Plenty of good things have been happening on which I will write a little later.
This is just a short note that I don't want to forget to mention.

The girls (and women) here have the ugliest feet. I am not one of those people who are particularly grossed out by feet. In fact, sometimes I even like feet (though only as much as I am capable of liking anything else). But the girls here wear "cute shoes" (terribly trendy and uncomfortable) all the time, like ballet flats, gladiator sandals, and very high heels. It seems that the shoes are usually too small -- ankle flab squeezes out of the most unpredictable places. These women may be a size zero, but, from the looks of it, they have fat feet. Consequently, they have terrible scars and marks. I also have not been seeing too many pedicures. Most of girls' nails are unpainted.

What good are $400 shoes if they make your feet look terrible?

I really hate to do this, but I am going to skip a few weeks' worth of material. I kept excellent notes and even wrote a few entries by hand in my notebook, but it takes a lot of effort to revisit those thoughts and record them here. Besides, by now I would have lost my passion for whatever those subjects were and the entries wouldn't be nearly as insightful as I would like them to be. Instead, I will catch up on what I did during my holiday. If for some reason you really want to hear about my French épilation du maillot experience or the several afternoons I spent sprawled on the grass by the Seine, just let me know.

For our vacation, Liz and I booked a trip to Barcelona. I was a little disappointed that I wasn't going to be able to go to Morocco, but I couldn't have asked for more from Barcelona (except possibly for warmer weather). I love the city. Whereas before I had diagnosed my chronic bad mood as homesickness, now I realize it is only my relationship with Paris that gets me down. I'm not saying Paris is a terrible city -- plenty of people seem to love it. But plenty of people don't. I always figured I would be one of those people who found Paris to be the happiest place on the planet. What a surprise to discover that I'm not sixteen anymore.

Basically, in Barcelona I spent my days in museums and the nights with a drink in my hand. I returned to Paris with spirit, inspiration (for design, writing, and overall life-living), and an addiction to coffee. The only thing Barcelona refused me was sleep.

Liz and I went to El Museo de la Xocolata (the Museum of Chocolate), which is great to see milk chocolate sculptures of Don Quixote and Ben Hur and to conquer PMS, and to El Museu Picasso, which had a lot of sketches from his youth. Society, I apologize -- just like I was wrong in saying The Beatles were overrated, it was foolish of me to once believe that Picasso was only for philistines. (Calm down, I now realize it is silly and/or pretentious of me to say that Anything, especially some specific artist, is intended for only such an audience or that such an audience actually exists. But I will probably continue doing so.)

Another day, I went to the Fundació Joan Miro to see the Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen exhibition. Amazing, amazing, amazing. There was no Giant Cake, but that was fine with me. I could tell that I could have been best friends with everyone at the exhibit -- everyone was mischievously sneaking photographs of the work and exchanging giddy, knowing smiles as if they were six-year-olds smuggling cookies. Even the museum guards seemed excited and spent more time examining the work than sitting on their stools. I made a couple of friends, a professor from the University of Calgary (Gerald Hushlak) and his colleague. We talked shop and they walked me through the other exhibits, including a temporary one on digital media.



On yet another day Liz and I went to CaixaForum (el Fundació la Caixa), a gallery-space sponsored by the bank. We went mainly for the Lee Friedlander exhibit. They had over 500 over his photographs. I have never looked at his work before, but his street photography (okay, nearly all of his subjects) did a lot for me and rekindled my interest in the medium. They also had a couple of rooms of contemporary installations. Some Sophie Calle and Joseph Beuys, as well as these other two incredible works: 'Text Rain' by Camille Utterback and Romy Achituv (pictured, with yours truly playing participant) and 'Paraules encreuades' (in Spanish) by Rivane Neuenschwander.

I also spent a few hours going to three different fine art bookstores (including the one at el Museu d'Art Contemporani) in search of the Oldenburg catalog. Instead, I found more fine architecture, the café and terrace for the art-school kids, and a delicious fluffball of meringue. One of the bookshops was just so cool. I spent way more time in them than I needed to, but I did pick up a couple of magazines and a totebag.

