How Bizarre

I saw a French woman vacuuming the sidewalk path outside of her house today. It couldn't fathom why one would feel the need to suck up the dirt from the outside, from where it should be. At times like that it's hard for me to tell if I'm missing out on some sort of cultural difference, or if she was just an odd duck. I suppose that there are bizarre members of all nationalities.

In fact, I'm sure I must seem pretty bizarre myself sometimes, by French standards at least. In a city of high-fashion skirts, tights, boots and blouses in grey-scale tones, I often feel like the lone slapstick technicolor character in a black and white movie. I also get looks when a really great song comes up on my iPod shuffle as I'm riding the Metro or speed-walking around town and I can't help but tap a foot, bob my head, or walk in time to the beat. This is much more than my dignified fellow commuters would deign to do, but it's pretty tame compared to what I would be doing if I were home and safe within the soundproof bubble of my car.

Speaking of iPods, it occurred to me today that mp3 players could be hurting the age-old Parisian entrepreneurship of metro accordion-playing. With more and more commuters plugged into their own tunes, I bet fewer of them appreciate, pay or even notice the "musicians". Having a pair of earbuds in eliminates the guilt of not contributing to the collection in the plastic cup when they are done with their one-stop serenade, and it even entitles some grosbourge (uppity folks) to deliver a "how dare you interrupt my music and then ask me to pay you" glare. Maybe this explains the growing trend of stringing up a curtain between two metro poles for a sock puppet show--if you want the pocket change, you've got to be innovative.

In keeping with the theme of weird Parisian things, here's a video of a French...well...I guess you'd call him a comedian. It demonstrates a strange sense of humor and does a good job of covering some familiar Parisian spaces:
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Black Friday, White Night

While my fellow Americans spent their Black Friday fighting over video games in Walmart, I slept in, celebrated the beginning of the season with all-day Christmas music and a warming chickpea stew, and then went out for an epic “nuit blanche” (all-nighter) on the town.

Phinn and I met up with Lindsey, Julia and her friend Chris in the 6th. We started our night at “10,” a great little dive bar known for its sangria—18 euros for a large pitcher to share. Decorated in vintage posters and filled with a chill, bohemian crowd that clustered around the jukebox to select Stevie Wonder, Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan, 10 felt cozier than most of the other techno-pumping, strobe light, sexed-up bars I’ve been to in the city. After a few hours (and pitchers) we meandered over to the Latin Quarter to the infamous “Latin Corner”. This is a bar staffed entirely by men dressed (and hung) like Rocky from Rocky Horror Picture Show—golden Speedos and all—who dance through artificial smoke to Beyoncé to deliver platters of fruity cocktails to a female and gay clientele. We stayed only long enough to get warm (they keep it really hot for the near-naked servers) and appreciate the scenery before hopping over to the British Long Hop for last call and a pint of Strongbow, a favorite from my Oxford days

By this point we had missed the last metro of the night and our choices were to go through the long process of night buses, track down an expensive taxi, or wait out the morning metro at 5:30.

We opted for the latter.

Still bearing plastic ‘to-go’ cups from Long Hop, we went to go meet up with some friends in a chic bar near Île de la cité. However, after waiting for ten minutes as the bouncers selectively let people in, we opted to head toward the cheaper, more casual area of the Marais. We wandered for a while in search of an elusive bar Lindsey remembered from a previous weekend before the cold and a need for bathrooms finally drove us inside the “Rive Droite”—a friendly bar/restaurant with all-night Karaoke. We ordered a plate of finger foods and a bottle of Chardonnay, cheering on the French covers of 80s love ballads all the while. Lindsey wowed the crowd with her rendition of Brigitte Bardot’s “Harley Davidson” in French, and then we all got up on stage together to sing Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind.”

When Karaoke finally ended it was time to go home. Lindsey and Chris said their goodbyes and turned to trek back, leaving Phinn and I with another half hour to kill before we could retreat from the chilly, pre-dawn wind into the warm underbelly of the metro tunnels. Spotting an open restaurant, we popped in for one of the more bizarre breakfasts of my life—5am soupe à l’oignon gratinée, or in English, the best French onion soup I’ve ever had. An hour later, by 6am, I was in bed. And 12 hours later, at 5pm, I’ve accomplished very little. A waste of a rainy Saturday, perhaps, but 100% worth it.

