June 10th 2022 9:54 AM

This is part one of a long story.

These events took place in June but were written September 15th at 3:13 pm.

(TW: SUICIDE)

When I got to the UK, we were squatters.

Or that was the best-laid plan.

Squatting in the UK is legal, side from the break-in, and there’s a community around it.

A community held together by the desperation of survival, I think, from the outside.

Three days before my flight, Lorenzo called me and cried. My system in shock, asked what’s wrong, urging for answers. One of the squat members killed herself inside the building. Lorenzo wasn’t there but the rest of the crew was, and found her in the basement. Xena was 29 years old but no one knew. She was new to the crew, and they had just asked her to leave the night before. There were signs she wasn’t well, but no one was close enough to her to help. She took her life inside the building she was asked to leave.

Trauma.

Lorenzo has unanswered questions. Xena didn’t leave a note. She didn’t speak to anyone before her final decision. The rest of the crew…is collectively altered by the memory of her fate.

The first day we went to the squat, B was there. Tall, dark, a tight smile, he welcomed us upstairs. The squat was a pub in gritty East London, overtaken by squatters before. The bottom floor was a bar, with ratty furniture, and graffitied windows, promising divine protection. In the back was a small kitchen with working lights, water, and a fridge. Up the stairs were bedrooms, bathrooms, and an open balcony. We sat outside.

The squat was being held down by another crew. White squatters—the original crew was all black, all queer, all anarchist. Built on the premise of taking what’s theirs, and creating a safe space for members of their community. Creating safety. Creating new worlds with new rules is difficult to define.

We sat across B upstairs on the balcony. I was in London for the first time, shy, mute. B was spaced out, worn down. We got into it, or rather, around it very carefully, not to look it in the eye. He recalled, finding solace in the company of the other squat mates because they had found her together. Only they know what they experienced, what they saw. B said, “When I wake up in the morning, I remember, and I think, ‘fuck, I have to get through another day.’” “That sounds like depression,” I said assuringly, he nodded. I tried to speak soothingly, unable to imagine myself in the same position. Lorenzo nodded, perhaps perplexed himself, unsure what our place in the madness is.

B gathered his things and left. We stayed in the squat that night.

Lore vacuumed the rug of the room inside the balcony. Thin, old, red carpet hardly sticking to the floors. An uncovered mattress on the ground. A mantlepiece beside janky little shelves and drawers. A small wooden wardrobe with two hangers hanging inside. Enormous, bright windows, overlooking a flag of a black fist punching to the sky. Not bad, I thought. We covered the mattress with new sheets and cleaned up. Beer cans, cigarette butts, a jar of weed, went downstairs. We hung our coats, stashed our bags, and took a breath. I looked around. Lore’s art was hanging in the next room, recognizable from the book we wrote together.

I couldn’t bring myself to go to her room or down to the basement. Uneasily, we spoke to Jon instead.

Jon is the head of the crew of squatters holding down the building. By holding down I mean, the person who stays inside, while everyone else goes out, to ensure that no one else breaks in, including cops. His crew includes an older gent named Marcus, smoking ciggies, all in salt and pepper grey, a seemingly sweet, younger man called Sweeps, with long black hair, and missing teeth, and a girl, who’s name I can’t remember, but remember her big white hoodie over a little white skirt, and the nod of companionship she gave me as she left the door.

I was scared.

Of ghosts, of strangers, of the grime on every surface. Of the ciggies, of the bolts, chains, and locks, and of the girl who killed herself downstairs.

Lore and I went out and Marcus stayed behind.

We walked deep through East London, looking at canals, his old stomping ground. We ate pizza, wandered markets, looked over the Thames. The East side has an unwelcoming kind of air, blocky, bricky buildings, hard to the edges, and a cast of unapproachable characters. Regular signs of danger lining construction sites are met with ironic and revolting graffiti, the canals are full of algae and grungy boaters, people have a mean look in their eye. I was skeptical of London at the time.

