Sad Sad Sad

I love Japan. Anyone who knows me is aware that I plan on moving there someday, at least for a little while. Watching the destruction that the massive earthquake has ravaged on the country and people that have always offered me such kindness has left an aching in my heart and a lump in my throat.

I have read horribly insensitive comments online from other Americans implying that this is god's way of punishing the Japanese for Pearl Harbor. As someone who had relatives fight in WW2, I find these comments disgusting and insulting to the men who fought then, because there is no way in hell that men of that kind of honor could return from war with such a pathetic, ignorant mind.

In all of my traveling there is one thing that is shared amongst all cultures, and that is that people are inherently good. I can not condemn an entire culture for the destruction caused by some of its members. And I sickens me to see that some people still do.

So in the hopes that any one reads this silly blog, I wanted to re-share a post I did a few years back while I was in Japan.

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Over the course of my eleven years dancing with New York City Ballet I have had the pleasure of traveling around the world. I have danced in Athens, Greece, St. Petersburg, Russia, Edinburgh, Scotland, Paris, France, London, England, Copenhagen, Denmark, Los Angeles, Berkley, Orange County, California, Houston, Texas, Stonybrook, New York and Tokyo, Japan. While each city and country had so much to offer, Tokyo is definitely one of my favorite places. Sorry Stonybrook.

From the moment you get off the airplane you know you are about as far away from home as you can get. And after a thirteen-hour flight, food becomes your first priority, but oh the language barrier you are about to encounter. In Paris you can get by easily as a tourist. We’ve all ordered steak au poive from a menu at home. And in Athens you just drop the ‘Greek’ off of your Greek salad and there you go. But try to read a menu in Tokyo and your eyes cross and sometimes you just end up pointing at something and hoping for the best.

This is my third time to Tokyo and I’d like to think that I’ve learned my way around a bit. I haven’t. Tokyo is a dizzying city of perpetual daylight. Is it four AM or 3:45 in the afternoon? Your guess is as good as mine. There also seems to be no separation of indoors or outdoors. I have walked down the sidewalk only to find myself in the basement of a department store, having never passed through a doorway nor taken an escalator. Just like magic, there I am standing next to a mannequin, with an umbrella still opened in my hand.

Aside from its’ magical sidewalks and never setting Sun, Tokyo is an odd melding of the old way of living and a futuristic way of living that the older natives seem equally as confused and amazed by as I am.

It’s where these two completely different ways of life meet that enthralls me the most. In a subway station yesterday, I saw a couple of young kids run in to a friend in passing. After catching their friends’ attention, they all bowed to one another. No high fives, no over the top hug-fest that seems to be taking over public schools across America. And most impressive, no fist bump. Oh how I loathe the fist bump. Maybe it’s because I have terrible hand-eye coordination and most of the time I end up punching the other person in the forearm with the strength of a ninety-five year old lady, but the fist bump doesn’t seem to have any point. Where is the sign of friendship and respect in an intersecting punch? But a bow to your friends, that is honor.

I TAKE IT BACK I TAKE IT BACK! GET ME OUT OF HERE!

Hong Kong is like a prostitute, you love her for a few minutes and then you're left itching for days.

Here are a few questions that I have for Hong Kong...

1. Why don't your elevators work? It shouldn't have to tack on an extra half an hour to my commute. After the button is pushed, you should be at my floor at least within 25 minutes.

(an interesting side note.. the elevators in the theatre here are made by a company named Schindler's Lifts. You can't make up shit like that.)

2. Why are you so willing to push people on the sidewalk, yet you don't have the balls to J-walk?

3. You are so afraid of germs. Signs everywhere declare how often an area is sanitized, yet you are so eager to cough in my face. Explain.

4. Why do you put the "double chili pepper symbol" indicating extreme spiciness next to what arrives as bland boiled chicken?

5. Where are all of your daughters?

6. Why don't any of your signs regarding contracting swine flu contain the advice of staying away from pigs.

7. How does a 20 year old male drive a Lamborghini down the street with the same look of excitement as I have when I rent a Dodge Stratus from Avis?