Turkey on the Tower

The memory of snuggling up with pajama-ed siblings on the couch to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade tugged lightly at the corner of my mind as I woke up Thursday and finished my reading for class. Luckily, the long-anticipated, unorthodox Thanksgiving-on-the-Eiffel-Tower awaited me after classes were through.

Thanks to ungrateful trustfundergrands there were a handful of extra tickets left unclaimed last minute, allowing me to bring along Julia (a friend from French class at St. Mary's studying in Bordeaux who dropped into town rather last minute) and Virginie (a sweet French girl who lives a few doors down from me). The Eiffel tower began its hourly sparkling right as we walked up, making up for the icy rain. We presented our VIP restaurant tickets and bypassed the tourist line, ascending to the restaurant level via a diagonal elevator in the North leg of the tour. Julia bought me a pint while we waited for our table reservations, and (small world!) ran into a friend, Chris, from her home town, who joined our table for dinner a few minutes later.

The dinner itself was good but "gourmet" (in other words, marked by small portions and extravagant garnishes) so it was a far cry from the heaping plates and humble foods of an American Thanksgiving. We were also missing a few Thanksgiving staples: stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes...yeah. Basically, the French chef's interpretation of the holiday was to incorporate pumpkin into every course. Our appetizer was a savory pumpkin soup, our main came accompanied by a pat of pumpkin/sweet potato purée with chestnuts, and our dessert was a strange take on pumpkin pie that, although tasty, had no nutmeg or cloves or ginger or whatever it is that usually gives pie its spice. The main course was about half right--a tender slice of turkey in gravy with cranberry sauce (thank God), but also came, rather oddly, with a moroccan pancake and some paté. And the whole meal was paired with a pretty full-bodied Bordeaux. An odd and slightly un-satisfying experience overall.

Nonetheless, I suppose it was appropriate to enjoy a Frenchified Thanksgiving with the people closest to family for me right now. And after all, Thanksgiving is a pretty wacked-out holiday no matter how you look at it--a fact that became very clear in our attempts to explain it to Virginie ("what? It's a celebration of colonial domination? That involves gorging yourselves and then going into a shopping frenzy afterward? And this relates to family how?"). Hope everyone States-side enjoyed their tryptophan daze. Miss you all and excited to see you at Christmas.

An ode to the Paris Métro

Anyone who has heard me talk about Paris knows that I have alongstanding love affair with its Métro, which is an efficient, far-reaching, affordable and animated system of public transit that far surpasses those in other cities I’ve visited. I realized the other day that the “honeymoon” phase of our relationship is finally over, but my initial excitement has given way to a more satisfying savoir-faire. On the lines I use regularly, I position myself strategically on the platform so as to be right in front of the exit when I reach my destination. I navigate transfer tunnels like a pro, and I have my Imagin-R (student metro card—25 euro a month for unlimited travel) swiping procedure down to one swift motion when I pass through the turnstiles. I’m familiar with the stations decorated by art—the long mosaics in the halls of St. Michel, the larger than life literary autograph collection splashed across the ceiling of Luxembourg, or the patriotic murals at the Bastille. In the stations without art, I ponder the wall-size ads that serve as cultural insight and my main link to pop culture. I’ve cultivated an intimacy with the system and an appreciation for the personality of its different lines, which I associate more with their color than their number. What follows is an ode of sorts to those that have a particularly pronounced place in my memory…

The primary, finger-paint colors of the RER lines: the watermelon red A, the ocean blue B line, the sunny yellow C, the grassy green D. Ironically, the ambiance here is anything but childish. Dreary but stoic, these trains shuttle drones into the city en masse in the morning, and then, in the evening, back to the sprawling suburban towns they call home. The wave of humid air that sighs outwards as the doors open towards each platform is the collective exhaled breath of a thousand weary workers. They squeeze into the crowded car, dutifully surrender the single empty seat to the oldest or neediest in their midst, then resign themselves to yet another commute spent standing and sweating. Retreating into an iPod, a novel, or just a blank stare, they rarely notice the rare happy faces that dot the crowd— a family just back from Disney Land on the A, an excited, baggage-burdened traveler off to an exotic flight from Charles de Gaulle on the B, a tourist with eyes still aglow from the gold at Versailles on the C.

The pond scum green 3 line, with its newer, disability-friendly trains that announce the stations aloud and use blinking lights to allow you to visually track your progress, and whose seats are arranged in an asymmetrical, feng shui manner.

