I realize this blog has become a lot less observational and lot more personal, and I guess I'm sorry for that? Sorry for indulging in my narcissistic tendencies to talk about the trivial events of my uninteresting life instead of making the same gross generalizations about French culture as people (including me) have been making in the last few years to try to get to the bottom of this whole cultural divide thing. I guess it's because I've spent so much time here, I've gotten used to things, or at least I don't notice as much as I used to anymore, or maybe I do, but it's not that interesting to me anymore, so I don't bother writing about it. Or maybe it's because I find the guy in the shady nightclub on a boat who flashed me the international sign for pussy while dancing three inches away from my face far more interesting than French women's ability to walk around all day in four-inch stilettos.
True story, by the way. The club was totally louche. I'm trying to bring that word into the American-English vernacular, in case you were wondering. It means something like sketchy, but also sleazy and shady. It's like an amalgam of the three - it gets the job done in a third of the time with twice the effect. I don't know how that proportion works, but just go with it. So anyways, this club. It was louche. Way louche. First of all, it's on a boat on the Seine, which is admittedly awesome, but then when you get inside and realize how hot and crowded it is, you start worrying that this is going to be the next "club disaster", like that fire a few years ago, and that tomorrow morning there will be stories about how this boat-club on the Seine sank in a fiery alcoholic blaze, leaving no drunken survivors. Thankfully, my nightmare was not realized. But I only spent an hour there, and then had to get out of the sweaty heap of twenty-year olds as I'd been elbowed one too many times in the back of the head by the couple having sex up against a pole behind me, and was ready to throw someone overboard. On the night bus home (i.e. back to a friend's place), the guy next to me fell asleep or passed out on my shoulder and my friend nearly fell out of her seat while sleeping. All in all, the night was somewhat of a failure.
Sunday night was the last pub quiz, and we won. Well, we tied, but we still got a bottle of shitty wine that no one drank. It's not the wine that matters, it's the glory. And oh, how sweet it is. I also got to meet a new Frenchie named Julien (it's fate, I tell you - or some really horrible joke the universe is playing on me), and re-meet another one I met once in September, whom I had a huge crush on but later found out was engaged. Ah well. Yesterday we played Mario Kart all afternoon and I finished a review of Sex and the City for SASSY, which is not my best work, but I tried my best. It's been a while since I've written a real review for anything, and I'm a little rusty. Plus, I loved the movie, but it was, in reality, not that great, so that was hard to negotiate.
You know that scene in Say Anything... where they're all at dinner, and the adults ask Lloyd what he wants to do for a living, and he says "I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that." ? That's kind of my mantra right now. I know I've never had any interest in buying or selling ANYTHING, but that whole mindset kind of sums up how I feel about getting a job in the fall. So if you've got any tips on how to be independently wealthy, feel free to pass 'em along.
I'm going to try to be productive for a change. If not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then definitely Thursday. If I haven't written ten pages by Friday, please chastise me harshly.
Showing posts with label going out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label going out. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Lazy Sunday
Well, it's been a completely unproductive few days. My brother and his friend got in on Thursday night, and between going out and sleeping in and cleaning up after said going out and sleeping in, there hasn't been much time to actually work. I'm hoping to finish some reading today and maybe write a page or two, but I'd much rather go bum around Paris for the day with my bro. Anyways, talking about academia kind of makes me want to ralph, so I'm just going to skip over that (and considering that I'm pretty much done with school anyways, there's no reason to in the first place). Instead, I think I'll talk about how I finished an entire bottle of wine on the Pont des Arts and split a dart at the Highlander while Stephanie kicked my ass by literally 220 points.
Um, I guess that's the story. We met up with some friends on the bridge on Friday night for a picnic and public drinking, and at first I thought we had way too much food and wine, but I was soon proved wrong, as the group sprawled out and we proceeded to finish every last crumb of fresh baguette and every last drop of our 4 euro bottles of wine. And yes, I did drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. I have no idea how I did it without throwing up, but oh man, was I impressed with myself. It was probably the drunkest I've been since my first foray into alcohol consumption in Scotland in 2004, but without the falling down and spending the next day crouched down by the toilet waiting for that last tequila sunrise to wreak its revenge. I think there's something different about bridge drinking that takes away the possibility of getting sick or having a hangover. It's just such a nice experience, sitting on the bridge with literally hundreds of other people, enjoying some cheese and bread and meats, sipping (or gulping) your two buck chuck (or four buck chuck), enjoying the sunset as you watch the colors on the Ile de la Cité change from vibrant to subdued, trying to snap pictures that will look good on Facebook while trying to deal with aforementioned setting sun, handing out crackers to winos, waving and yelling at tour boats passing underneath, accidentally spilling wine on some of them, savoring the frequent cool breezes as you realize you're sitting at the center of the world in between the Louvre and the Académie française and nothing else matters.
And then you try to stand up.
And then you try to maneuver through the crowds so you can make it off the bridge and into the next bar where drinks are twice as expensive as that entire bottle of wine you just drank, and where people seem to make it their job to keep you from getting where you need to go. But then, of course, there are those once in a lifetime occurrences, like splitting a dart right next to the bullseye while Right Said Fred plays in the background, or thinking you lost your brother to some black back alley only to find him giving himself lung cancer outside in his drunken stupor, that make putting up with crowded bars and overpriced drinks and alcoholic tools all worth it.*
And that's when you realize you have two whole months to finish your mémoire, and who really needs to get it done rightthissecond anyways?
*Don't worry, we made him stop and throw the rest out. Doctors should have better reason than that, right?
Um, I guess that's the story. We met up with some friends on the bridge on Friday night for a picnic and public drinking, and at first I thought we had way too much food and wine, but I was soon proved wrong, as the group sprawled out and we proceeded to finish every last crumb of fresh baguette and every last drop of our 4 euro bottles of wine. And yes, I did drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. I have no idea how I did it without throwing up, but oh man, was I impressed with myself. It was probably the drunkest I've been since my first foray into alcohol consumption in Scotland in 2004, but without the falling down and spending the next day crouched down by the toilet waiting for that last tequila sunrise to wreak its revenge. I think there's something different about bridge drinking that takes away the possibility of getting sick or having a hangover. It's just such a nice experience, sitting on the bridge with literally hundreds of other people, enjoying some cheese and bread and meats, sipping (or gulping) your two buck chuck (or four buck chuck), enjoying the sunset as you watch the colors on the Ile de la Cité change from vibrant to subdued, trying to snap pictures that will look good on Facebook while trying to deal with aforementioned setting sun, handing out crackers to winos, waving and yelling at tour boats passing underneath, accidentally spilling wine on some of them, savoring the frequent cool breezes as you realize you're sitting at the center of the world in between the Louvre and the Académie française and nothing else matters.
And then you try to stand up.
And then you try to maneuver through the crowds so you can make it off the bridge and into the next bar where drinks are twice as expensive as that entire bottle of wine you just drank, and where people seem to make it their job to keep you from getting where you need to go. But then, of course, there are those once in a lifetime occurrences, like splitting a dart right next to the bullseye while Right Said Fred plays in the background, or thinking you lost your brother to some black back alley only to find him giving himself lung cancer outside in his drunken stupor, that make putting up with crowded bars and overpriced drinks and alcoholic tools all worth it.*
And that's when you realize you have two whole months to finish your mémoire, and who really needs to get it done rightthissecond anyways?
*Don't worry, we made him stop and throw the rest out. Doctors should have better reason than that, right?
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Hardy Har Har
Well, after three weeks of freezing rain (and violent hail), winter is finally... well, I'd like to say it's over, except that weather.com is forecasting cold and rain for the next few days. But it was over 60 yesterday! And sunny! I sat outside with my friend at a café by school and tried to get work done! Yes, I tried, but the important part was that we sat outside! When the weather in Paris gets nice and I can finally move my café crème out onto the terrace, it's like a second Christmas for me. Ok, well, first, considering I don't partake in all of that Christianity stuff. I'm a heathen, I know. So then finally getting to sit outside is like a second winter solstice, or any other holiday that incites happy, endorphin-filled feelings. Anyways, the point is that I no longer have to wear my heavier coat, which makes me happy, although that thing does cover my ass, so maybe I should hold on to it a little longer...
The semester is busy, blah blah blah, you've heard that every time I write for the past four months, so I'm just going to skip over that part, because it's about as interesting as watching grass grow in winter.
