no finer thing

than a dream that has wing
or a mug that is
still
full of foam

on a day where
the wind
is not bound
to rescind

and when we
do not want
to be home

pizzeta

pizza for kieran
it happens sometimes; this thing
where i bring bros. food

{it's cold, he's at work and he tends to like pizza.}

blizzard sunday

braved the wind and snow
for company, cozy din,
cinnamon and soy

Something I wrote on Sept 25

black, white
coffee high
sparkly
skinny love
weightless
melt

sheffield/armitage, 3:03 - 3:05pm

blue acid-wash
plaid hat, ear flaps
fist bump
boots
orange cap
braces
eyeshadow
say cheese
gym shoes
hand-knit
backpacks
shifts
and stretches
glances
shrugs
bouncing
giggles
high tops
big gulp
head toss
smile
bus comes –

gone.

no also

i have this feeling
that my words
were heavy

too heavy

like anchors that
pulled
our
fun
down

but what i want
is light
like the sails that b i l l o w
and foll-
ow
the wind-
curves that
pull them around

i'm for hugging
the shore
and for tipping
the white caps
to notions
that move us
toward
colorful
sands

for untying knots
and seeing what happens
by using
our instincts
and amusing our
hands

it could all be as simple
and i see that
it is.

it's a matter of 'sounds great.'

and also–
no also.

i'm up for adventure,
so
for a limited time
i will wait

there isn't a reason
you'd admit to treason if
your head's on the line.

wild card

surely sometimes we
must recognize the game, see
preposterous moves

and still make them.

simple, true

give me a reason to dress-up, and i'll go strappy
put a wall in front of me and i'll scale it
look, pull over a bend in the river and let's float it
wake me up from a dream and i'll put it all out there
smile at me so i can smile back
throw on a soundtrack that papers the wall
drop me off; i'll find my way home

tell me a story, but don't go too fast –
i like this too much to rush.

diction: airy. let's work on that.

who has words to draw
when a thought could become real -
pretty, scary, raw

a novel plan might
manifest at our say, or
float, shapeless, away

***

while there are not rules
it is crucial that we mind:
words can rule the day.

notes in margins

your storyteller
and mine aren't the same, yet we
manage cross-plotting

it may be best if
we're our own main characters,
same rising action.

like her, mysterious?

know how you'll know, boy?
it's only the feeling of
knowing you like her.

***

there's something about
the mysterious eyes of
friends you thought you knew


***

nothing's as you think...i think

so many sandals

sunday, late summer
now: view from the coffee bar
'ccino residue

gold soot that's the knowing

I want to capture the color
of faces
of uncles
that stare
at the bonfire
glow

– and the paint-stroke
that you'd make if you tried
to paint them:
burnt purple and
red rust

gold soot

ruddied, lo

femme ephemeral

Can I say something?
This is more than most can take–
and I thrive on it.

hey, dreamer

wonder who'll tell you
that you've everything you need–
who you'll listen to.

pajama, moment theory

Here is a developing thought I give time to, often. It's not my typical short, confident but barely-there punchy Haiku.

First, a sleepwear assertion:

Why spend a night wearing your not-favorite pajamas? You spend so much time sleeping. Be comfortable.

Along that same line of logic: why live a mediocre life? Pull on a better one. If you experience an undesirable moment - know that you need not. First, note that it's your choice to feel that your moment is undesirable. You attribute meaning to a given situation.

The most direly oppressed person can decide to wear a smile, to be solidly behind that smile.

If a person in an apparently horrible circumstance can appreciate their moments, so can you and I. There is no excuse. And why would we want one anyway? You would not make an excuse to not wear a sweater if you were cold. Pull on a fine moment, every moment.

Your moments need not always be good or even serene. Instead, they are simply relative to one another. Each is worth acknowledging - and often most rewarding in their extremes. Just as you pull on or off a sweater, actively change your attitude, acknowledge temporary discomfort and watch it change. Know that's how comfortable you can be with your reality, and keep moving.

If your situation isn't 'optimal,' can you change your mind about the way things are? I think we all can. But nothing else can do that for us. We have to be active.

Can you step back and realize that this moment of pain or relative hardship, this sequence of moments, will blend in with the big nebula of moments that makes up your life? Like whitecaps on the ocean, our moments are not independent, but make up an inseparable whole, our current life. This life, now.

Now.

