Burning off the nutella and camembert

I never realized how much I grew to love going to the ARC (St. Mary’s gym) last year until I had it taken away from me. Throwing on some sweats, grabbing my iPod and claiming an elliptical for 40 minutes was a great way to burn through SMP and break-up stress as well as calories. A psychologist once told me that exercise for half an hour three times a week is the body’s chemical equivalent to an anti-depressant, and I believe it—I definitely feel fitter, happier and more productive (thanks, Radiohead) for a period of several hours after I work out.

Unfortunately France doesn’t seem to believe in gyms, or at least not the American version. The university equivalents consist of empty rooms for a weird variety of highly sought-after “physical” activities from fencing and body building to clown training and massage (?!?). Sadly, no cardio machines are available and even things like aerobics or yoga classes are hard to come by. I also tried, with little success, to find a private gym I could join. The ones that do exist fall into one of two categories: 1) super-intense-hardcore gyms, whose websites are bursting with headache-inducing flashing images and popouts of Arnold-looking men and which charge an exorbitant amount in annual fees, and 2) women’s “gyms”, which, judging by the pictures, have a few yoga mats and a stretching station to compliment their sauna and a massage table—so more like day spas, really. Curves is starting to exist here, but I think I’m a little too young for a mom gym like that. And so, begrudgingly, I am turning to the one form of cardio left: jogging.

Considering how embarrassingly red I get when I work out and how tricky it can be balance the whole asthmatic thing in an uncontrolled, outdoor environment, jogging takes a certain amount of both physical and moral stamina. I’m not sure if that stamina will endure when the weather turns chillier again, but having an inspiring track helps a lot. Luckily for me I live right across the street from Parc Montsouris, which offers hilly terrain, a pond (with geese!), sculptures and even spigots for a mid-jog drink. At the moment it’s also sporting some pretty fall foliage and that deliciously earthy smell of rotting leaves that makes me want to carve a pumpkin and make spiced cider. It takes me a little less than ten minutes to do a full lap of running down hill and run/walking back up hill, and despite the exhaustion it’s fairly enjoyable.

Paris is dotted with parks. In general, the French envision parks as a series of carefully planned pathways that intersect meticulously manicured collections of flowers, rows of aligned, identically pruned trees and triangles of perfect, off-limits grass (I’m serious…there are bars and signs to remind you that the pelouse is permanently en repose). The nicer ones may also have fountain or two. The result is a space that offers a nice respite from urban architecture for a lunch break, a dog walk or the odd cultural event, such as Sunday music in the park (or the Nuit Blanche installations I described earlier). The people you meet in these parks are, like the parks themselves, stylish, well-groomed, reserved. Being in a residential district, my park is a little more casual, and I love it for that. Along the path I pass playground equipment crawling with children, a woman taking a beaming, elderly grandmother out for a walk her wheelchair, a man giving free fall pony rides to preschoolers, a family feeding geese. Near the back there’s a cute café rumored to have great crepes that is usually populated by a retired crowd. There are also, much to my surprise, many other joggers (the last time I was in France, it was only the ‘undignified’ Americans that went out jogging…I’m not sure if it just took a while to catch on here or if that was more of a reflection of Nice culture). Many of them are other Cité students, but some are Parisians. The Parisians are easy to spot because they jog in style—if they’re just off work they’re still sporting their peacoats and scarves, and if not, they have very official-looking athletic spandex. Even if I’m not dressed quite as nicely, I’m happy to be part of their club, and I enjoy the flicker of recognition or the head nod when we pass. I have this new fantasy that I’ll meet my soulmate jogging—because really, if someone could find me attractive red and smelly than they are probably meant for me. Or just really desperate. Hm, better rethink that theory.

I'm too young to start having senior moments

I lost track of time today while making lunch and ended up leaving a little later than I usually do for my medieval lit class. By the time I got to the metro station I had about 7 minutes left to make the usually 20-minute walk. I ran, giving myself a pretty bad blister on my heel from the newish flats I was wearing (I swear, anything but athletic shoes make my feet bleed in half an hour tops…all this time I thought I was just resisting fashion because I was lazy and feminist, but maybe it’s because they do serious damage!)

