I’ve struggled to find the motivation to write the past couple of weeks, and when considering what to finally write for this piece, I toyed with a few fluffier topics before thinking…why not go for what’s relevant at this moment?
As November creeps up on us each year, I sure as heck begin to feel the onset of seasonal blues. Days get darker and the weather gets colder (in the northern hemisphere, at least – I struggle to accept the fact that my January birthday makes me a summer baby in Australia). That being said, it can understandably be harder to find the energy and motivation that might come more easily when the sun is shining and trees are green.
When it comes to not feeling our ‘best’, the behaviours that commonly come to mind are withdrawing from socialising or other activities, a lack of physical and mental energy, insomnia, eating or sleeping too much or too little. What’s less talked about, but still very real, is dissociation.
What is dissociation, you ask? Allow me…
There are two different types of dissociation, depersonalisation and derealisation – the former being detachment from oneself (think, feeling like an observer of yourself), and the latter being detachment from your environment (think, feeling displaced from your reality). I have never experienced the former, but am familiar with the latter.
I walk. A lot. I’ve touched on this before, but it’s embedded in my day-to-day. While life in the country or ‘burbs might mean you don’t leave your property for a few days at times, leaving the house is critical facet of city life. Every fall, the first sign that indicates the onset of my seasonal blues is usually the feeling that I’m walking around an uncanny version of my environment. My surroundings are recognisable and look exactly as they always have (well, maybe the trees are barer), yet I feel an inkling of something that’s not quite right, as if it’s a copy of my ‘normal’ world.
If it was my first time experiencing this, I might understandably be…scared sh*tless. Much like the first time people experience a panic attack or mood swing, unfamiliarity is what makes the feeling so intense. As I’ve grown to be aware of my emotions, recognising what is happening makes the whole feeling just as real, but a lot less daunting. When we are aware of our emotions, they can feel a lot more manageable. Heck – some people even self-induce dissociation as a coping mechanism. Ever watch mind-numbing TV, have an extra-large glass of wine, or throw yourself into the world of a good book, to escape your own reality? Yep, folks, that’s also dissociating. When I experience this feeling now, I stay in, bake something, read, or snuggle with my dog, and guess what? Within a few days, the feeling passes.
Though you might not have known the name for it, the onset of Covid and lockdown life roused a wave of dissociation over many of us. Even those who don’t normally struggle with their mental health may have found themselves feeling as though reality was akin to being in a movie or dream-state. The new way of the world is certainly not without a new set of psychological stresses, but it can help to know you’re not alone, and you’re not crazy.
Life is full of ‘off’ days (heck – weeks, months, the rest of the Friends theme song) for each and every one of us. We can’t be or feel at the top of our game all the time, and that’s OK. Whether it’s bout of stress, anxiety, depression, or a natural ebb in our cognitive ability, these things happen, and you’re no less of a person for it.
I feel like I’ve been everything – a homebody, a (wannabe) raver, a hippie, an emo, a Debbie Downer, Miss Positivity…the list goes on. And this sh*t started early.
When I was in 6th grade, some emo chick on my school bus asked me, ‘how can you be wearing Hot Topic yesterday and Hollister today?’ While I don’t think the comment was meant to be offensive, my enlightened response today would be something along the lines of, ‘I, uh, changed.’ At the time though, I just shrugged, not really having or knowing the answer other than yesterday I felt like wearing a Jack Skellington t-shirt with fingerless gloves, and today I was feeling this babydoll top layered over a lace cami.
Identity is a tricky one. Some of us know our crowd early on, fostering an identity that fits into an existing mould, thus giving way to a sense of community and belonging. Jocks hang out with jocks. Skater dudes hang out with skater dudes. Bitches hang out with bitches. Christians hang out with Christians. In turn, this results in confidence by knowing who you are, what you do and don’t like, with whom you would and wouldn’t socialise. Feeling assured in such factors confirms one’s sense of self. Those of us who know ourselves and our ‘mould’ are less likely to second-guess our identities. ‘Who am I?’ or ‘is this me?’ or ‘do I like this?’ are not likely to be regular reflections. In knowing and being comfortable with oneself, there’s not much reason to ask these sorts of questions.
I used to view indecision as abnormal. I was too conforming to be a punk, yet too non-conforming – and nauseated at the thought of being – a prep. My music tastes included modern indie and R&B stuff, 90s emo, classic rock (‘classic’ at the time being 60s & 70s), and 80s dance music. Some days I dressed on trend, other days I was bohemian or tomboyish. I might do a full face of makeup, or I might not even run a brush through my hair. Not vibing with most people in my school, I thought inconsistency was to blame – I didn’t fit anywhere. I had eclectic tastes, and therefore I wasn’t deserving to fit anywhere. Who would want to hang out with someone who makes, like, no sense?
