I have been back in LA for a little over a week now, but I still don’t know where I am. This will probably be my very last blog on this website. If there is an audience desire for me to continue, I will.

I packed up my things and had a couple good bye nights with friends before my flight home. The first was a wild, drunken night, with Juliette, Pierre, Cassandra, Patrick, Yuko, and many others who’s paths ran with ours at various moments during the night. After a gay parade, a bottle of whiskey, a bar, a night club, and finally my house, I woke up the next morning with a killer hang over and a deck of cards all over my body and bed. The only remedy for that was a Greek sandwich and a lay low day.

I spent the next couple days visiting museums I had yet to see and putting my film on DVD. I should have it up on the internet soon. I will post the address. Then it came time to pack my things, fix boxes to ship off, and scrub the apartment clean.

Thursday was all cleaning. My bags were gone, resting at David's before their long flight in the belly of the jet. My walls were clear and relatively clean other the the cracked dent I had left in the dry wall next to my bed. The kitchen floor could be eaten off of, excepts, I would never... And even Jack’s room was shaping up. But it was not enough to save us from the wrath of our land lord, who’s ears steamed and eyes burned at the sight of our apartment. In my opinion, the apartment was in better shape at that moment then it had been when we had moved in. All besides the hole in the wall of course. But she saw it as a shamble, accusing us for breaking things that were already broken. She scorned at Jack and I for failing to cancel our internet three months before we didn’t know we were supposed to do. She hissed at the toaster oven, that still had burnt pieces of bread inside. She moaned at the broken washing machine button. Then she saw the hole in the wall. “Merdique,” she said.

So we didn’t get more than 300 euro of our 1000 euro deposit back. All nostalgia we felt for the apartment as we packed was instantly turned to an urge to flee from there as fast as possible. We tried to make a small home fit our big adventure. You can’t blame us.

The last two good byes were, a small family dinner at Wilson’s, and a couple rounds of beers at le Bar des Familles. Wilson’s was a sweet pot luck of frozen pizzas and tasty wine. Even as the booze began to run thin, Pierre kept the night from going dry with his constant aura of light heartedness and French/Alabama humor.
I told Slim, the bar man at les Familles that it was my very last night and I would be having a few friends there for drinks. He patted me on the back, threw me a free cold one, and said, “Fait attention a toi.” Take care of your self (out there in the big bad world). I sat at the back of the bar surrounded by a sea of women. Jack was the only other male at our tables, but he was taken, and my buddy Joe showed up later, but I think he might be gay...So there I was with maybe 10 girls bidding me adieu. Not a bad way to go. Juliette stood up and put on her coat. I hugged her good bye and as I pulled away from her, I could see her eyes were filled with tears. I was a prominent reminder of her love, Michael, and now I was going to be gone forever. I told her not to cry and kissed the top of her head. She smiled, turned, and walked out the door with out ever looking back.

Marie told me that if I didn’t cry, then what was it all worth. But that moment felt like any other night at les Familles, minus the banter of Henri, and the rants of Meghan. I walked out the door and hopped on the back of a Vespa for my only Vespa ride in Paris, around the Bastille tower or July column as it is titled in America. I still felt at home. David’s apartment was warm , and my bags were neatly stacked in the living room. As I switched off his bedroom light, I could see the cool night, I could hear the quite Parisian breeze. Even then, I was still home.
Hélèn was the last friend I saw. She took David’s keys and helped me put my bags in the cab. The ride was smooth.
At the airport, I saw that my flight on Air Tahiti Nui was going to be 50% filled with real Tahitians. They were tall, round, and dark. They were athletes, families, and musicians. We all crammed into a little shuttle bus that took us to our plane. During the tour along the run ways, a small Tahitian man played his Ukulele as almost every Tahitian in thebus sang a song somelthing like, “Reviens à moi.” Come back to me. Come back to me. I could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, like a compass needle pointing towards the sky, Come back to me. I could not keep the tears from falling. Come back to me. I texted Marie, “You win, I’m crying.”

I stood there next to this huge Tahitian man, tears splashing in silence as home became just a memory. A memory of my first crèpe at Port d’Orleans. Wine and cheese under the Eiffel Tower in fall. Coffee with Andrieux. This kids at Lycée Leonard Da Vinci. My first kiss with Olimpia after the movies. Seeing Mike lost in the halls at St. Denis. My first Tartiflet at Pierre’s with my brother. Hanging with Yuko like 20 million times. Any night with Henri. The late night stroll with Elliot under the Tour Eiffel. Divan du Monde. Drunk Wilson. 4am walks along the Seine. The top of the Arch. Climbing into a sewer hole. Two days of heavy bike riding. 5am metro. Winter gloves. Wilson parties. David’s political rants but warm and loving heart. Filming a sex a scene in French. My scare with Ashton. Sassy Fanny. And always hearing Jack say, “These olives are glorious,” or “That was a manly meal,” or “You’re pretty.” (He didn’t say that last one to me) Etc, etc, etc...



How do I cope being back? It was like I never left. Like any summer I came home to chill. I’m scared shittless this time because college is over, I’m home for good, jobless, real world, and I’m an aspiring filmmaker in a fucking tsunami of filmmakers. My entire family is just as crazy as ever, except for my brother who is simply at the tail end of puberty. My friends are always just as loud and full of laughs. My room is full of boxes from 1996. The bars are not as smoky, but lack a good Pastis if you want one. I’m the only fucking person on the streets when i go for a walk because in LA, no one goes three blocks without driving. Mexican food that blows my mind. A warm living room with a big couch.

And I’m lost and can’t see the Seine whenever I want, so I settle for the LA River because this is the end of À Paris and the beginning of Ahhhh!!!, Los Angeles.

I’m Yours.

Love, Alexander Charles Aquino-Kaljakin.

