This morning I walked up to the Trocadero and took in the sunrise with le Tour Eiffel. Afterward, I returned to le Marais to explore the shops. I actually started at the Bastille and walked up Rue Beaumarchais to the Apple store (Note: Back in 2005, Jobs announced that an Apple Store was set to open in Paris. According to the employee at this third-party Apple reseller, this was nothing more than a legend).

I stopped into a café for orange juice, the one craving I had not been able to satisfy. I found camaderie in the men smoking and drinking at the bar. Sure, they made dirty jokes suggesting that I squeeze their oranges, but I enjoyed their company and felt comfortable laughing along with them. One man spoke English with me and paid for my juice. After this, I went to another café and ordered un chocolat et un croissant (Royal Turenne, 24, rue de Turenne, 3). The owner of the shop arranged a seat for me outside under a heat lamp, where I was able to observe Parisiens conduct their morning routines. At this point, I had infinite time for leisure and I became immediately aware of my flânerie.


Interesting things I observed that morning: Men pasting up new advertisements in the subway stations. Businessmen riding in motorcycles gangs. Boxes of Marlboros being delivered to various tabacs. A homeless man sleeping in la place de Vosges, a luxurious place to live in one’s darkest days.

Places of consumption: Abou D’Abi Bazaar (10, rue des Francs Bourgeois), Ben Simon (8, rue des Francs Bourgeois), Zadig & Voltaire, APC, American Apparel, among others.

I shared an interesting conversation (en français) with the salesman in Ted Baker. We discussed the difference in styles and shopping habits of Parisians, the British, and Americans (who are further divided into two groups: New Yorkers and Californians). I complained that Paris was too dark in its fashion. He described it as classic, saying that Londoners liked color but that it was trendy and cheap. New Yorkers, we decided, were the best Americans to shop with because of their experience. They know what they are looking for, whereas Californians touch and try everything.

After buying a few things at a nearby vintage clothing store, I made it to the Louvre half an hour early. We succeeded in making it to the Grand Gallery and had a discussion comparing the late-18th century paintings by David, Delacroix, Gericault, Gros, and Ingres.

That night, ma mère went out to the theater and I treated myself to a long, hot shower. I was able to shave both of my legs.

Objective Truth: Water and electricity are very expensive here. Ma mére has both a washing machine and a dryer -- a rare occurrence -- but I have to use the laundromat. I would much rather pay her for each time I use the machine and not have to carry my dirty laundry through the Parisian streets. She has a dishwasher also, but doesn’t use it because of the high cost of water. Perhaps the republican ideal of self-sacrifice for the sake of the common good still exists here. Perhaps this is why I am unable take showers long enough to shave my legs, but that each night le tour Eiffel twinkles and flashes with thousands of tiny lights.

The first day of French class. I made some friends from Madison, Chicago, and Berkeley. Disappointed that the cafeteria sandwich was made with American cheese, I vowed to never waste my lunchtime there again. For our Paris by Site history class, we took a walking tour around le Marais (what used to be the swamp of Paris before the city limits were extended). We discussed les hôtels particuliers and walked around la place des Vosges, which houses one of Victor Hugo’s apartments.

We passed by a contemporary gallery exhibiting what Howard called bad paintings. This was a major event in regard to my interior dialogue on what contributes to, as well as the existence of, personal and professional tastes.

After the majority of the group dispersed, a few of us ducked inside of Les Étages, a bar with a trés cool, though tranquil, Moroccan ambiance offering margaritas during their happy hour. The real thrill of this gem: the creepy, tightly twisting staircase leading up to the other floors and the grimy bathroom fit for any low-budget film du horreur (35, rue Vieille du Temple, 4, another location in St. Germain, 5, rue de Buci, 6).

For dinner? Pâté and charred breast of duck. At this point, I had leg hair long enough to measure with a yardstick. This combination? Almost European.

Objective Truth: It is not uncommon to see policemen, almost always in groups of three, carrying absurdly large, automatic weapons.