Accepting that our life is not segmented, but flows and is a huge singular force, taking us wherever we drive ourselves, we must realize we have no time for dissatisfaction or immobility. We can make things happen. We have been. And we can choose to.

Consider that you may be viewing your world via a particular point of view, as through a pair of sunglasses. Can you pull off your current pair of glasses, put them back on the shelf and pull on another that makes everything more appealing? Or better yet, can you forget the notion of viewpoint and look at your reality without any shading at all? When did you learn to put on sunglasses, anyway? Sometimes, the real picture is worth the glare.

Perhaps your answer to all of those questions is 'Yes, my glasses somewhat limit my frame; I could give this non-judgmental idea a try.'

That seems reasonable. A change, a movement will rarely hurt. It might move your moments in a good way.

Decide what you want, and move toward it. Don't wait. Put on your favorite pajamas now!

Then you'll start to see how powerful you are.



Let me know what you think.

why,

everything starts with an idea.

boat, plane.

Gosh, I was watching the water. I watched the water from the bow of a sailboat while my aunt Lora took my Lizzy to get an MRI.

Lizzy's in the hospital now, getting a series of tests. And I'm on a plane out to Seattle to see her. Mom is on another plane, right now, in the same sky. Our planes are probably within miles of each other, up here in the ether–and we can't talk together.

Man. Worlds earlier, I was sailing, swathing my knees with sunscreen.

I took a cab to the marina this morning to be there by 10. $40, and that was a cheap cab from Evanston to Hyde Park. I could have gone another time, saved the money and avoided the hurry. But I had to go sailing. I needed water. My head had been pounding since I woke, and I didn't know why. I don't get headaches.

Now, I think I know why.

We launched the Vivace, and I spent most of our two-hour sail on the bow, or sprawled on the front body of the boat, under the sail. Propped up on the metal rails of the bow, I dangled my feet off. I watched the sun-rippled water of Lake Michigan glide below my toes. I watched the Chicago skyline bobbing away across the water. I thought about the dull pain in my head that wouldn't go away.

When we'd parked the boat, mom said Lizzy's condition had taken a sudden turn. My head pounded hard. They didn't know what happened. Mom planned to get on the next available plane. I'm going, too.

I can think of nowhere else to be.

this story.

i shouldn't be awake right now.

but i am, and thinking of everything but my meditative white room: the chalkboards i have to paint, the work i won't get to before heading into chicago for a regional conference tomorrow. what comfortable, cool and work-approved non-tank shirt i should try and paste on my exhausted frame when i wake up. why this sleep tank top fits way too loosely?! sheesh.

but what is probably the real reason i'm awake: just before i turned off my bedside lamp earlier, a moth sprung from a corner of my room. i jumped, and turned to find its huge shadow bounce across the wall opposite the lamp. while i thought of how to swish the large creature out of the room, the moth made a line straight for the exposed work-table lamp bulb - and then got caught between the bulb and the inner wall of the lamp! there was sizzling right away. forgetting myself, i jerked over, turned off the lamp and tried to knock the moth out of captivity -

but alas.

with the light off, the sound of the moth's final movements were painfully dramatic. all i could do was take a deep breath. i left the light off, unable to draw the moth's grave yet. but my mind kept twitching.

and.

and it probably doesn't help that, earlier, i experienced a strange state. it went this way: i've been eating plant-based since january–no meat, maybe drops of dairy. no eggs. but recently, i've had two occasions to try working back in some fish. last week, the first occasion, i ordered a seared tuna sandwich at the three floyds brewery in muenster, indiana. well-flavored and delicious, if a bit strange after six months with a fish-bereft palate, the tuna found me well.

so today, willfully ignorant of the specifics of what happens to raw tuna after four days, i chose to eat the second half of the sandwich as a late lunch. at my computer about an hour later, i looked up, face twisted, at a coworker who'd offered a pleasantry. our ensuing interaction went something like this:

coworker - (simple question) 'hey leah, how are you?'
me - (truthful and awkward) 'actually, i've just started feeling a little strange. like my face has just flooded with heat. it's come on just now, suddenly!'
coworker - (attempting to keep it light) 'oh-oh, sounds like you got a little too much sun!'
me - (truthful. awkward.) 'hmm, that's not it. in fact, i feel a little delirious. i have this headache coming on, too. is my face red? this is really very strange.'
coworker - (abort!) 'well, you're a bit red, but i'm sure it'll pass. stay out of that sun. you have a good one, leah.' [backing away]
me - (truthful, unecessary) 'uh huh, thanks - you, too. i dunno though, i wasn't in the sun that long today. i have to check this out! my face feels hot to the touch! this is crazy, no?!'
- crickets -

i found a mirror. sure enough, my face had turned a bright reddish-pink. my neck and shoulders were the same color. my head and ears felt like they were being repeatedly smacked with a sharp penetrating force, like you feel when running on a windy day. my cheeks and forehead were boiling. i'm sure my temperature would have read 105 degrees.