Guess what, homies? Plenty of people! And by plenty I really mean only a handful, but let me tell you, that handful is comprised of a few gems. It really is quality over quantity.
When I think of inconsistency regarding my adolescent identity, what I can now identify is a fear of confinement. I was afraid to ascribe any labels to myself, because labels can be, well, limiting. I’d rather be my weird self in pursuit of several odd interests than sticking with a uniform way of socialisation, identity, and interests. I’m Stephanie! Sardonically upbeat, conformer with a rebellious streak, stupidly predictable and yet full of surprises. Nowadays, I’m cool with that.
As it turns out, that whole ‘knowing and being comfortable with oneself’ thing I mentioned earlier is totally achievable for those with eclectic tastes. Not always knowing what you like, and using that as the rationale for continuous exploration, can be just as comfortable as predictably knowing what you like. There is beauty in being open to new experiences and having varied tastes that don’t necessarily make ‘sense.’ And who knows – the hipster chick might blast pop music in her car, and the nerd might love reality TV. We are all capable of variety.
For the first twenty-something years of my life, I was never big into exercise. I’d played lacrosse briefly, danced for several years, followed yoga videos on YouTube every now and again, and went for the occasional morning run (usually out of guilt for eating ‘too many’ carbs the night before). Exercise was never something that was sold to me an activity that was possible to be enjoyable. Instead, I viewed it as punishment.
Welp, a couple of years ago I started exercising regularly to get in shape for my wedding, and that’s when my outlook shifted. I gradually became less intimidated by the gym, eventually branching out and trying different workouts and classes. What amazed me is how varied workout experiences can be in terms of their mental and emotional effects; a run, yoga class, and weightlifting session will each yield different effects on your mind.
Disclaimer that this is purely based on my personal experiences. Different exercises do different things for different people…if it wasn’t that way, then we’d all be doing the same thing or wouldn’t switch things up for variety.
Expect to potentially have some sh*t come up – you do a lot of work that involves opening up the hips which is where we store our delightful friend, trauma. The first couple times I went, I cried as I walked home after class – not because I was in physical pain per se, but because I was releasing tension from an area which I’d probably been protectively storing trauma for…years. After a Pilates class, I feel more reflective and proud than I do ‘refreshed’ or buzzing with endorphins, but that doesn’t make it less beneficial.
Ah, cardio. I’ve both laughed and teared up while running. It is variably exhilarating. Sometimes I feel like I’m raving, other times I feel like I am literally running away from my problems. You’ll often people say some shit along the lines of ‘I’m going on a run to clear my mind.’ Much like meditation, going for a run doesn’t actually wipe the slate clean. The ‘clearing of the mind’ that people are referring to is more like meditation – your thoughts come up, you recognise them, and as you push through your run/jog/bike ride, you push through those thoughts. Capeesh?
Not that all exercise doesn’t require balance or focus, but there is a particular focus on those elements with yoga. Perhaps it’s because an instructor is speaking to you throughout the practice, rather than listening to music in other workouts. It demands mindfulness, balance, and focused breathwork throughout the entire class, in a way that differs to rep-based workouts. It can be strenuous, but in, like, a zen way. For example, with weight-lifting, movements are generally a simple press-and-release. Movements in yoga are continuous and compounded sequences (the word ‘flow’ sound familiar?), thus requiring a more focused attention. It’s kind of like talking to your body.
Kind of like a cross between the effects of cardio and weights. The moves tend to be more bodyweight or lighter-weight focused, though still demand our friends focus and breathwork. HIIT’s all well and good – definitely on trend and an ‘effective’ workout, but it’s personally not my favorite. To me, it feels rushed and thus lacking in the mindfulness department. After 15 minutes of HIIT, I can’t wait for the workout to be over and my mind starts going other places.
Identify the toughest times of your life. Now, imagine being able to beat the sh*t out of them. I got into weights because once I finally obtained abs (which, by the way, weren’t as life-changing as I thought they’d be), my motivations around exercise changed. I didn’t want to do it for the aesthetics anymore. Instead, I wanted to be strong. Weights require focus, form, and breathing. The feeling of pushing your body to its limits in those last few killer reps is f*cking tough, but simultaneously a means of freeing yourself of any aggression, anger, hurt, stress, whatever it may be that ails ya. With every workout, you come out stronger – physically and emotionally.