When we returned, I talked to Lore, who decided to ask the other lot to leave. It was our squat first, we want to honor Xena’s memory, we can hold it down, as per B’s request. I dreamt that night of a palace, that looked like my grandmother’s house. It looked like we slithered there through the night, everything dark and dusty, like some forgotten ruin of an opulent past. I dreamt of Xena’s mangled being, but I’d never seen her before and it hurt to imagine her like that. I cooed to her and wished her comfort, felt her sorrow. I woke and somehow felt relief.

But Lore and I didn’t play by the rules when we went out and left the squat bolted with a lock.

He showed me more of London, we took buses and the tube, took me into Central, walked down Oxford Street to Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, where I felt like a regular tourist, taking in European sensibilities. Smiling, tired, feeling more normal, we had the big building to ourselves. We started cooking platono for breakfast, having sex, and sitting on the balcony in the sunshine to bask in each other’s reunion. I braved the rest of the house. Cried in Xena’s small, dark and empty room. I told Lore I was scared, I don’t know if I can be here. I don’t know what I’m doing. I took a big leap. He reassured me, called me brave, we came here on a mission and we’re in it together. I joked about returning to Mexico. He glanced at me with a glint of disappointment—I didn’t want to hurt him, after coming all this way.

With a lot to think about we returned to Surrey, where his mum had initially welcomed me. Four days went past with calm walks into the forest, outside the city at a slower, peaceful pace.

Confident came the day we decided to go back. The squat is ours, we can live there, why not try and be in London? I packed my only carry on with clothes for a week, my drawing book and computer. We’re diving in, I can push through the discomfort, focus on our book, and make this journey worth it. Maybe I romanticize the struggle, in order to get through it. Close my eyes and wince.

We took a train after dinner, rocking up to the squat. Across the street we see—oh shit, the lights are on. Did we do that? That would be fucking stupid. Closer we see, the gate is busted open, our lock no longer in sight. My heart beats fast, silly carry-on in my hand. Lorenzo bangs a heavy knock at the door. No answer.

I pace along the street glaring hopefully at the window. Is that a shadow? Is someone there? My eyes don’t blink, staring at the lights behind the glass.

“Its not that deep,” Lore downplays in self-preservation. I shoot him a look. He bangs the door again, but there is a dark silence on the other end.

I sit on the sidewalk as my mind rolls over the situation. We don’t have a place to live, someone took our home. I came to this country a week ago, I don’t have a job or the right to work. Lorenzo paces the pavement and stares at the window, the door, calling out to anyone. The sun goes down and we collect our things to turn back. There is silence in defeat.

We take the last train back to Surrey and slip inside at 1 am to sleep. This is the first of many heartbreaks the UK has given me.

While the events in this story are completely true, I mean no disrespect or dishonor to Xena or her loved ones. My condolences for your loss and for any pain possibly caused in the rehashing of these events.

September 25th 2021, 1 AM

Mi primera vez en Mexico

No place I’d rather be.

All the initial doubt, fear, and anxiety that once held me back has now dissipated in the wake of being here in San Cristobal. As I read about Santiago’s journey to the Pyramids, and the friendship between himself and his heart, I realized the source is my worry is self-sabotage itself. Why am I afraid to do what I want? Do I think I don’t deserve to follow my own heart? Am I sickened at the thought of explaining myself? Being misunderstood? Judged? Am I afraid of pain, loss, suffering the typical inconveniences or misfortunes of traveling as a lone women? Then I remember the Old King’s words, the universe will always work in favor of those following their Personal Legend. Traveling far and wide is part of mine.

So I pray to the universe, through each leg of the journey. Flight one, on time, rushed layover/immigration/security, made it, to an empty midnight Tuxtla Gutierrez, with a single cab in waiting, I’m on my way. The ride is black and winding, the shadows of the mountains and bright orange cones suggesting the steepness of the road are my only sights.

Vincent pops out from the slimmest doorway in the dark. He waves a familiar childish wave and smiles a familiar giddy smile.

We hug.

He takes my bag and I pay the driver with an ecstatic smile of my own. I’m here.

We climb upstairs, through spiral steps to a mezzanine bridge to another wooden staircase and into my room. Drop things and hug again.

I can’t believe I’m here.

Vincent grabs some beers, Indio and San Dominico, and we lay back on the twin beds, chatting loudly and erratically, our words spilling over each other like the playful wrestle of bear cubs. It feels like no time has past at all, since we left Vietnam lockdown a month before.

