I know that I have been neglecting this blog a little bit as of late, but I have been sick and busy...and sick...and busy. Please expect a deluge of posts to come--I am probably typing up even more entries as you are reading this one.
Anyhow, I think that I will make it a point to visit more Parisian cemeteries. As maudlin as it may sound, I have yet to find any other place in Paris that gives me such a sense of peace and relaxation. As you are walking past the various graves, the sense of history is poignant and the passage of time is almost tangible. You are at once nothing and everything, shrouded in solitude and yet not at all alone.
A couple of weeks back, I visited a cemetery in Montmartre, right next to Pigalle. Within a few minutes' walk, I was transported frm the boulevards of screaming neon signs and dimly-lit sex shops (it is Pigalle, after all...) to a quiet world where wild cats peek at you from behind the bushes and birds chirp from on high as you stroll by on the cobblestone paths. It was immensely comforting to know that even in the hustle and bustle of metropolitan Paris, it was possible for me to find a moment where time went by more slowly.
We'd read a text in class about les exilés; it was a letter from one expatriate to another that described her experiences with assimilation and adaptation. I found it interesting that while the word "expatriate" does exist in the French language, this woman chose instead to use the term "exile." Maybe in my heart of hearts, I could relate to that...I and others like me who try to straddle the line between one or two or three cultures.
As is wont to happen in discussion classes, we talked about our experiences with foreign cultures and in foreign countries. There were personal anecdotes and there were stories recounted from secondhand sources. There was talk of homesickness and there were complaints about one's inability to find affordable cream cheese in the city. Through it all, I stayed silent. What was there for me to say?
I think of myself as an American -- it is what I relate to the most (or is it the only thing that I relate to?), and it is the only thing that I know. Of my Vietnamese heritage, I am not sure that I retain anything but my immense appreciation for its cuisine...and perhaps a certain stoicism. I am, at all times, too open and extraverted to be Vietnamese (the "traditional" Viet girl, anyway) and too reserved to be American. My reserve, while similar in level to that of the French, is, alas, not of the same type. So I'm definitely not French, either. In short: I don't belong. This, I think, is at the heart of the immigrant's dilemma. It is not assimilation into a new culture or retaining the old, but it is learning to reconcile those two sides of yourselves that you might not have known existed save for the occasional discordant tug at your heart.
In many ways, I am lucky--I am, by nature, a more logical person than an emotional being (although that, too, changes by the day). I do not have problems with homesickness. I adapt relatively easily to situations. I can stomach things that I find unpalatable, although I do not bother to if I do not think it is worth it. Perhaps it is my inability to "belong?" Instead, I build my roots in people. This is why, I suppose, I am slow to trust and slow to love. I can let go of a situation/place/thing with a blink of an eye, but I cannot do so nearly as easily with the people I have known and the relationships I have forged. I think a friend once likened me to a durian--spiky on the outside and soft on the inside. Potentially smelly. For those with a particular taste. Or something like that.
In any case, while I am sure that my experience is by no means unique, it is not something that is easily discussed face to face in a room full of strangers. How do you describe the singular feeling of living in a world where you hear every word spoken, but only as meaningless sounds? How do you recount what it felt like to smile and nod, only to realize later that you'd likely admitted to some wrongdoing and would be punished? How do you put into words what it felt like to do all this as a child of six years of age?
Maybe that is why I said nothing. Had I opened my mouth, I would've made some callous-sounding statement like, "Adapting to France is nothing. At least you have a modicum of the language." I am not a saint. I wouldn't have felt bad about saying it.
So I guess it's good that I held my tongue and waited to do all of my reflection as I was walking in the cemetery...
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
sans savoir où ça le mène // without knowing where it leads
I find it soothing and immensely helpful to write out all my blog entries and/or essays before I type them up. Maybe it's just me, but I think the entries end up flowing better. Words come more easily to me this way, and I like being able to revise as I am typing things up.
...but I digress.
Two days ago (as in samedi, 26.09.09), I went to Versailles. It was truly the home of the Sun King...and I was clearly in the wrong about the National Assembly being too opulent. You do not know opulent until you've been to Versailles.