When I arrived at my classroom door almost ten minutes late, I paused to listen for the teacher’s voice. I didn’t hear anything. Oh no! I panicked; today must be an in-class writing day, and I’ve already missed a third of it! Preparing an apology in French, I opened the door to—

An empty room.

Because, oh yeah, it’s Toussaint (French fall break). Clearly after four weeks of classes you need a whole week off—it’s the French way. Most of my classes are through NYU and aren’t affected, but I forgot about about this one, meaning that I inflicted pain and an hour and a half round trip on myself…for nothing. Well, okay, for a smoothie from the chic hippie fruit bar, because I have found that the best way to make a bad day good is to buy myself a treat.

In order to further validate my presence and to take advantage of the nice day, I decided to snap a few pics of the "campus." Being in the 13^th, Paris VII (all the Parisian universities are numbered) is far removed from the Haussmannian world of six story, iron-balconied apartments that you picture when you think of Paris. There are a lot of modern high-rises and big companies, and the wide sidewalks and streets give the area a more “American” feel. The university itself is fairly institutional, as all Parisian public unis are, but in general it’s a much nicer facility than I was expecting after my experiences at the rundown, grafittied, toilet-paper deficient Fac in Nice. It also has much nicer public spaces: one with benches, trees and a sidewalk typically dominated by skateboarders (who you can hear throughout our class...) and a separate park area, spanned by a foot bridge. Here are pics of both, as well as a tough local scooter gang.

A laugh for lundi

Humorous moment of my day:

My file of notes that I'm making to keep track of books and literary movements, etc. during this year (it's probably going to be a book in and of itself by the time I'm done) is titled "French literature journal." When I try to open it from recent documents, the title reads "French lite..."

Oh irony.

That's about it for the day. In case voyeurism is more your style than word nerd humor, here is a photo of a French streetwalker whose fashion merited capturing on film (note the small dog, which completes the ensemble). Unfortunately I'm a chicken of a Papparazzi, so in my attempted stealth it came out a little blurry.

Catch up

I’m starting to slip into the same guilt trip I fell victim to in Tunisia, namely that every time I sit down to write an entry I feel guilty “wasting” time that could otherwise be invested in working. However, what that usually means is that I just poke around on the Internet, or fall asleep reading, or do something generally less productive than blogging. Whoops. Here’s a “catch up” post to make up for my absence as of late.

Last week I was visited by Andrea (from my study abroad in Nice) and her boyfriend, Brett, who wisely decided to avoid the recession and looming adulthood in the states by bumming around Europe for a few months. They were only to be in Paris for a day or do, but we found the time to go out for a delicious Greek dinner in the Latin quarter that came with free kir apperatifs, live music and rather less desirable free dancing lessons. We had planned to spend the next day playing tourist, but unfortunately our time ended up being consumed by a quest for antibiotics for Andrea’s UTI. We started out trying to use places that would be reimbursed by her American insurance, but after being turned down by a medical center and put off by the prices of the ER and the difficulty of communicating with the US company she decided to bite the bullet and just pay out of pocket for a French doctor. After a few calls I was able to track down a doctor that took walk-ins for 22 euro a session. The doctor didn’t have the equipment for an in-office pee test, so she tried to convince Andrea to go across the city to give a sample before beginning to take antibiotics. When Andrea explained that she was leaving the next day for a bus back to Germany followed by a flight home and didn’t have time for the 24hr test, the doctor recommended that she save a cup of pee un-tainted by antibiotics to submit for testing upon her return to the US. This got us joking about the potential difficulties of trying to get a 3 oz sample of infected pee through customs in a zip lock baggie, and also made me question the sanity of the doctor. At any rate, we got the prescription (20 euros) without too much more difficulty or expense. Huzzah, another victory for socialized healthcare.