The Long Distance Runaround
Let me catch up. I'll start with the recent and end with before. A few nights ago I went to a Beastie Boys concert with my buddy Pierre. Those old boys still know how to rock a crowd. They were high energy from beginning to end. The set was like something from a ska show or an old 60's swing band. The video side screens were sometimes in black and white and made to look like it was coming of the Ed Sullavin show. But the man of the night was the triple M alliteration himself, MIx Master Mike. His fingers were so fast and so hot, he broke the cross fader. Oh hell ya!
A couple nights before that, I went to a MUSE concert with David, his friend Gerome, Gerome's brother, and some girl the brother met online, who had to be at the very most 18 years old. We had a little chuckle about her age as we waited in line at the Parc des Princes, a football stadium in south west Paris. The stadium was urbanly decorated inside with all kinds of graf peices. It was really a cool sight to see. David said France's national team used to play there but now the stadium only houses the Paris St. Germain team. The team doesn't play very well, and their hardcore fans have a history of being neo nazis and racists. It gives the normal fans and the city a bad name.
The concert was pretty good though. The set was constructed to look like some kind of airport with a run way and tall antana like lights everywhere. There were huge satalites armed with lights in the middle. They would gyrate and turn shining light into the crown and sky. Large balloons were used for acoustics except for two of which were used to float dancers in the sky over the crowed. This might of been the most beautiful part of the concert. The group played a song called "Blackout" as these two women floated over our heads in grace and rhythm. They rocked pretty hard after that and kept the crowd jumping and shouting. The worst part about a concert in France is that everyone thinks they can sing as well os the singer. Well, you're not on the bloody stage are you, so shut up. I had this guy next to me screaming the lyrcis. He knew only some of the words and none of the keys, all in a thick French accent.
June 21st. This day marked La Fete de la Musique, a wonderful event that takes place in France nationwide and other EU countries. Imagine an entire country staying up all night to rock out to multiple concerts taking place in bars, parks, and the streets. It was amaizing and something the US should serously consider. Music makes the world move. The first show we went to was outside Paris, in an area called Sceaux. A little park there housed a concert where Pierre rapped on stage with a rock band. He was ripping the mic, dancing, and having a good ol' time. After his show, Pierre, Cassandra, Juliette, and I made our way make to Paris. We ended up in Belleville where we found a cool groove afro-island concert. It was sweet. After a beer and a chat, we went out and shook our bodies like our hearts were drums and our nerves guitar strings. There were two girls on stage who were dancing like there was no bones in their bodies. I had never seen the human form physically move like that to the beat. They sent their energy to the sky and back and spread it all over us. The singer was an eclectic character who made the funniest facial expressions. He had great stage presence and knew how to work the crowd. We only wanted more and more.
After that concert ended, we found our selves on the street walking around, looking for the next sound. Like a train roaring down tracks in the other direction, a rumble of twenty drums was moving down the street. We were swept up in this crowd of people, hopping, dropping, banging, bopping, and dancing to the boom of the drum sticks. Boom, boom, batta boom, batta boom. Encore. We were no longer us, we were everyone. This rolling beast of percussion crawled the streets until it found a place to rest in front of a bar. We stayed with the drum circle for sometime, unable to calm our bodies from movement. Juliette kept screaming, "C'est Enorme!" (This is huge!)
The time had come to move on. But our journey after that was music less other than the little sounds we sang on our way. The concerts had moved towards the center of town. We were just too far out. We looked for open metro stations that were pomised to us by the RATP, the metro company. But they had lied and probably went on strike even though they had sold us tickets that were supposed to last all night. Cassandra got the urge to climb things, so she scalled a scafolding and danced at the top. This brought me back to the days of roof top climbing with Nick Keane in Pedaluma, at his old high school. So Cassandra and I both scalled the side of a Parisian bank to see who could get the highest. But after a couple meters and a ledge of anti-pegion spikes, we had gone as high as we could.
Justin, my pal from SF, and his little brother Taylor, were here visiting Europe. We met up and hung out in Paris. We saw some sights, had some beers, and ate some greek, like a regular Parisian day. It was good to have one of the boys in town. It was like having a part of my old SF crew around. It felt good showing old friends, who knew me from before, the new life I was living abroad. Not only was Justin here but also Nina from SF gave me a call, saying she was in Paris too. It was a little SF State reunion party.
I had to break up with the French girl I was seeing. Fanny, a real French girl and a friend from a class I had met last semester. We went out for a few weeks. I liked her for her cute cheeks, simple honesty, and love of cinema. I also took advantage of practicing my French. I probably never spoke better than the time I was with her. But our little fling lost connection. My mind was too occupied by the idea of coming home and see others. While I was off on my travels in Eastern Europe, I never missed her once. That was a strong signal it was over. "Talk to me Detroit. First caller, you're on the air..."
Travels! Vacation?! So where did I go!?! May 31st, Vanessa, my good friend and former roommate from SF, the second person to come and visit me in an entire year (!!!) landed safely in Paris. But I was not there to pick her up. I had over slept. So the poor girl waited for me alone. I finally made it out there, scooped up a bag of hers, and lead her on to the RER. For her first taste of Paris, a boy from the hood got on the train and started shouting lyrical words about his earth, his hood, and not to fuck with it. "C'est ma terre. Villepinte. C'est MA ville!" He ranted for about 4 stops then finally got out. I turned to Vanessa and said, "Welcome to Paris." Nothing like a ride through the banlieue.
She was jet lagged but excited to be there. A good friend, Wilson, was having a going away party for Henri, silly Henri. We ate, drank, and danced all night. I could see Vanessa was super tired but none the less, we did not get home until 5 am. That is the way we get things started here. Now I tried to take Vanessa to all the spots Paris has to offer but it was really hard. There are just too many. We did the big ones though. The Eiffel Tower at night, the top of the Arch de Triomphe. We walked across the dead at Père LaChaise, rolled the hills at Les Buttes Chaumont, and covered all the tracks of the Latin Quarter.
My buddy Mike was leaving Paris for good. So his girl, Juliette, and her sister had a dinner with us before Mike's departure. After dinner that night, Vanessa's jet lag had finally wore off. She said, "I finally feel like I'm here." That was cool.
The last time I had seen Vanessa was a year ago. I had flown up to SF to hang out and see my friends one last time before going to Paris. She had given me a hug and said goodbye as she headed off to her boyfriends house. A year later, she was stading in my litte Parisian room getting her stuff together for our bus ride to Amsterdam.
I was supposed to recive our tickets in the mail but they never came, so I had to get new ones. The bus closed its doors while Vanessa was still outside. So me and a boy names Joe, who is also from my exchange program, tried getting them open. She finally made it in. 8 hours later, with stops in Lille, Brussles, Antwerp, and Rotterdam, we found ourselves in Amsterdam. Along the way we had meet a yound ex couple named Stella and Adi. Adi and I had a long talk about religion, his strong feelings against fundamentalist Muslims, and his love of Mohammed and the Koran. At first he seemed skeptical that as an American I would feel contempt for his religion. But I said, "Well, but I'm from California, and that is a little different." He laughed. When the bus docked, Adi and Stella helped us find our way to the hostel. We planned to meet up later but we never did.
The hostel was nice, with a bar downstairs and big drum cans for lockers next to our beds. Vanessa, a new traveler in Europe, was scared that everything she owned was going to be stolen. I guess it kept me on guard and aware...but, sheesh.
The first night we went out and ate a nice veggie meal. We found a nice cafe next door called the Amnisia cafe and...um...hmm... The next day we went to the World Press photo exhibit that was set up in this old and seemingly unused church in the center of the Red Light district. The images were moving and incredibly strong. Each image was a window to the world that is happening with us in it, but in places we cannot, do not, or choose not to see. It moves with us, above us, and under us. We don't even know half of the retched stories that happen every day. We stay lost in our TV links to the fake world when there is all kinds of real terror and beauty happening.
Vanessa and I rented bikes, the best way to get around Amsterdam. It was so much fun. First, we rode out to the Heineken brewery, who gives you 3 free half pints of the best Heineken beer you could ever submit your taste buds to. The tour itself was really funny and a little cheesy, especially the film, "What it is like to be a Heineken bottle."
Afterwards, we rode to the Anne Frank huis (house). I never knew how brilliant of a little girl she was. We walked through the little but well equipped apartment her family had stayed hidden in for so long. We passed through the secret compartments behind the bookcase and up the small staircase that lead to her family's sanctum away from the Nazi's. The personal accounts and stories of from the people connected to her were so moving, heart breaking, and inspiring all at once. This was going to play a big part in my perspective of the concentration camp we saw in Germany.
Feeling solum after that, we rode along a salty water bay of Amsterdam that glittered a beautiful sun set. I felt free. That night we chilled at the hostel bar and played pool and fuzball with a couple of Croatian guys we met. A dude sitting behing me at one point started convulsing and having seisure. He had either smoked too much or done some other kind of drug. It was kinda scary and stupid at the same time. Then he hid under the table and repeated, "I'm ok, I'm ok." The hostel owners, who had seen this a million times I'm sure, said, "You smoke too much of da' marijuana? Huh?"
June 6th, 2007. It was my birthday. The morning of it was spent in Amsterdam. The middle was spent on a train. The end of it was spent in Berlin. Berlin was a place I could live. The air was so calm, the people so cool. The city, once divided in half by a wall of conspiracy was now broken into pieces, and people move freely between the two sides. What a time to be alive. What a way to spend a birthday! As soon as I stepped off the train in Berlin, I was in love. The beer was so cheap. And the city had this vibe that is almost indescribable. It was like a new car smell all over the city. Does that make sense?
At first, our hostel looked like it was in a shady part of town. The walls were tagged, the people lurked the dark streets, and metro bums sat on the train steps asking for something, or maybe nothing. Of course, Vanessa clutched her things. She had an uneasy look on her face. In reality, we were in the hipster area of Berlin. I walked the streets one night to find that there were these little bars all over with young people pouring out of them. The restaurants stayed open well past 3 am, and all the stores were over priced trend setter shops. It was like the Silver Lake of Berlin.
In honor of me, we went to eat near the Alexanderplatz (Alexander's place). Vanessa treated me to a good meal and a big beer. We did some walking and spent the rest of the night at our hostel playing cards.
Berlin Day One: Free walking tour of Berlin. I love the city even more. We pass between west and east Berlin, the dead zone between the walls, and learn about the rise of Hitler, WW2, two Berlin's, and the fall of the wall. A thunderstorm passes over the city. That night is free museum night. We go to the Pergamon and see one of the 7 wonders of the world, the Gates of Babylon.
Day Two: We tour the concentration camp Saxenhausen. This was the model concentration camp of the Holocaust. It was a work camp that all the other camps structured themselves from. But the main gunner tower of Saxenhausen never fired a bullet. Still, many people were killed there in the shooting pit or the first prototype gas chamber. Our guide tells us that this atrocity is not the fault of the Germans, nor the Nazi, but of human kind. We murder each other every day. And though we must honor the memories of those who lost their lives during this terrible event, mass genocide still takes place today. "Talk to me world. First caller, you're on the air..."
The camp was not fun, but a good thing to see. What was so odd was how beautiful the area was. There were tall green trees everywhere and the sun shinned that day like it was happy to be seen. It gave me this twisted feeling in my stomach.
Day Three: We make good friends with a couple of Aussi girls, Naomi and Jezel, and a guy I call, Skater Matt, a Canadian guy who is traveling Europe with his skate board.
Train to Prague. We go through the Black Forest and pass little towns along the river. What a breathtaking sight to see.
Prague. Day One: We get there at sun set. the sky is stained with blues and pinks and a hot orange. It is a beautiful sight to see but the sight we are looking for is our next hostel. The hostel, called Emma's, is this grand old apartment building. We have our own room and 4 bed room flat. The kid who works the front dest is so nervous because the keys don't work to lock the door. He is running back and forth, up and down the street, trying to find the right ones.
Day Two. We walk Charles Bridge and see the castle. The city is like a fairy tale. Just beautiful. We see the astrological clock (been telling time since the 1400's) and a church that is glittered with gold. Beer flows there like candy. I order a Budwiser...!!! Why? Because Budwiser is a Czech beer. The name was bough by an american company, but not the ingredients. The Czech Bud is for you, trust me.
Czech girls are beautiful...

