It was a matter of taking a liking to things. Things that were in accordance with your taste. I think that was it. And we didn't care how unhomogeneous they might seem. Didn't Aristotle say that it is the mark of a poet to see resemblances between apparently incongruous things? There was any amount of attraction about it.

Marianne Moore, on editing the literary magazine The Dial, The Paris Review Interviews: Women Writers at Work

Even hipsters cry sometimes.



Yesterday was my last night in Paris, this morning was the last morning. Ma petite sauterelle me manque déjà. I write this final entry from the my mom's rolling computer chair in the United States. The flight was fine -- long, dark and incredibly boring (if not a little lonesome). The airline lost my luggage. Things could be worse.

But I would really prefer to be in Paris.


Yes, this is likely to be my last post in my blog (or at least until I return to Europe, hopefully next fall). I would like to start another one for my time in the States and keep it updated for my European friends -- check back here in the future for a link.

Au revoir, mes copains.

I just found this French proverb: "Il ne faut pas discuter des goûts."
(One should not discuss taste.)
Oops.

My nerves are wrecked. I don´t want to leave. It´s not that I have fallen for Paris, but I am afraid of what is waiting for me (or what isn't) back in Michigan.

Last night I visited the Steven Parrino exposition at Palais du Tokyo. There were only four other people in the exhibit -- how nice! I almost touched some of the paintings before remembering that you´re not supposed to. The nature of these paintings just beg for them to be touched and it wouldn´t hurt them much, and without any security guards or other people to stop me, why shouldn´t I?


Palais du Tokyo is a very interesting space. It has an aesthetic that fits between that of an unfinished or deconstructued gallery space and a decorative warehouse. The scale of rooms, in addition to the wooden rafters and cement floor reminded me of some amateur art space found in Middle America, like something found in Omaha or even the MoCAD in Detroit (and not too different from the beloved Hotel Basico). Of course, most of Parrino´s work added to this ambiance. His rock ´n´ roll working-class subject matter (or what amounts to a lot of black, sex, and noise) complemented a colorful series of Warhol´s electric chairs.



For about twenty minutes I thought I was back at home.



For the next week Rodrigo is in Spain and in the meantime he (generously) has lent me control of his apartment. Now I have a temporary office space sheltered from the elements (spontaneous rainstorms, dissatisfied waitstaff, finicky internet) to work on my final presentations. It has a fridge, a shower, a toilet with a seat -- quelle chance! The only downside is the computer I must use for my research (not only is it a PC, but it has a Spanish keyboard). My own computer has for the most part become useless. It won´t take CDs, it loads very slowly, shuts down on a whim and, worst of all, it won´t hold a charge. Why couldn´t it hold out for another couple of weeks?

Though I may not talk about it, I´m panicking about returning to the States. Is it out of denial, resistance, or excitement? I can´t tell. I just know I´m very, very worried about the next year of my life.

Music:
New Order - Temptation
Jens Lekman - Black Cab

Oh la la. I have been very busy and can only take a couple of minutes to update on my recent events. I know May has produced lousy entries -- my apologies.

Last night Rodrigo and I went to la cinématheque to see Joaquim Pedro de Andrade's "Macunaíma". It was amazing! I was surprised that it is so funny - the novel has a pretty serious tone. Really, how great.

Yesterday afternoon our class climbed the Eiffel Tour (I believe it's 700 steps). It wasn't as bad as I feared it would be, but now lactic acid has found a cozy home on the inside of my calves.


Tuesday was my French final. It went well -- I didn't get the grade I was expecting, but it was an improvement on my last two tests. To celebrate, we tried to picnic at the cemetery in Montmartre. After walking nearly halfway there, we found out it was closed. We had a beer instead and walked all the way back to Bastille.


Sunday (a hot, hot day) we went to see the last performance of "Da Gelo a Gelo" at the Opéra Garnier. It was an Italian theatrical adaptation of 11th-century Japanese love poetry by Izumi Shikibu. I liked the performance (and the venue) a lot, but it dragged in parts and the end was disappointing: there were no suicides. How can it be Japanese without the deaths of the two lovers?