luckily, i'd reached the end of the work day. after a quick call to a triage nurse, i determined i was best on my own. i biked the few blocks home safely, spiraled up my back steps and gulped five cups of water before i knew it.

i'm not sure what all that was. was it the raw tuna? it tasted fine. was it my recent vegan system reacting? i'd eaten the same thing last week!

anyway. a few hours later, i'd completely recovered, and found myself in the most lucid state i've reached in a while. i've been in that state all afternoon and night, until now.

i'm going to sleep.

ideas, many thought on the train

- check it out, clark street. it's like chicago picked up your string and threaded you through all these 'hoods that don't match, but don't clash either. like a third grade teacher's necklace.

- keep it up, persimmon sunset.

- L-train rides are made of patterns.

- paint, so often paint on the fingertips. and a tip of a song in the ear.

- steampunk, snowflakes, slim. berry blue. pulled string, it's true. we'd melt, you think so too.

- swimming in a sweatshirt, having jumped to conclusions.

- honey and boat rust and breezy warm shade; unfamiliar dirt, ambling rhythm, cinnamon-wry air - me breathing, you there.

upward, this way, sure
train passed but we have all night
to get where we go

made vegan puppy chow. also roasted a batch of tea. proceeded to compost the song that could lead to universal peace, then made a paper plane out of it and flew it away. then reinvented the wheel. what's next?

february

there's this warming inside
and it pushes up breaths
and they come out in grins, or at good parts in songs.

and it seems so perpetual and easy and real, all while i sit here and write.

Doable, yes.

This is a brain-drain.


Some Leah-centric observations:

I recently suggested to a receptive someone that 'Bourbon Trail' would be a good name for a racehorse. I'm not sure whether I support horse racing, or whether that's even worth thinking about. I've never been to that particular stretch of Kentucky highway.

Where I live, blocks from Lake Michigan just north of Chicago, the summer sky is to the west is frequently worthy of gazing at around 6:30pm. I stop (myself or my bike) and watch it nearly every day for minutes. That's not long enough.

Designing covers for great books is now on my list of future work possibilities.

This week, my dad suggested I sign up with a local Mensa chapter so that I might have like-minded people with whom I might discuss any number of subjects. [Thanks, dad.]

I have a day off tomorrow, and thinking of large gobs of free time gets me inspired and intimidated. If you're like me, you're more taskable when you have more tasks. With fewer, you might end up drinking iced tea and reading a good book for hours, or just answering emails you've put off for weeks. Your list, big or small, sprawls out to fill whatever amount of time you have.

In any case, here are a few of the activities I've been wanting to do. [Until now, these have been collecting, quiet and unheeded, at my mind's nebular perimeter]:
- Buy fabric, cut and sew a skirt to rival other A-lines in comfort and kitsch.
- Write the first chapter of an intriguing surreal novel.
- Create a recipe for vegan avocado cake.
- Experiment with bean sprouting
- Find a way to sit on a very high skyscraper construction beam.
- Purchase a larger bed.
- Finish one of the three books stacked on my nightstand. [The Old Man and the Sea, The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, Kitchen Confidential]
- Investigate digital SLRs. It's time.
- Give away another round of unnecessary stuff. The age of paring continues.

Yes, a good list makes things more doable.


Happy weekend!

new You

why not bring in folks
who are strong enough to boost
good enough to try?

maybe i'll try that.

seek who you want to
and allow simple finding
by closing your eyes

***

morning, i lost you
momentarily gone, but
your come-back grin won

o, honey.

frankly, mon cherie,
your string-of-pearls trip-wires, your
smoke-ringed voice wisps foul

your words are in lipstick
your loyalty, powder. i'll
take you with gloved hands.

crossroads

you've approached a fork;
what's funny's when you don't know,
you need only move

Lucky bird

The rooster is Portugal's national symbol of good fortune. Souvenir shops are full of rooster-shaped bells, rooster-painted tiles, rooster flags, rooster plates. Rooster corkscrews.

