Spirit and Beauty and Sadness

A concert was cancelled out of respect for the recent attacks: "We send our love and prayers to the people of Paris." Reading the sentence makes me feel sick. Bombings happen all the time in the Middle East, in some city whose name I can't pronounce, killing some people whose lives I can't relate to.

Americans have always had a romantic conception of Paris. It's the city of light, the epitome of culture. Those of us who are lucky enough to have spent any time there remember only the tremendous spirit and breathtaking beauty--even in its faults. In Paris we have been happy. In Paris we have been spirited and beautiful.

That the people of Paris need someone's love and prayers is upsetting. This happens in the Middle East, not in Paris. This attack is personal. It hurts in the way that penetrates and lingers.

I remember Valentine asking about the méchants. I gave her a hug and false promises of safety.

Victor Hugo wrote in L'homme qui rit, "La vie n'est qu'une longue perte de tout ce qu'on aime." Life is nothing but a long loss of everything we love. Paris will rally and the pain will become motivation, but this weekend we have lost a bit of something we loved and the only thing to do is to hug each other and to lie to each other that things will be ok.

The Inevitability of Gentrification

When I was very young, climbing was a sport reserved for the dirty, unconventionally-employed people who were looking for a way to be in touch with their bodies and with nature. I guess you might call them hippies. That all started to change with my generation of climbers.

I tied my first figure eight knot at the age of six at Planet Rock Climbing Gym in Pontiac, MI. The people there would eventually become my family but I had no way of knowing that as I threaded the rope through my full-body harness. Back then the employees were taught by real experts. They were real experts. They cared so much about climbing (almost every single one of them is still involved in the community) and they already knew a lot before starting work. There were two general categories of people who came into the gym: those who were there to say they had tried it and those who were or would become completely obsessed. I personally was a member of the obsessed camp. The sweat and tears, long hours on the road and on the rock, bloody fingers, bloody knees, victories, and defeats have without question been the defining force in making me who I am today.

Fast forward almost 20 years and I'm finding it harder and harder to relate to other climbers. Nowadays chain gyms are filled with a new category of climber: the lunch break workout climbers. From what I can tell, they're in there because Zumba didn't sound extreme enough to their tech office friends. They're following a trend, not an obsession. While I'm happy (or should be) that this means that beautiful training facilities are popping up everywhere and climbing is now very accessible, I'm upset that it's changing the environment of the crag and the gym into something in which I have no desire to take part.

These lunch break climbers are seen simply as a good source of income to make improvements to the gym. Time isn't invested in them to make them productive members of the community because they aren't really investing anything in return aside from their monthly dues. These are the people who overestimate their abilities and get themselves into trouble on the rock. These are the people who don't follow etiquette and alienate seasoned professionals. But it's not their fault. It's our little community that's to blame. The grungy few that populated the climbing gyms when I was young make up the climbing elite now. I don't just mean the people whose faces cover the magazines or those who win the competitions, but the ones building gyms and pushing our sport behind the scenes as well. We were just a bit too greedy, seeing the opportunity to step into the limelight and taking it without consideration of what might happen to us if we did. We built new facilities with outrageous entry fees and found out how to get the most members while spending the fewest resources to train them. We televised competitions and asked huge international companies to sponsor them and us. We stopped being a little community and started being the place people go on their lunch break because Zumba didn't sound extreme enough.

I miss the days when I could walk into almost any gym in the country and run into someone I knew. Now even in my home gym I feel alone and out of place. When I look at the person on the wall next to me I don't see a fellow obsessor, I just see a stranger. San Francisco may be at the extreme end of this gentrification of climbing, but I'm afraid the rest of the country is heading in the same direction.

I'm not sure we can turn back now. The people in charge are committed to making climbing an Olympic sport, to having a gym in every suburb with a Starbucks attached to the gear shop and a line out the door at noon every workday. I want to be angry at someone for taking my safe place and turning it into something so industrial and impersonal, but I can't blame anyone because in their position I would have made the exact same decisions. It's so hard not to be blinded by fame and money.