Afterward we dined at a Japanese restaurant not too far from the opera house. I had my first bowl of (real) ramen! Yum yum yum.

Friday (or was it Saturday?) evening, Rodrigo and I tried Showcase, the club underneath Pont Alexandre III. It is a beautiful, large space with windows that face the street and the Seine. The cover and drinks were too expensive, the crowd was boring, but the music was great -- a real mix of electro, rock, Serge and Greek wedding marches.

Attempted to watch Godard's "Une femme est une femme" the other day, but I didn't have the energy to follow (it was in French with no subtitles). I'll have to try again another day.

Steve Jobs is not going to be a happy camper if I can't find a café whose power-plug will accept my adapter within the next twenty minutes. Unheard of.

First my host mom kept postponing calling her internet guy.
Then he never showed up.
She says we'll get him to come out Monday (when I have two weeks left?) and in the meantime I can keep using the wi-fi at neighboring cafés.

Well, they don't have internet after 8.
In fact, today they don't have internet at all.

When I find a place whose internet is working, the plugs don't fit my adapter.


What gives, Paris? I have so much love to give.

"Log in" in Swedish is "Logga in." I find this hilarious.





Yesterday I hit up the modern art museum, Palais du Tokyo, and the Pompidou Center. The contemporary floor at the Pompidou made me indescribably giddy. I have to return to watch some videos in their multimedia room.



At what point (and how) was nail polish normalised?



For future reference: I want a baby. (Not right now, of course.)

It's been a long week of mixed feelings among mixed weather.

Yesterday was a great day. What gave me the greatest happiness was a Metro station musician -- a good-looking young lad with an acoustic guitar covering Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah.' Ah, bliss.




I need more social interaction than what I have been getting lately. To help cope with this I watched a movie with Rodrigo on Thursday night, went out with Julian on Friday (The Pop-in and OPA), had dinner and drinks (absinthe, again) with Brigeth on Saturday (La Maison Rose, La Fée Verte, Planète Mars, Some Girls [which, ironically, was all men]), and brunched with Amanda this morning (La Fée Verte). The problem with this solution is that I have less time for my work -- there just isn't enough time in a day. I know that it's crunch time for school, but it is also the last few weeks I have to experience Paris. Hopefully I can work a good balance. Frankly, I'm ready to be graduated.



The current Citizen K and the Parisian Vogue amaze me. Compared to American magazines, these two are highly intellectual. I read article after article in them that basically recapitulated the past three years of my college career. There was an article on the doctor in New York who owns Napoleon's penis. Another discussed Japanese national identity as expressed through the representation of food in manga. Contemporary art, philosophy, literature. What gives?




I worked out a deal with my host family to split the cost of Internet. Hopefully we can get it set up within the next week.

The votes have been cast. It looks like I'm returning to Michigan this summer.

A flip through my iPhoto album tells me that I need to post some more pictures. It's been weeks.

Here's a diorama of Napoleon crowning himself emperor (and Josephine his empress).













Companies are getting hip to modern marketing schemes. My neighborhood is plastered with these ads for Ray-ban and there were similar stencils for the new Good Charlotte album.
















A couple of weeks ago two of the friends I made in Barcelona came to visit Paris. Matteo and I went out for beer and chorizo before walking in the rainy, cold night. I promised to visit Italy and fully intend on keeping that promise.













The store window at Agnes B. I think the imagery is supposed to be of innocent, white bunnies gorging themselves on sweet, overripe strawberries and then consummating their innocent, sweet love. I think it actually reads on a more cannibalistic level.
















Finally, fashion has reached its climax.


















Looks like one of the employees at the BHV is sick of his job.

















Rodrigo and I went to Serge Gainsbourg's house. Fans have turned the building into a memorial, even though his daughter (Charlotte) still lives there.

























Where I like to spend my afternoons.



















A couple used the square at the Louvre for the backdrop of their wedding photos. I decided that I ever got married, I certainly wouldn't want the background to look better than me.

If I were a few years younger, I would describe last night's Wilco concert as "fucking sweet." Hélas, as a mature and slightly more articulate woman, I will say simply that it rocked. Hard.

