More than a week back in Paris, and I'm still not sleeping well. First it was because of jetlag, which I usually don't even get, and now I'm kept up and woken up by the mother of all colds that blocks up not only my nose, but my ears as well. I'm going on day four or five of feeling like I'm underwater and having to ask people repeatedly, "quoi?" or "comment?"I really hoped I'd get to do some exploring this past week, and this week too, because you can never explore Paris too much, but I obviously haven't been able to do everything I wanted. We did make it out to the Buttes Chaumont today, though, for a wintry picnic. I didn't realize how frigid it was going to be, or how cloudy, since the météo lied - again - about the weather, so it turned out to be just about the worst idea I've ever had, not counting that time I took a ride home from the hospital with Ally from that creepy security guard or when I thought a 1-inch cigar box would fit over my brother's head, although I was, like, seven when that happened, so my idea-developing skills weren't exactly what you'd call honed when I came up with that gem. Digression aside, it actually was rather pleasant, especially since I got to take a new metro line. It's always fun taking a metro line I've never taken before. Sarah and I were talking about it, and we both said we were so excited to finally take the 7bis. On a new line, there's so much you don't know, so much to anticipate! First, you don't really know where you've going, since you obviously have never been there, you have no idea what the train is going to look like or what kind of people are going to be on it. It's kind of like Christmas, if Christmas smelled like pee and sounded like a jackhammer and nails on a chalkboard.
I also did a little museum-ing, and finally got to the Courbet exhibit at the Grand Palais right before it closed and the comic book exhibit at the museum of Jewish art and history, which were both pretty cool. Courbet was such a bad ass, you know? He painted everything, including still lifes, landscapes, his friends, paysans, whores, and, of course, the famous vajayjay, not to mention he convinced everyone to pull down the colonne de Vendôme during the Commune in 1871. The coolest part, to me, at least, was seeing a couple of paintings from the Smith collection on display, both with audioguide entries. As far as the Jewish museum goes, I'd never been there before, so I had to see the whole thing. It's weird - I kind of have a problem with them calling it a museum, because museums are usually dedicated to the past, to things and cultures that no longer exist, at least when they're not simple receptacles of art and natural history, although, there it is again - history. We're still alive, we're still continuing on, and especially in a place like Paris, with such a rich Jewish culture that's still visibly present (though some may argue that it's in the process of dying out, which is kind of, sadly, true), I wouldn't expect to find a museum of Judaism. I'd rather call it a cultural center, because that's exactly what it is. It's like any of the other countries' embassies here, or their maisons de culture, like the Cervantes institute or even the Swedish cultural center. It's a meeting place for members of the community, where they have exhibits and colloquium. It's a place that is very much alive. But anyways, it's also a bit bizarre because it's not only a sort of pilgrimage spot for Jews visiting Paris, but it's also a kind of crash course in Judaism. Along the walls of the main exhibition halls are plaques explaining all the different holidays and customs, above various documents and objects that illustrate them. When I was walking around, there was actually a guy taking notes down - important names and dates and such - for all of the major holidays. When I finally made it down to the comic book exhibit, I found a much younger crowd there. There was a bunch of twenty-somethings, mostly guys, gathered around display cases of original Superman comic books from the forties, trying to follow the English. The last room was dedicated to more contemporary comics and European comics; I had no idea comics were still so popular and culturally relevant! I found one called Le Chat du rabbin (The Rabbi's Cat), which was absolutely adorable. The story is basically about this rabbi's cat, who wants to have a bar mitzvah. It's not only really cute and funny if you get Jewish humor, but it's actually quite philosophical. If a cat can talk and was raised Jewish, is he Jewish? Can he have a bar mitzvah? Can he study kabbalah? I found the first volume at the Virgin Megastore, and I've yet to sit down and read it, but I'm definitely looking forward to it.