In any other city, I tire of going to museums. No matter how much you love art, it is an exhausting trip to make over and over again. But in Barcelona, I only wanted more. I'm not sure what had gotten into me, but it saddens me that I can feel that enthusiasm drifting away more each day. The city's atmosphere was so encouraging. It is very cosmopolitan and the architecture reflects its cultural diversity. As far as I am concerned, Barcelona has successfully preserved an authentic Catalonian identity regardless of its booming tourist industry.

And please don't even get me started on its graffiti! I have never had much of an interest in so-called "street art" until this trip and now I already have a wishlist going on Amazon for a few books on the stuff.

Paris is beautiful, but nearly every building looks the same. My surroundings need to stimulate me. In Paris, I find that stimulation only in watching other people.

In addition to all of those, we also visited La Sagrada Familia (Gaudí's famous and still unfinished cathedral) and Sagrat Cor, Barcelona's Sacred Heart with a giant statue of Christ looking over the city. Sagrat Cor is on top of a mountain -- we had to take a tram to get all the way there. There's an amusement park with a ferris wheel on top, as well, which I would not have even considered riding.

Another factor that left a great impression was the language. It was fun to practice my Spanish and French, as well as to learn that neither one is sufficient for speaking Catalonian. The social atmosphere is much more supportive than Paris, though. In one of the pastry shops, the girls asked me where I was from and what language I spoke. My "foreign" switch was on, so I ended up answering their questions in my own language, a combination and bastardization of the other three. Still, they acted amazed that I knew more than one language (even if on a very basic level) and they told me to keep it up. That made me want to practice even more. (On a side note, someone guessed I was Russian. What a compliment!)

One of the nights, Liz and I went dancing with a Parisian she met (French). That evening, I danced all night with an Australian (English). I also met two German men (German, English, Catalonian, Spanish, et cetera), who invited Liz and I to a cake party the following afternoon. A cake party! A stranger invited me to his apartment on a quiet Sunday afternoon to share cake! What a pleasure. Matthias lived right off of the beach, so we sat on the roof of his apartment eating (what else?) cake, cookies, and spaghetti, as well as drinking cappuccinos and caiprinhas. It seemed that each of the guests spoke at least two languages, but very few of us shared the same two. So, we talked through each other with nearly everyone having a chance to play translator. Naturally, we talked a lot about traveling and cultural difference (the Germans complain a lot, the Spaniards don't like Catalonians because they're too tall and so on). How badly I wanted to know German!

The following evening we met the three guys sharing our room at the hostel. They are from northern Italy: Matteo (a baker), Ric (a med student), and Ricardo (an architecture student). Liz and I spent a bit of time the next couple of days getting to know these guys while picnicking at the beach, going to bars and restaurants, and walking around the city. I made quite a bit of effort to learn as much Italian as I could. It wasn't much, but I am very proud of what I did pick up. Matteo made an excellent teacher. In exchange, I shared with him some Buddhist wisdom, speaking as slowly as I could.

My conversations with both Oliver (one of our German friends) and Matteo led to insightful discussions on personal and cultural tastes. I find it incredibly intriguing that these topics come up often and entirely on their own, suggesting that people make enormous efforts to understand why they like and feel what they do. My desire to learn every language in the world has never been so strong. I want to be able to speak to everyone about their opinions. It is more of a possibility now than it was before -- not that I can learn every language, but now I realize it isn't even necessary. Matteo's and my conversation was one of the most enlightening I've ever had and it was exchanged through very simple and broken English.

The food? I had tapas (a lot of chorizo, Iberican ham, and pineapple), spaghetti, and a gigantuous cheeseburger. It had two patties, cheese, tomato, lettuce, bacon AND a fried egg, in case I wasn't getting enough protein. Our first night out I was able to experience some (free) absinthe. Dancing at Club Razzmatazz rewarded me (free) whiskey and (15€) refreshed self-confidence. In the market, I bought a pound of dried fruit (under 6€) and a cup of mint-melon juice (2€). Several mornings in a row I went to a small, open café on Carrer Ferran for a croissant and coffee (1.75€). Why didn't anyone tell me how utterly amazing coffee can be?

