I know that most countries' tourism industries have suffered during the recent economic crisis, but judging by the number of absent Parisians I'd bet that France is still doing pretty well on that front.
Showing posts with label Paris in the summer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris in the summer. Show all posts
Monday, August 23, 2010
No longer the City of Lights
I've mentioned several times now that Paris is deserted during the summer months, but I finally found a way to capture the ghost town ambiance on film. This is a picture of the apartment building that faces ours at around 10pm--a time when most French families would be home and finishing up dinner. The complex is generally pretty, with a whole collection of lighted windows providing distant glimpses into people's balconies and living rooms. Not anymore.
I know that most countries' tourism industries have suffered during the recent economic crisis, but judging by the number of absent Parisians I'd bet that France is still doing pretty well on that front.
I know that most countries' tourism industries have suffered during the recent economic crisis, but judging by the number of absent Parisians I'd bet that France is still doing pretty well on that front.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Ninety-degree nostalgia
Things that I miss about summertime in America:
Summertime delights in France:
- barbecues (the food itself as well as the communal dynamic and outdoor eating)
- lightning bugs
- iced tea and coffee (that nasty peach iced tea that comes in cans has caught on since I was last in France, but you still can't order a normal iced tea at a restaurant)
- crab feats
- ribs (for some reason, Europeans don't seem to eat this part of the animal)
- corn on the cob
- being in/on/around the Chesapeake Bay
- Slurpees and Rita's Italian Ice
- minigolf (don't judge)
- ...and then, the obvious: air conditioning
Summertime delights in France:
- free outdoor cinema (which is also a fun way to discover new corners of the city. So far we've been to the Parc St. Cloud on the western side of the city for "Liaisons Dangereuses", and to Parc de la Villette in the North for "Auberge Espangole". A new series of outdoor movies, starting this week, will bring one to each neighborhood park in the city on a different night, so we're eagerly awaiting the chance to haul our blanket and a bottle of wine to our favorite parks near us.)
- plentiful gelatto
- Paris Plage (a program that turns the banks of the Seine into a "beach" with sand, umbrellas and lounge chairs for communal use, bars, kids activities, boats/kayaks to take out, concerts, dance lessons, and petanque sets/table tennis gear/foosball/badminton)
- cheap public pools (3 euros a visit, including the pool literally on a boat on the Seine. However, the French are oddly anal-retentive about "hygiene" in their pools--everyone is required to wear a swim cap, all boys/men must wear tight Speedos (sorry fellas, no swim trunks allowed) and everyone is expected to shower *before* getting in the pool.)
- Happy Hour cocktails on a café's street-side "terasse"
- free public activities (Jazz festival in Parc Floral, Chopin Sunday concert series in Luxembourg gardens)
- a really long vacation
Monday, August 2, 2010
Bois de Bologne
This Sunday, we headed to the West edge of Paris to explore the Bois de Bologne, a forest that once inspired many of France's impressionist painters and now gives Parisians a place to bring their children/bikes/dogs/significant others to explore.
We wandered through woods, across bridges and small streams to a grassy island. Every now and again we'd happen across surprises: a campsite, a playground, a horse track and polo field, a tennis club...
...or some mushrooms...
...or some berries. It seemed as if the forest had been intentionally planted with edible fruits (plums, elderberries, etc). We picked some just-starting-to-ripen blackberries to eat as we walked. During the picking process I was rudely introduced to stinging nettles--ouch!
On the opposite edge of the woods we hit Neuilly, the posh suburb of Paris where Nicolas Sarkozy grew up.
Tom was our self-appointed navigator. I still maintain that I have a better sense of direction, though.
Eventually, thanks to either his navigation skills or plain luck, we managed to find the woods' central ponds.
We rented out a row boat. Paddling was much less work than I expected.
Contrary to appearances, Tom actually did most of the work.
It was fun to see who else was out on the water: Grandparents with their grandchildren, old and young couples, tourists chattering in various languages and snapping loads of pictures, fathers in suits rowing their entire family, all adorned in the Sunday best, etc. There was also a little riverboat (that red thing in the background) to shuttle people who weren't cool enough to get a row boat back and forth to the central island (and its cafés and restaurants).