8. Are you sure that Cantonese isn't the "Language of Love"?

9. I'm pretty sure that we invented Air-Conditioning, so why don't you turn yours down, I'm not impressed.

10. What's the quickest way to your airport?

Lazy Post

Something that I just can't wrap my head around here, is the fact that no restaurant provides napkins. At our pawn shop dinner (details later) we were given giant prawns with a honey glaze which we ate with our fingers. When our hostess noticed some of us wiping our hands on the table cloth (I'm looking at you Rebecca) she provided us with a bowl of scalding water, seriously, almost boiling, to dip our hands in and a nice half used roll of toilet paper. Classy.
We all miss Craig, and when the prawns came out, so did our cameras. And we all at once admitted we were taking our pictures for him. Love you Boo.
Sean's fashion here has been a fluctuation between Fonsie from Happy Days and MC Hammer.
Some locals.

Day Something, I don't know, does it matter?

I have to admit, I kind of like Hong Kong. It's a lot like New York but with a shit load of smog. I've never experienced smog before. No that's not true, I saw smog in L.A. once, but smog is actually the best thing about L.A., second best thing...leaving L.A., so maybe that doesn't count. 

Our theatre here is located right on the water and apparently there is a lovely skyline that we should be able to see set amongst some gorgeous mountains. Well, during the day you can't really see it. It's like looking at something after rubbing Vasaline and baby powder on your eyes. I keep asking myself, is that weather or pollution? (CNN has recently answered my question by discussing the fact that Hong Kong has no environmental laws. Don't cry Al Gore.)

People here are obsessed with material possessions. I have seen countless amounts of people taking pictures of store fronts. STORE FRONTS! Who the fuck wants a photo of the Gucci store's entrance hanging on their walls? Between our hotel and the theatre, a mere 10 minute walk, (which should really only take five but these people won't get out of my way), there are two Prada stores and two Tiffany's.  Full size stores no less. I don't get it, I was under the impression that China had loaned most of its money to the US, so who the hell can afford to shop at Luis Vuitton on their lunch break? Not this bitch, 96% of my wardrobe came from the sale racks at Urban Outfitters, and that's an improvement from the days when I use to shop at Webers.

I could and would love to talk (vent) about work here, but I won't. However I will say that craziness is contagious, and apparently a lot of people that I work for aren't washing their hands properly. 

Tonight we have plans to go to a pawn shop that at night lets some man come in and cook for people who book him. It wasn't my idea, but we've heard that a lot of people will cook for you out of their own kitchen even though they aren't licenced cooks. What's the worst that could happen right? So Mom, if you're reading this, if I don't post tomorrow, I've clearly died from food poisoning. 

Sleep tight.

Day One. Actually Day Three is you count the travel.

We have arrived in Hong Kong. Our flight was 16 hours and 10 minutes long, but who’s counting when your seat doesn’t recline but rather scoots your butt forwards in to a position that can only be described as the ‘shove your penis in to your belly button position’. (Yeah, you had to click the explicit content warning on this sight, so don’t act surprised)

But 16 hours isn’t so bad when you’re being gently rocked to sleep by turbulence. At least I think it was turbulence although it might have just been the plane rocking from the incessant bowing of our flight attendants. Come on ladies, you don’t have to bow to me after handing me a wet-nap. It’s just a wet-nap; they come free with a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken. But our plane landed safely in the correct destination and I guess that’s really all that matters.

After checking in to our hotel and freshening up, we set out to get a quick bite to eat before attempting to sleep. We wandered around our neighborhood checking out a few menus outside to see if they had what we were in the mood for, which luckily was Chinese food.

 Now I know that people call me “negative, cynical, pessimistic, even an asshole”, but those people don’t know shit, I’m a realist. There are things about other cultures that just drive me nuts. I don’t think less of the culture for it, but I’m not going to pretend that I blindly love everything that I see. Also, I think that I can be quite generous in my praise of things that tickle my fancy, such as my love for Asia’s obsession with photo menus. Nothing gets my mouth watering like a photo of oily noodles with slices of spicy beef on top. See, when you just read “oily noodles with slices of spicy beef”; it probably did nothing for you. But if you had seen the picture, shiny, shiny noodles with steam coming off of them, covered with pieces of beef just glistening with spicy goodness you too would walk in, sit down, and point at that picture to the waitress, whom I would presume would then bow to you and give you a wet-nap.