On today's visit to Lisbon's dewy-fantastical-mountain-etched neighbor city, Sintra, I found two live roosters.

Since I was alone in a keen hillside park when I heard the clucks, my small cry of delight at this novelty was mostly swallowed by the park's boulders and wood chips. Amused and thrilled by the roosters and their sweet park, I hung out for a bit. The roosters posed. Clucked. Dug a few arbitrary piles of dirt. Mesmerizing.

When the roosters disappeared behind some trees, I continued up the path, and kept hiking a few miles up to the crest of the mountain, to catch the beautiful gardens of Palacio da Pena [photo left]. Ask me about 'em.

Flight to Dublin-New-York-Chicago tomorrow!

Lisbon expert e bom vista panoramania

Yesterday morning, I met up with my flatmate Ray's good friend, Christie, who happens to be a wondrous city host, and delightful company.

Christie ordered us two Brazilian-style coffees (half strong espresso, half milk) and we opened my map. In Lisbon about a year and a half, Christie claims to be part tourist herself. I beg to differ. As I looked on, thrilled, Christie bullet-pointed a few of her favorite spots in Lisbon, giving me an idea of what places to consider indispensable and what to avoid during my abbreviated stay here.

While I grinned, Christie led me beyond a hillside park and down an ensconced set of narrow steps to a great little lunch spot–an eclectic, informal outdoor cafe with a view over western Lisbon and the water. (It's hard to get enough of these vistas. Lisbon's colors and texture are intoxicating.)

We walked up and down Lisbon's Chiado and Barrio Alto areas and Christie pointed out that she'd never been to a place with so many publicly available city view-points. Sure enough, after we gazed out at the eastern half of the cidade, I followed Christie's advice to climb to the hill-top Castillo on the other side of central Lisbon for another perspective, and to a nearby church to add to the panorama. Thanks to this girl, yesterday I caught some of the best vistas I've seen yet in the city.

Christie's easy, fun company enriched my afternoon in Lisbon, and I look forward to hitting up more of her nifty recommendations...Thanks again, girl! (And thanks, flatmatey, for hooking us up!)

Many more photos on Facebook.

Multicolored sunglasses

San Sebastian, Espana. Woman on the middle beach. Not enough space left on Flickr this month, so I uploaded a few more photos of San Sebastian, and some early Lisbon shots, to Facebook!

San Sebastian, e Papa em Lisboa

I'm in a couchette car on a train from San Sebastian, Spain, to Portugal. It's morning; there's about an hour to go. Outside: alternating reels of deciduous trees, sienna-shingled rooftops, modern motels, fields, small orchards, palms.

This train has been lucky. Examples: my couchette car has a rare, single power outlet, plus a clean sink. I'm the only one left in the car, so I can freshen up. And though my ticket is really only for Coimbra, the ticket-man is letting me stay on until Lisbon, at the end of the line.

My nine hour 'layover' in San Sebastian yesterday was a treat. I was lucky to be there on a sunny, warm dia between two thunderstorms. Post- dropping my pack off at an Internet café, I wove through the old part of town following a local's recommendation, then hiked the perimeter of the place's three coastal beaches to find a solid reading spot. I'd hoped to jump in, too, but no one was near the water. A sunbathin' town it was. Aye, and a practiced one. (You could tell because the lot of the local folk turned their towels, knees, bared chests and all to face the sun, rather than the water.)

So I took a sunbath, although it didn't get me cleaner, only warm, and then a series of large clouds took away all the fun of it. Then I spent the rest of my least-active-European-afternoon-yet walking the coast, snapping photos, reading and thinking of haiku. Sun down, I scored a free half-hour at the Internet café from a kind older gentleman (think Neverending Story). Then bought a pincho de tortilla de patatas, for old pinchos' sake, and got on the train.

More keen luck: one of my friendly train roommates, a Portuguese woman with olive skin, a portly maternal air, a perpetual smile and a mouth full of words, gave me the name of a pastry to try in Lisbon. She also reassured me that the quiet customs officer that suddenly came by to check my passport was doing so because –Oyche, the Pope is coming to Portugal. And i' tweel be a mees!

