A Slew of Swell Changes

Four months is far too long to ignore a living entity like this poor blog. If anyone is still out there to read and accept my apology, hurray! I'm sorry for such a long absence!

Since my last post in April, I've eaten my way through several cities including Budapest, Barcelona, and Bakersfield, to name a few, plus San Francisco and the Spanish island of Ibiza to name two more. I've had one vegetarian Paris-themed article published (in UK magazine Vegetarian Living), launched a travel+wellness+beauty lifestyle magazine for vegan-leaning women (Swell! is still in its infancy stage, but you have to start somewhere!), wrote a gluten-free vegan cookbook for Callisto Media, and just had my third book, Vegetarian Paris, published by UK publishing house Vegetarian Guides.

(Would you like a free copy? Yes, you say? Then mosey over here for a chance to win one!)

Change is definitely in the air, but I'm not sure what direction life will take me (or, to be more "in charge" and "proactive" sounding, which direction I will take life). I dream of a mobile lifestyle where I chase the sun and swim daily in the sea, eat healthfully every day and stay stress-free, surrounded by humans and animals I adore. That's a dream in progress! Meaningful work is another part of the life-quest equation, and I sometimes wonder whether all the stars will align in a way that brings deep, unbridled joy--or at least high levels of satisfaction!

Well, while I sort it all out, I'll leave you with a few photos snapped over the last few months. And what about you? What are you doing/eating/reading/thinking/loving right now?

Good eatin' in Budapest at Napfenyes Etterem.

Vegans can sniff these out from kilometers away.

Vintage in Budapest.

Dreams really do come true: The raw vegan cake edition. (@ Mannatural in Budapest)

Last chance at summer! Late August in Ibiza.

See where it says "Travel"? That's my piece!

An early mock-up of my newest book. In the final version, my name isn't so front and center.

Barcelona treats.

Barcelona, looking a lot like San Francisco here (except for those silly trees in the foreground).

Will the real San Francisco please stand up?!

A little vegan oasis in ... Bakersfield!

Goodbye, summer!

Research with a Kick

The lovely Clemence, my cohort in caffeine

The deadline for my second book, Moon Metro Paris, is in just two short months. Eek! (My first book, Moon Living Abroad in France, was published in 2012.) The fun part of researching a travel guidebook falls under the overarching theme of "first-hand reporting," which means if I'm writing about how good the coffee is at a specific cafe, I darn well better have tasted a steamy cup of the stuff with my own lips.

Inside Coutume Cafe

Last week, I met up with Clemence at Coutume Cafe, one of the new drinking-and-dining additions to the "Invalides" section of the book. (For those who don't know Paris well, "Invalides" relates to the neighborhood, which is named after the giant military hospital/museum complex that dominates the quartier. Napoleon is buried therein.) We came for coffee and conversation (and research), and even though I wasn't hungry, I gave the menu a good once-over. 

The daily salad looked great on paper, and even better when I saw it served to the woman sitting next to me. Colorful and almost too-fresh for mid-winter. The Toasts aux Champignons sounded mouthwatering, too: Whole-grain toast topped with sauteed shiitake (spelled incorrectly on the menu--oops!), oyster, and button mushrooms and served with a mesclun salad. Vegan, so far as I could tell. (But I'd always ask before ordering.)

I already knew Coutume Cafe offered soymilk for hot drinks, but today, when I asked, they were all out, and the manager, Nico, explained that they're in the middle of sourcing a new brand, since the one they were using had a tendency to curdle when blended into chai, cafes au lait, and other drinks that call for a milk of some sort.

This is what a €4.20 chai latte looks like up close.

I ordered a simple, rather innocuous-sounding "cafe noir," which was described as a double espresso with a bit of hot water added to it. It was tasty. What I wasn't expecting was the intoxicating buzz that followed immediately after polishing off that diminutive cupful. So intense was my coffee high that I had to cut the visit short to go burn off some of that brain-sizzling energy. It wasn't a horrible feeling--I wasn't jittery or queasy as can sometimes happen after a potent cup--but I was a little too wired, mentally, for comfortable conversation.

I can't wait to go back for another cup!

Warning: May cause extreme brain activity!

My First Guest Blog!

I've been known to make a faux gras, er, faux pas, or two (or three, or four)

One of the most interesting in a sea of Paris-oriented blogs is Paris (im)Perfect, written by a lovely and gifted expat named Sion Dayson. She's a fellow American with literary leanings who has called Paris home for a lot longer than I have, and she always crafts insightful, funny, heartfelt prose that anyone who has lived abroad (or even lived a creative life) can relate to. It was an honor, then, to be invited to post a guest entry for the Paris (im)Perfect "Faux Pas Fridays" series. I was kind of a clear candidate, what with my endless string of missteps just ripe for writing about, but I had a word count to consider so I narrowed it down to just a few.  If you dare, have a read here! The embarrassing foibles run the gamut from inappropriate stomach gurgling to blatant religious insensitivity. A veritable faux-pas feast!