I also went to a party last Friday at Pascal’s apartment. The party was a combined birthday/goodbye affair, as Pascal will be leaving in a few weeks for an internship in Romania. That’s him lying across everyone’s legs in the photo. Good food, chill people, and most importantly, a lot of good French conversation practice. I met a Tunisienne that I hope to meet up with again to practice some Arabic—the amount I’ve forgotten is appalling.

On the academic front: I'm being challenged by the in-class writing assignments in my medieval lit class. On the first one I sacrificed grammar for content, and on the second I made a real effort to get good grammar only to not quite finish in the time limit. I spoke with the prof after class who assured me that she’s just grading me as hard as my French peers and that I shouldn’t worry, which made me feel a little better. I’ve had two more big exposés and one paper in the last week. One of the exposées was the highlight of my time here—a chance for me to combine knowledge from the medieval program in Oxford, time at St. Mary’s and new research to present on feudalism, courtly love, and chivalry and how they all affect Chretien de Troyes’ “Yvain.” It was great practice in speaking and confidence, and for one of the first times in my life I thought to myself: “yeah, maybe I *could* be a professor.”

Except that would mean I need to start reapplying to PhD programs. Le sigh.

Fondue Friday

Yesterday was a perfect Parisian day and delightfully sunnier and warmer than it has been—about 65 degrees. My weekends start on Friday, so I took advantage of a grasse matinee (“fat morning”—or, sleeping-in) before heading to the NYU center to take advantage of for a free graduate lunch—a catered couscous affair with all the appropriate accoutrements (harissa, veggies and broth, lamb, meatballs, chicken, chickpeas, sweet dried raisins). Dessert was my first ever taste of the famous macaron cookies. Verdict: good, but 99% sugar; I’ll stick to my tarts and pastries. It was a fun chance to see a few of the students from other tracks that I rarely see, as well as an opportunity to talk a bit with our women-powered administrative team about how things are going and possible graduate excursions to use up our limited budget. We decided on a performance of a Beckett play (absurd theatre…yes!) in November.

Lindsay and I followed lunch with an impromptu tour of the Marais, a cute little area known for its gay and Jewish populations, and, apparently, “fripperies” (thrift shops). Thrifting here is more like thrifting in the UK than in the US meaning that stores tend to carry nicer, “vintage” items of a higher quality and price than what you’d find at a salvation army. I didn’t end up buying anything (almost got a tan newsies hat until a rude salesman put me off) but I had a lot of fun trying stuff on and mingling with Paris hipsters rooting through bins and racks in search of their next great find. My favorite of the day was this 59 euro ridiculous/fabulous pink dress that I love to death and would totally wear to prom if I had to do high school over again (God forbid). I couldn’t decide if it made me more like Marla from Fight Club or just like one of those Barbie cakes that were all the rage in the early 90s, but I loved it either way.

I met up with Phinn in Montparnasse afterwards to search for an authentic Breton crêperie. Our mission ended in failure but we did get a good walking tour of the area, at least, (and I bought some gloves and a pair of black skinny jeans from Mango) before we became too hungry to delay dinner any longer. We treated ourselves to a nice fondue dinner on rue Mouffetard in the 5^th, enjoyed with a pitcher of house white and a delicious mousse-custard dessert over several hours à la française. The huge amount of melted cheese I consumed not only cancelled out all of the walking I did earlier in the day but also threatened my ability to wear my new skinny jeans. And you know what? Totally worth it.

Books: my anti-YouTube

This has been a bad week for YouTube videos. As most of you know, YouTube is my procrastination Mecca of choice. Although there’s a lot of drivel, it’s worth sifting through to find the clever, creative gems that come courtesy of the people who have even less of a life than me. However, the videos I’ve been getting forwarded from friends this week are utterly sickening…a Japanese candid camera show that fakes a sniper attack, then laughs at the utter terror on the face of the poor shmuck getting punk’d… a mother who stuffed clothes in an xbox 360 box, gave it to her son as a Christmas present, then just laughed, mocking and taping his tears (“what did you think it was? You know we can’t afford no xbox 360)…a kid absolutely freaking out after his mom canceled his Warcraft account (the unquantifiable social impact of gaming culture scares the hell out of me, although admittedly, the fact that it's a prankster big brother taping makes it 1% funny)…and then last but not least, the whole “balloon boy” scandal that had me (and everyone) inexplicably upset and glued to the news, only to find out via the CNN interview that it was likely a publicity stunt his parents forced on the clueless 6-yr old. (I should have seen that coming, what more can you expect from parents who named their kid “Falcon”).

