The Caffeine Crisis

In the 1970's, people queued for hours at gas stations all across the US just to get a few gallons of Regular to fuel their behemoth Chevys and Pontiacs and other pieces of Detroit Shit Steel.

In the 1980's, people queued for hours at shops all over the USSR just to get some lousy bread that was probably inedible anyway.

In the 1990's, people queued for hours in front of banks all over Argentina, trying to get their money out before the economy collapsed and English club kids swarmed the place for £1 hits of ecstasy.

Now, in the 2000's, France is facing a crisis: There is no coffee.

Ok, maybe not all of France. Maybe it's just in my vicinity.

I was out of coffee this morning. Few people can replicate the look of horror and sinking feeling deep within when I opened the can in which I keep my bag of Lavazza espresso. Like the bread incident the other week, I couldn't fathom what my morning would be like without coffee.

Luckily, I had the remainder of the 1.5L bottle of Pepsi from last weekend's ill-advised KFC mission, and I chugged that before making my way to the Métro station.

"I will survive," I thought. "I'll just double up on my morning coffee dosage at the office!"

For the last month, I've been dosing myself almost every hour with an unremarkable yet effective 30-cent instant espresso from the coffee/tea/cocoa vending machine in our break room. The coffee's not great by any means, but it sure beats falling asleep at my desk. And this morning I'd be counting on it that much more.

Lo and behold, the vending machine is no more.

Pony up the 80 cents for a can of soda? Nope. That machine's a goner, too.

It turns out our contract through the vending machine company ran out yesterday, and we're supposed to get all new machines on Monday. That's all fine and dandy, but it's three days from Monday, and I spent all of last night watching NCAA basketball. My eyes look as puffy and misshapen as Hillary Clinton's jowly cheeks, and dark as Dick Cheney's soul. I'm a bit sleepy, a bit irate, and not having had anything since I left the house this morning, my mouth tastes like a combo of Listerine (cool mint), toothpaste, and Pepsi.

As for all those wonderful Parisian sidewalk cafes serving up hot little demitasses of espresso day-in, day-out? Oh, they're there. But I'm in f'ing Clichy.

Espressos are 39 cents at the cantine. But they won't be open 'til noon. That's over an hour from now. Consider this my final transmission.


Update 11:34AM: Catastrophe Averted

Management has put out carafes of extra-super-strong coffee in the break room. The infusion into my bloodstream has begun.

Un-Paris

I need to apologize to my neighbors.

My kitchen windows don't have curtains, so anyone across the courtyard can see in. This morning, I did some things so offensive to French sensibilities, that I'm sure they're contacting my landlords to draw up the eviction papers.

You see, this morning, I not only fried eggs for breakfast, I not only sliced a baguette lengthwise to stick it in a toaster, but I microwaved some coffee left over from the night before.

In other words, I had the most horrifically un-French breakfast short of chicken fried steak & eggs, in full view of anyone who wanted to see the repugnant morning unfold.

Eggs might be forgivable. Toasting a baguette probably isn't that bad. But microwaving coffee? I think I even offended myself.

I then spent a leisurely morning catching up on the news, reading up on UCLA's heart-attack basketball victories for the week, and generally feeling good to not sleep half the day away.

So I decided to put on the ol' coat and trailrunners to go on a nice walk, with a destination I'd had in mind for some time. I ran down the stairs and stepped outside and... it was bitter cold and pissing rain.

Perfect!

Although this stymied my plans to hit up the outdoor markets on Boulveard Richard Lenoir on the way, it made it an even better time to go into the bowels of the 13th Arrondissement and fill my tummy with a hot bowl of pho. The real stuff. With basil and oxtail broth and... tripe! Or so I hoped.

I'd heard about the place - Pho Banh Cuon 14 - a number of times in the last week, while researching authentic Asian food in Paris. While I'm sure, with this being the mainstream choice, that there are even better Vietnamese noodle joints to be found, this one did absolutely fine. (Read my review, in English or French.)

I had so much fun slurping my meal, that I think my joy was contagious. The previously apprehensive looking French couple next to me saw the way I was diving into my noodles (real Asian style with chopsticks in one hand, spoon in the other) and attacked theirs with a bit more gusto. A pair of ladies wound up sitting next to me, obviously new friends with a major language gap, and I bridged their various broken languages to make some recommendations and decipher the menu.

For once, it felt OK - nay, excellent - to be a foreigner here. In an otherwise insular society, I felt like the hero of the day, slurping noodles like a real Asian, confidently ordering what the restaurant does best, and bringing others along for the joyride. Instead of feeling like that odd-looking ethnic fella with the weird accent who sits at a table for one, I felt like... Me.