The pond was pretty shallow, but there was a lot of fish and plant life in it, not to mention whole flocks of ducks and the world's largest population of water striders.
When we tired of rowing, we pulled our boat up on the grassy shore of the deserted side and sat in the shadow of this sculpture for a fruit picnic.
We wandered through woods, across bridges and small streams to a grassy island. Every now and again we'd happen across surprises: a campsite, a playground, a horse track and polo field, a tennis club...
...or some mushrooms...
...or some berries. It seemed as if the forest had been intentionally planted with edible fruits (plums, elderberries, etc). We picked some just-starting-to-ripen blackberries to eat as we walked. During the picking process I was rudely introduced to stinging nettles--ouch!
On the opposite edge of the woods we hit Neuilly, the posh suburb of Paris where Nicolas Sarkozy grew up.
Tom was our self-appointed navigator. I still maintain that I have a better sense of direction, though.
Eventually, thanks to either his navigation skills or plain luck, we managed to find the woods' central ponds.
We rented out a row boat. Paddling was much less work than I expected.
Contrary to appearances, Tom actually did most of the work.
It was fun to see who else was out on the water: Grandparents with their grandchildren, old and young couples, tourists chattering in various languages and snapping loads of pictures, fathers in suits rowing their entire family, all adorned in the Sunday best, etc. There was also a little riverboat (that red thing in the background) to shuttle people who weren't cool enough to get a row boat back and forth to the central island (and its cafés and restaurants).
The pond was pretty shallow, but there was a lot of fish and plant life in it, not to mention whole flocks of ducks and the world's largest population of water striders.
When we tired of rowing, we pulled our boat up on the grassy shore of the deserted side and sat in the shadow of this sculpture for a fruit picnic.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Gone "en vacances"
It started with our favorite restaurant, Chez Gladines. We headed there a few weekends ago for one of their hugs platters of duck in Roquefort sauce and basque-style potatoes, only to be confronted with this:
(Dear clients, we have left on vacation. We will see you again from 7pm on Monday, August 2nd onwards. Have a good summer and a good vacation...the Chez Gladines team)
Dejected, we drank a pint at the bar across the street while we discussed our plan B, smiling in sad solidarity as we watched countless other students approach the restaurant only to turn away in disbelief.
The next strike was when I set out, folder of bureaucratic papers in hand, to the CAF office, to settle some problems with my socialized student rent remission:
(No CAF in July or August; reopening September 1st)
After that, I watched in bewildered American wonderment as each day another of the bakeries on my road pulled its blinds and closed its doors--for the following month! The Moroccan restaurant my office celebrated our last day in was out of kefta and lamb--they were closing the next day and trying to use up their remaining ingredients.
And now, even my office is closed. Friends I talk to back home are incredulous: "how have you already accrued vacation time? You've only been working what? 2 months?"
But no, I tell them, this is France: the country where the entire country goes on vacation. Together. Twice, even! (Once during the summer, and then again during ski season) And where do they go? Well, France, of course. Where else? As any Frenchman will tell you, they have everything they need here: party/wealthy beaches to the South, more subdued beaches to the North, surfing to the West, skiing to the East, sunny fields full of wines and chateaux in the middle--what more could you ask for?
It's good for the national tourism industry, I suppose, but not so much for French industry in the international market. Or their reputation, at least. The French even make fun of themselves, as evidenced by this ad for the Parisian", one of the free daily metro newspapers, which boasts being "the only Parisian that you can count on throughout the summer." In the poster shown here, they say "the only Parisian who will give you news all summer":
As for me? Yes, I'm officially "en vacances" but with my Master's exam fast approaching (end of August) I'm hitting the books instead of the beaches. Hélas! I hope to do a vacation day-trip or two, though, so we'll see. For now I'll just have to satisfy my urges to do as the French do by sipping my kir sauvignon from my wrought-iron window.
(Dear clients, we have left on vacation. We will see you again from 7pm on Monday, August 2nd onwards. Have a good summer and a good vacation...the Chez Gladines team)Dejected, we drank a pint at the bar across the street while we discussed our plan B, smiling in sad solidarity as we watched countless other students approach the restaurant only to turn away in disbelief.