We go to a bar that is all made out of car parts. We drive paddle boats on the river. We danced all night at some club that said, "Biggest club in all Eastern Europe." Don't know if that is true. But it was 4 stories tall, so that is pretty big I guess. We met with Naomy and Jezel for the paddle boating trip. Then Naomi and I decide we are not tired enough, so we climb this huge hill that had a fortress wall running along it. At the top, we find a huge rose garden and a fake Eiffel.
Tower.
Vanessa and I take an over night train to Budapest. Over night trains are strange because you have to wake up every 2 hours and show the passport police your papers.
Budapest Day One: It is a beautiful city and our last stop. We arrive at 9 in the morning, so our rooms aren't ready yet but they tell us we are getting super suite because they over booked our beds. The room was super sweet indeed.
We walk around, a little Pest, then a little Buda. Later that day we meet Botond. All you need to know about Botond is that he loves basket ball, especially the And1 Mix series. "We go play basket ball?" he says to me. "Sure." But first he takes us up to the top of the hill where we see the outside of a huge castle and the monument of King Rex. Or was he an Emperor. I can't remember.
Botond takes us to a buffet which is really quite tasty and truly all you can eat. I am very satisfied but I still get hungry later. We agree to meet later to play basket ball.
Back at the hostel, the hot water heater isn't turned on. So the shower is cold, very cold. I stand there naked and twiddle with this machine that should heat my damn shower. Finally, after twisting and turning knobs and sticking my fingers in places I probably shouldn't, I light that mother on fire. Boom, a burst of flames and the shower gets nice and steamy. But it only lasts for 5 min. Then the stupid heater turns off again. So I finish and leave. About 10 minutes later I hear Vanessa say, "How do I get hot water." Good luck with that.
Botond and I get on the courts while Vanessa sits, watching and writing her journal. (Her journal is much more detailed. So ask her if you have any questions.)
Botond is all street ball, and theatrics. So theatrical, he brought his camera and asks a friend to film his moves. "...Ok" I think. We play, Botond is throwing the ball in the air, catching it later, though it under his shirt, between my legs, under his ear, everywhere. It looks cool, he has got the moves, but what happened to just regular 'one on one'. Has it been so long since I've played? I don't care, I'm having a blast. I start trying moves too, grab the ball with my knees, fake pump to the basket, behind the back, to a lay up fade away over his head. But he wins.
We are grateful he is there showing us around. It has been a long trip and we are tired. So it is perfect that he knows where to go and when to go there.
Budapest Day Two: Vanessa and I sit in the bath houses all......day......long. It feels good.
Budapest Day Three: I take Vanessa to the train station and say good bye. We have had a great time together and we got to know each other a little better and a little differently. That is what happens as you grow up. The friends you had before get to know you as you shift and change. They remember the old you, and see the new you, and vice versa. So we have to take time with our friends each time we change a little so that they can get to know that change and embrace it or reject it.