3 am rolls around quickly and our conversational positions melt horizontally. Time for bed. I semi-neurotically organize my small piles of things into respective corners of my hostel room, 4 beds for one. I sleepily shower with the realization of no towel, and wrap my cold, wet self in a wool blanket and rest heavily.

In the morning I inch my way down the hall, down the stairs, across the mezzanine, and into the kitchen below, towards the breakfast crowd. Vincent is eating a simple plate of beans. Our eyebrows raise, look at us. Up before 11.

Gabriel, a cute receptionist, with full lips and black plastic glasses, smiles and greets me in Spanish. Mrm, too early. I lazily respond in English. “Oh, you look Mexican,” he asserts. I do. All the more reason to practice, pendeja.

Vincent and I collectively agree to sleep some more before taking on the day and meeting Tayne down the road. We do, and come 1 pm, I collect my small piles from their respective corners and check out. Gabriel gives me that same eye raising look, “You’re going?” I nod, and laugh, with only 12 hours in the hostel. Vincent leads me down the road into a more quaint hotel. The entrance is marked with greenery. The arched ceiling is made of glass and deep brown moldings, with plants of all kinds reaching up hungrily towards the sun. “Buenos Dias,” the receptionist pleasantly chirps.

The room is quaint, quiet, brown and white. A simple bed with white sheets, two tan wool blankets and a pink quilt lays unmade. A desk with a green tartan cloth sits parallel, facing a large window with cheery red curtains. A mirror with a curvy frame lays on the wall behind a microwave and small fridge, the top of which now holds all my jewelry. Vincent collects his things in a whirlwind sweep and I replace his with mine. Time to meet Tayne.

We go out into the sun and my eyes go wide with wonder. The flat-faced clay buildings flow from one to another along cobblestone streets, only distinguished by a stark change in color. We weave uphill towards Tayne’s place and his road is marked by these luscious gem tones. One light cerulean, violet, Naples yellow, textured buildings all leading to the next up the hill towards the open courtyard of Iglesias de Guadalupe. Tayne calls from a Tayne-sized, rectangular hole in the wall behind spidery thin black bars, “Hola!” He wears a sage green, wide-brimmed banditto hat and black ray bans, and beneath his mustache is his big, charming smile.

We step into his place and inside is an open, kitschy shared living-dining space. On the far left side is a metal spiral staircase leading through a small hole to the second floor, and along the left wall is a fireplace, lined with Ed-Ed-Eddy-esque wooden plank faces on the mantle. On the back wall sits a wide pastel green couch, coffee table, wooden crate situated upright on its side as a chair, a lima-bean bean-bag chair, and a black basket seat, all huddled facing each other in pensive furnished conversation. On the far right wall sits a wooden park table with matching wooden benches, leading to the hole that is the kitchen. Hand painted tiles spot the walls and counters, with ample ingredients and spices are laid throughout.

The boys throw on their matching ponchos and banditto hats and grin in unison. Fucking characters. We instinctively call Lindsay and head to the rooftop. Up a set of unvarnished wooden steps and across a stucco courtyard is wide open communal space. Aloe plants and cactuses sit along the edges, soaking up the sun. Spinning around 360 is the mountain town across the way, dotted with little square houses with little black windows, and orange tiled roofs, strung together in lines. Green mountains stand proudly in the hazy distance, meeting the massive white clouds above, with no structural blockages from our short, colorful town.

Lindsay shouts at the sights from the face of Tayne’s iPhone as we share experiences from our opposing world positions. The sun plays hide and seek through the epic mass of clouds, teasing us with heat and shade. Layers are the only way in San Cris. Lindsey wishes us well and we go on our way.

As we walk back into town through the square and walking streets, indigenous women and their children don yak-skin skirts, with tights beneath, breathable and warm. Their round, terra-cota faces and sleek, thick, dark hair shine in the sun like dolls. Babies are increasingly red in the face against the direct heat, with small dark eyes squinting above their precious, chubby cheeks.