I took the train to Versailles on a crisp, sunny morning. My Carte Imagine R had arrived the day before, so I was in an extremely good mood despite having had to get up early. (My Asian brain releases endorphins like no other every time I manage to avoid paying for something, you see, and thus the fact that I no longer had to pay an arm and a leg for transportation effectively put me on Cloud Nine.) Upon arrival, my life was made even better as we found out that the people who had set the whole thing up for us had made reservations for us as a group. This meant that we got to skip the long line that stretched all the way to Denmark and go directly into the chateau. And thus, I began my tour of Le Roi Soleil's domain.
I was told that there is always some part of Versailles that is under construction. In addition, the wings of the chateau are not accessible to the public as that is where Le Sénat and l'Assemblée Nationale convene whenver they deign it necessary to talk to each other. But the rest of the property was pretty much up for grabs.
We started with a tour of the chateau itself.
At first, I was staring wide-eyed at everything I saw and snapping pictures feverishly. After all, it was Versailles.
This is my knight in shining armor.
Don't worry, R.B. I will never again make the mistake of saying, "some random ceiling" in your presence. Thus, this is a very impressive ceiling done by a very-impressive-and-probably-famous artist.
The famous Hall of Glass.
People were really agog over the bed of Louis XIV. My audioguide described the various entrances to his bedroom; apparently there was a small one reserved solely for courtesans.
Where do you think they got the idea to turn Han Solo into metal in Star Wars?
Trompe-l'oeil: "to fool the eye." This is a painting, not a carving.
The mirrors were kind of dirty.
...but I digress.
Two days ago (as in samedi, 26.09.09), I went to Versailles. It was truly the home of the Sun King...and I was clearly in the wrong about the National Assembly being too opulent. You do not know opulent until you've been to Versailles.
I took the train to Versailles on a crisp, sunny morning. My Carte Imagine R had arrived the day before, so I was in an extremely good mood despite having had to get up early. (My Asian brain releases endorphins like no other every time I manage to avoid paying for something, you see, and thus the fact that I no longer had to pay an arm and a leg for transportation effectively put me on Cloud Nine.) Upon arrival, my life was made even better as we found out that the people who had set the whole thing up for us had made reservations for us as a group. This meant that we got to skip the long line that stretched all the way to Denmark and go directly into the chateau. And thus, I began my tour of Le Roi Soleil's domain.
I was told that there is always some part of Versailles that is under construction. In addition, the wings of the chateau are not accessible to the public as that is where Le Sénat and l'Assemblée Nationale convene whenver they deign it necessary to talk to each other. But the rest of the property was pretty much up for grabs.
We started with a tour of the chateau itself.
At first, I was staring wide-eyed at everything I saw and snapping pictures feverishly. After all, it was Versailles.
This is my knight in shining armor.
Don't worry, R.B. I will never again make the mistake of saying, "some random ceiling" in your presence. Thus, this is a very impressive ceiling done by a very-impressive-and-probably-famous artist.
The famous Hall of Glass.
People were really agog over the bed of Louis XIV. My audioguide described the various entrances to his bedroom; apparently there was a small one reserved solely for courtesans.
Where do you think they got the idea to turn Han Solo into metal in Star Wars?
Trompe-l'oeil: "to fool the eye." This is a painting, not a carving.
The mirrors were kind of dirty.
After a while, though, the rooms all started to look the same to me: each and every one of them lavishly decorated, elegant, and maybe a bit over the top. Maybe I just prefer the simpler things in life?
Anyway, I stopped taking pictures until we got outside. The gardens and landscaping at Versailles were by far my favorite part of it.
One of the many "bodies of water" at Versailles. This picture was taken on the steps of the chateau.
This guy didn't know how to row. He's about to maroon himself and his girlfriend.
This is another body of water. I was just taking a picture of the landscape, but this random old woman walked in and turned around at the last moment, so this is a good touristy picture of her.
...I want to get married at Versailles...
Pretty flowers from one of the gardens.
Marie Antoinette had a little hamlet built for herself so that she could come here and pretend to be a peasant/shepherdess every time she got tired of court intrigue.
Anyway, I stopped taking pictures until we got outside. The gardens and landscaping at Versailles were by far my favorite part of it.
One of the many "bodies of water" at Versailles. This picture was taken on the steps of the chateau.
This guy didn't know how to row. He's about to maroon himself and his girlfriend.
This is another body of water. I was just taking a picture of the landscape, but this random old woman walked in and turned around at the last moment, so this is a good touristy picture of her.
...I want to get married at Versailles...