Last night, in an effort to force myself to be social, I went to a French improv thing, at the behest of a friend, whose friend's cousin was in the improv group (incidentally, he was the funniest one). It was... interesting. I think improv is kind of a new thing here, not at all mainstream. After all, it doesn't follow any sort of rules, which, of course, is the main principle of French theater, and since it's spontaneous, there's no way it could be planned out and therefore intellectual, so what's the point anyways? But the thing is, I think improv and this troupe and their whole existence kind of goes back to the origins of theater, in France and elsewhere. So they're not a traveling group of lower-class whores, and they don't go around with a cart that magically opens into a full stage and lighting set-up, complete with props and music; but they are a diverse group of actors/comedians that go from theater to theater and do their thing for the public, at the audience's suggestion/command. I just wish it had been funnier. There were a few skits that were pretty enjoyable, but nothing I'd call hilarious, and a couple of the skits we sat through thinking, "alright, we get the premise, but this is just not funny." I have to admit, the electronic vomiting duck was funny, but such a stupid idea. I'm pretty sure it was an inside joke between someone in the audience and one of the guys on stage, but come on - we're all sitting there too, and just because you think your acid-trip influenced creation is skit-worthy, we may not. Although, I can't really blame the troupe, since all the skits were chosen from words that audience members wrote down. I was going to write down "elephantiasis of the [insert random body part here]," but I forgot. And I didn't know how to say it in French, which could have posed a slight problem. My favorite part was when one of the skits got moved to Washington, somehow, and they all started doing their best American impressions, and one guy just started cussing and throwing gang signs going "that's whack!" (This was a short Asian man, FYI.) In any case, I'm glad I went - it was an experience, I mostly enjoyed myself, and I never have to go again. Unless it's for free, in which case, I'm all over that shit.
On the bus to aforementioned improv gig, I passed by a building with big-graffitied letters on the side. I wouldn't have paid attention to it except that instead of saying some nonsense or incorrectly-spelled or -used curse words in English, it said "je t'aime." And then I was reminded of this post (scroll to the top) I saw on another blog. Why don't people do this in the States? Why don't people profess their love on the sides of buildings and construction sites? Maybe it's just the French occupation with love and the fact that people here can't go more than three months without someone special in their lives (or so I sincerely believe), but it's still sweet, don't you think? And you find this shit all over the city - on bus stops, carved into concrete, on national monuments (of course), on ads in the metro, etc. The best part is that it looks like any other graffiti; it's messy and sometimes looks like it was written by a drunk monkey (which, let's face it, is a serious possibility). Nevertheless, it's comforting to know that there are still people out there who care enough about their significant other and about love itself that they're not afraid to go around tagging buildings and billboards expressing it. We could all learn a little something from the Parisians, non?
The semester is busy, blah blah blah, you've heard that every time I write for the past four months, so I'm just going to skip over that part, because it's about as interesting as watching grass grow in winter.
Last night, in an effort to force myself to be social, I went to a French improv thing, at the behest of a friend, whose friend's cousin was in the improv group (incidentally, he was the funniest one). It was... interesting. I think improv is kind of a new thing here, not at all mainstream. After all, it doesn't follow any sort of rules, which, of course, is the main principle of French theater, and since it's spontaneous, there's no way it could be planned out and therefore intellectual, so what's the point anyways? But the thing is, I think improv and this troupe and their whole existence kind of goes back to the origins of theater, in France and elsewhere. So they're not a traveling group of lower-class whores, and they don't go around with a cart that magically opens into a full stage and lighting set-up, complete with props and music; but they are a diverse group of actors/comedians that go from theater to theater and do their thing for the public, at the audience's suggestion/command. I just wish it had been funnier. There were a few skits that were pretty enjoyable, but nothing I'd call hilarious, and a couple of the skits we sat through thinking, "alright, we get the premise, but this is just not funny." I have to admit, the electronic vomiting duck was funny, but such a stupid idea. I'm pretty sure it was an inside joke between someone in the audience and one of the guys on stage, but come on - we're all sitting there too, and just because you think your acid-trip influenced creation is skit-worthy, we may not. Although, I can't really blame the troupe, since all the skits were chosen from words that audience members wrote down. I was going to write down "elephantiasis of the [insert random body part here]," but I forgot. And I didn't know how to say it in French, which could have posed a slight problem. My favorite part was when one of the skits got moved to Washington, somehow, and they all started doing their best American impressions, and one guy just started cussing and throwing gang signs going "that's whack!" (This was a short Asian man, FYI.) In any case, I'm glad I went - it was an experience, I mostly enjoyed myself, and I never have to go again. Unless it's for free, in which case, I'm all over that shit.
On the bus to aforementioned improv gig, I passed by a building with big-graffitied letters on the side. I wouldn't have paid attention to it except that instead of saying some nonsense or incorrectly-spelled or -used curse words in English, it said "je t'aime." And then I was reminded of this post (scroll to the top) I saw on another blog. Why don't people do this in the States? Why don't people profess their love on the sides of buildings and construction sites? Maybe it's just the French occupation with love and the fact that people here can't go more than three months without someone special in their lives (or so I sincerely believe), but it's still sweet, don't you think? And you find this shit all over the city - on bus stops, carved into concrete, on national monuments (of course), on ads in the metro, etc. The best part is that it looks like any other graffiti; it's messy and sometimes looks like it was written by a drunk monkey (which, let's face it, is a serious possibility). Nevertheless, it's comforting to know that there are still people out there who care enough about their significant other and about love itself that they're not afraid to go around tagging buildings and billboards expressing it. We could all learn a little something from the Parisians, non?
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Sláinte!
Is it possible to die of a chlorophyll overdose? Because I just ate a lot of green beans. I mean, a LOT. More green beans than any one person should physically be able to eat in one sitting. So if my skin mysteriously turns green tomorrow, like that guy who turned blue because of his medication, that will be why. But can you blame me? They were so delicious and fresh and... delicious!
Anyways, speaking of green things, spring is here! It was sixty degrees outside yesterday! I forced myself out of the apartment to go in search of a couple of plays I need for my essay, which of course were nowhere to be found. At least it got me out of the apartment, because I spent the rest of the day toiling away inside so I could justify going out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We went to this Irish place (there are probably a thousand pubs in Paris) in Saint Germain, and I didn't realize till I got inside that I had, in fact, been there before and that I had, unfortunately, puked there before. (I confirmed this when I went to the bathroom and ended up in the same famous stall I barely made it into before hurling on the blue-tiled floor.) It was just as crowded and hot, but not as smoky, as I remembered it. You will not be at all surprised to know that I had a Guinness, but you probably will be surprised to know that I a)finished it to the last drop and b)was the first one done! Seriously, it was an historic night. And on top of that, when we left to find another bar that actually had some vacant seats, I had yummy sangria, and I didn't get sick! I know, I'm still in disbelief.
So at this bar, I had a very classic Allison Superiority Complex Moment. There were five of us, and we were sitting in the corner next to a LOUD group of Americans - undergrads, of course, which we all spotted the minute we sat down. I guessed from the uniform hairstyles, fake tans, Blackberries and Lacoste shirts that they were from New Jersey, or at least some place on the East Coast, which they were (NJ and Philly). One of the guys asked me where we were all from, and that started a short conversation, but when it got to where we went to school, and one of the girls replied that she had a lot of friends in "our program," I had to specify that we were grad students, thus implying that we actually live here and aren't just "abroad" and really do speak the language and aren't just interested in going to bars and picking up scrawny, sketchy Frenchmen in glasses with horrible taste in music. I know, I know, don't be judgmental, Allison. You were there too once. Ok, but I was never loud and obnoxious in tiny bars where you get elbowed in the ass as you try to get back to your seat and can tell what religion some guy is just by brushing up against him as you find your way through the throng of drunkards sipping sangria. I never once uttered (read: yelled) the phrase "OH MY GOD I'M SO DRUNK!" or "Oh, everyone has Blackberries these days, even in France." For the record: I have seen maybe three non-American people with Blackberries or Blackberry-like objects in Paris.
Also, what is it with 35-year-old men hitting on 20-year-old co-eds? Gross. My friend and I were waiting by the jukebox while her boyfriend was in the bathroom, and this guy (please refer back to description of picking up guys in bars) came up to us, thinking he was being real smooth, and feigned ignorance as to how the jukebox worked. Please. A chimp with no eyes could figure that one out. My friend said something to him, to which he replied in English, so I thought I would be a bitch and keep talking in French, because - well, just read that whole last paragraph again. I really do hate being confused with junior year abroad kids who are just there to drink wine and get laid. Anyways, he thought I was French, which was pretty cool. And then he ignored me and kept hitting on my friend. When her boyfriend got back, he pretty much ditched us and went for the AUP kids (American University of Paris), and the only other thing he said to me was "You make line?" when I was waiting for the bathroom. Yes, motherfucker, on fait la queue. You can practice your English with kids that don't speak French. Jackass.
Tonight is our hopefully triumphant return to Pub Quiz. I haven't been for about a month, with my dad visiting and midterms and whatnot. I'm looking forward to forgetting about school for a while and hanging out with cool people, and maybe, just maybe, finishing another pint of Guinness. Or two. But let's not get too crazy there. I may just have to keep to my usual cider and call it a night.
