Le goût du gâteau français

2007-09-11T01:06:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-24T03:09:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-06-17T21:39:00.001+01:00

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.

2007-06-16T10:59:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-14T12:05:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-06-09T17:08:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-06-04T19:55:00.000+01:00

"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.)

2007-06-03T12:50:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-06-01T17:31:00.001+01:00

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

2007-05-30T21:00:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-30T17:36:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-16T11:36:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-16T11:34:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-14T18:05:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-13T11:27:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-11T16:22:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-05-09T11:02:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-08T19:31:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-08T13:09:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-06T16:04:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-04T16:09:00.000+01:00

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!

2007-05-04T15:52:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-05-01T12:58:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-01T12:00:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-05-01T10:50:00.000+01:00

This week, tout le monde is watching France. The final round of the presidential elections are being held next Sunday. For those previously unaware, the competition is between Ségolène Royal (Socialist, left) and Nicolas Sarkozy (UMP, center-right).

For me, Royal's speeches are too idealistic, abstract and rhetorical, but after viewing the American 2004 elections I've come to learn that this is not a problem in politics. My other critique is that she has publicly denounced anime. What was she thinking? On the other hand, she wants to legalize same-sex marriage and adoption.

Sarkozy is anti-immigration and wants to reduce the separation of church and state in France. In fact, he wants to "kick the scum" out of the suburbs. Those in opposition to "Sarko" claim he's not too different from Hitler. I've heard some say they would prefer Le Pen, the candidate from the extreme right, to be elected instead of Sarkozy simply because he is at least honest in his opinions. Many feel that Sarkozy has a particularly manipulative platform and that he's selling an image of being closer to the center than he really is.

I would like to point out the genius of the two-tiered electoral process (especially from the American liberal's point of view). All of the candidates run for the first election and the top two candidates move on to the second round. In the past couple of elections, we have seen the liberal vote split between two (or more!) candidates. This has let Bush win even though he has never been in the favor of the majority.

I also believe that the result of this election will have a significant effect on the American elections in 2008.

First of all, I would like to think that the Republican party doesn't stand a chance. If for some reason it does, I find the idea of both Sarkozy and our conservative party being in power greatly disturbing.

If Royal is elected, it would decrease Hillary's chances. Sure, we would recognize the possibility of having a woman president. But there is simply no way that the world would let two of the most powerful countries have female leaders at the same time. Then again, I don't think Hillary has much of a chance in the States.

As always, I am rooting for Obama. I wish he had one more term to prepare his debut. He's still quite young and is relatively unknown, even among the liberals. The timing is not the best, but he doesn't seem to have any other choice.

The result I would like to see? Royal in France, Obama in the States.
The problem with this result? On a more superficial level, this solution is just too liberal. The baby-boomers would be in fits!

Anyway, one morning one of the metro stations had these posters covering the normal advertisements. Every passerby stopped to read them. It was very impressive. After thinking about the elections, graffiti, and the role of the subversive act within contemporary society during the past three weeks, it was a delight to cross paths with these. On the other hand, I don't fully understand their messages. Some help?

They say such things as:
Productivism + Consumerism = All becomes painful.

Transfer your owner. (Change your boss?) Before he does not change you (and work less to gain less).

Fear the ones, the others.

Consuming sheep... Unhappy, exploited worker. To be human liberates you, changes you. Live!

...and then there's a sloth and snail.

2007-04-29T11:01:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-04-24T20:00:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-04-08T09:41:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-04-07T21:12:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-04-07T20:04:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-04-04T18:46:00.000+01:00

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)

2007-04-03T20:30:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-04-02T17:57:00.000+01:00

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"?

2007-04-01T17:49:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-03-31T18:51:00.000+01:00

After booking part of my upcoming spring break with Liz (we're spending nearly a week in Barcelona and its surrounding area), I continued my search for the perfect café. At long last, I've found it! I almost don't want to disclose its location, but I also don't want to be a snob. Perhaps no one else will find it as charming as I do. Art Cafe can be found at 37 rue de Lappe, not far from the Bastille Metro. They have a strong (et gratuit!) wireless signal, decently priced chai (3€!) and pie (2,60€!), and play everything from Devendra Banhart to our favorite hits from the eighties. On top of that, it also attracts the most unattractive people in all of Paris! At long last!

Here's a photo of my little firestarter, Kathryn, in my café.

I am still trying to visit Morocco either before or after my time in Barcelona. If any one wants to come with me, speak up now.

I am also still looking for a tambourine. I can't decide which of these two dilemmas are of more immediate concern.

2007-03-30T19:06:00.000+01:00

Each morning I wake up completely dissatisfied with my bangs (or fringe ou frange) and give them a trim. Now that I have been here for five weeks, they look nothing more than confused, lost and afraid. So after French class, I found a stylist. The salon is decorated in a sort of organic modern with a marine twist. (Google tells me that marinal is definitely not the word I am looking for.)

With the help of another stylist, I explained to Yoni what I wanted. Because the French lovhttp://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gife to get unnecessarily exasperated, he barked (en francais) "What is this? I can't work with this! No cut, no cut! This? No cut!" while gripping the sides of my bangs. I promised him I would buy a barrette and would never attempt to cut them on my own again. This solution seemed to satisfy him.

My next stop was a library exposition on images of the Commune. Each poster explains the related events of that day and is accompanied by illustrations, the style of which I just loved. Here's an illustration of Courbet.

