Street Suitors

Okay guys, time for our first ever officially interactive post! Get excited.

I’m quite familiar – as are those of you who followed my blog in the first half of 2009 – with the Indian/Southeast Asian man’s way of treating women, particularly foreign ones, on the street. I imagine it’s also similar to that in the Middle East/North Africa/large parts of Central & South America, though I base that off of other people’s stories and not first-hand experience. That is to say, to men on the street, women on the street are fair game for all sorts of harassment, particularly if they happen to look Western/foreign or not be wearing baggy, all-covering clothing (though sometimes this latter condition is waived if you are the former). It bothered me, I hated it, I wanted to punch men, and couldn’t wait to get back to Western cities where everyone would just ignore me.

My friend Michal laughed at me when I said that, and said she’d been getting harassment on the street from men since she was about thirteen; I couldn’t imagine that, remembering, at worst, only comments from skeezy homeless Frenchmen in Paris, stares and calls of bella! in Rome, and hollers from construction workers pretty much anywhere in the US. Sometimes I’d gotten compliments from homeless guys on the streets of DC and Berkeley, but it usually only made my day, because they were just being nice and hoping for some money (which, by the way, is probably one of the best ways to get someone to give you money, in my opinion).

Needless to say, since returning from Asia, I have been infinitely more aware of how men treat me – not just on the street, but in stores, offices, pretty much anywhere – and I am sad to say that I will never again be able to feel I can walk down the street ignored. Did I just not notice it before? Maybe. It’s depressing. But you get used to it quickly, and only remember the memorable ones to pass on to friends as anecdotes. (For examples, see Métro Stories.)

Which means it surprised me when I was telling Alfie about my latest encounter (On my way into the complex where my office is, yesterday, the man bringing his motorbike in before me did a double-take and grinned broadly at me before starting to chat away, saying how beautiful I was and on and on; I was in such a bad mood that I wanted to yell at him.) and he said, “You seem to get a lot of sketchy guys hitting on you here – is that normal?” To which my response was, “Welcome to the life of a woman.”

But then I started to wonder. This is where you all come in. Ladies, girls, women (pick your appellation) – do you get hit on an absurd amount? Do you just block it out? Are you so inured to it that you don’t even know? And how do you feel about the guys who hit on you? Obviously there are the one just doing it to be a pain, such as the construction workers who holler, but there are also the homeless guys who say, “Good morning, beautiful,” as well as the guys who propose marriage in the métro or genuinely think they can pick you up by chatting to you on the street. Do you want to smack them, or do you find them bemusing if stupid? Worst experiences? Best experiences?

(In other news, it’s getting cold again. Couldn’t feel my toes again tonight. Poo.)

International Language

In the last year, I have realized many times how fortunate I am to be a native English speaker; English absolutely is the international language. It’s one thing to say it, or to know it in theory – I think we all know it – but to see it in action is another thing entirely. This evening, on the way home from one of the most frustrating, upsetting days I’ve had in a long time, I had my entire day turned around by another example of English’s international quality.

I got on the métro going home from work, and a couple stops later, at one of the major interchanges, three Korean backpackers got on, clearly just fresh from the airport or train station, on their European tour, heading to their hotel. I obviously felt a warmth and affinity for them, considering how recently I was in their shoes, and I even smiled to myself when I could tell they were congratulating themselves on getting to Paris, excited to get started on exploring the city. I’ve been there so many times, and there is little that beats that feeling of arriving somewhere long-awaited (where you don’t speak the language) after an arduous journey; you get on that last bit of public transportation that will take you to your destination, you can finally put your overstuffed bags down long enough to make your shoulders stop hurting, and you suddenly feel like you have conquered the city already.

For a while, they talked a bit amongst themselves, and then just sat contentedly, not next to each other, unfortunately. And then, a young Parisian guy, who was sitting next to me, asked one of the Korean guys where they were from. In English, heavily accented. The Korean guy laughed nervously and tapped his friend, who clearly spoke a little more English, but was working on unfolding a map. “Korea?” asked the Frenchman. The first Korean guy nodded, “Korea. Yes.”

When his friend finally had the map worked out, he showed it to the Frenchman and said, “We are going here,” pointing to a métro stop. The Frenchman thought for a second. “Twenty. Yes.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

They all smiled at each other, and the Korean guy folded up his map. I think half the car as watching the interaction.

