All work and no play...

Having spent all of the month of August so far reading and reviewing for my Master's exam, I decided it was high time for a break. And what better occasion than a friend's last weekend in Paris to really hit the town?

We started with an all-you-can-eat Chinese dumpling bar in the 15th that a friend of mine had recommended a while ago and that I only finally got around to trying. It was in a deserted, rather dead area, but the food and service was great. And cheap! 10 euros per person for an endless array of flavors of dumplings--boiled, steamed or fried--and 2.50 for the world's largest Tsingtao beer bottles. I thought this bridge on the walk home was pretty cool:
Then we headed to The Moose: the favorite (Canadian) bar of our (Canadian) guest of honor, Jason.
At The Moose they were showing--what else? American baseball! Go Sox!
Once Jason had drank his fill of farewell shots (compliments of his favorite bartenders, who were as sad as us to see one of their most loyal customers leave) we hit up a latenight 80s themed club, called Romeo. (I know the 80s seem to be coming back into style in the States, but here in France, they never went OUT of style.) The 10 euro cover included a pretty decent mojito, and if you were born in the 80s you got a complimentary glass of champagne. Jason had picked up a turquoise straw hat at the Moose, and it made the rounds on the dance floor. Here's Tom busting a move:
And, unarguably the best shot of the night:

Tour de Paris

There's a cool program in Paris called Vélib (a fun porte-manteau mush word of "Vélo"=bicycle and "libre"=free) that allows Parisians who have registered (and put down a 150 deposit against the product) to rent out a bicycle from one of the city's almost 1,700 docking stations for up to half an hour. The idea is to provide commuters, students, etc with an easy, efficient way to get through the city, not to mention a form of exercise and an environmentally-friendly alternative to driving or public transport. Although the Vélib program has faced its share of problems since its beginning in 2007, including overly-expensive bike software, cumbersome/heavy bikes, frequent repair problems and ongoing theft/vandalism, its spirit is still going strong, and it is one of the most successful and well-funded public bicycle programs in the world.

With that said, taking a Vélib ride has been on my list of things to do ever since I got to Paris. However, since you have to have a European bank card and a Parisian Metro pass to rent one out, by the time I was actually equipped to participate I had already become accustomed to traveling by bus and Metro. As a casual, country-trail cyclist, I also found the thought of biking alongside cars through narrow city streets rather daunting, and I couldn't be bothered to pay the trivial fee (1 euro a day, 5 a week or 30 a year) to test it out. And considering that Tom had only ever ridden a bike once in his life, he wasn't about to encourage me.

Until Saturday night. When leaving a friend's house in the wee hours, long after Metro service had stopped for the night, we decided to take advantage of the deserted streets to finally give Vélib a try. The first bike I tried had a flat tire; the first Tom tried wouldn't permit him to raise the seat. After a few minutes of tinkering with the locks and the settings, however, we were finally ready to go:

Verdict? A lot of fun, and a great way to enjoy the night air (and full moon!). Tom had a wobbly first few minutes of experimenting, but after that he seemed to pick it up (and pick up speed) quickly. In fact, we enjoyed it so much that we did it again yesterday, and I fully intend to continue. There's going to be a slight learning curve--finding the roads with cycle paths, learning what to check for (maintenance-wise) before taking out a bike, finding the best docking stations (as some tend to always be empty, and some tend to never have docking space available, depending on the desirability of their location)--but it's vacation, and I have time to spare. Ready. Set. Bike!

Fête de la Musique

Monday night was the annual summer music festival known as Fête de la Musique--a day/night where Paris gives herself over to hundreds of musicians for free, open-air performances. I emerged from the metro at Chatêlet to be engulfed by a white-clad group of Africans on a percussion parade, who swept me dancing over the Seine to St. Michel:
It was the perfect lighting for a few night shots of Paris
I met up with friends at Notre Dame, and we wandered around until about midnight, pausing at various points to listen to, among other things, a Southern rock band (complete with a badass mouth harmonica player), a heavy metal band, the world's most terrible Nirvana cover band, and some drum and bass club beats. The quality of the music wasn't always stellar, but the streets were packed with jolly, drinking 20-somethings of all nationalities, and the atmosphere was great.

birfday fun

I realize it's been a little while since I updated this now, (big, life-changing events happening) but here are some birthday pics to tide you over in the meantime, oh faithful readers.