I raced back to the apartment to meet with the internet technicien I found in a magazine for English ex-pats. He was Scottish. He fixed madame's router within ten minutes. It just needed to be reset. Unfortunately, it took a professional opinion until la madame would believe such a thing. When she asked him what exactly was wrong, he explained: "It is very difficult for me to tell you in French. It's very technical. Let me try in English. We have this phrase for when something stops working. We say its 'knickers are in a twist.' Basically, your router's knickers were in a twist." It was clear that she didn't understand the idiom, so he mimed it for her by pulling his own underwear out from the top of his jeans and pretended to wring them out. Wonderful.

Afterward, Cat, her friend Lara and I went to the Louvre. I did my best to summarize for them two years' worth of knowledge on 19th-century French visual culture. I didn't do half bad, but I could use a lot more practice with my presentation skills.

Mika leaves tomorrow for Japan, so we went out to a bar near the Trocadero (Le Coq) for drinks. We were a little too rambunctious for the pretentiousness of this champagne bar, but the staff liked us enough to bring free food (in addition to the mandatory olives and almonds). I ordered du porte rouge and loved every intoxicating sip.

Here's a snippet to explain just how sassy my roommate can be. This morning at the breakfast table I asked if I was showing too much cleavage for French class. Her response? "What cleavage?" Sassy, sassy lady.

For dinner? Roasted duck. For the appetizer we ate lentil (maybe?) soup with dollops of thick crème.

2007-03-29T19:57:00.000+01:00

Here is an excerpt Barthes used in The Neutral from Gustav Janouch's book, Conversations with Kafka. This is the response Kafka allegedly gave after Janouch showed him a sonnet he was working on.

"You describe the poet as a great and wonderful man whose feet are on the ground, while his head disappears in the clouds. Of course, that is a perfectly ordinary image drawn within the intellectual framework of lower-middle-class convention. It is an illusion based on wish fulfillment, which has nothing in common with reality. In fact, the poet is always much smaller and weaker than the social average. Therefore he feels the burden of earthly existence much more intensely and strongly than other men. For him personally his song is only a scream. Art for the artist is only suffering, through which he releases himself for further suffering. He is not a giant, but only a more or less brightly plumaged bird in the cage of his existence."

2007-03-29T19:36:00.000+01:00

For the past couple nights I have had dreams in which I was going to Harvard for grad school. In the first, I played badminton with two colleagues before lying around in the grass. I don't remember what the second was about, but I am pretty sure it had some academic dialogue. I don't take either of these as any kind of sign, except now I would really like to play some sports.

My day was productive and intellectually rewarding. I bought myself a personal-sized mushroom pizza (3€) before inspecting Gilbert Jeune's collection of travel guides and poetry. I gave up and went to Shakespeare & Co. after not being able to find a cheap, bilingual copy of Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mal. There, I sat upstairs for a great length of time reading, taking notes, and eavesdropping. Sylvia was engaged in a Russian lesson. How blessed that woman must be for having been raised speaking both perfect English and French. Meanwhile, visitors popped into the reading room to snap photographs.

For class we visited Notre Dame and its subterranean archaeological museum.

For dinner? Pork chops.

Images:
1. Some very lucky people cross this threshold every day to enter into their apartments.
2. Other lucky people wake up in the morning, get their mugs of coffee, and then spill them when they look out their windows and think the Eiffel Tower is falling on their multi-million-dollar apartments. Then they realize they are fools and that it is only another beautiful Parisian day and it is the clouds, not the tower, that are moving.
3. Some people consider kings to be lucky people. I do not -- who else gets shit on by pigeons?
4. Proust's bedroom.
5. 'Tis the season for the resurrection of Christ.

2007-03-27T20:40:00.000+01:00

I have not yet taken a picture, but graffiti covers the walls in the Metro's tunnels. A couple of weeks ago, I was thinking about who paints it and when. The vandals must sneak in at night after the trains stop running. They must wear headlamps, unless they make their girlfriends (am I assuming too much?) come with them to hold the flashlights. I gave a good five minutes' thought to these artists and went on that night to have a dream about them.

In my dream, I was standing on the platform at the station near my apartment. The rumble of the train could be heard in the distance when three men came running out of the tunnel wearing face masks. It was obvious that they were the ones doing all of the graffiti. The men were none other than the three homeless guys who spend all day on the bench talking and drinking cans of beer.

It was a brief and relatively uneventful dream, but it gave a little more insight and liberty for when I imagine the lives of the strangers I encounter.

Some more observations I have made around my neighborhood.

Every morning I walk past a fromagerie. It smells so terrible I have a habit of holding my breath from two storefronts away.

An older woman walks her two whippets and an Italian greyhound in the late afternoon right past my apartment. The Italian hates the concrete after it rains.

A young (thirty-something), attractive couple lives in the building next to mine. Their apartment is at ground-level and instead of a door, they climb in and out of the apartment through the window. Most days the shutters are closed and the room is dark, but when they are open I always peek in. They sit at their kitchen table, smiling and talking and they always smile at me when I walk by, especially if its when they are climbing in or out of the window. I aspire to find as much charm in my life as this couple does.

On the other side of their apartment, there is an upholstery shop. The inside of the shop looks straight out of the 19th century, but the young men working on the chairs certainly don't.

After class today, I met up with Jade to play darts at an Irish pub. Much to his surprise, I won both games (one of regular darts and the other cricket). I have never played real darts before, whereas he's a regular. On top of that, I was drinking cider and he only had sparking water. I may not have much technique, but apparently whatever I do have works well enough. Then again, the Irish luck was on my side.

La madame returned this evening. She does not approve of Cat and I's solution to the internet problem. She said she is calling the internet company tomorrow to come and fix the wireless. She said it would cost 150€ and we were expected to pay. This is going to be a problem.

2007-03-25T17:30:00.000+01:00

My only goal for today is not to leave the house. So far, so good. Fortunately, Daylight Savings Time is on my side.