While all of this is happening I find myself in the position of the lunch breaker in another arena. I came to San Francisco willing to pay the absurd entry fee. I know I won't stay here, I'm not committed or obsessed. I'm just here for now because some other city didn't sound extreme enough. My friends are moving here, too. It's a bit of a fad for people my age to come to the Bay Area, get a job in tech, and go to climbing gyms on our lunch breaks. I feel guilty but at the same time I know it's not my fault. It's the old San Franciscans who allowed this to happen, right? They took an inconceivably large check in return for their home and found themselves surrounded by well-dressed strangers who don't care about them. I don't know what will happen to San Francisco or to the climbing community in the next 20 years. It's hard to believe that one person can make a difference in that path anyway.

(and After)

After three days of buying the wrong tools and then the right tools and finding time to assemble my bike before and after work it's finally ready. In an attempt to fit in I bought a fixie. It's a hipstery cream color with dark mint wheels and white accessories. I lug the bike down two flights of stairs and push it through the front door of our apartment building. It's heavier than I want it to be.

On the flat along the ocean I check the brake again. It doesn't work very well. I squeeze it all the way and feel myself barely slowing. Dragging my foot along the ground seems like a much more efficient means of stopping so I consider taking my bike back to my apartment. But if I go back I'll surely be late for work.

At the park I turn uphill and ride past the polo stadium and people walking their dogs. The grade is gentle enough for me to climb with my single gear but steep enough that I'm exhausted, red-faced, and sweaty when I arrive to work. I should have gotten a real bike.

A few hours later I'm faced with the thought of riding back downhill with no working brake. I adjusted my bike to freewheel so I could coast; there would be no stopping with the pedals. Having some spare time, I walk my bike toward the park, then out of frustration start riding the brief uphill. I stay on for some mellow descending, using my right shoe against the pavement as a brake. My back heats the leftover pastries in my bag even though I'm moving barely faster than a walking pace.

Between the timid half-riding and walking down the steepest hills, I arrive at the Outer Sunset avenues and exit the park. From here it's all flat but I stay a few streets up from the beach for a better view. Riding through the alphabet, past Irving, Judah, and Kirkham, I note the way the smell of pizza penetrates the wet beach air.

Finally at Taraval I turn to the ocean. The three businesses easily accessible to us have burned to an unrecognizable state. I guess today was a doozy. But none of this makes me unhappy: I live on the Pacific Ocean and ride my hipster bike to a job that I enjoy. San Franciscans are welcoming and encourage sincerity. There are few social rules here to limit self-expression. You can make mistakes and learn in a relatively judgement-free environment. I don't know if I'll live here for just a year or for five, but I can already tell it will be hard to leave.

L'Appel du Vide

The invisible arm is pushing me again. Over the edge and down to the cars below. The conversation is good, the night beautiful. And yet that little voice in my head screams at me to jump off the roof, my splat on the sidewalk just another "pop" amongst all the other celebratory explosions of Independence. I sit down, safer from myself with more surface area on the solid tar.

I've always had a vivid imagination; always felt like I was seconds away from doing something drastic. It's a terrifying feeling but you learn to cope by staying away from 23rd-story balconies and distracting yourself when near traffic. I know that l'appel du vide, or the call of the void, is also why I was able to move to the other side of the planet and leave everything I knew, so I accept the bad for the benefits it offers me.

But now I wonder about the benefits. If jumping off a building is necessarily bad then how is killing your old life for a mysterious new one necessarily good? Of course I've grown as a person, but I left the greatest time and people so far in my life for a place that left me miserable and jaded.

And now I face another crossroads. The voice is telling me to run to California. But this time there's another voice too--the voice of reason, perhaps--that tells me to seek redemption and happiness where I know it exists.

Life back in the States is strange. I have a great story to tell but it's too exhausting to relive every time I meet an old friend, or a new one. What have I been up to during the past two years? I'm not even sure where to begin. "And you?" I almost feel guilty for asking. No one can match my story. It's the devil on my shoulder that's made me what I am today, but at what price?

