kickboxing class a.k.a. today's near death experience

After months of recumbent bike in front of the TV and elliptical machine at the gym, I wanted to change how I sweated off my fat.
My favorite exercise is Zumba, even though it's humiliating to admit.
If I said I loved water aerobics, there's at least a comedic and/or hipster irony to it, like wearing a sweatband or high striped socks. But Zumba really is all remixed musica and women in lycra, and I totally love it.
And that's what I had in mind when I put my champion bra on this morning.

Unfortunately, the class was kickboxing instead.

"No problem," I thought. I can handle kickboxing.
A step towards being more like an MMA fighter is a step in the right direction.

I arrive and find that most of the class is older than me, shorter than me, and scrappier looking than me. But there were two other ostrich shaped women that assuaged my fears that I had just paid my drop in class fee into a muy thai studio.

This was the instructor. But unlike that pic, she was super enthusiastic and smiling. Which helped, the same way an EMT asks you lighthearted questions to keep you talking and conscious in the ambulance, so you don't die.

I'm going to add kickboxing to the list of things that only short people are good at, along with gymnastics, horse-riding, and karate. To kick my big long turkey leg out took twice the time it took for my smaller comrades. I looked like one of the Yo Gabba's doing the moves, and the fact that the other big-birds did too, no longer mattered.

After only 20 min I found myself wishing for push-ups and sit-ups. Only when we finally did them, I was so awful at it that I wished to get back up and punch the air.
I started envisioning what weight class would have to be established to accommodate my size and skill if I were to compete. Potato weight? In this weight, no one is as handicapped as I am and they just string a big sack of potatoes up in the air to see if I can inflict any damage, or if I just hurt myself.  After today I think the sack would be declared the winner.

As I was leaving the class, and collecting what was left of my self-respect, this nice older Vietnamese lady told me that she had arthritis in her shoulder. This same woman had stood in front of me and nailed every move. So she's either a retired ninja, or I am so pathetic that a middle aged arthritic just showed me up big time. 'Pretty sure it's the latter.

Gay Pareeeee

I just wanted to say gay paris, and now I have excuse.
I'm on the RER train (are you impressed with my insider terminology? Oui?) back to Charles De Gaulle after some quality time in Paris. 
It deserves reporting that as I type this there is a man doing karaoke in the train car with me. It's like French-Yiddish-Latino solid gold hits day! He's actually a good singer, just like the guitar player, accordion player and trumpeter, who I've witnessed on board before him, but he's the only one that I've given euros to...
...mostly to get rid of my euros on my way out of the country and also I appreciated the Spanish chorus "besa me, besa me mucho..."

Tons of people go to Paris, right? And they all come back bewitched by its charm/history/sexiness.
I wanted to be counterculture and not fall for it.
But I couldn't. Paris was too powerful for me not to like it. 
Granted, our friend lives in one of the most upscale/beautiful neighborhoods and he made sure we ate the best food and saw the best buildings/museums/gardens.

I did wander into less savory parts of town (in search of Vespa rentals and marches de puces ~ markets of fleas) that felt an awful lot more like Brussels (sorry, Flanders ) or Lagos for that matter. 
But the French have made sure, at all costs, that charm and history are preserved and *that* keeps the euros pouring in from people like me that will pay €30 (or $45) for lunch.
¡Increible! (ok, French doesnt use "¡" but it just feels right)

I hit Versailles and the Louvre all in one day yesterday. Which, you're right , sounds like a terrible idea, but-- After I reach my art-appreciation-ceiling (happens after about 2 1/2 hrs of even the most face-meltingly awesome art), everything dissolves into lines, shapes and colors (there's a modern art joke to be made here, but just like modern art, it's not very funny)
So I saw Marie Antoinette's secret escape passage, Mona Lisa's security eschelon, and enough renaissance boobies in marble and on canvas to last me a lifetime, all in about 10 hrs time.

