mardi 16 juin 2009
jeudi 4 juin 2009
The French Saga: Looking Back
It always happens this way. You get there, you stress, you want to go home. And then, before you know it, the dream is gone. You're going home and there's a million billion things you haven't done yet.
But you still want to go home.
I just reread my first Paris post, and I feel as though there is a world between yesterday, when I got here, and tomorrow, when I'm going home.
So let me take, remake, reiterate and reform.
It is spring now and Paris in the spring is everything it ought to be. And more. And less.
I am proud and I am disappointed. I did what I came to do but I didn't, proved to myself I could but left some lacking. Sort of.
I'm so confused.
I want to go home but now with it looming over me I realise that the me in Paris I had in my mind four months ago and the me in Paris I am now is different. My fault for expecting, for planning, for worrying. You'd think I'd learn.
Well I have, sort of. Yeah. I've learned. I've changed. I've grown, if you like.
There's a long way left to go, but I'm getting there.
And when I come back to Paris, one day, some day, it's gonna be a whole new gig.
Rock on.
But you still want to go home.
I just reread my first Paris post, and I feel as though there is a world between yesterday, when I got here, and tomorrow, when I'm going home.
So let me take, remake, reiterate and reform.
It is spring now and Paris in the spring is everything it ought to be. And more. And less.
I am proud and I am disappointed. I did what I came to do but I didn't, proved to myself I could but left some lacking. Sort of.
I'm so confused.
I want to go home but now with it looming over me I realise that the me in Paris I had in my mind four months ago and the me in Paris I am now is different. My fault for expecting, for planning, for worrying. You'd think I'd learn.
Well I have, sort of. Yeah. I've learned. I've changed. I've grown, if you like.
There's a long way left to go, but I'm getting there.
And when I come back to Paris, one day, some day, it's gonna be a whole new gig.
Rock on.
mercredi 27 mai 2009
The French Saga: Excuse the Fuck out of Me, iTunes
I want music. Not just any music, though. I want YOUR music. That's right, other countries besides the USA, I want YOU to give me your music.
There is an evil force in the world called iTunes. It does not want me to have your music. It wants me to have a valid billing address in your country avant d'avoir acces to your music. Why?
Because it can. (I ignore the fact that there might be another, eviller force behind iTunes concerning the free trade of music between countries). iTunes, you represent the new age of music, for better or worse, and I am disappointed. I am. Severely. The wrath of your denial makes me sad on the inside.
I WANT MUSIC!!!!!
Give it to me.
There is an evil force in the world called iTunes. It does not want me to have your music. It wants me to have a valid billing address in your country avant d'avoir acces to your music. Why?
Because it can. (I ignore the fact that there might be another, eviller force behind iTunes concerning the free trade of music between countries). iTunes, you represent the new age of music, for better or worse, and I am disappointed. I am. Severely. The wrath of your denial makes me sad on the inside.
I WANT MUSIC!!!!!
Give it to me.
jeudi 21 mai 2009
The French Saga: Learning to Walk
An Encyclopaedia of the Obvious
Translated from the Latin and Updated by Ariel Ranieri
Walking
Kingdom: Walkalot
Phylum: Walker
Class: Walking 101
Order: To Go, Cheeseburger with a Side of Fries. Please.
Genus: Walkitout
Walking (from the German ‘wandern’, meaning ‘wander aimlessly on your own time, I’m trying to get somewhere!’—usually directed at tourists in Paris): walking is something all humans over the age of two, to some extent, can normally grasp. Some people walk at a slow pace, some at a fast pace, and some at a comatose pace. These people do this on purpose to be frustrating.
Walking covers several different nuances of the same activity: one can use walking to mean simply putting one foot in front of the other, or to suggest moving via foot from one place to another, as from oen’s desk where one’s unfinished paper is sneering disdainfully to one’s bed, where one will move at the pace of comatose walkers for the next several hours.
In the second case, that of covering distance, there are often moments where many people are trying to walk in a very small space. This often results in people coming to a complete stop, people doing the dance of ‘Where Are You Going’ and other awkward situations. Thus, here are some rules for streetwalking (in the quotidian, platonic sense of the word) in the city:
1) There are certain people you may never plow over while walking. These include the blind, the differently-abled, the elderly, the pregnant, and the petite: children and mothers pushing strollers have right of way, even if the stroller is OBNOXIOUSLY large and carries OBNOXIOUSLY more children than that mother is really entitled.