So I'll let the arms carry me once again to California to try to squeeze yet more from life, but this time I'll be cognizant of the angel on my shoulder, too. Maybe there are many ways to live life to the fullest.

The Calm Before the Storm

Around me everything is still. The sunsets grow lovelier every night, the children's dinnertime screaming has been replaced by quiet presentation of drawings so I won't forget them. It even seems like half of the residents of my apartment building have gone to their summer cottages à la campagne. But inside me the storm that has been brewing for the last few months is reaching its breaking point.

Ask me about receptor-mediated endocytosis. Ask me about how entropy changes when a protein folds. Let me tell you about the role of telomeres in aging. I've never worked as hard for anything as I've worked for the MCAT. Partially out of boredom but mostly out of fear, I've come to know even the most complex biological concepts like the back of my hand. Am I proud of this? I don't know. College-Miura would have called me a poser, a try-hard. Why put effort into something you're not truly interested in? But now-Miura knows what it means to work hard even when she doesn't want to, and why that's so important.

The first clouds will appear tomorrow night when I anxiously try to sleep before the big day. I'm not scared but I am excited to finally put to use all this knowledge I've attained. The next week will go quickly while I say goodbye and deal with all of the stuff I've accumulated. I wish I could just leave everything and start new. Before I know it I'll wash ashore in America, wander around from east to more east to all the way west. Then I'll go to work setting up a new life, perhaps the most daunting task in my near future.

I hope the transition back to being in the States won't be as hard as I fear it will be. Where will I find good bread? How long will it be until my brain starts to function in English again? Will I be able to keep my mouth shut when someone mispronounces "crêpe"? Probably not, I never could before. Of course I'll miss Paris. Living here was a dream come true. But now it's time to go make the next one a reality.

I'll see you soon,
Miura

10 Things I've Learned in France That Probably Won't Apply to Real Life Ever

Living in Paris has been wonderful. But sometimes I can't help but feel like I'm not exactly living in the real world. Don't get me wrong--I love French people-- but occasionally I have brief moments of clarity where I realize that their behaviors aren't exactly... how you say.. normal. Of course all of the observations here are generalizations (and all generalizations are wrong) that probably don't apply to many or even all French people. But they're patterns that I can't not notice. So without further ado here are 10 things I've learned in France that probably won't apply to real life ever:

1. If You Can Get Your Car There, You Can Leave Your Car There

Parking in France is like being in a Nike ad: you Just Do It. Is your car halfway on the curb? Great! That means it's not in the middle of the road. Are you preventing another car from leaving its spot? No problem.. First of all he'll be happy to have an excuse for being late to work. Secondly, what an asshole! He shouldn't have parked there! Is your vehicle pinning down a human being? Well, maybe fix that.

2. Do Whatever You Can to Make Sure People Know You're Not Trying

This may seem like a contradiction, but let me assure you that French people will do anything to make it look like they're not trying. Whether due to malnutrition or general attitude problems, not having the energy to completely button your shirt/pull up your pants/try a sweater on before buying it to see if it fits/etc. is normal (herein lies the secret to French fashion: it's important to always have at least one article of clothing haphazardly draped across your body like "I thought about dressing myself this morning, but eh"), and if you do these things you will look like a try-hard.

3. Having Good Posture Is Not Cool

This goes along the same lines as #2. You wouldn't want to put too much effort into having healthy spine positioning. Sometimes I wonder if the slouch is the French mating call when a pack of adolescent males passes by in the midst of a contest of who can make the best upside-down "J" with their vertebral column. (N.B. This rule applies except if you find yourself in a ballet class, in which case TUCK YOUR GODDAMN PELVIS UNDER YOU CAVEMAN)

4. Americans Are the Worst

THE. WORST.

5. Not Working Is an Important Part of Working

Maybe even THE most important part.. The waiter will consider bringing you your check once you have bothered him at least twice about it, sat to think about your disruptive behavior for a good 30 minutes, and already missed that show at the Moulin Rouge. A monthly paycheck isn't earned without at least the consideration of a strike and this idea is lurking the back of every French employed person's mind at all times.