So embrace me, or reject me when I get home pals, because it is just around the corner. Hey, it is possible that when you read this, I will be right behind you.

I know this has been a long entry and it is my last here in Paris. So if you made it this far, thanks for keeping up.

Ciao,
Alexander.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
As most of you should know, this is end of May. Normally, next month will be June, followed by July. July will be the month that my feet will touch American soil once again. My country, what tis of thee?
Like many of us here, I thought this adventure abroad would never end. But as I make the turn towards the last stretch of the run, I can see how close the finish line is. Many of my friends are already at that line, with only a few days left to go. For others fortunate enough, a month or two remains to travel and have some fun before going home. Or leaving home...?
I have grown quite comfortable here in my little nest, six floors above the parisian streets. My bed fits the contours of my body. My walls are covered with images I've picked up along the way. There is the familiar sound of Jack coming home or the sight of him sitting at his desk when I walk through the door. There is my silly shower with no curtain, so I have to aim the water in a certain direction as to not get it all over the floor. Our little desk lamp on the kitchen floor because that is the only source of light in there. The lonely dart board because we broke all the darts. The dusty book case with books I have never read, and probably never will. I am home, so where am I going in July?
Let me start with where I went last weekend. Spain! An hour bus ride, and two hour plane ride and I was in Madrid. I wandered the heavy and wide streets alone. My only contact there was a friend of Olimpia's she had put me in touch with. It was morning still, so the girl was in class. I wandered into a tapas bar and ordered a beer. I had been awake since 5 am, and with the warm sun outside, it felt like it was the afternoon. It was only 11 though. So everyone else, who had coffees in their hands, stared at me strange. Of course, it might not be everyday a boy with platinum blond hair and black rim glasses walks through the doors of this workman's regulars bar. (That's right, I have blond hair. You'll see pictures soon enough.) None the less, it was a pleasant surprise when my beer came with a plate of food for free! So I tipped my cup towards the wino next to me (the only other guy drinking booze), and fueled myself up.
I remembered that I knew a girl from my high school who was doing a year in Madrid, so I found her number online and called her up. Jessi. Somehow we found each other in this huge park at the center of Madrid. We walked and chatted and got caught up on life in general and has travelers of strange lands. We both shared the same feelings about the nearing end of our European lives. It is hard to cope with as these dream like days grow shorter. So we settled with a beer and another free plate of tapas and remembered the old days of PHS. Kind enough to stay with me and be late for her job, Jessi showed me to the right metro line, and off she went.
Olimpia's friend, Isa, played my tour guide for the rest of day. Taking me around what seemed like the entire city, I saw a Madrid through a cool, active, and clever girl's eyes.
The next morning I hopped on a six hour bus ride to Seville to meet Olimpia. She instantly teased me about my hair, by kindly took me by her side and showed me her lovely town. Despite our fling in Paris, Olimpia and I are just good friends now. Moreover, she is living at home. No boys on the couch, so I stayed with her friend Alvéro. The three of us spend the next couple days, roaming the sights, drinking on rooftop bars, sitting by the river, dancing all night, and sleeping till around 3 pm in the afternoon. It is true what they say, the Spanish party till breakfast and sleep until dinner. What a strange clock to live by. They seem content though and showed me a heck of a good time.
Time was short though, and I had to head back up to Madrid on the same bus to catch my 5 am monday morning flight back to Paris. But an hour before that flight boarded, I, asleep on the ground, missed the check in. Groggy, tired, and having spent 6 hours on a bus, I argued along side a French woman with the Ryan Air woman about letting us on a flight that wasn't going to leave for another hour. "It's closed!" she yelled. "But how, we still have time, people are still going through security, and we are but two passengers left. Please!" She told us to take the flight tomorrow. In a fury, the French woman decided she was going to drive with her husband and colleague rather than argue about our flight, which at this point, had boarded and left without us. Not wanting to stay in the airport, I asked if I could tag along.
12 hours across Spain and France ain't half bad when your sitting in the back of a big Mercedes. And these strangers were quite kind, paying from my lunches and fighting to get me my money back for my missed flight. By the time we got to Paris, I was beat tired, and had crossed two of the biggest European countries by road.
Direct, it was back to the grind stone. I locked myself in the editing room for a week and watched two fake adolescents make love for the first time over and over and over again. Finally, I have sand it down to something I can call a short French film. Coming to a computer screen near you sometime at the end of Summer.