The concert stirred in me nostalgia for many things, particularly outdoor dining in the cool evenings of Chicago's sweltering summers, shared joyrides of the far-distant past and, most importantly, the friendship of my fellow Michiganders.

The opening of one song sent me back about eight months to one of the local folk-rock shows in Ann Arbor.

A fellow in the audience standing not too far from me could have passed as a twin brother of my friend Tom, sharing both physiognomies and a countenance of genuine interest and contentment. I've seen this specific expression, which conveys delight and inspiration more than superficial admiration, on his face during several concerts we've attended together. This look (that is, mouth agape and beard atingle) makes me doubt that few other people enjoy the live musical experience as much as he does.

The multi-instrumentalist of the band could bear no greater resemblance to another friend of mine, Aaron. They must have bought their hair from the same Scandinavian wig market and inherited their facial expressions and gestures from the same tambourine-shaking mother.

Oh, Wilco, you tease!



Overall, I've been in a rather bad mood for the past few days. I owe this upset to the past month's lack of decent weather and to the absence of the internet in my apartment. It makes it very difficult to get anything done when I have class all day and then dinner from 7:00 to as late as 10:00 (in my new home situation, we usually have to cook it ourselves and I never know when the rest of the family will get home). My body has forced me to nap between class and dinnertime for the past week and it still doesn't seem to be enough sleep to make it happy.

Hopefully I'll bounce out of it so I can write about the experiences of the past two weeks. These include a lonesome viewing of Luis Buñuel's 'Belle du Jour', a co-operative (though failed) effort to see the Palais de Tokyo and the new Helvetica documentary, a celebrity sighting (Marat Safin, tennis player), perspectives on the urban experience, and a new photography project.

Words aren't coming to me this morning. So, let these photos speak on my behalf and my words as their illustrations.

There's a bar in the Marais (Trois Étages) that has the world's scariest bathroom. I feel a little guilty taking a picture and spoiling the fun for anyone who hasn't been, but I couldn't pass up the chance. It's very rare that the bathroom sees any light, or that one has any light with which to see the bathroom. Unfortunately, it also makes it look a lot less frightening and just more dirty. Keep in mind there's no light in the stall, so if one wants to shut the door, they're forced to hover who-knows-where in complete darkness.















Have people stopped talking about the bees yet?
















A little touristy, but also a little cool.
















A photograph of a girl photographing the Monet waterlilies. This can't really act as a critical commentary -- I did the same. At least I recognize I can't be separated from that which I criticize.

















I agree completely.

Found in Père Lachaise.

















Paul pickpocketing the dead. It's okay -- I rubbed his (Victor Noir's) erection.

















Taken through the window of a gallery. The artist builds these large, fluorescent letters and numbers and then lets them take over the gallery space.

















Traveling musician outside of Café de l'Industrie.

I'm not joking. This is no laughing matter. The café I'm in is actually playing Blink-182. OLD Blink-182 -- I believe it's Dude Ranch. The fact that I can not only recognize the band but also the album (and now the song) is no laughing matter, either.


On a brighter note, I found a new café. One whose walls are inscribed with stick-angels, plays The Velvet Underground at ten in the morning, has free wi-fi and is less than a hundred steps from my bedroom door.

Friday was Cat's last night in Paris. We went out for dinner and drinks to send her off with the best impression the city has to offer. We ate Thai at the Blue Elephant near Bastille. We all recommend the agneau. It was so good that I actually dreamt about it later that night.

Last night I went to my friend Julien's birthday party. He was hosting the party at his grandfather's apartment, which is in the tranquil neighborhood of the 16th arrondissement. It was a big party with only a couple of English speakers. I found it quite fitting to see this large, moneyed apartment full of young Parisians wearing Levi's, drinking Heineken, and dancing to The Strokes. I had a wonderful time dancing and speaking (quite well, I must say) with my new friends until two in the morning.

Yesterday afternoon Howard taught me the phrase "C'est nickel" to say that something was wonderful. Julien's friends updated me, telling me that if I want to say something is very wonderful, it is nickel chrome. They all laughed whenever anyone said this, but further inquiry told me that the phrase is socially acceptable.