Pretty flowers from one of the gardens.
Marie Antoinette had a little hamlet built for herself so that she could come here and pretend to be a peasant/shepherdess every time she got tired of court intrigue.
By the time we got to the hamlet, my friends and I had long been separated from the main group (we'd taken a wrong turn somewhere? Or maybe we took too long for lunch...) After a bit more sightseeing, we decided to hightail it back to the city. Back in Paris, we went to a crêperie in Montparnasse for dinner.
Après avoir dîné, because I was obviously filled with limitless energy, M. & I met up with some friends for a night out on the town. We managed to catch Happy Hour this time, so I didn't have to sell my body to afford a drink. The waiter at the bar/café/restaurant that we were at was very cute andillegally surreptitiously gave us a copy of their menu as we left. I'd like to think that it was because he noticed how much we enjoyed it, but it was probably due to the fact that K. & I were inundating him with questions about whether or not there was a paper copy/a version of it online somewhere.
Why such a big deal for a menu?
Because everyone loves franglais, of course! Also, it was nice to know that while we were incompetent in French, the French were also not as good en anglais.
In this picture, note the "salad of goat (tackle in sheet of brick)" and the "white cake in the coke, the coulis of red fruit."
In this one, note the "crunch lady" and the "tartar of Salmon has the dill."
Après avoir dîné, because I was obviously filled with limitless energy, M. & I met up with some friends for a night out on the town. We managed to catch Happy Hour this time, so I didn't have to sell my body to afford a drink. The waiter at the bar/café/restaurant that we were at was very cute and
Why such a big deal for a menu?
Because everyone loves franglais, of course! Also, it was nice to know that while we were incompetent in French, the French were also not as good en anglais.
In this picture, note the "salad of goat (tackle in sheet of brick)" and the "white cake in the coke, the coulis of red fruit."
In this one, note the "crunch lady" and the "tartar of Salmon has the dill."
This is how I spend most of my weekends in Paris: mostly being classy with a little bit of fun thrown in. Other times I am a homebody and don't do anything interesting.
As always, there are more pictures, including those where you can see my face clearly, on facebook.
As always, there are more pictures, including those where you can see my face clearly, on facebook.
une goutte dans la mer // a drop in the ocean
In one of my initial posts, I joked around about needing to find myself a sugar daddy. Maybe I shouldn't be joking anymore and actually go and get myself one?
I kid, I kid.
A couple of weeks ago I attended the first course of a set of cooking lessons. We made a dinner of fresh fish from Normandy, ginger-garlic rice, stir-fried zucchini (or was it cucumber?), and oeufs à la neige for dessert. There was also, of course, the requisite wine and cheese and bread.
I didn't really learn too much new stuff, but since we started out simple, it's not a bad thing. I'd never made oeufs à la neige before, but I'd had experience with meringues and custards with all my baking escapades. The combination of fish and rice was absolutely succulent, and as an added bonus, reminded me a little bit of home while managing to be inherently French (I think it was due to the presence of my-weight-in-butter in the sauce).
Oeufs à la neige, translated literally as "snowy eggs" but probably better known as "floating islands" or "floating meringues," is a dessert in which you have pieces of meringue (poached with milk) floating in a sea of rich vanilla custard. It is then topped with caramel.
The lighting provided a wonderful atmosphere for dinner, but as for taking pictures? Not so much.
But as good as the food was, the reason for which I brought up cooking lessons immediately after I mentioned my need for a sugar daddy is thus: Mme B. has a very, very cool apartment and access to baking supplies that I can't imagine in my wildest dreams.
How cool?
Well, to start with, she lives on the top floor of a very snazzy building with two layers of code access protection and its own concierge. Upon arrival, Mme B. pointed to some chick schmoozing with the concierge, noting that she was "a former Bond girl." Yes, James Bond. She lives in a building with a former Bond girl. How cool is that? (Well, apparently not so cool, because according to Mme B., the Bond girl is a little folle.)
But that is not what I am jealous of.
Mme B.'s top floor apartment has two walls which are mostly made of glass and are effectively just two huge windows leading out to two huge balconies. On one side, you have a view of the entirety of the famous Jardin du Luxembourg. It's like a perfectly manicured forest, spreading out almost as far as the eye can see. On the other side, you have a view of the rest of Paris. Sitting at her dinner table, I was treated to a flawless view of the Eiffel Tower...during the light show. And the apartment was huge and well-decorated and everything.