***

I'm in my hostel in Lisbon. Papa Bento is indeed in town, and his arrival has stopped all public transportation along his route into the city, at least for today. On the walk from the train station to the hostel, the roads are blocked off. There are policia everywhere. There's even a website for the occasion. It's exciting, to have arrived at the same time as an internationally-known figure, who has his own mobile.

I'll tell people we came together.

Ash evasion; adventure afoot

Icelandic Eyjafjallajökull's stubborn volcanic ash cloud, from which my flight to Europe two weeks ago just barely escaped, is now effecting parts of Spain and Portugal.

The cloud shut the gates of Porto's little airport, canceling my flight there yesterday, and keeping me in Lyon another night.

Having delayed check-in for two hours, delayed the flight another three, and given an unclear explanation of the cancellation to a group of chaotic, disenchanted travelers, my budget airline gave each passenger a coupon for 4.50 Euros' worth of airport fare, and the option to apply to refund our tickets.

The process wore me out, but in a fatigued, head-achy state, I got me back to Lyon's main train station and called my host mum, hoping she'd take me in another night. No deal; nice as she tried to be, Michaely was out for the night and coordinating a rendezvous without a local cell phone would be tough. Then our phone call was cut off.

By email, I reassured Michaely I'd be fine and 'splurged' on a budget hotel near the train station. Chilly, bare floors. Solid bed, working shower. I collapsed without brushing my teeth.

Ah, but then I slept. Utterly refreshed this morning, I found that in my slightly-blurry, slightly-defeated state last night, I'd made a solid decision. With the help of a very knowledgeable young SNCF rail-clerk, I'd reserved seat on an overnight train to Irun, Spain for tonight. Irun is just over the southern border of France.

If I can, I'll hit up San Sebastian, supposedly a gorgeous beach town, which happens to be just nearby Irun. Planning my trip back in March, I'd attempted to work this town into the plan. Mom wrote 'be careful with those thoughts.' She says they make things happen.

Once in Irun, I'll buy another overnight-train ticket for Coimbra, Portugal, which is between Porto and Lisbon. I'd planned to spend a couple of days in Porto, but I'll be low on time by then, so I'll probably head right to Lisbon from Coimbra.

My route from Lyon to Lisbon will look something like this.

I'm grinning right now. Those stringed instruments in my chest are warming up.

Most posts are more delightful with photos, so here's one of Lyon at sunset, from the banks of the Rhone river.

Il pluet!

For the past five days or so, it has rained here in Lyon. Plus, it has been cool. Today, it was chilly enough that I borrowed a yellowish-goldish coat from my host, and wore it with a bright red pashmina scarf. I noticed a lot of glances came my way on my walks to and from French class. Maybe because looked like a chic Ronald McDonald.

Still, I can't stay inside for too long in a new city. So I've been walking and taking photos, two of my favorite things.

Have you heard that car companies shoot commercials on wet roads, because it makes the picture look fresher, makes the car look sharper?

That may not be quite the case with this set, but the rain did have some cool effects.

...Well, for Pierre's sake! Have a look. :o)

chocolate, cream, coconut, pistachio, vanilla bean, yes.

Treat yesterday: 'chocolat pistache'

Mmm.

Pont-crossing

Breakthrough. Cet apres-midi, after a walk through the river-side outdoor market and a small picnic lunch, some classmates and I crossed a footbridge. As the day was gray, but less cold, and we were jolly and on a bridge, the thing to do was take a photo together. We asked a passing duo to do the favor.

As it happened, the female half of the pair, Mercedez, was from Spain, here visiting her friend Tomas.

Upon learning that Mercedez came from Madrid, I got excited. I'd spent my first two days in Lyon inserting Castellano-Spanish words into my attempts at communication in French. [My brain: Sorry. You can't find the French word. Would you like to resort to default foreign language?] So at this juncture, I'm sure I lit up. Golly wizard! I thought. Someone I can converse with, sans hesitations and free of oohms! [Oohm is the thing I say when I want to buy time. 'Oohm.' With a bit of 'nase.' It sounds very French, I tell myself. Totally legitimate.]

To convey my delight vocally to Mercedez, I burst out - Ah cool! I lived in Madrid. I like it very much! -

But the words that I thought would spill forth like Spanish Extra Virgin Olive Oil instead tumbled out in Euro-interlingual chaos. Spanish cheese or French ham. [A strange complementary mix: okay, but not quite as good.] To Mercedez, I said the equivalent of - Oh, tres cool! Je was la during une semester. Il liked it tres bien!