2007-03-24T15:04:00.000+01:00

Friday I spent more time with my favorite Apple technician and in the Pompidou.

Saturday morning, Cat and I devised a way for us to get the internet. With 10-meter long cords we are able to connect our laptops to the router. Hopefully when la madame returns from her vacation she won't notice them snaking through her foyer.

Saturday afternoon I went out on some errands and spent about six hours reading Les Misérables in the Pause Café. Two hundred pages later, I took a long walk through the Bastille and Marais quartiers, whistling an improvisational march until exhaustion took hold of my feet and cheeks.

I took the Metro home, but not without stopping for my daily Nutella crêpe.

2007-03-22T13:54:00.000+01:00

Today we left central Paris to tour le basilique de Saint Denis, a beautiful Gothic cathedral. Religious buildings have sat on this site since the first millenium. Some of the columns in the current structure are allegedly Merovingian.

The story of Saint Denis is this: After heathen priests beheaded the bishop on the top of Montmartre, he carried his head several miles north to the present suburb Saint Denis. It is said that while he walked, he continued preaching a sermon. This was in the 3rd century.

The bodies of the royal families have nearly all been buried here. During the Revolution, they were unearthed and dumped into mass graves. The Bourbon Restoration then attempted to return the bodies to each of their appropriate tombs.

After seeing both the cathedral and its crypt, I went by myself to le musée d'art et d'histoire. An old Carmélite monastery (built in 1625) houses the museum. In addition to the regular collection, there was an exposition on the Commune and its Communards and another on contemporary photography.

2007-03-21T19:28:00.000+01:00

Today we returned to the Louvre to view the small-format 19th-century paintings (and spent some time with Ingres and Watteau). I felt especially weak and sickly all day and the cough has been getting worse. In search of a cure, Liz and I went to a café after class for bread and a milkshake (which I don’t particularly recommend ordering. It was nothing more than a 6€ frothy chocolate milk. But, my god, it hit the spot).

Here is what I see every night walking home. Also, there is a button I have to push in order to leave my apartment complex on the side of this gargoyle's head.

2007-03-20T19:25:00.000+01:00

Born a rule-abider, I went to class anyway and actually paid attention better than ever before. Succès!

Unfortunately, by the time my history class let out, I was little more than a walking zombie and still had to rendez-vous with a new friend. We met up in Montmartre and ordered french fries and duck breast. I was late to dinner. The other two houseguests, ma mère and her good-tasting, though unidentifiable, plate of meat and potatoes were waiting for me.

Song: The Books - Vogt Dig For Kloppervok

2007-03-19T19:20:00.000+01:00

Rules must be understood before they can be broken.
And the time had finally come for me to break a few more.

After coming to the terms that my internal clock had mistakenly been operating on the revolutionary calendar, it occurred to me that all of last night’s shows were actually tonight’s. After class I ran up to the Trianon Theatre in Montmartre to try to score a ticket to see Bonnie “Prince” Billy. They were sold out, but a man was scalping his second ticket. Another guy in line helped me negotiate a lower price, insisting that I should get it cheaper for being “une jeune fille délicieuse.” After securing my ticket, I also wrangled a free beer out of the man. Succès féminin!

While waiting in line, I interrogated my partner in crime, Charles, on his thoughts of the French educational, medical, and political systems. We talked about the city and its strikes. One of the most interesting things he said was: “Sometimes I meet people who wonder why we always strike when we are already so privileged. But we realize how good we have it, so we feel we have to protect these privileges from being taken away from us.” He said that when the price of tuition raises a couple of euros, all of the students strike. I find this truly amazing and cannot quite figure out what it says about Americans.

He approved of the French educational system, but his doesn’t think that there is an adequate network to help secure employment after graduation. Last year the government tried to pass a law allowing companies to fire at will for an employee’s first two years and the students went on strike.

He also likes the medical system and doesn’t think it threatened the quality of the doctors. He pointed out that France had some excellent schools for higher education, especially for medicine, and the graduates hardly ever left the country to practice. Last year studies showed that there weren’t enough to cover all of the population and there have actually been a lot of doctors immigrating into France to find work.

After our conversation, the doors finally opened into the theater. My ticket was on the top balcony, where I sacrificed (and, later, retrieved) my coat in order to “ask my friend in the front row (Charles) une petite question.”

The show was exceptional and, unlike many concerts, enhanced my appreciation for the music. Too often I find live performances disappointing and even a little boring, but tonight my body buzzed with excitement. The man’s magnetism is peculiar; discovering that he genetically inherited animal instincts or possesses superhuman abilities would not come as a surprise. Afterward, I couldn’t help but ask Monsieur Oldham to come out and share a drink. A small group of us went to un tabac around the corner for a few glasses of Lèfe. Ironically, the bar was half-way between the most beautiful church, Sacre-Coeur, and Pigalle, an avenue famous for its sex shops and debauchery. I found everyone very cordial and was even given a ride home. Overall, it was a night too fun for the next morning’s 9:00 French class.

2007-03-18T23:38:00.000+01:00

Let's not talk about it. But tonight I ate McDonald's instead of going to any of the following concerts:

Bonnie "Prince" Billy
The Arcade Fire with Electrelane
Damien Rice

2007-03-18T18:49:00.000+01:00

Last night Brigeth and I went out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We found a small, quiet Scottish pub that specialized in whisky (The Pure Malt, 4 rue Caron, 4). I selected a single barrel, single malt Balvenie (aged 15 years, 50.4% alcohol) from Speyside. The menu listed dried fruits, chocolate, and wood as the undertones of its flavor. I have to admit, it was the single most beautiful drink I have ever drunk. It was spicy yet subtle, and unquestionably smooth. It numbed my tongue, but, as Brigeth pointed out, not in a bad way. We think we may have found ourselves a new past-time. Looks like we'll have to find ourselves jobs, too, so we can afford to spare the 9-15€ these shots cost.