Anyways, speaking of green things, spring is here! It was sixty degrees outside yesterday! I forced myself out of the apartment to go in search of a couple of plays I need for my essay, which of course were nowhere to be found. At least it got me out of the apartment, because I spent the rest of the day toiling away inside so I could justify going out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We went to this Irish place (there are probably a thousand pubs in Paris) in Saint Germain, and I didn't realize till I got inside that I had, in fact, been there before and that I had, unfortunately, puked there before. (I confirmed this when I went to the bathroom and ended up in the same famous stall I barely made it into before hurling on the blue-tiled floor.) It was just as crowded and hot, but not as smoky, as I remembered it. You will not be at all surprised to know that I had a Guinness, but you probably will be surprised to know that I a)finished it to the last drop and b)was the first one done! Seriously, it was an historic night. And on top of that, when we left to find another bar that actually had some vacant seats, I had yummy sangria, and I didn't get sick! I know, I'm still in disbelief.
So at this bar, I had a very classic Allison Superiority Complex Moment. There were five of us, and we were sitting in the corner next to a LOUD group of Americans - undergrads, of course, which we all spotted the minute we sat down. I guessed from the uniform hairstyles, fake tans, Blackberries and Lacoste shirts that they were from New Jersey, or at least some place on the East Coast, which they were (NJ and Philly). One of the guys asked me where we were all from, and that started a short conversation, but when it got to where we went to school, and one of the girls replied that she had a lot of friends in "our program," I had to specify that we were grad students, thus implying that we actually live here and aren't just "abroad" and really do speak the language and aren't just interested in going to bars and picking up scrawny, sketchy Frenchmen in glasses with horrible taste in music. I know, I know, don't be judgmental, Allison. You were there too once. Ok, but I was never loud and obnoxious in tiny bars where you get elbowed in the ass as you try to get back to your seat and can tell what religion some guy is just by brushing up against him as you find your way through the throng of drunkards sipping sangria. I never once uttered (read: yelled) the phrase "OH MY GOD I'M SO DRUNK!" or "Oh, everyone has Blackberries these days, even in France." For the record: I have seen maybe three non-American people with Blackberries or Blackberry-like objects in Paris.
Also, what is it with 35-year-old men hitting on 20-year-old co-eds? Gross. My friend and I were waiting by the jukebox while her boyfriend was in the bathroom, and this guy (please refer back to description of picking up guys in bars) came up to us, thinking he was being real smooth, and feigned ignorance as to how the jukebox worked. Please. A chimp with no eyes could figure that one out. My friend said something to him, to which he replied in English, so I thought I would be a bitch and keep talking in French, because - well, just read that whole last paragraph again. I really do hate being confused with junior year abroad kids who are just there to drink wine and get laid. Anyways, he thought I was French, which was pretty cool. And then he ignored me and kept hitting on my friend. When her boyfriend got back, he pretty much ditched us and went for the AUP kids (American University of Paris), and the only other thing he said to me was "You make line?" when I was waiting for the bathroom. Yes, motherfucker, on fait la queue. You can practice your English with kids that don't speak French. Jackass.
Tonight is our hopefully triumphant return to Pub Quiz. I haven't been for about a month, with my dad visiting and midterms and whatnot. I'm looking forward to forgetting about school for a while and hanging out with cool people, and maybe, just maybe, finishing another pint of Guinness. Or two. But let's not get too crazy there. I may just have to keep to my usual cider and call it a night.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
I feel bad for not writing anything in a while
Note to self: amazing Ethiopian food + Nutella crêpe + cheap beer = bad times. Nothing too horrible, but I definitely wouldn't recommend it.
This weekend kind of seemed like a last hurrah, since I envision being chained to my laptop at the library for the next few months until my memoir is done. We went out for dinner on Friday and, man, did I forget how delicious Ethiopian food is. If you're in Paris and you want some food with real flavor and spice, Godjo is the place to go. It's small, the kitchen is about the size of my bathroom, and if you're more than two people, you should reserve a table a good day in advance. We were nine, so obviously, we learned our lesson from the first time we tried to get in. They sat us in the basement, which I didn't even know existed. A couple of cow-hide covered couches lined the walls with woven tables and little wooden stools dispersed around; Ethiopian art adorned the walls and music piped in softly, but was quickly drowned out as soon as we started talking. The food was... well, I guess I don't need to repeat it. It was good. Really good. Spicy beef and chicken, lentils and green beans and carrots, even beef tartar (which we inadvertently ordered and hesitantly ate - delicious, in case you were wondering), all on this spongy bread that soaks it all up. There wasn't much left, let me tell you. And what there was left was gradually picked over until the plate was everything but licked clean. When someone moved the bowl of tartar and discovered there was more bread underneath, it was like finding out you had two more Petit écoliers left than you thought. (If you don't know what those are, please go find out, as they will change your life. No, really. Go. Now. Finish reading this, then go.)
Anyways, we headed over to Mouffetard to get a crêpe, and I was feeling pretty damn full. But who can resist a hot Nutella crêpe? Oh man. I got two bites into that thing and knew I should've stopped. But I'm a stubborn little bitch, so I kept going at it, finally realizing, with two bites left, that there was no way I could, in good conscience, finish it and feel good about myself later when I was throwing it up in some sketchy seatless bar bathroom. So I tossed the precious gooey dessert and headed with my friends to get a drink. That was the problem, I think. Being in a crowded bar on a Friday night, trying to hold and/or drink your beer with people rubbing up against you, groping you without even knowing or trying, all the while trying to digest what could reasonably be considered a meal for four. I do have to say, though, the new anti-smoking legislation has helped a great deal. I remember going into that place in October just for a second to check for some people - I was in there maybe thirty seconds - and I came out reeking of Marlboro lights. Now it just smelled like pheremones and sweat. I'm still trying to figure out which one I prefer.
We ended up hanging out there for a little while, eventually talking to some Spanish guys that seemed pretty nice. A friend was trying to get me talking to one of them, which she eventually did, but as soon as she left and a Rage Against the Machine song came on, he was jumping around with his friends and soon hitting on other girls in the front of the bar.
Ok, so banal daily happenings aside, I don't have much else. I know, I know. I keep saying I'll have things to talk about, and I really don't. However, I have discovered that the walls of my apartment are thinner than I thought. I've always been able to hear loud laughing and the music my neighbor blasts (which, oddly enough, mostly consists of chorals and classical, and sometimes Django), but never have I actually been able to confirm the rumor that he has a girlfriend. Well, my friends... Rumor confirmed. Now I know why I hear him open the door almost every night around 10 and music turned up to 11.
Just another to add to the list of Parisian hypocrisies. If everyone wants to be so private, would it kill them to build walls a bit more soundproof? I mean, I could hear them breathing, and I was on my bed, not against that wall, watching TV with the sound up fairly high. Seriously, people. Get it together. I was always scared people in the stairwell could hear it when I use the bathroom, but now I'm even more paranoid and am doing all but risking kidney infections to keep the noise level down.
I do have more things to write about, things that have happened and pissed me off (as usual), but it's late and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a while, so I think I'm going to try to drift off into Hot Guys on the Metro Land before my neighbor turns his music up. This weekend I'm going to Dublin with my dad, and hopefully when I come back from that and things quiet down a little, I'll actually be able to think and string together some coherent sentences. Until then, merci et bonne nuit!
This weekend kind of seemed like a last hurrah, since I envision being chained to my laptop at the library for the next few months until my memoir is done. We went out for dinner on Friday and, man, did I forget how delicious Ethiopian food is. If you're in Paris and you want some food with real flavor and spice, Godjo is the place to go. It's small, the kitchen is about the size of my bathroom, and if you're more than two people, you should reserve a table a good day in advance. We were nine, so obviously, we learned our lesson from the first time we tried to get in. They sat us in the basement, which I didn't even know existed. A couple of cow-hide covered couches lined the walls with woven tables and little wooden stools dispersed around; Ethiopian art adorned the walls and music piped in softly, but was quickly drowned out as soon as we started talking. The food was... well, I guess I don't need to repeat it. It was good. Really good. Spicy beef and chicken, lentils and green beans and carrots, even beef tartar (which we inadvertently ordered and hesitantly ate - delicious, in case you were wondering), all on this spongy bread that soaks it all up. There wasn't much left, let me tell you. And what there was left was gradually picked over until the plate was everything but licked clean. When someone moved the bowl of tartar and discovered there was more bread underneath, it was like finding out you had two more Petit écoliers left than you thought. (If you don't know what those are, please go find out, as they will change your life. No, really. Go. Now. Finish reading this, then go.)