To add, Mme B. has the most beautiful set of scales ever in her kitchen. And she is also the owner of a huge jar of vanilla beans. I've never had a chance to use a vanilla bean in my life. FYI: I don't know how much vanilla beans go for in France, but in the US, their cost ranges anywhere from $5-$8...each. Mme B doesn't bother with vanilla extract.
I'd have pictures, but like I said, the lighting wasn't so cool.
Family, I love you. But I am going to get myself adopted or find myself a sugar daddy or something so that I can live a life like this too. I don't want to come back. I want to stay here and play with vanilla beans while sipping wine and watching the Eiffel Tower for the rest of my life.
Kidding again! But the vanilla beans...
I kid, I kid.
A couple of weeks ago I attended the first course of a set of cooking lessons. We made a dinner of fresh fish from Normandy, ginger-garlic rice, stir-fried zucchini (or was it cucumber?), and oeufs à la neige for dessert. There was also, of course, the requisite wine and cheese and bread.
I didn't really learn too much new stuff, but since we started out simple, it's not a bad thing. I'd never made oeufs à la neige before, but I'd had experience with meringues and custards with all my baking escapades. The combination of fish and rice was absolutely succulent, and as an added bonus, reminded me a little bit of home while managing to be inherently French (I think it was due to the presence of my-weight-in-butter in the sauce).
Oeufs à la neige, translated literally as "snowy eggs" but probably better known as "floating islands" or "floating meringues," is a dessert in which you have pieces of meringue (poached with milk) floating in a sea of rich vanilla custard. It is then topped with caramel.
The lighting provided a wonderful atmosphere for dinner, but as for taking pictures? Not so much.
But as good as the food was, the reason for which I brought up cooking lessons immediately after I mentioned my need for a sugar daddy is thus: Mme B. has a very, very cool apartment and access to baking supplies that I can't imagine in my wildest dreams.
How cool?
Well, to start with, she lives on the top floor of a very snazzy building with two layers of code access protection and its own concierge. Upon arrival, Mme B. pointed to some chick schmoozing with the concierge, noting that she was "a former Bond girl." Yes, James Bond. She lives in a building with a former Bond girl. How cool is that? (Well, apparently not so cool, because according to Mme B., the Bond girl is a little folle.)
But that is not what I am jealous of.
Mme B.'s top floor apartment has two walls which are mostly made of glass and are effectively just two huge windows leading out to two huge balconies. On one side, you have a view of the entirety of the famous Jardin du Luxembourg. It's like a perfectly manicured forest, spreading out almost as far as the eye can see. On the other side, you have a view of the rest of Paris. Sitting at her dinner table, I was treated to a flawless view of the Eiffel Tower...during the light show. And the apartment was huge and well-decorated and everything.
To add, Mme B. has the most beautiful set of scales ever in her kitchen. And she is also the owner of a huge jar of vanilla beans. I've never had a chance to use a vanilla bean in my life. FYI: I don't know how much vanilla beans go for in France, but in the US, their cost ranges anywhere from $5-$8...each. Mme B doesn't bother with vanilla extract.
I'd have pictures, but like I said, the lighting wasn't so cool.
Family, I love you. But I am going to get myself adopted or find myself a sugar daddy or something so that I can live a life like this too. I don't want to come back. I want to stay here and play with vanilla beans while sipping wine and watching the Eiffel Tower for the rest of my life.
Kidding again! But the vanilla beans...
Thursday, September 24, 2009
une vie à la fois // one life at a time
It's a pretty small world out there. Before I left the States, I'd heard some mumblings from the relatives about how I had a cousin here. To be honest, I didn't really pay much attention. You see, I had this idea that I was going to be all independent and rely on no family member to help me navigate the treacherous waters of an unknown country. Goddammit, I was going to figure out how to get to my apartment from the airport without some cousin waiting for me with a car!
Well, I did manage the independence. I am Asian, however, and you don't ignore relatives if you happen to be part of an Asianclan family. After my mother asked me for the umpteenth time whether I'd contacted the cousin yet, I realized that I'd left the phone number I'd been given...at home. But distance cannot stop AsianDetermination, so before I knew it, I had a phone in my hand and was trying to decipher a number blurred by my chickenscratch penmanship.
The phone call went well and we made plans to meet.
