Paris Food Markets

With all my trips, geo discoveries, new places on my travel map and all the excitement around it, – briefly, with all the wanderlust, – I have noticed that I almost never write about Paris. Living in Paris, however, has been my lifelong dream and one of the best things that happened to me. Ever. I am grateful every day for calling it my city, walking its streets (or riding it with my white bicycle), tuning in to its noise and sleeping under its stars. So, to celebrate having spent two complete weeks here (largely devoted to visa applications), I am taking a geo detour to tell a little about my Paris.

Paris is many things to many people, and for me it’s the weekend food markets (among many other things). I don’t cook much but the beauty of these markets is that they don’t require a lot of cooking. You follow the golden rule of great meal: best ingredients. With the food markets, you do your shopping on one street and set yourself for a successful dinner (or lunch).

The closest market to me in the one on rue Poncelet. My first address in Paris (well, this time that I am living here) was just around the corner, at rue des Renaudes, and I used to come to rue Poncelet almost every day. Now I mostly come during the weekends, but every time it is a great experience, the one that makes living in Paris for me really precious. Food markets are extremely popular among locals, next door food stores are literally empty during the market working hours. Maybe because of that, markets become a center of civilization at the quartier, attracting many small restaurants, cafés and all sorts of shops and ateliers. The symphony of colors, perfumes and tastes wakes up all your senses and reminds that you are in Paris, it’s a beautiful day and life is the best tale ever told.

IMG_1508 copy.jpg

Walk with me to look around.

Continue reading

Homeland Blues

It has been ten years since I left Russia.

I did not leave because I wanted to leave. My key motivation in taking a pair of boxes, a Siberian cat and moving to Helsinki was to explore the world. I wanted to travel, to get to know countries, to meet interesting people, to see different things with different eyes. I was not running away from something I did not like. Instead, I was flying towards something I loved even though I have not seen it yet. And, looking back, and looking around, I think it is very important, to fly towards something you love.

I have rarely looked back. Since I left, I have been to Russia only twice: to meet my mom, who was there for some of our family affairs, and for one of my best friends’ wedding. That’s before I graduated from INSEAD and took my current job. Up to this moment, I have never worked in Russian. Back in the days, when I was hired to do commodity trading at 18, English was my only asset, and I have been working with foreign counterparts since then.

I did not really know what to expect from my first business trip Russia. I opened up my first call with my Russian team by saying: “Look, there are two options here. First, I speak English and you think that I am pretentious. Second, I speak Russian and you think I am, well, slow.” – “Slow! Slow is so much better!” – cheered my Russian team.

I absolutely loved it. People at the office, customer meetings, even the taxi drivers and traffic jams, universally hateful things, I was embracing it all. And, of course, my Moscow friends. Russia gave me energy unparalleled to any other country in the world. And, also, the last thing I have expected from coming here: a sense of belonging.

I could not help but wondering how my life would unfold had I stayed  here. Russia is many things to many people but some of them are common and unique. Soviet cartoons and movies. The fact that people you meet for the first – and probably the last – time can suddenly care about you. Transactional caring sort of thing, like an old lady in the subway who wants you to take her seat because you look tired. Car stickers: the last one that got me was a Shrek-like cat on the back of the car, “Forgive and Forget” written all over it. People reading real books in public transport. Joke exchange with strangers, which can spring from an eyebrow move. It turns out, I was attached to Russia in more ways than I cared to notice. My very best friends, with one exception, are all Russian. Most of them living abroad, yes, but still Russian. Russian sense of humour, as I found out, even ten years without a single update on Russian funny, newly invented words and expressions, still matches mine. And there is something very difficult to catch with words, some slight sadness without any apparent reason, so thin and romantic that you almost love it. A kind of sadness that makes your life beautiful: as if something unfortunate happened and made you look around and realise that what you are living is precious. Just without anything unfortunate actually happening.

Moving to Paris was one of the best things in my life. It was my longtime dream, my ambition and the endless source of inspiration – and energy – in everything that I did. Well, in many things that I did. The day I signed my lease for my first apartment here, at 32, rue des Renaudes, was one of the happiest of my life. It took me just a week to find that place. I sent my application file while being stuck for 10 hours in Frankfurt on my way to Kazakhstan (thank you, Lufthansa!). My INSEAD friend Lena bravely volunteered then to be my warrant. I think we were missing half of the required documents, but I still got the place. Talk about the stars aligning when you dream about something with your heart wide open.