Anyways, we headed over to Mouffetard to get a crêpe, and I was feeling pretty damn full. But who can resist a hot Nutella crêpe? Oh man. I got two bites into that thing and knew I should've stopped. But I'm a stubborn little bitch, so I kept going at it, finally realizing, with two bites left, that there was no way I could, in good conscience, finish it and feel good about myself later when I was throwing it up in some sketchy seatless bar bathroom. So I tossed the precious gooey dessert and headed with my friends to get a drink. That was the problem, I think. Being in a crowded bar on a Friday night, trying to hold and/or drink your beer with people rubbing up against you, groping you without even knowing or trying, all the while trying to digest what could reasonably be considered a meal for four. I do have to say, though, the new anti-smoking legislation has helped a great deal. I remember going into that place in October just for a second to check for some people - I was in there maybe thirty seconds - and I came out reeking of Marlboro lights. Now it just smelled like pheremones and sweat. I'm still trying to figure out which one I prefer.
We ended up hanging out there for a little while, eventually talking to some Spanish guys that seemed pretty nice. A friend was trying to get me talking to one of them, which she eventually did, but as soon as she left and a Rage Against the Machine song came on, he was jumping around with his friends and soon hitting on other girls in the front of the bar.
Ok, so banal daily happenings aside, I don't have much else. I know, I know. I keep saying I'll have things to talk about, and I really don't. However, I have discovered that the walls of my apartment are thinner than I thought. I've always been able to hear loud laughing and the music my neighbor blasts (which, oddly enough, mostly consists of chorals and classical, and sometimes Django), but never have I actually been able to confirm the rumor that he has a girlfriend. Well, my friends... Rumor confirmed. Now I know why I hear him open the door almost every night around 10 and music turned up to 11.
Just another to add to the list of Parisian hypocrisies. If everyone wants to be so private, would it kill them to build walls a bit more soundproof? I mean, I could hear them breathing, and I was on my bed, not against that wall, watching TV with the sound up fairly high. Seriously, people. Get it together. I was always scared people in the stairwell could hear it when I use the bathroom, but now I'm even more paranoid and am doing all but risking kidney infections to keep the noise level down.
I do have more things to write about, things that have happened and pissed me off (as usual), but it's late and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a while, so I think I'm going to try to drift off into Hot Guys on the Metro Land before my neighbor turns his music up. This weekend I'm going to Dublin with my dad, and hopefully when I come back from that and things quiet down a little, I'll actually be able to think and string together some coherent sentences. Until then, merci et bonne nuit!
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Devour? Really?
So, we all knew that the whole thing about me trying to stop bitching wasn't really going to last, right? Bitching is pretty much my natural way of life, and who am I to try to deny Mother Nature what is rightfully hers? Exactly. I'm glad you followed me on that one.
This weekend felt good. The short, shocking version of the story is that I went clubbing on Saturday until five in the morning and woke up in a guy's bed in the 12th.
Don't worry, Mom, there's more. Here's the long version.
Saturday morning I woke up feeling revived and decided to take on the city. I wanted, like I do so often, to discover something new, and I came up with a plan that would have me exploring a new part of Paris every weekend. After I lay around in bed for another hour and decided to scrap that unrealistic, idealistic piece of crap plan, I thought I'd go see a free photo exhibit at the Hotel de Ville with Stephanie. Saturday was a beautiful day. A bit cold, but hey, this is Paris. If the sun is out and the rain's not falling, you should be very grateful, and I was. We walked around Tuileries for a while, avoiding the Romanian girls who ask you if you speak English, then hold up cards with pleas for money scrawled out in rather exact penmanship. Angelina's was next on the menu, but it was still only two - an ungodly hour for hot chocolate, mind you, so we headed to the Orangerie for some Monet and other early 20th century art. All in all, it was kind of meh. Once you've seen all the major works in the Musée d'Orsay, other museums just pale in comparison. And yes, I know art people reading this are going, "sacrilege!" But please. I studied art history, I took impressionism here, I know what I'm talking about. If you're going to pay some hard-earned Euros to see some good ol' toiles, best fork it over at Orsay and get some good architecture as well. Finally, after the Orangerie and a twenty-minute line at Angelina, we sipped our chocolat à l'africain with much gusto and split a pistachio réligieuse, which was good, but not unforgettable. After that, we both went home to take a nap in preparation for the night ahead.
Steph ended up not coming. This was the first problem. This meant that, at a stoplight party - to be explained in a minute - I was going to be the only one of my friends not coupled up. First, we headed for dinner - one of those sushi train restaurants at the behest of my friend's boyfriend. It was pretty good, although I did rip my tights on the eight-foot high chairs. We killed time in a cafe, where my friend and I got 10Euro Irish coffees that were two parts whiskey to one drop coffee, which warmed us up in anticipation of venturing back into the Siberian wasteland that is Paris in February. Now, observation number one: three guys were waiting in line before us, and the guy at the door said there wasn't any room. We go up and get right in. Later, my friend's boyfriend tells us that this is a regular occurrence, and that usually, bouncers won't let guys in who aren't accompanied by at least one girl. He said that he loved it in the States because he could get in wherever he wanted, regardless of who he was with. Interesting. Also, the cover charge was 10E for girls, 20E for guys. And the plot thickens. So now, not only will the guys you meet in the club be sketchy, but they may be wealthy and will definitely expect to get what they paid for. More of that later. For now, let me explain this stoplight party nonsense. I'd never been to one of these things, so maybe they're a weekly thing, maybe everyone's been to one but me, but I'm still going to explain. You walk in and get a bracelet. Red if you're taken, green if you're single, and yellow if you don't know. How can you not know? Whatever. I took a yellow because I figured red would be flat out lying and green would invite unwanted sketchy drunkards. Yellow seemed safe and gave me an easy way out of hairy situations. Oh, if only the bracelet had been enough...
Almost four hours of dancing later, I still found myself toute seule in the middle of the dancefloor, surrounded by my coupled-up friends and newly coupled-up strangers. Over the course of the night, I'd gotten to experience true Parisian clubbing - people feeling me up on their way through the crowd, guys spilling their drinks all over my shoes, people knocking their elbows into my head. Oh, it was a blast. And then I met Stanislas. I never actually got his name, but that's what I'm going to call him; he just had a Stanislas air about him. Obviously drunk and definitely sketchy, he came up to me smiling and kept trying to dance with me. My friends succeeded in sending him off a couple times, but when he came back a third time and started grabbing my arms and leaning in to say things into my ears, I said "fuck this" and went over to the first guy I saw leaning against the wall. I'd also noticed this guy hanging around us for a while, looking at me like he was going to come over and ask me to dance. Even though this was the least attractive guy I've ever seen in France, I thought it was better than being badgered by Stan. So I thought it would be a win-win situation, and actually, I'd be doing him a favor (not because of the unattractive thing, because of the shy thing). But, in my fleeting moment of ballsy awesomeness, I forgot that in France, when a girl asks a guy to dance, she's really asking if he wants to sleep with her. Silly me, I forgot that the women's rights movement didn't really cross the Atlantic. Five minutes of the most awkward, horrible dancing - I mean ridiculously awkward 7th grade dancing, no contact, looking around to avoid eye contact, dancing - went by, and I couldn't do it any more. I told him I was getting back to my friends and that he should go keep his friend company. Pretty pimp if I do say so myself. Such a tease. A few minutes later and we were waiting for someone to get back from the bathroom when he came back, after a lot of coercion from his friends, and started dancing behind me. He put his hand on my hip and I turned around, just in time for him to say something to me I didn't quite get. I told him, no thanks, I'm leaving in a few minutes. "Oh, you want to leave?!" He looked so excited, like a dog when you go to get the leash off the wall. I said, "No, I'm leaving with some friends." I turned away, and then we left. I ended up at a friend's boyfriend's place and slept in his bed while they went back to my friend's place.
And so, nothing of real import happened this weekend. But the next day I realized what the guy in the club had said. "Tu veux que je t'engouffre?" I wasn't aware that you could say "do you want me to devour you?" in the middle of a crowded club to a girl you don't know. But then again, this is France, and I did ask the guy to dance with me in the first place, so I guess I deserved that one, right?
More updates on school and such at some point...
This weekend felt good. The short, shocking version of the story is that I went clubbing on Saturday until five in the morning and woke up in a guy's bed in the 12th.
Don't worry, Mom, there's more. Here's the long version.