6. Deodorant Is Optional

Are you going to perform a highly strenuous physical activity in a relatively small, poorly-ventilated building on a warm day? Sounds like the perfect opportunity to skip the deodorant and make sure everyone is aware of your presence! Seriously though, I will never understand this one. I have literally had to exit buildings, leave elevators prematurely, and request new seating because of some French guy's musk.

7. The Food Isn't Disgusting, You're Just Uncultured

What, you don't like ground-up fattened-duck liver? Does the gelatinous inner portion of a bone not sound or look appetizing to you? Has your enteric nervous system begun the process of reverse peristalsis (that's upchuck for all of you non-scientists.. see, I'm getting the attitude thing down already!) at the thought of consuming a single snail, not to mention the five others that come with that appetizer? Well any français will tell you that with enough garlic anything tastes good, and if you can't appreciate the delicate aromas then why don't you go back to America where you came from?

8. Nobody Takes the Bus

If you're cool you take the Métro to work. If you're really cool you ride to work nonchalantly past centuries-old national monuments en vélo. And if you're indescribably next-level cool, you swoop between the Peugeots and Citroëns on your moto. Nobody takes the bus.

9. Wine Is Appropriate at Any Time of Day

Do I need to explain this one?

10. The Parisian Sidewalk Is the French Version of the Colosseum

There are few arenas more savage than the Parisian sidewalk. If someone is heading in your direction there are a few important steps to take in preparation: First, be sure not to make eye contact as this might send the wrong impression to your opponent, as if you give a single shit about them or something. Of course, if you do, don't let it change any of the following steps. Second, find the exact middle of the sidewalk and establish your line of attack. Finally, follow through and do not ever give in to the Other. This is both a contest of brute strength and one of stamina. Whoever remains on the sidewalk at the end wins. This becomes much easier if you have friends or multiple children to back you up because, as you know, multiple people can simultaneously block a larger width of the sidewalk than one alone can. I have a theory for why French people love to carry baguettes under their arms, and it has nothing to do with dinner.



Anyway I hope I haven't offended all of you. Or maybe I do hope you're offended, I don't know any more.

à la prochaine,
Miura

Lost and Found

Another city. It's beautiful, just like the one before and just like the next one. Different, of course, but beautiful just the same and by now my ability to appreciate the differences is saturated to the point that even Asia looks like Europe looks probably like Australia and I want to go home. The life of a vagabond is surprisingly unrewarding and passionless. I don't know if it's a defense mechanism or just the result of overstimulation but I can't feel any more. It's so so beautiful and yet I feel nothing except the feeling that I should be feeling something.

I used to leave the house every day hungry for adventure and often returned empty-handed and frustrated. Now I wake with no appetite, stuff down as much as I can, and go to bed early.

Sometimes I remember the old me and I miss her. The new me is responsible, punctual. But jaded. I don't know where the creativity used to come from but that part is long dead.
How will I go back to America knowing how to pronounce Uber and not be an immediate outcast? If nobody understood me before they definitely won't now. But still I want to go home.

Baltimore burns and I read about it in the news. I should be there to help fight and to help clean up afterwards, but instead I'm taking a walk in this goddamn beautiful city, eating another piece of honey-soaked baklava that doesn't taste nearly as good as it did in Dearborn, spreading myself yet thinner over the globe.
Which movies came out last week? Last year? Which songs are being blasted in the frat basements and who is blasting them? I don't know and I don't care.
The call to prayer is wallowing from the minarets twice as old as my country and I'm looking for a WiFi network--more out of habit than necessity--to no avail.

Everything I miss about America can be classified as a little thing: paying with a credit card, crunchy pickles, conversations about the local sports team in line at the grocery store, the most ridiculous friends you can imagine, free water, singing in the car. But in the end all those little things add up to something quite big.

I'm tired of analyzing and questioning and still not understanding. I'm tired of fearing that tight bonds might do so much more damage than the weak ones. I'm tired of people asking where I'm from when I just want to fit into somewhere and be a part instead of an other. I'm tired and I want to go home.