tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52073145733938590362024-02-21T12:59:44.738+01:00Unicorn FarmThoughts, adventures, projects. Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-88664240671464307042014-09-24T17:13:00.002+02:002014-09-26T16:57:17.310+02:00Le Sensorium Autumn Equinox Foraging Tour<div style="text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3eGLH7h5ukaw-mzNllHnuY747dVXlq4sxJL0MZeaeU378rMgUesisyag0DEe54KSWGQeOsYreg41sD-fp9N8WMgXaKGaq9XfkiNRfyKFr4jPMsPQnS1jLR5VhtCL9cMhMzVlVV8MVT7B/s1600/IMG_9681w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Hunter or Gatherer? If only life choices were still that easy. Umm...Giver please...</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnwD44lBoz8q5s4vN7tgYHGbI8pqOrDV8om8DR_vuIojdJRMT9H208K-X79HoZWLNRCi411QMPIXFDLu3vEkf9OtIElDHj4OQYZQeaqQd9FsuF8CwGpR0tQvCNKscHgm9HNScPNUFB7ZD-/s1600/IMG_9631w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />We've come a long way from the hunt and its less glamorous friend. Up until this weekend, the foraging world was invisible to me, a part of that distant land known as <i>romanticized exoticism</i>, where you can also find the "greatest hits" of Africa and some heavily filtered (and perfumed) images of the Victorian era. </div>
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I showed up to Parc Lhasa de Sela in Montreal on Saturday sans woven basket or arrowhead. Turns out everything a modern forager needs could be found in my apartment.<br />
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqiKyRcbEX9KnNw6y7KIbPwhRRcV-autdaQzDd7VE0fO8MUfP0Pp1Nmywq5HO23We1wnVfTqjn5SOPO6Gv-9p1Pe-OjfeI7zDolROLM2W2OlOZBJi_BeWOBlVF2j9izMgVKgVIV9Z5FdQ/s1600/IMG_9694w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlYs5WeY3o7ha8cjurheEI9GpTsXwlOh27GX297T-TT3LzPlnMG8lm-NQFjxm0c5Iy4HJvDG9g439yTJXjNpqdi1-f0UQuBS2a4XjG8zvhp25qwdZ8oRn7FEgD8jnEqLDsmFIsL1skNr-/s1600/IMG_9699w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlYs5WeY3o7ha8cjurheEI9GpTsXwlOh27GX297T-TT3LzPlnMG8lm-NQFjxm0c5Iy4HJvDG9g439yTJXjNpqdi1-f0UQuBS2a4XjG8zvhp25qwdZ8oRn7FEgD8jnEqLDsmFIsL1skNr-/s1600/IMG_9699w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a><span style="text-align: justify;">butter knife (for digging out roots)</span></div>
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sharp knife/scissors</div>
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water (to stay hydrated...how much depends on what texture you like your lips to be)</div>
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bags (for the loot)</div>
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gardening gloves<br />
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5bJJK8ByLe6Csx7dh8ftN4qXcjliOVkcsY6Nd2WWdcAndHx7nj7nQm5l6w15kUyyfyGXCIEQcRprugJqqQyHXIkk5pJZjpZ2xd9NHeu04Nv45bqVfvhnM08v_hEb_dzTmE9C_FScsCKr/s1600/IMG_9622w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgemFHt4bpE_cv6r_I82dqSua82XPEXN-co7BOT-HXCWK5Nu_gtWWFdjN8aY3msXAZOYfX4Y7Yyyw6VzFCNFMuhSSR1HMf9AJSO4Zgtpk4j8r1MtjRMB9TbNQNGcQpX3-F04NWLJAELkbpR/s1600/IMG_9679w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />The tour, organized by <a href="http://www.lesensorium.com/" target="_blank">Le Sensorium</a>, took us around Montreal's Mile End. Our guide, Vanessa Waters, first began foraging at a young age with her grandmother. She opened our eyes to all the plants that grow in the city, whether planted there for aesthetic purposes or as part of a public garden. We were a mixed group from all over the world, from experienced foragers to those who were simply curious. Vanessa shared practical foraging tips, recipes, and plenty of botanical knowledge, but the tour also opened up a discussion about society's relationship to food as well as issues of food security.</div>
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We talked about how society is distancing itself from the natural origins of our food. How we're losing the foraging culture, just as we're losing thousands of languages from disuse. How so much food goes to waste because no one but the squirrels sees the greenery as a food source. How our taste buds have changed to prefer processed and sweetened foods, so that most of us would be unaccustomed to the raw taste of foraged fruits and vegetation. How foraging can be a means of attaining food security, taking advantage of a food source that goes unseen by so most, and becoming more in tune with the natural environment one lives in. I was so impressed by how knowledgeable Vanessa was about the defining traits and seasonal cycles of all the plants we came across.<br />
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For us novices, however, foraging can be quite daunting, so here are some tips I picked up along the tour.<br />
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Foraging Tips</h3>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfq8kbnHkx2LwYJLMmptai5FHxgVgYVDh_G_BglIpLXkJ7vnuEg12piJyX7tpKHVtVQBWz0w-yYcyH37zNlKm3CS3yDCT6k4Hi2wbjTOfBrOS8uDTCgkxAb8Sg_GA8o70481LEePpCA90/s1600/IMG_9707w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><br />
<b>1. Cover up! </b></div>
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One thing I learned on this tour: food is everywhere! But so is itching and death.</div>
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Wear gloves, long sleeves, long pants, high boots. Flashing a bit of ankle would be ill-advised. Poison ivy is not fun, despite what Batman may have told you, and it only worsens each time you come into contact with it.<br />
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoITnIcdLdwwWFhCjZMelh-uAVXwEg2GICylDJIFgF12-cYzBerOL6R2x8H9-MHQstkCUMgCxuykRwOEvg67NuOm0ZIee7ad_YiQJH8ugU0otJPngw3OQGPC5DI8KpFhRZnFPDQeogFScS/s1600/IMG_9720w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><br />
<b>2. Be aware of your surroundings.</b></div>
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There it is: a whole patch of sumac bushes. Right there, beside the road. Just think of how it will taste: tangy yet sweet, with just a smoky hint of exhaust fuel. </div>
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While plants on the side of the road are easy to get to, they are sprayed daily with car fumes and whatever else passersby leave in their wake. Try to find foraging spots that are out of the way, where there is less vehicle and pedestrian traffic. If you do find something by the road, only pick it if it's on an uphill slope.<br />
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKgIC5eElm-DdAM4ka7TTEQU9NLqVBY5OG8pq7SlpwGdaM1MN1VCC3gKg8Cu-U9keDV88DIPE8gOF-Akj5NY-xjaN_ucOQPnSVIvNitxLhJZzHnqL7F1VvrAlQVAF-_LymsUe0uvddRcA/s1600/IMG_9712w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><br />
<b>3. Take only what you need.</b><br />
It's important to remember that you are foraging in a public space, and that there are others (even if they are squirrels) who sustain themselves off the same vegetation. Leaving some of the fruit also helps to continue the growth cycle, which means you can keep coming back to the same spot later on. Vanessa's personal rule is only to take when there are 30 or more plants, and then to take 1/3 of it.<br />
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76kz8lEZy6-0F1FTVTa88-gJjfcubFUHJ9na0HvAsbBUfvLrblVC-Eu3OzJRamW4-h0IT9OrvSzRJ4J52qTOx6ohw_gqMXTWujKUgkag7cpOfa6296ZROqjV7_aNe7QUEjKhv5EN83Jae/s1600/IMG_9737w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><br />
<b>4. Rinse and repeat.</b><br />
Wash what you forage, just as you would wash supermarket produce. It may be scary at first to think of all that could have contaminated what you find in the city, but as long as you are prudent about what you do pick (see #2), you can take the same precautions on your foraged goods as you do with the pesticides from supermarket produce.<br />
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Later this week I'll introduce some of the plants we came across and how you can use them in your cooking...Well guys, this is it. I'm ready for the zombie apocalypse.<br />
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#lesensorium #montrealtours&tasting #urbanforaging</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-50783247864941220282014-08-05T06:40:00.002+02:002014-08-05T06:41:42.393+02:00How to Pack for a Place You've Never Been<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIA1z9A_DzYnETakRSi4F8-FuHjJA4LTi_yK4bNzxZHH64kybZb7zHRArTvhdRyqQsV2oOT4aVVA4AmeWwevS_-9hRZAj2TgWmIn1pdbDP_jjOHxYou_OFnHnHmoFzzE_6w9UxCrSoE_LD/s1600/photo1.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Montreal. That's cold, right? It's a magic word, Montreal. Say it and the other person shivers on cue. </div>
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So you fold up your sweaters and you sit on them, because without those vacuum-seal bags <i>as seen on TV</i>, ass will have to do. You fold up your underwear and your bras, because even seals and polar bears have a skeleton beneath all that blubber. You too will need one under layers of down and wool to prop you upright like a human being. </div>
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What else? Your suitcase is small and yet your life, even just a year of it, demands much.</div>
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Your gray peacoat with the puffy shoulders may have done well for the cold and rainy North of France, but it won't hold up to - <i>shiver</i>. You fold it up anyway in anticipation of the sliver of time just before first snowfall. </div>