For my clairscentient readers: The air of Barcelona is fruity, balmy like in the Caribbean but not as overripe, as well as very floral, although there were not many flowers in bloom. All over the city it smelled like a beautiful woman's perfume. Maybe I AM in love.

In short, I felt much more at home in Barcelona than in Paris. I was very sad to leave, especially because the weather was getting so nice. I couldn't stand the busyness of La Rambla or the cheesiness of a lot of the clubs, but the overall feel of Barcelona was a lot more safe, relaxed and fun-loving (which includes art just as much as it does dance clubs) than any other city I've found.

I'm working on a Flickr album of my favorite photos. I have far too many to post.

Today I was a good Catholic. All irony aside, this morning I made it to Notre Dame in time for the 10:30 mass with Gregorian chants. It was packed full of Catholics and tourists (and maybe even some Catholic tourists), but I found a great spot in the front. I wished that I was familiar with what they were reciting. For the rest of the day, religious motivations infiltrated my thoughts even more than usual. One particular thought that stuck with me was that God (please bear with me and my loose usage of this term) cherishes everything we have learned to do.


On that note, I would like to talk a little about the city's many crêpe artists. I have lost count of how many Nutella and banana crêpes I've consumed since living here. This morning I actually had one without the Nutella -- it was an excellent breakfast treat. As I watch these masters swirl the batter on the hot griddle, I anticipate the addition of the banana. Sometimes they slice it over the crêpe, other times they lay it down and then cut it. Still other times they leave it whole (!). More often than not, they add the banana after both sides of the crêpe have been already cooked, but every now and then it will go in while one side is still sizzling. After doing this hundreds and hundreds of times, each chef develops his own way of creating this little bundle of joy. I hope they are as impressed by their work as I am.

After mass I read Calvino on a sunny bench outside of Shakes & Co. I demand nothing more from you but to read "Difficult Loves." Of course, I think it's best read straight through, but I also think it's important that you read it as you see fit. It only took me a week of Metro rides to read and I haven't been this inspired in a long time.


Anyway, here are some shots of springtime in Paris. As for the pansy: there's definitely a bit of Printemps 2008 in here, don't you think?

My next stop was Champs-Élysées. The ultimate goal of this expedition was to find the Marc Jacobs boutique via Louis Vuitton. For the record, there was not a single item in LV that I would have bought if I had the money. But, everybody told me to go look at the flagship anyway. It was an impressive retail space, but I did not envy the sales-staff working the floor.

Then I went to Oberkampf for dinner and drinks. I had a Leffe and a pretty good baked chicken dish at Le Plein Soleil. To walk off the meal I went to Art Café, along the way observing dog parks, games of bocce, and pigeon attacks.


Why are there so many couples and families who are clearly European (heavy accents) speaking to each other in English? Is it perhaps that two nationalities met, fell in love, and had only English as a common language?

The café was getting full and the party next to me was chain-smoking. Didier noticed my bronchial agitation and my aloofness toward the bachelor beside me, so he told me to go downstairs into the "cave". Here is my home, he says, where it is dark, quiet, free of smoke and where I can have a wireless router all to myself. This is all because Katie is his favorite name. Or so he says. What a doll.

Today my faith in humanity has been restored. Just the other day I made public my concern for those unable to traverse the long subway tunnels on their own and the negligence of others in their refusal to help.

As I stepped off the train at Bastille this evening, a dog walked into my leg. I thought that this must have been some nervy mutt, considering that most other dogs do their best to avoid being touched. I turned the corner and was about to scuttle down the stairs when I looked up to see a homeless man looking at me pitifully. Then I realized he was looking, not at me, but to the top of the stairwell. Then I realized that he had a shopping cart full of sleeping German Shepherd puppies, at least ten of them, not more than four weeks old.

Within a matter of seconds, two heroic young men stepped in and carried the cart, one at each end, to the top of the stairs. Bless their little hearts.


This morning I caught up on my sleep. I must have been having fever dreams, because I woke up disoriented and convinced of many things that now I’m quite sure were never true.