We stroll towards the square where the Iglesias Historia sits at the center of the city. The front of the surrounding buildings are true facades, flat and seemingly propped up to shield its contained mysteries, like that of a Spaghetti Western set in real life. The walking street is lined with outdoor bars, taquerias, and shops selling vibrant handmade goods of all kinds. Our eyes wander in all directions and appetites. We stop in a tiny pale blue taqueria, only selling tacos, tortas, and tostadas, all carne puerco. The waitress serves tiny take-away tubs of salsas on a tray de todos colores. Una verde, rojo, y naranjada, of varying spice strength. The boys and I (They're 30, whatever) start spitballing en espanol with the help of our dirty word dictionary, laughing between bites of carnitas, learning the origin of putas, pendejos, y cabrones. I throw back sweet Horchata, my heart opening up with each sip of delectable cinnamon leche. Soon we’re back on the road, now in search of helado, to satiate Tayne’s unrelenting sweet tooth. He leads to a dark store front, only containing three large, open face, glass covered freezers. Inside was the bottomless stack of sabores, all colors and frutas represented on a stick, including mango, coconut, avocado, salsa, and hot chili. Tayne picks out a fresh strawberry sickle, deep berry red with the seeds blended in. We walk uphill to the micro-cafe, Casa Jasmine, an Viet-Indonesian fusion place owned by a gang of international friends. Afif from Indonesia, Amita from Vietnam, Abdul from Mexico, and Mitch from New Zealand work together to bring forth a unique combination of flavors and culture to this colorful city. (And all of them are quite unique, and very adorable, in their own right.) Vincent had met Amita at a party 4 years prior, realizing she too is from Sai Gon, where we all originally met. She welcomed me warmly, with a hug and free spring rolls with fresh, grainy peanut sauce. Who knew I would be reunited with Vietnamese food in Mexico? I note the coincidences, similarities in the land and culture. Both market cultures, cash economies, drugs and alcohol used loosely in the street, friendly brown faces, long histories kept alive in tradition, delicious, fresh food, and an organic ruggedness to the world around.

We sat outside in the sun/shade, where Afrodelica, a local afrofunk group played trombone and bass on the side of the road. The beats flowed through the street, drawing the staff out for a dance break. Abdul, the Mexican-Muslim cowboy, shook his hips with effortless, easy rhythm, and Amita, mi pequeña bonita, jumped in with a twirl. Spiritual conversations of all kinds unraveled openly like I’ve never experienced. Ben, a Canadian e-commerce consultant, talked to me about human design and guessed at our astrological charts. I read Tayne’s chart aloud, myself. A 6 foot 7 inch traveling healer and rapper named Te’Devan Kryvan (also from New Jersey, of all places), came round and talked to us about chi, psychism, and bi-locating gurus, busting from the ground in flames. Hardcore stuff.

Never have I been in a place with such palpable, spiritual energy that can breathe so freely in the light of day. San Cristobal, home of the Mayan highlands, is aptly named for all its magical wonder.

We sat and talked, sharing coco rice and anecdotal musings, until the sun was coming down and the breeze strengthened. The boys and I walked back downhill and happened upon a tented market, subtle at its entrance, but a hidden labyrinth of treasures inside. Vincent bought a wide brimmed banditto hat that rivaled the width of Tayne’s, in his color of choice; navy blue. I tried a burnt orange number but decided against it, wishing to blend in a bit more than it might allow. I talked to the boys about stones and their metaphysical uses, stumbling upon real gems of gems, but hesistating to buy, with my limited grasp of pesos yet. We found our way out, back to the walking street and into the night. The sun’s absence presented an intense cold I had been warned about but still shocked me. We huddled between the crowd as it filled up with nightlife seekers. A change of layers was needed, so we stopped at our temporary homes.

The unusual governing laws of San Cris start to become clear; 1) detours will present themselves in some form, whether in the form of an odd conversation, or for an opportune stop for chocolate and other treats, and 2) if you’ve seen someone once, you’re bound to see them again in 24 hours.

