Matador Network's Blog, page 2206

SUPing across the Georgia Straight

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SOMETIMES I’M SO PROUD of my achievements, and then there are people like Bruce Kirkby, who blow me away. Kirkby crossed the Georgia Straight, from Vancouver to Victoria, on an inflatable standup paddleboard. His journey took over 70 miles and several days, in hopes of finding an answer the question, “Why take the ferry?”

His short film goes beyond his desire to SUP across Canadian waters — Kirkby sought to redefine what “adventure” means to himself, and to others around the world. I’d say I agree with his sentiments; adventure is not a one-size-fits-all idea. It’s an interpretation. It gets us to where we need to be.

Drone footage of Burning Man

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ANOTHER AMAZING YEAR AT BURNING MAN comes to a close and now, both participants and all the folks who didn’t make it into the desert, can see it from a new perspective: a bird’s eye-view via drone!

Although I didn’t see many people flying drones this year, I know there were dozens filming the city from high above. In 2014 Burning Man asked drone pilots to register their drones and attend an orientation near the airport. There were also some regulations regarding where pilots were allowed to fly.

I especially love the ‘straight down’ shots over Lee Burridge’s annual 6 hour set at Robot Heart.

On being a chef and a traveler

Photo: Lester Guijarro

I’ve been working in restaurants for the last five years. It’s a challenging job in a pressure-fueled environment that demands tireless effort for sometimes little reward. I love it.

Though I’m still young in terms of my cooking career, I’ve learned a few valuable lessons that’ve helped me become a better traveler.

I’ve learned to open up to people and allow them to do the same.

A kitchen attracts people from all cultures. Last year a quiet, tireless Afghan man started working at my restaurant. He never complained about getting dishes thrown at him in the middle of a frantic service — in fact, on many occasions he’d just say “thank you” and carry on working. After a few conversations with him I learned a great deal about him. They revealed a bright, funny person with plenty to say. Sometimes all you need to do is sit down and show an interest in someone for them to open up and express who they really are.

The same approach can be applied to locals in whatever foreign land I find myself in. By sitting down and talking to them, I can learn so much more about their country than what the guidebook can teach me.

I can work on the road.

Being a chef has given me the means to travel. Having that skill set matched with the desire to travel allows me to go places and get a (sometimes) decent paying job and save money for further travels.

I’ve learned the patience to move slower.

I’m an impatient person by nature. I’ve traveled before and rushed through places, not really attempting to immerse myself in the culture or place. Instead, I’ve seen the main sights, moved on, and put a mental tick next to the destination.

Since working in a commercial kitchen, I’ve learned how important patience is. My workplace can have a rushed feel to it. For example, someone might shout, “I need that soufflé now!” When preparing a soufflé, patience is vital — too early and the mix isn’t cooked, too late and it begins sinking. This waiting forces me to slow down, take my time, and ignore the instinct to rush. This approach helps when I’m traveling as well — I’m learning to slow down so I can better experience and appreciate what’s around me.

I’ve learned how to deal with stress.

When you have 10 tables waiting for food and you’re a person down on the section, you have to learn quickly to deal with the stress and work through it. This makes missing that train and having to find a place to sleep on short notice seem a whole lot less big of a deal.

I’ve developed a sensitivity to different values.

When working with a Korean chef, I’m forced to act differently than with other chefs in order to maintain a harmonious work relationship. He won’t take advice from chefs younger than him, holding the belief that older knows better. After stubbornly trying to tell him how to do things, I’ve learned to alter my approach when commenting on his work, taking a more passive angle. Since changing my behavior towards him, the work we do together has greatly improved.

When traveling, sensitivity to differing sets of values and beliefs is crucial to being able to communicate with other people. It also helps me understand their ideas about society. By doing this, I’ve gained greater insight into other countries.

I’ve learned that when things go wrong, you just need to keep on keepin’ on.

So you had a bad experience with a street hawker. Then you offended some locals through your own ignorance. In a kitchen, you don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. After a bad night when a table had complained, among other moments of chaos, I felt like calling in sick the next day to give myself a break. I didn’t; I came back, and I’m better for it. Now when traveling and things are going wrong, I know not to give up but to get up, dust myself off, and keep going.

I’ve learned how to share with others.