Saturday morning I woke up feeling revived and decided to take on the city. I wanted, like I do so often, to discover something new, and I came up with a plan that would have me exploring a new part of Paris every weekend. After I lay around in bed for another hour and decided to scrap that unrealistic, idealistic piece of crap plan, I thought I'd go see a free photo exhibit at the Hotel de Ville with Stephanie. Saturday was a beautiful day. A bit cold, but hey, this is Paris. If the sun is out and the rain's not falling, you should be very grateful, and I was. We walked around Tuileries for a while, avoiding the Romanian girls who ask you if you speak English, then hold up cards with pleas for money scrawled out in rather exact penmanship. Angelina's was next on the menu, but it was still only two - an ungodly hour for hot chocolate, mind you, so we headed to the Orangerie for some Monet and other early 20th century art. All in all, it was kind of meh. Once you've seen all the major works in the Musée d'Orsay, other museums just pale in comparison. And yes, I know art people reading this are going, "sacrilege!" But please. I studied art history, I took impressionism here, I know what I'm talking about. If you're going to pay some hard-earned Euros to see some good ol' toiles, best fork it over at Orsay and get some good architecture as well. Finally, after the Orangerie and a twenty-minute line at Angelina, we sipped our chocolat à l'africain with much gusto and split a pistachio réligieuse, which was good, but not unforgettable. After that, we both went home to take a nap in preparation for the night ahead.
Steph ended up not coming. This was the first problem. This meant that, at a stoplight party - to be explained in a minute - I was going to be the only one of my friends not coupled up. First, we headed for dinner - one of those sushi train restaurants at the behest of my friend's boyfriend. It was pretty good, although I did rip my tights on the eight-foot high chairs. We killed time in a cafe, where my friend and I got 10Euro Irish coffees that were two parts whiskey to one drop coffee, which warmed us up in anticipation of venturing back into the Siberian wasteland that is Paris in February. Now, observation number one: three guys were waiting in line before us, and the guy at the door said there wasn't any room. We go up and get right in. Later, my friend's boyfriend tells us that this is a regular occurrence, and that usually, bouncers won't let guys in who aren't accompanied by at least one girl. He said that he loved it in the States because he could get in wherever he wanted, regardless of who he was with. Interesting. Also, the cover charge was 10E for girls, 20E for guys. And the plot thickens. So now, not only will the guys you meet in the club be sketchy, but they may be wealthy and will definitely expect to get what they paid for. More of that later. For now, let me explain this stoplight party nonsense. I'd never been to one of these things, so maybe they're a weekly thing, maybe everyone's been to one but me, but I'm still going to explain. You walk in and get a bracelet. Red if you're taken, green if you're single, and yellow if you don't know. How can you not know? Whatever. I took a yellow because I figured red would be flat out lying and green would invite unwanted sketchy drunkards. Yellow seemed safe and gave me an easy way out of hairy situations. Oh, if only the bracelet had been enough...
Almost four hours of dancing later, I still found myself toute seule in the middle of the dancefloor, surrounded by my coupled-up friends and newly coupled-up strangers. Over the course of the night, I'd gotten to experience true Parisian clubbing - people feeling me up on their way through the crowd, guys spilling their drinks all over my shoes, people knocking their elbows into my head. Oh, it was a blast. And then I met Stanislas. I never actually got his name, but that's what I'm going to call him; he just had a Stanislas air about him. Obviously drunk and definitely sketchy, he came up to me smiling and kept trying to dance with me. My friends succeeded in sending him off a couple times, but when he came back a third time and started grabbing my arms and leaning in to say things into my ears, I said "fuck this" and went over to the first guy I saw leaning against the wall. I'd also noticed this guy hanging around us for a while, looking at me like he was going to come over and ask me to dance. Even though this was the least attractive guy I've ever seen in France, I thought it was better than being badgered by Stan. So I thought it would be a win-win situation, and actually, I'd be doing him a favor (not because of the unattractive thing, because of the shy thing). But, in my fleeting moment of ballsy awesomeness, I forgot that in France, when a girl asks a guy to dance, she's really asking if he wants to sleep with her. Silly me, I forgot that the women's rights movement didn't really cross the Atlantic. Five minutes of the most awkward, horrible dancing - I mean ridiculously awkward 7th grade dancing, no contact, looking around to avoid eye contact, dancing - went by, and I couldn't do it any more. I told him I was getting back to my friends and that he should go keep his friend company. Pretty pimp if I do say so myself. Such a tease. A few minutes later and we were waiting for someone to get back from the bathroom when he came back, after a lot of coercion from his friends, and started dancing behind me. He put his hand on my hip and I turned around, just in time for him to say something to me I didn't quite get. I told him, no thanks, I'm leaving in a few minutes. "Oh, you want to leave?!" He looked so excited, like a dog when you go to get the leash off the wall. I said, "No, I'm leaving with some friends." I turned away, and then we left. I ended up at a friend's boyfriend's place and slept in his bed while they went back to my friend's place.
And so, nothing of real import happened this weekend. But the next day I realized what the guy in the club had said. "Tu veux que je t'engouffre?" I wasn't aware that you could say "do you want me to devour you?" in the middle of a crowded club to a girl you don't know. But then again, this is France, and I did ask the guy to dance with me in the first place, so I guess I deserved that one, right?
More updates on school and such at some point...
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Enfin
I still have one more week of classes and exams before I can officially declare myself on winter break, when I'll be on my way back home to sweet sunny California, where the people are nice and the coffee comes in pint-sized cups, but I checked out a while ago. I don't know what it is, but I just can't bring myself to do work in my apartment, and since it's crappy outside, I don't want to leave, especially since I'd just have to wait in line outside for who knows how long to get into the library. So my time has been filled mostly with Grey's Anatomy instead of note reviewing, like it should be. But anyways...
Last night, after finally seeing Enchanted (so freaking adorable, by the way), we went out to Caveau de la Huchette to celebrate a friend's birthday. I'd never been there, but I knew it was a really famous place, and really instrumental (no pun intended) in the 1950s-60s Paris jazz scene. But last night there was a swing band, and even though I didn't dance, I had a really good time. It's not exactly the kind of place people my age go to meet other people, which is kind of liberating, actually. The time flew by, and at 1, I looked at my watch, then around the dancefloor and noticed there was a pretty big number of geriatrics out there doin' their stuff better than the young ones. Except that one guy with the hat... and maybe the sweating guy, who at one point sat on my lap and kissed me. Ok, so it was on the cheek, but it provided hours of laughter, nonetheless. It felt good to be out and social, and I found out my night bus goes right by there, which is very useful, although I think I might have been slightly less sketched out if I'd just walked the twenty minutes home. But I got home, trudged up the stairs, and pretty much collapsed in bed.
I've been thinking a lot about this semester, looking back on it and whatnot, which I guess can be expected since a)it's almost over, and b)it's the end of the year, so I'm thinking of ways I can... make my life better when I get back? First thing's first, I'm listening to more Ray LaMontagne. I'm going to find every song he's released and put it on my ipod. Really, if you haven't checked him out, please do. Nothing calms me down or makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside like his CD. Alright, back on track... this semester... It's been good, I guess. I kind of feel like I fell back into the exact slump I was trying to avoid this time. The reason I came back, really, was to redo the year and do it right. But so far I feel like I'm failing miserably. I could go on and on about why, but they'd just all be excuses, and like I was telling my brother, no matter what you ask me or suggest I do, I'll just find an excuse to brush off my own responsibility. So I think that might be my resolution this year, to not make any more excuses. I think if I did, my life would be a lot easier, probably happier, who knows. All I know is that I feel like I'm living in Paris without actually LIVING in Paris, which, I know, doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But the other grad students get it - we have so much work to do, and with all the strikes and other bullshit, we spend so much time trying to get from point A to point B that we never have time to sit for a minute and appreciate it, or even really participate in it. This weekend is an exception to the rule, probably because I just stopped giving a shit about work, knowing that I can get the grades I got on other exams doing relatively minimal studying, which isn't tooting my own horn, but more a critique of my classes. I'm getting off track, but I do want to say this so people don't think I'm totally wasting my time - I am learning a hell of a lot here, I am, it just doesn't feel like I am all the time, it doesn't feel like it's in any way formal. But I'm learning. Trust me, I am.
But back to this weekend's activities. We went to Printemps yesterday to see... wait for it... an igloo on the roof of the building. Yes. An igloo. Not a real one, per se, but definitely a good interpretation. I also did a little bit of holiday shopping, and bought myself a totally useless item that is my first kitchen tool. MY first kitchen tool, all to myself, and it's a whisk made to look like a squid, with eyes and all. I love it. When I get my own place and get to furnish it, I'm going to have to be careful, because I seriously could have spent my college tuition on kitchenwares alone.
I was supposed to interview someone on what it is to be French last night, but I got a migraine and couldn't do it. I could, however, go to the movie and the club, but that was only after I rested and ate and took advil. The person I'm supposed to interview told me I might be able to hang out with her and her friends (if the timing works out) on Sunday, and I could do the interview there, which is pretty cool, considering they're all Jewish. She also told me about a Channukah party tonight in the 3rd that I might go to, but it's 15 euros, and I just went out last night, and tomorrow is pub quiz, so I think I may want to conserve my funds a little bit.