Not far away, their friend, a girl, was sitting with a contended smile on her face, examining everyone in the car, just as I would do upon arrival in a new place. She smiled at me. I resolved to tell her, “Good luck” or “Have fun” when I walked past her to get off at the next stop. What I underestimated, however, was how many people would be getting off at my stop, and I was prevented from getting to wish her well by the man next to her, who turned out to be getting off then too, and turned to her to say, “Have a nice trip,” in heavily-accented English as he got off. I heard at least two other people express similar sentiments – in English – to the two guys as they passed them to exit.

The grin on my face as I got off said it all. I wish I’d gotten to say something to them as well, but it almost seems better that all that friendliness came from Parisians. No one in any of those exchanges was a native English speaker. Yet they all used English to be able to form the momentary bonds that will have made those people’s days and those kids’ trip that much better. I hope their trip to Paris is amazing.

Life in Little Berlin

This weekend, my friend Susannah came to visit from Arles, where she’s teaching English on the assistantship program. Thanks to her need to experience as much of Paris as possible in one weekend (she studied abroad here too, but living in France away from Paris can cause strong pangs of longing for Paris, so she needed a good dose), Alfie and I did not spend the whole weekend sitting in our apartment, but rather got off our butts and explored our neighborhood, at last. And we have dubbed it: Little Berlin (or, Petit Berlin).

Why, you may ask. We all love Berlin – coolest city ever, I kid you not – and in our rainy-Saturday explorations, we realized that our neighborhood resembles some of our favorite parts of that city. A similar artsy aesthetic pervades the area, in architecture (a mixture of 70’s modern and varying degrees of old), the retro-chic cafés (one of which actually serves bratwurst and currywurst) and coffeeshops (real coffeeshops!), the plethora of vintage shops, and just general coolness of everyone walking around. Inasmuch as I would move to Berlin in a heartbeat if I spoke any German, I feel like we’ve won something.

All of this has contributed to what can probably be called the best weekend I’ve had since moving back to Paris in November. I got to leave work “early” on Friday. My Christmas presents from my family finally arrived, so it was like Christmas in the middle of November. The weather has finally taken a turn for the warmer, and we’re looking at definitively positive temperatures for the next week at least, and I’ve been able to feel my toes consistently since Friday (a real coup). This latter also meant that we walked around outside a lot this weekend, which is my favorite way to spend time in Paris, but I’ve been unfortunately prevented from doing so the last few months thanks to the weather. Yesterday was rainy, but we only let that dampen (hehe) our spirits and adventures a little bit. Today, on the other hand, was positively sunny and warm! Warm being a relative term here.

I always think that I know Paris really well. As those who read my blog then know, I spent most of my year abroad here walking around the city and exploring new areas. And yet, in the now three times that I’ve been back here in the last year, I have discovered more new places than I thought possible in such a relatively geographically small city. Honestly, within the last two days, I have gotten to know areas I never even imagined were here.

We discovered a local market which is like stepping back in time the old Halles of Paris – the famous central farmer’s market, essentially, that was finally closed around 40 or 50 years ago now, to be replaced by the worst underground shopping center ever. In all my explorations of markets – I love wandering around markets, of all kinds – I didn’t know that any like this still existed in Paris. They’ve mostly been relegated to several times a week street markets that pop up along major boulevards and then disappear as if they had never been there. Ours is that and so much more. I intend to go back and take photographs sometime soon. Today, I was too overwhelmed to do so, but next time.

Last night, we also had our little housewarming soirée, which I think was far more of a rousing success than I anticipated. The attendees included one of my Spanish friends and her boyfriend (French, from Reunion Island), a couple of our Oxford-year-abroader friends, a French friend of Alfie’s, Susannah, Alfie, and me. A very international little crew, weaving back and forth between English and French, enjoying a wonderfully convivial atmosphere; I think it bodes well for the future, being the first soirée in my first “real” apartment.

There’s no real point to this post, but rather to say that I am genuinely happy here, once again. Damn you, Paris, you made me love you again. Paris – like many places – is one of those cities that beats you down, is miserable and ugly and expensive, and then suddenly, just when you’ve had enough, gives you a few beautiful days when everything goes right and it reminds you that you love it, and any thoughts of leaving were foolish. Like any loves, you go through rough patches, but the good things are always there, just waiting below the surface, ready to pop out when you need a reminder. Like with any relationship, you have to be ready to stick it out through thick and thin. Paris, I’m in this for the long haul, just don’t let me regret it.