2) There are certain people you may always plow through while walking. These include all except the above categories in situations such as (but certainly not limited to): someone is not paying attention and is about to walk into you, someone is purposely blocking your path, someone is inadvertently blocking your path, a group of three or more individuals is walking toward you and refuses to make room for you (HOWEVER note in this case that if you are also a group of three or more individuals and both groups do choose to plow through each other, both groups MUST whirl round angrily, start snapping, and go into a crazy dance number. You will hereafter be known as the Sharks and the Jets). If you are less than three people and you choose to plow through, be aware that the author of this encyclopedia is in no way responsible for wounds incurred or egos wounded, and accepts no responsibility for pickpocketed accoutrements.
In conclusion walking is necessary and often cumbersome; thus you should avoid it as much as possible. As a matter of fact, exiting your house is probably inadvisable in this day and age. You might get the grippe.
Translated from the Latin and Updated by Ariel Ranieri
Walking
Kingdom: Walkalot
Phylum: Walker
Class: Walking 101
Order: To Go, Cheeseburger with a Side of Fries. Please.
Genus: Walkitout
Walking (from the German ‘wandern’, meaning ‘wander aimlessly on your own time, I’m trying to get somewhere!’—usually directed at tourists in Paris): walking is something all humans over the age of two, to some extent, can normally grasp. Some people walk at a slow pace, some at a fast pace, and some at a comatose pace. These people do this on purpose to be frustrating.
Walking covers several different nuances of the same activity: one can use walking to mean simply putting one foot in front of the other, or to suggest moving via foot from one place to another, as from oen’s desk where one’s unfinished paper is sneering disdainfully to one’s bed, where one will move at the pace of comatose walkers for the next several hours.
In the second case, that of covering distance, there are often moments where many people are trying to walk in a very small space. This often results in people coming to a complete stop, people doing the dance of ‘Where Are You Going’ and other awkward situations. Thus, here are some rules for streetwalking (in the quotidian, platonic sense of the word) in the city:
1) There are certain people you may never plow over while walking. These include the blind, the differently-abled, the elderly, the pregnant, and the petite: children and mothers pushing strollers have right of way, even if the stroller is OBNOXIOUSLY large and carries OBNOXIOUSLY more children than that mother is really entitled.
2) There are certain people you may always plow through while walking. These include all except the above categories in situations such as (but certainly not limited to): someone is not paying attention and is about to walk into you, someone is purposely blocking your path, someone is inadvertently blocking your path, a group of three or more individuals is walking toward you and refuses to make room for you (HOWEVER note in this case that if you are also a group of three or more individuals and both groups do choose to plow through each other, both groups MUST whirl round angrily, start snapping, and go into a crazy dance number. You will hereafter be known as the Sharks and the Jets). If you are less than three people and you choose to plow through, be aware that the author of this encyclopedia is in no way responsible for wounds incurred or egos wounded, and accepts no responsibility for pickpocketed accoutrements.
In conclusion walking is necessary and often cumbersome; thus you should avoid it as much as possible. As a matter of fact, exiting your house is probably inadvisable in this day and age. You might get the grippe.
jeudi 14 mai 2009
The French Saga: Week ??????
Blogging:
Blogging, derivative of the latin 'web-logging', deriving from the Greek 'World Wide Web' and the Hebrew 'log', meaning 'wooden plank to be written on (or the action of writing on such a wooden plank) or built with'. Usage 'World Wide Web': 'I have created the World Wide Web, but it will not work for you for at least another several years, Odysseos' (Poseidon speaking to the way-worn hero Odysseos, book 804 of Homer's great poetic masterpiece, The Odyssey). Usages 'log': 'I was going to put the ten commandments on logs, but figured rocks were better for the environment' (God (this quote also claimed by Al Gore)); 'We need more logs for the Ark, the elephants are falling out' (Noah). The Romans, as usual, chose to change slightly what was already in existence and call it their own invention. In this way they are like Artists.
Blogging is a world-wide phenomenon. EVERYONE blogs. If you haven't got a blog you are not properly plugged in. See a psychiatrist immediately.
