I have two contradictory goals for the summer.
One is completing the P90x physical regimen. I’ve been growing tired of the spare tire that continues to inflate around my mid section. And it doesn’t help that I now live in a town with some of the most physically well endowed people. This is a place where many have aspirations to make it on the silver screen, and looking good is akin to having ruby on your resume in Silicon Valley. It might not automatically get you a job, but it sure makes you look sexy.
The other is tasting as many beers as possible on beeradvocate.com’s top 100 list. Since moving to LA, I’ve been introduced to many gastropubs, specialty bars, and german style “bier gartens.” Some of the world’s greatest beers is just a car ride (and traffic jam) away. A glass of scotch or bourbon is nice, but there’s nothing quite like the refreshing and often complex taste of a well crafted beer.
I realize pursuing both goals with unrestrained rigor and persistence might end up counteracting each other. Such is the complicated irony of summers with no World Cup or Euro Finals.
It’s hard not to like Paris. A large cosmopolitan city in the heart of Europe, it is a city that blends the old and the new seamlessly together, creating a place that’s mindful of the past, but also looking to the future. Every arrondissement is a self-sufficient town in and of itself, making you feel like you’re in a small village, with its patisserie, brasserie, and market all side by side. Much like other Parisians, every morning we went to our neighborhood café for some expresso and croissants. We never got a chance to find out why they call it expresso instead of espresso, but I guess that’s for another time. Starbucks, or the concept of coffee to-go, is scarce in this place. Sitting down and ordering in before heading out for the day seems to be very much a part of what it means to be French.
We surveyed many of the historic sites, from the 900 year-old Notre Dame cathedral to the once magnificent palace now turned museum Le Louvre. We marveled (along with a throng of other tourists) at perhaps one of the greatest paintings in the world, La Joconde. We studied the history of the impressionist movement at the Musée d’Orsay, appreciating the works of the masters Manet, Monet, and Van Gogh. We visited the Chateau Versailles, the envy of every European monarch, and the rightful home of Louis XIV.
Four years of high school French have long been forgotten, and too many trips to Peru and living in California have compounded our language barriers, often mistakenly and subconsciously replying with si, gracias, and como. Most of the locals were probably confused to see two Asians speaking broken Spanish in reply to them. “Donde el bano?” rolls off our tongues so much easier than ou est… I don’t even know what bano is in French. La Toilette? Most Parisians were gracious enough to offer their help in English, and we’ve reciprocated it with a hearty merci beaucoup.
To say that Paris is a romantic city is quite the understatement. There are lovers everywhere, taking quiet strolls on the banks of the Seine River, sitting on top of the other’s lap in the metro stations, and of course, French kissing right in the open. Not to be outdone by the locals, we also took to kissing whenever we had the chance. But alas, our Asian sensibilities got the best of us and what started off in our minds la grande romance often diminished to a petit Asian kiss (as informed by Glee).
Every meal we had was accompanied by wine (do as the Romans do, they say), and there was plenty of pain au chocolat, croissants, and baguettes to be had. Macarons at Laduree were simply heavenly, warranting a second visit. On New Years Eve, we brought a bottle of champagne and two glasses with us, and paraded down the Champs-Elysees with the rest of the Parisians. The entire boulevard was shut down so that the people can overtake it. Everyone was in a festive mood; lovers, friends, families, all with champagne in tote, waiting for the countdown to begin. As soon as the clock struck twelve, there was a chorus of bottles popping open, toasts being made, and kisses (the French kind!) performed. With the Arc du Triomphe in the background and glasses raised, we ushered in a new year the Parisian way. Bonne Année!
Chicago is a strange place. It is an urban canyon with towering skyscrapers and glittering signs. It is a city fascinated with revolving doors, steel bridges, and perfectly symmetrical street blocks. The sidewalks are immaculately clean, and in every corner there is yet another architectural marvel and historical landmark waiting to be discovered. And yet, there is a Midwestern sensibility underlying all of its metropolitan guise. You can’t walk 50 yards without running into a local joint that makes the damnedest Italian beef sandwich. Enough people still use the word “sir” and “ma’am” when addressing a stranger. Opening the door for others, waiting until women walk through first, and answering questions when tourists ask are all part of the charm. Much has changed, and yet much has stayed the same since my days in seminary in this windy city. There is a sense of progress without losing its identity. There is an evolution.
I had a conversation with a friend recently that was triggered because of his recent survey of my Facebook profile. Whatever he saw on my page must’ve caused him concern to ask me “if everything was ok.” I tried hard to recollect what recent updates were made, and whether any of it was risqué, salacious, or downright troublesome. A few harmless wedding pictures, a few incongruous check-ins, and some recent photos of our anniversary trip was all I could remember. So, I naturally responded, “Everything is great! Why?” This friend then asked whether or not I was still a Christian. I thought it to be a very bizarre question arising from my Facebook profile, and did my best to think what wall posting or status update would have hinted at my apostasy.
Perhaps it is the fact that sometimes, people change. I have changed. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is more impacting than any John Piper book. Truth and beauty have been discovered in Siddhartha than A Purpose Driven Life. I can’t say anymore I enjoy Sufjan and all his clever Christian theology in hipster folk music skin. Wilco’s cynicism and Regina Spektor’s Human of the Year speak to me. The Bible is a masterpiece as literature, but hard to understand. There are more questions than answers, more uncertainties than certainties, and more “maybes” than absolutes. I still consider myself a person of faith, even if it looks very different from before. Perhaps that is what triggered my friend’s question.
While in Chicago, I met with one of my students from youth group from back in the day, and we had a delicious Argentinian steak with a bottle of wine. Is a student always a student and therefore subordinate, and never a friend? Even Jesus at the end of his tenure on earth called his disciples “no longer servants, but friends.” There was something strangely satisfying when he referred me to others as his friend. There is an evolution.
I have written my magnum opus for my blog. Like many great things of the past, it came in a flash of brilliance. It is the grand finale. It shall be my swan song, my justification. It is the namesake, The Long Way Round. Everything will make sense when reading this final piece. All the convoluted roundabouts will now come to a resolution. Loose ends will be tied, and questions will be answered.
Yet, I cannot publish it, because there is still some life in this blog. And plus, my wife wouldn’t allow it. Yet. There are still some detours not yet explored and alternate paths yet to be trotted down. So here I am, writing about my writing about the end. How meta.