We actually took the night bus home. Okay, so we took it partway home and then a cab for the remainder of the way. From the Arc de Triomphe to my house it costs only 7,50€. Anyway, from now on I'm studying the night bus map so I can actually start going out at night.

I made an early morning and went to an art and flea market (Boulevard Edgar Quinet). This place had everything -- from old jewelry, tools, and furniture to firemen's jackets and Chinese dildos. I bought some old Chinese coins for necklaces (4€) and an 1820s Egyptian pendant (a steep 10€).

Afterwards, I went to the Centre Pompidou to use the internet. The line to get into the library was incredibly long, so instead I went to the museum. From the top gallery, one gets an excellent view of the city. Here are some pictures, including one of the Sacre-Coeur.

I had pizza and another banana and Nutella crêpe for lunch. Seriously, I think the States needs to recognize the nutritional and economical values of both crêpes and Nutella.

Then I decided to stand in line to get into the library. When I came in yesterday, there wasn't a single person waiting to get into the building. It took me longer than two hours to get in. It's wet, dark and freezing outside and again I was under-dressed. The guy in line in front of me thought it would be an excellent idea to smoke some cannabis every hour or so. No one else was very impressed by this, maybe because he didn't offer to share, but a couple other girls found it funny. No one bothered to stop him.

No one stopped the drunkard, either, who spent his last half-hour shouting at people and telling stories about hunting elephants (or this is what I gathered based on his gestures alone). He wore a leather fringed jacket and long, scraggly brown hair that matched his few remaining teeth. His laugh (long, hiccuped and very distinctive) kept the line mildly entertained. As I am writing this entry, I hear his laugh from somewhere on the other side of the library. Just now I laughed (really, it's that good) and my table seemed very concerned about my outburst. Fortunately, I think they're over it now.

Anyway, back to the line. It was terrible. On the bright side, I did get to witness Les Amis de la Commune de Paris 1871 parade down the street. It took me so long to get in here, I don't plan on leaving until they kick me out.

So, I'll write about another thing that have been on my mind. My housemate is Japanese and her French is not the most intelligible. Three nights ago we were talking about dinner and I thought she asked me about potatoes. I responded that, yes, I liked potatoes quite a bit. It took me until last night to realize that she had simply said "peut être," not potato. Maybe this also explains why she giggles at everything I say.

Song: Johnny Cash - Ring of Fire

2007-03-17T16:53:00.000+01:00

When I woke this morning, my two housemates had already left. I ate my usual breakfast (cereal and toast with Nutella), took a shower, dressed in green, and plotted my morning. One of my professors told me about an open-air book market that opens on the weekends. I took the Metro into an unfamiliar part of town -- where le peuple live. A baker was making baguettes inside the local boulangerie when I passed by. How quaint that a man works on a Saturday morning! Just kidding.

No less than three hours of my own leisure time were spent inside of the book market. I can now understand how historians are able to get so enthusiastic about their subjects. This market had everything that could have been of interest to me (except for stereographs. One of the vendors told me that outside of Paris there is a photography salon, but it is open only for tomorrow. He assured me stereographs could be found there. I am going to see how much train tickets will be.) The vendors at this market had old and rare books, hand-colored maps, newspapers, magazines, advertisements, menus, autographs, postcards, photographs, diplomas, letters, et cetera. They were all incredibly nice to me and I was able to practice my French. Despite the 70-degree week, today was closer to 30 degrees and I was not dressed warm enough. Two different vendors (one of which was a woman) offered me a jacket. One offered coffee and I told him I didn’t drink it. Then he offered a cigarette and I told him I didn’t smoke. He replied: Two for me, then. This is what the French do.” His best item? A book collection on Parisian caricatures and stereotypes.

I found a handwritten record of the monthly price of paper over a period of three years – using Republican dates. (For those who aren’t aware, after The Revolution the Republicans created a new calendar, as well as measurements of volume and time. For example, each week had ten days and each month had three weeks.) It was only 40€, but I practiced excellent self-restraint. Perhaps next time I won’t.

Also found were a portfolio of Dalì’s illustrations for The Divine Comedy, an Art Nouveau photo album, and an original edition of the newspaper that printed Victor Hugo’s “The Man Who Laughs.” I really wanted to buy the Victor Hugo story because the illustration was very familiar to me. For the select few of you who have been told my reoccurring dreams: perhaps you can remember the one about the hanging man or the crows. This illustration looked like it was straight out of my dream, although I don’t recall ever seeing this image before. I have had several experiences similar to this since being here, but those will be saved to become subject matter for a later entry.

I was discussing some political caricatures with Sylvie, one of the vendors, when a man came up who was documenting the market. Apparently the market is in its thirtieth year and he is photographing its vendors for a book. We engaged in an informal interview and I explained to him why I preferred open-air markets to other stores. He thought it was a matter of convenience, but I think it is quite the contrary. It’s not easy to find out about or attend these kinds of markets. Besides the fact that I love breathing fresh air while I shop, I find the common, and often obscure, interests of the vendors and shoppers of a particular market a magical thing. For these vendors, finding and selling these books is a full-time job. They have to truly love their merchandise. Similarly, the average shopper is simply not going to go out of his way early Saturday mornings to attend specialty markets unless they have a genuine interest in that particular good. Also, the vendors develop their own social groups within the market, taking turns between watching the tables and making coffee runs. It’s a social experience that cannot be found at any mall.