I walked out of the restaurant with a bit of a spring in my step. Despite being in a wondrously beautiful, vibrant city, I'd been feeling the doldrums a bit. Largely from missing Alannah for sure, but also because other than beginning to make some contact with locals, I haven't really had anyone to share all these things. Sure, there's the blog, and numerous phone calls home, and obligatory quips on Facebook and other social networking sites. And of course, all my great coworkers during the week. But sometimes you see something cool on a Saturday night or Sunday morning walk, and you want to turn to someone and point it out. "Hey, check that out!" But you can't. At least, not without looking like a crazy person who's had too much absinthe in the Bastille. And believe me, there are a lot of those.

So it was nice to have this victory, albeit tiny, to feel something and share it with people, even if they're strangers.

I started my walk home, and then I realized... Crap! I didn't bring my iPod. Much of the time, I like walking without music. It allows me to take in the sights and the sounds of Paris. A city this alive has a soundtrack all its own. But it's Sunday, and I was about to make a trek through some of the deadest neighborhoods in town.

I decided to save myself the boredom and just hop on the metro at Place d'Italie, a mere five stops from Bastille.

Big mistake.

There are times that you just need your iPod. Or earplugs. Or pills that will provide you with the sensory deprivation necessary to put up with the not-so-charming aspects of Parisian life. Like the insanely irritating hum of a stationary metro train, sitting at the terminus for a solid ten minutes before taking off. Or the crazy man at one end of the car, yelling at his invisible friend through the four teeth remaining in his mouth. Or at the opposite end of the car, the wheezing of an old lady's sick terrier, obviously too unhealthy to still be up and about, miserably dying - ever so slowly - on the end of Madame Denial's leash. Or in the set of seats across from you, Madame Tracheotomy, who ironically speaks about 700 words a minute in this odd whisper/whistle, sounding disturbingly like one of many intergalactic freaks in the Star Wars cantina. Only I didn't have C-3PO to translate whatever obviously vitriolic hatred she was spewing.

There is a beauty, a music, a rhythm to traveling underground in Paris. And other times it's a cacophony of the ugliest, most hideous things in the world, personified in the people who just happen to be crammed on every side of you.

The narrow sidewalks are eternally romantic, forcing you to walk closely with your companion. At the same time they're the bane of your existence, making you want to take the slow-walker or zig-zagger in front of you and toss them into an oncoming Citroën.

Paris, being an enormous, multifaceted city, can rightfully seduce you with its charms, then turn around and pummel you with its frustrations: The constant wet and cold. The confusing intersections. The cloying tourists. The unavoidable nuggets of dog shit.

Sometimes it requires a symbolic detachment. A virtual middle finger to the things you hate in the place you love. Today, I did it via my food. An American breakfast. A Vietnamese lunch. Followed by the unheard of amongst the unheard of, sitting down with a good book to limitless refills of coffee.

Ok, this wasn't at some idyllic sidewalk café. I did this at my place. I made a big pot of coffee, curled up with my book, and leisurely drank and read and drank some more. I lavished every moment of this, this bucking of Parisian convention.

After all, having refills of coffee is almost as unthinkable as microwaving it.

Not Your Typical Airport Town

So it's just past midday on the Tuesday on which I leave. After three weeks of eating, riding trains, eating, soaking up culture, and a little more eating, I can say I'm fuller, fatter, and rich with experience.

But no, my friends, the eating tour - which I've proclaimed as being over several times - is not quite over yet. I've dumped my stuff off at the airport and taken a 10 minute train ride into town for one more taste (literally) of Japanese culture.

Narita, the little town that plays home to Tokyo's international transport hub, is famous for one other thing: Unagi. That's freshwater eel, for those of you who've studied the little tabletop placard at sushi joints the world over.



And like in much of Japan, they don't waste any part of the slimy little creature here. So I did what every good traveler does and tried every part of this freshly fileted squirmer. Bones, guts, and all... Each in a separate course.

Unfortunately, I can't find the full video to upload it, but you're probably sick of me eating weird things anyway.

Keep an eye out for a video compilation of my greatest (grossest) hits from Japan. In the meantime, I'm going to drink a latte (yes, they're widely available here), get back to the airport, and partake of some duty-free shopping before taking the long, sad trip home. See you on the other side.

Traditional Osaka

While Tokyo may have taken over as the political, cultural, and financial center of Japan, Osaka used to be the hub.

And as the center of trade and a favorite port of merchants, it's always been about the money here. Osakans greet each other not with the standard Japanese "O-genki desuka?" (Are you well?), but rather with "Mo–kari makka?" (Are you making money?).

So it was with this bit of knowledge in mind that my mom and my aunt took me downtown today to hit up Den Den Town, the Osaka version of Akihabara. A little background: Akihabara is Tokyo's deep-discount electronics quarter, the only place in Japan where it's acceptable to haggle. Oh, there's one other place in Japan where it's OK to haggle - All of Osaka.