I’m all for traveling solo. After working an 18-hour day, though, when my feet and back are aching, there’s nothing quite as comforting as sitting on milk crates in your sweaty chef whites with your mates who are experiencing similar feelings.

The same applies overseas, not only in tough situations but also when witnessing something beautiful, when someone to share it with makes the moment even more special.

I’ve learned how to take risks to reap the bigger benefits.

To innovate with food and create new, exciting dishes, you have to take risks, try things you haven’t done before, and push your own personal boundaries. The benefits are clear when you cook something you can truly be proud of.

Tips for highly sensitive travelers

Photo: Kit

ON A VACATION HOME FROM COLLEGE, I walked around a bookstore feeling a little lost and lonely. In the Recommended section was a book called The Highly Sensitive Person. Never had I felt so much resonance with a title. I bought it that day.

The author, Dr. Elaine Aron, is a San Francisco-based psychologist who coined the term. She estimates that around 20% of the US population are highly sensitive.

Highly Sensitive People tend to “feel easily overwhelmed by such things as bright lights, strong smells, coarse fabrics…sirens.” They also tend to have a “rich and complex inner life,” and react strongly to beautiful music and art.

Sensitivity in a person is an important trait: HSPs are often the first to become aware of an emergency, like a fire or a dangerous storm, and can alert everyone around them. They can also make the rest of society more aware of spirituality, art, and social issues like poverty and injustice.

But if you’re from North America, or most Western societies really, sensitivity is not a culturally valued quality. Chances are, if you’re an HSP, at some point you’ve felt shamed or not good enough for having these feelings.

Aron argues that a big part of wellness for HSPs is self-care. Just a little bit can lead to a lot more life harmony. Here are some things I do on the road that help me nurture my sensitivity and stay sane.

1. Find the water.

Drink it, take a shower, or walk on a beach or near a bay. Water is a naturally soothing and neutralizing force. Just taking a moment to drink a cup of water can reorient me to my body.

2. Make compromises.

HSPs have comfort zones that are a little different from everyone else’s. While my boyfriend is happy to spend the morning hiking, the afternoon at a music festival, and the evening at a midnight viewing of The Room, I would really struggle to do this. It’s best to let him do his own thing while I rest and regroup, or write in a coffeeshop.

It’s also important for me to pick one thing that’s a little out of my comfort zone. Even though music festivals aren’t my thing — the crowds, exposure to the elements, and sense of being stuck there are most HSPs’ worst nightmare — with enough preparation and downtime I can make the effort. It’s important not to bail on everything because I feel overwhelmed, as that would lead to feelings of guilt and genuine sadness.

3. Honor your sensitivity.

It’s a gift, not a character flaw. Maybe your friends want to go dancing all night, or rock climbing all day. You, in turn, have the right to seek out activities that speak to your essence. For me, that’s museums, or visiting community art projects (like Ex-Carcel in Valparaíso or the Royal Chicano Airforce murals in Sacramento), or getting out to cultural ceremonies.

If you have the money, honoring your sensitivity can be as simple as having a spa day or taking a relaxing trip to a teahouse.

4. Keep a routine / respect transitional time.

For me, that means waking up, brewing coffee, and reading the news in bed for an hour. That is sacred time. It allows me to transition from sleep to wakefulness, and such practices are encouraged by many communities. Many North American tribes have early morning songs that consecrate the beginning of each day.

Honoring the space between things is not something my culture of origin does very well, so I look to other societies for guidance.

5. Get your potassium, child.

Bananas have mild sedative effects and they’re hella cheap. If you’re traveling in high altitude, or have a spot of food poisoning, bananas are probably your best bet for something that will sit well. Plus, a healthy potassium intake can reduce your overall blood pressure. White potatoes, avocados, spinach, and fish are also rich in the K.

6. Take a mantra.

Mine changes all the time. My mom’s is “This time tomorrow, it will all be over.” “Om Namah Shivaya” is a tried and true Hindu blessing. My Mexican host mother, upon watching me go through a breakup, would say, “No te mortifiques, Anne.” Don’t beat yourself up, Anne. Most recently, I’ve adopted the following: “You are safe. You are loved. You have options.”

7. Utilize your creative outlet.

I’m lucky to have many. I write, edit audio, sing, and play guitar. But sometimes just spending a few hours in the kitchen can be a truly artistic and soulful action. I love staying in Airbnb apartments — there’s almost always a kitchen open for communal use. There’s something about getting to that archetypal hearth that’s deeply grounding.