A man sat down across from me on the Noctilien ride home. He was at least 70 years old and looked pretty haggard, most likely homeless. He covered his face with his hands as if in the anguish of realizing that his life was a complete failure. (I'm certainly not saying that his life was by any means a failure, but this was the air he put off.) He sat like this for about five minutes after which, putting his hands in his lap, he leaned forward, and spoke to me: "Venez chez moi." (Come home with me.) I shook my head and politely said no. Ashamed or disappointed, I couldn't exactly tell which, he returned to his previous position. For the next few minutes I thought about this -- what was he thinking? Did he really think I would comply with his demand? Did he even have a home? After another five or ten minutes, he removed his hands yet again and bent forward. This time he asked me for change. I said I didn't have any and apologized. He put his hands to his face in defeat and I fell asleep.

mac·a·roon (mk-rn)
n.
1. A chewy cookie made with sugar, egg whites, and almond paste or coconut.
2. Heaven. (See: pistachio)

[French macaron, from Italian dialectal maccarone, dumpling, macaroni.]





I have taken a great liking to macaroons and meringue. I think these sugary delights are what I will miss the most (should I ever leave).


Today I had un sandwich du pays. It was the first time I have eaten (and sort of enjoyed) pickles. First tomatoes and electro-rock, then olives and techno, and now pickles and Prince. Who am I?

Plus!

As previously mentioned, I have been getting more and more interested in "street art." I plan on buying Banksy's book as soon as I get back in the States (I already have one suitcase full of just books and I can't afford any more excess baggages fees). I know I'm late on this trend and it's apparent I'm not the only one still intrigued. Within the past couple of months, Nylon (for Guys?) published a feature.

Here are some more pictures that I have taken of work seen in Paris.

One artist has superimposed two of Warhol's most famous images: his Marilyn and banana. In the original, Warhol immortalized Marilyn by transforming her image into a literal icon of beauty. Here, the street artist has subjected Marilyn and her passive femininity to the actions of the phallic banana, consequently negating the impressions we had of the original Marilyn image. Instead of the classic beauty we previously recognized, she becomes a whore. Warhol would be proud.

To lead into my next entry, I would like to point out that I am currently sitting outside of Starbucks, only 100 yards away from Place de la Bastille. On this street alone, there are about 20 police (CRS - Police Nationale) vans, which seat about six men a piece. Right now the officers are just waiting, looking tough and drinking espresso, but several of them are wearing full-body "armor." I'm supposing that they expect another manifestation tonight.

The presidential elections were Sunday. Sarkozy won, which means that the east side of the city is pretty upset. Sunday night we were coming back from Oberkampf when we overheard on the metro that the station at Bastille was closed. We got off the train one stop before and began walking. We were still several blocks away when it was clear that une manifestation had, well, manifested.


My nose burned by teargas and my passions stirred by the possibility of a new adventure, I was eager to venture closer to the barricades. Rodrigo stopped me. He said he had been involved in protests before and that it wasn't an experience he had any desire to repeat. When we passed by the intersection later that night, the streets were covered in trash, bricks, broken glass, and empty cans of spray paint. Street lights and bus stops had been smashed, but already crews were out cleaning up the debris.


The next morning they were still there, now rewiring the electrical system so that the traffic lights could work. Three days later, the memorial to the July revolution is still graffitied.

Last night I was in my bedroom reading when I heard the sounds of people marching, yelling, and breaking windows. Leaning out of my window, I could see the procession making its way down Rue de la Roquette. I shut my window after catching the smell of tear gas and smoke.


I went outside an hour later. Already there were city workers repairing all of the broken shop windows. Again, it was impossible to avoid the broken glass. This time a motorcycle had been set on fire and was still aflame. Cat told me that a car was torched in her neighborhood.



All this made me realize my country is a very boring one. The only time I hear of people rioting is when Michigan State loses a basketball game.

I feel a little bit more in touch with the rest of the world. Life in the United States (or at least in mid-Michigan) is very quiet, passive and easy. I have always known it was different in other parts of the world, but it is easy to forget that when I'm not directly affected. My safety was not even threatened during these demonstrations, but for twenty minutes I knew it might be if I left my apartment. My time was temporarily at the mercy of the passions of these other people. Other than the inconveniences I faced with the crowds congregating on my front lawn during football Saturdays, this was my first experience with such a thing. Some people have to deal with this every day of their lives.