I only bought six photographic snapshots (and was given two more) and two 19th-century political caricatures (21€ altogether). On the way back to the Metro, I stopped at a café and celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with a quick shot of whisky (only 2€!). In all honesty, this was more to warm my body from the past few hours spent in the cold than to celebrate the holiday. When asked, one of the vendors replied that today was no holiday. Every day was a reason to go to the bar and get drunk.

All this week, more and more advertisements for whisky (Scottish and American) have been plastered on the walls of the Metro stations. I found this one rather arousing and worthy of posting.

My next stop was Café Percier in the 8th arrondissement, where I presently sit and type after having eaten a croque monsieur and drunk a disappointing glass of Cheverny.

Song: M. Ward - Rollercoaster

2007-03-16T16:58:00.000+01:00

In French class this morning, we saw, per my request, a music video satirizing contemporary, upper-class Parisians. I am currently searching on YouTube for a link. Hilarious.

After class, I went back to talk to the Apple technician, or the man who currently controls life as I know it. Unfortunately, his advice hasn't been helping me very much. The French agree that Internet access is terrible here (and I don't care to admit exactly how much this blog costs me).

My plan was to find a loaf of challah in le Marais. With the help of an African arts and artifacts dealer, I found a next-to-amazing bead shop instead. I also found a Swedish cultural center and, consequently, flyers for hip galleries and musical events.

Readers, today I found the love of my life. I know that I say this every six months or so, but I think this time its for real. I was walking, lost in my Nutella and banana crêpe, when I turned around the corner and BAM. Before my eyes was beauty in its purest (and most architectural) form. Was it Notre Dame or, even better, Sacre-Coeur? No, it was Georges Pompidou, his collection, and most important of all, his free wireless connection.

Le Centre Pompidou is where the beautiful, intelligent, and patient congregate. I have found yet another sliver of heaven here in Paris.

Pictured are two of many slide viewers (or what I'm assuming to be slide viewers, but because slides are quite before my time it is difficult to say for sure).

Today I finally received a compliment on my French. I was also able to actually understand and respond accurately and clearly to a woman who requested directions.

Tonight I went to Starbucks on Opera (again).

Objective Truth: Friday afternoons, in the Châtelet Metro station, a man plays the hammered dulcimer. Before my time here in Paris comes to an end, I intend to request from him a private lesson. My ears belong to him and his instrument.

Song: Peter, Bjorn, and John - Young Folks

2007-03-15T17:28:00.000+01:00

I am going to have to start drinking coffee in the mornings. There is no way that I can make it through my three-hour long French class without massive amounts of caffeine.

For our other class, we took a tour of the Metro and some of its best stations. We talked about the Metro's initial construction (started in 1900), as well as Guimard's Art Nouveau entrances and tilework. Another of the entrances is styled with Art Deco (as pictured). My favorite station is at Arts et Métiers. It looks like you're standing inside of a copper submarine.

After class, we went out for margaritas and Long Island iced teas in the Bastille area. Some of us had more drinks than others, but a good time was had by all. Afterwards, Kathryn and I went to the Champs for pizza and McDonald's sundaes.

After finishing all of my French homework, I made it a relatively early night. Lately I have been extraordinarily tired. My days are frustrating and my nights are restless. I have also noticed that I am losing weight, which was part of the plan. This is due to the thousands of steps I take every day just to get into and out of the Metro. Lately I have been more breathless than usual. I thought it was because I was out of shape, but I think my asthma has been acting up. Same goes for my allergies. In short, I haven't had the time to do anything I want and I haven't found the time to do all the things I need.

Objective Truth: In the States, it is the responsibility of drivers to not hit pedestrians. It is assumed that the pedestrian would rather be avoided than hit and it is up to the driver to decide which option he would rather choose. In France, it is assumed that the driver has no particular preference and it is up to the pedestrian to take responsibility over his life. With this said, please be aware of what's around you when walking. For drivers, the sidewalks are also fair game.

2007-03-14T17:50:00.000+01:00

Prior to class, I sat in Starbucks eavesdropping on a trio of fashion students. They had an assignment in which they had to design a themed line to coordinate with the professor's previous lines. They had terrible ideas and I couldn't help but to contribute.

For class we went to le Musée Carnavaly, or the museum for Parisian history. They have so many interesting things, including two rooms of shop signage.

We patroned a café during our break. In the café was a rather large un chien café. He adorably sat up in the chair next to mine, reminding me of my recent dreams. Essentially, I am going to have to get a dog when I return to the States.

Hopefully a Figment of My Overactive Imagination: There is an issue with weight control in this city. Granted, one sees a lot of professional models, but there are a lot of incredibly skinny women. In Starbucks, one woman seemed absolutely nauseated by her coffee cake (maybe it was because she realized she had spent 4€ on it). I have also noticed that in the cosmetic departments at stores and in local pharmacies, there are aisles and aisles of weight-loss products. How they can afford these products after buying their luxury-grade purses and shoes I have no idea.

To further support this claim, ma mère tells me every day that the foods I eat will make me fat. Apparently orange juice is not on the list of approved foods provided by her e-nutritionist. Perhaps this is why cigarettes are so popular.

Maybe this has something to do with the fact that people-watching has become a national past-time. I have observed that both couples and friends sit next to, rather than across from, each other in cafes. This makes it easier to not only view the passerby, but to also talk about them.

Then again, I also thought that the French were uncommonly image-conscious because they often check out their reflections in shop and restaurant windows. I have since found an explanation to justify these actions: The average diet consists of a lot of salad and red wine, yet there are rarely any mirrors in the bathrooms.

On a lighter note, for dinner we had veal (I had to ask) and for dessert, du gateau de pomme.

Song: Cat Stevens - Here Comes My Baby

2007-03-13T18:15:00.000+01:00

I have very few comments on today's events.