The best part about blogging is that you can talk about yourself and your experiences (however boring or poorly written your entries) for pages and pages and pages and pages, and you can assume that people read your blog. It's one of the great inventions of the modern world.
Also, if one has a blog, one usually creates it because one is off to do something important in one's life, or one is going through a big adjustment (getting wisdom teeth out is not viable since one's time in a waking state is not existent), or one has discovered the meaning of life and needs to share it, mini-series style, in a series of short bursts.
One MUST, if one has a blog, take frequent sabbaticals where one does not write ANYTHING. This usally means something is going on in your life that is actually i,portant and you either haven't the time or aren't interested in writing. (See date of last entry for example.)
Blogging, derivative of the latin 'web-logging', deriving from the Greek 'World Wide Web' and the Hebrew 'log', meaning 'wooden plank to be written on (or the action of writing on such a wooden plank) or built with'. Usage 'World Wide Web': 'I have created the World Wide Web, but it will not work for you for at least another several years, Odysseos' (Poseidon speaking to the way-worn hero Odysseos, book 804 of Homer's great poetic masterpiece, The Odyssey). Usages 'log': 'I was going to put the ten commandments on logs, but figured rocks were better for the environment' (God (this quote also claimed by Al Gore)); 'We need more logs for the Ark, the elephants are falling out' (Noah). The Romans, as usual, chose to change slightly what was already in existence and call it their own invention. In this way they are like Artists.
Blogging is a world-wide phenomenon. EVERYONE blogs. If you haven't got a blog you are not properly plugged in. See a psychiatrist immediately.
The best part about blogging is that you can talk about yourself and your experiences (however boring or poorly written your entries) for pages and pages and pages and pages, and you can assume that people read your blog. It's one of the great inventions of the modern world.
Also, if one has a blog, one usually creates it because one is off to do something important in one's life, or one is going through a big adjustment (getting wisdom teeth out is not viable since one's time in a waking state is not existent), or one has discovered the meaning of life and needs to share it, mini-series style, in a series of short bursts.
One MUST, if one has a blog, take frequent sabbaticals where one does not write ANYTHING. This usally means something is going on in your life that is actually i,portant and you either haven't the time or aren't interested in writing. (See date of last entry for example.)
mercredi 1 avril 2009
YOU MUST NOT STAY AT FOYER ANNE-MARIE VEDER.
Let them paint it in letters twelve-foot high on the billboards and the buildings. Let them chant it in the streets. In the strike capital of the world let them faire un greve.
You must not stay here. Do I blow it out of proportion? Yes. But only for the sake of poetic merit.
The meat of the problem is the disdain. And it's a big beef. Big, juicy, running red on the plate. it has a lot of weight.
Anne-Marie Veder is run by disdain. The women in the front office have it and they ooze it into their every interaction. They run this foyer so that they may practice their disdain. It is a lifelong love with them. They hold disdain competitions, when you chance to pop in for a quick question and brave the snarling sneers of failures of human beings well past their primes. they have much to be disdainful for.
This is the birthplace of the French stereotype. These women hate you. They despise you. They want your life to be as miserable as theirs must be. And they will beat you down.
Which is why there must be some to beat back. It is the natural ebb and flow of the universe. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
I make a promise today that Foyer Anne-Marie Veder will not be in vain. I will learn their game, I will learn disdain. And I will use it, as they have used it, as a reaction.
Let them teach me the art of confrontation.
I am ready.
Let them paint it in letters twelve-foot high on the billboards and the buildings. Let them chant it in the streets. In the strike capital of the world let them faire un greve.
You must not stay here. Do I blow it out of proportion? Yes. But only for the sake of poetic merit.
The meat of the problem is the disdain. And it's a big beef. Big, juicy, running red on the plate. it has a lot of weight.
Anne-Marie Veder is run by disdain. The women in the front office have it and they ooze it into their every interaction. They run this foyer so that they may practice their disdain. It is a lifelong love with them. They hold disdain competitions, when you chance to pop in for a quick question and brave the snarling sneers of failures of human beings well past their primes. they have much to be disdainful for.
This is the birthplace of the French stereotype. These women hate you. They despise you. They want your life to be as miserable as theirs must be. And they will beat you down.
