Today in Paris...

1. I was told by a medical doctor in a painfully condescending manner that I should immediately get off anti-depressants, as they "are not candy, you know," unless I want to be addicted to them for the rest of my life, and that "everyone gets blue once in a while." Oh, gee, is that how it works, doctor?

2. Four more disgusting, poor excuses for men leered at me. "Bonjour...eheheh..." What is that? What are you even trying to do there?

3. I saw a bulldog lapping up its own urine.

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Paris redeemed itself to me tonight in the following ways:

1. a young boy in a suit free styling on the metro

2. a free piano concert in a darling church ("Chopin by Candlelight")

Oh how the days fly by...

On Friday morning I checked out Paris' annual Agricultural Exposition as I had won a free pass courtesy of an IES raffle. A tradition since 1964, the salon caters mainly to the general public, but also attracts agricultural experts from all over the world. I must say I was a bit underwhelmed for several reasons. Firstly, I do not much enjoy crowds, and I should have known better than to go to a massive fair. It was much like any festival in Seattle, except people were dressed a bit nicer and generally were not as fat. There was an equal number of screaming children and pushy mothers, however. I did not see a single cow, but I did see a bit of a dog show (depressing) and pedigree cats in cramped glass aquarium-like containers (so depressing that I left immediately). The best part of the fair were the food samples (every variety of meat, cheese, macaron, wine, fois gras--ick, and jam). I am glad I got to check it out, but after about ninety minutes of shoving crowds and irritable servers, I had had enough.

That evening I had delicious Mexican food at a place called El Sol y La Luna, followed by more margaritas, followed by my first viewing of the Notre Dame. It was beautifully illuminated in the nighttime and in my drunken revelry, I could not help but force my friendles to pose for some pix. Later that night, I also ate my first crepe, a mere 45 days into my stay in Paris.

Today was a day of such laziness and luxury that I am almost too embarrassed to write about it. But then I remembered how little shame I have and decided it would be better to share with all three (five? six????) of my readers. I woke up late in my cave of a room (I can draw the special window blinds down so tight that virtually no sunlight shines through) and ate breakfast while watching some American TV (blessed internet). I showered, pranced around, looked outside, made tea. I met my friend Kate for some amazingly thick hot chocolate in the Marais district, and then Kiley and I set off to discover a new region of the 3eme arrondissement. After locating one of our new favorite places in all of Paris (bonton--most simply explained as a designer lifestyle for children and infants including furniture, decor, clothing, barbershop, and art gallery), we sashayed into Merci, another swanky ass concept shop much like "bonton" but for the grownups. I was somewhat surprised I did not run into any minor celebrities in there. It was upscale to the point that I was nearly too ashamed to ask the cashier for help. I left with a small bottle of fantastically fresh perfume "Eau de Charlotte," which can only be described as the melding of scents of lychee fruit and powdered baby bottoms.

I was conflicted. Yes, it was beyond ridiculous that people spent 33 euro on a designer salad strainer and that pencils came with erasers at the top in shades of buff, mauve, and yellow ochre, and slate. Yes, it was beyond reproachable that mothers should spend over 90 euro for their two year old's trousers which the wearer would outgrow within a matter of weeks. Yes, I realized that there was absolutely no real-world application of color-coded spoon organizers or yarn holders or chandeliers that produced no light. But what about all of this made it so deliciously appealing? My guess is that the allure lies in the simplicity of the design. The designers take the most critical elements such as color and form and do as little as possible with them, thereby creating irresistibly charming pieces that beg to be touched, picked up, and mentally placed into a picture-perfect living room/kitchen/bathroom. If there's anything you want for your home, it's for it to be a beautiful, practical space. I must therefore stay away from Merci and the likes of it until I have all of the above: a) a baby; b) tons of money.

Another Morning at the Cimitiere Montmartre

The Day I Caved

Today was a day of ups and downs. I woke up feeling surprisingly better from my feverish state the previous evening and, as my one class of the day had been cancelled, I had quite some hours to kill before visiting the Dali museum in Montmartre. I stretched, watched the first half of Doubt (2008), had breakfast, showered, and researched fun little things to do.

The Dali museum was great. Upon approaching the cashier, I had a deja vu and realized I had been there before with my family quite some years before. The museum was hid in a stereotypical yet adorable little alley with vines growing over the cracked brick walls. We spent an enjoyable hour inside, studying the sketches and sculptures of a messed mind.