Love and Loss in the City of Light

Fanny, just about to sneeze, with Bike #2 (a steal at €40 from the Porte de Montreuil marche aux puces) in the background 

Before I fell in love with cycling, I was deeply entrenched in a torrid, head-over-heels affair with smoking.

It was a cough-all-night, borderline-emphysema kind of habit, and I loved every stinky, finger-stained minute of it. But after my 500th sore throat and one last-straw lung infection, I traded in the tobacco and rolling papers for two wheels and a bike helmet (which came in handy when I made a dramatic face-first wipeout near Montmartre a couple of years ago).

In a life loaded with questionable decision-making moments, this was definitely one of my better moves. Fifteen years in a dysfunctional relationship is far too long, and even though the breakup was protracted and sad, the heartache was worth it.

Bikes for rent in the little town of Mahabalipuram, in south India, 2011.

My real motive for taking up cycling was to avoid having to take the bus (San Francisco's public transit system is notorious for its horribleness), but it's gradually morphed into something more than a mere form of alt transport. Today, I actually enjoy riding so much that I sometimes structure vacations around it, and generally try to incorporate biking into every last travel experience. 

Besides the obvious places like Amsterdam and Copenhagen, I've rented bicycles in China, Laos, Cambodia, and India. In Vietnam, I even used my two-dollar-a-day bike as a getaway vehicle after finding--and releasing--a basket full of dogs destined for I-don't-want-to-know where.

I found this fishing basket full of dogs on a sidestreet in Mui Ne, Vietnam in 2009 while riding my bike. After about two seconds of contemplation, I lifted the lid, whispered "go!" and watched them sprint for their lives. 

A couple of years ago, I was interviewed by Bike NoPa for a "Women who bike" feature, and I've also nudged my freewheelin' hobby into the professional realm, writing for Momentum magazine, aka the world's coolest bike rag. But more than anything, I just like pedaling around town, zooming over to Marche d'Aligre, or to meet friends at a restaurant (OK--a bar), or to shuttle the dog to the forest for a good, long walk. I love the ease of it all. It's quicker (and cheaper) than the Metro, and definitely more convenient than Velib'. Which is why I'm so bummed that I've now cycled through my third bike in less than three years.

Dubbed "Moneypenny" by her  last owner, I kept the name and gave her lots of love and attention over the last year or more that we've been together. 

My first bike was stolen (not uncommon here). Not cool. The second bike, a cute little red number I bought at the Porte de Montreuil flea market for €40, snapped in half (literally) after about six months of everyday use. My third and latest bike is/was a hand-me-down Peugeot with a step-through frame and missing headlight, but she was sturdy and reliable and I really loved her. Still do, even though she's damaged goods now. It's only a guess, but it looks as if one of those Parisian side-walk cleaning contraptions backed into it, since the frame is bent beyond repair and the back tire is practically folded in half. 

Today I walked over to BicyclAide, a non-profit bike shop/atelier in the neighboring banlieue of Clichy-la-Garenne, in the hopes of finding another cheap and functional set of wheels to get me through the rest of this Living Abroad in France experience. They were closed. Until they reopen, I'll be fantasizing about my bike-to-be; I'm thinking orange, with a pair of red panniers on the side, and a obnoxiously noisy bell. I'll plaster her with stickers and park her in a safe spot, free from the hazards of thievery and municipal street cleaners.

What does your bike look like? (And does that question feel kinky to you somehow?) What are your tricks for keeping your steed safe from harm and greedy fingers?

I wouldn't mind if my next bike looked a little something like this.

Raw-Raw-Raw!

Kale-as-table-decor. Always a good idea!

I was super excited to get the invite: A plant-based raw-food brunch at a roving "pop-up" restaurant at an undisclosed Paris location. Hip and vegan! In Paris! The entry price for this Sunday underground event? €35 euro per invitee. More than I'd usually spend on brunch (or "lunch," as I like to call it), but I'd just gotten paid and considered the mild splurge an early birthday present to myself and my date--a fellow Scorpio and raw-food fan.

Amelie lets me grill her while she preps the plates.