I am absolutely happy living here. Every time I land in Charles de Gaulle, I have a happiness boost. I am home. (I have a confidence boost as well: I did it, I belong here now!) And yet, every time I come to Russia, between the rush of work, the laughter of friends, chatter with taxi drivers, between the office jokes and birthday cakes, I can’t help but thinking, what if… Just for a moment.

I call it homeland blues. Do you ever get it?

🙂

Chapter II: London

I almost never talk about London but it is a big chapter of my life. I lived there for, in total, about two years. I walked the kilometres of its streets, indulged in its senses, breathed it, enjoyed it, loved it. Then I left, and with an exception of a short stint for an interview with Shell during my INSEAD year, did not come back until now, seven years after. A month ago, Louveteau and I went to London to celebrate his birthday. And just for the weekend in London, quoi. It was a good opportunity for me to reconnect with my memories of the British capital and to reflect on the aftermath of this city’s magic on me.

London has shaped me in many ways. The education I got there might not be the most relevant for my career (well, actually, you never know with education: something learnt a decade ago can suddenly come handy. Actually, that’s what usually happens.) However, the experiences I got there, the risks I took and the decisions I made, good and bad, affected many of my life choices. Maybe that’s why it seems very important to me to resurrect my time in London.

IMG_6978 small.jpg

Writing this chapter took me some time. Impressions fade over years, memories are getting replaced sooner than we realize it. London, however, stays with me in many ways, more than I probably know of.

When addresses, places, shows and fireworks leave the memory, when things, once precious, are worn out and thrown away, something inside, something forged by the dialogue with the city, by its gifts and the sacrifices it demands, by its generosity, its history, its magic, – this intangible something stays.

So I took my time to go through my first notes about London from as far as seven years ago, to reconstruct my first impressions, feelings about London, to breathe in my past. To cherish it.

Continue reading

Moving Homes

There are people who don’t really care about where they live. I mean, they might care about the actual city, location, flights of stairs, driving distance from the office (or from the airport). But the actual home? Comes second, at best. I am not one of them.

At least, at this stage of my life. After I was born, I spent first several years in a concrete mini skyscraper next to the Gulf of Finland (that’s an area in St Petersburg, though the geo tags might be confusing), in the home that I barely remember. Actually, my only memory of that place is my own bed, inhabited by a maximum number of some adorable (or I so thought back then) stuffed animals. Some of them very big. We then moved to the first place that we owned as a family, in the city’s historical center, on Repina street.

This one I remember very well (I spent around ten years there, after all). First we had a room there (well, a room of 33 square meters with 4+ meters ceilings, but anyway) and were sharing the other facilities, like bathroom and kitchen, with other 3 families. Facing an option like that now would send me to a state of deep shock, but back then it was absolutely awesome. Our Tatar neighbors had a boy in my class (and his sister a few classes elder), he was secretly (or not so secretly) in love with my best friend, and soon the entire class was playing hide-and-seek in our long and not-always-so-well-lite hallways. Then we had one more room, which became my own. Russia at that time just emerged from the Soviet Union, and no one was clear how to go about the real estate. The property that belonged to the state for almost a century became private overnight, but who was to own it? And how to acquire more? In Soviet time, owning anything was not an option (even good books very rare and property of a library, or an item of a proud family collection, like in our case. We might not had much, but we had our books). One could only get an apartment (or a room) after some work history to support one’s claim: 20+ years working above the Polar Circle (my grandma), a few Doctorate degrees (my dad). And then suddenly everything became for sale, except that no one had any real cash to pay (and there was no credit system to sustain the alternative financing options yet). I lived across the street from my best childhood friend. It was the narrowest street in town. We were besties since six. And yet, we were economic worlds apart. My friends’ family were as bourgeois as one could possibly be during the post Soviet times. We were, well, my parents and their friends were a bunch of people believing in science. My bestie did not care. We were always together, on this or that side of the economic dividing line.

IMG_6800.jpg

Place des Ternes on the day I was leaving it, the heart of my old neighbourhood in Paris

Continue reading

Nice: freezing under the summer sun and a few tips of heavenly food

Here is an altitude view of Côte d’Azur. It probably is the best airplane picture I have taken.