Metro Stories

I hate getting behind on blog updates. As soon as things start to happen, you tell yourself you can’t post about them until you’ve covered the stuff that came before, and then, next thing you know, you’ve found a job (at a documentary film production company), you put a deposit on an apartment, your boyfriend comes to visit, the two of you get caught in the Great Eurostar Crisis of 2009 but still manage to get to England to spend the holidays with his family, you get caught in the Great Snowstorm of January 2010 in Britain but manage to get back to Paris anyway, you move into your new apartment and start working full-time, and then it’s just impossible to catch up on everything on your blog.

There, I think I’ve caught you up now. Moving on…

First things first: I am still cold. It has only gotten colder since I last complained about it. In fact, you could say quite seriously that I haven’t felt my toes for a month. The last time I recall being truly warm (apart from the hot showers I take as soon as I get home from work in order to drive the cold from my bones) was when I was curled up on James’ parents’ couch in Yorkshire. I was warmer in northern England than I am Paris (which, for the directionally challenged, is further south)… hm. My office also uses heating sparingly and we can’t figure out how to work the heaters in the main room of our apartment, so it’s a perpetual state. Which is great, considering everyone everywhere seems to think this is the worst winter in, well, ever. I feel conspired against.

Since returning, I have also started to compile a collection of anecdotes and amusing observations about the métro, for your benefit. I will add to them as I see fit.

On my first day back at work after Christmas, I was running from the cold, into the métro station, and as I walked up to the machine to buy myself a ticket (I hadn’t yet recharged my card), a perfectly ordinary man approached me. There wasn’t anything particularly notable about him – he was probably about my height, looked to be about age 30, well-dressed enough and particularly against the cold, not attractive but not ugly – as I said, perfectly ordinary.

Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, he said, seriously, and I thought he was going to ask me the time, or directions, neither of which I was particularly prepared to give. And then he proposed to me. Formally, sincerely, earnestly. I barely laughed, and said, Non, and turned to the machine to get my ticket. He kept standing there. He wasn’t laughing.

Alors, c’est oui? What?? Did he not hear me say no? Does he not get that I’m ignoring him?

J’ai pas entendu votre réponse… Well if you couldn’t hear my response, that’s your problem, I’m not talking to you anymore.

Finally he walked away, but only because he finally seemed to realize that I wasn’t speaking to him anymore. But he never cracked a smile once. He seemed entirely sincere. I’ve been the butt of silly flirtation jokes before (Do you know where Rue Princesse is? Yes, it’s just there, and then you go left– Well, you see, I can’t go there without a princess, so will you be my princess? Ha. Ha. Ha.), but that usually ends in laughter on both sides and everyone moves along. This guy never laughed!

I wandered – well, more accurately, I probably marched, because I was cold – down into the metro and onto my train, only to find a guy playing a surprisingly good acoustic guitar on it. Musicians on the métro are no surprise, but his level of talent was; unfortunately for him, I was too cold to move to get any coins. I also felt particularly broke as I’d unintentionally spent 40 euros the night before, so my generosity levels were down for the week. He waited in my section of the train for his stop to come, and I found myself additionally impressed by his clothes and his guitar; clearly he wasn’t just doing this for the money, but because he was actually a musician. And then a guy got on with a didgeridoo. Yup, a didgeridoo. The huge, long Australian instrument that must look thoroughly bizarre to the uninitiated.

Our guitarist had clearly not seen one before. He looked at it puzzled, interested, and finally tried to ask its owner about it. At this point, I discovered he was foreign (probably Eastern or Southeastern European, but I’m not sure), because he couldn’t communicate well to the guy what he wanted to know. Fortunately, the owner – a youngish man himself – was happy to share his knowledge, and explained it briefly to the guitarist a few times. In French, of course, so I’m not sure the guitarist understood. Finally, he put it on the floor and played it. In the métro. Best métro instrument ever. The guitarist was thoroughly pleased, and at least the didgeridoo player and I were smiling. Point for Paris.

I have also begun to notice a growing phenomenon in which métro musicians perform Christian music. Curious. I’ve never experienced this before this trip, and now I’ve encountered it twice.

Yesterday, I couldn’t bring myself to give money to an older couple performing in the métro, purely because the husband was playing pieces on his violin that my sister used to play as a kid… and my sister played them much better. I wanted to like this man’s music, because they were an adorable older couple, but they looked more warmly dressed than I did, and the music wasn’t that good, so no monies from me.