8. When all else fails, lie down.

I met a curandera (healer) once who said that a lot of our chronic illness could be solved by more bed rest. There’s no shame in binge-watching a show on Netflix, your head and neck supported by pillows, and tuning out a little. Even if you’re in the middle of New York City or Buenos Aires. Especially if you’re in one of these busy cities, taking the time to recharge can enrich your overall experience, and cut down on potential conflicts with your travel buddies.

When you’re ready to re-emerge, your regular travel activities will be that much richer.

Child becomes Yosemite Ranger

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I CONNECTED WITH THIS VIDEO for a few reasons. I was drawn to the story of Gabriel, who was able to experience the job of a Park Ranger at Yosemite National Park, through the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Gabriel suffers from Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, which is characterized by “extremely loose joints, hyperelastic skin that bruises easily, and easily damaged blood vessels.” His enthusiasm for nature, and his desire to be surrounded by it, shows that there are still kids in the world who want a life beyond video games and text messaging.

The video footage of Gabriel’s experience is what also caught my attention. I love how Chris McKechnie was able to capture the entire day in a special way, that not only shows what Gabriel did at Yosemite, but shared his story as well. Apparently a CBS news team got priority access, so McKechnie had to work with the moments he could get, but I’d say he made a much more compelling video than whatever the local news channel might have captured.

10 things I miss about Galicia

Photo: Feans

1. The rain

I know, I know…I miss the rain. The rain in Spain falls mainly in Galicia, and while it can be pretty depressing sometimes — it rained most days from October through April while I studied abroad there — I can’t help but think of it as one of my fondest memories of my life in Santiago de Compostela. Rain was such an everyday occurrence we didn’t even bother planning around it. We just went out regardless.

2. The originality

Galicia is like its own country. The language and heritage there are different from the rest of Spain, and while most people in Galicia speak the national Castilian Spanish, everyone in Galicia understands the local galego. This unique aspect of Galician culture was a refreshing surprise on my arrival — the only problem being that I then had to practice two new languages, not just one.

3. That gorgeous cathedral

The cathedral of St. James (Santiago), the patron saint of Galicia, is the final destination on the Way of St. James, or el Camino de Santiago. The Way is a Christian pilgrimage, traditionally starting in the Pyrenees.

As a student, I passed right in front of this cathedral’s gate on a daily basis, bumping into just a few of the thousands of pilgrims who flock there every year. It made me wish a little bit that I’d participated in the pilgrimage myself. But I was already at its final destination, so why bother moving backward?

4. The tarta de Santiago

Nothing was quite as satisfying as a cup of tea in the afternoon with a thick slice of dense almond cake. Also called tarta de almendra, this specific kind of cake is found everywhere in Galicia.

5. The cheap prices

Being a foreign-exchange student with limited funds in my bank account, I needed to eat well on a budget, and Galicia was the perfect place to do so. In the heart of Santiago de Compostela there was no problem finding a menú del día, which includes a large, hot main course, drink, and dessert often for 10 euros or less.

More like this: How to piss off someone from Galicia

I’d kill to have a comparable lunch here in the US for that price.

6. Polbo

Being right next to the Atlantic Ocean certainly had its perks. Polbo, a Galician delicacy, is octopus boiled and then grilled with generous amounts of olive oil and topped with salt and paprika, served plain on a wooden plate with toothpicks for tapas. The first time I saw this dish, it looked so good I finished an entire plate by myself. You just can’t get good octopus when you leave the ocean.

7. The liquor

Licor café, or coffee liqueur, defines the perfect night out in Galicia. Every tourist, local, and exchange student chugs it by the glass. It’s basically a glass of iced coffee with a kick that goes down super smooth. In the US it’s not very common to drink a glass full of coffee liqueur, so now I’m stuck with Long Islands or Millers.

8. The nightlife

I can’t count how many times I rolled into my apartment in the wee morning hours after dancing at all of our favorite bars. We’d go to the Old Town and finish the night off at Ruta, a club that only opens at 4am.

9. The history

The US is so young it’s funny. Galicia is full of Romanesque buildings and architecture dating back centuries before the US was even conceptualized. In fact, Lugo, a larger city just a short train ride east of Santiago, is home to mostly intact Roman walls that surround its historic Old Town.