D'accord, j'ai beaucoup de choses aujourd'hui. Le thème est l'espace urbain et moderne (particulièrement européene) et tous les personnes qui le habitent.

This blog is not an appropriate soapbox for my reflections and predictions on the state of the world's affairs. It's enough to say that it is something to which I have given a lot of thought.

Then again, I can't think of a better space to voice my personal concerns or to assert their validity. Either way, I'll just end up sounding like a crazy, old bat. For now I'll touch only on the superficialities (which, I will also add, directly correspond to the larger issues at hand).

First, on age. I noticed that "the kids" here seem to mature much quicker than at home. This may just be part of my naive imagination, but Rodrigo assures me that there is a difference. Rodrigo and his friends laugh at American teen movies because they almost always climax at prom (or some other such end-of-the-year party). It is at these parties that drinks are consumed, crushes are confirmed, and virginities are lost. Everything we experience with prom is dramatic, yet perfectly innocent. I told him that we laugh at those movies, too, but there is a lot of truth in how they reflect life in suburban America.

In Europe, kids can go to bars and clubs as teenagers. He said he could buy cigarettes when he was 12 and that he knows plenty of kids who were having sex at 13. I think everyone agrees with me that, as a majority, kids are getting into things (that is to say sex, drugs, and rock and roll) at an earlier age than they used to, but there is also a difference between American and European youths. This does not come as much of a surprise, but I am interested to learn more about the consequences of such early exposure.

I'm currently living in the bedroom of a fashionable 11-year-old French-Swedish girl. When I say fashionable, I don't mean that she wears the newest sweater vest from Limited Too (or whatever the French version would be, which I have reason to believe doesn't exist. Rodrigo, too, points out that all trendy French women dress like little girls, a look inappropriate for women over 30 and too mature for a girl of 11). I have also scoured through this girl's music collection. One of her old cases holds a lot of cds by Marilyn Manson, Linkin Park, The Offspring, Avril Lavigne and The Sex Pistols. Avril's not such a bad choice... but I can imagine the humiliation a lot of discontented 17-year-old American boys would feel if they knew an 11-year-old girl had already experienced and finished the stage of life associated with these bands.


There are lots of explanations for this, but the point is that I hold a grudge against these 16-year-olds with whom I have to share very valuable bar-space. I don't want to attend the same parties, listen to the same music, or wear the same clothes as someone of that age. Since when have they become more hip than twenty-somethings? At 22, I am already too old to be cool. Fortunately, I'm not too old to be a snob.


Secondly, on sexuality. I disagreed with my conversation partner on this part, but I suppose he knows best, considering he's male and all. In Spain, he says, when a man checks out a woman walking by, she ignores him and looks the other way (I imagine this is a consequence of both Mediterranean and urban cultures). In Paris, however, she stares right back at him, "challenging his gaze." I had understood that if you looked back at the man, you were accepting his advances. That has also been my experience here -- the "French" thing to do would be to stick my nose up in the air and keep walking by (which Rodrigo explained was a game French women sometimes play, to act like they already know they're attractive). However, if I look back at a man, he tries to talk to me. I thought that's how the game was played, but apparently I have it all wrong.

He also told me that in France they train the women to speak with quick, soft (wispy) voices. I thought that was just how the French language worked, but he insists that even in schools they tell the women to speak softer. He contrasts this with Spanish and American (i.e. me, a poor example of all Americans) women, who have an individual voice and don't hesitate to speak boldly.

He assimilates these voices with the fashion, which he says is also undergoing a Lolita phase. What I had earlier mistaken for androgyny is in actuality innocence. (How this corresponds with the rock aesthetic I have not yet completely sorted out). He makes bangs and ballet flats his primary examples.


One thing I know is that French women characteristically do not like to look the same. I think that's why it's easy to spot an American -- they just look so trendy. Somehow Parisians can look fashionable without seeming like they try too hard. I think it has a lot to do with the resources available to them (the variety and abundance of shops) and having a lot of money to spend on clothing (if money doesn't have to go to food, drink, or a car, what else can one do with it besides a 65€ haircut?) Additionally, a lot of Parisian youths live with their parents well through their twenties. Which means their income doesn't have to go toward rent, either.