Before I continue further about my cousin, maybe I should explain the degree of our association. Ong Tu is my grandfather's first cousin. That is to say, he is the son of my great-grandfather's sister. Waaaay older than I am, which means that there was the potential for an age barrier as well as a cultural one.
But I had no need to worry. Ong Tu is a pretty awesome guy. He is married to a quarter-Vietnamese Eurasian woman, and they have four children. I met one of them when I came to visit. I felt weird speaking to Cousin M in French (he cannot speak Vietnamese), but I managed. It's kind of funny, because in the course of our conversation, I found out that Cousin M is engaged to a woman in Vietnam. I wonder how that happened? I guess love really does overcome language barriers.
Ong Tu knows everyone. There were all sorts of characters who greeted him as he was showing me around the neighborhood (Chinatown in France?!). Their friendliness towards him was transferred to me after he introduced me as his little niece. Despite his age, Ong Tu is a really cool guy with a surprisingly youthful outlook on life.
I found out more about him during the course of the day as he took me out to lunch and on a little tour around Paris. He's been in France since 1954 after a psychic convinced his mother that he'd die an early death if he stayed in Vietnam. Knowing that he'd be living in France for a long time, Ong Tu told me that he prayed to find a woman who looked French but had a Vietnamese mentality. Enter his wife. She speaks Vietnamese, but had blonde hair and green eyes when she was young.
He's lived a full-fledged soap opera of a life, that cousin of mine.
Ong Tu seemed to understand, much more so than a lot of my American relatives, my need for independence. Instead of being overbearing and trying take charge of my life in a well-meaning-yet-somewhat-smothering manner, he told me simply that I knew where he was, and he'd help me if I ever needed anything. While he was genuinely happy to see me, he made it clear that I had no obligation to do anything.
So much love for that man.
In other news, I went to a cooking class a while ago in a snazzy apartment. There, I caught a glimpse of a former Bond Girl. Story to come later.
Well, I did manage the independence. I am Asian, however, and you don't ignore relatives if you happen to be part of an Asian
The phone call went well and we made plans to meet.
Before I continue further about my cousin, maybe I should explain the degree of our association. Ong Tu is my grandfather's first cousin. That is to say, he is the son of my great-grandfather's sister. Waaaay older than I am, which means that there was the potential for an age barrier as well as a cultural one.
But I had no need to worry. Ong Tu is a pretty awesome guy. He is married to a quarter-Vietnamese Eurasian woman, and they have four children. I met one of them when I came to visit. I felt weird speaking to Cousin M in French (he cannot speak Vietnamese), but I managed. It's kind of funny, because in the course of our conversation, I found out that Cousin M is engaged to a woman in Vietnam. I wonder how that happened? I guess love really does overcome language barriers.
Ong Tu knows everyone. There were all sorts of characters who greeted him as he was showing me around the neighborhood (Chinatown in France?!). Their friendliness towards him was transferred to me after he introduced me as his little niece. Despite his age, Ong Tu is a really cool guy with a surprisingly youthful outlook on life.
I found out more about him during the course of the day as he took me out to lunch and on a little tour around Paris. He's been in France since 1954 after a psychic convinced his mother that he'd die an early death if he stayed in Vietnam. Knowing that he'd be living in France for a long time, Ong Tu told me that he prayed to find a woman who looked French but had a Vietnamese mentality. Enter his wife. She speaks Vietnamese, but had blonde hair and green eyes when she was young.
He's lived a full-fledged soap opera of a life, that cousin of mine.
Ong Tu seemed to understand, much more so than a lot of my American relatives, my need for independence. Instead of being overbearing and trying take charge of my life in a well-meaning-yet-somewhat-smothering manner, he told me simply that I knew where he was, and he'd help me if I ever needed anything. While he was genuinely happy to see me, he made it clear that I had no obligation to do anything.
So much love for that man.
In other news, I went to a cooking class a while ago in a snazzy apartment. There, I caught a glimpse of a former Bond Girl. Story to come later.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
c'est comme ça // it's like that
After almost a month in France, I still find myself mostly enamored with the Parisians. What I want from them will come when it will come, but in the meanwhile, there are two things that I would like to ask of them. Specifically, two things that I would like to ask of Frenchmen:
This weekend was the journées du patrimoine in France, where all the public buildings are open to the public, even if they are not normally. This means that places like l'Elysée become really crowded, and that people stand in line for five hours hoping to catch a glimpse of Nicholas and Carla.