This was the day that the class tried to go to the Grand Gallery at the Louvre and failed. The overly empowered coat check clerks were the first to refuse us. At least we were able to eat (un sandwich poulet et curry). Afterward, Monica and I ran off to le tour Eiffel to meet with other Michiganders. It took us awhile, but we ended up at a restaurant not long before I had to return home for dinner. That night, ma mère cooked spaghetti and meatballs and shared some Bordeaux. Finally, une baguette! This was the night I was first instructed to keep my bread on the table and not my plate, where it ruins the bread’s taste.
Here is a picture of my school's courtyard.

Objective Truth: The majority of restaurants and stores play American pop music. For example, the café I sit in currently is playing Boy George. Ma mère told me that this is because American pop music is much better than French.

This morning I realized that my apartment shares the block with a church. The bells chime every morning.

At one in the afternoon, we met at the fountain in le place Saint Sulpice, which houses a gorgeous church. Inside, we looked at murals painted by Delacroix. One of the highlights was a modern video installation illustrating the annunciation. It was surprising to see a major historical site recognizing the cultural value of contemporary art.

Following the visit to the church, we took a walking tour of the Latin Quarter, ending with another café visit (Café Panis: un bière, Kronenberg, et des frites). That night, I met with Monica, Paloma, Alyssa, and Shaelyn for un pizza fromage and du vin at Pizza del Mondo (16, rue des Trois Fréres, Montmartre).

Objective Truth: It is en vogue for women to wear cowgirl boots and skinny jeans even in Paris.

Now, because it would be best for this journal to remain as honest as I can afford, I will admit that I wrote this entry, and the few following, twelve days after its marked date. But as you will see I have kept careful notes of my goings-on, so hopefully this will read problem-free. A forewarning: these entries are relatively free of my usual poetics. At this point, I am just trying to catch up with myself. Enjoy.

That morning, I made a run to the BHV (a department store) for notebooks and school supplies. The group met just after noon at l’Institut, from where we departed for le Château de Malmaison. This estate was the last home of Joséphine Bonaparte, Napoléon’s first wife (born Marie-Joseph-Rose de Tascher de la Pagerie in 1763, marries Napoléon in 1796. The two buy Malmaison in 1799, divorce in 1809, and Joséphine dies in 1814). Inside there are three American floors, consisting of salons, boudoirs, un salle de billard, and the best room of all, Napoléon’s library. The château is also home to David’s famous portrait of Napoléon, depicting the gold-caped emperor crossing the Alps on horseback. Pretentious Romanesque detailing adorns much of the château's interior, complemented by Orientalist paintings and Egyptian sculptures integrated in the architecture that allude to Napoléon’s travels abroad. When it comes to the homes of the nobility, it’s not unusual to find rich reds and gold leaf mingling with baby blues and trompe d’oeil. The grounds also housed a hothouse for tropical plants and a so-called temple of love.

On our way back from the château, we stopped at a café for lunch. I had un Lèfe (a delicious and intoxicating amber beer) and un sandwich jambon. After returning to central Paris, Kathryn and I took a walk along the Seine.

Objective Truth: There is dog poop all over the sidewalks. It gets walked on until it finally dissolves into the concrete.

I woke up excited to finally meet up with my American comrades. I was an hour late after getting lost in the catacombs of the Metropolitan and a Parisian labyrinth called the 6th arrondissement. When I finally found my way, I also discovered that I had been abandoned and missed the beginning of our orientation. All was fine in the end and I was indescribably relieved to see the other students.

That evening I bought ma mère a bouquet of yellow tulips and met with everyone for dinner. One of the girls who stayed here last year came over to cook a Japanese feast with my current housemate, Mika. Ma mère, dressed in a traditional kimono brought to her by our houseguest, served our meal of pâté, fish eggs, and raw salmon on beds of white rice and glasses of le vin rosé, followed with pork stew, clementines, and tea. Imagine this petite fête with these three women, the other housemate (a nice French boy), and myself, all nibbling our sushi and trying to speak French to one another. The highlight of our conversation was ma mère explaining to the other girls the meaning of the term “bobo.” The Cusackian absurdity ran amok, climaxing when George Michael’s “Faith” came on the radio.

After dinner, I escaped to the Trocadero and delighted in an evening spent at le tour Eiffel with Kathryn sharing massive amounts of cotton candy and my first glass of red wine in France (Brouilly).