Other than that, I've been doing a lot of sleeping. And cross-stitching. I bought a kit on impulse and am finding it very relaxing, or at least would if I had a comfortable chair to sit in. I've also been watching a lot of movies. Of note, there's No Country for Old Men, which scared the crap out of me but is amazing; Atonement, which is beautiful but will make you feel like crap - thanks, Ian McEwan, you suck once again; and Imagine Me & You, which I've seen I have no idea how many times, but love more and more each time I watch it (not for you conservatives - because I know so many - but it is a wonderful love story).
On the academic front, I'm looking forward to this, my final semester of academia, or so it seems for the moment, unless something happens in the next few months and I decide to write a thesis. I got permission, from the professor himself, to take a Masters seminar at the Université de Paris X about theatrical translation, even though I'm technically supposed to be taking classes two years below that level. I'm extremely excited because it's with Jean-Michel Deprats, the foremost Shakespeare translator, otherwise known as The Man. I mean, if there's one person to talk to about my memoire, it's him. Ok, and maybe Judith Miller, the head of the French department at NYU, who'll be in Paris later this month. But still, for translators, this is like taking a film class taught by Scorsese. And I'm taking TWO classes with him. Ah, after all that bitching about the system, it's finally worked to my advantage. Score!
Sorry this has been so boring. I really haven't been up to much and don't have very many observations to make, except this one: why can I not find ANY good ethnic food in Paris? Like, at all? There's the Vietnamese place down the street that's pretty good, but it's subsidized by the embassy, so that doesn't really count. I know there's the Ethiopian place by the Pantheon that's good, but other than that, every place I've been to has, for lack of a better word, sucked. I had sushi on Sunday at a place in the 7th (and lived to tell the tale, yes), which was pretty tasteless, and pastitsio yesterday that really resembled more of a lasagna than a traditional Greek dish (though the dolmades were good, albeit too oily). And don't even get me started on Indian. So far, I can only count three or four good ethnic restaurants that I've been to, and in a city as diverse as Paris, that is a major problem.
I'm sure I have plenty of other things to say, and actually, I could go on and write them now, but I'll just save them for a later time. Because my blog entries are like good chocolate: sweet but bitter, and best savored slowly, in small doses.
Oh, if only my creative writing professors were here!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Oscars and Bitching
Three days later and I'm still on Los Angeles time. I slept for nearly thirteen hours on Saturday night, but that still didn't reset my system. But on the plus side, I discovered the cheap coffee maker (one of three technical coffee-making devices found in my kitchen) actually works and can make coffee that doesn't also work as an astringent or paint thinner, so I am very much looking forward to tomorrow morning when I can wake up and enjoy a steaming cup of strong but not steroid-enhanced java. I mean, I enjoy a nice espresso or café crème once in a while (or, ok, more than once in a while), but sometimes it's nice to drink coffee that doesn't make you wince as if you were drinking whisky every time you take a sip and cause you to pee every five minutes like an Irishman on St. Patrick's Day.
Being back is a little weird. Somewhere over winter break, when I was in California, the novelty of Paris wore off. It's strange because you would think that would happen here. You'd think I'd be walking along the Seine and suddenly become disillusioned with it all, or I'd be somewhere in the 20th thinking, man, this place is dirty. But it happened somewhere between the time someone asked me if I liked Paris and when I answered, "yeah, it's cool," instead of my usual, "yes, I love it there." Something snapped and I saw Paris from a Parisian's perspective. Well, I didn't really because I don't think you can see things from a Parisian's perspective unless you're actually Parisian, but I think living here for a year and a half has given me at least a little bit of credibility. Like I was saying, I started looking at Paris as a metropolitan capitol, as the chaotic hub of numerous industries where everyone's running to get somewhere but going as slow as they possibly can just to piss you off, where the buildings are quasi-homogeneous and old, the women are skinny and the men are jackasses, the cabbies are bitter, and the dogshit is technicolor. But it's also the place where people take time to exist, pleasure in what they do, and nothing in their coffee, where the scenery makes you want to write sonnets and ballads, history comes alive around every corner, and the smell of fresh bread emanates from underground vents like the Devil beckoning you into some darkened street corner you know you shouldn't go into but just can't stay out of. It's the best of times, it's the worst of times; it's the season of Light, it's the season of Darkness; we have everything before us, we have nothing before us; she's my sister, she's my daughter - I mean, we're all going directly to Heaven, we're all going the other way. This place is like a black hole of hypocrisy. On one block you have multi-million-Euro apartments drowning in antique chandeliers and Louis XVI chaise lounges, but just down the street there are three clochards sleeping on the stoop of the post office and dining on a healthy diet of Kronenburg and two-buck-Chuck. No one wants anyone else to know about their private lives, but apartment buildings butt up against one another and no one bothers to close their curtains. The French get mad at Sarkozy for bringing in American capitalism to French society, but they invented the department store and consumer capitalism (and still practice it). You can't wear a veil or an ostentatious religious symbol to a public school, but All Saints' Day is a national holiday.