Which is why there must be some to beat back. It is the natural ebb and flow of the universe. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
I make a promise today that Foyer Anne-Marie Veder will not be in vain. I will learn their game, I will learn disdain. And I will use it, as they have used it, as a reaction.
Let them teach me the art of confrontation.
I am ready.
vendredi 27 mars 2009
The French Saga: Where Has My Sanity Gone?
An Encyclopaedia of the Obvious
Translated from the Latin and Updated by Ariel Ranieri
Clothes
Kingdom: Clothalia
Phylum: Clothata
Class: Sewnalia
Order: Weartia
Genus: Clothus
Clothes (from the Latin "toga", "large billowing bedsheet wrapped around the body, most commonly worn by college boys") are the traditional method of dressing the human body. The singular form of the word, "cloth", can mean material used to fabricate the clothing (the other singular form of the word) or it can mean a ragged piece of material used to clean the extensive mess humans make in their daily lives.
Clothes reproduce neither asexually nor sexually, as they are in most cases mass-produced by underpaid children in developing countries.
Recent studies suggest that part of why certain humans dress so badly is that the clothes, having no means of communication, cannot express their extreme displeasure in being so horrendously displayed. Further studies are being conducted and communicative clothing may arrive soon in our future. It will probably have the voice and personality of Martha Stewart.
Overall, clothes are an integral part of the human experience. Humans love clothes and spend very much money on them, not a cent of which the underpaid children in developing countries will ever see. This is per the human kick-them-while-they're-down philosophy. To date, there is no historical or logical reason to believe this philosophy will change.
Certain humans have a keen sense of fashion. These humans are called fashion designers. The best of the best of these designers have a very small clientele and thus, not mass-producing anything, have no use for the underpaid children in developing countries. They charge exorbitant prices for their artwork. This price includes the piece, the name, and the ego, hence the large price. Many twice-baked women enjoy these pieces and twice-baked men are getting into them as well. Many other people also like them but haven't the money for the name or the ego.
There are certain occasions when people take their clothes off. These include sexual intercourse, daily hygiene, and airport security. On most occasions, however, humans keep their clothes on. This suggests an insecure attachment to the mother's womb: the human wishes to be enveloped in something at all times, even when the weather suggests this is a bad idea.
There are certain types of people who enjoy watching others take their clothes off. These include porn addicts, sex addicts, moviegoers, and airport personnel.
If ever you find yourself without clothes, simply pick a large quantity of long-stemmed weeds and weave them into a garment. Or, if you have a towel, wrap it around yourself. You may also use a bedsheet, although this has rather fallen out of style. In an attempt to revive the toga, try sporting the fitted sheet in place of the flat one.
mercredi 25 mars 2009
Forgive me, internet, for I have been without you for many days, but will in your absence continue to seek you out in places known and unknown, until such time as you return to me.
Thus, in lieu of one blog post, have several:
1) They keep wanting to cut my bread in half, and I'm not really sure why.
2) What do homeless people dream of? Food? Money? A bed? Un monde completement different?
3) AMSTERDAM. It was cool. You should go there. I will put pictures on facebook.
4) The Eiffel Tower is tall. You should go there too. I will put more pictures on facebook.
That's all for today, it's time to go, trala!
lundi 16 mars 2009
samedi 7 mars 2009
The French Saga: Miam Miam! (Or, a Love Affair with Nutella)
It's so...creamy. Somewhere between peanut butter and chocolate syrup is bliss. Dip, twist, savor.
I opened a new bottle of nutella yesterday and paused. Paused because that clean, smooth surface peered back at me, seemed to suggest that if I really was going to eat it, I ought to do it right. And then I plunged a fresh-broken baguette into the center of my prey and indulged in the hard-earned spoils of war (although war with whom, I'm not quite sure).
Bread, crackers, by the spoonful...each attack yields new patterns of waves on the ruptured surface. Like a storm in a canister, like picture perfection in the palm of my hand.
Maybe this is why I came to Paris.
It's different here. Subtler, smoother, sweeter. Like reliving childhood memories. Good ones. Birthdays with too much cake and Christmases with too many presents (do those exist?).
I want a relationship like the one between baguette and nutella. Wonderful separate, perfect together.