Okay, lunchtime. Part two of this composition will address something much more exciting: les manifestations!


Song: Art Brut - My Little Brother

Disclaimer: It is a subjective task to determine what is fashionable and what is not. I am not claiming that the French are more fashionable than Americans. The majority of people here don't dress to impress. It's Europe -- this means that even cargo pants are acceptable. When I spot a stylish person at home, I usually like their look because it seems so European. I define that as unique and cool without too much effort. Their look says, "I traveled to France with my mom on my spring break and brought style back with me." But don't mistake me. There really is no difference. Cool is cool. It's an attitude, not a look. Additionally, Paris is a major world city. There is going to be a higher number of stylish people in any major city than in any college town, but the actual percentage may actually be lower here. Of course, this is by my personal standards only.

As much as I wish it did, this photo does not depict the average French girl. Here is Catherine Deneuve, who is allegedly one of the most beautiful French women of all time. This is one of the only times that I will use a photograph not taken by myself.

I wasn't able to get to Barcelona or Berlin this weekend like I had wanted, but it was a good time nonetheless.

Friday night I convinced my new roommate Carin to accompany me to La Fleche d'Or. We didn't get there in time to see any of the bands and the dj played only techno. We danced anyway. Carin went home around 2, shortly after my friend Julien arrived with Xavier and Marie. After dancing a bit more, we departed Fleche d'Or for Truskel, a rock bar with a small room for dancing. Background information: I met Julien the first time I went to Fleche d'Or -- he grew up in Montreal and now he's working in Paris as a photographer's assistant. He claims to love my American accent.

Saturday morning I unpacked and settled into my new bedroom. After a half hour of thumbing through the Parisian Vogue, I had to run out to Sephora and buy some dark blue eyeshadow so that I could achieve this season's smokey eye. Blue eyeshadow is one of those that I never thought would be a purchase of my own accord.

The following evening lacked in dancing but not in company. I met Julien and several of his friends at Les Couleurs, a bar near Oberkampf. Both nights Julien gave me a ride home on his Vespa. If I ever live in Europe, nothing would stop me from buying a scooter. It is a way to experience the city in a completely new way. My interest in Paris has increased tenfold since my first ride. At the time (wet from the rain, slightly intoxicated, euphoric from dancing all night long), I thought of plenty romantic things to write about the city. Am I able to remember any of them? Not a chance.

To research: chicha. Someone told me (albeit in French) it was a genre of film, but Google tells me it's a beverage.

Last night Cat and I went out for a drink. We went to an Irish bar right off of Bastille that I figured would be filled with under-aged tourists (it was the one and only student night offered in Paris). I was wrong -- instead, it was filled with all of my favorite songs and cheap whiskey-based cocktails. Quelle chance!

We were watching two homeless men across the street. They were sharing a sleeping bag when they started to bicker. One of them rolled over so that he was facing us, pulled out his penis and took a wee (thanks, Cat) right on the sidewalk. He didn't even bother to stand up or move three feet away from where he was sleeping. Even though a lot of the bathrooms here are open and unisex (that is, the girls get the stalls and the men stand in full while using the urinals), this is the first time this innocent little girl has seen a man "wee." A noteworthy experience -- thank you, Paris.


The other day I splurged on a quality bag that will actually hold all of my stuff (that is, my laptop, camera, notebooks, and Evian). After several visits to the store, I finally made a purchase. It took awhile, because I am a very picky shopper, and even after I bought the bag I had to return to the store twice to switch colors. Apparently I made a great choice, because yesterday (the first day it saw sunlight) I was stopped several times by women on the street and on the Metro. See: http://www.brontibay.fr




I had some time during my host-family switcheroo that left me homeless. I stayed with a friend of mine, Rodrigo. He was kind enough to not only let me keep all of my baggage at his apartment, but also to help me carry it up (and back down) five flights of stairs. In return, I cooked us dinner (okay, so I wanted to take advantage of having a kitchen and the Parisian shops at my disposal). I made a simple pasta dish with ravioli and tomato sauce, in which I added my own sautéed tomatoes, artichoke hearts, ground beef from le boucherie, and garlic sauce. Fun!