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Leather jacket, for transitioning autumn days. For walking down streets hazy with the cloud of unfamiliarity. For faking it 'til you make it, or 'til the cold stiffens up the sleeves and chases the leathery blend of polyester and sweatshop essence to the back of your tiny closet. Whichever comes first. </div>
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A pot. A knife. Even Robinson Crusoe needed one of those. Your passport and documents. Skirts upon skirts upon dresses. If you're going to look like a marshmallow for six months, you may as well be a delicate flower underneath. You'll wear them just for yourself, you say, in the way some girls wear underwear emblazoned with the days of the week. That is, as a reminder of your femininity. Try saying that five times fast come January. </div>
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The orphaned polar bear figurine from your last stop-motion short. Polar bears belong in the cold, don't they? It only seems right after you tossed his mother in the trash earlier this year. Three, four months from now, in the throes of the harsh Canadian winter, you might wonder, <i>what is the point</i>, at which point you need only gaze upon the yellowing cub and feel the artistic inspiration of twelve nine-year-olds flood back into your veins. </div>
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And let's not forget your biography of Lincoln, half-finished and half the size of your head. You always feel immense guilt about not finishing the books you buy. If you bring it, you'll definitely finish it. Imagine a snowy Sunday morning, curled up on your lumpy couch (it came with the apartment), getting to know the 16th president, flakes falling aimlessly just outside the window. Look at it. It's so dense it'll last you the whole year. You're saving the space of three other books, really. </div>
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At last, there is nothing left to pack. The animals have entered the ark. You grasp the two sides of the case: <i>now kiss</i>. But like tortoises in captivity, they refuse to meet. Though you summon your ass once more, it doesn't work the same magic on plastic shells as it does on sweaters. </div>
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So you haul everything out. Yes, even the sweaters. And you start again. Just how many sweaters do you <i>really</i> need anyway? If you don't leave the warmth of the house two days out of seven, that leaves...five sweaters. You don't have five, you have four. A couple of tank tops should make up for the fifth. </div>
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...And why don't you throw in those suede flats for good measure?</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-20214080604829553692014-07-24T23:21:00.000+02:002014-07-24T23:38:05.057+02:00Inside Out at the Palais du Tau<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis93OIaoP_tDf0wj5fsyZRn8u5sNA898g9JhVuKP8p4mx4HUtlCAPEIAzPhQVZD89bnZvIQ-4VDcE9YrUYDPSLrtIef8fHOaLOhGvh-ICSt8nHkabNKW95NA9xFwI4TNWESaaioIka-Pe5/s1600/IMG_6957w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Now that I've been home for about a month, the 30 kilos of clothing, books, and savon marseillaise* I brought home have largely been scattered throughout the house. But there's one thing that has remained propped up against my suitcase in the far corner of the living room, and it's my face.</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSw0MNAD3Qn5VBWG1pcS2u3IYNFI1nvYUZGIhOzHrOG7uf6YRFrZVz-M76EVTK-dOc-FCioDo6kuI2j2xkmyIC3Y23BHbaVQ2FulIiir1UulY7yncvx3jjEKm58Sfmyurlf8xHPy322Zhg/s1600/IMG_6940w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Before I left France, I sold my toaster and oven, donated my books to the school library and clothes to charity, threw out all my pots and utensils, dumped a bottle of that coveted Bioderma micellar water in the midst of airport “ma’am your suitcase is seven kilos overweight” panic, but one thing I kept and that is my face, blown up in black and white on a sheet of butcher paper that is as long as I am tall. I have to raise my arms above my head in order to unfurl this monstrosity.</div>
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Months and months ago, I saw that French street artist JR would be stopping in Reims as part of his <a href="http://www.insideoutproject.net/en" target="_blank">“Inside Out”</a> project. So when the time came, I dragged a friend with me to the Palais du Tau, where his photo truck was parked. A queue stretched from one end of the courtyard to the other, but it looked manageable enough. We were also on our way to dinner at a friend’s flat, so I had a head of lettuce in my backpack. We did not end up using the lettuce.</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy31yQlvPmlHZFG383Z-yoBYpPqNlVsZGNx1yi7m0KqIZALVyyl5RmUkaMdZ6Ol_TAFa4euKXqheqDgmRsuzPg3Cqyy_kGVNUJrbjorzhgObFm6DNJoDIiqCavdRXSfy-sVF4Km42PK-PA/s1600/IMG_6950w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4OBttr2198zRNPCs7-MXKvrzQifJJoqADINGZrhCsDe8CQ66f6jxJqj9tUTUnICOJrqg59pSJAcQoD7HtqCxKR8yicSP_r9d88-D6orc8yhyNmUzBPkzyZkgfRV-J3L7W6kXU4nMwYvu/s1600/IMG_6952w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4OBttr2198zRNPCs7-MXKvrzQifJJoqADINGZrhCsDe8CQ66f6jxJqj9tUTUnICOJrqg59pSJAcQoD7HtqCxKR8yicSP_r9d88-D6orc8yhyNmUzBPkzyZkgfRV-J3L7W6kXU4nMwYvu/s1600/IMG_6952w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a>As part of some modern art exhibition at the Palais, two mannequins, covered in light plastic sheets, had been placed at the entrance to the inner courtyard. They had been hooked up to some sort of sound system and whispered incantations with increasing urgency. As the hours passed, we inched from one screeching mannequin to the other, wondering if this was really worth the wait. It hadn’t looked like that many people when we entered the line, but I was starting to suspect photography hadn’t improved since the Victorian era. Not to mention it was a cold, windy day in Northern France and I had been carrying a head of lettuce for the last five hours.</div>
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Part of “Inside Out” is for people to paste their portraits in public spaces - he was there at the Palais du Tau with a bucket of glue to cover the courtyard’s cobblestones with smiling faces. The final destination of his truck was the Pantheon in Paris, currently undergoing renovations, where he covered the interior with his favorite portraits.</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipI40TAhDrlh75lUdXcOJUq2UQt1IgrPTEg0_5H3hdoJQ9xg79m741QTupJ9PAKA9vQ_j8EVqWr1PLZfswal2ONw6A6g-z6lhn449bMh12C0cjEUA_Fyn2N0bquRH-UqWh6hWpfUtThdWr/s1600/IMG_6963w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-vaAX4LzucbNq9V9N93BXrYrMuwjnhKGYlls2Jk8p-nhic6fGOEbzib_6sYwJalT_8fo0-beSu8mlZ_PdgBbpmcOk5Q_h_rQtcVFPZSoK-6Yr90Ys3GLol5c1BS7ukgqjV6i60rmihsy/s1600/IMG_6972w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-vaAX4LzucbNq9V9N93BXrYrMuwjnhKGYlls2Jk8p-nhic6fGOEbzib_6sYwJalT_8fo0-beSu8mlZ_PdgBbpmcOk5Q_h_rQtcVFPZSoK-6Yr90Ys3GLol5c1BS7ukgqjV6i60rmihsy/s1600/IMG_6972w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a>I…chose to take mine home. And I could try to justify it, but it wouldn’t be very convincing and I’d probably end up showing more ego than I’d like to think I have. But was it worth it? Sometimes I think about pasting my enormous face into the back of my closet and leaving it for the poor unsuspecting individual who next inhabits this house and I think, yes, it was all worth it. My parents, however, may feel differently.</div>
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*Okay, one block of soap. I did not bring home 30 kilograms of soap, as I am not about to enter the cutthroat world of soap trafficking**.</div>
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**At least if they cut your throat you can easily disinfect the wound.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-60253845665401624772014-06-15T13:29:00.003+02:002014-06-15T16:06:08.857+02:00First Impressions | Prague<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaBZwHPbn3PdNKZ3lmQu-Lmbp7cvuKF5WhLogE2sjrqPweV6nPBR3mTyyuE89TRCxhv1bsB8klWUqCmcVvlwukvXzz_di9slLTt0vbfaiiyRyHlnXn-Sw9YV1JhDeti1kznrPDjbbT4ke/s1600/IMG_8104w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Prague. I was there. It was Prague, land of defenestrations and the epic orchestral piece that is the Moldau (also the river). Where beer is cheaper than water. Old as balls but still keeping pace with the world. </div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAfDVWgN9eEloSNN5ssoalevC159nJQuFpbPqP7JVfMplu7sMYzwmALdupfQUaH2r2GJ1VnUHA_AB0MDsG7gnYp1YkKtga4LAurubrlWFucuoaK6PpM3CXIXXlhHcgnBvi4MzEfE-NEjoY/s1600/IMG_8213w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90HrJtyYpNArO5Bku8raNdIXlvFu5mOjDtb7uAtsvinRXrIbY_79YB5GpqL1BzvCVqTMg1_i4KCUcv3NTRbFaPJRel9KHvenfwaBPir_LT52XSXA7aIVm_gJrqNSY7Bj-qtFiN4RvrV9Y/s1600/IMG_8209w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90HrJtyYpNArO5Bku8raNdIXlvFu5mOjDtb7uAtsvinRXrIbY_79YB5GpqL1BzvCVqTMg1_i4KCUcv3NTRbFaPJRel9KHvenfwaBPir_LT52XSXA7aIVm_gJrqNSY7Bj-qtFiN4RvrV9Y/s1600/IMG_8209w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a>I had a good time in Prague, not the same kind of good time as everyone refers to with regards to Prague, a knowing look in their eye, but I enjoyed the urban legends and myths behind each building, trying to reconcile what was before me with another time, coming across Refu Fest in Kampa Park and discovering the world in an afternoon, resigning myself to a hot dog only to realize with delight that the Czechs have put their own spin on even the most mundane of foods. It was a good three days. Was it three days? They're starting to run together now...