Phew.

Reader, you're confused. It's cool; I was confused too. At first. But here's my point, and maybe a note of comfort for anyone who wants to learn to speak a new foreign language in their early 20s: as Mercedez and I shared a more fluid conversation, I was thrilled to realize that my default foreign language has finally been upset! I wasn't falling back on Spanish, or even English as easily; I've become accustomed to working to find the French!

This seems to mean I can't resort to Spanish anymore, and I have to be intentional about switching accents and vocabulary. It means things won't be so simple. But it also means that French is a contender.

Some of this beautiful language is sticking. It stuck to my shoe, as we left Mercedez and Tomas and crossed to the other end of the footbridge.

5eme etage: le penthouse (2)

Le salon.
I spend no time in this room, but I think it's pretty.

5eme etage: le penthouse.

Dans ma petite chambre in Lyon.
The 'crystal' chair is chic, no?

J'ai mangé de la quiche, and other French food situations

For a host of reasons, this January, I stopped eating animal products. Still for all of my discerning life, I have been a 'foodie.'

Opposing forces, indeed. Restrict, try more; fewer options, more options.

Here in Lyon, as you'd expect, the scene's a bit different from Chicago's. Vegetarianism is rarer, and most have not heard of 'veganism.' Bien sûr, Lyon's cuisine does not quite suit the tastes of one who generally avoids animal products and trope-riches foods; Lyonaise food is known to be somewhat heavy and full of creams, butter and oils, more like the cooler northern regions of France than Lyon's Mediterranean neighbors in the south.

So there it is. Voila. And what's a vegan-foodie in France to do?

Alors, an answer in a personal philosophy: it is important to experience all the joys of a place. Lyon is France's gastronomic capital – for a foodie, it's like the chocolate ganache atop the best flourless chocolate cake. [Or for a vegan, the curry atop a grand plate of chickpeas.] To try some of the food here is to experience one of the world's extraordinary pleasures.

Plus, for me it's all instinctive anyway. Live well, eh?

Some cool things I've tried during the last six days:
Quiche au saumon (photo above) - salty, creamy texture with a crispy, buttery crust
Quenelle (photo right, my host 'sister' Chloe serves herself carrotes avec moutard) - homemade gnocchi-like dumplings, stilled in a sauce of creamy tomato
Cold lentil salad with mustard sauce - Chloe wont have her lentils hot.
French pizza - very thin crust, with goat cheese, honey and bitter greens
Lasagna avec des aubergines - hot, slightly sweet, cheesy
Strawberries and kiwi in citrus sauce
Les moutes - a mussel from a friend's plate. Very oceanic.
Salade du ble with roasted peppers and sundried tomatoes - light and just a bit salty
Panna cotta de framboise - custard-like dessert with raspberries, from a friend's plate

[That's just six days...]

Ici on peut promener...

Color pigments at an art supply store...

Evian water is for everyone.

fifth floor fenêtre
dans ma petite chambre; it's
a charming rooftop view

today, etudiantes, we master le passé composé

There is cream, or cheese, or butter on almost everything.

Some events demand attention.

So here's the scene: Lyon and Munich played a Champions League Semi-final match last week (21 Avril) in Munich, and Lyon lost 0-1. Tonight, playing on their home turf, Lyon could either win and preserve face, or lose on Lyonnaise soil and watch Munich go on to the league championship final.

Being in Lyon, I partook!

Juste a pres chez Macabeo, a few blocks away from my host family, there's a big open park, la Place Bellecour. During the days, the gravel-covered center of the place is large, heartily dry for lack shade, and usually deserted.

Tonight, though, the park swarmed with people, all gathered to watch the Lyon-Munich match broadcast on a Big Screen at the park's corner. The live match itself was happening not far away, in Lyon's sold-out Stade Gerland. Big deal, for this town. Big deal for Europe!

Thus, after a satisfying touristy meal at a 'typical' local restaurant (un 'Bouchon'), a group of classmates and I joined the crowd at Bellecour to catch what we could.

Once finally reunited with more classmates a the park 'at de spot from where dey won't mouf' (not having a cell phone abroad makes folks resourceful), our group talked and joked and practiced silly tired French and–from time to time–looked up at the screen for the score.