For those out of the loop, I have switched host families. Hopefully there has not been any mail sent to my last apartment, because I have a slight feeling that I will never be return there.

The good news is that my new situation is going to turn out just lovely.

My two roommates are two Swedish girls who are about my age. There are also two daughters in the household (aged 8 and 11) who seem quite spicy and potentially more fashionable than myself. The father is a successful artist (painter, just starting sculpture), but he is leaving in a couple of days to open a show in Stockholm and then will go on to work in his other studio in Berlin. He was born in Sweden, moved to Paris at four, and then in his twenties moved to NYC. The mother is an theater actress -- large posters advertising her current play are taking over every Metro station in Paris. They all speak perfect English but will make me talk in French.

Last night I arrived just in time for dinner. They actually offered me a cheese platter (at last!) with at least five different kinds of cheese. We talked about why Macs are better than PCs (Helvetica), how they built their apartment from an artist's loft, and how Paris won't accept the fact that it is no longer a "modern city" and how that, by being snobs with their language, the French are separating themselves from the development of modern Europe.

My bedroom is full of pictures of The Beatles and Marilyn Monroe, Christian Dior scarves, vintage shoes (in my size) and a bass guitar. Who cares that my pillow is decorated with the Powerpuff Girls or some other such cartoonery?

More on Parisian youth fashion.

Last Friday I stepped impulsively into Biba, a shop near Sèvres-Babylone, and just as quickly bought a pair of jeans and a scarf. (Wikipedia tells me that Biba has a long history in London. This boutique is probably unrelated to the original Biba except for the name). The jeans are made by LTB by LittleBig (a Turkish company). They are marketed for people who "want to be themselves without any prejudices, strong personalities who trust themselves as well as their appearance." For some reason, the company's whole business plan is published on their website. Apparently there is a LittleBig shop in NYC.

One print that is exceptionally trendy here in Paris is the skull motif (not necessarily with crossbones). Usually the scarves are black and white. Mine has a similar design, but the skulls look more like those found in Mexico on the Day of the Dead. Also, it is beige and cobalt blue.

I asked the salesgirl why the skull design was so popular. She said she didn't know, that she thought it was pretty gross and terrible, but that it was cool. It was cool because it was "très rock."

And so we have it. Youth fashion derives from what is rock 'n' roll. Paris has a rather sketchy local music scene, so the look is most likely imported from London. This would also explain the abundance of '60s-inspired black dress boots (think of the Beatles), skinny jeans, bangs, drug-addict figures and androgyny. According to the cover of this season's Vogue Hommes International, Pete Doherty is quite popular on this side of the Atlantic.

Without going into it too much, I find this quite contradictory (no, not quite ironic) to Parisian culture.

I've also been seeing loads of gray, V-neck American Apparel t-shirts (of which I have three and a half), but none of their new jeans.

Men and women alike wear large, lightweight scarves. Styled if you're gay, aloof if you're rock. It sounds like these little pieces of heaven have already hit shelves in America via Urban Outfitters.


The local music of Paris (and the rest of Europe, with a slight exception for London) is electronic-based, whether this is executed through post-rock/electro-rock (yes, please!) or trance and trip-hop (no, thank you, not without four hours of steady [or unsteady, as photos prove] dancing already behind me).

The point of all this instruction? Well, my goal is to get as much of a taste for local culture as I can stand (seriously, head cheese?). This adaptation entails a change of my personal style. Ultimately, this means that you have to keep loving me regardless of how euro-trashy I may become.

Here is one reason to love France (éclairs! with mint frosting!) along with a few other pictures that I have taken this past week. Included is another Space Invader (I collect them like pokémon. Also please see the sneakers at http://www.space-invaders.com/shop), along with an architectural marvel -- what happened to the rest of this building?

The last photo is from this past Sunday. My friend and I were strolling through le Marais when a sudden hailstorm forced us to take cover in a café, where I was further assaulted by a paparazzo. Who could he have possibly mistaken me for other than a drowned rat?