Pictures will be coming soon too. My computer is in the shop, so I have been using Jack's. Loosing your computer is like loosing your arm. You feel like you can't reach out. Then you go outside and you remember you have real arms, and they work pretty well. So I am going to reach out to few more countries before coming back to stars and stripes.
As for the finish line. I'm not there yet, so I'm trying to keep my pace. We are all scared to return, like we were scared to leave. People dealt with their fear in certain ways then, and are doing so now. Some have their lovers who they cling on to like capsized sailors holding on to the wreckage of their ships. Many will have to let go soon, and other may cast sail again. There are those who are going to party till the plane leaves. Others who lock themselves in editing rooms. And those filling out second year applications.
When I was a kid, I used to ask my mom where home was. She'd say, "It's wherever you make it." Home sweet home.
And I bow to you all. Good day.

PS: Photos for everyone can be seen here:
http://sfsu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044714&l=cc8ff&id=11701635

Paris is Calling.
As some of you may know, May 6th marked the day of the presidential election here in France. Good ol' Jaques Chirac has released his throne a top the Eiffel Tower (there really is a throne up there where the presidents of France sit and run the country...) and given it to Nicolas Sarkozy. Sarkozy, being from the right wing political party of the Republic of France, is most commonly referred to as the french Bush, Napoleon, Hitler, Dracula, and Lucifer himself. It is believed that now with Sarkozy making decisions, immigrants with families in France should expect to ripped from the arms of their children and sent back to their original countries. Employees should expect to work longer hours. Small business owners should expect to be hustled out by large corporations. Unions should expect less liberty, allowing their services be required to work during their strikes. And kids living in the ghettos should start getting used to fearing the cops, because they are going to be there, with water cannon like hoses, beat this shit out of anyone who comes there way with mal intentions. I see the terror on the beautiful faces of my young students who live in these ghettos and who come from African countries and I wonder. But this leftist perspective can be compared with those who see Sarkozy as a man of promise and action. A man who plans to better France's economy and international relations. A man who will take to the streets and address France's problems head on. He wants to better the ghettos. He wants to strengthen the work force and the work side by side with the unions to meet their demands. Accepting his new rank in office, he said, "America is our friends, but they must not forget their responsibilities to the environment and their contribution to its destruction." But this was before or after George Bush called him up to giggle a bit. Hmm... This is what I know off the top of my head about Sarkozy.
How do I feel about him? Well, I'm a liberal, yet not quite a socialist. But right wing politics give me a blood wrenching chill in my groin thanks to last seven years of it in my home country of the USA. Seven years of a maggot eaten carcass of bullshit, lies, rape, and murder. Thanks Bushies.
So any ways, May 6th, the polls came in, and the lovely Ségolène Royal lost by 4%. Being that the Bastille quarter of Paris is known for its revolutionary symbolism, the socialists and anarchist tend to convene there to protest. Along with them are Paris' own boys in bleu...and plastic riot gear...and tear gas cannons.
So let me paint the picture. After having a beer at my friendly bar, owned by the bald monsieur who knows me by face, me and my pals decide to see what the Bastille is like now that some time has passed. Armed with a couple cameras (so sorry, didn't have mine, but Henry was armed with his Canon GL1, so we got some goods), we entered a mob of hundreds of people shouting chants against Sarkozy and his regime. Blocking off most main streets were riot cops, storming a rain of stones and red flares falling at their feet. I grabbed my friend Meghan's camera, told my friends to stay where they are no matter what, and ran into the action. But only seconds after I did, a small shower of tear gas bombs fell near me. Unmasked, I took as many pictures that I could see through my watery eyes. I ran back to where I had left the group, but they had fled due to the cloud of pepper spray that now fogged the streets. I searched for clear air. I found in it Meghan and her boyfriend Jean Christophe. Together, we took temporary shelter in the metro station. But even that was gassed. We resurfaced near the Opera, where most people were sitting on the high steps watching the show. The Bastille itself was now covered in anarchists rioters and red writing expressing their contempt (le mépris) for the new president. Other kids were breaking bus stop windows and tearing the metal trash cans from their concrete foundations. We met and mingled with my friend Fanny and her group of left wing peaceful protesters. Shortly after, the gas bombs started to fall closer to us and the police started to advance. To get a different perspective, we moved to the opposite side of the monument. But something felt wrong. I looked around and saw that we were the only few standing there. Turning my head, I saw the reason why: a big fucking police tank armed with water cannons came rolling up right beside us. Like hail, rioter owned rocks began to fall from the sky around us. Tear gas bombs exploded at own feet. So we ran. Don't really run with a mob of people in a riot, just keep your head up, be aware, and move to the side. But run if the shit starts blowing up in your face. I told Meghan to cover her mouth, but it was too late. One french boy said, "Ahh, take it in, its good to feel it. Then give them hell." Hell was what it looked like. The red glow of flare light gas clouds and the flickering flames of starting fires burning in the streets.
Well, we eventually met up with some other friends, Mike and Juliette, who had just arrived. They wanted to stay and get into the action, but we had had enough. And we were hungry. So we made our way down my street, which was now sprinkled with fires, mobs, and an opposing police brigade. We spent dinner talking politics but also had some good laughs, and we all made it home safely.
I went back this morning to see the aftermath. Wow, French cleanup service works fast. The glass had been swept. The Rocks had been cleared. The writing was still there though. And its meaning and intention will probably stay for a long time. Well at least the next 5 years, the term of a French president.
***Truth: The experience was exciting, but I was a little sad to see people acting so savagely. I thought it would of been more powerful if the kids had sat in front of the police and not said a word, but hummed in unison. That is my true San Franciscan heart. I love my little hood and to see it defaced that way was kinda shitty. I thought about the guy who had to clean up the next morning. But this is France, and some of its romantic history lies in the passion of its revolutions and protests. There is a sense of true freedom when a group of people say "NON!" and make themselves heard. But are they always right? Only time will tell in this instance. Oh? The sirens are crying tonight as well. Could it be that they wage another battle? Let's go see.
-A