And yet, I can't help but love it here. Maybe it's because everyone is just as bitter and cynical as I am. Or maybe it's because I'm just as much a hypocrite as they are.
Now, for some non-Paris commentary. The Oscar nominations are coming out as I write this. So far all the big categories have come out, and I'm pretty happy with them. I'm kind of surprised Juno was nominated for Best Picture, but really ecstatic nonetheless, especially for Ellen Page's nomination. There really aren't any shockers though, except that now people will legally be able to refer to the crapfest that was Norbit as Oscar nominated Norbit since Rick Baker picked up a nomination for makeup. I really hope "Falling Slowly" from Once wins for best Original Song, partly because it's an outstanding movie which I recommend if you haven't seen, but also because Enchanted has three songs up for that award, and I'd kind of like to see the Academy give the finger to the corporate monster (even though I admittedly loved the movie). As much as I'd love to see Johnny Depp finally win one (this is his third nomination, after all) Daniel Day-Lewis will probably win for There Will Be Blood, which I have to see before Oscar night, or there really will be blood. I think best actress is kind of a tie between Julie Christie and Marion Cotillard, judging by what everyone else is saying. I hope they don't give it to Cate Blanchett, despite the fact that she's a great actress and seems to be a genuinely nice person, but come on - if you saw that trailer, you knew right from the get-go the only reason they made that movie was to go Oscar fishing. If Ellen Page wins, I'll be really surprised and a little disappointed that Marion Cotillard got shut out by a 19 year old, although I'll still be very ok with it. If you saw La Môme or La Vie en Rose, you know what I'm talking about and will be cheering for the Frenchie on February 24. For the supporting categories, I hope Javier Bardem gets it, just so we can hear another one of his very gracious and oh-so-adorable acceptance speeches. "I feel like I won the lottery"? Swoon. As for directing, I really don't care, but Schnabel will probably win for Le Scaphandre et le papillon (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly), another one I have to see. Original Screenplay will probably be Diablo Cody for Juno, which I guess I'm ok with, even though I sincerely believe she will never write anything as good or successful ever again. I don't know, I just have a feeling about that one. Out of all the scripts I read, that was my favorite, along with Lars and the Real Girl, which is also nominated. For Adapted Screenplay, I really have no idea - all the movies are supposedly fantastic and deserve awards.
Finally, I know I already did this category, but can we talk for just a minute about how happy I am that Keira "I'm just naturally that skinny" Knightley wasn't nominated? I have one word for her: OVERRATED. For serious.
I really hope the show still goes on so I can watch it. I missed it last time Jon Stewart hosted, and I'll be really upset if it's canceled.
I think that's about all I have to say for right now. I was supposed to do some work on the translation with someone, but she kind of flaked and pushed back our meeting to... oh, whenever she feels like calling me. Don't even get me started on what the French consider punctual. And I'm always late? HAH!