Lo and behold, exercise can be pretty freakin’ life-changing. While my motivations for getting into it were initially to, y’know, look good, the reason I stick with exercise now is for the mental and emotional benefits. I’d always thought my anxiety and depression were here to stay, but as it turns out, activity dramatically lessens them.
Bear in mind that if you find an exercise you really truly enjoy, you probably won’t mind spending 45 min or an hour doing a workout. It doesn’t always have to be an ‘ugh, let’s just get this done and over with’ situation. It doesn’t have to be punishment. It doesn’t have to be obligatory. Find what works for you, dedicate the time, and ‘wow’ yourself with what you’re capable of – that’s self-care.
Three years ago this weekend, I moved to London. While there were several cultural changes I had to attentively adapt to, one that’s happened perhaps subconsciously over the years is the adaptation of British English into my language. I haven’t adopted an accent, but there are several tidbits that have snuck their way into my vernacular…
Ah, life; it is full of haves and have nots…especially when speaking British English. In the US, I might ask, ‘Did you make dinner?,’ but now, I’ll ask, ‘Have you made dinner?’
Similarly, there’s ‘have got.’ Before my husband and I leave the house, I might ask, ‘Have you got a mask?,’ whereas in the US I’d probably ask, ‘Do you have a mask?’
If I speak with friends and fam from the US like this, I’d probably sound like a pompous ass…but somehow, it flows naturally here.
Nope, it doesn’t mean angry! If someone asks if you’re ‘pissed’ or ‘on the piss,’ they’re wondering if you’ve had one too many pints. Think of it this way: if you’re ‘pissed,’ you might piss yourself. But let’s hope you don’t.
3. Taking the piss
What? More piss? This one’s tricky to ‘translate,’ but there’s a couple interpretations. One, to push one’s buttons/joke around – if I’m making fun of someone, they might say ‘are you taking the piss (out of me).’ Two, to slack off/take advantage of – if someone’s always calling in to work sick because their half-sister’s cousin is having their wisdom teeth removed again, you might say ‘they’re taking the piss.’
Not just for toasting! I admit I do everything in my power to avoid saying this one if I can. It just doesn’t sound or feel natural coming out of my mouth. Meaning ‘thanks,’ I’ll say it if I’ve already exhausted several other ways of saying ‘thank you.’ For example, if someone else is just a step ahead of me as I walk into a building, I’ll say, ‘thank you’ for the first door, ‘thanks’ for the second door, ‘cheers’ for the third door, and pray there’s not a fourth door. This is, of course, based on the assumption that someone a step ahead of me would hold open the door. If not, I have a slightly different approach where I’ll scoff and say ‘f*ck you’ with my face. I’m good with expressions.
Ah, this one comes in handy. Similar to ‘I don’t give a f*ck’ but for some reason, using the word ‘can’t’ makes the f-bomb sound…less offensive? Just as ‘IDGAF’ is a thing, you can be hip and abbreviate it to ‘CBF.’ Alternates include CBA (‘can’t be assed’), or, if expletives aren’t your thing, and ‘can’t be bothered.’ Wholesome, but still gets the point across.
Fancy, high(er)-end, sophisticated. In the US, I think we say ‘nice’ in most cases – having a meal at a nice restaurant, owning a nice pair of shoes. Though, ‘nice’ probably isn’t the best translation as a descriptor of people, cos it seems as though many ‘posh’ people are…not nice? Idk. Think Posh Spice, the poor soul who seems never to smile…not exactly an embodiment of ‘nice.’
OK, so I only say this one here and there. When I first started dating my husband, I told him “I need to get a proper winter coat. Wait – did I just say ‘proper’?” He laughed and told me you’re fully integrated once you start saying stuff like ‘that was a proper night out.’ Welp, I’ve said that now. When my family came to visit us, I gave my mom a bag of Proper Corn and she started pissing herself laughing at the name of it, which then made me realise how foreign this word was before I moved here. Thanks, mom.
Hi, have I mentioned I’m an English grad? Newsflash – we write a lot of papers, so I immediately had to adjust my spelling of oh-so-many types of words. From the ‘o’ to ‘ou’ (think ‘colour’ or ‘behaviour’), changing my zees – pardon, zeds – to esses (‘recognise,’ ‘realisation’). There was an adjustment period here for sure, but now it’s become normalised in my writing. Bonus, it’s given way to a few humorous equivalents. My personal favourite? The UK spelling of ‘skeptic’ being ‘sceptic,’ which reminds me of sh*t tanks.