</div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-27390780644058065742014-06-13T14:49:00.002+02:002014-06-15T16:06:08.841+02:00First Impressions | Vienna<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKNUER3wi_XnL2mBKsDM3ArD9nlfP9SJsIBkSpyfG7SUyIFDUVwFxARDHNXMKgJhNE5hjLWQWlUcG1jZcPMgl1ACaKmKSrr1eN_X44LsVikk_UxO_d5WdLIwTLkp6HFJ332Vqpu1mEyKuS/s1600/IMG_8091w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Some cities you fall in love with, others you can only appreciate. Vienna was one of the latter. The streets are lined with one beautiful facade after another, to be sure, but I found it all a bit distant and untouchable. </div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmSRl-P6BgHnFrE7zYwEmG-FGE7qHe-sxqaBrILKglsPOBE1gzy4zS4JB9CH1MdJbd4DbpmMmRo0qyr6cSI4VPq5X9Tb__xr4zg5lRezJR7l2V1OZbiGrmW1Ez8O3gvf3RSmq2uni7Qo-/s1600/IMG_8086w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />At one point, unsure of what to do with myself, I walked around the Schönnbrunn Palace grounds and felt quite thoroughly unimpressed. I've been to Versailles, and I'm starting to suspect that one decadent palace is enough for my lifetime. </div>
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I just find it difficult to appreciate how fancy some dead guy's life was. The point of half the tourist sites in Europe is "look at how much money these people had and look at the shiny things they made with it!" It's like I've eaten too much candy and now my teeth are numb and I just want to see what ordinary people did and do and how they perceived and interacted with their world. </div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioeaAw-503gXRd-vKKfQW8G_IARDXbFHd00IsFjEXrNCcjnnnPL0NWzSPiXHP1jzckZ1LTyEZuB4jnOmWOI_pLD1X0ZmvPlQEI6nC62dw0ur6EUtxpxB8OH_YBj0r-s3eEyCGBF68adm5r/s1600/IMG_8068w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><span style="text-align: justify;">So I found Vienna to be mostly that: appreciation of long-ago fanciness. In places like this, the fanciness becomes so sacred it begins to oppress the present and stifle life until people are living in the shadow of some other great era. </span></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojJLXWGvtSpANjxb9pM3x21uoLGJToDUPQp_DFHWpuU6IIyjDp1dbl7wGNwE2T6R0wC1A1n3g3lj6qF81iCEgkBZga8xwZvb5zlIAB_c7XzaJhbsb80c7Bao1EOy5uqUEqyi4xEzLS4P7/s1600/IMG_8027w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></div>
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I love birds. I love how they have absolutely no regard for our precious monuments and statues. It's all just another comfy rock to perch on. </div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-18581562947783158812014-06-07T06:00:00.000+02:002014-06-07T20:08:49.898+02:00Patisserie Discoverie | Apfelstrudel<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5YmJhPmgz2ld5iKe8GWOtf4tKh64Z8QfXfMHhn74hv70d9sl30UpyDoMR34p7mKpJHVlA2RBffqsNnWEKIaiPS0cegohpsHU2EC7ytkOFmEqFNMUXlOoqzRzPPd9ZnAB9YrvA-e9ByaAL/s1600/IMG_8066w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Patisseries - Vienna edition! Does that make it a viennoiserie ohohoho</div>
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I have just returned from the depths of Google and I have no answer. As you are by now very aware, I'm not qualified to categorize pastries in any category other than yum and blegh, and there aren't any bakers in this hostel that I know of, so we'll just have to live with not knowing. I know, life isn't fair. </div>
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At the end of my walking tour in Vienna, I stopped at Cafe Central for a coffee break. This is where Freud and co. hung out way back when. I'm skeptical of all these "so-and-so hung out here" claims. I sometimes hang out in the downstairs common area of TDC, doesn't make it worth the trek. How many times does a famous person need to visit a place for it to claim that they hung out there?<br />
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My personal standard for strudel has long been that scene in <i>Inglorious Basterds</i>.<br />
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<img border="0" src="http://movies.homeofthenutty.com/albums/InglouriousBasterdsPart1/InglouriousBasterds0956.jpg" height="266" width="640" /><a href="http://movies.homeofthenutty.com/albums/InglouriousBasterdsPart1/InglouriousBasterds0970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://movies.homeofthenutty.com/albums/InglouriousBasterdsPart1/InglouriousBasterds0970.jpg" height="266" width="640" /></a><img border="0" src="http://movies.homeofthenutty.com/albums/InglouriousBasterdsPart1/InglouriousBasterds0976.jpg" height="266" width="640" />So tense. Much acting. Such pacing. But all I can focus on is the strudel. It looks so damn good. This strudel? This strudel was good. But it wasn't wait-for-the-cream good. Still, I can take heart in that the fumes of Freud's breath must have infused into the powdered sugar and elevated the strudel to the next level. Or something. This is how these things work, right?</div>
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But what do I know about Austrian cuisine? Is there even such a strudel out there? Or did I fabricate what one tastes like based on ten seconds of film?</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXdhfhtnj46nPPJOXYxVZQuBdXQPn_n5mu93YZoxgrfE_ZKBR4wjYLInrMKLRvJAXMMAUJ5yhFWj-eEkjmE9TcitO_LwTrbYlooT5tPI19YYEcguudAxAuweP2o0Sn7i9yay5wzO4avri/s1600/IMG_8067w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><span style="text-align: justify;">Fun Fact! </span><i style="text-align: justify;">Strudel</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> is derived from Middle High German for whirlpool. There's some appropriately ominous rock music coming out from the basement of this hostel right now. </span></div>
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It's a layered pastry made of very thin dough, with a filling that can be either sweet or savory. The dough is wrapped around the filling until it has been used up. Apfelstrudel filling usually consists of apples (I should hope so), sugar, cinnamon, raisins, and bread crumbs. It is then sprinkled with powdered sugar and can be served with ice cream, custard, vanilla sauce, and yes, wait for it...cream. </div>
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I don't know, guys. It was a great strudel, it was just shy of the strudel of my dreams. Does that strudel even exist? Or do I settle for ingesting Freud breath-fumes? Will I start obsessing over my father?</div>
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The only way to find the strudel of my dreams, I guess, is to eat more strudel until I do. </div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-43583729754324727552014-06-06T00:35:00.001+02:002014-06-15T16:06:09.894+02:00First Impressions | Budapest<div style="text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ld81zIg-E4NgnIGN6hwlrL1ikJbyXtpcX09BsfzHDeFyujfcits716k3g2tPXdqD6rAXFyXND1dnPKLZQI05pwd0TcJKApQcEVhj58t-RM8sK_zahxLW56Ti0Qk9KgkviygdfHp84g0C/s1600/IMG_7903w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><span style="text-align: justify;">Classes are a thing of the past now as I set off on a month-long trip through Europe before I return home. The itinerary currently looks something like this: </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Budapest - Vienna - Prague - Copenhagen - Oslo - Edinburgh - Dublin - London - Paris - Lyon - Aix - Strasbourg</span></div>
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I'll get to processing my experiences with thorough city posts once this is all over, but I wanted to bring you along with me as closely as possible, so I'm doing my best to <a href="http://instagram.com/unicornxfarm" target="_blank">Instagram</a> with my wonky phone and spotty wi-fi (surprisingly, buses have provided the most stable connections) and to post here on the go. Short and sweet is the key, I guess, and I am breaking that now so without further ado, Budapest! </div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIm8Jx13TmBea6Q9gEWcfsrEMOIQmFYmEMFYR87nXw8W_VV54X3H68oPU4y2gNpKpztJ_YOuJ2IqStT2jKyQ6JaH8OguWf223F6AkTzB4yXM3ggjvpLl1BDlLQBFtJiF31UxRtXPsfCoX/s1600/IMG_7958w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Budapest was beautiful. It was a great setting for a much-needed break between end-of-school activities and the rest of my travels. I stayed with a friend who was gracious enough to host me and order food for me while the language barrier rendered me a giant baby. Similarly, my brain refuses to function right now, so I'll leave the philosophical thoughts to the full Budapest post to follow. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5Sr_ZdflmzS1fVMWXl_EaAgMwGay-1BHY7T_5NHipn2jh1rAVGeFuBtKij_PmtVjNDKwD3jie9nh7SIm_ycxMn6EYk3U9UQ0vEJo1yRWH2ZUsfzZfyRPMwNetmFB5mTiD3uWR-tTGmV8/s1600/IMG_7984w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5Sr_ZdflmzS1fVMWXl_EaAgMwGay-1BHY7T_5NHipn2jh1rAVGeFuBtKij_PmtVjNDKwD3jie9nh7SIm_ycxMn6EYk3U9UQ0vEJo1yRWH2ZUsfzZfyRPMwNetmFB5mTiD3uWR-tTGmV8/s1600/IMG_7984w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-21761041128609213592014-04-23T15:30:00.001+02:002014-04-23T15:30:20.989+02:00Patisserie Discoverie | Nid de Pâques<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiibPDkx8RKgx9wZd_2Ss3fFR2RO3dGgJLmUMI_bMa78echU8ihzxGap0CNOa0nn75D8nM0gN6_5n8Injg4cZMIwUqc6ZSeRHbrQ3VUN9skuBdIF7ObDVz5QRejQwV34TCmfaMz3lWCG7_g/s1600/IMG_6988w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Happy Easter, everyone. </div>