I really hate to look like or feel like a tourist no matter where I am. This of course creates a challenge in any city where I'm disoriented and unable to communicate with locals.
Of course I was *forced* to speak with Parisians when I was hungry or wanted to buy, say,  a fistful of speedos.
But if it was a woman behind the counter, I would first get the "I hate you" face and then minimal English to make the sale (with the exception of one lesbian waitress, she was lovely to me! Merci! ).
If it was a [straight] man, he was [famously] charming, so those were the few occasions when I didn't feel uncomfortably, awkwardly, touristly American.

I won't hold a map if I can help it, and I won't eat at / shop at any place within 100 yrds of a tourist attraction. Basically if it feels like something akin to Disneyland, I flee. 
I went around Paris most of the time on my own, otherwise this untourist-instinct of mine will drive most travel companions  crazy.

Here is how I saw the main sights of Paris:
-Eiffel tower - walked under, did not stand in huge line to go up in it
-Notre Dame- walked around it, line was like that of Space Mountain (no fast pass!)
-Arc d'triomph- walked near it...
...this list is already boring me, so you can pretty much finish how the rest of it goes in your head.

My only exception was the Catacombs, because of the hype, and the fact that the two single-serving-friends in line in front of  us were from Oakland, took the edge off the 2 hr wait in the rain.

Was it worth the wait?
Nope.
I think New Orleans is way freakier above ground than those 200 yr old mine shafts of piled bones under Paris. Roman ones were way cooler. I think I'm the only catacomb snob out there though, so...enough complaining-- moving on!

My favorite part of Paris though was not the art or architecture. It was the wildlife. Adorable dogs being walked by stylish people by day and rats casually taking care of business at night.

Ah, magical.
Thats how I'm gonna end this too. Ending with rats. Thank you, goodnight!

Von Dutch Baby

(I want to believe that at some point in time, the title of this post was a Wheel of Fortune Before and After puzzle)

Today I'm blogging from a cafe near the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam. Im drinking a cappuccino, but make no mistake, I am not in a "coffeeshop" because that would be a hash joint. 

This confused me for my first few hours cruising around the city because there are tons of coffeeshops, only instead of a hip Starbucks vibe , they give off a skeezy macramé and Foghat je nais ce qua. 

Then I started noticing the names of the shops and putting the aromatic hints together. 

Granted I'm in the heart of Amsterdam, not the burbs, but even at 10am this morning I rode my bike thru cloud after cloud after cloud of ganga smoke.

 It's a wonder that anything gets done around here. "Smoke two joints in the morning" and the rest of your day's activities better include eating or writing rasta songs , or else it ain't happenin'. Just sayin'

Speaking of skeezy, there is a serious imbalance of smoldering hot young chicks and gross guys here. Maybe the guys "drink" too much "coffee" and the chicks ride their bikes all day between magazine shoots, I don't know. Whatever the case, it's another thing about this city that creeps me out (and would ultimately make me depressed about my un-hotness and cause me to wear a bag over my head if I had to live here).

Especially near our hotel, I feel like I'm on Pinoccio's Pleasure Island, and everyone's about grow donkey tails and get tossed into the canal boats. It's not that I'm disgusted with lifestyles here, generally Im not. But I guess the paid-sex , hash clouds, and pickpocket trifecta tends to put one on edge. 

-segway?-

There are tons of Americans here. Tons. I've heard almost as much US English as I have Dutch. They must be getting bulk travel discounts (maybe you can send in a bunch of Dave Matthews Band ticket stubs and get a reduced rate?)

Like I said I'm *near* the museum(s) but waiting in Disneyland-level lines (but no Fast Pass!) seems ludicrous to me, so I haven't been inside a single art museum since arriving on the continent. I don't think the artists that made the art inside would wait in those kinds of lines, which gives me permission to bike around and get lost (literally) instead. 

But tomorrow, Louvre must be conquered. Lines be damned!...