10. The people

Galicians are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Even with my terrible Castilian Spanish, I managed to make friends with locals who could only understand the smile on my face. Just a bit of small talk went a long way with them. At the end of my year there, my photocopy guy even gave me a farewell hug!

How to become a citizen scientist

Photo: Peter

Today, we can map the genome of any species and measure particles that make up all matter in the universe. We’re constantly innovating across all areas of science. We’ve reached a point in time where anyone can contribute to this progress, no matter their occupation or global location, without needing a degree. By becoming a citizen scientist you can have a hand in the next big discovery and learn things you never would’ve imagined.

Why should you become a citizen scientist?

Your participation is important. Projects that can employ hundreds or thousands of data collectors have a higher chance of success. For example, migratory pathways used by birds were once modeled on limited data and conjecture. By compiling data collected through the eBird app, scientists were able to accurately map three major flyways in the US.


You get a free education. Whether you’re interacting with an online app or headed into the field, as a citizen scientist you get exclusive access to tools, locations, and information that you might not otherwise. Many projects provide a certain amount of training and other resources to satiate your curiosity about the subject you’re involved with.


It becomes a networking opportunity. Being part of a community of like-minded individuals working towards a similar goal is the perfect environment for networking. You’ll meet professionals in the field as well as enthusiasts from all walks of life.


It’s fun! Many projects utilize game-like apps to make data collection more interactive. Check out YardMap. Some projects are reliant on observation-based data you might already be exposed to through a hobby, such as stargazing or bird-watching. Citizen science can be so fun and easy that with proper supervision even children can contribute.


How can you become a citizen scientist?


Zooniverse is an awesome platform for finding projects in every discipline. After a simple sign-up you can begin analyzing cancer data, characterizing bat calls, or finding black holes.


SciStarter is another easy-to-use search engine for ongoing projects. You could observe bird-migration patterns or identify infection in bees, to name a couple opportunities.


Scientific American has a great list of available citizen-science programs. They range from coastal studies to tracking animal populations to studying air visibility.


Local nature centers, observatories, sanctuaries, and museums often have opportunities for citizen scientists. Try a simple internet search about citizen science and volunteering locally.

Make sure to pick a project that fits your schedule so you can be a dependable participant for its duration. And above all else, have fun with it! You may not be a traditional scientist, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make an impactful contribution.

The world's most remote dive resort

Matador Ambassadors Jett and Kathryn Britnell are internationally published scuba divers, travel writers, photographers, shark advocates, lecturers, book reviewers, marine conservationists, and devil-may-care adventurers. All photos are theirs.

Indonesia’s Wakatobi Dive Resort proudly claims the title of being the most remote dive resort in the world. And for good reason: It used to take an arduous 23-hour boat ride just to get there. Today, guests are flown in from Bali via a two-and-a-half-hour VIP flight that touches down on a private runway Wakatobi built on the neighboring island of Tomia. From the airfield, it’s a 10-minute minibus to the harbor, from where Wakatobi’s dive boats ferry guests for another 15 minutes to the resort.

A renowned house reef lies less than 60 feet from the main lodge, which can be dived or snorkeled any time of day or night. Lorenz Mader, Wakatobi’s Swiss founder and on-site manager, simply refers to the turquoise sea lapping against the resort’s shoreline as the “pool” and has decreed it remain open to divers 24 hours a day. Swarming with an endless procession of sea life, Wakatobi’s reefs are home to some of the most diverse and striking marine life to be found anywhere. Below is some of what you’ll see if you make it out there.

1

Wakatobi Resort

Situated at the edge of the Banda Sea on a tiny island called Onemobaa, Wakatobi is the only fully licensed dive resort in the Tukang Besi chain of islands. Operating year-round, the resort takes its name "Wakatobi" from an abbreviation of the names of the Tukang Besi group’s four major islands: Wangi Wangi, Kaledupa, Tomia, and Binongko.

2

Wakatobi bungalow

Wakatobi’s bungalows and other facilities are constructed using authentic Indonesian architectural designs and were built by local artisans using traditional hand tools. And, yes, it's entirely possible to enjoy the creature comforts of civilization in such a remote location. The eco-friendly beach resort has three levels of accommodation: villas, ocean bungalows, and palm bungalows.