First of all, Serge Gainsbourg is kind of awesome. Here, he sings about what it's like to be a hole-puncher of Metro tickets.

Secondly, the boulangerie where I bought my lunch has a fixed price for lunch. A sandwich, brownie, and drink cost 5€. When I said I didn't want a drink, they charged me a euro more. What gives?

There is a cool guitar store by the third-party Apple reseller shop. Here is one of the many cool guitars.

2007-03-12T18:30:00.000+01:00

Every weekday evening I have to be home by 8:00 for dinner. By the time we get out of dinner, the cafés are closed and I go to bed. So, on most days, the only free time I have (which is the same as time to do homework and my reading) is the few hours after class and before dinner.

Today I spent that time at a new café in the Latin Quarter with my reading and a chocolate-flavored frozen coffee drink. I also stopped into a shop that sold art- and literary-related stationary, calendars, and the like. I bought a Victor Hugo bookmark for Les Misérables and some Victor Hugo stationary. I also bought a new totebag, as I have nothing appropriate for the long, heavy hauls I make around the city with my Powerbook. On one side of the totebag are silhouettes of a spoon, bowl, and milk. The other side has (what I would call) Surrealist silhouettes of cereal flakes. At a later date, I watch a music video that reminds me of this pattern.

I unintentionally choose clothing and bags with symbols instead of words, likely because written and spoken language is the only thing that separates me from everybody else here.

On the topic of language, I find French unsatisfactory for all the emotions I want to express. There are few other words for amusant. If it's funny, interesting, or anything short of bizarre, it's called amusant. The French student staying at the house enlightened me to intéressant. However, ma mère doesn't use any French adjectives other than bon, amusant, and terrible.

Song: Benoît Pioulard - Sous La Plage

2007-03-11T19:19:00.000+01:00

I absolutely love Sundays. By Sunday morning, the city is relaxed, either thankful to be awake or blissfully still sleeping. There is never any reason to start trouble on a Sunday.

A puppeteer, not an accordion player or guitarist, joined my morning metro ride. In a matter of minutes, he had set up a curtain, started his boombox, and performed a three-charactered hippie puppet show. This truly made my day and perhaps even my entire trip.

Ascending from this magical netherworld, I passed an outdoor café and several men smoking cigars. Never once in my life have I been the slightest bit intrigued by a cigar, but at that moment, I would have killed a man for one.

Objective Truth: Sometimes when people find out you're American, they ask if you know Michael Jackson.

Song: Peter, Bjorn, and John - Paris 2004

2007-03-10T18:51:00.000+01:00

There is a laundromat only a block from my house. It costs 3.50€ to wash each load and a few euros to dry them. This is the first time a sock of mine has been eaten by the laundry, so I left a note asking the man who used the machine after me to leave my sock if he found it mixed with his own.

Across the street from the laundromat is a boucherie. Here is an incredibly well-behaved dog waiting patiently for some scraps.

After laundry, I went up to le Marais in effort to exchange a headband at American Apparel and find another café with wi-fi. I picked up a sandwich at a local boulangerie, which had these amazing desserts. How could anyone turn down religieuse chocolat for only 3€?

It was an absolutely beautiful day. I spent much of the afternoon in a park among lots of cute dogs, babies, and couples picnicking on the grass. It was nearing perfection when the wind blew away my Caroline Weber and I was forced to engage in pursuit. This park also had tables for ping-pong, which, in France, is apparently only played by hipsters.

I traversed the city to Starbucks, where the internet failed me. My next try was McDonalds, but again, I had no luck. I gave up my search and stopped at the Trocadero for a Nutella and banana crêpe. Later that evening I met with Schane for a beer and made it home by 2:30 am.

Song: Jóhann Jóhannsson - The Sun’s Gone Dim and the Sky’s Turned Black

2007-03-09T18:49:00.000+01:00

After French class, I continued my quest for a solid internet connection. Kathryn and I ran into each other at the Starbucks on Victor Hugo. We couldn’t get a signal, so we went to a café off of Miromesnil. The waiters there loved us. We shared croque madames, wine and cigarettes. We left to meet up with Liz and then I went with Brigeth for mojitos and des crêpes sucrés.

Song: Canada - Asleep in Leaves

2007-03-08T16:35:00.000+01:00

On the way to class, I passed by a store that sold thousands upon thousands of these little figurines. This set is of Marie Antoinette and her king, but there were also Egyptians and Tour de France participants and every French general of all time. Absolutely amazing.

Our class met outside of the Palais Royal. We were able to sit and sunbathe for a little bit before leaving to explore the various passages couverts.
For lunch, un jambon crudité and un crêpe citron. I had only one quick Strongbow before coming home to dinner.

Yikes: More artichoke, broccoli, and a platter of mackerel, one for each of us. Yes, I was served the whole damned thing. Yes, I did my best to hide my lack of culture and kept my complaints on a purely guttural level. Yes, I tried some – pas terrible, except for the head, scales, and bones dilemma. It was distinctly oily. No, I didn’t finish it and, yes, ma mère seemed to delight in my struggles.

I am starting to understand and develop distaste for the post-existential, passive-aggressive nature of the general public. Perhaps the intensity of Parisian literacy (they read Derrida on the Metro) is actually a civic crisis.

Song: Rachel's - Egon and Edith

2007-03-07T16:16:00.000+01:00

The class went to the Musée d’Orsay. What an amazing museum – I’ll be spending a lot more time there. They have Manet’s Olympia and Déjeuner and Courbet’s Burial at Ornans and L’origine du monde. Très magnifique!

These lucky elementary-aged children were given a lecture on the Birth of Venus. Consider what this situation would be like in the States.