Bonus round! Words that haven’t come out of my mouth ‘cos they feel like speaking an alien language:
One year ago, I was up at the ass crack of dawn to catch a plane from Stansted with my husband. Four hours later, we were on a graffitied metro from Athens’ city outskirts, eating packets of olives and sesame-covered nuts, on our way to Monastiraki. Our reason for coming? Practically, to connect with our families flying in from the US and Australia to catch a local plane to the island we’d be getting married on days later, and willingly, because who wouldn’t want to visit the home of democracy right before saying ‘I do’?
A true millennial, I pride myself on my Airbnb-hunting skills, and I was looking forward to this one. As we made our way down the main street, past buildings in shambles amongst lively markets and cafes, I became uneasy. We’d been travelling for a while (a downside of living and travelling in Europe – anything over 5 hours suddenly feels like a lifetime) and I wanted nothing more than to settle in our accommodation, and what I hoped would be a ‘good’ area. We arrived to a café covered in ivy and coloured streamers near the end of the Monastiraki market, where we were meant to meet our host. Twenty minutes past with no word from him. Starting to panic, I asked my husband to speak broken Greek to the café host to see if she’d seen anyone. Nope. Forty minutes past, and then one hour with no contact. My husband started looking for local hotels on his phone as I spoke to Airbnb customer service, coming to the conclusion that I f*cked up this time. We were scammed.
Enter: young guy wearing a mis-buttoned Hawaiian shirt and rocking some serious bedhead. He pointed to our suitcases. ‘You are coming for apartment?’ It was near 3pm and he looked somewhere between stoned and freshly awoken from a nap. As I tried to make sense of the last hour and a bit, I came to the realisation that…we were now on Greek time – aka, what is time? I quickly said ‘never mind!’ to the customer support rep on the line and hung up. To my pleasant surprise, the apartment boasted an incredible view that overlooked the symphonic market and tavernas below, ruined and refurbished buildings in front of us, and a view of the Acropolis in the distance (though, most things do).
Finally settling in, we embarked on an afternoon exploration of the local area, which turned out to be the most unintentionally trippy place I’ve ever been in my entire life. Lemme clarify – I lived in Washington state. I’ve been to music festivals. I’ve had a hippie phase. While I associate a psychedelic culture with those things, from clothing and art, to community and music, there is more often than not an intent behind that culture, to be, well, trippy. Athens, on the other hand, wasn’t even trying.
Wandering through the streets, we came across skate shops, art shops, and vintage stores, the only consistent theme linking all of them being unparalleled individuality. Our interactions with the shopkeepers were amongst our first with the locals in Athens, and they were truly gracious; the girl in the kilo shop telling me where else I could find vintage clothes like the items I was buying, the man in the wine shop considering our tastes and recommending a bottle cheaper than the one we had picked out – these interactions set the tone for the kind-heartedness and hospitality we’d receive throughout our whole trip.
Just as prominent as these eclectic shops were the ruins – those of capitalism prior to the Greek Debt Crisis (boarded up banks, abandoned chain retail shops, and graffitied streets), and older still, the ruins of, uh, early civilisation. As a result, what can be best described as an atmosphere of contrast, beauty, and defiance of time. Perhaps (OK, definitely) less formal than shops were street stalls selling collections of what I can only describe as aesthetically pleasing sh*t from peoples’ garages. Laid out in wagons and the street itself, the vendors appeared to never make a sale, but at least enjoyed sharing a cigarette (or 10) in each others’ company.
I like to take things slow when I travel, gallivanting around and discovering what may come, as opposed to meticulously planning and loading my days up with walking tours, itemised sightseeing, restaurant reservations, and so on. As high-strung as I may be, travelling is one thing where I like to go with the flow. Luckily, I married someone on the same wavelength (though our preferences for when to get to the airport are a whole ‘nother story…)
So, after a restful sleep, we muster the energy to visit the Acropolis. As much as we typically avoid ‘touristy’ things, you can’t like, go to Athens and not visit the Acropolis.
Leaving our apartment, we weave through the streets on the outskirts of Monastiraki, lined with more vendors on either side selling jewellery, tchotchkes, and Greek souvenirs, their items laid out against colourful facades of the buildings. Nearer to the ascent to the Acropolis, the buildings in question change from the unassuming to the slightly pretentious; fine-dining restaurants for tourists make a point to advertise their view of the Acropolis. Bro, I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but the thing is on a f*cking mountain overlooking the city. Every restaurant has a view of the Acropolis.