Objective Truth: The toilet paper is often pink.

After breakfast (juice and un croissant with Darrell, 0£), I took a taxi to the airport (21£). Air France refused to allow all 48 kilograms of my luggage onto the plane. I was convinced to cancel my flight and buy a new ticket for the afternoon flight into Paris (72£). I unloaded and repacked my bags in the middle of Heathrow so that one bag had all of my essentials for the next week (two pairs of cowgirl boots, jeans, cameras, mascara). The other (fiction, Tate Modern mug, make-up remover) I shipped through a monopolized service at the airport (140£). I still had to pay Air France for the extra 8 kilograms of luggage (95£). When I arrived at Charles de Gaulle, where one of my professors was going to meet me, no one was there. I called my mom and the other professor from a pay phone with my credit card to sort things out (184 USD). After waiting for two hours, I was instructed to catch a taxi to my home-stay (80€).

By this time, ‘weary’ had become the mot du jour. I had no idea what time it was or what French phrase is used to ask. Despite repeated efforts to explain mes problèmes gastronomiques and extraordinary fatigue, ma mère (as I will refer to my host mother) and fellow housemates kept me up at the kitchen table so that they could watch me drink tea and interrogate me. En français. My silence and awkward gesturing did not seem to move them and, finally, I was granted permission to go to sleep.

I made a late morning departure to Camden Town Market, but found it too cheap, too gothic, and too aggressive, so I left for Camden Passage. There, I found an old Indian charm and some earrings, vintage photographs, and a fabulous Afghani lapis necklace. I bargained hard for it, though it was still more expensive than I could really afford. It’s truly a spectacular one-of-a-kind piece and I can’t wait to show the Bead Gallery girls back home. The man who sold me the necklace asked if all of the girls back in Michigan wore v-necks and silk scarves in February. I told him they didn’t.

While I was bargaining, a half-drunken brawl almost broke out. The instigator, the drunk, shouted: “Did he call me a wanker? Why, if I could only stand on two feet…” The other man, who must have been disturbingly sober on this warm Wednesday morn, just sat at his picnic table, puffing his eyes and rolling his cigarette. The drunk continued, “You’re a complete idiot. If I could just stand…” He then attempted to stand, nearly fooling us all into believing that a semi-decent fight was about to happen. He didn’t get far before withdrawing victoriously to his bench.

Following the markets, I took the train to the White Cube 2 gallery (the one supporting Damien Hirst) in Hoxton Square. I found only one piece worthwhile: a video environment where each wall played scenes from movies or actual war footage of men shooting guns at the viewer. I found it loud, bright and unsurprisingly, but effectively, oppressive. While heading back to the Underground, I passed a young twenty-something being hassled by two cops. The guy was dressed like every other British mod rocker, in a skinny black suit with a skinny black tie, large black sunglasses, and a cigarette dangling from his jaunty, smirked lips. I was just able to overhear one cop say to him quite sternly, “You’re lucky you aren’t arrested!” The mod’s smirk widened and he offered nothing more than a shrug, which relayed his indifference to the matter. I don’t know what happened prior to my passing, but I would have been very surprised if the bloke hadn’t been socked in the face shortly after.

After this misadventure, I tubed to the Tate Modern and saw the Gilbert and George retrospective and their permanent collection. I loved the way the Tate exhibits its work. Paintings are hung at various latitudes of the exhibition walls, which allows both a more casual and comparative approach than the formal linearity of most other museums. It was like viewing the art in your hip colleague’s stylish apartment. Currently, the Tate has an installation of giant slides running from the second, third, and fifth floors to the lobby. I took the slide from its highest point and found the experience not dissimilar from the video installation at the White Cube (see above). In the museum’s café I ate a crispy open-faced sandwich with chêvre, prosciuttio, fig, and rockets.

Walking out of the museum took me past the Globe Theater and over the Thames just in time for the sunset. It was scenic in every sense of the word, very moving and very romantic. The experience prompted musings that concerned the capricious relationship I hold with my long-term partner, Loneliness. Evidently wanting these feelings of misery and utter hopelessness to never cease, I walked to the West End theater district and achieved the great feat of acquiring a half-price ticket to that evening’s show of Les Misérables (20£). Before the curtain, I scurried my way back into SoHo and tried a French-Italian restaurant (Chez Biagio Victor, 45 Wardour). For 10£, I had potato and onion soup (superb), spaghetti (al denté), and a crème caramel (leaky). The performance was wonderful and I had a great seat. Afterward, I felt much more optimistic about the state of my affairs. There was no way I could possibly ever feel more alone than Valjean.