Being back is a little weird. Somewhere over winter break, when I was in California, the novelty of Paris wore off. It's strange because you would think that would happen here. You'd think I'd be walking along the Seine and suddenly become disillusioned with it all, or I'd be somewhere in the 20th thinking, man, this place is dirty. But it happened somewhere between the time someone asked me if I liked Paris and when I answered, "yeah, it's cool," instead of my usual, "yes, I love it there." Something snapped and I saw Paris from a Parisian's perspective. Well, I didn't really because I don't think you can see things from a Parisian's perspective unless you're actually Parisian, but I think living here for a year and a half has given me at least a little bit of credibility. Like I was saying, I started looking at Paris as a metropolitan capitol, as the chaotic hub of numerous industries where everyone's running to get somewhere but going as slow as they possibly can just to piss you off, where the buildings are quasi-homogeneous and old, the women are skinny and the men are jackasses, the cabbies are bitter, and the dogshit is technicolor. But it's also the place where people take time to exist, pleasure in what they do, and nothing in their coffee, where the scenery makes you want to write sonnets and ballads, history comes alive around every corner, and the smell of fresh bread emanates from underground vents like the Devil beckoning you into some darkened street corner you know you shouldn't go into but just can't stay out of. It's the best of times, it's the worst of times; it's the season of Light, it's the season of Darkness; we have everything before us, we have nothing before us; she's my sister, she's my daughter - I mean, we're all going directly to Heaven, we're all going the other way. This place is like a black hole of hypocrisy. On one block you have multi-million-Euro apartments drowning in antique chandeliers and Louis XVI chaise lounges, but just down the street there are three clochards sleeping on the stoop of the post office and dining on a healthy diet of Kronenburg and two-buck-Chuck. No one wants anyone else to know about their private lives, but apartment buildings butt up against one another and no one bothers to close their curtains. The French get mad at Sarkozy for bringing in American capitalism to French society, but they invented the department store and consumer capitalism (and still practice it). You can't wear a veil or an ostentatious religious symbol to a public school, but All Saints' Day is a national holiday.
And yet, I can't help but love it here. Maybe it's because everyone is just as bitter and cynical as I am. Or maybe it's because I'm just as much a hypocrite as they are.
Now, for some non-Paris commentary. The Oscar nominations are coming out as I write this. So far all the big categories have come out, and I'm pretty happy with them. I'm kind of surprised Juno was nominated for Best Picture, but really ecstatic nonetheless, especially for Ellen Page's nomination. There really aren't any shockers though, except that now people will legally be able to refer to the crapfest that was Norbit as Oscar nominated Norbit since Rick Baker picked up a nomination for makeup. I really hope "Falling Slowly" from Once wins for best Original Song, partly because it's an outstanding movie which I recommend if you haven't seen, but also because Enchanted has three songs up for that award, and I'd kind of like to see the Academy give the finger to the corporate monster (even though I admittedly loved the movie). As much as I'd love to see Johnny Depp finally win one (this is his third nomination, after all) Daniel Day-Lewis will probably win for There Will Be Blood, which I have to see before Oscar night, or there really will be blood. I think best actress is kind of a tie between Julie Christie and Marion Cotillard, judging by what everyone else is saying. I hope they don't give it to Cate Blanchett, despite the fact that she's a great actress and seems to be a genuinely nice person, but come on - if you saw that trailer, you knew right from the get-go the only reason they made that movie was to go Oscar fishing. If Ellen Page wins, I'll be really surprised and a little disappointed that Marion Cotillard got shut out by a 19 year old, although I'll still be very ok with it. If you saw La Môme or La Vie en Rose, you know what I'm talking about and will be cheering for the Frenchie on February 24. For the supporting categories, I hope Javier Bardem gets it, just so we can hear another one of his very gracious and oh-so-adorable acceptance speeches. "I feel like I won the lottery"? Swoon. As for directing, I really don't care, but Schnabel will probably win for Le Scaphandre et le papillon (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly), another one I have to see. Original Screenplay will probably be Diablo Cody for Juno, which I guess I'm ok with, even though I sincerely believe she will never write anything as good or successful ever again. I don't know, I just have a feeling about that one. Out of all the scripts I read, that was my favorite, along with Lars and the Real Girl, which is also nominated. For Adapted Screenplay, I really have no idea - all the movies are supposedly fantastic and deserve awards.