On my actual birthday, the other lit students (minus one) and I went out for a pho lunch at an authentic Vietnamese restaurant. Ivy ordered for us all in Vietnamese. I think this was my first time hearing the language. My discoveries: all words are one syllable, and there are about five different (and common) variations on a "y" sound.

The last lit student, Barclay, made it to my "party" the next Monday. By party, I mean I basically invited everyone I know in Paris to a bar called "l'Assassin" after one of my final exams to enjoy their burgers and happy hour 3.50 euro pints of Delerium. In any case, here we are, sharing the lit love:
And the obligatory cute couple shot:
I had the sudden realization at the party that Laura, one of my NYU friends, and Lucy, one of my Cité Universitaire friends, look...the SAME!
In the end, I think I had somewhere between 10 and 15 people show up (not bad, for a Monday night and in the middle of finals). Chill bar, cool crowd, and I think everyone had a good time.

I was only mildly hungover the next morning. I blame the lack of Mexican food in this country. Mexican food works wonders on hangovers. In any case, I was recovered before my job interview that afternoon. Details on that to come soon.

Raw Tuna, Raw Tunes

It took them long enough, but the French have finally caught on to sushi in a big way. Sushi places were few and far between the last time I was in Paris, but over the last few years sushi lunch bars and Japanese grills have popped up all over the place, and even our local Franprix supermarket now carries simple maki rolls alongside the more standard refrigerated French appetizers of shredded carrot or balsamic couscous salads. This fishy dish has also become one of France's most popular delivery foods. While an American family might get a pepperoni pizza, bread sticks and a 2-litre Coke brought to their door, Parisians can expect a scooter-driving delivery boy bearing a sashimi platter and a bottle of white wine. I've yet to sample this approach, but on Friday I joined a big group of friends at a place in Belleville called Sukiyaki that was definitely anything but ("yucky", that is). In spite of not having my two favorites, spicy tuna and eel (the Chesapeake Bay is actually a huge source of the world's eel supply, so it might just not be as readily available here) the restaurant served up a pretty heaping, delicious plate of fish to satisfy my sushi craving.

We followed up our dinner with some Amorino gelatto (!) and a jam session cocktail at the Duc des Lombards jazz club near Châtelet. I sipped what was definitely the best mojito I've had in France and enjoyed the music and chill atmosphere. The night's line-up began with a few middle-aged jam regulars, including a pianist, a bassist and a pretty rocking drummer who apparently runs the sessions, then rotated through various other performers and music students (trumpet, flute, sax...) every few songs or so.

I know that jazz bars exist in big American cities, and that jazz is still a major part of the culture in places like Chicago and New Orleans. By and large, however, jazz isn't at all appreciated in the States the way it is here--American jazz legends from the 20s are still featured prominently in French music stores, free jazz festivals crop up all over the place during the summer months, and the regular scheduled concerts at the club are a nightly occurrence, pricey and well-attended.

From our seats on the balcony we had a great view inside the workings grand piano, and I was mesmerized by the playful movement of the pianists' fingers across the keys and the corresponding shudders of the hammers against the strings. The improvisation and expression, which would vary from sultry to peppy to bluesy, made me nostalgic for the taste of jazz I had near the end of my piano-playing career. If I were a musician, I would definitely play jazz; not that there's anything wrong with the classics, but jazz is such a living, transient music in comparison--it's like the difference between studying Latin vs. studying Arabic. As I battled drunk youth for space on the night bus later on, I renewed my vows that as soon as I'm settled somewhere I'll invest in a nice keyboard and start playing around again--I think music is, like blogging, one of those forms of procrastination that I could feel good about doing. (And now, on to homework...)

Art Insomia

Saturday night was an annual event in Paris called “Nuit Blanche.” In French, to have this “white night” is to pull an all-nighter, and the idea of the event is to utilize public space to celebrate modern art (read: film and light installations) from 9pm until 7am the next morning. Across the city, parks, universities, religious buildings and even pools opened their doors to a crazy band of glowstick-adorned art-lovers, insomniacs, street musicians and more.

