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.

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.