I would like to say (as per usual) that Paris is nutella. But I can't. I have found something that stands alone in this city, that is more than any place can offer because you can possess it. You can lick the last traces off the back of the spoon and stare longingly back at your distorted, gluttonous image, wishing for more. And you won't feel guilty about it.
You can't do that with Paris. It's too independent.
I went to a "match de rugby" today. My friend and I spent a good deal of the walk back discussing nutella. The rugby match was alright.
I am going to Amsterdam next weekend. I may bring nutella.
My neighbor plays a large string instrument (I think it's a cello). I eat nutella.
Pavlov rings a bell. Dog eats dogfood. I eat nutella.
The truth is that nutella is more than just a food. It is an experience, like eating beautiful music. It has taught me that you cannot fall in love overnight. It takes time to cultivate the relationship, to understand that communication is key and that respect is invaluable. I respect nutella. Nutella respects me.
My eyes stray constantly to the bottle on the shelf, for inspiration and because there is some left. But I must procure discipline. Everything in moderation. Even nutella.
I opened a new bottle of nutella yesterday and paused. Paused because that clean, smooth surface peered back at me, seemed to suggest that if I really was going to eat it, I ought to do it right. And then I plunged a fresh-broken baguette into the center of my prey and indulged in the hard-earned spoils of war (although war with whom, I'm not quite sure).
Bread, crackers, by the spoonful...each attack yields new patterns of waves on the ruptured surface. Like a storm in a canister, like picture perfection in the palm of my hand.
Maybe this is why I came to Paris.
It's different here. Subtler, smoother, sweeter. Like reliving childhood memories. Good ones. Birthdays with too much cake and Christmases with too many presents (do those exist?).
I want a relationship like the one between baguette and nutella. Wonderful separate, perfect together.
I would like to say (as per usual) that Paris is nutella. But I can't. I have found something that stands alone in this city, that is more than any place can offer because you can possess it. You can lick the last traces off the back of the spoon and stare longingly back at your distorted, gluttonous image, wishing for more. And you won't feel guilty about it.
You can't do that with Paris. It's too independent.
I went to a "match de rugby" today. My friend and I spent a good deal of the walk back discussing nutella. The rugby match was alright.
I am going to Amsterdam next weekend. I may bring nutella.
My neighbor plays a large string instrument (I think it's a cello). I eat nutella.
Pavlov rings a bell. Dog eats dogfood. I eat nutella.
The truth is that nutella is more than just a food. It is an experience, like eating beautiful music. It has taught me that you cannot fall in love overnight. It takes time to cultivate the relationship, to understand that communication is key and that respect is invaluable. I respect nutella. Nutella respects me.
My eyes stray constantly to the bottle on the shelf, for inspiration and because there is some left. But I must procure discipline. Everything in moderation. Even nutella.
jeudi 5 mars 2009
The French Saga: A Man Named Victor Hugo
I never knew Victor Hugo was the coolest person ever. Writer, activist, poet…In 83 years he lived France’s most tumultuous century and, declining to simply weather it out, chose to prod the beast.
Pourquoi essayer quand on vive sous l’ombre de M. Hugo, conquistador du monde civilisé ? Car on n’a pas de choix. Pour être, au mieux, comparée à cet homme qui n’est plus homme, qui est devenu dieu.
I keep finding allegories for Paris. Perhaps it’s because I’ve so long been enamored of the city, and perhaps I do have a rosewater vision of this place that reality has not yet darkened.
It seems to me that Paris is the poet activist. City of love, city of strikes.
The Sorbonne is on strike. I don’t know why, but they are. I think it has something to do with research. I went there today. It was cold. The name Richelieu was mentioned and all I could think of was the three musketeers.
It’s funny the history of a place you think you know, and then you realize you know nothing. Who knew that the Sorbonne was the symbol of the elitist Catholic régime in the tender, formative years of French protestantism ?
I didn’t.
But I’m going to give a presentation about it on Tuesday.
La Sorbonne, la bigotte,
La Sorbonne se taira !
In other news, my toilet enjoys flooding the WC with stagnant water and smiling at me with that sly smirk some toilets have when not working properly. It also enjoys long walks on the beach. Unfortunately it has no legs.
I also remain rommateless in Paris. This is alright, but I would like someone to fill up the empty half of the room. Hopefully she’ll be hère soon !
