Miro Tea in Ballard

If you live in Seattle and ever get a hankering for a pot of tea out of your house, come to Miro! Located on N 22nd and Market, it's on the same block as a bunch of other treasures (Gifted, Carta de Oaxaca, Volterra).

My most recent stay was a few days ago. I wanted to get out to write a bit and it was, as usual, cold, misty, and grey out. I contemplated my regular spots before deciding to go for tea instead of coffee. I ordered a giant London Fog (definitely sated my earl grey addiction, and they have caffeine-free products!) and sat for two hours, undisturbed, reading, writing, and just hanging out. I never felt pushed to leave and my only qualm was that everything was kind of overpriced. But what are you gonna do... if I want to complain about overpriced teas, I should probably stay out of hip little shops and stay in my kitchen with my Costco combo packs.

Other perks: they have games, free wireless, gluten-free pastries and crepes, beautiful art, beautiful customers, beautiful baristas (what do you call a tea maker?) and a very wide selection of teas.

Black Swan

Reading some of the review out there, I almost feel like I walked into the wrong movie theater last night. Did I see the same "Black Swan" the people who nominated it for four Golden Globes did?

I've never seen Darren Aronovsky's other apparent masterpieces (Requim for a Dream, The Wrestler) but I've heard equally shining reviews. Sounds like he has found what he likes--the dark, the macabre, the ill--and is now sticking to it.

While I won't speak for his other films, I will say that "Black Swan" is severely overrated. The total lack of a plot (mise-en-abime does not mean that you replace the film's plot with the plot of Swan Lake which is already a goddamned plot of the film) was quite frustrating. All the viewer is left with to look at is Portman's nearly-emaciated body, performing remarkable pirouettes (ballet is hard guys, I took beginning at Whitman a few semesters ago and immediately felt ugly, fat, and clumsy). And at first I thought it was going to be enough. Portman gives a fantastic performance as the timid Nina, raising neither her voice nor her eyes. Despite how annoying the timidity becomes, you have to raise a glass to Portman to embodying the character so fully. But when it comes time for Portman to play the black swan, I'd have to agree with Thomas--she's rather unconvincing.

Some people argue that they had no idea where the film was going, that days later they are still struggling to understand what was real and what wasn't. Wait, really? Because to me "Black Swan" was so predictable that the only reason I stayed to watch it was because it made me so tense and nervous I had to make it to the end for relief. From the start, the "plot" was predetermined (it had to faithfully follow that of Swan Lake, after all), and the overly dramatic controlling psycho mother figure and constant background of feather fluttering and heartbeats was just infantile on the part of the director. If you fall for that, great. You make his heart sing. I don't.

high points: Mila Kunis (except for the silly black wing back tats.. really? Because we were already so confused...), Natalie Portman's performance, Natalie Portman's black swan makeup

Unless you want a night out, I'd recommend to wait until it comes out on instant Netflix. Be sure you are in a somewhat good place when you watch it. Trust me, you really don't want to go down with the swan.

Mailing Address in Paree

Evelina Miropolsky

c/o IES Abroad

77 Rue Daguerre

75014 Paris, France

I will be living in the 15th in a homestay with one of my good friends, Kiley Wolff.

He's Just Not That Into You

I generally stay far, far away from rom coms, especially when there isn't so much rom com in my life at the time (because come on, who wants to be reminded of what they don't have?). For some reason or other, I was drawn to "He's Just Not That Into You" a few nights ago. This 2009 pic was based off of a self-help book (how often does that happen, if ever?) and is brimming with big names: Aniston, Johansson, Cooper, Long (ugh), Affleck, Barrymore (double ugh), Connelly, etc. etc. The idea is that there are all these people out there, milling about, and none of them know how to read one another. Gestures are misunderstood, dates mislabeled, connections missed. And so what, you ask? Well, I'm not really sure. Neither is the film.

First off, there are too many characters. I realize the director was going for a Love Actually vibe (but not as adorably cute), but by casting over a dozen easily recognizable faces as everyday citizens of Baltimore desperate to find love, he completely failed to create the relatable, heart-warming, thought-provoking pic he was going for. Instead, you find yourself wondering why Rachel--I mean Jennifer--is with Ben Affleck and not Ross. It just doesn't work.