Count Down To Hong Kong

On Monday we will schlep our suitcases to JFK and hope that they weigh under fifty pounds, saving us $100 each. Luckily I'm a tiny guy and my entire wardrobe probably clocks in at a grand weight of 47 ounces. Rebecca, she's a different story. Petite yes, but I have a feeling that she'll probably pack all 3,073 of her black cardigans. I'll have to keep my eyes on her when she packs.

Once again I have absolutely no preconceived notions as to what Hong Kong has in store for us. If I had to predict three things, they would be...

1. I'm going to take issue with the volume in which they speak/yell.

2. Rebecca's going to make me eat chicken feet.

3. The only words that I'll recognize are Lo and Mien.

Miso Sorry

Yeah, I know that I haven't posted in a while, but that doesn't mean that this crazy brain has been on stand-by. I have been busy doing my writing for Dance Magazine and they has put up my first essay at www.dancemagazine.com . I hope that you enjoy it. Keep checking back there for the rest of them. We have missed everyone we love. sayonara.

Day 3,4 maybe 5...I can't tell anymore.

So far so good. I haven't had to work yet, Rebecca hasn't had to work as much as she used to, and therefore we actually get to spend some time together here. This never happens on tour and I'm thrilled now. We have hours to kill together today and we have endless possibilities. Maybe a shrine or two, maybe the zoo. Quite possibly we'll go shopping for gift for our families. But in any case, I won't be alone.

The first time I came here, I didn't eat the entire time on tour. I can't remember where all we went, but I do remember loosing around twenty pounds and loving it. I think I wanted to look like a crack-head back then. And I did.

The second time I came to Tokyo I was dating Rebecca and tried to sample the local cuisine just to please her. Her being the crazed foodie that she is. But if you try to eat something that you don't want to and are just doing it to please, you just end up hating it more, and probably gag in the process. And I did.

This trip however, after five years of expanding my palate, has become a Japanese cuisine extravaganza. Pork katsu? Give it. Yaki Tori? Sock it to me. Sushi platter? Bring two. Miso soup? Stick it in my veins! Aside from eel and sea urchin, I will pretty much try anything. Maybe not enjoy it, but I'll try it.

Accessing this food is the challenge. Signs for a restaurant here look as though it was written by a kitten with a Sharpie pen taped to its' paw. (that's something I can't write in Dance Magazine!) Who knows what lies within when you can't read a menu outside. Also, restaurants aren't even located on street level, they're often located on the fifth to fortieth floor. So to find these restaurants one must walk down the street looking up. This kind of behavior in New York would result in someone (me) encouraging the person to "get out of my city you fucking tourist. It's called a sideWALK, not a sideSTAND !" But here, the treasure is up. And you've got to really hunt for your meal. But once you find it, damn it's good. Sometimes it's still moving on your plate, but it's good.

Miso Crazy

Guess who's guest writing for 'Dance Magazine'? Me. No shit! I hear that I might have to tone down the cursing and offensive stereotyping, but still, 'Dance Magazine'.

TOKYOh My God!

I'm on the other side of the world. I am in your future. The Sun that you see rising has set here hours before. I am in Tokyo.

A thirteen hour flight isn't nearly as enjoyable as it sounds, fortunately, Nippon Airline has a delightful Steerage section with amenities such as "all middle seats!", "Non-reclining seats", "Ground beef and rice for breakfast" and "Industrial strength air-conditioning!" But the best part is their state of the art time machine. Just enter the plane cabin and in half a day you'll be in tomorrow.

It is however a process worth going through to get here. Personally, I love everything Japanese. From their delicate cuisine to their obsession with futuristic technology, their nonsensical metro system to their sparkling, whale-free seas, I love it all.

This is my third time to Tokyo and I want to think that I know my way around a little. Which I don't. Tokyo is a city that feels as though there is no difference between inside and outside. You can walk down the sidewalk and then miraculously find yourself in the basement of a department store, having never walked through a door. There's perpetual artificial daylight, and I'm not sure if that's good or bad for jet-lag.