Finally, I know I already did this category, but can we talk for just a minute about how happy I am that Keira "I'm just naturally that skinny" Knightley wasn't nominated? I have one word for her: OVERRATED. For serious.
I really hope the show still goes on so I can watch it. I missed it last time Jon Stewart hosted, and I'll be really upset if it's canceled.
I think that's about all I have to say for right now. I was supposed to do some work on the translation with someone, but she kind of flaked and pushed back our meeting to... oh, whenever she feels like calling me. Don't even get me started on what the French consider punctual. And I'm always late? HAH!
Saturday, January 19, 2008
I'm back
A real update with cynical observations and acerbic wit is coming, but in the meantime, I just wanted to let you know I'm back in the good ol' République française. I'll get back to you after I hibernate for a while and catch up with the clock.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Nouvel An
I'm breaking my cardinal rule of blogging about living in a specific city - writing an entry from someplace other than that city. The blog's about living in Paris, so I originally decided I would only write from Paris, but being at home is really making me want to write, and considering this is really my only creative outlet at this point, I figured it was ok if I made a little exception. I mean, it is MY blog, anyway.
Home is somewhere between good and great, sometimes teetering on amazing, except for the part about me being house-ridden for the past few days because my car decided to crap out on me. It's given me time to clean up - not that I actually have, but at least it's given me the time to. It's also allowed me to think. A lot. About everything. I talk about what I'm going to do with my life a lot, I've noticed, at least on this blog. But what else am I supposed to think about? I'm going into 2008 with no real direction. I'm going back to Paris, and when I'm done, I don't have a plan for what comes next. So, naturally, I've been thinking about it a lot. And I figure if I can at least figure out WHERE I'm going to be, the rest of it might just fall into place without me having to think about it too much.
Alors, problem number one: location, location, location. I've given myself three options, after taking into account a number of different factors, including but not limited to: presence of friends and family, career options, dating options, housing availabilty, opportunities to do something with French, and seasons. New York, Los Angeles, and Paris. I will call one of those cities home next year, I've decided. Paris would be great because it's Paris, and I really do feel at home there. I would be lying if I said I didn't love living there (sorry, Mom), although it is a pain in the ass sometimes. However, living there would mean paying a ridiculous amount for a tiny apartment and having to go through the process of finding a job and getting a work visa, perhaps the biggest bureaucratic bullshit hurdle known to man. New York would be nice because I would get the metropolitan aspects of life without the Parisian snottiness (but New York snottiness may not be much better), and I may actually get to live out my dream of being Carrie Bradshaw after all. And Los Angeles - well, LA has always kind of been home to me, even though I don't technically live there. It would probably be the easiest option, and all my family and most of my friends are here. Plus if I come back to California, there might be a new car in the mix for me. But who knows.
Being home has definitely made me appreciate Paris, though, and also see things from a more objective standpoint. And the trip home made me realize that it is REALLY fucking far from Orange County, in more ways than one. Life is definitely easier here, but I've been trying to figure out if it's better too. And truthfully, I don't think I'll ever really figure that one out.
On a completely different note, I feel like, since it's the New Year, I have to do the obligatory New Year's post, complete with resolutions and all; but, going with the whole New Year, New You attitude most people like to take during the season, I'm saying, "fuck the resolutions." I'm flippin' the bird to the age-old tradition of making myself promises I know I'll never keep. Every year I write my resolutions down in my journal, and every year it all comes down to the same one - the one I always think will solve all my problems, although that's really yet to be seen. It goes something like this: "Every year I make a resolution to lose weight, and I never do it. But I'm REALLY going to do it this time. Really! This is the end of being fat for me, I've had enough. This time next year, I'm going to be a single-digit size. I'm doing it, this is the year. This. Is. The year."