Just like a one-night stand, this movie reeks of disposability. You watch it, you chuckle, you moan, you check the time, and honestly--you never think of it again (wait, why am I writing a review?). Maybe a month or two later someone says something that reminds you of it and you kind of re-accept that it happened, and then you move on.

So there you have it. It's a cinematic one-night stand, and it's alright. The ultimate irony is it fails to be what it seeks so desperately: to be relatable and realistic because of a) the casting, b) the nauseating predictability, and c) the fact that none of the nine or so leading characters are black or Latino (oh wait, waiters and construction workers come to mind). "He's Just Not That Into You" could have fared much better as a series of vignettes a la "Paris, Je T'aime" or a twenty-minute episode of a chick show.

All I Know...

...is that you never know.

Revisiting Solitude

When I wrote about finding peace in being alone last summer, I thought I was writing from the heart. I thought I meant it. But looking back now, I realize that post was all talk. Okay, I am being a bit hard on myself. I was doing good things for myself, but at the same time, I was consciously and subconsciously relying on the knowledge and comfort that I was not alone.

Of course that wasn't my fault, and maybe I did recognize the fact that I was not being completely self-reliant and my peace did not have to do with my independence. But now that I am, in some ways, more alone, I realize that the process of coming to terms with being alone and being happy about it is just beginning.

Every major experience I have had in my life shouts: "Don't depend on anyone other than yourself for your happiness!" But it's just so damn hard when the happiness you've felt because of another surpasses anything you've ever experienced. It looks like I have a lot to learn ahead of me, but I can proudly say that the beginning to learning every lesson is acknowledging the fact that it exists and must be learned.

So that is where I am now. I am on the way to learning the truth of happiness. Learning to cultivate it within myself, to not be dependent on anyone or anything other than my very own existence. I am learning to be more compassionate towards myself, to give myself more time, to stop setting arbitrary deadlines for myself. I read the following anonymous quote somewhere and it is helping me to be patient and kind with myself on days like today. I hope that, if you are going through something difficult and trying, and beating yourself up about not getting over it, you can read this, take it in, and give yourself a break:

"The process of healing is not a smooth transgression. It's more like a lightening bolt, full of ups and downs, progressions and regressions, dramatic leaps and depressing backslides. Realize this and know that whether you are "better" or "worse" than yesterday-or five minutes ago-the healing process is underway."

Reviving Woody

I have a confession: I am a Jew who loathes a self-loathing Jew. Rather, I used to be. Hence the title of this post. When one is forced to spend long, languid hours at home due to the icy roads that keep one from getting out into the real world, this one tends to turn to film.

I don't know about you, but I get really into phases of directors/content/genre. Like, I'll watch everything Hitchcock ever made in a week, then I'll move on to Jean-Pierre Jeunet, then spend two weeks exclusively watching Seinfeld (or something campier like 30 Rock), and on and on. These past two weeks, I have decided to revisit a man from my past, a man whom I gave more than several chances to show me he could be different, to make me believe in him. But it never happened. Woody Allen never ceased to piss me off. His voice gives me the same feeling as watching someone file their nails (worst. thing. ever.). The scenarios are all the same. People fall in love, they fall out of love, they cheat on their spouses, they divorce, they date... dear god, we know, Woody, we know. Life is hard.

And now, the Universe prompted me to give him one more chance. Who knows?--Several years had passed, I had matured, perhaps even shifted some worldviews of my own. Perhaps I had never been ready for Woody. I had been writing him off as dull, whiny, and unoriginal, telling him with a shrug: "It's not me... it's you." But perhaps it really was me who had the problem all along. Or you know what? Maybe neither of us had anything the matter with us and had just grown and were finally ready for one another.

So I'll leave you with a little gem from Manhattan, which is now playing in another window (yeah, I have yet to learn to resist the will to multitask on a laptop simply because I can): "I finally had an orgasm and my doctor told me it was the wrong kind."

If you're fed up with someone or something, don't be certain you'll feel the same way a few years from now. Sure, you may, but you may also find the perfect companion for all those sub-zero winter days when the only other living creatures in the vicinity are your cat and the exotic plant in the living room that's never once bloomed.