This morning Rebecca had the fantastic idea to venture to the fish market at 5 am since that is when the ships deliver all of their catches. Who could have imagined how amazing dead sea creatures are? I saw live octopus, giant clams, squids, huge, HUGE tuna and even some whale. It was crazy. We walked through a maze of vendors hacking away at enormous tuna with knives taller than me, all while dodging millions of fishermen on electric carts dragging fish from one dock to another. I watched in horror as Rebecca continually escaped near death as these carts flew by. It was bring a tourist to work day, only no one really cared about the safety of the tourists. If someone got hit by a cart, I'm pretty sure that they'd just throw your body on the back of the cart and then hack you up and sell your meat as dolphin meat. And I'd probably end up loving them for it. They're so much more efficient than us.

60 Years Old

So a certain father that I know and have grown to love has turned 60 today. Rob doesn't look 60, probably because he has developed an addiction to his pedometer and seems hell bent on walking every street in Ithaca. I wonder if any of the Cornell student up there have begun to take notice of him and sit up in their dorm rooms at night after smoking the good stuff and create nicknames for him. If they are, here are some suggestions...The Walking Stick, Lockheed Walkin', Hip Moses, Senior White-Ass, Speedy McWanderer.

But I doubt that they are.

In any case, Rob is a wonderful pre-father-in-law and I feel extremely lucky to have him in my life. I always hear about dreadful in-laws, but I seem to have landed myself in a wonderful divided family and I get to love them all as my own.

So with that I suggest that we all raise a glass or bottle, regardless of what time you're reading this, and salute Rob Krohn, for being a great man, great father, and one kick ass walker. May the trails never end. Happy Birthday. -A

What happened in Spoleto.

Okay. Here's what went down.

We all arrived to the theatre in the pouring rain. If it rains in Saratoga everything is fine, there's a roof, but at the Theatro Roma, you are out in the elements. So we all bunkered down in our metal sheds (our dressing room were literally metal shipping containers. You have yet to experience the true fear of a lightning storm until you spend one sitting in a metal box.) and waited to see what was going to happen. 

Even though the crew covered the stage with plastic to keep it dry, it got soaked as they carlessly removed it, dumping the water right back on to the stage. We all watched as the crew tried to dry the stage with wads of paper towels wrapped around poles, not a very effective tool. 

At around 9:30, before our 10pm performance, the promoter's assistant came and told us that the show was 100% cancelled, but that we would have to wait until 10:15 to leave, so that they could tell the audience to go home without seeing us skipping off to an early dinner.

We were all elated. Not only did we get the night off, but we would still be getting paid. Take that 'Act of god' clause. Oh, but that's when the shit went down...

Our promoter, let's call her Alessandra F. (I know people Google themselves, and I'd love to get a giant stack of cash again some day) finally arrives on the scene and is not thrilled that her assistant has cancelled without her.

"Wendy! Why aren't you in make-up?"

"We were told the show's off. The stage is wet."

"No,No. I once danced Romeo and Juliet with a puddle on the stage. If you stepped in it, you could get splashed."

Well that stage she wanted us to dance on was soaked. I mean SOAKED.

Things got weird as the leaders of each dancing group tried to decide how dangerous it would be to actually dance. The head of the Wayne McGregor group basically said "Fuck off, We're out of here."

I guess we came up short in the balls department, because we were forced to got out in front of the audience and test out how bad the stage was. As if we could go out there and say "Nope, Sorry that your tickets aren't refundable. Smell ya later." So it was said, You WILL dance.

To the credit of the crew, they were able to get the stage rather dry, but since most of the night was spent trying to figure out weather or not we would dance, none of us had warmed up and we were pretty emotionally drained.

On went our costumes, the ladies refused to wear point shoes and fussed about trying to find flat shoes. We all figured that we should just take it easy. Well, by the time the lights came up, so did the humidity. What started out as a freshly dried stage became a sopping wet skating rink. You could see the pools forming before your very eyes. And then, the falling began.