I met up with Pascal and Thibaut (the French guys from the bar last week) and a few other random friends (Antoine, from Toulouse, Daniel, and American film student, and a girl from Greece) at Luxembourg. The streets were packed with a cheerful, chattering young crowd and dotted with equally jovial policemen who had pretty much given up on trying to clear a path for cars. It was really surreal to have so many people out and about at midnight, and there was a real sense of life and electricity in the air. The line to actually enter the Luxembourg gardens wrapped all the way around the block, although you didn’t have to be inside it to see the main attraction: a huge disco ball, suspended from a crane. Strategically placed searchlights refracted off of the ball’s many faces onto the eerie purple clouds and full moon, giving the impression that tonight, Paris itself was our nightclub.

With Pascal as our guide, we trekked around Paris to see what we could see, speaking French all the while. My favorite destination was the Grande Mosquée, whose central garden hosted an x-ray video installation (one of the only ones I enjoyed…I really need someone with some film background to teach me how to appreciate those because right now I just think most of them are stupid) and a laser installation piece that combined the visuals of the moving lasers with audio voiceovers of the history of the earth and a strong scent of roses. (More art should be scented. It’s like that adult version of those scented markers that were really cool in the early 90s…fun!). The exhibits were cool, the locale was beautiful, and the calm reverence of the crowd in response to our surroundings presented a strange contrast to the delightful chaos around Luxembourg.

Around 4am, my blisters from the previous night’s boat adventures were starting to hurt and my fatigue was beginning to interfere with my French. The boys and I walked up to Chatelet to catch the night buses home…only to find that French bureaucracy, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to suspend almost all of the night bus lines on the one night that they were really needed, opting instead to keep the 11 and 14 lines running (which both lead away from where I live). The result was that I took the metro and then a bus to Pascal’s apartment in Levallois (a cute, upscale Parisian suburb), where we stayed up for another hour or so discussing Sarah Palin (did anyone else know she got punk'd by a a couple of Quebecois radio DJs?), Ségolène Royale and South Park before I gratefully crashed on an air mattress.

The Adventures of Frizzhead and German Girl

I don’t feel like I’ve found “my” people yet in Paris, or maybe it’s just that my idea of friends hasn’t quite caught up to the new reality of my life. The close-knit community at St. Mary’s is a far cry from the dynamics of adult city life—it’s funny how being isolated as a school made us much less isolated as individuals. At any rate, I am learning to enjoy my alone time without being lonely. Usually. But then there are nights like Tuesday night, when I decided after an hour of moping that I should leave my room, hop a metro stop up and treat myself to a McFlurry (I know, I know, cliché, but pastry shops close early and I swear MacDo is actually better here). Except that, as soon as I got on the train, who should I run into in my metro car than the German girl from two doors down, Dorothee (the same one I dragged to couscous a few weeks ago).

Dorothee was as chic as all European girls and clearly dressed to go out, and I felt a little dumb in comparison in my sweatshirt and tennis shoes with my lack of itinerary. She asked me where I was headed. “Out to find a crepe,” I said, excusing the white lie with the desire to not further encourage the American stereotype as obese hamburger-lovers. “I have a craving for something sweet.”

“All alone?”

I shrugged.

“It’s not a crepe, but I have some sweet white wine, and I’m going to go meet up with some girlfriends at the Eiffel Tower to pregame before we go to the club. Do you want to come?”

And that was how I ended up unexpectedly staying out until 2am the night before Assia Djebar’s class at Place de Trocadero. Between Dorothee, her friends (another German named Kersten and a Belgian girl) and me, we finished three bottles of wine, watched a break-dancing group go through their routine twice, waved off countless souvenir-sellers hawking their usual jingling rings of Eiffel tower key chains and various glowing night items, staying just long enough to see the tower sparkle a final time before stumbling back to the metro, laughing, to part ways. That night was also the closest I have ever come to pissing my pants—when the 6 line stopped for ten minutes, I laughed, crossing me legs, but once I got to my change at the RER platform only to find the one bathroom “hors service” and the next train ten minutes away, it wasn’t funny any more. I imagined myself standing forlornly in a puddle, encircled by sneering French spectators—can you get arrested for peeing yourself in public? As if taunting me, a nearby drunk man unzipped and pissed on the track. When the train finally pulled up to my stop I burst out, bolted up the escalator and across the street, punched in my keycode, and had my card out and unready to unlock the first-floor bathroom. My plan hit a slight hitch when I realized I let myself into the shower room instead, but—merci Dieu!—the final stall was a toilet.