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I swear I walked into the boulangerie fully intending on buying the prettiest patisserie there. But, as in many a quirky rom-com, intrigue outweighed beauty and I went home with an open-faced box filled with brains.</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJy8S6_PsmLGsmWIsZmMInHdssf_ODKVZRxHZJhO3NGPLVkiCjIYkefRODRairRwQLEGvNZQHWR2LjDeQn_ewcF50gjwZrPh8Pi2rcWFhEy24-7SzEUulI9Nhxt-rvntKHlVwWeQOc_L6-/s1600/IMG_7002w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><span style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps my craving for ramen has begun to cloud my judgment. Or the dream I had two days ago about worms taking over the world traumatized me more than I thought. Whatever the explanation, I can't believe I paid three euros for Justin Timberlake's hair from the 90s.</span></div>
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I should have seen the signs when the woman at the boulangerie walked around waving the box on its side, almost certainly smashing half the patisserie. ...Isn't half the price of a patisserie for the aesthetics? By the time I got home, it looked like someone had been overly enthusiastic about patting Justin on the head. He is a pop singer with a penchant for eight-minute-long loops of a single chorus, not a dog (seriously though, "what goes around comes around" - we should have known he was singing about song structure).</div>
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This patisserie just confuses me so much. It looks like off-color noodles, so my brain prepares for saltiness. And...noodles on cake? Is that a good idea? And then I think, what tool did they use to pile the noodles on like that? And then I think about how it's all really just a pile of cream that looks like separate strands of cream, but when you eat it it's just cream, and my mouth goes numb and I can't feel my tongue anymore.</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2br6mQMXf3jBtpL37AV8IuHzD9c0aGmWo2UBWtvTP4zyJClfaDlpY82PvRClsWuOmhFZVVSOx0B6_IZjZGs6vNtdh-qTUbN6SaDnzaObbonLyo69Axe6SRDbHcW44vpIfxlJiTEr6um6X/s1600/IMG_7004w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />At least the eggs make up for it by adding a spot of color to what otherwise looks like processed noodles, right? <i>Wrong</i>. The "eggs" are jellybeans with a hard candy shell, like the lovechild of jordan almonds and Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans no one asked for...and one of them was licorice, the one flavor that needs to disappear from the face of the earth.</div>
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I ended up eating all the jellybeans first to get them out of the way, because the mixture of jellybean and coffee cake was bizarre and way too sweet. May I suggest chocolate eggs next time? The cake itself was soggy coffee cake layered with cream and then topped off with a nest of cream (now there's a phrase I never thought I'd say). The creamy greasiness and the mouth-numbing sweetness with a hint of coffee overpowered my taste buds. And the almonds along the side added unwanted texture to the whole affair - now I know what it feels like to have a million tiny leaves in my mouth.</div>
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There are not many things I would avoid eating - licorice, bitter melon, fruits of unknown origin...but Nid de Pâques can now join that merry band of misfits. I'm not sure if I should apologize for it, because I'm afraid of anyone who takes pleasure in eating nest-like things and thus identifies with large rodents. Chinese people do eat actual nests, but I still feel slightly nauseous when I think about that time I had to pick feathers out of swallow's nest soup for three hours for my grandparents. Filial piety, man...</div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-35468763703914860862014-04-11T10:00:00.000+02:002014-04-11T11:03:02.993+02:00Charleville-Mezières<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdrILAhlUey9_OYVT1LdMo2-lwRWE6j4KrxiOPcRoUTxzEoqL9JuCsxpuj1vpLZEgxi21KO5OFZB7w133DgUP8KEx5TdZv77eKrTKk8G5ainFNV-z5RvK-2eowMjKhREshkuIHd_wxWIB/s1600/IMG_6809w.jpg" height="426" style="text-align: justify;" width="640" /><span style="text-align: justify;">As I wrote in my encounter with the edible brick, the </span><a href="http://unicorn-farm.blogspot.fr/2014/04/patisserie-discoverie-carolo.html" style="text-align: justify;" target="_blank">Carolo</a><span style="text-align: justify;">, I visited Charleville-Mezières several weekends ago. Birthplace of Rimbaud, home to a major puppetry festival, an aging population and a parking crisis - I was there for an urban studies project so this is the information you're going to get. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;">But being neither in need of parking nor in possession of an aging population (if you don't count my brain cells), I found Charleville to be quite a charming lens into the everyday goings-on of a small French city. We saw an exhibition of artwork by mentally disabled artists, the puppetry museum's (terrifying) clock giant that puts on an hourly puppet show, the restored Place Ducale, the Meuse River, a tree monster reaching to pluck the moon from the sky...</span><br />
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If you listen carefully, the wind in Charleville goes "Carololololololo..." As do the birds.</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvEc0ppBSDzwmk50ECVj1lsEfFUCg65GM91w3kiMW2_1WCR40sqsguK_KbW2w4OpQNLu50gW-oAGQMVt1uya0rRAoUo7JgSXAzMdie_ps-SltnooR7HsIDjTn9LOLVR5AAlRPM_wP-EaSU/s1600/IMG_6808w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJFN9JCOU1B07KcZ-MhyqCN5UhUfB52FNbBgSuLSISNfg_-iHU6r7K-CJ1qImQ6qjVXyPtzm-nxAIgbx0NK803_x0Z68gDoLrXt-WjlX8VlPKXMnInNQyIHgDGkdZgOnRzX57dLGcBn_s/s1600/IMG_6804w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJFN9JCOU1B07KcZ-MhyqCN5UhUfB52FNbBgSuLSISNfg_-iHU6r7K-CJ1qImQ6qjVXyPtzm-nxAIgbx0NK803_x0Z68gDoLrXt-WjlX8VlPKXMnInNQyIHgDGkdZgOnRzX57dLGcBn_s/s1600/IMG_6804w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEityKEtCDr0xCofqOfhtOkOncvcRSLhf4meUyz6863JtxXjvN781fYWu9Ky04IyRo1nzBIjIAHn8HwURTrcClpgoO1S8V_HGZOh-O7XIg2_PvTuYodmrgmJNeeBqD1nZuTrU9WF0mv_TyFy/s1600/IMG_6798w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; 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display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwu0UFjOfqCczIk0UwDXuxY73yQ7XuA5VozwfUCQt4rMXBi8zXGp4jtWLgx69h8tkdwTMGnPVVknjd9QFWa_t3UlcpRLs2OBe4L3G5eO-hXTn8WLlCMlft3B7kxtxEDOOr4LIxb9nTuEYi/s1600/collage1.jpg" height="482" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTjjTFekv66YatoVLsZCFg5_JeJ6lA5Y78XmfTgvOzbvtQi9c_REM02tyvyiURUEqugITxzpvOGBklIsIUNfDXd2Ju2i6wXFdnM40SfVlOLMmNziXMbfnG9W5eMRiKfoqa11NUPV2HIyC/s1600/IMG_6844w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTjjTFekv66YatoVLsZCFg5_JeJ6lA5Y78XmfTgvOzbvtQi9c_REM02tyvyiURUEqugITxzpvOGBklIsIUNfDXd2Ju2i6wXFdnM40SfVlOLMmNziXMbfnG9W5eMRiKfoqa11NUPV2HIyC/s1600/IMG_6844w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhplJH01m6W4DsgQJgeR4OgvS3bhcPydT9w7ExilOs6Qc2nL2vK8oU3Lod4hWw9bE8gQWDkqpFv7kfD3K_yj0q6nXj90-24GlzcP6BzJ4yJEBgdAn24QKB9J3DW3wgtnotmNC4MhkG-2ZPp/s1600/IMG_6850w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhplJH01m6W4DsgQJgeR4OgvS3bhcPydT9w7ExilOs6Qc2nL2vK8oU3Lod4hWw9bE8gQWDkqpFv7kfD3K_yj0q6nXj90-24GlzcP6BzJ4yJEBgdAn24QKB9J3DW3wgtnotmNC4MhkG-2ZPp/s1600/IMG_6850w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdWE010fpyDzfwGDCPBUKw0YNAIdnI4__WvJOnrULl6jdz4BBj6PznPo2xYlo5MwYAQ2BrWKl38S98mJk5B6NbIP8JcAHB8cesSiTJinNs_A1xlneCoi4uDjkQDqy5aNSTjOBtORU1rkMq/s1600/collage2.jpg" height="482" width="640" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1YUAYDasUsMrKmqkerIvmxfaMH48q4q2fFy3603_Cag5AzfVJAZhtk6QjKglNXJ2TBMWVo-F5_Cog_JVdjPSD5alWNI8_jZ11lcID54j8B8QQ5jccBvuvzzRPMb5eynEdlgBPE0G-0js/s1600/IMG_6853w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1YUAYDasUsMrKmqkerIvmxfaMH48q4q2fFy3603_Cag5AzfVJAZhtk6QjKglNXJ2TBMWVo-F5_Cog_JVdjPSD5alWNI8_jZ11lcID54j8B8QQ5jccBvuvzzRPMb5eynEdlgBPE0G-0js/s1600/IMG_6853w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fe_Ui2jdMgs3y1R6sQf91oxgTxXgMmuyZw6L6g-D9mmgNKX82JtaQ61aHKUsKFq_YJNuH7goAho6N7f-Cubs4W-skPt39g0_sKP6kXhEQzyKvpaYd6PjV4wRK-_-DST_zPX-0wicug8N/s1600/IMG_6854w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><i>Carolololololololo...</i></div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-24782169073242113642014-04-07T10:00:00.000+02:002014-04-07T10:00:05.171+02:00Patisserie Discoverie | Carolo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRsHzA20in8CPokc9wzN3orSINLcVHd6OZ-oy895PEya93sqHv8obdqyCN3ewkBFhb6GR_mvvVbVN9dO5HG7gAnhIkDBJn0NDZlLQSJuCYfUmKdsX65ZV_AkrhXLLX7ufCoEhTMxYZ5Wg4/s1600/IMG_6855w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />Carolo sounds like a name I would give one of my Sims. It's a slippery slope, Carolo, because if you're not careful you could find yourself going Carololololololo...and so on for eternity. </div>