You could not for the life of you keep you feet beneath you. It was impossible. Normally you wish people "merde" before they leave the wings, but now we were all saying "be careful", "look out for the giant lake that is forming out near quarter", "Quick! Go get some mother-fucking sandbags!" 

I've never seen so many people fall in one ballet. And it would just come out of no where. Usually you can see a fall coming seconds before gravity take it sweet revenge, but this was mother nature with a snipper riffle. Step step BAM. You're down bitch. How does it feel? I could see people in the audience wincing as we bobbled about. This was the NASCAR of the art world. A brilliantly performed snuff film. 

I was feeling pretty lucky towards the end of the ballet, I had only a minor slip, but my ass had yet to touch the stage. Then the finale began. All of the men enter in giant circle around the ladies, we do a couple of jumps and the run to our partners, and WHAM! Right in front of me, Sean is on his face. I reach down and pick him up to his feet, check that he's okay, he is, and we continued. Sean was the icing on our cake. Enough falling. Sean and I smile at each other as we start our little dance together, and Oh Shit, my turn to bite it. I can't remember the last time I've fallen on stage, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't followed by an audience of Italians cheering. They cheered and cheered. They too had seen enough falling. They finally realized what we were risking for their pleasure. We had given them more than they had purchased. We fucking gave them dance to the highest degree. We could have pulled diva and walked off, but we were more committed to that performance and to each other that we ever had in the past. Did the rain make us better dancers, I doubt it, but the amount of extra care that I required took us to a higher plane.

We all came away mostly unhurt, and with an amazing story that we are sure no one will be able to truly grasp. Oh, and Rebecca didn't fall.

Should have posted this days ago.

Our free day is over and work has begun. Our theatre is an ancient Roman amphitheatre with numerous old column pieces scattered about the backstage area. It is hard not to picture gladiators fighting off lions and tigers. We were gladiators in our own respect, fighting off the wear of a trans-Atlantic flight and the pains and weakness incurred from a week without performing. In most cases we were not the victors. If the old theater proverb of ‘bad rehearsal, great show’ stands true, we will return home a few days late due to mass encores and numerous curtain calls.

Yeah, rehearsal was one big cluster-fuck of dance. I think we have all applied and extra amount of pressure on ourselves. Having Alexei  (the choreographer) here with us is making us extra nervous. Many of us have never worked for someone that we respects so much. There almost seems to be a father figure feeling with him. We all want his praise and want to please him. I’m pretty sure that he is happy with all of us regardless of how shitty a rehearsal can be.

There also is an overwhelming feeling of responsibility to represent our art and history here. We are dancing an amazing ballet by one of today’s most sought out choreographers, in his presence no less, while paying homage to life’s most prolithic choreographers. I personally find this trip especially meaningful since I myself am in the process of switching from dancer to choreographer, and to have this experience at this stage of change is overwhelmingly influential.

But enough about me lets talk Spoleto. This town is amazing. It’s a permanent museum. Every inch has something special. Gorgeous archway, ancient water fountains, huge aqueducts are everywhere. They streets are filled with little Italian grandmothers, all wearing aprons in anticipation of rolling out pasta dough at any moment. Oh and what pasta it will be.

 On our first night, Rebecca and I went to a cute little restaurant that we had passed by earlier in the day. We sat down in a room filled with years worth of knick-knacks including what I would imagine is the world’s largest collection of Pinocchio marionettes. We sat waiting for our menus as our hostess insisted on speaking to us in Italian as we politely nodded our heads in fake agreement. Still no menus.

Then she returns with a book on cooking in the Umbria region, and who is on the cover, just the little old lady in an apron that we just watched back to the kitchen. I give the book a quick skim and realize that there will be no menu. We will eat what is brought out. And sweet jesus did the food ever come out. First cured meats and zucchini covered in breadcrumbs, then raw mushrooms stuffed with garlic and olive oil. Next came the most amazing brushetta that we will ever have, along with fried zucchini flowers. All of this was followed by something that I’m not sure of, but loved. All of this was washed down with local wine that never stopped flowing. At this point we were stuffed to the gills and had to tell our host that we had to stop. Seriously, we never made it past the starters. He wasn’t too happy to see us call it quits, but we didn’t want to waste their food. Take a guess where we ate the following night?