Although I had planned to have a night-in after yesterday’s tiring Chateau visit, last night ended up being another adventure with Dorothee. Antsy for something to do, she accepted a texted invitation to attend an Erasmus party on a boat on the Seine and, on a whim, I decided to go along for the ride. We finished a bottle of wine together as we primped then ran to catch the metro to get there in time for the before-midnight free entry. We only just made it. We headed downstairs immediately where the dance floor was still relatively empty, with most students crowded around the bar and into booths along the walls. By the time I left the dance floor two hours later to ask the bartender for some water (I never understand why I’m the only one that does this…dancing makes me work up a sweat!) and find the bathroom, I had to squeeze through hoards of people to get there.

However, it turns out that going to the bathroom on a dark, crowded dance boat is a bad idea if you plan on ever rejoining your group. I spent the next hour trying (unsuccessfully) to track down Dorothee downstairs, above deck and outside (we had agreed to leave at 2/3 am and split a taxi). I sat down in a booth to survey the crowded dance floor, but overwhelmed and starting to get tired, I closed my eyes. Mistake number two. I immediately had the handsy attention of several skeezy guys who incorrectly assumed I was wasted (and I guess easy?). I shook them off easily enough but decided that was my cue to make an exit and hope that Dorothee could find her own way home.

I got off the boat and walked up to the main road, shivering in my club attire in the nippy 3am air (Dorothee had my sweater in her purse) and nursing feet that had been rubbed raw from my heels (never again! Flats forever!). After 25 minutes or so I was getting numb and hadn’t succeeded in hailing a single cab, although more than a hundred occupied ones had seemed to pass by. Rather than brave the club boat again with its burly bouncers and crowd of listless boys smoking cigarettes out front, trying to weasel their way on, I went up to the pay-booth in the parking lot and asked the attendant what I was doing wrong about cabs. The man, a Tunisian, welcomed me into the booth through the back door and turned on the heat for me. I sat with him for half an hour (he said that taxis would often pass through later in the night for boat clients), trying Arabic off-an-on between his transactions with clubbers driving home. In the end, he saw I was getting tired and asked a young couple at the window if they wouldn’t mind driving me up somewhere where I might have more success in hailing a cab (I can hear mom wincing as she reads this…I’m fine!). The couple graciously let me into their car, and we talked in a mix of English-Spanish-French (she was Venezuelan, he was French) while they drove me to Champs Elysee and right up to an empty cab. Even the cab ride home was a bit crazy, as the driver was a greasy-haired, blackmetal-head that drove with a guitar in the front seat. I spent the entire drive discussing metal and dissing Marylin Manson and Eminem in a delightfully slangy French, pretending like I knew what I was talking about.

I caught up with Dorothee again this morning. Her face was puffy from crying and a lack of sleep, and she apparently had a nightmare of a night after we lost each other. Her purse was snatched from a booth, putting me out a sweater (darn, I really liked that one) but her out 50 euro, three credit cards, her student/resident cards, her passport and two cell phones (one German, one French). She spent the rest of the night on the phone with some pissed off parents and at the police station filing a formal report. When she finally made it back here around 9 this morning she had to be let into her room by security and then pay to have the lock changed.

And so, faithful readers, the morals of the story: forgo the purse and stick with shoving the essentials into cleavage/undergarments. Heels are evil. Pee before getting on the metro, and not at all on a boat. And speaking of pee, know that Marylin Manson upped the ante from his usual peeing on the crowd technique to trying to infect them with swine flu, because it’ll get you a long way with a crazy cab driver. Whew.