Tomorrow I go to Pavillon de l’Arsenal, whatever that is. The French have so many monuments, they don’t even know what to do with them anymore. I’ll offer to take some home with me.
I continue to realize that no one is wholly good or wholly bad.
Saturday is Rugby, so that should be interesting. Hopefully it’ll be fairly warm, it’s been getting a little bit Chicago-y lately.
Anyway, I’m running out of steam.
Bonne soirée !
Pourquoi essayer quand on vive sous l’ombre de M. Hugo, conquistador du monde civilisé ? Car on n’a pas de choix. Pour être, au mieux, comparée à cet homme qui n’est plus homme, qui est devenu dieu.
I keep finding allegories for Paris. Perhaps it’s because I’ve so long been enamored of the city, and perhaps I do have a rosewater vision of this place that reality has not yet darkened.
It seems to me that Paris is the poet activist. City of love, city of strikes.
The Sorbonne is on strike. I don’t know why, but they are. I think it has something to do with research. I went there today. It was cold. The name Richelieu was mentioned and all I could think of was the three musketeers.
It’s funny the history of a place you think you know, and then you realize you know nothing. Who knew that the Sorbonne was the symbol of the elitist Catholic régime in the tender, formative years of French protestantism ?
I didn’t.
But I’m going to give a presentation about it on Tuesday.
La Sorbonne, la bigotte,
La Sorbonne se taira !
In other news, my toilet enjoys flooding the WC with stagnant water and smiling at me with that sly smirk some toilets have when not working properly. It also enjoys long walks on the beach. Unfortunately it has no legs.
I also remain rommateless in Paris. This is alright, but I would like someone to fill up the empty half of the room. Hopefully she’ll be hère soon !
Tomorrow I go to Pavillon de l’Arsenal, whatever that is. The French have so many monuments, they don’t even know what to do with them anymore. I’ll offer to take some home with me.
I continue to realize that no one is wholly good or wholly bad.
Saturday is Rugby, so that should be interesting. Hopefully it’ll be fairly warm, it’s been getting a little bit Chicago-y lately.
Anyway, I’m running out of steam.
Bonne soirée !
vendredi 27 février 2009
Sound bites. That's the word of the semester. Les gouts de son. There is no more exciting place to sample gouts de son than the metro.
There is always the metro. In search of a place, a person, a thing, the metro will take you there, will supply you with what you need. It is the backbone of the city. A dirty, rancid, jumbled, living, breathing skeleton, or better blood vessels. They take you into the city, they take you out of the city.
It is the elevated in Chicago and the subway of New York but it is not. It is something else. I can't describe it, you have to be here, experience it, feel it. It is one with the city.
Sound bites here, sound bites there. A roaming musician steps into the car and grates away on a violin and somehow it works, somehow it fits the moment, he'll never play with an orchestra but on this stage he's perfect. An Italian tour group bursts forth onto the train at Pasteur and a duo strikes up an operatized French folk song. Despite the silence of everone else in the car, it fits. Maybe because they're Italian. Maybe because the Metro takes them, uses them, and then discards them as it does everyone else. "Mesdemoiselles," goads the older of the two, no doubt at my friend and I. "Mesdemoiselles! Mesdemoiselles!" And he launches into another operatic rendition. My friend and I exit giggling.
The best sound bites are the sounds of the train. Line one down the Champs-Elysees screams like bad horror film sound effects as it pulls into a station. In case you weren't sure we were braking, WE ARE. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEGH! The doors slide open and fresh meat steps in. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. Doors whoosh shut and off we go. The exchange is so quintessentially French. There is no cheerful 'Doors Closing' woman to remind us all doors must eventually close. There is just a drone. Then WHOOSH. And you'd better be paying attention. Those doors move fast.
And then there is the accordion. Oh, the accordion. Most are irritated by it. I find it soothing. For some reason it makes me whistle Edith Piaf tunes, hum, sing, and otherwise hold them in my mind the whole day through. What could be better in Paris?
Cheap shopping. That's what's better in Paris. And, having just gotten off cheaper than if I'd been wearing a mask and waving a gun, it's time to be off again, spurred on by my successes, like the great Conquerors of the empires of old.
And so I say to you au revoir, a tout a l'heure, et tout ca.