-A&R

This is our hotel. I thought I should point out the name to prove that it's real.
Along the way from Rome, we past many fields of sunflowers. Sadly as you will see, Rebecca slept through them.


I hate to say that I was only able to post once from Spoleto, but believe it or not, the internet crashed for the whole town while we were there. At some point I will write about our adventures, and believe me, there were plenty. But for now you will just have to settle for some photos.

Well, we have arrived in Spoleto Italy. After a long days worth of traveling, we have found our new home. How do I begin to narrate a day like today? Since I haven’t written anything in a while, maybe I’ll just start this new post with an outline of the day’s events…

1. We arrive at the airport to discover a new and less efficient check in procedure.
1. Self check in at computer kiosk.
2. Take boarding pass and stand in line with luggage and wait to see a ticket counter person, where you normally get you boarding pass. Weigh luggage.
3. Take weighed luggage to another location where a mean woman takes your luggage and puts it into a pile of other suitcases all bound for different locations.
4. Walk to security with little hope that your suitcase will find its way out of said pile and find its way on to your plane.

       2. Get on board an Air France plane and pretend to forget about the recent crash in to     

           The Atlantic Ocean.

A.   Have loving girlfriend apply “Magical Healing Oils” to my injured back.

B.    Take a Vicodin with a Heineken. It rhymes and it works.

C.    Arrive in Paris (late) and race to catch connecting flight,

D.   For some reason France makes us go through Passport inspection even though we will never step foot outside of the airport doors.

E.    Run through Charles Du Gall Airport like a bunch of crazed Americans.

        3.We land in Rome. I would love to see Rome. (we don’t see much of Rome..)

                  A. A little Italian man picks our group up at the airport. We all grab a little     

     snack before our drive to Spoleto.

B. We pile in to the bus and most of us pass out. I rarely get jet lagged so I

      stay awake for the first part of the drive.

C. We all wake up to the sound of a very unhappy engine and a very unhappy  

     driver who is talking very loudly into his cell phone. I have noticed that

     Italian is a language that must be spoken at an extremely high volume.

4. So now we are in Spoleto. It is exactly how I had imagined that it would be. Part small town charm with a heavy dose of archaeological dig. Our theatre is a true ruin. Every inch of this town drips with elements of the past. Old rock walls seem to be bursting out from within it newly plastered surfaces. Tiny winding roads beg for us to explore what's around their bends. 

A. Food Food Food.

B. We are in truffle region. Everything has truffles in it. Rebecca is in her heaven, and I am thankful to get to watch her in all of her glory.

C. As one can imagine, our hotel is not the most internet friendly, but as a testament of my love to all of you who sit and decode the jumbles of words I poop out while traveling, I will seek out connections, and keep you all connected to us. Much Love. A&R

         

Today is the last day. I'm not terribly sad because I'm going through massive Chubbs withdraw. Paris is full of doodles (Me and Rebecca's term for dogs). Most are cute a shaggy, even more of them are leashed to a drunk twenty year old passed out on the sidewalk outside of the Bastille. Lots of people feel bad for these homeless dogs, but I figure that if worse come to worse, they'll regain their inner animal and just eat their drunken owner. Which come to think of it would be righting two wrongs. On Rebecca and my first walk around Paris, we crossed paths with a handsome Bulldog. Our reaction to him was bigger than ours to any museum, monument or meal here in Paris. Watching this bully swagger across the street made me smile while crying on the inside for the fact that I couldn't just go home and snuggle my little fart machine. Crying because I know that when I pick him up from Ithaca, he'll be mad at me for making him leave. 

All over Paris, the dog owners walk with their dog off leash. Little doodles free to stop and pick up a scrap of food from the ground, then race to catch up to their owners. One afternoon, we watched a dog cross the street, dragging his leash between his legs. His owner stopped, looked down and told him to pick up his leash, which he did dutifully on command. But we've noticed that none of the Bully breeds walk off leash. Even here you can't trust your Bully to follow you. This is his city too and if he wants to take the next left, he's going to take it. See you soon Chubbington. Daddy misses you.