I'm going to try to get some reading done. I can't wait to get home and see everyone, and watch movies, and read, and not have to do work. Well, I do have to write a paper and do some research, but it'll work out. There will be sun and almost-guilt-free Starbucks and In-n-Out and friends and family and a one-story house instead of five flights of stairs. It will be awesome.
Last night, after finally seeing Enchanted (so freaking adorable, by the way), we went out to Caveau de la Huchette to celebrate a friend's birthday. I'd never been there, but I knew it was a really famous place, and really instrumental (no pun intended) in the 1950s-60s Paris jazz scene. But last night there was a swing band, and even though I didn't dance, I had a really good time. It's not exactly the kind of place people my age go to meet other people, which is kind of liberating, actually. The time flew by, and at 1, I looked at my watch, then around the dancefloor and noticed there was a pretty big number of geriatrics out there doin' their stuff better than the young ones. Except that one guy with the hat... and maybe the sweating guy, who at one point sat on my lap and kissed me. Ok, so it was on the cheek, but it provided hours of laughter, nonetheless. It felt good to be out and social, and I found out my night bus goes right by there, which is very useful, although I think I might have been slightly less sketched out if I'd just walked the twenty minutes home. But I got home, trudged up the stairs, and pretty much collapsed in bed.
I've been thinking a lot about this semester, looking back on it and whatnot, which I guess can be expected since a)it's almost over, and b)it's the end of the year, so I'm thinking of ways I can... make my life better when I get back? First thing's first, I'm listening to more Ray LaMontagne. I'm going to find every song he's released and put it on my ipod. Really, if you haven't checked him out, please do. Nothing calms me down or makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside like his CD. Alright, back on track... this semester... It's been good, I guess. I kind of feel like I fell back into the exact slump I was trying to avoid this time. The reason I came back, really, was to redo the year and do it right. But so far I feel like I'm failing miserably. I could go on and on about why, but they'd just all be excuses, and like I was telling my brother, no matter what you ask me or suggest I do, I'll just find an excuse to brush off my own responsibility. So I think that might be my resolution this year, to not make any more excuses. I think if I did, my life would be a lot easier, probably happier, who knows. All I know is that I feel like I'm living in Paris without actually LIVING in Paris, which, I know, doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But the other grad students get it - we have so much work to do, and with all the strikes and other bullshit, we spend so much time trying to get from point A to point B that we never have time to sit for a minute and appreciate it, or even really participate in it. This weekend is an exception to the rule, probably because I just stopped giving a shit about work, knowing that I can get the grades I got on other exams doing relatively minimal studying, which isn't tooting my own horn, but more a critique of my classes. I'm getting off track, but I do want to say this so people don't think I'm totally wasting my time - I am learning a hell of a lot here, I am, it just doesn't feel like I am all the time, it doesn't feel like it's in any way formal. But I'm learning. Trust me, I am.
But back to this weekend's activities. We went to Printemps yesterday to see... wait for it... an igloo on the roof of the building. Yes. An igloo. Not a real one, per se, but definitely a good interpretation. I also did a little bit of holiday shopping, and bought myself a totally useless item that is my first kitchen tool. MY first kitchen tool, all to myself, and it's a whisk made to look like a squid, with eyes and all. I love it. When I get my own place and get to furnish it, I'm going to have to be careful, because I seriously could have spent my college tuition on kitchenwares alone.
I was supposed to interview someone on what it is to be French last night, but I got a migraine and couldn't do it. I could, however, go to the movie and the club, but that was only after I rested and ate and took advil. The person I'm supposed to interview told me I might be able to hang out with her and her friends (if the timing works out) on Sunday, and I could do the interview there, which is pretty cool, considering they're all Jewish. She also told me about a Channukah party tonight in the 3rd that I might go to, but it's 15 euros, and I just went out last night, and tomorrow is pub quiz, so I think I may want to conserve my funds a little bit.
I'm going to try to get some reading done. I can't wait to get home and see everyone, and watch movies, and read, and not have to do work. Well, I do have to write a paper and do some research, but it'll work out. There will be sun and almost-guilt-free Starbucks and In-n-Out and friends and family and a one-story house instead of five flights of stairs. It will be awesome.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Une pause
Well, it's been a while. And the sad part is not much has happened since the 18th.
Every semester there's that week or two where all of a sudden you have mountains of work to do and it seems like you'll never get out alive, and the only hope you have, the only thing that lets you see the light at the end of the tunnel, is knowing that as soon as it's over, you can party, sleep in, or do whatever it is you do to celebrate the end of Hell Week. Well, my friends, my Hell Week has just ended. I had two huge exposés to do on Wednesday, and thankfully, it is now Friday, which means Wednesday - and my exposés - have come and gone and I don't have to read anything more about Haussmann or Don Juan. As yesterday was Toussaint (a Catholic holiday which is also a national holiday here - so much for Church and State, right?), I was really looking forward to sleeping in until who knows when, maybe taking a stroll in the Jardin des Plantes, and generally just chillaxing until ultimately having to start the behemoth of a novel that is "Au Bonheur des Dames." But then I remembered I'd agreed to work on the translation of the play, so I did that for four hours with another girl instead of seeing how long I could spend in bed before I really got sick of staring at the ceiling.
After that, I caught up on Californication and headed out to watch Superbad - Supergrave in French - with some friends. I don't really understand how this works, but the French people laughed more than the Americans. Maybe it was the mistranslation/omission of half of the dialogue (which was kind of interesting to read in subtitles), but the French thought it was hilarious! They didn't get the awkwardness, though, like when that creepy guy goes "Are you Jimmy's brother? Because you look like him. You really do. ..You really do...." or when Evan says "samesies", which is perhaps my favorite line in the movie. Well, no, it isn't, but still funny. Anyways, I just thought it was interesting that a movie that was so blatantly American managed to be a success in France. Especially since they like to pride themselves on the fact that what they do is "art" and what we do is "business." Please. Like France doesn't have rich movie stars and producers? Excuse me - Juliette Binoche, Daniel Auteuil, Guillaume Canet, Vincent Cassel, Monica Belucci, Jean Dujardin, Marillon Cotillard. And need I mention the movies Les Bronzées 3, Taxi 1, 2, and 3, OSS 117, and Camping? Come on, France. Let's be a little more hypocritical, shall we?
So today I'm going to try to clean up my place a little, since an old friend is coming to stay for the weekend. Hopefully my jeans, which I washed two days ago, will be dry by then, along with the towels I still have to wash. I have this weekend all planned out - the perfect first Paris visit. This tour includes, but is not limited to visits to: the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, Sacre-Coeur, the Luxembourg Gardens, l'As du Falafel, the Champs-Elysées, and the fashion district. Also included: partying (perhaps on the Seine), and a pub quiz where we will win a bottle of wine like we did last week. But truthfully, the part I'm most looking forward to is the falafel. It's been a month since those golden, crispy balls of chickpeas have entered the vacuum of an orifice that is my mouth, and I'm starting to have withdrawals.
Also, I wanted to talk about the Opera being on strike, but I think just saying it sums up the ridiculousness of the statement. Come on. The fucking OPERA is on strike. An artistic organization, in FRANCE, is on strike. Come the fuck on!
Every semester there's that week or two where all of a sudden you have mountains of work to do and it seems like you'll never get out alive, and the only hope you have, the only thing that lets you see the light at the end of the tunnel, is knowing that as soon as it's over, you can party, sleep in, or do whatever it is you do to celebrate the end of Hell Week. Well, my friends, my Hell Week has just ended. I had two huge exposés to do on Wednesday, and thankfully, it is now Friday, which means Wednesday - and my exposés - have come and gone and I don't have to read anything more about Haussmann or Don Juan. As yesterday was Toussaint (a Catholic holiday which is also a national holiday here - so much for Church and State, right?), I was really looking forward to sleeping in until who knows when, maybe taking a stroll in the Jardin des Plantes, and generally just chillaxing until ultimately having to start the behemoth of a novel that is "Au Bonheur des Dames." But then I remembered I'd agreed to work on the translation of the play, so I did that for four hours with another girl instead of seeing how long I could spend in bed before I really got sick of staring at the ceiling.
After that, I caught up on Californication and headed out to watch Superbad - Supergrave in French - with some friends. I don't really understand how this works, but the French people laughed more than the Americans. Maybe it was the mistranslation/omission of half of the dialogue (which was kind of interesting to read in subtitles), but the French thought it was hilarious! They didn't get the awkwardness, though, like when that creepy guy goes "Are you Jimmy's brother? Because you look like him. You really do. ..You really do...." or when Evan says "samesies", which is perhaps my favorite line in the movie. Well, no, it isn't, but still funny. Anyways, I just thought it was interesting that a movie that was so blatantly American managed to be a success in France. Especially since they like to pride themselves on the fact that what they do is "art" and what we do is "business." Please. Like France doesn't have rich movie stars and producers? Excuse me - Juliette Binoche, Daniel Auteuil, Guillaume Canet, Vincent Cassel, Monica Belucci, Jean Dujardin, Marillon Cotillard. And need I mention the movies Les Bronzées 3, Taxi 1, 2, and 3, OSS 117, and Camping? Come on, France. Let's be a little more hypocritical, shall we?