After I change into my weather conscious night fit (a stylish black top with fluffy flamenco sleeves, borrowed from my mother, and deep green zebra printed jeans with long socks and doc martins), Vincent meets me outside and we walk to the bodega for 40’s. Wasting time, we take a seat on the step directly outside to pop them open with my rainbow, bottle-opening, key chain (Unsurprisingly, a gift from Vincent himself). We chug along the way to Tayne’s roof for a puff to kick off the night. The roof is tremendously dark and dangerous, offering no real protection from those inebriated or clumsy, from falling right off. One of Tayne’s housemates comes up with a J of his own, and talks to us about his tantric techniques (without the stuffy need for any formal introduction or inquiry), before trailing back off into the dark. Only the usual in a place like this.

We head out, freshly faded, for my only goal of the night; tequila, tequila, y mas tequila, por favor.

As I mentioned, a detour is inevitable. We stop in Vincent’s hostel so he can retrieve his lotion (undeniably sensitive skin that one) and a relaxed, reclined young man on the couch outside his room stops us with the irresistible question, “You guys have time for a story?”

We sit around the empty dark of the lobby and tune in, unaware what would unravel. The young man, with a permanent broad smile, is named Daniel, and recently had a life altering experience with psychedelics that was so severe, his parents have moved into his hostel room, to keep him safe and well, alive.

Daniel tells us with enchanted, bright eyes about the human body. “We are machine learning,” he says with intensity. His conviction is contagious and I lean in. “I wandered the woods, stripping down into nothing,” he admits without shame. “I wanted to be as close to nature as one could possibly get. I wanted complete freedom.” It turns out Daniel was naked in the woods for 3 days, which is what prompted his family from snatching him back into the domesticated and civilized world.

Eventually the darkness of the night called us back out, and Daniel turns back to his room, unable to leave again it seemed. But he was happy to lay back down, with a satisfied smile, if only for himself.

We headed back out onto the main walking street, Real de Guadalupe, lined with specialty shops, mezcalerias, pulquerias and treats of all kinds. We stopped for tequila there, tequila here. My Spanish quickly recovered and Tayne and Vincent gassed my ego, impressed by my miraculous, mysterious usefulness. It wasn’t that good at the time, but better than I thought, and their praise warmed me, and infused me with confidence.

The night became blurry, shot after shot. All I knew is I was stunned to be here, in another country I’d never been, so soon after leaving Vietnam behind, where these guys kept me sane. And how right it felt, to give in to that desire, take that plunge and leave America again. How welcoming Mexico was, offering community, culture, inspiration, a new life, all in 24 hours.

Bienvenidos a una nueva vida…otra vez.

August 23rd , 2022 at 12:41 PM

Going (Going) Back (Back) To Paris (Paris)

It hit me when we got off the metro line from Orly—damn this used to be my train. I took the B line from Gare du Nord every morning to get down to Saint Michel where I went to class. The first foreign place I ever lived at 19. I remembered getting off the plane then too—a backwards detour in a shared cab with the only familiar face at the airport—plopping down on my new bed in student accommodation and thinking, “what the fuck did I just do?” Moving to a new place, where I know no one, where I can speak to no one, where I’m more deeply alone and farther than anything I know, for the first time in my life, compounded with jet lag confusion.

Now It’s July ’22, and I turn 26 in a few days. We waltz out of Saint Michel and I know the way, cutting through crowds to look at Notre Dame. I turn round the cobble stone to Shakespeare & Co., where a line loops round the bend. Then through another alley to the best, cheap kebabs, then back down Saint Germain to pass the fountain where Angels wrestle and get back on my route to class. Are my boulangeries and cafes still there? A baguette for 3 euro? Sadly no. But there is one. Cafe Metro, on the corner, facing the street. We stop, sit, eat and stare at the passerby’s.

As I take a seat my body flashes with memory. Settling into its same old place. This was the spot. I’d sit on my own, simply sipping espresso to save my euros, watching, wondering, chain-smoking, back then. I used to be so insecure. I didn’t even call myself an artist then, while I spent my lonely, incommunicable moments observing the world around me, doodling on notecards and stocking them up like flashcards. I was just messing around—communicating in the only way I knew how. I was scared to open my mouth, to make mistakes, to misrepresent myself. But what an empowering place to be—on my own. Navigating that city, wandering til my feet hurt, standing out so obviously from the French it seemed, in my clunky American uncoolness, not realizing people are just busy and rude. When you’re young the world is small, and you can only see what’s in front of you, how it all seems to point right towards you in confrontation. But swimming out into the wide world, it’s not all about you. There’s a massive comfort in that revertive smallness—the sigh of relief that really the world is big, and we are the small thing flashing through it.