And even though I really want to go back to that journal and write that down for the eighth time, I won't. I won't because I know it won't happen. I HOPE it does, but I know it won't. Wait. Strike that. I THINK it won't. I think if I write it down and make it official, it won't happen. Plus, I'm tired of disappointing myself. Set the expectations low and the effort high, I think. That's the way to do it. So I'm not going to tell myself that this time next year I'm going to be a size 6. But I'm still going to hope I will be.
Other than that, I'm going to try to work on time management.
But first I'm going to watch TV.
Home is somewhere between good and great, sometimes teetering on amazing, except for the part about me being house-ridden for the past few days because my car decided to crap out on me. It's given me time to clean up - not that I actually have, but at least it's given me the time to. It's also allowed me to think. A lot. About everything. I talk about what I'm going to do with my life a lot, I've noticed, at least on this blog. But what else am I supposed to think about? I'm going into 2008 with no real direction. I'm going back to Paris, and when I'm done, I don't have a plan for what comes next. So, naturally, I've been thinking about it a lot. And I figure if I can at least figure out WHERE I'm going to be, the rest of it might just fall into place without me having to think about it too much.
Alors, problem number one: location, location, location. I've given myself three options, after taking into account a number of different factors, including but not limited to: presence of friends and family, career options, dating options, housing availabilty, opportunities to do something with French, and seasons. New York, Los Angeles, and Paris. I will call one of those cities home next year, I've decided. Paris would be great because it's Paris, and I really do feel at home there. I would be lying if I said I didn't love living there (sorry, Mom), although it is a pain in the ass sometimes. However, living there would mean paying a ridiculous amount for a tiny apartment and having to go through the process of finding a job and getting a work visa, perhaps the biggest bureaucratic bullshit hurdle known to man. New York would be nice because I would get the metropolitan aspects of life without the Parisian snottiness (but New York snottiness may not be much better), and I may actually get to live out my dream of being Carrie Bradshaw after all. And Los Angeles - well, LA has always kind of been home to me, even though I don't technically live there. It would probably be the easiest option, and all my family and most of my friends are here. Plus if I come back to California, there might be a new car in the mix for me. But who knows.
Being home has definitely made me appreciate Paris, though, and also see things from a more objective standpoint. And the trip home made me realize that it is REALLY fucking far from Orange County, in more ways than one. Life is definitely easier here, but I've been trying to figure out if it's better too. And truthfully, I don't think I'll ever really figure that one out.
On a completely different note, I feel like, since it's the New Year, I have to do the obligatory New Year's post, complete with resolutions and all; but, going with the whole New Year, New You attitude most people like to take during the season, I'm saying, "fuck the resolutions." I'm flippin' the bird to the age-old tradition of making myself promises I know I'll never keep. Every year I write my resolutions down in my journal, and every year it all comes down to the same one - the one I always think will solve all my problems, although that's really yet to be seen. It goes something like this: "Every year I make a resolution to lose weight, and I never do it. But I'm REALLY going to do it this time. Really! This is the end of being fat for me, I've had enough. This time next year, I'm going to be a single-digit size. I'm doing it, this is the year. This. Is. The year."
And even though I really want to go back to that journal and write that down for the eighth time, I won't. I won't because I know it won't happen. I HOPE it does, but I know it won't. Wait. Strike that. I THINK it won't. I think if I write it down and make it official, it won't happen. Plus, I'm tired of disappointing myself. Set the expectations low and the effort high, I think. That's the way to do it. So I'm not going to tell myself that this time next year I'm going to be a size 6. But I'm still going to hope I will be.
Other than that, I'm going to try to work on time management.
But first I'm going to watch TV.
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