3

Barrel sponge

One of the largest barrel sponges we’ve ever seen. The undersea terrain runs the gamut from isolated seamounts, scattered bommies, underwater ridges, fringing reefs, and reef slopes with hard coral gardens, to seagrass beds and stunningly steep dropoffs swathed with a rainbow palette of gorgonian sea fans, sea whips, and soft corals.

Intermission




1
Free-diving with the whale sharks of Papua [pics]
by Diana Himmelspach



16
44 surreal scenes from Australia’s Great Barrier Reef
by Scott Sporleder



2
11 bizarre species to look for on a Great Barrier Reef dive [pics]
by Sarah Sekula
















4

Regal angelfish (pygoplites diacanthus)

Quite reclusive, the regal angelfish is one of the most beautiful tropical marine fishes. It's usually found in caves or under larger overhangs and often swims upside down with its belly oriented toward the cave or overhang ceiling.

5

Clown anemonefish

The false percula clownfish is both territorial and fairly common. Easy to photograph too while they cavort between the long bulbous tentacles of their massively large host anemone.

6

Lionfish

With its bold coloration and elaborate finnage, the Volitan lionfish is one of the most exotic-looking fishes on the coral reef.

7

Pygmy seahorse (hippocampus bargibanti)

No bigger than your pinky fingernail, pygmy seahorses are without doubt Wakatobi’s signature marine species. Remarkably well camouflaged, they are difficult to find since the body coloration and bulbous tubercles on these diminutive seahorses blends so perfectly with the coral polyps of their host gorgonians. This species of seahorse was unknown prior to 1970, when an aquarium biologist accidentally discovered several clinging to a sea fan that had been harvested for research.

8

Cuttlefish

After snapping a few photos of this large cuttlefish, I suddenly realized I had almost accidentally rubbed my elbow against the venomous dorsal spines of a well-camouflaged raggy scorpion fish perched atop a coral head.

9

Indonesian fishing boat

How to close out a perfect day of undersea exploration: sitting on Wakatobi’s dock bar at dusk with a cocktail as local Indonesian fishing boats return home from a day out to sea.

When travel can’t cure grief

Photo: Chris JL

“It’s all coming together.”

Those were his last words to me. I never knew about the cancer. He never said a thing. I took the call in a parking lot on the California coast, dropped everything, flew to the side of his hospital bed. Boston will always be the place where he left me, where his last words settled into a rasping breath. I grabbed his hand and straightened the covers so no one would see that a piece of me was dying, too. But I didn’t cry. I never do.

Crying is something I do alone, until I can pull myself together long enough to get out the word “fine.” My grandfather poured himself into his music; no one played Beethoven quite like he could. When he died, I tumbled headfirst into the hole he left. I never learned to grieve; I didn’t realize it was necessary.

* * *

I believed that motion was the cure for everything. We scattered his ashes in England. I listened to Elgar. “A little known English composer,” he always said with the bemused sarcasm Americans never quite understood. When he died, there were no mementos, only ashes and wind. I moved to Bethlehem, to Geneva, to Grenoble, to Jerusalem. I scattered myself, searching for him.

After two years of running, my job fell through, my visa in Switzerland wasn’t renewed, my boyfriend looked at me and said, “I don’t love you.” I moved to France. But there was nothing left to run to. I collapsed into myself, shut the doors against the world. I memorized the cracks in the ceiling, the discolored patches, the sound of the faucet dripping. There was no distinction between 10am and 10pm. Eating became a chore. My life unraveled. Every plan came undone. There were no crossroads. Just an empty apartment and the cat throwing up on the rug.

My neighbors smiled in the foyer, but they never knocked on my door, never said anything other than “Bonjour.” I needed to be home, to be surrounded by people who knew me well enough to know something was wrong. But I didn’t go home. I couldn’t face home.

I went back to Bethlehem, to Jerusalem, to Tel Aviv, to a place where closed doors mean nothing at all. I limped my way back across the Mediterranean, to dusty streets and crumbling buildings. Strangers stopped me in the street. Neighbors invited me over for breakfast, for lunch, for coffee, for dinner. No one said, “it’s going to be okay.” No one tried to fill the emptiness with words. At parties, I bumped past people until I found the balcony or the roof. Sometimes I fell asleep, sometimes I sat quietly. I liked it when the clouds were low and heavy. I liked it when it rained.