I went to l'Assemblée Nationale. This is effectively the building where the legislative branch of the French government works. It was not as big as I expected it to be--or maybe it was just because it seemed much more...homey?...than Capitol Hill does? At the same time, it was very opulent and lavishly decorated.
This is me attempting to look picturesque.
These are random men who have been paid to stand there and look like they are doing something important. So that tourists like me can stand there and gawk.
Opulence.
Some random ceiling.
Big hall where all the deputies live. I mean, make law and discuss stuff.
The rest of the pictures, as always, are on facebook.
After my trip to the National Assembly, we waited for a while on Line 12 of the Metro to get on and see this old, old train from the end of the 1930s. I got a free postcard! And the train was pretty cool looking. There were different cars for different classes. The first time around, I was in the second-class car. The second time, I upgraded to first class.
Up next: cooking lessons in swanky Parisian apartments and discovering long-lost relatives.
- I respectfully ask the men who 35+ years of age to please refrain from hitting on me or checking me out. While flattering, it is also creepy. On the other hand, if you could, please do introduce me to your sons. They don't notice me nearly as much as you do, and it'd be nice if that changed.
- I also respectfully ask that Frenchmen of all ages refrain from excreting any bodily fluids in public. It is just gross. Taking little Capitaine Jacques out in the middle of a crowded street is just not cool. There are bathrooms nearby.
This weekend was the journées du patrimoine in France, where all the public buildings are open to the public, even if they are not normally. This means that places like l'Elysée become really crowded, and that people stand in line for five hours hoping to catch a glimpse of Nicholas and Carla.
I went to l'Assemblée Nationale. This is effectively the building where the legislative branch of the French government works. It was not as big as I expected it to be--or maybe it was just because it seemed much more...homey?...than Capitol Hill does? At the same time, it was very opulent and lavishly decorated.
This is me attempting to look picturesque.
These are random men who have been paid to stand there and look like they are doing something important. So that tourists like me can stand there and gawk.
Opulence.
Some random ceiling.
Big hall where all the deputies live. I mean, make law and discuss stuff.
The rest of the pictures, as always, are on facebook.
After my trip to the National Assembly, we waited for a while on Line 12 of the Metro to get on and see this old, old train from the end of the 1930s. I got a free postcard! And the train was pretty cool looking. There were different cars for different classes. The first time around, I was in the second-class car. The second time, I upgraded to first class.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
de ces soirs de lumières // of these lit-up nights
The above image, my friends, is what I would term a "foodgasm." Sure, it doesn't look like much. Actually, to be honest, it might even look...unsavory. I mean, a sort-of shapeless blob of a pastry?
But no.
It is so much more.
This is an éclair café that I bought at my local bakery. I am not quite sure why it is an éclair café and not an éclair au café, but grammatical questions are of no import here. The important thing is that you spend a couple of seconds looking at this...and then you start envying me enviously for the rest of your envy-filled life.
Just kidding. I don't know what it was about this eclair that made me like it so much. Maybe it is because I am a sucker for all things coffee-flavored. Maybe it is because I am so happy to discover that French pastries, while often rich, are nowhere near as sickeningly sweet as the majority of American pastries. Upon eating this eclair, I first encountered a subtle hint of coffee. A bit skeptical at the beginning, I became more and more impressed as I chewed and the flavors started to merge into the perfect balance of coffee, sweetness, and richness.
Why oh why are French desserts so much better across the board? The other day, I found myself at a KFC. Yes, KFC. My friends and I were simply looking for a place to work, and KFC had wi-fi, unlike the café that we had originally settled on. Of course, you can't just sit down without ordering something. So I...went for the tiramisu. Of course. It set me back only 1,90 Euro. And that tiramisu, which I found at a KFC, was better than the majority of those that I've tried in the States.
This, dear friends, is why I can't bring myself to bake while in Paris, no matter how dearly I miss it. I am simply not brave enough to confront my inferiority.
...But let us turn our attention to something other than
This picture was taken from my window, and is representative of one of the things that I love about Paris. Lest you call me a stalker, I will endeavor to explain myself:
I was minding my own business, en faisant les devoirs, je pense, when I suddenly heard music drifting through the house. My host family was (and is still) away on vacation, so it could not have been them turning on the CD player or something. And I...I was too rational to believe in ghosts, so that was out of the question.