The fuchsia 4 line, rickety but reliable, which runs through the grittier neighborhoods of Paris and always has an animated, textured group of riders. If you get on in the south you’ll be in the company of students headed to the Sorbonne, to the malls of Les Halles or to the popular watering holes/restaurants of St. Germain des Pres and the Latin Quarter. Once you get to Gare du Nord the caucasian passengers exit in unison, and so completely that it feels almost like a conspiracy. The line takes you through a few Arab neighborhoods (and bars that offer free couscous to poor students) before you dead-end at the Porte de Clignancourt, the geographical and social fringe of the city that hosts a celebrated weekly Marché des Puces (flea market).

The navy blue 2 line, nearly as rickety as the four, whose screeching breaks can physically felt as they scratch across your eardrums.

The indigo 14 line, formerly known by the appropriate acronym METEOR, which is highly automated. Its stops are few but far apart and it shoots through its protective ribcage of a tunnel at rapid speeds. The plastic tunnel extends to the platform, with doors opening only when the car is perfectly aligned to protect bumbling tourists from the hazards of the tracks (and would-be suicidals from themselves).

The olive oil 9, which spans the city and stops frequently, giving it a varied crowd and a tiresome feel.

The chic, baby blue 13, whose plush velvety seats in rich hues of red and purple attest to the wealth of the districts of Paris it passes through.

The yellow 1 line, which runs along the Seine and stops at all the major tourist attractions. Quite predictably, it’s a Babel of languages and their speakers are too excited, lost or unfamiliar with the Metro etiquette to respect the invisible isolation bubbles of the Parisian commuters besides them. This line has the same automatic doors as the 14, I like to imagine this is to save the tourists from having to fumble with the hooked door releases that are standard in the other lines.

And finally, the sea foam 6 line, whose rubber wheels send it rolling above ground on raised platforms that pass over the Seine and afford a beautiful view of the Eiffel tower. Understandably, this is also the line that attracts the accordion players, progressing through cars at each stop to the delight of tourists, who pay for the ambiance in pocket change, and the chagrin of Passy’s rich, elderly residents, who respond to the clink of the coin cup with glares. This is the line that delivers me to class every day. After three months, I roll my eyes and immerse myself in my book whenever the accordion man steps on. But this is just to play the part rather than to embody it, because more than the glimpse of the monument and the cheesy music, it’s the thought that I might pass for a local that really thrills me; the idea that this city that I traverse each day is slowly becoming my own.

Nature is one hot mama

On Friday night I went to Theatre de l’Atelier in Montmartre to see a free (courtesty of the tuition of the trustfundergrads—I’m going to use that beautiful neologism to refer to them from here on out) one-man play by Samuel Beckett, called Premier Amour. It was performed by Samy Frey, who’s apparently a big deal if you’re French, female and over forty. I love theatre in general (and Beckett), but I really wasn’t feeling this show. Although cute, the theater was small and not air-conditioned, and the lack of leg-room and breathable air became a little distracting by the end of the show. The solemn, one-man staging (which translated to no dialogue and very few gestures) was a little tiresome and made the language barrier more pronounced. They also tried to do some edgy things in the staging with a siren and a strobe light that, for me, only detracted from the continuity of the show. This isn’t the first time I’ve been disappointed with the staging of an absurdist play in France (in the version of Cantatrice Chauve/ Bald Soprano that I saw a few years ago in Nice, the director did some strange things with cell phones, sirens and video screens, and at one point the father ripped the maid’s dress open and did coke lines off her chest as he delivered his lines). In my opinion, the beauty of absurd theatre is that the text is already absurd in and of itself. It seems like there’s this urge to “out weird” the script in the staging, but the two should compliment each other, not compete…

We followed up the play with a much more enjoyable nibble and a drink at the nearby Café des Deux Moulins, famous for being the “Amélie café” that she works at in the movie.

When we first arrived I sneered at the way Audrey Tautou’s face and autograph were splashed around everywhere, but after an hour soaking in the ambiance, the reggae band and the 3.90 happy hour cocktails, I couldn’t help but embrace the cliché experience. I particularly enjoyed the way that the bathroom where Georgette’s famous café-shaking sex scene takes place has been transformed into a sort of shrine for the garden gnome (probably as much to discourage would-be copy-cats as to celebrate the movie…heh heh heh). I watched the movie when I got home, reveling in the esoteric glory of recognizing every intimate corner of Paris that showed up on screen.

