Catch Up

I wish I'd written earlier, because there were so many things I wanted to write about, but school's been consuming my life of late, and I just haven't had the time to clog the internet with my ridiculous ramblings. Until now. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?

Last Friday, I had to get up at an ungodly hour to get to the Gare Montparnasse for an early train to La Rochelle with the NYU kids. And yes, I say kids. I say kids because they are undergrads. My four years of college and dedication to the Master's program has earned me that right. Also, because most of them complained the whole time about how the cities we saw weren't "cool enough". Cool enough, my ass, undergrads! At Saintes, we saw a Roman arena, a 12th century abbey, a 1st century Roman arch, and took a cruise down the Charentes; at Rochefort, we had an amazing dinner (including wine on NYU's dime) and saw a replica-in-the-making of an 18th century ship; in La Rochelle, we got sunlight over a beautiful marina on the Atlantic ocean, we got a tour of an old eco-friendly city in a horse-drawn carriage, we got to listen to jazz by the old port, we got to explore! And most importantly, we got out of Paris! Now, I love Paris - don't get me wrong, but occasionally, it's really nice to get out of the metropolitan cage and into the open country, because, you know, there is more to France than just Paris. People here tend to forget that. I know I do. But apparently all that wasn't enough for the undergrads. At the hotel in Rochefort, from across the courtyard, we saw a group of them get dressed up in sheets and have a toga party. Oh yes, a toga party à la Animal House, complete with "toga! toga! toga!" chanting. Ah, kids.

On the train back, a friend and I applied our French facepaint in anticipation of the semifinal rugby match between France and England. As soon as the train stopped, we RAN to the metro to get to a friend's place as fast as we could. We'd already missed the first half of the game, and apparently England was winning. We finally got there, munched on some pizza, and watched in extreme stress and trepidation that France would be defeated.... and they were. It was one of the saddest things I've ever seen. Rugby players - the manliest men you could possibly find in France - six foot monoliths that reach the weight capacity of a Paris elevator all on their own - CHABAL, for fuck's sake, the missing link, the Caveman, Attila, the Anaesthetist - all walking off the field in such disappointment. Dropping to their knees and sobbing. And Chabal was the worst. I wanted to hug him, if it weren't for my fear that he'd snap me in two or eat my head. (Because he eats babies, don't you know.) So tomorrow, they face Argentina, the team that beat them in the beginning (quel honte!), for third place. My opinion is that France is either not going to care because there's no way they'll win the cup, and they'll just end up giving it to Argentina, or that they'll be so bitter and angry about last week and losing to Argentina in the first place that they'll pummel the other team, and that someone will either be paralyzed or die. Or both. I don't know. All I'm saying is that I wouldn't be surprised if Chabal ran into someone and ripped off the top half of his body. Or bit off his nose. I mean, I'm just sayin'....

Nothing else of import happened this week, except that I got sick, I'm way behind in reading, and, oh yeah, all public transportation went on strike today. France, seriously. What the fuck is up with these damn grèves? It's like a national past time. Listen, if you're going to strike, strike. I appreciate the warning and all, but really, if you're going to go on strike, go on strike full stop. Don't say you're going to go on strike and then leave half of the trains running in the morning, and then trickle them down to none except line 14 - which is completely and totally useless to 90% of the Paris population, by the way - hence screwing over the rest of the city and suburbs. I waited 40 minutes for my metro today, after walking for 20, mostly uphill. Then I found out at the end of the day that that line wasn't working anymore, so I took a vélib home. [Basically you can rent a bike for super cheap if you're only using it for less than an hour.] Actually, that was a pretty great experience. So thank you, SNCF, for starting this stupid grève. You forced me to experience the pleasure of the vélib and riding around Paris at rush hour. No, really, I mean it. I'm not being sarcastic. It was pretty amazing, that ride home. It took a while - about 45 minutes, plus walking time, but it was a nice ride. Mostly downhill or flat, which was a plus. Except all of the bikes were taken because of the strike, so I had to wait with my friend for a while. I made her ride with me because, let's face it, riding a bike in Paris without a helmet is kind of a death wish. Or so you'd think. People were actually very considerate, except the taxis, which don't count anyways because they're always assholes. I only almost got hit once, and narrowly avoided a ten-bike catastrophe in front of the Place de la Concorde.

Sometimes I forget how beautiful this city is, walking around with my blinders on, so focused on getting wherever it is that I'm going. In the metro you don't get to see it. Even on the bus, there's something off about it. Yes, the bus is infinitely better than the metro, any day, but there's still something between you and the city. There's something keeping you from experiencing the city at its best. On a bike, on the quai, riding past the Louvre at sunset, you get it all. The rosy sky, the buildings reflecting the tangerine setting sun, the breeze blowing through the leaves, giving those ones that are hanging on just by one little thread of stem that extra push to fall ever so gracefully onto the street... Well, then they get run over by a scooter, it's true, but for that moment, while it's gently floating down to its inevitable demise, while you're coasting along by hundreds of years of history and culture, zoning out the honking of the taxis, taking in everything around you, you realize how lucky you are to be living here, to have the experience you're having. Not just in general - the whole year, the Parisian life, and all that - but that one moment when you stop worrying about being hit by an asshole in a Peugot and start appreciating where you are.