I spent the entire afternoon at Les Puces, the flea and fine antiquities markets in Saint-Ouen. This has to be the largest market in the world and most of it is open-air. As anyone who knows me well should know, I was ecstatic to find this goldmine of over-priced refuse. One stall was selling a giant foot taken from a statue. It was at least four feet long. Another sold only keychains. Others had prints and maps, some sold 19th century signage and military medallions, and still others had tables covered with buttons and costume jewelry. I spent about twenty minutes talking to one man about Hermès scarves (my opinion on paying $200 for a piece of silk changes daily) and the French graphic designer Cassandre. He was kind enough to set five scarves aside for me until I’ve made up my mind.

Another stall-owner was less obliging to my requests. I talked to him about my research on 19th-century political caricature and he showed me his collection, but whenever I asked to stop and look at one of the images, he would decline and keep flipping through. I took a lot of notes, which he didn’t seem to like, but I don’t believe academic research can do any harm. So I kept at it.

I saw some of the same issues of L'Éclipse I had found at the other market, but they were often five times the price. I took a lot of business cards and will consider big purchases after my week in Barcelona. Among the things I bought are a vintage red belt, shark teeth drilled with holes, and rare Venetian glass beads from 300 BC. The best gains, though, were all the compliments I received on my French!

Now I am sitting in my little café listening to bluegrass and drinking Orangina (et sa pulpe!) from a plastic cup.

Another note on French style. Before I left the States, I read in a couple of magazines that it was trendy to use shopping bags as purses. So while it isn’t anything too novel, I find it exciting that it is fashionable (in that obscure, hipster kind of way) to carry the blue Ikea shopping tote all the time. Unfortunately, I’ve taken too long to post about this phenomenon and the Washington Post has beaten me to it. Also, it appears that it isn’t a fashion statement at all, but is just Europeans being more environmentally aware than Americans. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/03/15/AR2007031501921.html

My karaoke song? Devendra’s “Chinese Children.” I just wish one of the bars would have it on their list.

Not that I’m complaining, but why does “Bertrand Russell” come up when I type “Venetian” into my Firefox Google search bar?

After a day of trailing through the mud, the réfractaires came together at night, to plunge up to their necks in wine and talk, flaunting their paradoxes, proving their merit to one another, pouring out their hearts in a cloud of heroic but useless fantasy, imagining things never done and books never written. "People call them roués, but they are dupes; or débauchés, when they are mad." They ended up in a hospital, as suicides, in the provinces. They might make a powerful army if only their country knew how to use them. But the reality of their lives was shipwreck, and [Jules] Vallès's final cry summed it up:

"Man overboard!"

-Jerrold Seigel, "Bohemian Paris" (1986)

Today we finally visited the city's sewer system and catacombs. In fact, we visited the sewer museum. Who knew there was such a thing.

Sure, it smelled. I thought it smelled of chlorine, but the others thought it smelled much more foul. The best part was getting to see the gigantic ball the sewermen used in the 19th century to push along all of the sludge. The sewers are all tall enough for a man to stand, which means that the ball has to have a circumference of at least six feet. All of the sewers are on a slight tilt, which enabled the ball to roll and consequently drive the animal carcasses and other solid matter through the system. Another blogger wrote on his experience much better than I could ever do.
Read it here: http://itotd.com/articles/432/paris-sewers/
For the Frenchies: http://www.egouts.idf.st/

I’m sure there is no relation whatsoever, but I find it interesting that the French word for “sewer” is only one letter away from “taste”. I could go on forever about how completely different words or phrases sound exactly alike. It puts a real damper on my conversational skills.

On to the catacombs, which I think is the best (authentic, interesting) site in Paris. First, the explorer must descend an incredibly long stairwell that twists so tightly he might as well be spinning in circles. Then, he is spit out into a dark, damp tunnel with low ceilings. After following the narrow passage a ways, he comes across the catacombs. There, bones are stacked from floor to ceiling, completely exposed. In most areas they seem to be sorted by type (femurs stack the best), but they are placed in varying designs so that there is an apparent rhythm. In some places, crosses are made with skulls. Some of the skulls still have teeth and others have holes straight through the cranium.