Dinner and Death

Last night, the two of us went out for dinner with Craig and Arch. It was the night to splurge. We went to Benoit. That's probably not how you spell it, but the name isn't important. This restaurant was recommended to us by our dear friend Justin who travels to Paris frequently for business. This was our first dinning experience at a place that has received a Michelin Star. Granted that it only received one out of the possible three stars, some chefs have been known to kill themselves over the pressure to maintain their star status.

This was French food at its' close to best. I loved this restaurant because it reminded me of my mom. If she had a restaurant, this is exactly how it would be. Lace curtains, beautiful floral table settings, warm hospitality. Dinning at a fancy place in a language I don't speak gets me pretty nervous, but the staff was very welcoming and made us all feel readily at home. After a nice glass of champagne and some cheese biscuits, I had an amazing crayfish bisque then a classic French cassole' (again, spelling error) followed by a poached pear with hot chocolate and whipped cream. They pretty much had to roll us out the door. Tres Bon!

Death!!!! So I had the morning and afternoon free today, and after spending so much time with others, I thought that it might be nice to do something alone. So I figured that spending an hour below Paris surrounded by dead bodies would be a lovely thing to do. And it was. I kind of thought that the Catacombs would be corny, but I found it pretty amazing. It was a mile long walk through a maze of tunnels that eventually lead in to a bigger maze of skeletons. It kind of weirded me out at first, you could grab a skull and pick it up if you wanted to. The bones were just there, stacked up in neat piles. This would never exist in America. They would be kept out of reach behind plexiglass or something. I love trust. Faith that we'll all respect these remains. Granted that I did smuggle out a femur, this is the kind of thing that makes me not want to come home. 

Parisian Tidbits

Here, Arch tries out one of the many doorway / toilets that line the streets of Paris. This is a best bet for the frugal tourist that just won't be bothered by the public coin operated toilets.
Rebecca and I ventured to the Arch de Triumph. For just 10 euros each, we got a beautiful view of Paris, and two sets of gigantic quad muscles thanks to the 235,000,437 stairs to the top.
Neither of us have to dance at the Paris Opera House. Just look at the raked floor in the practice studio. I'd be on my ass in an instant if I had to turn on that floor. Good luck to the rest of the company.
No picture can capture the true beauty of the Opera House. We both knew that it would be gorgeous, but it truly took our breath away. Just the ceiling painted ,by Chagall, in the house is enough to make you cry.
Rebecca was so moved after watching the dress rehearsal for the gala, that she forced Craig and I in to an impromptu pas de troix right outside the front doors of the theatre. Eat your heart out Paris Opera!

FREE DAY #2

Today was devoted to Wine and Relaxation. We took the Metro with some of our friends to the Luxembourg Gardens. I'd imagine that we could have gotten off at a closer station because the walk seemed to take forever. On the way there we all ducked in to the Franprix (a grocery chain) to get the essentials, Red Wine & Nutella. 
The gardens were beautiful. The wine went down fast and smoothly. I don't like Nutella. But I'll eat a plain baguette any time.
Trees in a row.
Later on the group broke off in to two and we went with Arch and Albert to the famous Cafe de Flore. Rebecca is addicted to cafe creme. If you are planning on having her visit you any time soon, I strongly suggest that you stock up now. She's been talking about the in her sleep. Seriously. 

Tonight we didn't really want to eat French food, so after wandering around, we found ourselves back in Jewish Town. We had some nice falafel au poive. Sadly, we have to go back to work tomorrow. But the serious work ends there. 

FREE DAY #1

First stop, Jewish Town. I'm not sure if that's what the Parisians call it, but they should.
After stopping for at least three more cafe cremes, we walked over to Notre Dame. In true Christian spirit, we cut in line and royally screwed at least 300 people waiting in line for days. My idea was to just walk through the exit backwards, but Rebecca's idea worked perfectly...for us.
We both were moved by Notre Dames glorious plasma screen televisions. They truly radiated the Gospel of the lord.
The Pope's mass was rockin'!
I don't know who this headless guy is, but the angel on his right has a smirk on her face that makes me wonder if she's maybe responsible for it.