ambush 1990

The fat little man ambushed us, limbs and appendages flailing as he stumbled toward us, his breathing labored from the effort, or perhaps nerves. In his hand was a 10-franc note, the pretty one with the cartoon drawing of the Little Prince on it. He waved it in our faces. “Regardez! Regardez comme il est beau,” he huffed, gesturing at his shriveled penis. His clothing lay in the bushes a few yards away. We saw the thing unrolling in slow motion– his progress out of the brush and onto the path in a wooded area of the Bois de Boulogne where we had taken a shortcut on a perfect summer afternoon; his brandishing of the bill in our faces; his chubby hand reaching out to grab my small, still-developing breast. We walked at a clip, our pace having increased as soon as we’d seen him out of the corner of our eyes, but it didn’t occur to us to run; in his nakedness, he somehow seemed less of a threat.

As we left the woods and re-entered the open expanse of the park, we giggled nervously and incredulously over what had just happened. We thought of the clever, biting things we would have said or done, if only we’d been quicker-witted: stealing his clothes; telling him “C’est beaucoup trop petit pour moi.” We didn’t feel scared or upset particularly, even though something far worse could have taken place. We were in that bubble of teenage-hood where invincibility trumps reality, and in the end, secretly savored the thrill of a brush with danger and a crazy story to tell our disbelieving friends when we got home.

birthday came early

I’ve just spent Christmas with my family, but this was a Christmas of many years ago- only my parents and siblings, no spouses or children. My mom announces that one of my grandparents has just died, but which one? Hadn’t they all passed away already? We discuss this, and conclude that they in fact have.

Although I know it’s winter, the weather is as mild as a spring day. It’s my birthday, or the day before maybe, and I’ve made no plans. So I wander in search of something to do; a little companionship. I cross through a field where someone is inexplicably walking a dolphin on a leash; occasionally they throw a bucket of water on it. My dog sniffs it for a moment and trots onward. I pass by other relatives in town for the holidays and wave hello, but don’t stop to make small talk.

I make my way into my city, which has, for my purposes, become walkable from my childhood home, and just walkable, period. Places that are miles apart are suddenly and conveniently clustered into one fun neighborhood. Strolling past all of my usual haunts, whose windows twinkle invitingly with string lights for the season, I think of guys I could call who would take me out for a birthday dinner, and we’d have a nice time. But of course I don’t want nice–I want Him.

I end up at a house party and suddenly it’s morning and there he is, outside on the patio, sitting expectantly as if waiting for me, despite the fact that we haven’t spoken in ages. As usual, I’m displeased with him for some perceived minor infraction and begin to chide him. But as usual, his physical presence washes away my annoyance like chalk in the rain, still perceptible but illegible and without consequence. He silences my faltering complaints with a kiss and we latch on to each other like long-lost lovers.

We make our way through the city this way, joined, and although he is twice my size, somehow I am carrying him like a child. I ask where he wants to go and he says, “my house”. So we go, and there is a party happening; a birthday, but not mine. His place has expanded and there are rooms upon rooms to go through to get to his chambers, but at last we arrive. Someone has left us slices of cake, and I gleefully exclaim that we’ll eat it in bed. We have to chase some children out of his rooms; the last one to go is a very small toddler who has just learned to walk and whose footsteps shake the wooden floors like thunder as she runs out.

After dispensing of all the interlopers I return to him and to our kiss. He now tastes of liquor… a hidden flask? I’m stone cold sober and want to ask for some, but don’t; it’s morning, after all, and besides, this kiss is the main thing. Our tongues reach deep, searching for each other’s souls, or maybe intestines. I could go on in this moment forever, but I know it’s not to be.

I awake, and immediately want to crawl back into the cocoon of this dream. Coiled in the warmth of our imaginary embrace, I slowly and regretfully shake off sleep, knowing that the best part of my day has likely already occurred. But although it was just a figment, the kiss is now a shiny coin that I’ll keep in my pocket, absentmindedly rubbing for luck and secretly smiling.

some items of business

Aghghg… I had a post in my head in the shower this morning before work, quickly typed it out, tried to save it and there was an error. So perhaps it was not meant to be, and I’ll just start over. I was going to post some quick thoughts along with a song that expressed a feeling I was having earlier about a certain person/ situation, but I’ve thought better of it, so instead I think I’ll just address some items of business about this blog.

First, let’s get one thing straight: It’s dumb to have to explain this, but the use of initials to refer to people in my life isn’t meant to be cute or coy. Obviously if you know me in real life, you can probably pretty easily figure out who is who. It’s mainly meant to fly under the radar of Google searches, so if anyone’s searching someone’s name, they won’t land here unexpectedly. It’s the same reason I don’t mention my business by name. It’s also just a courtesy, in case people don’t want their name used. I had a conversation with someone the other day who mentioned that a mutual friend had sarcastically said, “Gee, I wonder who — could be.” Of course you know who it is, did you actually think I thought I was being mysterious or obfuscating details? T, I don’t expect you’re reading this, but if you are, give me a little credit.

Secondly, I know this started as a travel(ish) blog and has drifted a bit into some more personal territory, but that’s just what I feel I need to write about right now.  I do have some travel-related posts in the pipeline, but the big picture is that this is about my life experiences, whether they take place at home or elsewhere. I got tired of writing my food blog, which was by and large a shiny happy place where everything was super and I rarely expressed my darker or more sarcastic side, let alone any of the real shit that was happening in my life. On that blog, I cooked and ate beautiful food with my supportive husband and went to amazing parties and potlucks with awesome friends who were also all great cooks and we ate the best food and drank great wine and lived a charmed life. Clearly some of that was true and real, but don’t expect the same gloss factor here.* That’s not to say it’s all going to be negative and emotional. Just that if I feel like writing about things not being perfect, I will.