Afterwards, we set out to find the famed Rose Bakery as we had heard of its many wonders (think pumpkin scones. . .this kind of thing simply does not exist in Paris). We found it, but as it was a Monday, it was closed. "No worries," we thought, "it's Paris! We'll find a zillion places to eat within five minutes' walk from here." Alas, we were much too optimistic for a Monday in the city. After nearly an hour of walking, we were no closer to finding an open bakery and ten minutes later we started feeling our stomachs turning in discomfort. Well, on we walked until we could no longer take it. It had started to rain. We were waiting to cross an intersection and I reached out to my friend for a hug. Of course at this very moment a car splashed a tide of filthy puddle water all over the lower half of my body.

At this point, we were quite in despair. All of the sudden, a familiar trademark caught my eye, perhaps the most familiar of all. . .Starbucks. I fought the urge, but nothing could stop me now. I went inside the familiar little shop (this one was really miniature) and ordered my comfort drink. I decided not to think too much about the fact that I had just spent in the vicinity of six American dollars on a drink. When the barista handed it to me, I put the delightfully green straw to my mouth and sucked. I am not going to lie when I say that the tiniest bit of shame was completely obscured by a powerful feeling of relief. It was all going to be okay.

Moebius exhibit

This morning I woke up resenting the taste of red wine and gin and craving a morning out. I googled "Museums of Paris" and came across something not too far from where I live, the Fondation Cartier pour l'Art Contemporain. The current exhibit featured the art of the illustrator Jean Giraud, aka Moebius or Gir.

As we entered the all-glass building, we were greeted by a young bespectacled man who directed us into a small movie theater to our right. We were handed the most intense pair of 3-D glasses I had ever seen and told the movie would begin in a few minutes. It was a short film with no dialogue or voiceover based off of one of Moebius' comic books about a couple of explorers encountering a crazy planet that is reminiscent of Avatar's Pandora, but way more intricate. It was chilling and intense, very little was explained, but it was quite beautiful. The rest of the exhibit consisted of a nicely laid out curving strip of his sketches, excerpts from his comic books, oil paintings, etc. etc. that wound through the entire first floor of the gallery. Photography was not permitted but here is a taste of his extremely diverse and intricate style of which I do not know much but can only describe as morbid, erotic, fantastical, sci-fi, and with a strong metaphysical property:

I spent way too much money in the gift store and purchased a present for a friend as well as a graphic novel copy of Kafka's Metamorphosis for myself. It's written in French and illustrated by Peter Kuper. Can't wait to curl up (ha . .) with this gem.

Thursday night

I am sitting alone in my room and I am quite happy. I am listening to music, drinking red wine out of a real wine glass, in one of my favorite comfortable shirts, doodling. I am staying in tonight to get proper rest because I am a bit enrhumee (I have a cold) and I'd like to garner my energy for tomorrow night and the rest of the weekend.

After six hours of class today, I stopped for groceries despite feeling so exhausted that I almost decided not to eat and to crawl into bed. But I purchased some choice items and headed home, already tasting the zucchini I was about to fry in oil and salt.

Apart from massive quantities of bread and cheese, this photo is actually a very accurate depiction of my diet here.

My dinner was perfect; couscous with zucchini, smoked meat, and fried egg, and a glass of cheap ass red wine. Dessert: chocolate mousse. Today was just one of those days where despite nothing particularly spectacular having happened, you feel happy to just be.

Over the past week, I have:

--gone ice skating with some girlfriends at the outdoor rink in front of Hotel de Ville

--written my first paper of the semester (2 pages, double-spaced... ha!)

--watched the following movies: Strangers on a Train, Never Let Me Go, Date Night (not proud), True Grit

--celebrated Valentine's Day with two of my best friends

--eaten more than my share of pastries

--been taken out to dinner by a new friend

Tomorrow morning I am going to a screening of Hemingway In Paris and then Drole de Drame, both free courtesy of my program! Hopefully the cold will soon be history and I will be able to stay up past 11 pm. Just kidding you guys, I never stay up that late!

A Most Remarkable Sunday Morning

As I walked towards Place de Clichy to take the metro home from Laura's apartment this morning, I passed over the Cimitiere de Montmartre. Usually when I am walking home from Laura's, it is late in the night, and the cemetery is closed. I kept telling myself to come back during the day to wander amidst the gorgeous tombs and little alleys, but it was just so out of the way. So this morning, when I was walking back after having spent the night, I decided it was the perfect time for a detour.

I approached the cemetery map which lists the graves of famous people for tourists (and non-tourists, I suppose) to locate. It was very confusing and I decided to just wander, and return another day if I did not find all of the graves I wanted to visit. I then noticed a beautiful cat sitting atop a grave near the entrance. I pet it for a while, but it soon attempted to swat at me so I left it alone.