As we travel onwards and upwards, the concentration of commercial buildings thins out, as they are overtaken by residences and the occasional taverna. The journey itself is just as glorious as the end destination. The roads leading to the Acropolis give the sensation of one being amidst a movie set for Greece; the scenery is so perfect that it’s hard to believe it’s real.
Finally, we arrive. The Acropolis is packed with humans (as anticipated), and windy (not so much). I’m not talking about a gentle breeze, no – more like gusts of wind that hurl pebbles and sand in your eyelashes. My husband and I sit down to take cover and enjoy a moment together. It’s unclear whether sitting amongst this icon of ancient civilisation brought out our inner philosophers, or if we were just being our cynical selves (probably a bit of both), but as we observed those around us – looking at the architectural legend through the lens of a phone or wearing a goddess-like dress and posing for Instagram – it was hard to have faith in humanity. It was a beautiful moment that concluded with us agreeing that we are past peak civilisation, and leaving. That, my friends, is love.
Back in our apartment, we stare out the window. Not particularly fixated on one particular thing, we watch as the buildings turn from daylight’s beige to evening’s purple haze. It’s a sight that demands you rest to truly enjoy it, and so we do. In our lounge chairs, we gaze out the window as if sat at the cinema, absorbed in a live screening of Athens’ city life. From the market packing up below, to the rooftop bars kicking off their joie de vivre, to the Acropolis lighting up in the distance, we drink it – and some red wine – in. For hours we sit here, watching, listening, smelling, chatting, laughing, dancing. As someone who spends a lot of time in their own head, worrying about stupid sh*t, this evening spent looking out over Athens is one of the most mindful moments I’ve experienced. For that, I am one grateful chick.
Last weekend, I found myself stood in the Polish section of the supermarket, scanning the pierogi, kefir, pickles, until…SCORE! My eyes settled on naleśniki (or as I called them, ‘blintzes’) which I quickly snatched up to take home.
As I made them (OK, heated them up) back home, it got me thinking about all the foods I grew up eating as a Polish/Italian/German-American, and so…here are my reflections on the biggest standouts, from worst to best:
9. Corned beef and cabbage
My grandma would make this on St. Patrick’s Day every year. We’d begrudgingly go over (begrudgingly because we don’t like this dinner, not grandma – we love grandma) and greet her wearing a green sweater, ask her ‘are we really even Irish?’ to which she would reply, ‘yes, my great-grandmother was named Maggie McEwan,’ to which we would reply, ‘can we please eat something else?’
(btw, Grandma, if you’re reading: I’ve done some research and McEwan/McCuen/MacEwan is actually a Scottish surname) *sips tea*
8. Pork and sauerkraut with spaetzle
It pains me to look at that photo. This is a German one, and probably the most ‘authentic’ dish I have from my mom’s side of the family. My ancestors on that side emigrated from…somewhere at some point, but settled in New York-New Jersey so long ago that when people ask where my mom’s side of the family’s from, I say…New York-New Jersey. Let’s be real, NY-NJ is an enclave in its own right. I identify more with things like wearing animal print, cursing, and eating everything bagels more than I do with…whatever it is that German people do. But I digress…
This ranks low because I don’t eat pork (an aversion which may or may not be associated with the 1995 classic Babe). Even if I did eat it, this dish is able to get away with being so painfully bland because it’s slow-cooked with the punch of sauerkraut. It would probably go well with beer, but I couldn’t exactly have that accompaniment as a kid. That, and I was too preoccupied with running to the toilet in the hours following. Thanks, ‘kraut.
Short for ‘souppressata’ (which I learned…today), this is a Calabrese sausage. I have actually probably only eaten it once or twice, as I’m not a fan of sausage (pause for your immature laughter). Every once in a while my dad would make this with my uncle, Nanutz, and some other random guido cousins…you could say it was a sausage fest. Really not a fan of this one, but ranking it above the last two ‘cos it’s not terrible.
Worlds collide – both of my grandmothers and my dad made this. I didn’t know the name of this one, and always knew it simply as ‘cucumbers and sour cream,’ cos that’s all it is, folks. From googling I can see it’s Polish, so it’s quite possible that my non-Polish grandma saw it in an issue of Good Housekeeping 50 years ago alongside a recipe for ambrosia salad and adopted it into her culinary repertoire. It was one those things that was always in the fridge ‘cos someone made a batch. In no way offensive but also not out-of-this-world.
I love cookies, so in theory, this one should rank much higher. However, I spent many a Christmas as a young’un eating, like, 5 of these bad boys in one sitting, so a mid-level rating as a result of the tummy-aches.