What is wrong with you people? And worse yet, why do I feel so compelled to rubberneck and play spectator to your sickness? I’m officially cutting myself off from YouTube for a week or so, to give it some time to think about what it’s done. And to give me some time for an Internet detox.

All-in-all, this has left me feeling a bit like Alceste in Moliere’s “Misanthrope,” which was one of the five books we covered this week. Good thing I have literature to help me out of my misanthropy. There’s nothing like art to make my heart swell with pride for the goodness and value of humanity, be it art in a museum, music, or literature. Last night I spent an hour in the used book section of Gibert Jeune (a multi-store, multi-floor book heaven, much like Oxford’s Blackwells…does the US have some equivalent I don’t know about?) browsing for items on my reading list. Although I felt my wallet draining (I’ve finally given in and realized that I have no choice but to buy the majority of the books I need to read…there are just too many and I need to be able to mark them) I felt my spirit being replenished by the familiar and unfamiliar masterpieces all around me and the reverence of those beside me, browsing them.

I also had a great “oh yeah, I’m a grad student!” moment in a discussion class earlier this week, for which all four of us bookworms prepared a 20 minute “exposé” about the book we’ve been reading (“La Femme de Job”). I was proud of my own analysis and blown away by the depth and scope of the commentary from my peers, and it sparked some brilliant discussion. I need to start stockpiling these “oh wait—I DO love literature after all” moments. It’s going to be a long, book-filled year.

I got my cheveux cut today...

...and here is the result. I had a late-night crisis about giving up on my growing-it-out efforts but a few minutes of Photoshopping cleared that right up. I look terrible with long hair (and also with no hair...glad I didn't do the "baldies for boobies" campaign with the hippies last spring). And now that it's cut, it feels SO much better. I think that front part is too short to sit well once it gets wet and recurls--we'll see tomorrow--so might have to invest in a cheap blow-dryer.

Doing the whole training center thing was an experience. The salon consisted of a big room full of female coiffeuses in training dressed all in white who were getting systematically flirted with/criticized by a handful of gay male stylists in black. (Seriously, not one of the "expert" stylists was a woman, or straight-seeming. I guess hair is the one industry where gay men get to be privileged...oh wait, yeah, and French studies...). My coiffeuse was cute, although her hyper-speed French was very hard to understand over the blow-dryers. I've been having this problem lately with French women between 25 and 35 who, after hearing that I speak the language pretty well, speak to me in "valley girl" French. I guess I should be flattered but it's really frustrating to follow and embarrassing to keep asking them to repeat what they've said. Luckily, once we got through with the introductions and discussions of what I wanted I became nothing more than a mute practice head to be combed, dried, straightened, turned, sheared (Jean Louis David cuts exclusively with electric clippers) by a handful of people. I spent half an hour with straightened hair and decided that with the right cut that could actually look kind of cute, except that I will probably never care enough about hair to devote the time to straightening it.

Other than that, not much news. Been feeling migrainey for the past few days and worse today...waiting for the other shoe to drop. (So yes, I'm just tired in the above picture. Not emo.) It's always the weird symptoms that bother me more than the pain...the inability to filter out sounds (I kept getting distracted by the traffic noise during class, and the Metro was a nightmare) the sensitivity to light and movement and especially the way it seems to interrupt my communication skills. Stringing together sentences in English gets harder, it's like I have a chronic problem trying to think of the right word. French is even worse. Unfortunate timing, because we had an in-class essay today that I probably bombed, and I have a 20-minute oral "exposé" tomorrow morning...