It wasn't super warm out, and I was still wearing my clothes from the night before, so suffice it to say I was not quite dressed for the crisp morning. Nonetheless, it was a beautiful morning to see the cemetery. I walked until I came upon hector Berlioz' grave, and admired it for a bit. I noted to tell my dad about it, and as I was writing it in my notebook, I noticed an old man about twenty feet away from me, spooning out tuna and what appeared to be liver from tin cans with a hilariously long silver ladel. We made eye contact and he beckoned me over. Going against everything IES ever told me, I approached him.

Sejean (I am not sure how he spells his name) is an incredible fellow. he appears to be well into his eighties but nonetheless is unbelievably dedicated to his cause. And what might this cause be? Every morning, Sejean treks over to the cemetery, rain, or shine, or snow, with two large sacs of cat food to feed the 100+ cats of the Cimitiere Montmartre.

Soon after we started chatting (all in French), he intimated that it was quite an expensive endeavor to keep up the cat feeding. I immediately felt concerned--was this another scam? Was he pretending to go around feeding poor kitties while actually scamming young American tourists into giving him crack money? Probably not. I parted with several euros and decided I could also part with some time.

I followed Sejean around the cemetery for the next ninety minutes, until he finished his daily route. It was a truly touching experience. Not only was this elderly man lugging around at least thirty pounds of tuna, but he was familiar with each cat and its character. (Near the end of our trek, he kept shouting something at me in mangled French but I didn't understand until it was too late; turns out, he was telling me "That one's a scratcher!") I asked him lots of questions about what he was doing and why: When did he start? (About 20 years ago.) Did he do it alone? (Yes, although some random people sometimes snuck food to the cats.) Where did all the cats come from? (They are all abandoned by people who no longer want them.) how much does one day's supply of food cost? (50 euro.) What's that powder you're sprinkling on top of the meat? (It's for their coats, to keep them healthy.) how long did this route take? (Four hours, 6,5 kilometers.)

Apart from talk of his activity, we discussed our love of classical music, opera, in particular, our visits to Russia, our parents, what I was doing in Paris, animals, and relationships. he was quite funny; he made several cracks (actually I believe he was being totally serious) about how he only socialized with women (not men) because the were like cats, and in general he related to animals much better than to people. he mentioned the passing of his wife and how he sometimes composed music to recall old times.

As we parted, he asked me whether I had a pen and something on which to write. I handed him my planner, and opened it to the back where a few blank pages remained. I watched closely and full of emotion as he sketched a scene of the cemetery, complete with a cat atop a tombstone. Underneath, in broken English (his father was an Englishman) wrote: "Remember this time, with the cats. You love? Me too." he signed it and wrote his address and phone number. "You call me in the evening and we'll dine together," he said, "at my favorite Italian cafe."

And I fully intend to.

List Post Post List Pist Lost

I cannot believe that one quarter of my time abroad has elapsed. Does time fly when one lives in Paris!

Best things about being here:

1. Being able to order and purchase alcohol any time I damn well please

2. Being able to dress nicely without being questioned.

3. how much I have to walk

4. Excellent public transportation (unless it isn't working)

5. Well-dressed men

6. Light work load and only studying that which interests me

7. Fresh bread anytime, anywhere

8. Beauty and culture anytime, anywhere

Worst thing about being here: Massive piles of dog shit everywhere

I could think of more but I feel like writing a positive post.

Best pastries: chocolate tart from Grenier a Pain, and Brioche Francaise (cream and chocolate chip filled), violet-cassis macaron from Laduree

Best drinks: Pick Me Ups at Cafe du Marche, margaritas at El Sol y La Luna

Best moments: tea at Laduree, moments of sunshine, ice skating at hotel de ville, first bites into pastries, loaves of bread, meals, making new friends

The King's Speech and Vermin in the Bedroom

Spent the afternoon at the cinema today finally seeing "The King's Speech." It was delightful and glorious and tasteful and smart. From the decor to the costumes, the casting to the impeccable acting, the movie was really enjoyable. The filming was cleverly confined to small rooms, narrow hallways, intimate spaces, and even some fish-eye lens use to mirror the constriction and frustration felt by George/Bertie. Firth and Rush's performances brought tears to my eyes and also made me cackle, successfully irritating the rest of the audience (over 60, Parisian). My friend and I grasped each others' hands and held our breaths throughout the entire nine-minute Speech.

In other news, just a few minutes ago, Kiley and I successfully chased out a mouse from Madame's bedroom using ourselves, a broom, peanut butter, and a pan. The mouse was tiny and adorable and likely hopelessly terrified by the three of us but every time it scampered across the floor we shrieked (I can feel a sore throat coming on I am sorry to say) and jumped on her bed and held hands. Quite a bonding moment.

Also, am I forever destined to consistently cut the roof of my mouth on every baguette I bite into?