My rule for giving coins is usually if they’re really good and have therefore made my day better. I feel then that it’s an exchange of services and I’m not just giving money to any old person who shows up in the métro and purports to play music (most of them don’t). I am, however, happy to promote talent. There have been a few instances, though, where I’ve given money and then found myself tragically short of change later, and I regret my benevolence. I’m holding out hope that my karmic points will pay me back in the end.

More métro stories to come. Wish me warmth!

Below Freezing

Winter has hit Paris. Full on. I think the average this week is -1. Celcius, that is. We’re in Europe, remember.

My nose is permanently red, and my face is dry and burnt from the cold and wind. I rejoice in the metro, however smelly it may be, because I know that the more people there are packed into a car, the warmer I will be for that brief period of time. Our office is cold anyway – everyone wears scarves inside all day – but walking outside immediately induces a feeling that cuts straight to the bone and takes hours to dispel. Alfie doesn’t have gloves and his fingers are perpetually dry and raw; this is not helped by hours of washing dishes at work.

That’s right, we both have jobs now. You knew that he did, but I do too. I didn’t want to say anything before it started, because the way things have been going, you never know what could happen. But I started yesterday, so I can talk about it now. I’m working for a documentary production company as an intern/Production Assistant. They pay basically nothing, but it’s a good opportunity and the people are pretty cool. It’s a small, cute office in one of my favorite parts of town, and particularly the head Producer/Director guy is super enthusiastic and friendly. They’re asking me to essentially do the impossible, but they recognize the difficulty of the project, so I don’t mind too much. We’ll see how it goes. All the same, I still have to find another job if I’m going to even attempt to stay, because 300 euros a month (yes, really) won’t get you much of anything in Paris.

As for staying, talk to me again next week. Right now, I don’t really know much of anything beside that I’m meeting a few people for dinner tonight and I just had hot chocolate to dispel some of the cold. Send warm thoughts. Or snow. I’ll take either right now.

Musings on a Life of Travel

Crisis averted.

Welcome to the ups and downs of my life. Now you now what it’s really like living the jet-setting life: terrifying. You’ve been warned. You’ve tasted the depths of my despair. One day you’ll be walking on air, the next day you’ll be plummeted into hopelessness so deep you want to disappear under the covers and awaken to find yourself seven years old and at home in bed.

Why do we do it? Maybe we’re adrenaline junkies, but I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed much of the lows. No, it’s that the lower those lows are, the higher the highs will be. The greater the small victories seem. A phone call the day after seeing an apartment from a landlord who was so French she couldn’t even smile to ask if we’re still interested seems like the coup of the century. Emails back promising nothing but viewings are cause for elation. Responses from potential employers wanting to set up interviews means it’s time to splurge on a cupcake or croissant. Every feeling is experienced anew, every lesson learned for the first time. One has never felt so utterly depressed and trapped, nor has the world ever seemed so full of possibility.

But then, I’ve always been on the emotional side, so perhaps I just feel it all more acutely.

On Thursday, a Spanish woman asked me if all Americans are as crazy as I am, traveling all over the place, eschewing job/financial/housing security. I laughed. Clearly she hasn’t met that many Americans. Or that many people who travel a lot, even though she herself has lived in several major European cities. I wonder when I’ll be ready for that security so many others crave and build their lives on, or if I ever will. I thought I was getting there in the last few weeks, but it wasn’t security I wanted so much as stability, and the knowledge that I would be in the same place (house, really) for more than a transient period of time. Not to be living out of a suitcase. The ability to build a routine and a life of my own, just the way I want it. The more I think about it, though, and the more concrete the reality of staying here for a little while becomes, the more I realize that I’ve been creating my own stability for a long time now. I spent six weeks in Turkey this summer – mostly in Istanbul – and I had a nice little stable life of my own. Willa and I spent two and a bit weeks in Dharamsala, and we definitely had a stable little life routine. California is always easiest, because the stability is there waiting for me to step back into it whenever I arrive, and it’s nice to know that I have that there whenever I need to press the reset button, but it is slowly becoming less and less my stability to have.

Whenever I complain about something being difficult, my dad says that nothing worth having is easily gotten, and I’ll appreciate it more for the hard work I put in; much as I hate to say it, he’s right, as usual. My own stability, which I am building from the ground up right now, will be that much better for all the pain, despair, and tears that have gone into it. Perhaps it will even be more stable, I don’t know. Stay tuned in the coming months to find out, if you can handle the mood swings.