...it took me a while to realize that it came from outside.I never said that I was smart, okay?!
For some reason, several gentlemen had randomly decided to pull out their instruments and play music on our street. They were situated all over the place; there was a man standing across the street from the one that you see in the picture, as well as two others stationed in different places. It was like...an impromptu marching band. They were playing an old love song to which I know the tune but not the title. When I asked my host-sister later that night, she could not recall the title either, but thought that it was possibly Russian.
One day I will hum you that song, and perhaps you will know. Or maybe not. I'm amused that I recognize all these French (and apparently Russian) songs, but cannot do the same with American music.
I like that there are impromptu concerts in the middle of the streets in Paris.
For those who are interested, I am still going through orientation. Orientation currently consists of two classes: French and méthodologie. In French, we haven't been doing much but for some grammar review and random discussions about cultural differences. In méthodologie, we are (re)learning the structure of the French dissertation. One of my teachers looks like a younger version of Alan Rickman.
Classes at Paris I start in early October. I am in the process of choosing my classes for that. We will see.
I was minding my own business, en faisant les devoirs, je pense, when I suddenly heard music drifting through the house. My host family was (and is still) away on vacation, so it could not have been them turning on the CD player or something. And I...I was too rational to believe in ghosts, so that was out of the question.
...it took me a while to realize that it came from outside.
For some reason, several gentlemen had randomly decided to pull out their instruments and play music on our street. They were situated all over the place; there was a man standing across the street from the one that you see in the picture, as well as two others stationed in different places. It was like...an impromptu marching band. They were playing an old love song to which I know the tune but not the title. When I asked my host-sister later that night, she could not recall the title either, but thought that it was possibly Russian.
One day I will hum you that song, and perhaps you will know. Or maybe not. I'm amused that I recognize all these French (and apparently Russian) songs, but cannot do the same with American music.
I like that there are impromptu concerts in the middle of the streets in Paris.
For those who are interested, I am still going through orientation. Orientation currently consists of two classes: French and méthodologie. In French, we haven't been doing much but for some grammar review and random discussions about cultural differences. In méthodologie, we are (re)learning the structure of the French dissertation. One of my teachers looks like a younger version of Alan Rickman.
Classes at Paris I start in early October. I am in the process of choosing my classes for that. We will see.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
te jeter dans mes bras // throw you into my arms
As I am sure you all know, Paris is the City of Lights, of Romance, of Savoir-Faire and Sophistication...yadda yadda yadda.
Despite their classiness (or perhaps because of it), Parisians are also a very practical lot. As all of the finer things in life(such as bread and pastries and fruits) are available within five minutes' walk no matter where you are in Paris, it also stands to reason that nothing would impede a Parisian if and when he or she is feeling a bit amorous:
The above picture was taken at a metro station. To be honest, I don't remember which one it was as these condom dispensers can be found at any station. In addition, they are on prominent display in any pharmacie that you happen to go to.
This brings me to Reason #2 Why-I-Will-Never-Be-Une-Vraie-Parisienne: it actually has nothing to do with condoms, but the French are so much more open about being touchy-feely than I am used to.
Why, yes, I meant what I said. I know that people generally see the French as snobby socialites who wouldn't give you the time of day, much less give you entrance into their private world. This is true, up to a point. The French are much more private than Americans...there is a clear delineation between public and private space. They are more reserved--harder to get to know, but once you have their friendship, it's one that you can count on.
What I mean is that I am having a hard time getting used to the way Parisians greet each other. The American habit of going for the firm handshake has been deeply ingrained in me. Furthermore, growing up in an Asian household meant that public displays of affection just did not happen. Therefore I am totally flustered by the fact that that on fait des bisous to say hello and goodbye. And that fact that everywhere I look, there are couples PDA-ing.
Yes, I make tons of potentially questionable jokes that bring my morals into question. Yes, I am a hugging beast. Yes, I realize that you don't actually kiss the person, just the air. But. I am of the persuasion that your lips should be nowhere near my face (or the rest of my body, as a matter of fact) if I barely know you and don't have at least some bond of affection with you.
And speaking of kissing, I have never seen so much PDA in my life. But it's kind of cute, since the Parisians keep it classy and do romantic things like holding hands and smooching every once in a while. Classy. No need to get a room. It's just weird seeing all this romance in the air.
