a lake, imaginatively named the St James's Park Lake, facing the Buckingham Palace. "Do you want me to take a picture of you with the palace?" Gaston asks me, his camera poised ready. Next to his camera, my standard-sized Nikon looks like a kid's toy. Throughout the day, while he has been busy adjusting lenses and climbing over fences to capture the essence of London, I have been taking pictures that look like this:

A compelling reason for not jaywalking.

"No, thanks," I tell him, explaining that I generally prefer pictures without me. Leaving Gaston to take care of the Buckingham Palace, I turn around and take a photo of the lake surface. "Oh, you prefer pictures of ducks. Actually, you just took a picture of a duck's arse. You prefer pictures of duck arses. That's OK. That's cool. Everyone has his own preferences. I am not here to judge..."

47. We are passing by the 32nd one of the day. After the first 31 times, Gaston has learnt a thing or two about me. 

"Don't say it. Look at the other side of the road. See? Beautiful buildings." 
"But it's a Sta-"
"Don't say it." 

48. Being captivated by the photography exhibition An English man in New York, on display at the National Portrait Gallery. Pretending to be visiting our friends Liz (who kindly took the time out of organizing the wedding to invite us over for dinner) and Dave (even if he's too conservative for our taste). Walking through the nightlife at Piccadilly Circus and its eccentrically-dressed crowds. Being mesmerized by the performances of Matthew Fox (TV series Lost) and Olivia Williams (The Ghost Writer) in In A Forest, Dark and Deep, and deciding, on the spot, to move to London.

The National Portrait Gallery had not been Gaston's first choice. I know this because when I asked him, "Do you want to go to the National Portrait Gallery?", he said, "No." And, despite being into theatre, we had not specifically planned to see a play. Truth be told, we had not specifically planned anything. By Friday night, he did not know when I would be arriving, I did not know where we would be staying. My last-minute attempt to solve both problems by an email was rather unsuccessful: the email was not read until we were both in the world's largest Apple store. (Because that's what people do at the world's largest Apple store, checking emails.) Still, the day couldn't have gone better, had we planned. As an added bonus, the National Portrait Gallery admission was free. The theatre tickets, however, meant that I am surviving on bread and water until the next paycheck. I suppose if I am to move to London, I might as well start practising. 

Greetings.

43. Winner for Originality in (mis)pronouncing my name: "Nice meeting you, Zoo." 

Nice meeting you too...

44. Winner for Originality in introducing me: "She is the office neighbour of my PhD supervisor's former PhD student."

45. The Roots Bar. Some time before all the mathematicians-in-training take it to the dance floor and... blow balloons to kick around, to the dance music, in the disco lights. 

"So, you guys don't kiss each other on the cheeks in the UK?"
"I can kiss you on the cheeks." 
"Well, it's only for hellos and goodbyes." 
"Hello." 

Restrooms.

40. London St Pancras Int. Station. At the queue for restrooms. 

In January, I stayed in Poland for two weeks. Whoever has been to Chopin's birthplace, no doubt, remembers many wonderful things from there. Me, I remember the toilets. The Poles, out of either minimalism or laziness, simply draw a circle or a triangle on each public toilet door, depending on the gender. Which symbol represents which gender, I never actually figured out. When I first saw these signs, I spent several minutes pondering. ("Is, mmm, it supposed to be of a triangular shape? That would fit, but what about the circle? I am somewhat familiar with this particular branch of biology, but a circle would not be how I draw certain things. Maybe from that angle?") In the end, I just gave up and used the parents-kid restroom. Here in London, the British would not do this to me. 

There she stands, one hand resting on the end of a mop, the other free to serve as a visual aid. Meet - I shall call her - the Toilet Director. 

"You, move forward just a little bit, juuuust a little bit, thaaat's it. Wait. Ok, that door is open. Now you go. Yes, over there. You, move forward. No, not too much. See the line? You stand right there. Oh, that one is open. Now go. Darling, darling, are you coming inside? Are you? Good. No, you, don't rush. It's too early in the morning and everyone's rushing. That would make things chaotic. You wait. Oh, two doors. Two, can we get two people to go? Gooood. Darling…" 

Poland, take notes.

41. Seen on a conference bag (which looks like a BORDERS canvas tote bag):

"After the conference, please feel free to use this versatile bag for any of the following alternative uses: 

BAG FOR BOOKS - BAG FOR FOOD - LAPTOP CASE 
BOARD WIPER - FANCY DRESS [w. picture of the bag on someone's head, with two holes cut out] - PILLOW 

And many more, like... shopping bag, gym bag, flag, dust cover, gift wrapping, oversized mitten, tea towel, frost cover for a very small windscreen, handkerchief, transportation of highly classified government documents, a really cheap present, ineffective water container, a solution to the economic crisis."

42. Where the wild things are.