Panic

Often, we find ourselves sliding backwards, if you will. We think we’re moving forward with jobs/apartments, only to find a new hurdle appear that tries to send us falling backwards. The last few weeks have been about learning to deal with these beat-downs and circumvent them. At the moment, though, come Sunday, we have nowhere to stay for at least one of us, and we’ve been trying to deal with this to little avail. So, I’m putting a plea out into the universe for something within our minimal budget that can sleep three people for next week; if anyone has any suggestions, ideas, connections, I will be eternally grateful. Otherwise, you may be seeing me at home in January. If you want me to be home in January, then start sabotaging this post immediately, but I like to think that my readers are more kind-hearted than that.

I really hope I didn’t do something to karmically deserve this, because then I feel I must have something even worse coming.

The Accidental Local

I have been in Paris for going on three weeks now, and it is amazing how quickly one falls easily into routine. Perhaps this is because I have traveled so much this year, and so establishing a lifestyle for a short period of time has become second nature, but I really didn’t expect it this time. I assumed that everything would be transient until we had our apartment, and then everything would become concrete. While this is still true to a certain extent – I have yet to join a gym or yoga studio because I intended to find one near where we were living, which we don’t know yet – I have also somehow managed to develop a little life for myself here. Maybe if I didn’t know the city so well, I would have to spend more time adjusting and exploring before I could settle, but, since I know Paris better than many Parisians, I’ve basically dropped back in and picked up almost as if I’d never left.

(Lest you think I’m being cocky, I don’t exaggerate when I say that I know Paris better than many Parisians. The fact is, as every foreigner/expat I meet notes, that Parisians know two places in Paris: their home quartier and where they work, if the two are different. I cannot tell you the number of times I have told a Parisian that I am going/just was somewhere only to have them respond, “Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it.” Paris is not that big a city, either. It’s definitely smaller than London, New York, Los Angeles, and, I would venture to say, even San Francisco.)

My new life here consists of several things, some of which were mentioned in my last post. As for the other ones, my personal favorite is my Spanish-English Conversation Exchanges.

In case you don’t know, I’m trying to learn Spanish. This is absurd coming from a California girl, I recognize this; why did I move to Paris – away from the state where Spanish is probably more commonly spoken than English – to learn Spanish? All I can say is that I am crazy. AND that I want to learn Castilian Spanish, which I currently have a much harder time understanding than American Spanish, but, that’s the point, right? I just don’t get why they can’t pronounce things phonetically, but whatever. Silly Spanish.

Anyway, in my quest to learn Spanish, I quickly discovered that Spanish language classes are absurdly overpriced, so instead of paying money, I did some research, found a reputable website aimed at connecting people for language exchanges, and have now started meeting several times a week with three different Spanish girls to do language exchanges. Armed with my base knowledge and understanding of Spanish – coming, obviously, from being a native Californian, as well as some tutoring lessons from this fall – and my fluency in French (which is only sort of different), as well as my general passion for learning languages, I have dived in head first. After being thoroughly embarrassed at my limited knowledge, I am, after only a week, slowly starting to put things together. My teachers are incredibly patient and helpful, not to mention super fun. Maria and I have already planned to bake cookies before Christmas, go shopping for language books, and have a jazz club night, not to mention that she is trying to help me get a job! Laura is from near where James and Kara spent last year, and so says if we ever go back there and want to go to Léon, we can totally stay with her mom (who speaks no English, so it will be good practice for me). I’m having an absolute blast, making new friends in the process, and developing a nice little structure to my life.

I haven’t just made friends through Spanish, though. One of the advantages of traveling – particularly alone – for an extended period of time is that you become much less hesitant about contacting people to hang out. And you realize very quickly that most people feel the same, they’re just more embarrassed about trying to make new friends. As a result, I have (I hope!) befriended a fellow Californian (though she’s also actually French, unlike me), who, in turn, is now introducing me to her international group of friends. Many of them have been in the same place that Alfie and I are right now with jobs and apartments, so they were super helpful and encouraging. I am so excited for when we have our own place so that I can finally invite all these people who have been so wonderful and welcoming over to cook for them and thank them properly. Yes, Mediterranean/Indian/international culture of food equaling love has totally rubbed off on me.

I am also sure that I will rue saying this, but the job and apartment hunt has even become a routine. I spend so much time calling people and sending emails and wading through craigslist postings that when I no longer have to, I will find myself with too much free time.