So today I'm going to try to clean up my place a little, since an old friend is coming to stay for the weekend. Hopefully my jeans, which I washed two days ago, will be dry by then, along with the towels I still have to wash. I have this weekend all planned out - the perfect first Paris visit. This tour includes, but is not limited to visits to: the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, Sacre-Coeur, the Luxembourg Gardens, l'As du Falafel, the Champs-Elysées, and the fashion district. Also included: partying (perhaps on the Seine), and a pub quiz where we will win a bottle of wine like we did last week. But truthfully, the part I'm most looking forward to is the falafel. It's been a month since those golden, crispy balls of chickpeas have entered the vacuum of an orifice that is my mouth, and I'm starting to have withdrawals.
Also, I wanted to talk about the Opera being on strike, but I think just saying it sums up the ridiculousness of the statement. Come on. The fucking OPERA is on strike. An artistic organization, in FRANCE, is on strike. Come the fuck on!
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Nuit Blanche
I'd been looking forward to last night for, oh, I don't know, let's say two years. Nuit Blanche was the single coolest experience of my year abroad at Smith, and I couldn't wait to come back and do it again, only not be lame this time and not spend the better part of two hours watching fire jugglers in front of Notre-Dame, as entertaining as that was. I got even more excited when France beat whoever they played last week and made it to the quarter finals of the rugby world cup, which, in case you didn't know (and you probably didn't because you probably live in the US, where rugby is a strange, violent sport which no one understands and everyone is reluctant to play - as they should be, because it's a strange, violent, ridiculous sport) is being held in France this year. Every week since I've been here, the city's been flooded with a different group of tourists visiting in support of their team - first it was the Scottish, then the Irish, then the English... I know there've been other countries - I noticed Spain a couple of times - but I only really paid attention to the UK and Ireland because they were so damn drunk and loud all the time. There were probably some Argentinians here, since they played at Saint-Denis, but they're much better behaved, I think. And some Bulgarians, too. But I digress.
Last night, in addition to the awesomeness that is Nuit Blanche, the quarter final was on at 9, and like every other game in the cup, it was broadcast on a huge screen in front of the Hotel de Ville. Some friends and I decided to do a pregame picnic and stay for the game - ok, so it was my idea, and I got really into it and bought facepaint and organized the whole thing - ALLEZ LES BLEUS! Anyways, the place was a fucking mob scene. Thousands of people trying to make their way to watch the game, most of them having to down beers and wine before crossing the barriers because they didn't allow glass containers. After much confusion, we finally all met up, took a squat somewhere pretty far away, scarfed down our food, and tried to watch the game. Ok, so five of us tried to watch the game, but the other three were content just sitting on the ground drinking wine and some beers some guy unloaded on us because he was going out - don't worry, they were closed, so they were not roofied. Yes, that sentence was actually uttered last night.
We couldn't see anything because of the huge crowd (see below), so we headed back to a Frenchie's place and all sat around watching the game, drinking whatever and all of what was on the table, including the bottle of absinthe from Prague. The match was SO tense! One thing I don't understand is how all the French people I talked to kept saying, "Oh, France is going to lose. No, seriously, they're going to get massacred," and yet they all - ALL - showed up at Hotel de Ville with flags and face paint! Anyways, in what was apparently a miraculous turn of events, France eventually came back from a 10-0 shamefest to a 20-18 win! Over the best team in the world!! ALLEZ LES BLEUS!!! (Sidenote: I think it's funny that their little slogan is basically the same as the Dodgers' "Go Blue".) There was a huge uproar in the surrounding buildings, kind of like when the Red Sox won the world series, only there were no cars set on fire and no one got tear gassed.
After celebrating and taking some very scandalous pirate/inflatable doll pictures, we finally set back out for the Marais and whatever was left of Nuit Blanche. I was kind of pissed that we didn't get to be there for the win and experience the absolute craziness that I'm sure ensued, but we're planning on going for the semi-final - England/France (holy crap that is going to be one awesome game/crowd, I cannot WAIT!) so that should make up for it. And I still have my face paint! But anyways... we wandered around for a while, coming across some very strange exhibits (see below), and eventually decided we needed food, so we went in search of crepes. A word of advice, my friends: when in desperate need of a crepe at 2:30 in the morning in Paris on Nuit Blanche, do not settle for the bonbons guy reheating them on the Petit Pont. Wait to get to Saint Michel where they're actually making the crepes fresh and they don't taste like cardboard.
People kind of dropped off one by one, and a friend and I walked back to my place, eventually getting to bed at around 4. So, not the literal Nuit Blanche (all-nighter) experience I was hoping for, but it was a good time nonetheless.
And then this morning I met a friend at the market down the street. People, I have never been so excited for food purchases in my life. Figs? Check. Peaches? Check. Fresh, amazing-smelling basil? Check. Garlic? Green beans? Dried fruit? CHOUCROUTE THAT I CAN JUST HEAT UP TONIGHT FOR DINNER? CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK!! Granted, it's a little more expensive than the supermarket, but once in a while, why not? When in Rome... I mean, Paris....
Pictures:
The crowd (sorry it's blurry):
I can't even explain what this was. It's in a church, obviously, and it was really weird/trippy/creepy:
Just what I've always wanted! A giant, glowing, papier-mâché jack!
Last night, in addition to the awesomeness that is Nuit Blanche, the quarter final was on at 9, and like every other game in the cup, it was broadcast on a huge screen in front of the Hotel de Ville. Some friends and I decided to do a pregame picnic and stay for the game - ok, so it was my idea, and I got really into it and bought facepaint and organized the whole thing - ALLEZ LES BLEUS! Anyways, the place was a fucking mob scene. Thousands of people trying to make their way to watch the game, most of them having to down beers and wine before crossing the barriers because they didn't allow glass containers. After much confusion, we finally all met up, took a squat somewhere pretty far away, scarfed down our food, and tried to watch the game. Ok, so five of us tried to watch the game, but the other three were content just sitting on the ground drinking wine and some beers some guy unloaded on us because he was going out - don't worry, they were closed, so they were not roofied. Yes, that sentence was actually uttered last night.
We couldn't see anything because of the huge crowd (see below), so we headed back to a Frenchie's place and all sat around watching the game, drinking whatever and all of what was on the table, including the bottle of absinthe from Prague. The match was SO tense! One thing I don't understand is how all the French people I talked to kept saying, "Oh, France is going to lose. No, seriously, they're going to get massacred," and yet they all - ALL - showed up at Hotel de Ville with flags and face paint! Anyways, in what was apparently a miraculous turn of events, France eventually came back from a 10-0 shamefest to a 20-18 win! Over the best team in the world!! ALLEZ LES BLEUS!!! (Sidenote: I think it's funny that their little slogan is basically the same as the Dodgers' "Go Blue".) There was a huge uproar in the surrounding buildings, kind of like when the Red Sox won the world series, only there were no cars set on fire and no one got tear gassed.
After celebrating and taking some very scandalous pirate/inflatable doll pictures, we finally set back out for the Marais and whatever was left of Nuit Blanche. I was kind of pissed that we didn't get to be there for the win and experience the absolute craziness that I'm sure ensued, but we're planning on going for the semi-final - England/France (holy crap that is going to be one awesome game/crowd, I cannot WAIT!) so that should make up for it. And I still have my face paint! But anyways... we wandered around for a while, coming across some very strange exhibits (see below), and eventually decided we needed food, so we went in search of crepes. A word of advice, my friends: when in desperate need of a crepe at 2:30 in the morning in Paris on Nuit Blanche, do not settle for the bonbons guy reheating them on the Petit Pont. Wait to get to Saint Michel where they're actually making the crepes fresh and they don't taste like cardboard.
People kind of dropped off one by one, and a friend and I walked back to my place, eventually getting to bed at around 4. So, not the literal Nuit Blanche (all-nighter) experience I was hoping for, but it was a good time nonetheless.
And then this morning I met a friend at the market down the street. People, I have never been so excited for food purchases in my life. Figs? Check. Peaches? Check. Fresh, amazing-smelling basil? Check. Garlic? Green beans? Dried fruit? CHOUCROUTE THAT I CAN JUST HEAT UP TONIGHT FOR DINNER? CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK!! Granted, it's a little more expensive than the supermarket, but once in a while, why not? When in Rome... I mean, Paris....
Pictures:
The crowd (sorry it's blurry):
I can't even explain what this was. It's in a church, obviously, and it was really weird/trippy/creepy:
Just what I've always wanted! A giant, glowing, papier-mâché jack!