I woke up to such a beautiful morning that I couldn’t bear to waste the day inside doing work like I had originally planned. Instead, I took advantage of my Ile-de-France weekend train privileges and hopped on a train to Fontainebleau. I spent a half hour or so wandering around the cute, small town (and passed a huge line of teen girls waiting for the Twilight movie…yup, it’s crazy here, too) before I picked a small café to settle down in. I read medieval French literature in between leisurely bites of my artichoke and ham pizza then wandered over to the famous Chateau of Fontainebleau. As an under-26 French resident, I got free admission (this is also the case in most museums now, thanks to a new law—it’s a great time to be young in France). This took the pressure off of making it an educational experience and allowed me to stroll leisurely around the house and gardens, picking out the standard Chateau features (trompe l’oeil, furniture that matches the wall tapestries, short but elaborate four-poster beds, freezing private chapels) and a few new ones (elaborate mantle place clocks in every room, royal initials stamped everywhere, a bed in almost every room [apparently Napoleon II liked to be able to sleep on a whim]). Certain parts of the Chateau were being used to display modern art furniture exhibits, featuring a strange array of artistic and impactical arm chairs, sinks, and light fixtures. The pieces were cool but seemed oddly out of place, much like the jarringly modern light posts I saw in Metz. It's interesting to see how France is trying to hold onto its rich and decadent history even as it modernizes.

My favorite find in the Chateau was a statue representing Nature. It almost seemed to be an afterthought, tucked away as it was in a hallway nook between rooms with no plaque or audio guide entry devoted to it. It portrayed a woman nursing a handful of babies and animals, which seems normal enough until you realize that she has not just two but an entire body of breasts. Delightfully bizarre.

Looking on the sunny side (up)

I’m currently eating what might be the most delicious omelette in the history of Ever (note: every omelette seems this way to me) and pondering the wonder of eggs. It's like God said "here, students, I'll give you a cheap, individually-packaged, single-serving of protein that lasts for weeks with or without refrigeration, is easy to cook and somehow still tastes delicious." In the last month, I’ve used eggs to make fried egg baguette sandwiches with Dijon, fried rice and stir fried noodles with egg, quiche, and savory crepes. Moral of the menu: eggs rule. And right now, so does life. The train strikes are finally finished, so I can once again look forward to a predictable commute. Our heat and hot water are back—Hallelujah! I’m caught up on sleep, for once. The weather is still grey, but it has at least been clear enough to allow for a quick jog the last two days. This afternoon’s Middle Ages class is cancelled to accommodate a field trip to the Bibliothèque Nationale’s King Arthur exhibit. Basically, an all-around "woohoo!"

On the academic front: after a bad midterm and a retake that I didn’t feel went much better, I found out yesterday that I actually did ok the second time around and will therefore not be failing out of grad school (yet). The other lit students and I celebrated with a lovely late afternoon beer and pastry picnic on some stairs near Passy, where we could gaze upon the Eiffel tower without being hassled by tourists and trinket-sellers (although we did get hassled by a few old ladies who mistook us for hooligans, who told us not to litter when we were done…Passy’s a rich, old, and stuck-up neighborhood). Also, after two months of stagnation and seemingly backward progress (as in, at times, I couldn’t even form sentences in English) my spoken French is finally getting noticeably better. As is my written French, particularly from a grammar/stylistics standpoint. I’m getting better at self-correcting when I make mistakes, and at catching errors when I edit my own papers. I still have a long way to go before I’m where I want to be, but it’s encouraging.

cold weather, colder shower

Paris is dreary in the late fall. I didn't feel as at home in Nice as I do here, but man was the weather better. It's not so much the temperature, although it is getting colder, or even the rain. It's just the constancy of the gray clouds. I feel saturated by the gray, and my moods and energy as subdued as the sky.

Or maybe I'm just lazy.

In case, if it's not already obvious I didn't do much this weekend except catch up on (much-needed) sleep and eat (not-so-needed) starch. On Friday night I made some stir-fry noodles and we hosted an impromptu potluck dinner. Inspired by my Asian noodle success, I went to Chinatown the next day to explore and I bought a whole sack full of various cheap groceries that I'm excited to experiment with. Phinn made a delicious endive salad with Gorgonzola, apples, walnuts and a dijon/lemon juice dressing to go along with out leftovers from the previous night, and we snuggled up in bed to watch Moon (an enjoyable if not predictable low-budget sci-fi flick). Today: jogging, homework, and a really really cold shower. It's been freakishly windy this whole weekend, and yesterday our power, internet and heating went out. The first two came back quickly enough, but the heating and hot water are on the fritz until the work week. As I learned the hard way in Nice, French plumbers don't work weekends.