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I hadn't heard of the Carolo until I found myself in Charleville-Mezières, a small city about an hour away from Reims, for a class project on municipal elections. A friend was kind enough to host me for the weekend while we went about interviewing candidates and taking photos of emptied storefronts, and twas she who made this patisserie known to me.</div>
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I let myself get a little too medieval there...</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhnbMoDwfrfH1ibNzfjhSZJQwAwCb1Cgz0HgYCnFjoXfCl0bPJ0AXnOCB5XDA1g3qORM6NugE9DiPaWyJPyfryOmWxge8YJlgG-RXfzOQ-svXzVzVG_efVM3LG6GS1WEqh88fPXTKt9q7R/s1600/IMG_6861w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />The Carolo is a specialty of the city, so special in fact that the only information I could find on it was on French Wiktionary:</div>
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<i>"Specialité pâtissière de Charleville-Mezières."</i></blockquote>
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Thank you for that, French Wiktionary. You're a true poet.</div>
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But I am not so easily defeated. From what I gather(ed from my taste buds and my friend's mom), it's a meringue-based cake, with cream filling. There must be nuts involved too, there are always nuts involved - probably the filling is hazelnut cream. It's always hazelnuts.</div>
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Continuing in the trend of questionably edible things, the Carolo looks like an adobe brick with stubble. I also couldn't cut through it, but it was for crumbly reasons (and not suspicious end-of-the-day reasons)! It was also very sweet, to the point where having one would probably cover any Carolo cravings for a couple of months. </div>
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All this sounds very negative - it was honestly quite good, and I appreciate its strangeness and brickishness (in a dog-eat-dog world, a patisserie's got to survive by any means necessary, and camouflage seems like a practical way to go about that). It's hard to be surprised these days (quiet, inner eighty-year-old!) so the Carolo was exactly why I started this patisserie discovery thing in the first place. No, not to stuff my face, although that plays a part, but to see what else is out there. </div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-42795494673509840682014-04-05T20:07:00.001+02:002014-04-05T22:02:14.968+02:00A Whole New World*<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<a href="http://www.faigahmed.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXB2k1HBzlFgD6Ha1SnRxD-Z0zlXLe_q-2Gs5QTPAikVw-Xv61LzXp3MPBH2l49TS7SW_VeDmygnQBIe74YvX-3DdKD4tKYptavwCUDwtyfAr-27NXVosOV1NnfSyVXe5ssMG-9s7rbitG/s1600/ahmedcollage2.jpg" height="470" width="640" /></a>Just before Christmas, I had the chance to visit the Victoria & Albert Museum in London. I went on a bit of a museum binge during that trip, and after a while all the artifacts started to grow kind of...well, old. But the cool thing about museums is that there's always a chance that, amidst the pot fragments and paintings of barely-clothed maidens in mid-gasp, you might come across something completely new.</div>
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So after I got over the giant red Christmas tree in the foyer, I entered V&A's Jameel Gallery for Islamic art and was pretty much blown away by everything in there. First of all, a lot of Islamic art plays with calligraphy and the Arabic language, which is right up my alley. Each piece was like, "hey, what if..." and my brain would explode, and then I'd do the Museum Two-Step to the next piece, and it'd be like, "hey what if..." Basically, the artists were unafraid to question and transform centuries-old traditions into something fresh. </div>
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I finally came across one of the exhibits online, so I can now stop referring to it as the "weird rug exhibit." </div>
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<a href="http://www.faigahmed.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd6j53PjMcghwaoN1zJ6JPSWhkZY-2EKeMxEr7DhQxwqUM6UMqTdWz00bB02EVYwH26vgytjkX5RbYKDM-qaelsUZ89dVlLF9oFyOwVzk3Sm8JjvdYRcbU5nOoGdABMeP3Qz6UpJ16ErSa/s1600/ahmedcollage1.jpg" height="510" width="640" /></a>Artist <a href="http://www.faigahmed.com/" target="_blank">Faig Ahmed</a> models his carpets after traditional Azerbaijan carpets, but distorts them in a way that doesn't so much break from tradition as pull it in new directions. <span style="text-align: justify;">In person they are even more impressive, as you can see the point where the warps begin, the exact thread where tradition turns left instead of right. It's pretty cool. </span><br />
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*And yes, I am just saying this because it's carpets and vaguely Arabian. </div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-3940342244581763072014-04-01T14:11:00.002+02:002014-04-01T14:15:30.675+02:00Patisserie Discoverie | Paris Brest<div style="text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJex6ruCLisS3lT-EkFr11uwJS8EscAK8sq-cFOmIK0RtPC8HU2WJw3dy_gTKxyJT2sOUuXGWIN3h-nN-4fPz4WSeJ-DasqhV_nDDnBLqa0rPzImJH1s_mLE1dkDmvUpk2-kROzyLLwNec/s1600/IMG_6759w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><br />
<span style="text-align: justify;">I had been eyeing the Paris Brest for some time, actually. I recognized its name, but it was never photogenic enough to be chosen. Until today, when a friend and I walked past the boulangerie on our way home. </span></div>
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At the end of the day, it was slim pickings. Few patisseries left, just a bunch of grease marks on an empty shelf. A framboise macaron with half its framboises missing. Two deformed chocolate eclairs that could actually have been one cancerous eclair. I contemplated coming back the next day. But then:</div>
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"What about the poop?"</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYhxs-LBSGu-JT3x555G7TomUIUBTiVDIeJfCJyMmcjMrO8b2_LeYexaoaX8KYgc7sm50garGCJ4nvZt1fzK8iPAan0ffmhtVH1j8DtUMhyphenhyphenfwV_5AgOAX96c0zcgKv7Joua-I1ycMO7LQ/s1600/IMG_6752w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /><span style="text-align: justify;">So here we are.</span></div>
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I walked inside and waited as a mother paid for her baguette. Her blond baby cooed in his stroller. She took the baguette and stepped aside but did not move her baby.</div>
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The lady behind the counter made eyes at the baby. The baby looked at all the shiny colors in his new non-amniotic world. They stared at each other. After a good three minutes, they finally broke their gaze and the mother stepped in to wheel the baby away (although after that display of laser eyes I'm not sure he was a baby so much as an alien overlord hypnotizing his way through the human populace; I can only assume the mother was his accomplice).</div>
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"Un Paris Brest, s'il vous plaît," I said, pointing at the poop. <i>Please take the prettier one please take the prettier one -</i> my joy was short-lived, however, for when she placed her fingers on the poop<i> not a single grain of powdered sugar moved</i>.</div>
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I ate it anyway, because <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Velveeta" target="_blank">questionably edible food</a> reminds me of home.<br />
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When I dug my spoon into it, <i>it wouldn't move</i>. I had to hold the poop down and wrestle my spoon into the top layer of choux pastry. It tried to slide and flip over. But worry not - ten minutes later, I was approximately 100 grams heavier. Just call me the poop wrangler (that was a terrible idea do <i>not</i> call me the poop wrangler). <br />
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdR57-Wq6rizlFdLZXF6D43fX2fZiJQ1eDEfN4b6UWoJQrW6VrNMO2yjoTMQS_A6hDd258s0L3Qy8MUrUzY44UYIgBGYfAH5lx9L1uJ92CBusw6Su7TNU43tw6Ja2N1Rbo2vihlW5-SgYq/s1600/IMG_6769w.jpg" height="426" width="640" />The poop is basically praline cream sandwiched between two layers of choux pastry, and then garnished with sliced almonds and a dusting of (inexplicably immovable) powdered sugar. In fact, the Paris Brest was created by a pâtissier of Maison Lafitte to commemorate the Paris-Brest bicycle race. It's not in the shape of a poop, as we heathens call it, but rather a bicycle wheel (let us compromise in the spirit of world peace and settle on calling it a circle). </div>
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unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-48731435177823370952014-03-13T10:00:00.000+01:002014-03-13T10:00:01.476+01:00Venezia<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazbB-qT2jV2rRBozaSbZEuGeDzuMYJAJ0xFCasXQYMQl8bRMi5b2T6Wda42DmveXDhPIiVi9Q7Q95Z90f6gVzxedE78jqcGzjNJBa6mcP4G2VzP2gREPDpzPrEp6nyPvU2zMPVnTdYe1o/s1600/IMG_6001.JPG" height="424" style="text-align: justify;" width="640" /><span style="text-align: justify;">Venezia. A labyrinth disguised as a city. </span><br />