Having committed to a Halloween party the night before, I wasn't sure how knackered I'd be after a night of spooky festivities, so I didn't commit until the 11th hour: Sunday morning, to be precise. When I emailed asking if there was still availability, I was surprised by the prompt response saying there were two seats left for the 1pm seating. OK: We'll take them!

We found Amelie's place easily; it was a mere fifteen-minute walk from our front door, up the street that sidles along the old graffiti-plastered rail-road tracks and into the 18e arrondissement. In a mid-century apartment complex, up several flights of steps, we were ushered into a bright and airy living space with pleasant green views out the windows and clean, modern decor indoors.

Amelie, who lived and studied in Canada for several years, let me grill her about her raw experience while she prepped the plates for the brunch's six paying guests. She also put up with my ooh-ing and ah-ing over her high-tech dehydrator and other pretty, utilitarian cooking accoutrements.

The dining area was divided into two spaces: A small table for two on one side of the room, and a roomier table for four on the other. Both tables had been set with plates, utensils, and an intriguing melange of edible treats.

Raw granola, fruit compote, apple-rosemary apples, and dehydrated chocolate-and-nut bars!

One of several herbal infusions offered to guests.

We were the first guests to arrive; five minutes after our entry, two others turned up. We learned they were married, and that he was a photographer, and she an artist. They knew Amelie's husband Benoit--also a photographer--which is how they discovered the event. Neither were vegan nor raw, but they said they enjoyed trying new things. How very un-French of them!

Still life with ginger.

Note the fancy dehydrator between the ladies' heads!

Next through the door was Palma, whom I'd met before at a raw chocolate-making class over the summer. She's Italian and very bubbly. I love listening to her speak French with her heavy Napolitan accent. Right behind her was the final invitee, a tall, friendly, stylishly dressed woman who drove in from the suburbs to share the dining experience.

The lovely salt we didn't get to try.

While we mingled and chatted and enjoyed each other's new-found company, Amelie proposed that perhaps we join together the two tables so we could continue the convivial conversation while we dined. We did and it was a great idea.

This raspberry-tinted elixir was made with beets, berries, apples, and other  tasty fruits and veggies.

Palma contemplates her plat principal.

Raw granola with banana, nuts, and spelt. I  could have eaten a kilo of this stuff. It was served with home-made almond milk.

We were offered a variety of water-and-herb infusions to drink--lemon and thyme, lemon and sage--followed by a vivid pinky-red elixir served in a champagne glass. It looked healthier and more refreshing than any bubbly I've ever sipped.

None of us knew whether the stuff at the table, which had a dessert-y look about it, was meant to be eaten then or at the end of the meal, but all of our hands migrated to the little glasses of granola and even tinier glasses of home-made almond milk, and the miniature cups of dehydrated apples with rosemary. We made a collective, if silent, decision to leave the compote with the chocolatel-y looking thing on top for the end.

At last, the plat principal arrived; a savory layered confection with a hint of curry flavor and a soft, flax-seed crust. I loved the fresh flavor of the root-vegetable "noodles," the turnip greens, and the soft, dehydrated squash. It needed a bit of salt, but nothing more.

The piece de resistance.

When we'd devoured every last morsel on our plates, scraped our compote cups clean, sipped the remaining  drops of juice from our glasses, and dabbed the final crumbs from the chocolate confection and licked them off our fingers, we rose from the table ensemble to bid our farewells and head back out into the streets of Paris to enjoy the remaining hours of a sunny autumn Sunday.

Faking it

It was exciting to discover this new meat analog at what's sadly becoming a favorite hangout: Carrefour. While we haven't really been eating much in the way of fake foods since arriving on French soil nearly six months ago, the novelty of faux ground beef was too enticing to pass up.

Opening the package, I wasn't expecting this Hache Vegetal to bear such a startling resemblance to the Play-Doh of my youth. The best hope I had was that it would taste marginally better than the Play-Doh of my youth.

Even 20+ years ago when I still ate animals, I wasn't really into hamburger. Coming up with a way to prepare this mystery meat took a bit of effort, but I finally decided on meatballs, which I'd plop on top of that evening's spaghetti.

OK: so they aren't the prettiest meatballs ever. And why does my French stovetop (otherwise known as le hotplate) look so devastatingly mucky? Ack!

The finished product looks somewhat more appetizing than phases one, two and three. The taste: better than expected, and definitely much better than Play-Doh. The ingredients list printed on the Hache Vegetal packaging was relatively short--soy, tomato, onion, salt--and that's what I tasted. But maybe that was the sauce. In any case, when washed down with a glass of Bordeaux, everything--even Play-Doh inspired meat analogs--tastes divine.