So the title of this piece is called showers with the windows open...because I can do that now that the weather is so warm. Let me give you a run down of how things have changed over the past months.
After my trip in the South, I felt refreshed, ready for the hard month of March ahead. I had been on over lapping vacation time from work and school for about a month, so I was not super excited about jumping back into the grind. But I was ready for it. (Now I know most of you are thinking, "Vacation for a month?!?! Shit, you lazy dog. But hey, perks of working at a school.)
Day after day, I woke up with the sun, spending hours on the train to and from work or school. I worked hard and good long hours. I had 9 hours strait of classes on Mondays and 6 hours on Wednesdays. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, I worked all day. I spent time outside of school and work preparing my short French film. The script, written in French, is an awkward “first time” love story between two introverted adolescents.
Other time off time was spent with the Spaniard Olimpia, a beauty from Seville who I dated. Our relationship was a little complicated at times, and riddled with cultural differences, but always very rich with experience. She took off back to Spain around early March, leaving me a little sad hearted, but very content with all that had passed between us.
Teaching had become much more comfortable for me. I was able to walk into a classroom and feel like I had control. But there were always new challenges. I had to come up with new games, topics, and articles for each class. I was feeling like a lot of my material had grown old, boring, and ineffective. I was also discovering that I had overestimated the level of English the students could speak. They needed more than just conversation topics and games. They needed more repetitious work on their accents, vocabulary, sentence structure, grammar, spelling (me too), and more. So I tried more lab work like tactics while trying to maintain a fun atmosphere. I brought in magazines, and articles about more current and popular Anglophonic situations and personalities that they knew and liked or didn't know but found a connection with.
In one course, we discussed racism in the US. The students were constantly shooting questions about the subject so we listened and analyzed the song "Oppression" by Ben Harper. The song addresses the oppressing hand of segregation and racism and calls for action against those negative forces. The songs lyrics are beautifully sung and always poetically written. It was a pleasure for me having the students discover the true meaning of the song. It was challenging and interesting for them and fun for me too. Nothing is better than having a student come up to you after a class you have taught and say, "Thank You." It makes cleaning the blackboard feel rewarding.
School was going pretty good as well. I had a sound editing class where we worked with Pro Tools. A voice singing class that was teaching me how to control my breath and the sounds that came from my body as I spoke and sang. And there was always my directing class in which I was reporting to my teacher about the preparation of my film. I also enrolled in a French architectural history class and a French argumentation and presentation class on Wednesdays. I now knew the lay of the land like the metro station by my apartment. It was also very nice to see old friends and make new ones. It was no problem getting back into the Paris 8 university life.
March rolled rhythmically by; the constant commuting ate away the days, and the shift from cold to warm was like the flicker of a television as your change channels.
I traveled to Brussels the first weekend to see a Dave Mathews concert with my buddy Mike. We spent that weekend drinking good beer, eating true Belgium waffles, and seeing the sights of little Belgium town. We visited a structure called the Atomium, a metallic structure of an atom. Founded to the ground, the giant atom is comprised of metal tubes connected to metal spheres that contain art, food, or activities for children. It looked like this:

We visited the oldest bar in Brussels, a 125 year old bar with all the different kinds of beers you could drink and bowls of delightful spaghetti. We looked like this:

The end of March marked the arrival of Spring, and the steps between my films pre-production and production went into action. I location scouted and held casting meetings and calls for actors. To help familiarize myself with the French film making terminology, I AD’ed (Assistant Directed) a film shoot for a guy in my class. All you need to know is, “Moteur, annonce, et action…couper.” His short was about an old man who decides to revisit his old job after living in a retirement home. The first day of shooting we worked all night, from 9 to 5 in the morning the first day, and normal hours the last 2 days of the production. By the time the shoot ended, the month of April had finally begun.
April. It bloomed like the flowers that covered the parks, like the leaves that reappeared on the trees. I spent my first week of spring vacation rehearsing my actors and planning my shots. (That’s right, a month of work, and 2 more weeks of vacation. Suckers.) I locked the locations, and made sure my crew was up to par. We filmed long days on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. There was a rocky tension. I was jumping into a project I felt I’d put so much time into, but still had no idea how it is going to turn out. I was nervous. But with my unsteady hand, but steady cam, I did my best to create what is commonly referred to as cinema. We had to film a young man, who travels through Paris, to have sex with a girl he barely knows because he wants to cross the line of virginity. And he sure does cross that line, all on tape. And then he goes back home. And eats dinner. The End.
Finishing the film was a huge weight off my shoulders, and I was happy that I had completed what I had set out to do here in Paris. There was that part of me that wanted to go back and do it all over again, but now I am excited to get the roughs into editing.
This is the end of my story for now because we have reached the present.
I would like to take a little moment of honor:
1. I want to acknowledge the kids who lost their lives in Virginia. I prey their souls are in beautiful places now. I was very sad when I heard the news.
2. Kurt Vonnegut. He was silly, but smart. He was witty, but deep and melodic at the same time. My senior English teacher, Mr. Rasic, once told me that I would really connect with Vonnegut. He could tell by my writing. He was right.
Keep happiness close to you. Think about your family and friends. It is important that we focus on good things in life right now.
Always, Me.

