Feast

I just finished reading The Family Fang (I liked it), so I was looking around my bookshelf yesterday for something else. I found an old copy of Hemingway's A Moveable Feast and, after reading about a quarter of it, decided I would have a Hemingway day today. After class, I came home for a bit and then went to St. Germain des Pres, and after about an hour of walking through Montparnasse I decided to get a cafe creme at Cafe de Flore, which is right across the street from Lipp's Brasserie, which is where Hemingway was eating in the chapter I was reading. I picked Cafe de Flore because a) I don't think Lipp was actually open at the time I was there, b) de Flore is supposed to be less touristy, and c) one time Carine Roitfeld (the old EIC of Vogue) was interviewed there one time so it must be cool still. This was mostly true — everyone around me was speaking French except for one table of Italians, who left and were replaced by more Italians (apparently French people hate Italian tourists even more than Americans: one of my friends was called an “Italian beast” (loosely translated) last week). Anyway, it might have been cliché to go to Hemingway’s hood and drink his (daytime) beverage of choice AND read his book all at the same time, but that’s the kind of thing I like to do so I didn’t care. It was also good people watching.

After I was there for maybe an hour, I walked to the Saint-Sulpice, which I think is the most beautiful square I’ve seen so far. Everything is quieter and it’s all a lovely beige marble, and I love that the church is so grand but isn’t even finished yet (they only started working on it in 1646!!!). In Feast, Hemingway likes to go to this square because it’s the only place nearby that doesn’t smell like food, so he can go and not feel starving (note: he also says it’s best to go to museums on an empty stomach because you perceive things differently. I’ll try it…but usually I can’t perceive anything when I’m hungry). Anyway, I went from there to the Luxembourg Gardens, which is/are pretty barren, obviously. The grass there is still way better than Houston’s grass is any time of the year though, so take that, Texas. Also, the trees are still perfectly manicured even though there isn’t a single leaf on the grounds. I was having this really lovely, kind of imaginary day until (of course it was ruined) I started walking back toward the street and there was a homeless man zipping up his pants — gross! I felt like I was back in New York. You can’t PEE in the LUXEMBOURG GARDENS. I wish 20^th century writers (and artists, for that matter) didn’t leave that kind of crass stuff out (or even annoying stuff, like where tourists went to (or maybe they kind of were tourists?) or whatever the 1920s version of I don’t know, McDonalds or Lebanese food stands (but maybe that’s what they were eating because they were poor? No, they only ate oysters…)). I am a young and impressionable reader! Hemingway is always talking about truth, and starting his stories with one honest sentence—so where are the park pee-ers?

Although now that I think about it, Hemingway didn't have a working toilet in his house...

Nice Things Are Nice

This weekend, I learned how great fancy things are. On Friday, I went for a long(ish) walk; here’s the map:

So you can see that I stayed relatively close to the river, all on the right bank of the Seine, walking through the 16^th, 8^th, 2^nd, and 1^st arrondissements. I thought that I didn’t know anything about the 8^th arrondissement, until I walked down Ave. Montaigne (which I didn't know until I googled it later), which is apparently just off of the Champs Elysees. Of course, I had no clue of this at the time, and once I realized it I remembered what someone told my orientation group: “Don’t go down the streets next to the Champs Elysees, they are very fancy and will look at you like you are dirty and will lock their doors and close their blinds when they see you because you are not one of them.” Ave. Montaigne is lined with Prada and Chloe and Versace flagship stores, and almost no one was around but the few people I encountered were ALL wearing heels and ALL wearing huge sunglasses, so they were probably famous and made me feel like I needed to leave immediately. BUT this isn’t the point of the story.

Later that day I went down rue Saint-Honore (on purpose this time), another famous shopping street, to go into Colette, which is a famous store (I don’t even know how it’s famous. You just always see Colette Paris in magazines and blogs and things. They have super hip clients and parties, I don’t know). Anyway, it’s this famous store that was totally packed with people who were definitely NOT buying any of the fancy computerized watches or kitschy Japanese toys that don’t do anything, just ogling each pair of sunglasses, which are displayed like art in plexi-glass cases. So are the bracelets — everything is perfectly spaced and every background is perfectly, clinically white. Upstairs was BEAUTIFUL, with all kinds of mannequins in these lovely printed dresses (which were by a designer I’ve never heard of: Mary Katrantzou?) and lovely/expensive resort collections, like the Celine one with all the floral print. I was looking at a printed leather vest (nothing has price tags also, it was that kind of store) but then what I thought was a mannequin moved (it was a man in a giant black coat, I don’t know what my periphery was thinking) and it really scared me and I kind of screamed a little bit, and I was embarrassed so I left.