My Date with David

I'd been waiting for this day for, like, two months. David Sedaris, an author whose work never fails to make me laugh (or, at the very least, chuckle. Chuckle? This word suddenly seems awfully weird), was going to read from his new book at the Village Voice, an English-language bookshop over in the 6e, not too far from the Sorbonne.

"You better get there really early," my friend Jennifer cautioned. "I hear it's going to be packed."

It seemed silly to arrive too early, but I really wanted an audience with Mr. Sedaris. Actually--naively, perhaps--I planned to bravely ask if I could interview him for the guidebook I'm writing for Avalon Travel on moving to France, since he'd made that move himself. Arriving around 6:00 for the 7:00 appearance seemed like the right amount of time to guarantee me a spot at the author's table.

Scurrying out of the apartment toward the Metro, I dodged the fat snowflakes spilling down with cinematic bravado and rehearsed my "may I interview you?" script. The trip was uneventful, with just one train change and a single brief encounter with a fragrant homeless-looking man whose filthy, coal-miner's hands kept me mesmerized for several stops.

At the bookstore, I was surprised to see it wasn't too crowded; there were, perhaps, 12 people milling about downstairs. The rest were lounging and talking loudly in nasally American accents on the spiral staircase leading to the second-floor reading room. At the counter, I bought a copy of Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk from the crabby bookseller and got in line at the foot of the staircase, on the off chance space freed up on the next level.

Every 30 seconds or so, the door opened and more Sedaris fans--all of whom seemed to have the same whiny East Coast accent--piled in, bitching en masse about the potential wait to see their literary hero. Another shop clerk, aka the staircase cop, announced that he would let 20 people upstairs--but just 20. The rest of us would have to watch Mr. Sedaris via a television monitor mounted to the wall downstairs.

Then the stampede began.

Suddenly, I was no longer at the front of the line, but somehow at the back. From somewhere high on the spiral staircase, a large leather bag tumbled down two steps and overturned, dislodging a bucketful of "Advil--no really, it's just Advil," which landed on shoes and in hair before skittering across the floor in a hundred different directions.

"Dix-huit, dix-neuf, vignt," counted the staircase cop, making a chopping motion between me and the guy standing in front of me. "Sorry," he said, not sounding very. "We're at capacity now. We're not allowing any people more upstairs."

While debating whether or not to hang around, David Sedaris walked through the door, looking much shorter, older, and schlubbier than I'd imagined.

"Oh, hoai, Day-vid," some fat old lady in red glasses called out. "So nice ta see ya."

After greeting a handful of what appeared to be old friends from his New York City days, Mr. Sedaris suggested that he should sign books downstairs until his reading at 7:00. A small table was quickly erected, upon which a bottle of water and a Sharpie were placed, and the signing began. I was fourth in line.

"I'm going to ask Mr. Sedaris if we can have our picture taken together," I said to the young woman in line behind me. "Would you be willing to snap the photo if he agrees?"

Of course, came her reply. Yes!

Just then, a woman being eaten alive by a hideous fur coat many sizes too big for her shuffled over to the table and attempted to take a photo with her iPhone. That was all it took for Nice David Sedaris to morph into Scary David Sedaris.

"Um, excuse me, but I really don't like having my picture taken," he spat out bitchily, a sarcastic grimace stretching across his face. "No, really, I don't." He stared at her for a second or two, his forced smile inching a bit wider for mean-queen emphasis. The woman turned and walked away.

"Nevermind," I said to the girl behind me, shoving my own camera back into my bag.

From the conversations taking place ahead of me, I learned a few things about David Sedaris:

-- he shops at Monoprix
-- he rides the Metro
-- he no longer lives in France

Dammit!

Apparently, he and Hugh, his boyfriend, skipped off to England. Fine. I was too nervous after seeing a glimpse of Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Sedaris that I didn't really want to ask him for any interviews, anyway.

"Hi! What's your name?" he asked as I moved gingerly in his direction.

"Who did you come here with?"

"What are you doing when you leave here tonight?"

"Who should we throw forks and knives at?"

Huh?

Before I understood that this last question in some way related to what he was about to ink into the book--in which case I'd have responded "animal killers!" or "rude Americans!"--I stood there just trying to process the random juxtaposition of his words. Apparently, I took too long.

"Vagrants. We'll throw forks and knives at vagrants!"


"Um, OK! Actually, I sat across from a vagrant on the Metro tonight. Can you smell him on me?"

"No, I can't, but do you ever wonder how long it would take before any one of us got that smelly? I mean, what if they locked us all in here right now--how long would it take to build up that sort of body odor?"