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Maladroit
Last night I went to a friend's boyfriend's place for what the French call a "party," celebrating the addition of one of the roommate's girlfriend to the apartment. I think it was actually the first time I hung out with a group of French people my age - no, wait, second time. I almost didn't go because I was tired, but mainly because I didn't want to have to walk home by myself at who knows what hour, even though I know my neighborhood is fine. I think it might have had more to do with changing metros at Place d'Italie, which I avoided anyways because I didn't want to have to go through winding tunnels and staircases by myself. I left with a friend, anyways, and the only trouble we had was a pair of guys outside the stop at Nation who kept saying "excusez moi, les filles, excusez moi, les filles... oh, elles ne speak pas French." I think I'm almost over the metro trepidation, especially since I'm not on line 13 anymore (i.e. sketchiest line ever).
The party was...awkward. It was Me, two other American girls, a Columbian girl, and a whole bunch of French people, one of which reminded me immediately of Napoleon. Everyone was really nice, it's just that it's hard to strike up conversation with people you don't know in a language you don't really know how to express yourself in. [Sidenote: in our Advanced Workshop in Contemporary French last week, the professor (teacher?) started arguing with us about how we're all francophones, and my main argument for why we were reluctant to think so was that we're not the same people in French as we are in English because we can't express ourselves the same way.] People asked the same general questions, about our previous experience in France, what we're going to do when we're done, etc. etc. We talked a little bit about Rugby - apparently France is going to lose on Saturday, but we're going to make a big deal about the game anyways. We didn't talk at all about politics - well, a teensy bit about communism, but I think after Sarkozy was elected, the French have been much more hesitant to verbally attack Americans for electing Bush, hence greatly reducing political conversation. (Although it's fairly safe to assume that students studying in France aren't really Bush supporters.)
Even though it was kind of weird, and I'm sure everyone there thought we were strange and antisocial, I think I'd like to do that again - hang out with French people, that is. It not only gives me something to do and makes me feel like a normal, social human being, but it also helps a lot with my French. I've spent far too much time holed up in my apartment, WITHOUT A TV or anything to do. I think it's high time I grow up and get a life. I will NOT be pinkslipped out of a group like I was two years ago. I refuse to let it happen again. This city is far too lively and the people far too sociable for me to let it pass by a second time. Mouffetard, here I come.
The party was...awkward. It was Me, two other American girls, a Columbian girl, and a whole bunch of French people, one of which reminded me immediately of Napoleon. Everyone was really nice, it's just that it's hard to strike up conversation with people you don't know in a language you don't really know how to express yourself in. [Sidenote: in our Advanced Workshop in Contemporary French last week, the professor (teacher?) started arguing with us about how we're all francophones, and my main argument for why we were reluctant to think so was that we're not the same people in French as we are in English because we can't express ourselves the same way.] People asked the same general questions, about our previous experience in France, what we're going to do when we're done, etc. etc. We talked a little bit about Rugby - apparently France is going to lose on Saturday, but we're going to make a big deal about the game anyways. We didn't talk at all about politics - well, a teensy bit about communism, but I think after Sarkozy was elected, the French have been much more hesitant to verbally attack Americans for electing Bush, hence greatly reducing political conversation. (Although it's fairly safe to assume that students studying in France aren't really Bush supporters.)
Even though it was kind of weird, and I'm sure everyone there thought we were strange and antisocial, I think I'd like to do that again - hang out with French people, that is. It not only gives me something to do and makes me feel like a normal, social human being, but it also helps a lot with my French. I've spent far too much time holed up in my apartment, WITHOUT A TV or anything to do. I think it's high time I grow up and get a life. I will NOT be pinkslipped out of a group like I was two years ago. I refuse to let it happen again. This city is far too lively and the people far too sociable for me to let it pass by a second time. Mouffetard, here I come.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
La première soirée
Paris is perhaps the most difficult city to do Yom Kippur in, especially on a Friday/Saturday. But before even having to deal with that, I had a mini crisis of faith. You see, after making my ham and cheese omelette as my last meal before the fast, I had to ask myself, "what's the point?" Not only did my meal mix milk and meat, but it wasn't even kosher meat - it wasn't even a kosher animal. It was the one animal we're specifically NOT allowed to eat. And yet, I still decided to fast. I don't know why - I'm not religious, I never go to services (I should be there right now, and if I can't even make it to temple on the holiest of days...), but for some reason, fasting on Yom Kippur makes me feel like Jew, the same way eating latkes or matzah does. Sidenote: I think it's funny that the only way I feel part of the Jewish community is through food or lack thereof. Anyways, I decided to brave the cafes, the bars, the creperies, etc., and go out with friends.
We headed to the Marais. Let it be said right now that if I could choose any one quartier to live in, it would be the Marais. Or maybe Saint Germain. Or maybe where I live now. Ok, so I don't know. I just really like the Marais. It's so overflowing with marginalized populations, it warms my heart every time I walk the rue des Rosiers. We met at the metro, walked around, and finally decided on a restaurant that had to be good because it was packed on a Friday night at 8:30. The waitress started speaking in English to us, which never fails to piss me off. Just because we hesitate when you ask us a question does not mean we do not speak French! But I digress... Everyone's food looked so good, and I was dying there, not even able to pay attention to all the stories people were telling because I was so entranced by the food. And I don't necessarily understand why, because I'd eaten a couple of hours before. I think it's just the idea, the fact that I wasn't allowed to eat that made me want that chevre salad so bad. Oh, so bad. We sat around talking until well after 11, then found a cafe. And here, my friends, is where I turned over my nonsensical decision to fast on Yom Kippur after having a ham and cheese omelette.
Now, I didn't go crazy. Actually, all I had was water. And I feel bad about it. Very, very bad. It may not seem a big deal, but if I can't even go five hours without water, what hope is there? I'm still fasting (even though it really doesn't matter now because I broke the fast), and it shouldn't be too big of a problem since I'm going to Versailles all day. But I'm allowing myself water because it's going to be hot, and I already had some anyways. I know, I'm a horrible Jew.
Oh, but my story's not over. We called it a night around 12:30, and I decided to cab it home because I was too tired to deal with the metro. I had to walk all the way to Chatelet through crowds of drunken Frenchmen and Irishmen left over from the big screen they put up at the hotel de ville, and when I got to the taxi line, it was about an hour long, so I opted for the metro, which definitely should have worked. I got there well before the last train. But apparently, there was no train. I don't know what happened to it, but after twenty minutes of waiting, I emerged once again, at 1:30, to wait for a taxi. I talked to some people in line, and ultimately shared a cab with a forty-something year old man and what I really do believe was a prostitute, finally getting home around 2:45.
I realized that story was probably not worth telling. Thanks for reading.
We headed to the Marais. Let it be said right now that if I could choose any one quartier to live in, it would be the Marais. Or maybe Saint Germain. Or maybe where I live now. Ok, so I don't know. I just really like the Marais. It's so overflowing with marginalized populations, it warms my heart every time I walk the rue des Rosiers. We met at the metro, walked around, and finally decided on a restaurant that had to be good because it was packed on a Friday night at 8:30. The waitress started speaking in English to us, which never fails to piss me off. Just because we hesitate when you ask us a question does not mean we do not speak French! But I digress... Everyone's food looked so good, and I was dying there, not even able to pay attention to all the stories people were telling because I was so entranced by the food. And I don't necessarily understand why, because I'd eaten a couple of hours before. I think it's just the idea, the fact that I wasn't allowed to eat that made me want that chevre salad so bad. Oh, so bad. We sat around talking until well after 11, then found a cafe. And here, my friends, is where I turned over my nonsensical decision to fast on Yom Kippur after having a ham and cheese omelette.
Now, I didn't go crazy. Actually, all I had was water. And I feel bad about it. Very, very bad. It may not seem a big deal, but if I can't even go five hours without water, what hope is there? I'm still fasting (even though it really doesn't matter now because I broke the fast), and it shouldn't be too big of a problem since I'm going to Versailles all day. But I'm allowing myself water because it's going to be hot, and I already had some anyways. I know, I'm a horrible Jew.
Oh, but my story's not over. We called it a night around 12:30, and I decided to cab it home because I was too tired to deal with the metro. I had to walk all the way to Chatelet through crowds of drunken Frenchmen and Irishmen left over from the big screen they put up at the hotel de ville, and when I got to the taxi line, it was about an hour long, so I opted for the metro, which definitely should have worked. I got there well before the last train. But apparently, there was no train. I don't know what happened to it, but after twenty minutes of waiting, I emerged once again, at 1:30, to wait for a taxi. I talked to some people in line, and ultimately shared a cab with a forty-something year old man and what I really do believe was a prostitute, finally getting home around 2:45.
I realized that story was probably not worth telling. Thanks for reading.
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