Lastly, it came to my attention in the same conversation from the other day that there are people reading whom I’ve never met, but who know of me peripherally and have sought out the blog as a way to find out more about me (and not necessarily in a positive way). I suppose that’s the risk you run by publishing your semi-private thoughts in a public forum, but at 41 years old I just can’t bring myself to care anymore what people think (unless you happen to think I’m brilliant and talented, in which case I’m all ears!), especially those who don’t know me personally and who will never know what’s in my heart and soul. So, judge away, stalkers and weirdos. And if you somehow landed here randomly and don’t know me: welcome, I can definitely be a crazy person at times (aren’t all the interesting people, though? At least the ones I know…) but overall I’m pretty smart, fun, and every once in a while I have some interesting stories and insights and perspectives.

I’ll leave you all with this song, an anthem from my teenage years that’s been swimming around my brain for the last three days. The lyrics aren’t all perfectly applicable to my life right now, but whenever I listen to it, it always makes me feel like I have someone in my corner.

*If you prefer a little more gloss, follow my instagram– I try to keep that pretty positive!

face of a brand

As long as I can remember, I’ve known that I wanted to own my own business. I didn’t know exactly what kind of business for a long time, but I knew that I could never be chained to a desk, and that the many hats worn by entrepreneurs appealed to my easily distractable nature. The entrepreneurial spirit runs deep in my family, especially on my dad’s side; my grandfather was a farmer, and several of my dad’s 14 siblings are self-employed. As a kid, it was rough sometimes when we had to forgo extras like class field trips or senior pictures due to liquidity issues (I particularly recall my parents cleaning out my bank account once in high school because one of the cars was getting repo’d) but I always respected my dad for sticking with it, and he now has a highly successful business… spend 10 minutes in the car anywhere in the metro area and you’re bound to see at least one of his billboards.

One thing I didn’t quite reckon on, though, was the pressure that comes with representing a brand and being a semi-public (in the tiny scene that is Detroit, at least) figure. I’m struggling right now to strike a balance between living a life that feels genuine to me, and presenting a certain edited persona to those who know me as the owner of my business (which I’m purposely not naming here because of Google). Typically, I have no problem being presented as “N, the owner of such and such,” and am flattered when friends talk up my products as they make introductions. But sometimes, the weight of that is oppressive, and I crave anonymity. I’m envious of people like my friend T, who owned a couple of restaurants and now sells vintage clothing out of her car. This is a woman with an outsized personality who gives no fucks about what anyone thinks or says about her, and somehow pulls it off. I guess my bourgeois side cares too much about public opinion to go that route, or I just don’t have the confidence or cojones to get away with it.

This is something I consider often when writing: finding a comfort zone somewhere between “I’m 41 years old for chrissakes and this is who I am, so screw it,” and thinking about what if my mom is reading, or some other relative, or business acquaintance, etc. I’ve been pretty low key about promoting the blog, but you never know who’s on the other side of the computer screen. At least I don’t have the problem my friend K has; she’s constantly concerned that her blog will be discovered by employers or clients.

This quandary of maintaining multiple identities really hit home when I was out with P last week. We’d been sipping wine since 2 or 3pm and it was around 6 when we went to meet our friend E at a wine bar in the neighborhood. As soon as we got there, P saw a group of acquaintances- a wine salesman and his wife and two of their friends, one of whom was a heart surgeon- and installed me and E at their table. After making hasty introductions, he left us there to fend for ourselves while he wandered off in search of… what, I don’t know exactly.
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just like starting over

Last night over a fantastic Thai meal in Los Angeles with an old college friend, I had the brilliant light-bulb realization that what I most needed in life was to start a blog. Rather, I should say- another blog; I had a food blog from about 2008-2013 but I became disillusioned with the competitiveness of the food blogging “scene” and no longer had the interest or energy to keep up with bloggers who clearly had more time and resources than I did to spend on props, styling, and creating magazine-worthy photographs. No disparagement intended; I just found my interest waning with the increasing pressure to up the ante. Plus, as we know, repetition can breed boredom. I noticed a couple friends’ food- and drink-related blogs fall off around the same time mine did, so I can’t have been alone in these sentiments.

Anyway. That blog was all well and good, but it was written more for others; this blog is for me. If people read and enjoy, that’s just a cherry on top. A fog that hung over my life for the last few years is finally beginning to dissipate, and I’m experiencing an intense creative energy for the first time in ages. It’s amazing what can happen when weights that you didn’t necessarily even realize were holding you back are suddenly lifted. I feel like a hot air balloon whose tethers have been cut; heady with possibility.

I’ve been a traveler since I was old enough to go off on my own (age 16, an eye-opening three-week trip to France with my best friend Hilary). Even before that, I’ve always loved reading books set in faraway places or times, and couldn’t wait until I was old enough to study foreign languages in school. “Scènes et Séjours” was the name of my high school French textbook, and I couldn’t think of a more perfect name for this blog. Whereas my old blog was food-centric, I envision this one being about time/place/experience; the scenes and sojourns of my life, if you will. This past year, I had the chance to take two trips with a very good friend, and it reaffirmed that I want to experience this world as much as I possibly can while on this particular plane of existence. I want my writing to creatively capture moments and essences of travels not only through the world but at home in Detroit, a vibrant and wondrous city brimming with the best people I have ever known. I hope you’ll enjoy my adventures.