When winter comes, birds fly south. I followed these birds this past week. Unfortunatly, I did not fly, but traveled by train to the small southern town of Aix en Provence. Aix is located in the southeast region of France, only 30 minutes from Marseille and the Mediterranean Sea. It is quite smaller than Paris and very much a college town filled with beautiful old buildings that line tiny streets no bigger than a shoulder’s with apart. The building seem so close to each other, it is as they reach across the street to touch each other’s rooftops. These small streets and golden brown buildings create twisting canyons that echo the buzz of speeding mopeds and excited college students. Eventually, these canyons flow into bigger streets lined with cafés, villas, apartment complexes, expensive restaurants, shops, pretty people, and big cars like Ashton Martins, Alfa Romeros, and BMWs. Aix is a wealthy town, thriving on the profit from Italian Mafia, tourists, and the students who live there. The weather is almost always perfect, great for tans, and the dry air makes it easier to stroll around.
Also sparkling the town with beauty, Aix is known for its many fountains. It was difficult walking down the street or tuning a corner without almost falling into one. But the constant sound of running water was refreshing to my eardrums, which had grown tired of the screeching sound of the Parisian police cars.

I stayed with my good friend Yuko, and her lovely roommates, Annaka and Rebecca. They live in a quaint little two-bedroom house just out side the center of town. Their house came equipped with a huge front yard and garden, perfect for sunny summer days of laying out and barbequing, or a warm sunny February morning breakfast. Inside, the floors were Spanish tiles, the walls were white, the kitchen was big, and the stove was always cooking. The living room was super comfortable and a front door did not exist. In its place were two big “French” glass doors, allowing the sun to come in and visit us when it felt ready to show its skin. But before the house was a sunroom filled with plans, and small table, and an armchair. These girls were living in style.

All three girls were a dynamic balance and a positive and amusing atmosphere to be around. Yuko, who is always so objective and wise, acted as my guide and councilor to my travels. She was always ready for whatever may happen. The first night I was there, Yuko and I went on a night hike through a little forest that runs along a running stream through the outskirts of Aix. Later we crossed a farmer’s field and found ourselves dead center in someone’s back yard. The only way out was through some bare grape vines. Yuko, with her small frame ninja like agility, easily pasted between the branches and the wires that connected them. I, much bigger and clumsier than she, found my self slowly moving through, getting tangled and tripping every 5 min. Typical.

The next day, Yuko and I traveled to Marseille, the famous port town that out looks on to the sea. Marseille, founded in 600BC by the Greeks, is the second largest city in France, and quite different from Paris, the capital of France. From my small observations of the 6-7 hours I spent there, Marseille is more eclectic than Paris. For example, the buildings aren’t all made of the same stone. There are different shapes and sizes, colors and styles. They are also more weather worn from the sea near by. The paint is peeling off the walls and the light blue and green trimmings are wood rotted. One could also say that Marseille is much dirtier than Paris. This is true, but in my opinion, this does not hinder the charm of the city, but adds a character to it. It truly is a seaside town. Where Paris can seem like a fantastical Disneyland for tourists, Marseille is rough and ready with warm open arms to incoming travelers, and the cold truth for those who think that Paris is all of France. Marseille is not so bourgeois.
Yuko and I took a ferry out to the island of If, only 20 minutes off the coast. I had missed the sea, the sight of the water, the smell of salt and fish, and the cries of seagulls over head. It was wonderful to be back in that atmosphere, to feel the Mediterranean wind through my hair. If is a tiny island with a small but very well made prison built on top. It is much like Alcatraz but much older and was made famous by Alexander Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, in which the main character is imprisoned on the island of If. Though the day was a little over cast, the surrounding water was visibly crystal clear. And as the sun set, it pushed the clouds aside, providing us with a spectacular sky of oranges, purples, and a rich blue.

The next day I went hiking on my own on the mountain of St. Victoire. About 30 minutes outside of Aix, St. Victoire can be found among small French country lands and foothills covered in trees. The mountain is not quite Sequoia, but more than a stroll in the park. There can be some rock climbing involved and I managed to pick some wild rosemary. My trip was short and unfortunately, I never made it to the top because the higher I climbed, the faster the sun was setting. By the time I made it back to the road, the sun had set far behind the hills. But darkness was only the beginning of my dilemma. I had missed the last bus back into town and was stranded on the side of the road. What does one do when there is no bus, metro stop, taxicab, or bar for the next 15 miles? Faire l’autostop, which in English means, hitchhike. I had to get back to town, and I was already going to be late for Yuko’s birthday dinner, so I headed down the road on foot and stuck my thumb out every time a car passed me by. But I kept being denied. And because it was nighttime, I was hard to see. I walked. I ran after cars who seemed to slow down as they passed me. I sang songs. I met some white horses who acknowledged me as I passed them. Then, frustrated and hungry, I stuck my thumb out real big for a small car coming by in my direction, the first car that I had seen in a while. He passed me. I was fed up. I thought I would never get a ride. Then I saw him stop and put his car in reverse. I ran towards him.
I opened his car door and asked him if he was going to the center of town. “Ouai, viens,” he said. So I was in and we were flying down the road like he was making up for lost time. His name was Oliver. He was young, maybe in his late 20’s, and worked for a French rap group that I know called I AM. He told me, in his harsh southern accent, that he could barely see me on the road, but when he did, he stopped. He had done a lot of hitchhiking himself. We talked about the States and his dreams of going there and meeting a hot cheerleader. We talked about his disdain for Paris and his love for the rest of the country. We visited his girlfriend who he introduced me to as if I was a friend of his. He said, “Hey, this is my hitchhiker, Alexander. Alexander, this is my girl.” And then he dropped me off exactly where I needed to be, only blocks from the girls’ house. In return, I gave him a little gift I had in my backpack. With a big smile, he said it was very nice of me would dedicate it in my honor. But the honor was all his. Without him, it would have been a long, dark, and lonely walk back to Aix. But I made it back in time for desert.