(Said flashcards made in 2016, also visible in my Drawing Archive on the Body of Work page)

I look out at the street and smile, admiring families, fits, attitudes. I distinguish Parisians from tourists, counting accents and scowls. I sip a spritz in July heat and stir a creamy carbonara, cross legged, beside my suitcase. Five days in Paris, its been 6 years since I lived here.

Lorenzo and I took the metro to our place, a flat in the 20th arrondismont near Pere LaChaise cemetery. Its a 3 bedroom apartment, no doubt what was once somebody’s gramma house. We laugh at inflation. At paying for the bando. (#HotelSuperiority—but must be book in advance. Live and learn.) We settle in tired, unpack, and putz about in search of more food. We stumble across a Chinese buffet with a friendly looking couple behind the counter. (I think it was called Royal Gourmet, and it was tasty) We sit, chat drink tea, share fried rice and miso soup. Soon it’s dark again and we drag ourselves to a good nights rest to enjoy the rest of the week.

The first sun rises and we’re off to explore—flaneuring through the streets. We start around the corner, the nearest boulangerie singled out like a hitman. I order crudities, cafe au lait, and a pear pastry, in French that is much less rusty than I feared. (I said gracias to the waiter last night and mentally shot myself). We sit on a bench and eat, people watching. This is what I came to Paris to do, to be clear. After we head to Le Marais, the Jewish Quarter, now turned into a luxurious, quirky shopping district. The buildings are all dusty brown, older than America itself. The buildings curve with the street, hatted with iron balconies, Haussman style from the 1800s. We saunter through the streets, peering at the skies, the architecture, the artisan goods, the stylish families as we pass. We walk deeper through the cobble stone and go past Le Georges Pompidou, an ugly beast of a modern art museum, Hotel de Ville, an ornate opera house to say the least, the Muse des Arts et Decrotifs, a museum decorated to furnishings and ornamentals, and the Lourve, an absolute palace of traditional art. The sun is scorching as Europe faces a heatwave, and the white sand patio laying a path through the Tuillerie Gardens is an abusive choice. We walk with frowns before retreating to the shade—fuck this, lets eat. We go to a bistro nearby, sitting outside, chugging water in small cups like shots of bourbon. I eat a bean burger with chèvre and garlic aioli. Lorenzo has cod fish and ratatouille. We chat for a long time, and spot a real life Dandy in a top hat go by on a bicycle, like a time traveling mirage.

Our legs tired but we travel deeper into the center, sitting on the Seine before we go back to the 20th.

The next day we travel farther, go to Montparnasse and Sacre Cour. Off the bus, we stroll towards espresso and crudities, hard bread threatening the roof of our mouths. But we take that challenge. After we stroll up to Montparnasse, which is a beautiful, white domed church, seated on the highest point in Paris. You must walk uphill to reach it, and the town surrounding is a climb in itself, lined with petite shops and cafes of all kinds. Lore and I stop into a thrift, with a trendy sales boy, who looks like he was pushed out of the 70s. He offers assistance as we try on get-ups from decades past, smelling like mothballs and time. I leave with nothing but a good mood, Lorenzo cops a funky shirt. On we go towards the top.

The climb is made slower and sweatier with tourists. Bodies slipping past each other, grazing the sweat of another persons arm, their frown darting around. We reach the second tier to the top and look out over Paris. “You can’t even see the Eiffel Tower from here!” Someone protests. I smirk. Yeah, we all think that. The church is cool, domed, lined with stained glass, and wooden plank floors. There is a serene echo inside, seemingly far from the heat of crowds awaiting us outside.

We go back down, I disappear into another vintage shop, this time all too successful.

50 Euro later we wander down past the Moulin Rouge, and the main promenade, lined with sex shops, giggling at displays and the people scurrying out of them, heads down. We stop at Bouillon Pigalle, one of the underpriced wonders of Paris. I’m giddy as we order; escargot bathed in butter and parsley, boeuf bourguignon with rigatoni, macaroni and cheese with truffle oil and cured ham, a glass of kir; Chardonnay and blackberry liqueur, and a fluffy lemon tart topped with freshly whipped egg white. Every bite is savored, given praise in a soft moan, eyes closed. We pay 34 euro total and leave, laughing.