Then the next day I was in the Marais, looking for what ended up being a really awesome bookstore all about fashion photography (they had every edition of Vogue ever), and my friend saw this crazy, contemporary art laden store down a private street. The store, L’Eclairieur, was the inverse of Colette: it was like being in a grotto covered in bizarre sculpture, dark and cool, but also packed with the same ultra-expensive clothing. Here, is the point to the story: I was so scared to touch anything because there was NOTHING IN THE STORE FOR LESS THAN 1000 EUROS. But then my friend Rachel was like, “Who cares,” so I reached for the nearest dress and it was Givenchy and Givenchy designed the dresses in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and I realized I had never touched one before and there really was nothing like it. It was black and so precisely designed, the fabric so gorgeously draped. So then I kept touching the clothes, like a Balenciaga leather jacket that probably cost what my rent is the whole time I'm in Paris, and it was wonderful. I didn’t get kicked out of the store.

Ok so I have a few posts planned (one about the French plumbing system, by request, and one about my walk yesterday) but I just wanted to post a quick one:

Yesterday I was on the train home from a friend's house, and since it was after midnight it was filled with drunk people. The trains in Paris close really early, I learned last week after having to take a cab from the Bastille to the 16th (maybe a 25min drive), so it gets a lot of use in its last hour. Besides the people taking pulls from the bottle of whisky (or rum? French rum?) out in the open, there was a group of heavily made up girls taking (attempting to take) photos of each other. One of them dropped her camera and it slid all the way to where I was standing, so I picked it up and gave it to her, eliciting a loud "May-re see bow koop" from it's owner. Ha!

I laughed especially since earlier that day, I was sitting across from a woman on the train, who, after the train went over a bump and my toe just barely tapped the top of her boot, not only turned her feet to the side and gave me a dirty look, but actually took out a tissue and wiped the spot where our boots collided. WE WERE WEARING THE SAME BOOTS.

Cette Vie Francaise

So one of my favorite things about America is the podcast This American Life, which I won't talk too much about, because if you don't know what it is you should really check it out. I listen to this radio show all the time because I like working with people talking around me -- even if I'm not completely paying attention, it's nice to hear. Anyway, I pulled my iPod out on the train today, and I felt so weird listening to it because it's been so long since I've heard English being spoken around me, not just by someone talking to me. Too bad there isn't a This French Life, because they talk really slowly sometimes and I would maybe be able to actually understand it.

Tomorrow is the last day of my French intensive course, which is awesome but also scary, because I can't believe I've already been here for more than 2 weeks. It feels like it's been 4 days. I feel like I haven’t even done anything yet!

It is cold and rainy here -- I've realized that I've always thought of myself as a cold weather person (partly because one time, in San Francisco, an older woman was so impressed that I was wearing a t-shirt in what was maybe 55 degree F weather, and she was wearing a parka. Don’t know why that stuck). It turns out, more than 7 days of (actually) cold weather kind of sucks! How can I expect to make friends if I have to hide all of my cute outfits behind a big black coat?? That was another big mistake: I should have brought another coat or something, I’m so bored of mine already. Maybe it’s time to invest in a leather jacket? Hmm…

List

People keep asking me what I've been doing so here's a list of what I thought I was going to do and what I did instead:

-Today, my plan was to go get falafel in the Marais and then go to the Louvre (it's open late on Weds.) with some friends from school. Instead, I walked around the Marais all afternoon with an old friend, and catching up was wonderful. We hopped into some great book stores (on art book store had some David Shrigleys), some designy stores, some clothing stores, one very hip children’s hair cut place. The Marais is awesome. Then we just wandered around the third, and ended up at my favorite-the Pompidou! It was just getting quiet as we got there, so we did one floor and then left because I need to study.