Life chez Celine and Freddie has truly become a little home, if I dare say so. We all have our routines, we cook for each other, we watch movies and bad TV together (I’ve gotten them all into Glee!), Alfie makes us all tea… it’s quite a little family set up we’ve got here.

Alas, no good – or bad – thing can last, and, come this weekend, we’re going to have to move house for a few days, as Celine has some friends from London coming. I am contemplating going to visit my friend Susannah in Arles (where she is teaching English), and then James is coming to visit! Poor Alfie has to work, so he can’t come on holiday with me, but, on the flip side, he is making money and I am not. As for what will happen next week… who knows. I’m getting back to taking things as they come and not letting them get to me too much, but I suppose that’s just today. Who knows about tomorrow.

Paris Inhospitable

Je recommence!

After a wonderful summer in Turkey and all over Europe, and then back in the US for several months of fall to visit friends and family and make some money, I have started what I like to call “The Great Europe Adventure, Round 2.”

As you all know, I spent my junior year abroad in Paris, studying at the Sorbonne and just generally living up the Parisian life. Now, I’m back. This time, however, I am jobless, homeless (but for the kindness of some lovely Brits whom I didn’t know two weeks ago), and somewhat aimless. This time, Paris seems far more cruel and inhospitable than it did last time; no one wants to house us, because we are foreigners and therefore don’t have all the million papers that French landlords like to have (I learned yesterday that this is because it is pretty much impossible to evict a renter in Paris, even if they don’t pay you for months, so it makes sense that they like to have all the assurances); no one wants to hire me, because I am American and not a student and therefore not staying for a long time (read between the lines here). Not to mention that it is also rainy and freezing, which started immediately upon my arrival, apparently. I believe a conspiracy may be at play here.

In spite of it all, however, Alfie (my intended future roommate/friend of Willa’s who also wanted to move to Paris and recent Oxford graduate) and I have found numerous things for which to be thankful (or, as we like to say “Parisians to be Thankful”).

First and foremost is peppermint hot chocolate. You laugh, we cringe, but Starbucks’ peppermint hot chocolate has long been one of my favorite things, and has honestly been a godsend during the last two weeks of our struggle (Alfie arrived two weeks before I, to begin searching, during which time I gallivanted around Oxford with James).

Second on the list (a very, very close second) is the wonderful contingent of friends we have found here who have literally saved our asses and our pocketbooks by letting us crash at their places since my third day here. These are all lovely Oxford kids on their years abroad, and I cannot say enough good things about them. They are quickly becoming good friends and partners-in-crime of ours, and I really can’t think of how to properly thank them for their generosity; without them, I would probably have had to go home to California by now, simply due to the drain of having to stay in hostels all the time.

Third comes the cheap bread. Who doesn’t love a good baguette? Alfie loves them more than most, though, and for the first week, I believe we probably consumed about 3 or 4 a day. We’ve cut back on that, fortunately, but he still gets at least one pain aux raisins daily. I am trying to be disciplined, with moderate success. It’s hard when you’re constantly being beaten down; amazing cheap food/bread products seem like such an acceptable way to console oneself.

So, armed with these three things, we are setting forth to conquer Paris in the coming months. If you have any suggestions, ideas, connections, or anything else that may help us out or enhance our experience, please let me know. In return, I will be regaling you once again with my tales of grandeur and la vie internationale, should you choose to listen.

Found the Dalai Lama

Just a quick update to say that while I will probably not meet the Dalai Lama while I am here (he’s a busy man), I saw him today! He returned from a speaking trip in the US today, and we happened to be lunching with some friends at the cafe in his residence’s complex, and they happened to have heard from some Tibetans that His Holiness would be arriving around 3 pm. Needless to say, we waited outside with the crowds alongside the road until about 5 pm, but he arrived and it was amazing.

I’ve heard stories about his presence, about what it’s like to meet him, about what he’s like as a person and a speaker; I can’t contribute much to that anthology, because I only saw him through a car windshield, but I was about five feet from him, and had a clear line of vision. The moment I saw him, I of course knew immediately that it was him, and I gasped in excitement in spite of myself. He was smiling pleasantly and waving at everyone with a slightly bemused look, as if to say, “Oh, hello, fancy seeing you here,” despite the fact that people were bowing to him and saying prayers and taking pictures and just generally being overwhelmed. Just another manifestation of his impressive humility. I do wish I could have a chance to talk to him.