The next strike was when I set out, folder of bureaucratic papers in hand, to the CAF office, to settle some problems with my socialized student rent remission:
(No CAF in July or August; reopening September 1st)After that, I watched in bewildered American wonderment as each day another of the bakeries on my road pulled its blinds and closed its doors--for the following month! The Moroccan restaurant my office celebrated our last day in was out of kefta and lamb--they were closing the next day and trying to use up their remaining ingredients.
And now, even my office is closed. Friends I talk to back home are incredulous: "how have you already accrued vacation time? You've only been working what? 2 months?"
But no, I tell them, this is France: the country where the entire country goes on vacation. Together. Twice, even! (Once during the summer, and then again during ski season) And where do they go? Well, France, of course. Where else? As any Frenchman will tell you, they have everything they need here: party/wealthy beaches to the South, more subdued beaches to the North, surfing to the West, skiing to the East, sunny fields full of wines and chateaux in the middle--what more could you ask for?
It's good for the national tourism industry, I suppose, but not so much for French industry in the international market. Or their reputation, at least. The French even make fun of themselves, as evidenced by this ad for the Parisian", one of the free daily metro newspapers, which boasts being "the only Parisian that you can count on throughout the summer." In the poster shown here, they say "the only Parisian who will give you news all summer":
As for me? Yes, I'm officially "en vacances" but with my Master's exam fast approaching (end of August) I'm hitting the books instead of the beaches. Hélas! I hope to do a vacation day-trip or two, though, so we'll see. For now I'll just have to satisfy my urges to do as the French do by sipping my kir sauvignon from my wrought-iron window.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Jazz in the parc
Paris never ceases to amaze. Just when I think I'm starting to get a feel for it I discover a new hidden gem. This weekend, that gem was the aptly-named "Parc Floral" in the Bois de Vincennes, just to the Southeast of the city.
(doesn't this look like scenery straight out of Jurassic Park?)
For the month of July, the park is hosting a weekend Jazz Festival. This meant that our 2.50 euros provided access not only to the beautiful gardens, ponds, forests and picnicking fields, but also relaxing music to enjoy while we explored. The photo below shows the stage where the performers were based, on the island across the lake. The sound carried to the surrounding fields however, so like many of the other jazz fans we opted to find a sunny spot to sprawl rather than join the standing crowd.
We layed out our picnic blanket on this hill overlooking a heavily lilly-padded pond and basked in the sunlight.
Close-up of the oddly tall water lily plants:
The huge leaves of these tall flowers were bowl-shaped to collect water:
I found a more traditional water lily lurking beneath some lily pads:
An ol' coot and some coot-ettes!
The obligatory cute couple shot:
Bumble bee on a sunflower (known in French as a "sun-turner" because they pivot to follow the sun)...
Once the music had ended, we took an hour or so to wander around the back of the park. We found a really cool playground (featuring steep slides and a giant, bouncy spider web that you could definitely never find in modern, sue-happy America):
And an enclosed butterfly garden:
(doesn't this look like scenery straight out of Jurassic Park?)For the month of July, the park is hosting a weekend Jazz Festival. This meant that our 2.50 euros provided access not only to the beautiful gardens, ponds, forests and picnicking fields, but also relaxing music to enjoy while we explored. The photo below shows the stage where the performers were based, on the island across the lake. The sound carried to the surrounding fields however, so like many of the other jazz fans we opted to find a sunny spot to sprawl rather than join the standing crowd.
We layed out our picnic blanket on this hill overlooking a heavily lilly-padded pond and basked in the sunlight.
Close-up of the oddly tall water lily plants:
The huge leaves of these tall flowers were bowl-shaped to collect water:
I found a more traditional water lily lurking beneath some lily pads:
An ol' coot and some coot-ettes!
The obligatory cute couple shot:
Bumble bee on a sunflower (known in French as a "sun-turner" because they pivot to follow the sun)...