4. Sausage & peppers
Kind of cheating by putting this one on the upper half of this list as I’d only eat the peppers, onions, and potatoes, picking around the sausage, but still….
Warming and mildly spicy, can be eaten on its own or as a sandwich-ey sort of thing if you chuck some in a roll. Think of it as Italian curry of sorts.
One of those things that was kind of just magically on the kitchen counter when you woke up one morning. Did it come from a local pizza-sub shop? Was it leftovers from a party or something? Did dad get it from one of his siblings? We may never know, but regardless, it’s basically rolled up pizza that you can eat hot or cold, anytime of day. Think of it as a Hot Pocket that would be a crime to compare to a Hot Pocket.
Is it breakfast? A snack? Dessert? It’s whatever you want, peeps. My dad used to make the frozen boxed ones, which is why I use the Jewish word ‘blintz‘ instead of its Polish equivalent, ‘naleśniki‘…but they share the same bones. It’s just a crepe stuffed with cottage cheese, topped with whatever you want – SO GOOD.
I used to think my Nana’s apartment smelled like old people, but it was probably just the smell of these ingredients. Meat? Pureed tomato sauce? Cabbage? Gołąbki defies the odds – it ticks the boxes for everything I don’t like, and yet still manages to rank number one. It’s an ugly-looking peasant food, but sometimes that stuff is the best. Its simple ingredients somehow harmonize to compose the most melt-in-your-mouth comfort food I can imagine.
And there you have it, folks! Honestly, these dishes are more of comfort foods and memory-joggers as opposed to my favourite world cuisines, which are Mediterranean and Japanese…but that’s OK – I married a Greek 🙂
Up until 2017, I still living in Connecticut. Up until 2017, if you had asked me to go on a walk I’d think: a) Is ‘walk,’ like, code for something? Or, b) Where? Surely not, like, here? In the neighbourhood?
It’s no secret that unless you live in a city or own a dog, going on a walk isn’t a trademark practice of contemporary American life. If you’re from a rural area like I am, nothing is within ‘walking distance,’ which oft makes it seem pointless. Door to door journeys are completed by car, there’s a lack of infrastructure (i.e. sidewalks), and heck – people (I having been one of them) even drive to the gym or a park just to walk, rather than going on a stroll outside their front door. Written out, it might seem bizarre, but in actuality, it’s all too common.
When I moved to London, I was walking my ass off without even intending to do so. The experience of living in a proper city (yep, I say ‘proper’ now) for the first time in my life – and a walkable one at that – had me out and about on a daily basis. Albeit I didn’t have a car (and lawd knows if I did, your girl wasn’t gonna try driving on the other side of the road), I fell in love with walking. It instantly became my preferred mode of transport, compared to taking the bus or tube. Need to go to the supermarket? Post office? Doctor? The most efficient way to get there is in stride. Everything being new and different, walking wasn’t a chore. It was instead an action fuelled by sensory engagement, making activities as mundane as running errands an adventure. Taking everything in – sights, scents, sounds…maybe not so much taste (but hey, whatever floats your boat) – is something many of us have experienced before, likely when travelling or exploring a new place. So, why does it stop there?
After a year of living in London, my daily walks became jaded. One foot in front of the other, quickly paced, head down, preoccupied with the day ahead of or behind me. Walking became a point A to point B activity, overwhelmed by a preoccupation with thoughts and simultaneous need for distraction. I’m not saying I became one of those people who needs get on the phone to forget they’re walking, but…I was close. The repetitive act of one foot in front of the other regressed from ‘going on a walk’ to ‘walking’ – a change in wording which denotes leisure in the former and mundanity in the latter.
If there is a good thing that came out of Covid, it’s been the rediscovery of ‘going for a walk.’ When we became confined to our homes back in March, the eventual announcement allowing outside exercise found me tying my shoelaces at 8 sharp every evening, checking with my husband as though things had changed from one day to the next, ‘shall we go now?’
The slowing of the city was echoed in the slowing of our pace. Traipsing through the same streets I’d grown to walk along with my head down and mind distant, I was mindful once more. I noticed the architecture, as it transitions from blocks of Edwardian to Victorian terraced houses, every so often disrupted by an imposing cathedral or the clean lines of an art deco apartment block.
I made a conscious effort to appreciate the greenery where we live, breathing the fresh air until my lungs were full. In doing so, I simultaneously breathed in the scent of curry cooking in another’s kitchen, roses in a front garden, and the pungency of other…herbs…as they waft into the street. My husband and I flow into our conversational rhythm, sometimes cacophonous and other times, the most comfortable silence. As we reach the top of our village, looking out at London’s unpolluted skyline, we pause for a few moments. My surroundings are as still as my mind.