On my return home from class I had a sexual harrassment incident in the subway station. I was walking with Kathryn and a man passing in the opposite direction brushed his hand against the inside of my thigh, surely by accident. The crowd was moving fast so I only had the time to turn my head and stare him down. He got a piece of that, too.

These sort of occurrences aren't nearly as rare as they are in the States. A few days prior I had a man press himself against me in the subway during rush hour. I passed a homeless man masturbating, fortunately facing the wall, in another subway station. On several different occasions, other girls in the group have been flashed by men, even in public areas in the middle of the afternoon. Apparently sexual dynamics are very different here than they are in the States. They feel that way, too.

Update: The next Saturday, I was standing on board a relatively busy train. I felt something pressing against the outside of my thigh, not thinking much of it until it moved onto my crotch. I gave the man a terrible look, he apologized, and I got off the train. He followed me through the subway station onto the next platform, trying to talk to me the whole way. He eventually left after I started waving my arms about and shouting, clearly agitated and definitely making a scene.

Lunch: A chicken and tomato sandwich from a deli-sort of restaurant in the Passy and Trocadero vicinity.

Dinner: I received sliced, raw artichoke for our appetizer, but Mika and ma mère had avocado. (Howard has since told me that this was most likely an honor. The French don't find avocado particularly exotic.) For the main course we had a dish with meat. Chicken, duck, rabbit, who could guess at this point. I feel rude asking night after night what kind of meat we are served.

Verifiable Observation: Sliced tomatoes are pinker here than they are in the States. They are also a lot more juicy and flavorful.

Song: Mirah - The Struggle

2007-03-06T16:15:00.000+01:00

I considered writing about the inconstant feelings of homesickness and self-doubt, but the only questions people ask concern what foods I have been eating and what my living situation is like. Per request, I will do my best to continue documenting my gastronomical habits. But first, allow me to explain where I am living. Outside of my bedroom window is a garden and patio. My bedroom is quite sparse. I have a stand-up shower and a separate room for the toilet, both of which I share with the other housemates. The apartment sits on the first floor in a gated apartment building. I have been complaining every day that ma mère enters my room and moves my things about. I found out that she has a maid. How she can afford a maid and not dish soap, I have no idea, but now I won’t feel guilty requesting that my worn under garments not be touched. Anyway, the building is on a quiet, one-way street in a neighborhood full of old women and fluffy, little dogs. The walk to the metro has me pass two Chinese restaurants, a patisserie, a boulangerie, a fromagerie, two boucheries, the pizza shop, and a florist. In the neighborhood are also the Balzac and Monet museums.

The metro is two short blocks away. Three men live in the station (which is why they really can’t be called homeless). I find it worthwhile to mention that these men, on most mornings, are headless.

Waiting for my train, I always watch these men. They are often talking with one another and every morning I am reminded that they have found a friendship more tolerant and durable than any I'll ever experience.

This is a historically rich and beautiful city, but I have not found it particularly awe-inspiring. I read this urban experience like I would any other. Some buildings are concrete bricks of heaven when hit by the light of the rising sun, while others are merely canvases for graffiti. Like any other major world city, there are long, awkward metro rides, even though there are often accordionists playing on the train next to you. While this seems perfectly charming at first, once it has to compete with your iPod its simply obnoxious. Like many cities, it is easy to go a long period of time being bustled about by hundreds of other people without making any actual human contact or even having to speak. There are times when the urban experience is wholly alienating, but others when it prompts the genuine spirit of humanity.

Objective Truth: You have to operate the doors of the subway trains. There is a latch that has to be lifted up in order for the doors to open. Don’t push down – this will make you look like a tourist.

Let us return to the information that’s actually important. After my classes, I had un sandwich du poulet tika and, while shopping, a berry tart. For dinner, we had fried cheese cubes and some kind of macaroni noodle dish with sliced hot dog. The conspiracy theorist in me suspected this to be a sort of tribute to my infantile American incompetence.

I managed to postpone laundry by buying a new pair of jeans at H&M. Now I only need to find cheap socks. I tried some jeans at the Levi Store, but they didn’t fit properly. Here is an interesting study on cultural tastes. There are several different sectors of Levi-Strauss. The French/Belgium branch only carries three styles for women: Flare, regular, or slim-cut. The cuts and the washes are different depending on what region it is. I stopped to talk to the salesman about this. He described my style as classic (but surely not in that Parisian way). That wouldn’t exactly be the way I would explain it. He suggested that I buy some jeans with a streaked, European wash and that it would help my style to loosen up.

Song: Beirut - Scenic World

2007-03-05T16:14:00.000+01:00

A terrible day. I left early for France Handling, the company who apparently was holding my suitcase hostage. I had to take a train out of central Paris and to Parc des Expositions, an exhibition complex currently featuring an international agriculture show. Once there, I was instructed to take a bus out to some industrial park, where I had to march through a half mile of swamp. I finally found the company, but they had closed their reception for lunch and refused to talk to me until their hour was finished. When they finally opened, I paid my 184€ and received my bag. They called a cab for me and I was driven back to the agriculture show, where I took the train into central Paris and straight to class. It was a very frustrating and degrading experience, especially when a parking lot full of truckers howled at me in French. For dinner? Some sort of chicken dish.

Objective Truth: Some languages operate on an international, cross-cultural level.

Song: M. Ward - Right In The Head

2007-03-04T16:13:00.000+01:00

By the early afternoon, I was completely recovered from the previous evening. I finished the rest of my assigned reading and my French homework and went out for pizza, French fries, and Evian at the pizzeria on Rue Mozart. Later that evening, I met with Brigeth for un chocolat (essentially a chocolate bar melted into a mug) and discussed possibly jetting to Dublin for St. Patrick’s Day.

Here's a picture of Notre Dame.