Once the music had ended, we took an hour or so to wander around the back of the park. We found a really cool playground (featuring steep slides and a giant, bouncy spider web that you could definitely never find in modern, sue-happy America):
And an enclosed butterfly garden:
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Bastille festivities
Last Wednesday was Bastille day--the day of "National Celebration" commemorating what was actually a poorly-planned (albeit symbolic) attack on French absolutism (or an attack against an almost empty prison that caused a lot of casualties for civilian rebels and almost none for defenders) that kicked off an ultimately failed revolution, during which time France dethroned and beheaded royalty, only to eventually surrender their newfound "democracy" to an Emperor.
But hey, this is France, and any opportunity to take a national holiday is a good one.
We kicked off the evening with some happy hour beers and dinner. Here's me, drowning in a monster pint of blanche.
Then it was time to cram into the metro with all the other firework-goers. Hoping to avoid closed metro stations and crazy mobs of people (who had gathered on the Champ de Mars to stake out prime firework-watching territory as early as that morning), we opted to head to Passy, on the opposite bank of the tower. Judging by the crowd riding with us, we weren't as original as we'd hoped.
Although the riverbank where we had planned to stand was roped off for the firework display, we still snagged a good spot on the metro bridge between Passy and Bir Hakeim. We sipped champagne as the sun set, rocked every few minutes by one of the line 6 cars rumbling along above.
By nightfall, everyone on that bridge was ready.
And finally, there they were!
This year's display was set off from Trocadero, on the other side of the river from the tower. At one point during the show they had the Eiffel Tower sparkling in time with the fireworks. I love the way that crowds cheer at a spectacle, like fireworks or a film, even when there's no one there (a director, etc.) who could take credit for it to hear it. Instead of an expected debt owed to a performer, the applause becomes more genuine--the celebration of a shared moment.
Golden fireworks are always my favorite.
And half an hour later, the explosive, rainbow finale.
And then, of course, the metro ride back. Police had formed a barricade outside the station and were only letting us through in clumps. The hoards were in a happy mood, though, and metro turnstiles had been disabled to allow everyone free passage. And opting to not be in the heart of the action had its advantages, in the end. Where we were, near the end of the line, each metro car filled when it pulled into Passy, passing by the growing crowds at the following few stations closer in without giving them a space to hop in. I've been in that situation during strikes, and it definitely sucks. But that didn't stop me from enjoying a smug moment of Schadenfreude as I waved sympathetically at the sweaty masses stranded on the platforms.
But hey, this is France, and any opportunity to take a national holiday is a good one.
We kicked off the evening with some happy hour beers and dinner. Here's me, drowning in a monster pint of blanche.
Then it was time to cram into the metro with all the other firework-goers. Hoping to avoid closed metro stations and crazy mobs of people (who had gathered on the Champ de Mars to stake out prime firework-watching territory as early as that morning), we opted to head to Passy, on the opposite bank of the tower. Judging by the crowd riding with us, we weren't as original as we'd hoped.
Although the riverbank where we had planned to stand was roped off for the firework display, we still snagged a good spot on the metro bridge between Passy and Bir Hakeim. We sipped champagne as the sun set, rocked every few minutes by one of the line 6 cars rumbling along above.
By nightfall, everyone on that bridge was ready.
And finally, there they were!
This year's display was set off from Trocadero, on the other side of the river from the tower. At one point during the show they had the Eiffel Tower sparkling in time with the fireworks. I love the way that crowds cheer at a spectacle, like fireworks or a film, even when there's no one there (a director, etc.) who could take credit for it to hear it. Instead of an expected debt owed to a performer, the applause becomes more genuine--the celebration of a shared moment.
Golden fireworks are always my favorite.
And half an hour later, the explosive, rainbow finale.
And then, of course, the metro ride back. Police had formed a barricade outside the station and were only letting us through in clumps. The hoards were in a happy mood, though, and metro turnstiles had been disabled to allow everyone free passage. And opting to not be in the heart of the action had its advantages, in the end. Where we were, near the end of the line, each metro car filled when it pulled into Passy, passing by the growing crowds at the following few stations closer in without giving them a space to hop in. I've been in that situation during strikes, and it definitely sucks. But that didn't stop me from enjoying a smug moment of Schadenfreude as I waved sympathetically at the sweaty masses stranded on the platforms.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
So chaud, fo' sho'
Il fait CHAUD à Paris--I'm talking in the mid-30s and drenchingly humid. And you know how forecasters always give that "feel" forecast, to describe how it feels in the shade, or with the wind chill, etc? In Paris, it literally feels like a sauna in the metro, except minus the health and relaxation benefits--it's more like you're riding along in a car where all air has been replaced by the evaporating sweat and the hot breath of your fellow, dripping passengers.