-Yesterday I was going to go to the D’Orsay, but I actually walked around the 6th with a prof from NYU and got to see where Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Gertrude Stein hung out. I was all over that--the rain only made it seem more romantic.

-The day before I was going to go to the Pompidou. Instead, I walked along the seine with some friends, and wandered across to the 7th, walked under the Eiffel Tower. Also raining.

-Sunday I was going to go to brunch in Montmartre, but instead I wandered around I don't know where with a group from school. We ended up at Angelina's and got hot chocolate and pastries...and ate them in the Tuileries.

-Saturday I was going to go to the Catacombs. Instead I went to Chantilly, and it was awesome! There’s a huge chateau there (it’s where the Duc de Berry’s illuminated manuscripts are). Chantillians (?) are really into animals I guess, because the horse stables were as big as the chateau and there were statues of dogs everywhere. There was also a few bad things, like 2 lion skins...yuck.

Ok so written down that looks like a lot. You can see I have lots of grand ideas that don’t end up happening. It’s ok. I’ll make it to the Louvre eventually.

Lost in Montmartre

I meant to post this on Wednesday…

As part of my rather feeble preparation for my semester here, I read Matt Gross’ recent article “Lost in Paris” ((http://travel.nytimes.com/2011/10/09/travel/lost-in-paris.html?pagewanted=1) and found it particularly exciting—the prospect of finding new incarnations of Paris after years seems so beautiful. One of the things Gross “rediscovered” in Paris in this article was Montmartre, the quarter with mega tourist attractions like the Moulin Rouge, the Sacre Coeur, and it’s where the movie Amelie was filmed. Gross’ descriptions of the wonderful, peaceful side to the sometimes gaudy neighborhood sounded amazing, so I was happy to find that an NYU professor was giving a “ghost tour” of the neighborhood and that some of my friends wanted to go.

I had a meeting with a different professor when the tour began to start, but since I was in a nearby area a few days before, I didn’t think I’d have a problem taking the metro alone and meeting up with the group a bit late--and if I didn’t find them, there are a ton of cute cafes I wouldn’t have minded hanging out in. But when I got off the metro, a friend said they were in the cemetery, the very location that Gross mentioned in his article as being one of the forgotten, lovely spots tourists sometimes miss (I guess the first choice cemetery is Père Lachaise, where Jim Morrison is buried, probably). I was excited to join the group, and I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to find.

I was wrong.

Usually I’m pretty good at following a map, but one of the things about Paris is street signs are hard to find if they are marked at all. Wandering onto a random side street (I thought it was the Blvd. Place de Clichy?), I was wary of even opening my map because I was already getting weird looks from the groups of youngish guys standing around. I had forgotten what the Moulin Rouge, you know, actually was, and maybe I just looked out of place (do French women not chew gum?). But the street was pretty deserted, and what I thought was the cemetery gate was just the gate to a really depressing looking mansion. It was stressful. So I turned around, started following an assertive-looking lady, trying to look equally as assertive, and finally found a sign to the cemetery and followed it.

As I walked into the cemetery, famous for housing the remains of Alexandre Dumas and a lot of other people I’ve never heard of, I realized this was the first time I had really walked around the city alone. One of the things I had expected in Paris was to be spending some time alone exploring, before I made friends to join me, but that just hasn’t been the case at all. Walking into the cemetery alone was weird (even weirder were the crow’s calls, which I haven’t heard anywhere else in Paris and felt deliberately spaced like in a Hitchcock movie, and the black cat that I saw just after walking in), but it was also kind if great; I’m not sure if there is a better feeling than finding something that you were looking for by yourself, even when something is an overlooked cemetery filled with geniuses. It’s also great to finally meet up with the group just in time to follow them to other dead geniuses’ (Vincent van Gogh and Toulouse Lautrec) old, beautiful apartments.

My day involved mimes

Like a few of my friends have warned me, the biggest change moving to France is the language—seeing signs and hearing chatter in a language I can’t understand is kind of alienating, but also kind of hilarious (rapid French really does sound like gibberish). Here are some other unusual things I’ve noticed in Paris that are going to take some getting used to:

1.. People use actual scooters, like Razors, functionally. Like to get to work, or to get home after a drink. Seriously.