Objective Truth: Some people eat french fries with a fork. Some use their fingers. The first time I used a fork I felt like a tool. Really, stick to fingers. It makes the fries taste more like beef.

2007-03-03T16:13:00.000+01:00

A musician of sorts inhabits the apartment above ours. I listen to them practice the piano during the week and the guitar on the weekends. The simple, imperfect sounds of both, particularly the piano, make me feel less homesick.

A beautiful, sunny morning allowed me to explore my own neighborhood. I started on Avenue Mozart, ultimately taking myself to Rue du Passy and its shopping district. My consumption was limited to a raspberry brioche and some much-needed mascara. At twenty past two I realized I had lost track of time and ran back to the apartment. A few days before, Mika and I agreed to go to a garden exposition with the madame and we were supposed to meet at the apartment at 2:00 sharp.

To be technical, it was a botany exposition showcasing the work of Patrick Blanc, the man who designed the façade of the new non-Occidental culture and art museum in Paris. As liberal and free as my interests run, this was easily the most unimpressive show I have ever witnessed and perhaps the single-most boring thing I have done in years. There were no flowers; just plants. To me, they looked like the exact same plants you can find growing in the backwoods of, or alongside the road in, Michigan. They did construct an intriguing way to exhibit the algae; transparent tubes recycled running water so that the algae and moss could be shown in its natural, wet state. It was crowded and hot, but at least I knew our carbon dioxide was being put to good use. I was able to take one picture before the security guard got to me, so this may possibly be the only photographic record of this extraordinary event. The best part of the show was seen as we were leaving -- the line of people waiting to get in wrapped around the entire city block. Sorry Paris, not this time.

After a croque madame sans jambon (the fault of Le Parisien, 54 rue du Four, 6), my host family and I parted ways. I returned to the Café du Panis and read a book on revolutionary France, ordering a glass of Bordeaux and un crêpe citron. By the time my reading and wine were finished, I thought it a wonderful idea to share a bottle with other aspiring writers. Filled with glee, I found a wine shop nearby. I had the shopkeeper uncork the bottle (Côte de Rhone) and found my merry way through the Latin Quarter to Shakespeare & Co. One quick note about le quartier latin. This is so far my favorite area of Paris. At night, it becomes very bright and loud, especially with the restaurant owners smashing plates outside on the street to encourage passerby to come in and dine. It’s popular with the tourists, but the streets never sit stagnant because they are narrow and interlace, pouring the crowds into all directions.

After a couple hours at S & Co., I finished a few chapters of various criticisms and convinced two fellow literary enthusiasts to share my wine. The shop closed at midnight, and a second bottle of le Côte later Schane (an American) and I were talking shop over falafel (Le Gyros, 3 rue de la Harpe, 5). We chose to ascend Montmartre in search of dessert. In the subway station, there was the most adorable drunk French girl dancing with a balloon. She stood still long enough for me to snap a photograph and then we introduced ourselves and escorted her to her friend’s apartment, but not without stopping for a third bottle of wine.

The night took us all over Montmartre, from Sacré-Coeur and Le Lapin Agile back down to Boulevard Clichy. One noteworthy observation was of the young folks, who drove their cars to the top of the hill over looking Paris, parked, played their car radios and danced into the wee hours of the night. We never did get any dessert.

Objective Truth: Wine is very cheap. Here is the evidence that a bottle doesn't have to cost any more than 2€.

2007-03-02T16:11:00.000+01:00

After French class, I went home to catch up on my sleep. Brigeth and I had to catch cabs home, which meant that it was a long night (the subway stops running at 1:00 am). Finally, I was able to get the internet in my house and I began my quest for a bicycle.

That evening, I explored St. Michel again, this time meeting up with Jean-Luc for sangria at a bar I liked very much. We met a couple of Parisiens, who led us to two other bars. I learned a little about how forward French men could sometimes be. On the other hand, a Scottish teenager bought a rose and sent it my table. I also had my first glass of Grimbergen. Ultimately, this meant another cab ride home.

Objective Truth: The men here wear plenty of ponytails, only a few mustaches, and no beards.

2007-03-01T16:06:00.000+01:00

Not too terribly far from my school there is a public sculpture made to look like the street has exploded (or that rockets have made their way from the netherworld). I like it quite a lot.

On my way to my history class, I bought two art books (Librairie Visions, 184, bvd St. Germain, 6). One is on Picasso’s work with newspapers and the other is on a Surrealist photographer. For class, we explored the Louvre’s original foundation (very medieval) and the Napoleonic apartments (excessively gaudy). The apartments were a treat because they still have their original furnishings and decoration.

Later, I met up with Brigeth for dinner in St. Michel. The waiter recommended the rump steak and we split a bottle of Beaujolais (Café Le Petit Pont, 1, rue de Petit Pont, 5). After dinner, we gossiped our way around the art books in Shakespeare & Company, my favorite literary haunt. Then we found ourselves up in Montmartre at a bar, where we only ordered dessert (Le Carillon, 1 rue des Abbesses, 18). For me, une tarte de la poire. This was also the first time someone had asked for my phone number, a notable event.

Objective Truth: This city doesn't discriminate. Both British and "normal" (American) cars share the roads. This means that there's no guessing which side of the car the steering wheel is on. How surprising that only 64 pedestrians get killed each year at the intersection on Rue de Rivoli (for the mathematically disabled, that averages to a little more than one person a week).

2007-02-28T16:04:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-27T15:56:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-26T15:59:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-25T15:39:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-24T15:26:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-23T15:22:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-22T15:21:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-21T15:20:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-20T20:53:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-02-19T20:46:00.000+01:00

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

2007-02-18T17:18:00.000+01:00

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.