Now I'm not a haggler at all. Despite my half Middle Eastern background, I hate it. I'm bad at it. I prefer to reward merchants who already give you a good price upfront. So we walk into Naniwa Camera, a huge retail outlet with every sort of camera-related electronic component, and then some. It's one of those gleaming retail outlets where you'd expect high prices, slick sales people, and otherwise crazy inventory. Check, check, and check. I wanted to scope the baseline price of a Nikon lens I've been coveting for some time now, and as suspected, these guys cost almost a couple hundred bucks more than the best price I found online. I made a sour face and started to walk out, annoyingly nagging at my mom for bringing me to some retail giant instead of a discount shop.

"Wait, please wait a minute," or so I thought the sales guy said with my limited Japanese. He came back with a calculator showing a newer, much more agreeable price, then reduced it further by showing how much it would be with my tax waived. For just a fistful of Yen more, I got a professional-grade travel-worthy tripod and a 72mm circular polarizer filter. All for less than the lowest possible price for the lens alone back at home. SOLD!

I handed him my US passport and he started doing the tax waiver paperwork and rang me up... I was giddy during the transaction, but I felt guilty. Shouldn't I have told him? Didn't he know? Doesn't he know that the US dollar is plummeting? That the post-WWII days of happily obliging Americans and their cash are long gone? That he really shouldn't indulge the roundeye devil who stripped his country of its military and its dignity?

Who cares? All I have to say is: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. I am now the proud owner of the highly coveted Nikon DX AF-S 18-200mm VR ED lens. It's a mouthful that's worth every damn syllable.

It was time to celebrate. Now Osakans, making all that money, also like to eat. In fact, it's said that while folks from Tokyo work hard to spend their money on ridiculous rent and overpriced fashions, the more humble people of Osaka like to spend it on one thing: food. So what better way to celebrate my frikkin' awesome camera deal than with heaps of food?

We met up with Makoto downtown. As the actual working chef in the group, he would be best to guide us to Osaka's finest dining. Oh, yes, I'm ready for this! Ooh, what feast awaited me in this town known for its gastronomic delights? We strolled through the downtown area, down various alleys and through various arcades, my stomach nearly digesting itself, my mouth salivating in anticipation. We walked past various curry joints, a few spots for deadly fugu, and god knows how many izakaya-style pubs. "Where are we going?" I asked. "Somehwere good," he replied. Considering the awesome-smelling places we passed up, I knew this would be great.

He led us into this bright orange abomination of a hole in the wall, right in the middle of the brash and gaudi Dotombori district. I looked around. There was no menu. No place settings. What the...? There was a big neon sign out front which in katakana writing said "Ramen." Before I could say, "Dude, this is for broke college kids in America," he was inserting a bunch of coins into a vending machine.

"Oh, maybe he's just grabbing cigarettes," I thought.

WRONG. He was putting in money and punching up the buttons for what we were eating. The machine printed up these coupons, let the cooks behind the counter know what's up, and by the time we grabbed some water, some of the all-you-can-eat rice, and some bottomless kimchi, our orders were at the table.

And I never should've doubted Makoto. This ramen was AWESOME. Thick, delicious broth. Perfectly chewy noodles. Delicious slices of meat. It's like the stuff you pay for at fancy ramen joints back in the Bay Area, but here, it's just a handful of coins thrown into a vending machine. And all the crazy noodle-slurping noise throughout the place makes for that much more atmosphere.

The rest of our walk through Dotomburi was strangely just like the Osaka episode of Tony Bourdain's No Reservations on the travel channel. The crab hat, the creepy animatronic clown, and, of course, takoyaki. That's octopus balls to you and me.

No, not octopus gonads - just little balls of dough fried up with a piece of octopus in the middle. And, of course, we had to hit the O.G. takoyaki stand, the place that kicked off this Osaka tradition that can now be found the world over. I've had takoyaki at a crappy little stand in San Francisco, and a great stand in London's Camden Market. It's amazing how an invention by my Osakan forebears has made it on the global scene. Oh, and they're pretty yummy to boot.

Our mini-kuidaore ended at the fancy European-style cafe in the massive Daimaru department store. A few things. Kuidaore (coo-ee-a-do-ray) is the Osakan tradition of "eating one's self to death." Basically, it's like a pub crawl, only with food. Department stores here are not like Macy's or Nordstrom, but serious showcase affairs like Harrods in London or Galeries Lafayette in Paris. So the food isn't just shopping fuel, but fancified high-end stuff. Just look at this "Capuccino con Cacao" my mom got...

Yes, that's a freakin' BEAR drawn into the foam.

Anyway, the real feasting is scheduled to start tonight. Pray for my waistline.