That night we drop our loot and go to Republique, a trendy part of downtown known for nightlife. We walk awhile admiring the lights of the city, the graffiti, the trendy people sipping outside, before we give up, too tired, and get back on our bus home. The days are hot and long and we sleep like death.

The morning comes and I open my eyes, smile a cheeky smile. Lorenzo kisses my face and says, “Happy Birthday!” I’m 26. My cheeky smile remains and I pop up energized by another year. I throw on Lore’s white, English school boy button down, and ankle length cigarette pants (tres francais) and skip outside towards the Boulanger, happy to be alive. I order croissants, egg pastries (known to Brazilians as pastel de nata) and a cafe long. As I saunter back uphill in my cheery mood someone rushes past me with a whizz of anguish, and my cafe slips from its lid and drops to the ground, splashing Lore’s white shirt with hot espresso. I let out an involuntary “Fuck!” and a French truck driver stops alongside me at a light, looks me in the eye, frowns and shrugs as if to say, “C’est la vie, mon cherie.” I climb up to the next Tabac (a French bodega; usually a cafe counter where you can get the paper, cigarettes and any other miscellaneous convenient crap) and pay for another cafe long. This one more acidic, less smooth, while gentlemen eye up my stained shirt and scowl, as they take their morning drags.

But I laugh at myself. In the elevator back up to our place, I look at myself and say, “26, baby girl, it looks good on you,” and make eggs to go with our croissants.

The day from there was dreadful. The heat wave peaked and covered Paris with an intolerant, nasty mood. Brushing elbows with strangers generated disgust and rage, late, packed buses and trains provoked irrational irritation, and well, the food I’d picked up for a picnic completely melted into an undesirable mess. We planned to spread out beneath the Tour Eiffel like kings, but retreated to the crowded shade and sparse grass. Lorenzo brightened my mood with birthday gifts, hooray.

We returned home in the evening and I took a bath, accompanied by Brut and Ginger Beer, getting a bit drunk by my lonesome. Cheers to me, refrigerators, and the fucking sun finally going down.

The next day we do much less, in order to stay happy as the heat wave wears on. Pack light, don’t rush, bring water, and stick to the shade. We started in the morning visiting famous corpses at Pere LaChaise, checking out the craves of Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, and various historical contributors. Then walked down the Champs Elysess towards the Arc de Triomphe. I stopped to buy Macarons, eating them in pretty patty succession, savoring their subtle sweetness and immaculate textures. We perused the Louis Vuitton exhibit, admiring high design, structures, and materials, breathing in the air of richness and becoming inflated with confidence. Luxury by proximity. Then decided food was needed to go on. We go round the corner to Cafe Victory, and have linguine with salmon, and rabbit with roasted vegetables. The waiter is very rude, very French, and the food is just alright, but we have at least 3 carafes of water in the abusive heat, and laugh off the rest.

Afterwards we walk back towards the center to Hotel de Ville, admiring goods in store windows, and agree to meet Lore’s cousin Nicola, from Italy. We meet at Cafe Saint Michel, facing Notre Dame across the Seine. The waiter once again is very rude, very French, but at least has a sense of humor about it, smirking in self awareness. We order beer and kir (Chardonnay with liqueur, a light and sweet combination) and chat. Nicola is studying to pass the bar in France, so he can practice law there. Lorenzo didn’t know his cousin could speak English since they always speak Italian, and is stunned as they catch up. I’m relieved. We get drunk. Theorize, get to know each other, smile wide. I tell him about some of my travels. “I love your life?” He tells me. “I do too,” I mean it.

We walk across the bridge overlooking Notre Dame as the sun goes down and return home. We stick our heads out the window as we arrive, and watch the Tour Eiffel glimmer in a sparkling light show at 11 pm. The next day we leave Paris, the heat wave is over, the sky is gray and it rains.

(All photos taken by me on my mom's Canon AE-1 truly vintage film camera)