There is always the metro. In search of a place, a person, a thing, the metro will take you there, will supply you with what you need. It is the backbone of the city. A dirty, rancid, jumbled, living, breathing skeleton, or better blood vessels. They take you into the city, they take you out of the city.
It is the elevated in Chicago and the subway of New York but it is not. It is something else. I can't describe it, you have to be here, experience it, feel it. It is one with the city.
Sound bites here, sound bites there. A roaming musician steps into the car and grates away on a violin and somehow it works, somehow it fits the moment, he'll never play with an orchestra but on this stage he's perfect. An Italian tour group bursts forth onto the train at Pasteur and a duo strikes up an operatized French folk song. Despite the silence of everone else in the car, it fits. Maybe because they're Italian. Maybe because the Metro takes them, uses them, and then discards them as it does everyone else. "Mesdemoiselles," goads the older of the two, no doubt at my friend and I. "Mesdemoiselles! Mesdemoiselles!" And he launches into another operatic rendition. My friend and I exit giggling.
The best sound bites are the sounds of the train. Line one down the Champs-Elysees screams like bad horror film sound effects as it pulls into a station. In case you weren't sure we were braking, WE ARE. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEGH! The doors slide open and fresh meat steps in. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. Doors whoosh shut and off we go. The exchange is so quintessentially French. There is no cheerful 'Doors Closing' woman to remind us all doors must eventually close. There is just a drone. Then WHOOSH. And you'd better be paying attention. Those doors move fast.
And then there is the accordion. Oh, the accordion. Most are irritated by it. I find it soothing. For some reason it makes me whistle Edith Piaf tunes, hum, sing, and otherwise hold them in my mind the whole day through. What could be better in Paris?
Cheap shopping. That's what's better in Paris. And, having just gotten off cheaper than if I'd been wearing a mask and waving a gun, it's time to be off again, spurred on by my successes, like the great Conquerors of the empires of old.
And so I say to you au revoir, a tout a l'heure, et tout ca.
mercredi 25 février 2009
The French Saga: Week One in a Strange New Land
Here I am.
In roughly eight hours I crossed an ocean and now I find myself years away from where I was before.
It's not that Paris is backwards. It's just Paris. Of course there is no soap in the bathrooms. Of course the water glasses remain empty until you request 'un caraffe d'eau' or 'un terre de vin'. And of course the Louvre stands there, staring you down, century upon century of magnificence daring you to pass judgment.
That's Paris. And the French.
I've found something out about myself in this first week. I am who I thought I was. I know that's not how it's supposed to go, but when did life ever follow a plan?
Our first full day in Paris I lost our group in the Louvre. I won't try to express to you the vastness that is the Louvre because if you have not been there, if you have not felt it, then you cannot appreciate it. It is immense. It reeks of well-preserved ages, ages and ages of people and things taking up a space big enough to hunt in.
And there I was, tiny, insignificant American that I am, with my spotty, dusty European ancestry nowhere to be found, wandering round the 'objets d'art' and wondering what I was going to do. Needless to say I survived, but that was the beginning of my realization. I am who I am, and who I am is what happens when I am alone and left to my own devices.
I was not disappointed, I will say that.
I've learned that what you are molded to be inevitably seeps into what you are, just as the way you sit determines the curve of your body permanently. I've learned, in short, that I am an American. That, once upon a time, before I was born, I was the fetus of two Americans whose families had once been Europeans. I was a clean slate. Almost. But now, at 19, a mixture of nature and nurture leaves me here, in a strange land, wondering what, precisely, I am going to do now.
Am I ready for four months in a different country?
Yes.
Am I happy about it?
Yes.
And no.
'But it's Paris', everyone says. How can there be any question?
And there isn't one. Paris is like any other city in the world, and at the same time colder, sweeter, happier, friendlier, sleepier, and more wide awake and alive than any other I've encountered.
But then I haven't encountered that many.
The first week we were here we existed in limbo. It was like a vacation. Day one: settle in. Day two: the Louvre. Day three: meetings (how to manage your stress and not do stupid shit). Day four: lunch at Chez Robert (mediocre) and a walking tour of the Marais. Day five: Meeting (discussion of an incident to do with alcohol), explore the city, guided tour of Centre Georges Pompidou. Day six: move in to permanent residences. Day seven: tour of Versailles (not worth it). Day eight: rest. Day nine: Life.