For those of us with able bodies, walks are one of life’s simplest joys we have at our disposal, anyplace, anytime – and it seems a shame to neglect having access to such a thing. You don’t need a reason to go on one, nor do you need to travel to a park ‘appropriate’ for one. When we visit the US, I often walk around my old neighbourhood, albeit a bit nostalgically, and wonder, ‘why wasn’t I doing this before?’
Walking can alleviate a mind frenzied by anger, anxiety, sadness, overwhelm. It can change your perspective on days when you’re feeling demotivated, uninspired, or, for lack of better terms, like sh*t. It can give you the clarity you might have been yearning for by enabling mindfulness. There’s no right or wrong way to do it, so long as you keep your senses engaged, phone in your damned pocket, and chin up.
These days, I’m finding my sense of style as an adult. I’ve got both the weird and the sophisticated, remnants of my hippie phase, and stuff that looks flattering on my figure and makes me feel good about myself. One noticeable thing, though, is that my wardrobe is relatively conservative; I tend to shy away from things like low-cut tops and short skirts, and while there are a few causations for this, I can pinpoint an early influencer.
As a preteen, I could not wait for high school. It seemed like a Hollywood-esque place where you could express yourself and be whoever you wanted to be, and let’s face it – one of the most obvious forms of expression is through image. What you wear, how you do your makeup or style your hair – as a young person, this is your outlet.
The summer before my freshman year, my school introduced a new dress code, and I was heartbroken. No graphic tees, no athletic clothes, sweats, shorts or skits above the knee, no deep cut v-necks that show cleavage (while I don’t have a copy of the handbook anymore, I do vividly remember that it actually stated ‘cleavage’). There were, of course, exceptions; cheerleaders’ skirts were right below the hoo-ha, and athletes could wear tracksuits on game days, but I digress…
That year, I had to properly go back to school shopping, effectively replacing and questioning much of my wardrobe; replacing – no more band tees or logos, shorts and skirts that hit mid-thigh (we all remember the ol’ fingertips rule from middle school), and questioning – becoming incredibly self-conscious of my changing body and wondering whether the scoop necks and v-necks I’d been wearing for the past couple of years were suddenly too suggestive on my, uh, 14-YEAR-OLD BODY.
On the first day of school I wore a high scoop-neck grey dress that went to my knees. I remember our homeroom teacher introducing himself, taking roll call, and then scanning the room, analysing whether each and every one of us was in violation of the dress code, issuing write-ups as ‘necessary.’ That day, I was fine.
The second day of school, I wore a plain v-neck shirt that completely covered me, the neckline meeting the middle of my clavicle, right above my chest. When I got dressed that morning, I thought I looked fine; when I got to homeroom and my teacher did the scan, my stomach dropped, and I became incredibly self-conscious. He pointed at me and said, ‘borderline.’ Walking over to me to give me my write-up, he looked at me (aka, my top; aka, my chest) again to confirm his decision. ‘Borderline,’ he said once more.
I was written up once more at the end of that year for wearing a skirt that sat right above my knees (read: not at my knees). Since it was my second write-up, I was sent to in-school suspension. I – antisocial introvert, good student, stays-home-on-the-weekends, has no interest in boys – was in ISS. This was my Freaky Friday moment.
When my history teacher got wind of this, she came down to ISS to see me, looked at my outfit as a group of girls wearing skirts shorter than mine walked by, and gave me a look that said ‘what the fuck.’ She tried to think of a solution – she rode horses and offered me her riding pants from her car, though she told me they were covered in mud and would be too big on me. While we couldn’t come up with a solution in the end, I will forever remember and be grateful for her validation.
At the time, I was irked by these rules because I thought, a) why can’t express myself by wearing what I want, and b) why can’t I dress for the weather if it’s a warm day?
When I reflect on the rules today, my previous feeling of ‘irked’ is elevated to ‘ripshit pissed.’ Yes, girls should be able to dress for expression and the weather, but the issue here lies in sexualising underage bodies.
Why ask teachers to scrutinise the bodies of adolescents? Why impose the accountability of unto the dressers, not the perpetrators of sexual misconduct? Why assume that girls’ utmost consideration in dressing themselves is for sexual appeal?
It’s nearly 11pm on a Thursday as I lie in bed, stuck to the blankets on which I rest atop, not daring to get under them. My husband lay next to me in a sort of intimacy that says ‘I love you, but don’t you dare touch me,’ for that would only worsen the conditions. Eleven PM, and still 33 f*cking degrees (that’s 91, yankee friends).