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"All the food is overpriced," our host tells us, "Don't eat on the island." Our stomachs already growling as the train pulls into St. Lucia station, we curse every bakery and pizzeria on our way to the Rialto Bridge. Why must everything look so delicious and smell so good? Is this Venice or a Greek myth? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMnx08Do_AK6KPc24FfV8udxUblxkt07FcIu2bHxoAmEblGftExoQhyphenhyphenbTwROOIiwAJ8d7e17loV9FcakaKIQ9-Y9rZGjq6jO5VLdIfT64vzX5faUIpda-ZE48RHJJxehsxvLmO6S9jtyN/s1600/IMG_6021w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMnx08Do_AK6KPc24FfV8udxUblxkt07FcIu2bHxoAmEblGftExoQhyphenhyphenbTwROOIiwAJ8d7e17loV9FcakaKIQ9-Y9rZGjq6jO5VLdIfT64vzX5faUIpda-ZE48RHJJxehsxvLmO6S9jtyN/s1600/IMG_6021w.jpg" height="354" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkiavCVLIdguVq_2aOFqsJgEUC4LZlEduHdIbw13_mD3veRZcGcztUISsvzycG7gDRByk4OQ16iayhdRa7IgCqQBbOtEkSHd5fo1tz1d2KV_ab02KyANFOMyJmWZugeeYsViVEb3At1FP/s1600/IMG_6047-1w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkiavCVLIdguVq_2aOFqsJgEUC4LZlEduHdIbw13_mD3veRZcGcztUISsvzycG7gDRByk4OQ16iayhdRa7IgCqQBbOtEkSHd5fo1tz1d2KV_ab02KyANFOMyJmWZugeeYsViVEb3At1FP/s1600/IMG_6047-1w.jpg" height="354" width="640" /></a></div>
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unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-211116464960901782014-03-12T10:00:00.001+01:002014-03-12T10:00:01.072+01:00Double Feature: Heart of Africa | January in Japan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhA3eEzwauTg9_kxLvCtom4NqHCR6IFrcMGBda1k3cLYnNeBIbmG6X4sLoMl_XF_stJ4m6luMbZqId-FQuKMjjcv0EXYX2vRx1MzsK1S_UvAwS4Se95af29ATiFLUkDxeibr9i3R25-A_S/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-03-09+at+9.07.06+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhA3eEzwauTg9_kxLvCtom4NqHCR6IFrcMGBda1k3cLYnNeBIbmG6X4sLoMl_XF_stJ4m6luMbZqId-FQuKMjjcv0EXYX2vRx1MzsK1S_UvAwS4Se95af29ATiFLUkDxeibr9i3R25-A_S/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-03-09+at+9.07.06+PM.png" height="214" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="text-align: justify;">I like to take films as stand-alone universes, isolated bubbles of contrived truth borne from the lens of a unique point of view. But there's something about juxtaposition that raises questions and brings details to light. </i></blockquote>
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Two films that are a part of the well-worn legacy of the travelogue, where the filmmaker goes somewhere with little pre-written, and leaves composition for the editing suite. Both are portraits of places through an outsider's lens, composed of breathtaking shot after breathtaking shot and playing with a particular rhythm of life.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/85004906?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&badge=0&color=033e45" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="640"></iframe></div>
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<a href="http://vimeo.com/85004906">Heart of Africa</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/sugrue">Michael Sugrue</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/87008050?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&badge=0&color=033e45" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="640"></iframe></div>
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<a href="http://vimeo.com/87008050">January in Japan</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/scottgold">Scott Gold</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</div>
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As I watched these two short films, two thoughts came to mind.<br />
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First, I caught myself thinking that Sugrue had captured the dynamism of Africa, before realizing that I had no idea what the "dynamism of Africa" was, just that it was a conception of the continent (of which, surely, all regions cannot be dynamic in the same way) that came easily to the tip of the tongue.<br />
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Indeed, both societies are portrayed in line with the general perception of them by the rest of the world, but how much of that perception is inherent to the society and how much comes from the hand of the filmmaker? Does the filmmaker himself view the society through that lens, thus creating a self-fulfilling prophecy?<br />
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Second, that despite the ubiquity of Western culture these days, cultural differences still manage to shine through in each film. I don't like comparing a continent to a country, but I think I'll have to in this case for simplicity. In both films, we see typically "Western" clothing, as well as technologies and modes of transport. Yet they remain quite distinct from one another. It's somewhat heartening to see this, especially in the face of all the doomsday globalization homogenization talk I've become accustomed to hearing, but the first question is raised once again. How much of it is true and how much is self-perpetuating stereotype?</div>
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unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-25215984860113287112014-03-11T10:00:00.003+01:002014-03-11T10:00:02.888+01:00Picnic at the Parc de Champagne<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Mcm0R11E9lGYFoyVV3KjU6yiB7CozL1oQl0hns_6mJmw3xMxE4aivA9pkTrYSSYgMmjTNwwTkhmt_q7wE4B936iatZVG1TbR5BVFscqaNY8uvAIb5zavtxycZ8mlRXb_qd1G2ZDwjBFq/s1600/IMG_6679w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Mcm0R11E9lGYFoyVV3KjU6yiB7CozL1oQl0hns_6mJmw3xMxE4aivA9pkTrYSSYgMmjTNwwTkhmt_q7wE4B936iatZVG1TbR5BVFscqaNY8uvAIb5zavtxycZ8mlRXb_qd1G2ZDwjBFq/s1600/IMG_6679w.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0pJY54T63asraUJ4_E_ygC3M8xBSSeVrNUY4aU8a_PfB-m8MkwvYOpYdG84S7mkQyvZ2LfW_TS5YVK5GVxLXvkcWlEq3sv3BtP5HEIpfugXp4foULDqyl7eEL6Bcus9pAmt7JL-3v-Mdu/s1600/IMG_6691w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0pJY54T63asraUJ4_E_ygC3M8xBSSeVrNUY4aU8a_PfB-m8MkwvYOpYdG84S7mkQyvZ2LfW_TS5YVK5GVxLXvkcWlEq3sv3BtP5HEIpfugXp4foULDqyl7eEL6Bcus9pAmt7JL-3v-Mdu/s1600/IMG_6691w.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-JY9bu1sjsD-IamLHiyb4oqM8otRTRSts1V5hw1HrUS6Cmyi4Ew6VnHif8nRTOUUP5uJxEUgiFX5lsE9hjKy1SbIPLBc-neOw04-04VZk0vGdQfsoEWz4KZiaAzccxq3MtUl58MtH5z4/s1600/IMG_6694w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-JY9bu1sjsD-IamLHiyb4oqM8otRTRSts1V5hw1HrUS6Cmyi4Ew6VnHif8nRTOUUP5uJxEUgiFX5lsE9hjKy1SbIPLBc-neOw04-04VZk0vGdQfsoEWz4KZiaAzccxq3MtUl58MtH5z4/s1600/IMG_6694w.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-khCFH1Ze6aNlAyibIw8F2BBDnwA-VE40dVwzn0IVFv5JA-ku-uSx8Y22aHLOvVKrJZQEBQXeZgwXkDnapiYwMVYvUNzxJwT7IbQXvqeLPkw6O4U-k4-3AEmB0Byq-HuPs-IWdnTQP7j/s1600/IMG_6686w.jpg" height="424" width="640" />Saturday morning I had a study picnic at the park with some friends. Naturally, it ended up being more picnic than studying. I could never give up the eternal Californian sunshine, but spring is so much more precious after a long gray winter. The city comes back to life when the sun stops being shy. </div>
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As the day went on, people arrived with their blankets and bags, claiming spots untouched by the creeping shade. Children kicked around yellow footballs and young couples lay side by side, their cell phones raised skyward as a bizarre offering. The wind rustling the tree branches sounded like the ocean, so when I lay my head down on my bag and closed my eyes it was almost like I was at the beach back home, surrounded by giggling children and friendly conversation. But the voices around me rang with foreign phonemes, and I became acutely aware of my presence in a foreign country. </div>
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Clearly, every day I walk past signs that this is not America. But those sort of momentous epiphanies don't occur as you go about your everyday life. And that lack of contextualization is what I haven't been able to explain about being here. It just doesn't feel all that different, until one day I happen to look back and realize just how much I've picked up. One day I'm lying in a park on chalky grape-growing soil listening in on conversations that have nothing to do with the world in which I've spent most of my life. And in that moment, that world ceases to exist. </div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-9077594974393574842014-03-10T10:00:00.001+01:002014-03-10T10:00:01.550+01:00Patisserie Discoverie | Dôme aux biscuits roses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAQP09qEstXysO3sH2t7WlY8dD88hWO2XMEcB9015RKbuASl2tJOwuxuCvQbAffooY5ivF948MJh4fK21DuwjaBlck77a5gdejv9CKKWsIdjh19ZogPyj1J_WEsYB8iC4MDpbYoK7aF7J/s1600/IMG_6738w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAQP09qEstXysO3sH2t7WlY8dD88hWO2XMEcB9015RKbuASl2tJOwuxuCvQbAffooY5ivF948MJh4fK21DuwjaBlck77a5gdejv9CKKWsIdjh19ZogPyj1J_WEsYB8iC4MDpbYoK7aF7J/s1600/IMG_6738w.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="text-align: justify;">When in France...all anyone ever brings up is the food! Soon I'll have to leave all the deliciousness behind, but before I do, I'm going to stuff my face with as many different patisseries as I can from the local boulangerie in the name of cultural education.</i></blockquote>