The humidity forms little stalactites that drip onto the heads, or into the ears, of the catacomb's visitors.

There's an artist known as Invader who leaves these little Space Invaders all over major world cities. Most are in Paris or Tokyo, but now there are also Space Invaders in NYC and LA. I've seen a few around the city already.

After another emergency run to Simon, my Apple technician, I stopped at a café to finish some reading for class. The glass of jus d’orange pressé was worth every centime of the 4€ I paid for it. A young couple, perhaps they were just friends, sat next to me on the terrace. I tried my best to eavesdrop, but they were speaking combinations of English, French and German. A few key words and phrases alerted me to the topics of their conversation: “dominatrix,” “mistress,” and “they had to trim my pubes down to there.”

After listening to this couple for nearly an hour, I was reminded how badly I want to 1. Learn every language in the world 2. Have someone with whom I can speak every language in the world and, most importantly, 3. Learn German.

It just so happens that this afternoon was my time to register for summer (and fall?) semester.

After being kicked out of the café, I strolled to the Place de Vosges and picnicked on the grass among thousands of teenagers.

After class, I met with Kathryn in Bastille for drinks. We tried going to my favorite café, but it has very peculiar hours (as I later learn, they close on Mondays, open at 5 or 6 and close at 12 or 2 am the other days, depending on when Didier, the owner, feels like it). We started for margaritas at Beco de Cachaça and ended up with tequila sunrises at Some Girls.

Nearly every bar has happy hour. They usually start at four in the afternoon and last until eight, sometimes even ten, at night. The cocktails are almost always half-off, which means they cost 3 to 5€ each. This translates to $4-7. While I never spend over $5.00 on a cocktail at home, I do it almost daily here and with little guilt. I don’t plan on continuing this once I return to the States. I realize it's a little indulgent. At home, this expenditure is a luxury (if not a habit that requires professional intervention). Here, it's a necessity.

Inquiry: Is "est-ce que je me boucherais" correct? Can one "se boucher"?

I don’t know if I have mentioned this already (which means I probably have several times), but couples, young and old, do not hesitate to make out in the middle of trains, sidewalks, bars and every other public space you can fathom. I found the first couple’s embrace endearing but every one thereafter just nauseating. If they felt the need to practice their French only and not their French kissing, I would feel much differently.

While this city may be ideal for romance, it is far from being family-friendly. The cost of cars is incredibly high, forcing most people to rely on public transportation. Paris has a very old metro system (1900), which means that most stations are not sympathetic to the handicapped or women with baby strollers. My nerves overreact every time I see a young mother carry her stroller, baby inside, down flights of concrete steps in order to reach the train platform. Then again, these kids must have an incredible immune system from continuous inverse incubation.

I have yet another concern. I often see these women struggle to open and keep track of their strollers, babies, and other rather personal items. Never once have I seen someone stop to offer his help. The same goes for people who are caught lugging their luggage up and down the same stairs. Am I alone in my efforts to help these people? Seriously, if you offer your help and they seem in some way frightened or offended, you can always apologize and walk away.

This afternoon Cat and I went out to pick up my necklace (the Afghani silver from Camden Passage, London) from a jeweler in the Bastille area. As it was Sunday, none of the Thai restaurants were open except for the Blue Elephant. Before I leave Europe I hope to eat there, but for 35€ a person I will try waiting for the perfect time. Instead, we sat on the terrace of the restaurant Le Bastille. It was a warm, sunny day so the streets were packed and perfect for people-watching. I ordered my first plate of steak tartare (so good!) and, for dessert, had several scoops of Häagen-Dazs. To work off our rather indulgent Sunday brunch, we sat in my favorite park, talking and watching children play with their parents.

On an even more sentimental note: The other day I bought some falafel à emporter in the Jewish quarter. It tasted amazing and reminded me very much of a Reuben from Zingerman’s. Maybe it was the sauerkraut, but I’m not exactly sure what that even is. Either way, it made me feel at home. The fact that I can feel at home in the Jewish quarter of Paris eating falafel, which I have only had two or three times in my life, exemplifies the amazing power of our senses. In particular, taste.