Notes:
Funny trees. Palm trees.
Public drunks.
Love poems on the Underground instead of advertisements.
Immediate service and comfortable seats on said Underground.
Very friendly, even complimentary, citizens.
A bakery, wine shop, sex store, and casino all in a row.
Stores with names like, “The Orc’s Nest” and “The Mutts’ Nuts.”
All around good-looking, stylish people.
Too few public trash cans.

Somehow the previous 24+ hours were absent from my memory. By the late afternoon, I was ready to venture outside of the bathroom. My first stop was the American Emba---Apple Store in Oxford Circus. Afterwards, Ted Baker. A couple of macs (G4 and size 3) later, I met a very friendly Australian who not only gave me directions, but also took my number so she could invite me out to the pub. By this point I was starving, so I stumbled into SoHo.
Looking radiant and eager for the night, I was in all actuality feverish and lost. I ordered myself a margherita pizza at Italian Graffiti (163-165 Wardour Street). For dessert, a Mellow Yellow (sugar and lemon) crêpe from Crêpe Affair.

After a morning of rushing my apartment into the Civic, I found myself with only an hour or two to pack for my trip. Every option became a last minute decision. Dosteovsky had to stay behind, but Calvino slipped easily into the pockets of my suitcase. I sacrificed a pair of boots for a party dress and left the soap behind. Surely it would be better in France or so I figured.

While waiting for my plane to taxi, I tried activating my French cell phone. The only directions to accompany the phone were these: “Place SIM card into phone. Align angled corner with that of the slot.”

I did exactly as it asked, failing again and again. I gave up, feeling technologically disabled for the first time in my life. Observing my attempts was my seat partner, Simian, a youthful Brit with an affinity for McDonald’s and being crass with his mother. His first words to me, in a high, whiny and condescending English accent, were these: “Oh, you have to put the SIM card into your phone.” Considering this was the first time I had even seen a SIM card, I was a little taken aback by the youngster’s knowledge. Through this exchange, Simian learned that I did not share his intellectual capacity; he assisted me with every aspect of the flight. I let him choose how far back my chair would lean and the temperature of our air, which games I would play and whose headphones I would use to listen to my movie (which I had the audacity to choose on my own). Four hours later, he slept like the 6-year-old child that he was, cuddled against my arm.

My first impression of London was a positive one. Aside from the sheep and windmills spotted from my window seat, the first thing I noticed was the fresh air. There are few other words to describe the way it felt and smelled. Damp, clean and filled with oxygen. Fresh. On my way to the neighborhood where I was staying, nearly every passerby offered to help with my luggage. I waited at a café with Joyce and my baggage for Darrell, my flatmate. Darrell is a traveling professor and writes art columns for several impressive dailies. His undergrad was with Columbia and his master’s with the University of Chicago. He loves opera: he praised Tales of Hoffman at the Bastille very highly and assured me that it is the best show going on worldwide.

After Darrell showed me my room, I ran to the toilet. The norovirus hit hard for the long hours following my simple and relatively fashionable arrival into Europe. Somehow, I eventually managed to get my phone in proper order and made calls for sympathy.

Preface

This is a record of my time spent studying abroad. The information that follows is personal in that it documents the events, ruminations, and emotional fluxations I experience during these four months. Through my journaling I hope to expand upon my understanding of taste, a particularly telling concept when considered within the fields of art history and appreciation.

I use this word in two ways. The first is in reference to the development of personal preference. The second is in terms of sensory experience. For example, the fruits of life can be simultaneously sweet and bitter. How we perceive or digest these sensations often defines our sense of self. Here is a taste, if you will, of my partaking in a foreign culture for a limited amount of time. Exposed to only a taste of the Parisien lifestyle, I will do my best to record and, given time and interest, analyze the sensory experiences fed to me.