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Voilà, the "dome of pink biscuits." Sometimes you regret translating French, because all the fanciness evaporates and you end up feeling like you're about to eat a bald Candyland character.</div>
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Aside from champagne and the cathedral that never stops giving, Reims is famous for its <i>biscuits roses</i>. Depending on who you ask, they are either a charming regional specialty or compressed drywall.</div>
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So this is a...thing...made of biscuits roses. I will get better at describing food. For now I just start salivating and lose all linguistic faculty. Because between speaking and eating, I'd rather use my mouth for the latter.</div>
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Besides, the photos will tell you all you need to know...I mean, imagine if Proust had an Instagram.</div>
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Madeleines! #tasteslikechildhood #socrumbly #nom</div>
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And just like that, hundreds of French literature students would have the time to invent life-changing technologies or something. Imagine the progress! ...Do you ever think about how much we could get done if we stopped rewarding loquaciousness in academia?</div>
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Anyway, I was curious about what was inside. The outer shell is made of a gloopy pink gel that made me question its edibility. I accidentally touched the pastry several times taking it out of the box, but the gloop would just congeal and return to form. This patisserie is self-healing, guys. Plastic surgeons, look into this.</div>
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Was it gelatin? Was it cake? Was it a house of worship for fairies? </div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxaRdaextNo9Qh3TdfNslDBCGGK3W_p3PKvCnbqsIQ8JZnIMvvE4FurB46UnHB8IQBeiLJrO0pEWBKTaSs6RPQIpzTT2Nhz2HCfQEQsLuWgOFqKFSa8uYgWVQezGbiu3s1v9zgx8wzDWNO/s1600/IMG_6746w.jpg" height="424" width="640" />One of the above. It's basically a spongy pink cake layered on a paper-thin <i>biscuit rose</i> crust, with a vanilla bean pudding on top. There are raspberries scattered throughout, as well as pockets of raspberry syrup. Finally, the whole thing is covered in a thick pink glaze and garnished with a raspberry and a piece of the famous biscuit. </div>
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Despite the lack of praying fairies inside, I enjoyed it. I really liked the <i>biscuit rose</i> crust, which added a bit of crunch to each bite, as well as the pudding's strong vanilla flavor. Word of warning: it's quite sweet. As for the raspberries, well fruit already freaks me out a little and I don't know if you've noticed, but raspberries are <i>hairy</i>, so...I ate them but let's not talk too much about it.</div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-79120886247288905702014-03-08T23:13:00.003+01:002014-03-10T14:03:19.118+01:00The Grand Budapest Hotel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/861903b792ea333cc78244adf4bdf263/tumblr_n0g7dj7mxZ1t5ztglo2_500.gif" height="470" width="640" /></div>
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I went to see <i>The Grand Budapest Hotel</i> last night with friends, and I liked it a lot. After a hellish week, a good movie is a necessary palate cleanser.</div>
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Ralph Fiennes' performance as M. Gustave was the highlight of the film - he really carried it and smoothed over the rough patches. And while the frame story with the author rang a bit wooden and did not completely capture my attention, I loved the opening of the core plot itself, especially the interaction between M. Gustave and Madame D.</div>
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I always enjoy Wes Anderson's work for their contained and detailed universes, as well as his impeccable sense of comic timing, but he does employ a certain affectation that constantly jolts me out of the movie's universe. While you enjoy what unfolds before you, you are acutely aware that you are watching a film.</div>
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In the end, however, who is to say an affected style is wrong? But my thoughts on film criticism and analysis are for another day. For now, I'm content because a good movie with friends was the perfect end to a relaxed and productive day.</div>
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<a href="https://24.media.tumblr.com/abeb877a35e71a6aab947651a30c699f/tumblr_n22vvvPACS1rupgj7o7_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://24.media.tumblr.com/abeb877a35e71a6aab947651a30c699f/tumblr_n22vvvPACS1rupgj7o7_500.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<img border="0" height="426" src="https://24.media.tumblr.com/576a08c2af588bb12f4a2d1fc6916ab8/tumblr_n22vvvPACS1rupgj7o1_r1_500.jpg" width="640" />In any case, the process behind a film is infinitely more interesting than trading opinions, so:</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/02/movies/the-miniature-model-behind-the-grand-budapest-hotel.html" target="_blank">The New York Times has a look at the miniatures built for exterior shots of the Grand Budapest Hotel</a></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.bbook.com/willem-dafoe-hotel/" target="_blank">Willem Dafoe talks about working with Wes Anderson</a></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.wmagazine.com/culture/on-set-film-photos/2014/03/the-grand-budapest-hotel/photos" target="_blank">A look at moments behind the scenes</a></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2014/03/06/unbelievably-wonderfully-grand/" target="_blank">On Wes Anderson and Stefan Zweig, whose work inspired the film</a></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/films/features/wes-anderson-and-the-best-props-in-hollywood-meet-the-graphic-designer-tasked-with-bringing-the-directors-films-to-life-9155230.html" target="_blank">The graphic designer behind the movie's props </a></li>
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And check out the amazing <a href="http://www.akademiezubrowka.com/" target="_blank">website</a> and <a href="http://zubrowkafilmcommission.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">tumblr</a> - people have been getting really inventive with online marketing.</div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-55528780681136969032014-03-08T10:00:00.000+01:002014-03-08T10:00:02.458+01:00Weekend Roundup<div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/joannablu/8593563510/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8103/8593563510_7231dc657a_z.jpg" /></a><b>What to do this weekend:</b></div>
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<a href="http://the90sbutton.com/" target="_blank">Relive the 90s</a> (even if you were but a wee nerd child unaware of anything but classical music)</div>
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<a href="http://www.epicexquisitecorpse.com/" target="_blank">Take part in an epic online game of <i>cadavre exquis</i></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://alanajonesmann.com/2013/04/diy-house-plant-cupcakes/" target="_blank">Make cacti cupcakes</a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>What I've been reading lately:</b></div>
</div>
<div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://nkjemisin.com/2012/02/dreaming-awake/" target="_blank">On mythology and personal history </a></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://stacialbrown.com/2014/03/03/when-a-comparatively-carefree-blackgirl-wins-an-oscar/" target="_blank">In light of Lupita Nyong'o's Oscar win</a></div>
</div>
<div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://talkingpointsmemo.com/cafe/history-explains-how-tension-in-the-ukraine-goes-back-centuries" target="_blank">Contextualizing what's happening in Ukraine</a></div>
</div>
<div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
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<a href="http://www.ipreferparis.net/2014/02/parisian-of-the-month-philippe-apleoig-.html" target="_blank">Interesting profile of Parisian graphic designer Philippe Apleoig</a></div>
</div>
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</div>
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Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/joannablu/8593563510/" target="_blank">Joanna Kitchener</a></div>
</div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-56958767580361078172014-03-06T12:46:00.005+01:002014-03-06T12:46:57.770+01:00Enlightened<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvrgLUcRt32dYQHyc6JLBQN-kGG2-NvN6gfZGZNsVqJwhlVwZ6Qnz8WLEEq4CdcFjvvi1YTicOJjTNnDhziG9qP4cFbAJJUsCOL6-9x4OA1cnTcqoAh3JdNtDOItFe40ZHvC7NU08b3F2g/s1600/IMG_5801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvrgLUcRt32dYQHyc6JLBQN-kGG2-NvN6gfZGZNsVqJwhlVwZ6Qnz8WLEEq4CdcFjvvi1YTicOJjTNnDhziG9qP4cFbAJJUsCOL6-9x4OA1cnTcqoAh3JdNtDOItFe40ZHvC7NU08b3F2g/s1600/IMG_5801.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