Luckily, since I walk to work I no longer need to take the metro on a regular basis (unlike Tom, who still has a half hour commute and consequently jumps in the shower when he gets home before he'll let me hug him). Unfortunately, the temperature of my office isn't much better. It's okay in the morning, but by about 3pm I've lost my ability to be productive at all, and instead contemplate which will happen first: will I melt, or fall into a drowsy sort of coma and be found later in a limp pile under the front desk?
Our apartment has the advantage of having several big windows, and therefore a decent amount of airflow. However, it also gets full sun and is in the heat-collecting top floor of the building. Even still, home is still far superior to work in terms of the amount of clothing I'm (not) required to wear (and the ease of access to iced tea, which I've been making by the gallon). I also LOVE the double bed, because it means that I can lie on the opposite edge from my human heater of a boyfriend.
After a week of searching (all the Dartys in the city were continuously sold-out almost immediately after getting new stock) I finally managed to track down a fan. It has since become my most precious possession, and he follows me around our three rooms like an obedient puppy.
See, there he is. Isn't he cute?
I can totally understand why the whole country takes off the month of August for vacation now--who would be able to get anything done? If Sarkozy really wants to go forward with his original plans of making French workers more productive, he should see to government-subsidized air conditioning units before he starts pushing longer work hours or less leave. Heck, if my office had AC I'd even consider working overtime...
Luckily, since I walk to work I no longer need to take the metro on a regular basis (unlike Tom, who still has a half hour commute and consequently jumps in the shower when he gets home before he'll let me hug him). Unfortunately, the temperature of my office isn't much better. It's okay in the morning, but by about 3pm I've lost my ability to be productive at all, and instead contemplate which will happen first: will I melt, or fall into a drowsy sort of coma and be found later in a limp pile under the front desk?
Our apartment has the advantage of having several big windows, and therefore a decent amount of airflow. However, it also gets full sun and is in the heat-collecting top floor of the building. Even still, home is still far superior to work in terms of the amount of clothing I'm (not) required to wear (and the ease of access to iced tea, which I've been making by the gallon). I also LOVE the double bed, because it means that I can lie on the opposite edge from my human heater of a boyfriend.
After a week of searching (all the Dartys in the city were continuously sold-out almost immediately after getting new stock) I finally managed to track down a fan. It has since become my most precious possession, and he follows me around our three rooms like an obedient puppy.
See, there he is. Isn't he cute?I can totally understand why the whole country takes off the month of August for vacation now--who would be able to get anything done? If Sarkozy really wants to go forward with his original plans of making French workers more productive, he should see to government-subsidized air conditioning units before he starts pushing longer work hours or less leave. Heck, if my office had AC I'd even consider working overtime...
Friday, July 2, 2010
Over the rainbow
Last Saturday was Paris' "Marche des Fiertés", or Gay Pride walk. In spite of the heat, it was a joyful, colorful celebration:
Anyone who wants to fight discrimination and intolerance was invited to join the walk, so it was hard to tell at any given point who was gay and who was just accepting. Which is a pretty cool blurring of boundaries. In any case, there were many, MANY marchers (I later read estimates of tens of thousands). The crowd was definitely skewed young, too--I'm not sure if that speaks to my generation's tolerance or just our eagerness to take part in demonstrations, but I'd like to think it's the first one.
(Okay, so I might have overgeneralized...it wasn't ALWAYS difficult to tell who was gay...)
The walk's drag queens were, of course, balanced out by a political presence. This is also where the older walkers tended to congregate--around Amnesty International or other activist groups marching to make a statement.
This group is walking "in memory of deported homosexuals":
Sign translation: "Preacher, imam, rabbi--don't block my way" (note the Scissors Sisters shirt on the right):
Activist bumper stickers abounded. My favorites were stickers modeled after the very prominent labels that come on packs of cigarettes here, although instead of saying "Tobacco tue" (tobacco kills) they said "Homophobie tue" and gave various statistics about suicides, hate crimes and legal inequality.