Our bedroom window is open, carrying the sounds of the streets below. Laughing and talking from the brasseries, shouting in street, someone (with pretty good pipes, might I add) singing at the top their lungs from an apartment block a few buildings down, drinks and plates clanking and smashing, the occasional odour of cigarette smoke drifting up, and every 15 or so seconds, a faint illumination from the Eiffel Tower’s beam makes its way across the night sky. As I struggle to get comfortable, I realise that these people have got it right – keep a low profile during daylight’s scorch, and come to life at night.
It’s our 3rd week in this flat, and while I’ve not fully adopted the Parisian lifestyle, I’ve grown accustomed to this multi-sensory lullaby. After spending 4 months locked-down in our London flat, we – my husband, our French Bulldog (who, by the way, was of no help translating), and myself – packed up the car and f*cked off to mainland Europe. Making our way back from northern Portugal, we’ve found ourselves settled in Grenelle, Paris – our new home for a month.
Though we’ve visited many times before (shoutout to Eurostar for making weekend trips easy as sh*t), we’d stayed in the more central bits – Champs–Élysées, Madeleine, Saint-Germain. This has been our first experience staying in a primarily residential area. Grenelle is located just south of la tour Eiffel, and while probably not close enough to garner any tourists (many shop owners and restauranteurs have told us indeed, most of their patrons are Parisians of the 15th arrondissement), the iron monstrosity seems to sneak its way into the foreground, making even life’s mundane moments a little magical.
We’ve come here between July and August – July being the last hurrah for many Parisians before leaving the city in August for summer holidays. We’d visited a year earlier around the same time and found that many of our favourite independently-owned businesses had temporarily closed for this exact reason. This year is a bit different – amidst Covid, some have done well enough to carry on and take a break as usual, others seem to be staying open to derive what business they can, and a few, unfortunately, appear to be closed…indefinitely.
Upon leaving London in late June for this Eurotrip, the UK’s lockdown restrictions had still closed eateries and non-essential businesses, and for those places that were open, many of us kept cautious in public. In Paris, the old and young both carry on with an air of life as it were, running the usual errands, sitting closely to one another over a brasserie drink, crowding the shops, pairs of young ‘eons whizzing past on shared electric scooters. So, despite a visible decrease in population, those businesses which are open draw in what crowds they can. Whilst the monstrous Beaugrenelle shopping centre ushers in hoards of people, enticed by summer soldes and climatisation, its quainter cousin up the road brings in its own hustle and bustle. Rue de Commerce, as the name suggests, is a mix of boutiques and chain stores selling everything from skateboarding shoes to lingerie to tableware, cafes, fromageries, patisseries, all of the shops for food-ies, salons, and more, ending at the station Dupleix – underneath which hosts an enormous market selling everything from fish to Persian rugs.
Not only on Rue du Commerce, but throughout Grenelle, are a prominence of Asian food stores, Korean and Japanese restaurants, and what I can only describe as Asian delicatessens (donned ‘traiteurs‘). I suffered from anorexia in high school, and while mostly recovered, I do still struggle with my eating disorder from time to time- particularly when eating out and traveling. Partway through this trip, I challenged myself to eat whatever I wanted and to try new foods, and I’m glad I did. After spending our first week in Paris in a wine & cheese coma, bibimbap bowls, black sesame and red bean frozen treats, and kimchi à la maison made way for a Parisian experience consisting of entirely different flavours.
Back in our flat, it’s now Saturday. Though we’ve made it to weekend and it’s nearly 10:30 PM, the heatwave still hasn’t ceased. As I go to change into my pajamas, my husband entices me to go on a walk to the pitch he’s been playing football at every morning, which, as he’s shown me in photos, has an incredible view of the Eiffel Tower.
As we take our dog (pets need culture too!) and walk through the quiet streets of Grenelle, Madame Eiffel plays hide-and-seek against the night sky. She flaunts her glowing limbs as we make our way down one street, and hides behind an apartment building as we turn onto another. Right before 11 PM, the three of us make it to the football pitch. As the three of us stand together and gaze up at all her magnificence, a couple of families rush to make it to their rooms in the hotel adjacent, to get their £350-a-night’s worth. As the clock strikes the hour, she glimmers and glistens, and as someone with cynical tendencies, I can tell you, it really does take your breath away. As I stare up in awe for the 5 minutes which the lights twinkle, stupidly mindful, I thank my lucky stars for this wonderfully cheesy moment, and understand why Paris is donned the city of love.