One day they'll find my collection of dead bugs too,<br />
<br />
and then it won't be hoarding, but<br />
<br />
a gift of knowledge to mankind.unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-4448809460106367842014-03-05T14:15:00.001+01:002014-03-10T14:15:06.376+01:00London Town<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZblumTo68iS_Av7x1iVjMdsrp8h_TdRARGiv6_Osm0lxHt7lLuPV-jojhKvnVjBFfPAKUYv4y28bslvYMpob81xYjxeVYj5A0-g1MgTcHDTpG656cRPLfrp4KA0tyzmq1a2djOWStImbV/s1600/2013-12-22+09.55.09.jpg" height="354" width="640" /></div>
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I don't think I will ever get my fill of London. A true monster of a city, it swallowed me up and spit me back out without a second thought. Which just makes me want to poke at it again with a shorter stick. And I have to say London does Christmas better than any city I've ever visited. </div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdn50KBnfwwNyu4OcPveMEaKCVOoKPpkMfuvKWQaBuYK6BvHt68icHTBK9Xy2-oLPSC7qMNXPYcmGVmA8PQ3cxASqWNbZEEb2HinUM3DUygnr-LSqnf9h8h0PrfeoZDhVvZ-TIYV4ycx1K/s1600/IMG_5610.JPG" height="426" width="640" />The cutest children's tour at the fashion exhibit. Everyone had a hat and the guide was this rosy-cheeked woman who was <i>so</i> enthusiastic, it felt like she was leading them into a magic marshmallow kingdom and not a weirdly-lit room full of old clothes. ...I would have followed her into the magic marshmallow kingdom.</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i> "...if one cannot be both it is better to be feared than loved."</i> -Niccolò Machiavelli</div>
</blockquote>
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unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-3522242454200506882014-03-04T20:55:00.000+01:002014-03-04T20:55:44.856+01:00Once More, With Gusto<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I need to be honest with you and share my little existential crisis.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I say little. It's been growing bigger and scarier for several years. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Every so often, I ask myself why I keep shouting in the echo chamber. Why I dedicate so much of time to the presentation of life. I wonder if I've been busy missing the desert for a grain of sand, and I wonder what is worth giving my attention to in this world. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Most bloggers wake up at some point with such a crisis, but it's the ones who power through that make it, in the end.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So here I am, wiping the slate clean and powering through.</div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-11965616746190074782014-02-21T15:06:00.002+01:002014-03-05T14:11:35.179+01:00Glasses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-13GvyQpDt1pK-KBCwnK8EmT2UdlSKXfiP8S0w6aUyrU_Ptxq_8CiGx27-yTXAbzAeUa3x_fkAgLN_6t89JkEPPt_llzt_Chyphenhyphen_WjIL_80tHU_KJ0G-qwBXf3C87lFrqPEKw_4PR5MJqdn/s1600/IMG_6571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-13GvyQpDt1pK-KBCwnK8EmT2UdlSKXfiP8S0w6aUyrU_Ptxq_8CiGx27-yTXAbzAeUa3x_fkAgLN_6t89JkEPPt_llzt_Chyphenhyphen_WjIL_80tHU_KJ0G-qwBXf3C87lFrqPEKw_4PR5MJqdn/s1600/IMG_6571.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
My new glasses aren't coated with anti-glare paint<br />
so my eyes have been replaced by reflections,<br />
a parallel world in one-way glass<br />
or on better days, a <i>sparkle</i>, a twinkle of the eye.<br />
<br />
Well,<br />
that's the end of being photographed in glasses.<br />
I guess it's good<br />
for the existence of some things never to be recorded.<br />
<br />
<i>i was never here...</i>unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-60996279908515097932014-02-15T14:50:00.000+01:002014-02-15T16:35:14.609+01:00Lately<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHnzFpKvVgO0dMbOmQfvAPJ3oAEY1TdFgOfcsyZKx3arlvisXU9eqZEkNpZf0XYFebTTXI_3fmkaDy4f7EIixmEOyEqTvkBQQ86OiKHYzzGFyBY3RgEtMuupTnUgF3-RpWNnWgusWVEZ_x/s1600/IMG_6565-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHnzFpKvVgO0dMbOmQfvAPJ3oAEY1TdFgOfcsyZKx3arlvisXU9eqZEkNpZf0XYFebTTXI_3fmkaDy4f7EIixmEOyEqTvkBQQ86OiKHYzzGFyBY3RgEtMuupTnUgF3-RpWNnWgusWVEZ_x/s1600/IMG_6565-1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
celebrations > worries</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-71299302662930295182013-11-07T00:03:00.000+01:002013-11-07T01:30:08.999+01:00Europe Bucket List | Painted Village of Zalipie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/104442098@N06/10115548183/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5340/10115548183_374a617755.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There are a ton of things to worry about: grades, the future (shudder), economic instability, global warming, the inevitability of death...and now halfway through my second year in France, the ticking clock of my time in Europe (I've just looked up "sand timer thingy" to find that <i>hourglass</i> is the more precise word I am searching for. Memory loss hits you when you least expect it...). Next year, I might be back in the States for good, so whatever I need to see of Europe, I need to see it now. Stressful, am I right? </div>
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It seems like every day, the list of amazing must-see sights expands a bit more, whether it's some surrealist-designed garden in Italy or intriguing street art in Spain. Today, the EBL welcomes the village of Zalipie, located in Southeast Poland. Honestly, my first thought was, "It looks like Rapunzel got her hands on this place."</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/104442098@N06/10115486386/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7289/10115486386_c8a82e45b4_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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But the actual story is way more interesting than the plot of "Tangled" (though I am <i>so so</i> partial to tears of the king and queen awwwwklajfljasfaj). Zalipie women started painting their houses over a century ago, first covering up soot stains from their stoves with whitewash. When that didn't remove the spots completely, they would paint colorful flowers over them in preparation for religious festivals. These days, the paintings are no longer clever cleaning alternatives, but shows of creativity. Over the years, they've spread from the houses to bridges, chicken coops, and wells...practically anything with a blank surface. </div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/104442098@N06/10115397164/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2878/10115397164_243d42c9d8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This is even more amazing when you consider the fact that when this tradition started, the villagers didn't have access to professional paint or brushes. They likely made their brushes out of the tail hairs of their cows, and mixed up their own paint with dumpling fat. </div>
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Now every year, the village hosts a competition around the feast of Corpus Christi called Malowana Chata, introduced in 1948 as part of the recovery movement after the Second World War.</div>
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Photos via <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/104442098@N06/with/10115486386/" target="_blank">House of Painters in Zalipie</a></div>
unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5207314573393859036.post-5443223720623767792013-11-06T00:20:00.000+01:002013-11-06T00:20:23.104+01:00French Oktoberfest in November<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheR0OoFSidKNIB2bESI1ovZ5sT0BPmBrUFCiJ2mdNHuMX_qvft_Xr2vftaW0nW6ZqVTAXlDc5a8x_7G2FQ8Pzhed6-H_IoI7F2VrLzY9mvxuE1gITg1sHXt4Ru1K4EorwASkkZrXuvzTM4/s1600/IMG_5326.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheR0OoFSidKNIB2bESI1ovZ5sT0BPmBrUFCiJ2mdNHuMX_qvft_Xr2vftaW0nW6ZqVTAXlDc5a8x_7G2FQ8Pzhed6-H_IoI7F2VrLzY9mvxuE1gITg1sHXt4Ru1K4EorwASkkZrXuvzTM4/s640/IMG_5326.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
Complete with inflatable German buildings.<br />
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We ended our trip in Metz with a meal inside these festive white tents, because it was the liveliest place in town and we were so cold hearty German food sounded like the best thing on Earth.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAAYDqd9CJJxZhYfA40dIJ7_euW8Rh7El48lQaCnCbwfJpUQ1FEptzw0-rhvbrGoqBEexr4SM7ujHH_B6medq9LWThpm7uq4owb54seLoUg7M6g_GFQ_ogWeB5geiF-2EWR6s8gnrydl8v/s1600/IMG_5420_resize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAAYDqd9CJJxZhYfA40dIJ7_euW8Rh7El48lQaCnCbwfJpUQ1FEptzw0-rhvbrGoqBEexr4SM7ujHH_B6medq9LWThpm7uq4owb54seLoUg7M6g_GFQ_ogWeB5geiF-2EWR6s8gnrydl8v/s1600/IMG_5420_resize.jpg" /></a></div>
We weren't disappointed...live musicians in lederhosen playing everything from folksy French tunes to Elvis Presley, a dance floor full of elderly couples having a great time, and a cold beer to wash down the warm sausage and fresh frites.<br />
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We had to cut our meal short to catch our last-minute ride back home, but <b>at least we had a ride</b>...otherwise we were this close to sleeping in the train station that night.unicornfarmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897698635942887807noreply@blogger.com0