Today

I've got to say, today was a good day. Nothing in particular made it a good day, but I don't really need a reason, do I? I was surprised by my light heart today since it was Thursday, one of my heavy class days. Very heavy. But then there is the fact that five classes here barely add up to one Whitman course in terms of work-load and so a day of four classes requires very little brain power.

Either way, I was woken by my alarm from a deep sleep and let's be honest, the last time that happened was months ago. I wore my brand new old sweater that I found at one of Paris' well-known thrift or "frippe" stores. I had just woken up. Forgive the lack of eye.

I stood in the tiny elevator with an old man. It was mildly uncomfortable, physically, really. It is a very, very, small space. In the elevator, as I was untangling the naughty earbuds for my iPod, the old man poked me, smiled, pointed at my iPod, and startled, I removed my earbuds. "C'est pour la musique?" he asked. "Oui," I responded, and between the ride from floor 6 to floor 0 I explained, as best I could, the inner workings of the iPod. I then exited the apartment complex and was swiftly on my way to class, but not before noticing how remarkably warm for a Paris winter it was. The air felt nice and it brought a smile to my face that I didn't have to button up my peacoat in order to feel comfortable.

Walking to class in the mornings is probably my favorite part of the day. The urge to fight being awake is gone by then, and in my twenty-two minutes (twenty if I take extra long strides), I listen to music (usually Girl Talk because I require an aggressive beat to keep up my pace) and sometimes embarrassing things if not for the mere pleasure then only for the fact that I can, and can even mouth the words, and nobody around me will know because they probably can't read lips in English. Sidenote: I can't read lips in English, either. Anybody who has every tried to mouth something to me across a room would know this.

What was I saying? Forgive me, for my dear friend Laura and I consumed a bottle of only the cheapest red wine with dinner. Ah, yes. I was walking to class. The walk to class is quite lovely in itself. I pass dirty streets, cleaner streets, grand boulevards, small alleys, clean people, dirty people, mothers with strollers, beautiful men on fixed bikes, boulangeries, pattiseries, viennoseries, rotisseries, an ancient church, and pass through a beautiful circular park on the inside of a large building which, I believe, holds the offices of a number of psychologists. There is always so much to see and smell on my morning walks.

I always thought you had to walk slowly, dallying and turning here and there to really enjoy. It is not so. I walk so quickly I passed a dude on a bike the other day (time is money in Paris, apparently, but then they spend hours at a meal...) but there is something unusually exhilarating about walking so swiftly, hearing my boots click the pavement and sweating under my layers. I liken it to the feeling of exercising--you're moving with a purpose, only it's better this way because I'm exercising while getting somewhere I need to go. French women don't get fat because they walk.

But really, it's because they smoke a pack a day.

Playing Catchup

As I am sure you understand, since I now actually have things to do other than sit and wonder what to do with myself, I am not able to blog as frequently. Likewise, since I am in class part of most days, I am doing less exciting spontaneous things. But do not despair! There is always more to come.

A few succinct points:

1. I have discovered that I have not gained weight in my 3 weeks here. The only possible explanation, as my diet consists mainly of cheese, bread, and chocolate, is that the enormous amount of walking is the culprit (or in this case, savior).

2. I am putting my long legs to use via walking.

3. I walk fast. Everybody walks quickly here. If you aren't walking with a purpose, you shouldn't even bother to walk, dammit.

4. I am trying to let go of the fear that I will spend too much here. Because truthfully, I will. There is no getting around it in this city. But I figure I worked a lot last semester, and I am young, and only studying abroad in Paris once, so now's the time to blow dat cash.

5. On my walk to classes today I saw a small boy walking alongside his grandmother, I presume. She was holding a balloon and wearing as far from a festive expression as possible. The boy, on the other hand, was dressed in a dapper suit and kept running up behind the balloon and spiking it down a la volleyball every several steps. I kept waiting for the grandmother to have a cow but she didn't and honestly she wouldn't have had the right to be upset. She is carrying a large, colorful, helium-filled object; how can she expect the child not to play?

6. Some mornings I wake up and the Tower is so obscured by the fog that I have a moment of panic and wonder whether I dreamt the whole thing up.

7. I am doing something I usually dislike doing (but I have a good reason for it): reading two books at once. One: Ada or Ardor by Nabokov; Two: Never Let Me Go by Ishiguro. Reviews likely to follow.

8. I am going to Amsterdam this weekend! I will be leaving on Friday morning and returning Sunday evening. There will be four or five of us traveling--a few girls I befriended during orientation and then a few randoms. hopefully all will go smoothly. We are traveling by train. The next post, therefore, will surely be an account of my little Dutch weekend. Censored, but just enough.

Love to all.