* * *

Amal asked if I was depressed. I shrugged. “You seem depressed,” he said. I didn’t know what to say. My depression was no longer tied to the loss of someone I loved. I had spiraled so far beyond grief that I could no longer articulate what was wrong or why.

I have always been headstrong, independent, and proud. I am so good at pretending I’m okay. But I had lost the motivation to live. I was a brittle, stoic mess, tossing and turning against a damp mattress, kicking sheets to a dusty floor.

I cut myself off from everything, I ran so hard I couldn’t see the way it made everything worse. But it wasn’t depression that nearly killed me. It was my inability to ask for help.

I found moments of solace, the hush of Shabbat blanketing Jerusalem, dancing dabka in the desert, sitting on rooftops, leaning from balconies, watching the stars and the people, the trees and the wind. I was enveloped in the mess, adoration, and chaos of too many people, too close together, in a place where there was always someone knocking as they pushed open the door. I was allowed to be silent, but never alone.

“This won’t go away,” Amal told me one night. He thought my depression was grief untreated, that my heart was no different than a sprained ankle and my incessant running had exacerbated everything, turning a common injury into a serious condition.

“Most religions and cultures have traditions around mourning. We need a dedicated time to grieve,” he explained. “But you, you just keep running, you just keep pushing everything away. You need to sit still, let others help.”

“I’m not very good at that,” I told him.

“I know,” he said.

I didn’t know how to reach out. There were people who told me that my life was amazing, that I just needed to pull myself together. As if I hadn’t tried to tell myself that a thousand times a day. It was hard to disagree with them, hard to understand that depression is a disease, a parasite that rots you from the inside out. I was so ashamed of the way I fell apart. It takes so much strength to ask for help.

Amal made me ask for things. It was a joke at first. A glass of water, a cup of tea. “I can’t hear you,” he’d say. “What is it you need?”

“I need help,” I told him one day. And then I couldn’t stop. I said it over and over again with my head in my hands. “There is help,” he said and handed me a cup of coffee. Crouched over a camping stove, he looked out at the Negev and then at me. I stayed until I was ready to pack my bags, until I could stomach the thought of getting up.

And then I went back to the apartment in France, gathered my things, booked a flight home. “I need help,” were the words on the tip of my tongue. “Just get home,” my mom said. “Just get home and we’ll figure it all out.” But it was another year before I began to feel like my old self, and even then there were moments where it all came back. Depression isn’t something you cure. It’s something you learn to manage.

* * *

Now there is only a small sliver of emptiness, a kind of scar and a yearning for the Levant, the way it steadied my hands, centered me. I will never stop going back, tracing my fingers in the dust, remembering the people who pushed me back to myself.

I should have gone home immediately. But I didn’t. I don’t want to underscore the importance of seeking professional support, medication, therapy, whatever it is you need to get yourself out of the bleakest and greyest corners of your head. I know these spaces. I cut myself off from everything, I ran so hard I couldn’t see the way it made everything worse. But it wasn’t depression that nearly killed me. It was my inability to ask for help. I thought I could swallow my grief and soldier on. But I couldn’t. I can’t. I needed to learn that.

And I did. In a place where no one locks the doors, where a stranger took one look at my stricken face and instinctively reached out a hand, how he said something in Hebrew I didn’t understand. “Lo hevanti,” I said, shaking my head, and he smiled, patting my shoulder, foreshadowing a lesson that took so long to learn. I pushed my heart as hard as it would go, sprinting across countries, up mountains, through train stations, down rivers, but eventually it collapsed, whispering the truth of a stranger’s hand against my arm.

Travel isn’t the cure for grief.

We are.

Paris is for the nostalgic

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PARIS IS A NOSTALGIC PLACE for many; sometimes I feel like the world keeps moving around it, but the architecture, the cuisine, the fashion, and other cultural aspects, remain classic. I think this video, produced by Maison Carnot, captures that sense of nostalgia perfectly. The old-fashioned Pentax camera (I’m not sure whether it was used as a prop with a video overlay, or if it was actually filmed with a second camera looking down at the viewfinder the entire time) was a unique way to display select scenes of Parisian life, but I think it would have been cool to see some more diversity represented. Regardless, this video definitely has me longing for a trip back to France.