"Well," I replied, trying to sound like an expert on the subject, "some of us are more productive when it comes to manufacturing bodily smells. Me, I'd give myself about a day and a half."

"A day and a half? Really?"

"No, not really."

And we carried on like that for a few seconds more before I thanked him and went on my merry way, opting not to stick around and battle the crowd forming around the monitor for a glimpse of a man I'd just had a rather intimate conversation with.

Back inside the Metro station, my heart sank as I saw Vagrant Guy--the same fellow with the long, dirt-encrusted fingernails--pacing around maniacally on the platform. I wasn't in the mood for him right now. Walking back and forth before me in a puff of cigarette smoke, it was as if he somehow knew what had been inscribed inside my new book.

"Please don't look at me. Please go away!" I shouted inside of my head, looking down at my feet and resisting the urge sneak glances at the fully exposed bottom perched above his untethered jeans.

At last, the train arrived, and I saw Vagrant Guy enter one car ahead of mine. Phew. Cocooning myself in the safety of the sweet(ish)-smelling throngs, I cracked open my new book and chuckled all the way to Porte de Clichy.

Sweet (Tooth) Denial

I've always claimed to be that rarest of human specimens: she who does not possess a sweet tooth.

"I can totally live without dessert for the rest of my life," I'd boast to anyone who'd care to listen. "Just don't try to take my salted nuts or potato chips away. That's the stuff that makes life worth living." (OK: that and the wine.)

Well, turns out that I'm full of baloney.

While it's true I've never had a thing for marshmallows, Gummi Bears or Jujyfruits, I must admit to having a thing for chocolate, and for anything that's sort of simultaneously sweet and salty, like peanut-butter cups or salted caramels--both of which are rarely-to-never vegan.

Yesterday, with an hour to kill between dog-walking assignments, I decided to wander into Carrefour, deep in the heart of the bourgeois and ever-so-boring 16e.

The place is deceptively ginormous; moving through the chocolate aisle alone took 20 minutes. As I trolled the aisles, eyes bulging at the sheer quantity of choices in every food category, I proceeded to fill my basket with all kinds of goodies: bags of salty corn-nuts from the "Middle East" aisle, hefty bunches of those delectable Muscat grapes I've become addicted to, and giant jars of yummy lupini beans I first fell in love with in Italy last summer.

Finally, toward the end of my shopping excursion, I found the "bio" aisle, dedicated to all things organic. Here, I discovered something that made my heart skip a beat: dairy-free chocolate with, of all things, caramelized quinoa inside. Sold! (And what is it with the French and quinoa? They even sell quinoa milk at Naturalia.)

When I got home, I decided to study the packaging one last time before tearing into it. Definitely no milk, butter, eggs, or meat. But what I didn't see the first time was that this chocolate I so desperately wanted to sink my teeth into does contain decidedly non-vegan honey. Dammit!

I nibbled a square anyway, the buzz of a million stunned and dying honeybees providing the background noise inside my head. It was dark and delicious, but not worth the psychic discomfort.

While I continue exploring the mysterious world of French chocolate bars, my sweet tooth can safely indulge in two predictable favorites, hazelnuttylicious Chocolinette, and cheapo brand Belle France Caramel Popcorn. (The latter of which tastes divine when mixed with salted peanuts.)

Rainbow Bright

It happened so fast.

One second I was upright on my bicycle, cruising down the bike lane on a gray Friday in Montmartre, happy and sated from a delicious meal at Chettinadu. The next, I was face down in the street, spitting blood and checking for missing teeth and broken bones, while strangers disentangled me from my bike and stuffed tissues and bottled water into my bleeding hands.

It's one of those cyclist's hazards that I have a habit of falling victim to every few years. Sometimes, it's the other guy's fault; a car cuts you off or a pedestrian steps off the curb without looking. But sometimes, it's no one's fault but your own. That was the case in this situation. A guy on a Velib bike had just passed me, but he didn't get close enough to propel me over the handlebars and mouth-first into the ground. I managed that all on my own.

There's nothing quite as excruciating as the pain of having people stare at you for all the wrong reasons. I got quite a few double-takes while out and about with flesh-colored bandages holding my face in place. And never, ever, have I had more people stop to ask me for directions, or inquire about the dog I was walking, or smile at me expecting the same in return (which I could not offer) as I have this week. Je ne comprends pas!

It's been nearly a week since my wipeout, and wounds are healing, and the bandage on my face has finally come off. Looking forward to laughing again, whistling again, and saying words that begin with "B" again.

p.s. That's not a wine stain on my lips for once! That's the bruising that comes with knocking your mouth into the pavement :0(