Below lies Nice. Enchanting, captivating, quiet, magical and mysterious, under a sparkling carpet of lights, from here Nice is probably at its best. Back in the days when Côte d’Azur was my dream destination, I pictured it somewhat like that. 

The real Nice, however, is far from all that. If a notion of mass tourism is applied to the South of France, Nice is the most touristic of all the coastline cities: airport taxi at 35 EUR (not to mention the buses) provides quiet an easy access to everyone lured by the glamour of Côte d’Azur. Proximity to the airport and, relatively to the next door Cannes and Monaco, high population and some historical heritage, attracts crowds and all that comes with them: construction boom of experimental architecture of 80s-90s, multilingual restaurants with long menu in pictures and high density on the narrow pebble beach stripe. That’s not to say that Nice is not worth its fame: the sea is still there and it captures imagination (and hearts) as soon as the plane lands on what seems to be from the window a water surface. Personally, I prefer small cities like Menton close to the Italian border or Eze village on the way to Monaco but occasionally give in to the allure of Nice or Cannes.

IMG_5776.jpg

Farewell to Nice from the plane’s window

Continue reading

What I learnt from travelling to 37 countries (and living in 9)

I have recently posted a teaser on stepping out of the comfort of the place you come from and setting a foot to wander the world. Here is my learning on what happens when you actually do.

Credit card, passport, phone. You will probably forget something somewhere. And most likely, more than once. As practice has it, any travel gap can be covered by a credit card, passport and a phone or a combination of the three. So make sure you hold on to these fundamentals. Everything else is replaceable. It is still useful to pack as few valuable as possible (and in some case, like when travelling to Brazil, to avoid taking any at all), to lock the few you take with you in a safe and to check the room before leaving the hotel for good. Knowing what is enough though will save you a lot of time (and peace of mind) when packing.

Follow your (photo) hunch. Places make first impressions, too. And these first impressions matter. So take pictures of whatever catches your eye. The palm trees will become a usual part of the scenery after a few days on an island, the magic of the Mediterranean sunsets will fade away after a few nights, so keep the memories of the things as you first see them. And remember: imperfect photo is better than no photo at all. In a few months, you might find things that you hated in this picture less dramatic. In a few years, they might become a source of a great story.

Some of the best travel memories happen at 6 am. I learnt it the hard way: waking up that early is the last thing I want to do on vacation. And it can be oh so worth it. My trip to Iguazu falls would never be even nearly as amazing without a 6 am plunge into the smooth surface of the swimming pool followed by the breakfast in the sunrise rays (and a walk to the falls in the only company of coati). One of my best pictures from Rio is its sunrise, which Louveteau and I captured on our last day in Latam when we could finally catch the sun after several days of clouds at the dawn.

Continue reading

Roland Garros 2016: friends, traditions and some Eastern European shopping tips

For two weeks a year, everyone in Paris remembers that they are very into tennis. Crowds flock to Stade Roland Garros to celebrate spring (theoretically, since the tradition of Roland Garros goes back to 1891, long before the climate became weird), get a grasp of latest trends and social gossip, drink champagne and catch up with friends. And to watch tennis, of course. Elena and I are no exception to the rule. Roland Garros became our personal tradition since – we were trying to remember it last weekend – 2011, when we were first invited for one of the Paris sport – and social – key events. “Do you two even like tennis?” – Stephan, then Elena’s boyfriend, was challenging our intentions.

We did like tennis: at 2011, Elena, a student of Panthéon-Assas and myself, a proud resident of a 22 m2 apartment under the roofs of the 9th arrondissement of Paris and an exchange at Dauphine, liked every social event we could get to in Paris. Let alone Roland Garros.

IMG_5495

Rolland Garros 2016: the trophies

A lot of things have changed since then. Elena has defended the best in class thesis on political science and was then lured by the challenges of commercial sector. I have graduated from my Masters as well, went to Istanbul, then back to Finland and then returned to France for INSEAD. Elena and Stephan got married, moved to a new place and now have a daughter. I graduated from INSEAD, left for Munich and now have finally come back home, to Paris. When I think about 2011, everything has changed and only Fedya, Lena’s dog, remains a constant in our lives (and now a favorite toy of Jeanne). However, we still reunite every year to watch Nadal, make a ton of epic pictures and, naturally, to exchange news and reflections on life (and Paris public) over champagne.

Continue reading