Always with the anglais

I went to sleep furious with myself last night.

I slipped and fell in the street yesterday. And while I was fine, my camera was not. I had it (in its protective case, thank you) in my purse, and it plummeted with me--nose down--to the cobblestones below. I immediately turned it on and off, and everything seemed fine. But when I got it home and had a real chance to survey the scene, I found the lens had crunched up, and that the whole thing is now completely smoosh-jammed.

Major stomach punch. Major.

I am officially trying to embrace this attitude: I didn't get hurt and a camera lens can be replaced! This was not something I did on purpose and it can happen to anyone, anywhere! (Because it certainly keeps happening to ME, everywhere.) But here is my actual attitude: Oh god oh god oh god, does this mean I have to "parlez-vous anglais?" my way through a French camera store??

Since Nichole left Paris a couple days ago, I am now fending for myself. And although this is the part of traveling I like--seeing myself take on a new challenge in an unfamiliar place--I'm noticing that I'm delaying a few items on my to-do list simply due to my lack of decent French skills. (Getting a SIM card for my cell phone...printing out and mailing some documents at the post office...that sort of stuff.)

I'll get those things done--I always do--but after losing the lens last night, I blew my top. Granted, jet lag is a contributor and I'm mad that I now need to shell out extra money. But, more than that, I was stupid-angry at myself for not knowing French--a language I never learned in school (I'm the Spanish sort) and one that only crept into my mouth when I started studying it six weeks ago after we decided to come to Paris.

Obviously, it's ridiculous to feel this way. Just like tripping in the street, it's not something I have complete control over at this very moment. But I do know it's something that will get better once I start making the effort.

So I am heading to a nearby cell phone shop this afternoon to parlez-vous and s'il vous-plait my way into a SIM card. Because I can't properly communicate with my friends here in Paris without it. And lord knows I need to make a call to somebody ASAP who can tell me not only where to find a good camera shop, but also teach me how to best translate the term "smoosh-jammed."

Seeing Green

Relationships in Need of Repair

In the summer of 2011, on the floor of a bathroom, I damaged a really good, really healthy, really important relationship.

Thing is, I'm someone who knows better. I am experienced, and I am careful, and I am considerate. I am gentle, when necessary. Someone even recently told me that I am very "present," and I believe that's true. But sometimes, like all of us, I do things that screw things up. Royally. Like jewel-in-the-crown, drape-it-in-fur, call-it-your-majesty, purple-like-Prince royal.

During a visit to the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, I took a pit stop after seeing an exhibit curated by John Waters. (Said pit stop and Waters' artistic taste were not related, FYI.) Like any lady, I had my bag on me. And like me, I had my camera on me. As you do, I had to hang up both items on the single hook that a ladies' bathroom tends to provide a lady, if that lady is lucky. As luck would have it, as I was exiting the stall, the bag made it back to my shoulder. The camera, however, fell fast, bottom first, to the floor (and you know a bathroom at Walker is tiled in some hard, high-quality stuff, y'all).

Glass: everywhere. Me: panicking, and also grossed out by a bathroom floor. Quickly, though, I realized that the shards were from a filter I had affixed to the front of my (favorite) lens, and not the lens itself. Relieved but still anxious, I cleaned it up and rushed out to survey the real damage.

The camera still seemed to work. The lens was intact and reacting properly--it dragged at first, but then felt okay. The loss of the filter was no biggie. I continued to take pictures throughout the trip and through the summer.

Slowly, however, I started to notice that something was off. My camera and I weren't in sync. My photos, while acceptable, weren't totally working for me. I thought it might be the lens, and, after taking it into a repair shop, I found out I was right. The lens had been bent, but could be tweaked for a fee. I forked it over and hoped for the best.

The first several months after that were, admittedly, better. I went on a few trips, and she came too. We had fun--maybe not as much as before, but we made do. I took her exploring in the neighborhood and out to restaurants. We went to more museums. We avoided bathrooms.

Soon, though, we were struggling. The focus was shifting; things weren't so clear. It wasn't working--and it's still not. We're off and fuzzy and weird. These days, I think the problem wasn't just in her eyes; the real issue lies within her body. Her aging, tired, slightly broken body.

As a result, I avoid her like the plague. We stare down each other like bitter former lovers. I'm all, "Oh, hey, what's up" and she's like, "It all ended because you stopped touching me," and I'm like, "You weren't who I thought you were." And then she says something to the effect of, "We weren't clicking," and I openly judge her because I'm a professional writer and I don't approve of plays on words like that. (And THAT'S a lie, because I clearly do and am just being defensive.)

To try to improve my situation, I gave something else a go. I got all modern and decided to commit to the perky little camera on my iPhone. It's younger and sexier. It doesn't weigh me down. I like to show it off and introduce it to my friends. My mom likes it; my dad LOVES it. It sings me songs and helps me pay my bills. It has an app for that. And it gets the job done.

Except that it doesn't. It's not the same, and I've got to quit kidding myself. I've stopped doing things that are important to me--taking thoughtful pictures, writing lengthy posts to accompany them here on my blog--because I've let my old lady go, and the now-freelance me sort of fears the cost of what it would take to get her back. But I was more myself with her around, so I'm going to fix this mess--or at least find a way to pay someone else to. I miss the real deal something fierce, and I hope you'll stick around as we get our act together. Stay tuned. And in the meantime, follow my little fling on Instagram, won't you?

xo

More Lovin' from ESPO

Artist Stephen Powers' "Love Letter to Brooklyn" isn't the only love he's spreading around in downtown BK. These two other buildings are also just as eye-popping. I dig that the sign in the top photo is actually supposed to be related to the pizza place below it (those red circles in "YOU" are, um, slices of pepperoni)--read about the debacle here.