That night Yuko and I met her friends, who are all super cool folks, and went dancing. The next day, the girls and I had a big breakfast and watched some TV. I headed back to Paris later that afternoon. Some how, I had ended up with a first class ticket. What a difference that made. What a comfortable ride. As I watched the farms pass, and the rivers go by, I reflected on my trip, and the things that I had learned about France, myself, and the function of other people, other cultures, and other Americans abroad in France. France is a small country, but it has got a lot invested into itself. It is a proud country, equipped with all the geographical elements a well-rounded piece of land needs, i.e the ocean, rivers, the plains and farmlands, the mountains, and the urban areas. It is much like California in that sense. And we both have good wine. Maybe that is the trick. Good wine makes people proud.
We American students came to France in search of a cultural, social, and educational experience. Some of us came because we wanted to break free from what we see as a corrupt and confused America. To get away from our self-perceptions in America and to examine our culture from outside our country, as if we were starring at the Earth from the moon and realizing, “Is that really how small we are?” Some of us came to simply learn French, make love to Europeans, and/or party all the time. And some of us still have no clue as to why we are here, we just are, and we keep going. Some of us may never stop going. Not until we reach the moon, until we can say, “Yes, that is how small we really are. So let us cover all the ground and learn all we can about this tiny place before what is becomes what was.”

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year!!!, It's finally 2007, who knew it would come. I did. Usually after 6 comes 7. I only pray that after a 2006 of war comes a 2007 of peace. It would be more impressive to expect that.
Never the less, the changing of the year was a great one. This holiday season, I was in Paris. I have been in Paris for 5 whole months now, almost 6, and it seems like just yesterday that I left LAX. And in 6 months time, I will be back. Crazy huh. I was touched by home this Christmas by my brother Mathieu who came out to see me and spent 2 1/2 weeks with me running around France, and Paris.
We spent the first couple days sight seeing in Paris. I took him to the Notre Dame and around the Latin Quarter. He was impressed and a little culture shocked by the European way of life, style, and dress.
We spent Christmas eve on a train going from Paris to Tarbes, a little mountain town the Pyrenees. My good friend Pierre lives down there only minutes from snow covered mountains. Pierre's house was warm and friendly. The old wood and cluttered yet arranged objects and random items on his mantle piece above the fire place and in the kitchen reminded me of my house in LA. It wasn't just a house, it was a home, and became our home for the next 5 days after that.
His town was a little farm town just north of Tarbes. The roads were quite and the air was filled with the sound of cow bells. One afternoon, we saw a farmer and his son herding the cows into their pen. It was classic. The night sky was filled with stars, millions, so many, we saw parts of our galaxy. It's a nice galaxy folks, it really is.
Each day was all about waking up and eating for 4 hours strait. The day after Mike arrived (Mike is a buddy in Paris), we spent all day at the table. We ate Frois Gras, turkey, salmon, drank wine, potatoes, had cake. We just ate and ate and ate. Other days we snowboarded. I kept tripping out on the idea that I was snowboarding in another country, something I had never thought possible after countless seasons at Big Bear in California.
The only draw back was the snow was in bad condition. The reheating of the Earth, better known as Global Warming, caused and early spring for sounthern France. This made everyone a little sad. Pierre's friends all gazed up at the rocky and bare mountain top and sighed.
We also spent our time playing poker and the new Nintendo Wii. Nintendo Wii is a new video game console that requires it's players to use a motion sensitive remote control to play games like gold, tennis, bowling, base ball, pool, and more. For example, in tennis, you must be standing up and making the motions as if you were really playing tennis. You can even put effect on the ball depending on how hard you hit it and if you turn your wrist. We've come a long way since Duck Hunt.
My brother and I came back to Paris and did more sight seeing, but now with more people than before. Sad to leave the country side and my good pals, we returned to Paris and met my buddy Yuko, who I was in Spain with, and her friend Amy. Yuko and Amy stayed at David's vacant apartment. In exchange, they cooked for my and my brother. So as you can see, we ate good the entire time of his stay. My friend Meghan had a bunch of friends in town too, as well as my friend Henry, so there were big groups hanging out all the time.
We spent New Years at the Trocadero which faces the Eiffle Tower. We waited in the rain for a midnight spectacle. But when the hand struck 12, nothing, and I mean, nothing happened. Paris had canceled the fire works show due to a terrorist threat in Madrid, but even Madrid had a fire works show. Bummer.
I tried to show my brother everything after that. The Louvre, the Eiffle Tower, the Arc, Pére Lachaise, etc.... But there is too much to see. Also, we were going out at night and waking up late, like men do. We saw all we could with the day light we had.
I was very happy to have him hear and it was sad to see him go. There was part of me that wanted to get on the plane with him and see my land again. But not yet, not just yet. He means a lot to me though. He has grown up so fast and impresses me with his maturity andintelligencee. Like most 16 year old boys, he has a lot ofaggressionn to take care of. I can't say that my family doesn't sometimes cause thataggressionn to surface, but like I told him, we must find the source of what makes up angry, and deal with it from there. Don't attack it, embrace it and discover who and why and how it exists.
I love my brother and honor his friendship. I can't wait to hang with him again.
After he left, I got back to school. I made a short film for a class. Our topic had to be about eggs. So I made a Trainspotting esque film about a addict who freebases and gets high off eggs. It took me a week to film and edit. Ii worked hard on it and thatpaidd off. It felt good to get back into the creative process of film making. I felt real again, alive. I felt goooood.
Speaking of feeling good, RIP God Father of Soul, and RIP Father of my God Father. Two great men died this winter. Was one in my family. One was not, but your classy nature andconsistenttrhythmm has always inspired me.
Something special happened to me last weekend. I can't go into too many details, but it was something that had never really happened to me before. At least , not that fast, and not that strong. All I can say is that it was beautiful and like fires that start fast and burn bright, they are quicklyextinguishedd, even if they don't want to be.
Song for the moment: "Do I ever cross your mind," by Brian McKnight.
Cheeezy, I know, haha.
Well, I best get back to work, and play. They say it might snow, but we will see. I'll post new pics soon, though there are some from the tales above on my Facebook. Please enjoy. I love and miss you all. A + (A plus tard= see you later)