Now, on day 13, I feel as though I've been here for months. I feel I should be going home. And it irks me that I am not. The foyer (dorm) is functional but not attractive and when there IS toilet paper in the bathroom it is sultry, uncooperative, and free range. They seem to have trouble grasping the idea of a toilet paper dispenser here.
Classes are all over the board: from the boring and stressful to the exciting and stressful, they exist because people think they do (in the true Cartesian spirit of Paris).
At least, now, here, at this moment, I have internet. Thank chance for small miracles.
I realize reading back through this post that it is coarse, whiny, and unattractive. For that I am sorry, but this is Paris and Paris is not Paradise. One day, when spring has sprung, I will have nicer words to write.
It is not so bad as I make it out to be, of course. I am homesick and exhausted and everything looks worse when you've got a full suitcase and too much to do. Let's put it this way: barring the company, were I to choose between Champaign and Paris, between anywhere I've been in the United States and Paris, I would still choose Paris.
In roughly eight hours I crossed an ocean and now I find myself years away from where I was before.
It's not that Paris is backwards. It's just Paris. Of course there is no soap in the bathrooms. Of course the water glasses remain empty until you request 'un caraffe d'eau' or 'un terre de vin'. And of course the Louvre stands there, staring you down, century upon century of magnificence daring you to pass judgment.
That's Paris. And the French.
I've found something out about myself in this first week. I am who I thought I was. I know that's not how it's supposed to go, but when did life ever follow a plan?
Our first full day in Paris I lost our group in the Louvre. I won't try to express to you the vastness that is the Louvre because if you have not been there, if you have not felt it, then you cannot appreciate it. It is immense. It reeks of well-preserved ages, ages and ages of people and things taking up a space big enough to hunt in.
And there I was, tiny, insignificant American that I am, with my spotty, dusty European ancestry nowhere to be found, wandering round the 'objets d'art' and wondering what I was going to do. Needless to say I survived, but that was the beginning of my realization. I am who I am, and who I am is what happens when I am alone and left to my own devices.
I was not disappointed, I will say that.
I've learned that what you are molded to be inevitably seeps into what you are, just as the way you sit determines the curve of your body permanently. I've learned, in short, that I am an American. That, once upon a time, before I was born, I was the fetus of two Americans whose families had once been Europeans. I was a clean slate. Almost. But now, at 19, a mixture of nature and nurture leaves me here, in a strange land, wondering what, precisely, I am going to do now.
Am I ready for four months in a different country?
Yes.
Am I happy about it?
Yes.
And no.
'But it's Paris', everyone says. How can there be any question?
And there isn't one. Paris is like any other city in the world, and at the same time colder, sweeter, happier, friendlier, sleepier, and more wide awake and alive than any other I've encountered.
But then I haven't encountered that many.
The first week we were here we existed in limbo. It was like a vacation. Day one: settle in. Day two: the Louvre. Day three: meetings (how to manage your stress and not do stupid shit). Day four: lunch at Chez Robert (mediocre) and a walking tour of the Marais. Day five: Meeting (discussion of an incident to do with alcohol), explore the city, guided tour of Centre Georges Pompidou. Day six: move in to permanent residences. Day seven: tour of Versailles (not worth it). Day eight: rest. Day nine: Life.
Now, on day 13, I feel as though I've been here for months. I feel I should be going home. And it irks me that I am not. The foyer (dorm) is functional but not attractive and when there IS toilet paper in the bathroom it is sultry, uncooperative, and free range. They seem to have trouble grasping the idea of a toilet paper dispenser here.
Classes are all over the board: from the boring and stressful to the exciting and stressful, they exist because people think they do (in the true Cartesian spirit of Paris).
At least, now, here, at this moment, I have internet. Thank chance for small miracles.
I realize reading back through this post that it is coarse, whiny, and unattractive. For that I am sorry, but this is Paris and Paris is not Paradise. One day, when spring has sprung, I will have nicer words to write.
It is not so bad as I make it out to be, of course. I am homesick and exhausted and everything looks worse when you've got a full suitcase and too much to do. Let's put it this way: barring the company, were I to choose between Champaign and Paris, between anywhere I've been in the United States and Paris, I would still choose Paris.
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