We marveled at the huge local crowd, which was raucous but somehow also controlled. At one point, a rumbling broke out somewhere in the audience, and rippled out to the masses. It seemed a big deal for a moment (we all craned toward an unknown source to catch the gritty), but then the dust and interest fell away as quickly. One classmate voiced all of our thoughts: 'I sort of hoped it was a fight. That there'd be some drama I could tell people about later.'

Nope. But I noticed other pleasant things.

On one fringe, a moveable cafe with an extremely efficient staff was well-prepared to feed an army with something resembling Hamburger Helper in pita, and to douse the whole crowd in fruity Heineken. In front of me shifted a sea of trendy jackets and jeans, striped shirts and scarfs and colorful sneakers.

We'd been excited, revved, well-fed and ready to cheer. We did cheer. And like the French around us, we also ignored the game and enjoyed the scene. We hung out. We planted our feet on the well-tramped gravel and surveyed, and listened to accents and felt the air get cooler. We laughed.

And then, as things pass–all at once, without any regard for the score of the game, our group dispersed.

Final score: Munich 4, Lyon 0.

Most people here eat sandwiches.

27 hours. Four airports, three countries. Four take-offs, four landings. Three seat-mates. One vegetarian airline meal, three savored packets of peanuts, two generic hot teas. One lost black iPod Nano, and one new Facebook friend.

I'm finally in Lyon for a two-week immersion French course that I signed up for online four months ago, 4000 miles away, sitting on my carpet in Evanston.

My aim is to get a grasp of basic French, a goal I've decided to prioritize. After Lyon, I'm off to Porto and Lisbon, Portugal. But for now, je parle francais, et je l'aime.

My first day en classe, aujourd'hui, I sat, bright-eyed and eager, fully engaged in everything I heard. Vocabulaire, grammaire, verbes, adjectifs, mots. Mon professeur is at least 7 feet tall, and is the right jazz of patience and persistence. My classmates are from Korea, Poland, Australia, Spain, Brazil and Belgium. We're in class at least four hours per day, every day. During breaks, we attempt to learn about each other by parsing together French phrases. When I'm not in class, I'm practicing rudimentary skills with a host family. I love it.

My right brain is exercising, I can feel it. Two days here, my language lobe is graffiti'd all over, doused in vocab and accents and all kinds of color. Two weeks may not be long to cement basic French into my eclectic communication mosaic, but I will take full advantage of my circumstances. I will let my brain get colorful tattoos.

Tonight I'm in my own room, une petite chambre chez Macabeo, my host family for the next several days. I've been sipping herbal honey-tea and nibbling on some of the best dark chocolate I've had in months. The bar cost 40 Euro centimes (60 cents).

Since it's late and I could probably stop eating chocolate, I'll post more tomorrow. Think: variety.
- People. Meet my host family. Preview: the daughter has a 'tude.
- Food. French food. Later, Portuguese food.
- Photos. The best part of travel blogs.
- Gritty. A couple of travelers mentioned interest in the details of my travel [money!] for trips of their own. [Mind your Euros, I'm a frugal voyager.] But let me know, and I'll send you a near-precise estimate...

To leave you now, some pleasant idées Lyonnaises:
- It is, apparently, 'very American' to wave at perfect strangers.
- The Lyon public bike system, Velo V, is quite user-friendly and cheap, at 3 Euros per week. Pick up a bike at any station, drop it off at another station anywhere in the city within une demi-heure. I'd love to see this in Chicago!
- Stripes! French stripes! They're all over the place. I dig 'em.

why other?

sure, wait 'til you can–
and you can every moment;
why other wise?

skip to the end.

wow, I'm quick to judge
but if I know it, is it bad?
and if it's self-aimed, is it sad?

and if it comes with knowing doubting,
knowing prejudice-refrain,
if it means that being open
is a choice and must remain
a thing of action, and well meant–

if I've been of good intent,
then self-aimed shots
are good well spent...no doubt?

can't say; judging's out.

hot head

get out of the pin that I slip from my hair
and the suds that make heavy the bath

the word 'you' is so loaded
it's a ring on my tongue

that makes 'last time' come out 'lasth–'

my toothpaste tastes like your smoke-breath
tried to smell.

those best songs are like taffy
that's old

I know parts of these rooms in
a too-real way

and my hot head stays warm in the cold

hey! there's only one reason I'd
remember the day
that I forewent a party for this

and just so you get it I'll make it
real plain:
your cool words are not something I'll miss.