This was a Uganda political sticker:
One of the groups had a really effective float tactic of using hangmen silhouettes to represent every country where homosexuality is still punishable by death:
Chilling close-up:
Sign translation: "My brother is GAY and I'm proud of it"
Nice shoes:
A group of lesbians that were chanting "Xena! Xena!" and drumming up support for their heroine from the bystanders:
There were a surprising number of women with naught but taped Xs on their chests. (there were also a lot of men with "blow me" or "I'm single" written on their chests, and "entry" written, with a down-pointing arrow, on their backs).
At one point, everyone stopped (and the pumping techno turned off) for three minutes of silence
One of a continual series of gladiator angels on stilts, bearing Mentos banners
Cruella deFabulous
Gothic angels seemed to be the theme of the day.
Translations of the signs: "Love doesn't discriminate: not by gender or by race!" "My liberty ensures yours!"
Wavin' the flag with pride:
I kid you not, the gay motorcycle club of Paris:
Aww. Slash I was totally too afraid to take a picture of this tough and muscled couple from the front:
This roller blade-r was distributing fliers for a gay club--but only to attractive young men:
What would a Pride parade be without a giant inflatable condom? (surrounded by
volunteers passing out lube and condoms of a slightly more manageable size)
After the four epic hours of parade were finally over, the streets were a wreck. The cleaning crews were on the scene immediately, in order to speed up the reopening of the many major roads along the parade route. What a weird and wonderful afternoon in gay ol' Paree!
Anyone who wants to fight discrimination and intolerance was invited to join the walk, so it was hard to tell at any given point who was gay and who was just accepting. Which is a pretty cool blurring of boundaries. In any case, there were many, MANY marchers (I later read estimates of tens of thousands). The crowd was definitely skewed young, too--I'm not sure if that speaks to my generation's tolerance or just our eagerness to take part in demonstrations, but I'd like to think it's the first one.(Okay, so I might have overgeneralized...it wasn't ALWAYS difficult to tell who was gay...)
The walk's drag queens were, of course, balanced out by a political presence. This is also where the older walkers tended to congregate--around Amnesty International or other activist groups marching to make a statement.This group is walking "in memory of deported homosexuals":
Sign translation: "Preacher, imam, rabbi--don't block my way" (note the Scissors Sisters shirt on the right):
Activist bumper stickers abounded. My favorites were stickers modeled after the very prominent labels that come on packs of cigarettes here, although instead of saying "Tobacco tue" (tobacco kills) they said "Homophobie tue" and gave various statistics about suicides, hate crimes and legal inequality.This was a Uganda political sticker:
One of the groups had a really effective float tactic of using hangmen silhouettes to represent every country where homosexuality is still punishable by death:
Chilling close-up:
Sign translation: "My brother is GAY and I'm proud of it"
Nice shoes:
A group of lesbians that were chanting "Xena! Xena!" and drumming up support for their heroine from the bystanders:
There were a surprising number of women with naught but taped Xs on their chests. (there were also a lot of men with "blow me" or "I'm single" written on their chests, and "entry" written, with a down-pointing arrow, on their backs).
At one point, everyone stopped (and the pumping techno turned off) for three minutes of silence
One of a continual series of gladiator angels on stilts, bearing Mentos banners
Cruella deFabulous
Gothic angels seemed to be the theme of the day.
Translations of the signs: "Love doesn't discriminate: not by gender or by race!" "My liberty ensures yours!"
Wavin' the flag with pride:
I kid you not, the gay motorcycle club of Paris:
Aww. Slash I was totally too afraid to take a picture of this tough and muscled couple from the front:
This roller blade-r was distributing fliers for a gay club--but only to attractive young men:
What would a Pride parade be without a giant inflatable condom? (surrounded byvolunteers passing out lube and condoms of a slightly more manageable size)
After the four epic hours of parade were finally over, the streets were a wreck. The cleaning crews were on the scene immediately, in order to speed up the reopening of the many major roads along the parade route. What a weird and wonderful afternoon in gay ol' Paree!
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