2. Mimes are real, and they sometimes wear blue lipstick.

3. Policemen by the Louvre wear roller blades…to catch the art bandits faster?

4. Seeing the Eiffel Tower on my walk to school, although I don’t think I’ll ever get over that.

5.This whole European handheld shower thing. That's going to take some time.

Time for Paris

A brief introduction: After spending the last three (two? four?) days adjusting to the 7 hour time difference between Texas and France, I finally feel like something comparatively human! I am also getting tired of sending the same emails out over and over again, so I’ve decided to just dump everything (most things) here. Also, I’ve decided not to think about what I’m writing too much, since I’ve been suffering blog-paralysis for the last few days fretting over what to call this—if you have any suggestions, I’m open to them (I thought of a really good one and forgot it yesterday). Anyway, I decided to just start writing.

I was going to start this blog recounting the biblical floods in Houston on Monday that very nearly kept me from getting to my flight on time (but didn’t), or trying to navigate Charles de Gaulle jetlagged with a giant suitcase I couldn’t even lift. And then I thought about beginning with an account of my completely disoriented, tired, confused, and lonely first few days in the youth (although there seemed to be a lot more adults/people having business conventions then youths) hostel I was staying at until yesterday, sharing a room with seven strangers girls, where the food was free but questionable (ravioli filled with brown, amaretto-tasting meat paste?). Or maybe I should have started with how my French, which usually shows up pretty quickly when I’m in a Francophone environment (it did in Montreal and Marrakech!!) HAS COMPLETELY DISAPPEARED, and I can kind of understand most things but completely cannot think about how to respond to anything, making for an even more uncomfortable week of awkward, freshmen-style orientation introductions—All I can say is, oui, bonjour, bonsoir, pardon, ca va. French, please stop hiding like a pansy, I need you! But I’d rather talk about the spontaneous tango dance-off I saw last night.

My lovely roommate, Audrey, invited me to have dinner at her equally lovely friend Maya’s house (near the bastille) last night, who cooked a delicious (and much needed after a few days of baguette and onion soup) veggie-filled dinner—salad, split pea soup, and roasted squash, yum! And the dinner was only enhanced by great company and a few great/cheap-by-US-standards bottles of wine. Anyways, after hanging out for a bit, one of the girls suggested we try out this bar (whose name was like Chupito’s or something, which made me think of Houston’s Chapultepec, classy).

Chupito’s is in Oberkampf, and is known for having 2.50 euro shots, like creative ones not just tequila or whatever. This is what is written on the wall, with a list of probably more than 250 titles (Bang, Cartoon, Amigos) that had absolutely no descriptions. It was probably the most crowded place I’ve ever been in my life, but after wrestling to the bar with a new friend, Rebecca, and of course not remembering any of the names, she shouted, “Boyscout?” Which turned out to involve lighting the bar on fire, roasting a marshmallow on a stick, and dipping it into the shot glass before taking it. It tasted kind of like s’mores and kind of like apple juice?

Anyway, we all wanted to get away from the crowd so we went into the closest place we could find, a pretty low-key place with a fiddler. Naturally, there being a fiddler, a dancer and her post-middle-aged partner, a stout, completely bald man in a Harley Davidson shirt, started dancing—ballroom dancing. Another (younger, much more attractive) couple then started to tango, prompting the fiddler to begin again for a full-on tango tournament (completely limited to these two couples, mind you). It seemed pretty clear who was going to win, until the older man picked up the dancer and began swinging her around and around. It was very impressive, but I left pretty early so that I could take the metro home/ not mess up my newly acquired time shift.

Here are some photos of my place:

Just kidding:

My host mother is really nice: she does our laundry, cooks for us dimanche et lundi (so I haven’t had her cooking yet, and just showed me how to make toast (?) and where the nutella was, so good start). Maybe she’ll let me take her dogs (Jedi and Edgar) for a walk this week (once I remember what the verb is for “to walk” is).

OK, so one fun night down! Today: the last of my orientation, a walking tour starting at Hotel de ville. We’ll see if any of the awkwardness has thawed. Hopefully this week, with my jetlag pretty much gone (although Eric just told me it takes 7 days to adjust to a 7 hour time change), I’ll be able to check my email without tearing up, even if it’s just a link to an Onion article from my mom, or stop checking my several countdowns until my friends and family come visit. I miss everyone!