As always, I will get over myself soon enough. I'll probably even start kissing-as-a-greeting automatically. Apologies in advance to anyone that I may unintentionally molest during my first couple of weeks back in the States.
In other news, I am enjoying the fact that I can cook for myself, even if I do not know where everything is yet and even if I am still a bit uncomfortable about the fact that it is neither my kitchen nor my things. Tonight's dinner(and dinner for the rest of the week, as cooking for one means that you cook in bulk) was relatively simple:
The chicken thighs are from the market down the street, marinated (with a mixture of lemon juice, chopped basil, garlic, vegetable oil, salt and pepper) and pan-"fried." I had some brocolli and celery left over, so I made it into a quick stir-fry with some soy sauce. And then, just because I love them, I cut up a fresh, red tomato.
I know, I know, not very "French." But to be honest, I am getting a bit tired of all the butter and cream and richness, so this was a nice alternative.
Despite their classiness (or perhaps because of it), Parisians are also a very practical lot. As all of the finer things in life
The above picture was taken at a metro station. To be honest, I don't remember which one it was as these condom dispensers can be found at any station. In addition, they are on prominent display in any pharmacie that you happen to go to.
This brings me to Reason #2 Why-I-Will-Never-Be-Une-Vraie-Parisienne: it actually has nothing to do with condoms, but the French are so much more open about being touchy-feely than I am used to.
Why, yes, I meant what I said. I know that people generally see the French as snobby socialites who wouldn't give you the time of day, much less give you entrance into their private world. This is true, up to a point. The French are much more private than Americans...there is a clear delineation between public and private space. They are more reserved--harder to get to know, but once you have their friendship, it's one that you can count on.
What I mean is that I am having a hard time getting used to the way Parisians greet each other. The American habit of going for the firm handshake has been deeply ingrained in me. Furthermore, growing up in an Asian household meant that public displays of affection just did not happen. Therefore I am totally flustered by the fact that that on fait des bisous to say hello and goodbye. And that fact that everywhere I look, there are couples PDA-ing.
Yes, I make tons of potentially questionable jokes that bring my morals into question. Yes, I am a hugging beast. Yes, I realize that you don't actually kiss the person, just the air. But. I am of the persuasion that your lips should be nowhere near my face (or the rest of my body, as a matter of fact) if I barely know you and don't have at least some bond of affection with you.
And speaking of kissing, I have never seen so much PDA in my life. But it's kind of cute, since the Parisians keep it classy and do romantic things like holding hands and smooching every once in a while. Classy. No need to get a room. It's just weird seeing all this romance in the air.
As always, I will get over myself soon enough. I'll probably even start kissing-as-a-greeting automatically. Apologies in advance to anyone that I may unintentionally molest during my first couple of weeks back in the States.
In other news, I am enjoying the fact that I can cook for myself, even if I do not know where everything is yet and even if I am still a bit uncomfortable about the fact that it is neither my kitchen nor my things. Tonight's dinner
The chicken thighs are from the market down the street, marinated (with a mixture of lemon juice, chopped basil, garlic, vegetable oil, salt and pepper) and pan-"fried." I had some brocolli and celery left over, so I made it into a quick stir-fry with some soy sauce. And then, just because I love them, I cut up a fresh, red tomato.
I know, I know, not very "French." But to be honest, I am getting a bit tired of all the butter and cream and richness, so this was a nice alternative.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
pour qu'il guide nos pas // so that it guides our steps
I no longer have feet. J'ai marché trop, alors je n'ai plus de pieds. It's true.
Come to think of it, my legs don't really exist anymore either.
Yesterday, M., A., and I walked all over Paris--from the edge of the 8th/17th arrondissements to le tour Eiffel to le quartier Latin back to the Eiffel Tower and then back to our neighborhoods. We started our grand journey around 3 p.m., and I got home around 11:30. Maybe one hour was spent sitting down.
The weather was pretty shitty--perhaps the better word would be schizo?--changing from rain to sunshine back to rain back to sunshine again and again. It kind of reminded me of Vermont.
I only make this point about the weather because we went to some pretty awesome places and I couldn't take pictures due to the lack of light. But never fear, my stay in Paris is still storybook pretty and I have photographic evidence of that. For example, this is a random park close to chez moi.
We went first to the area around La Place de la Concorde, where there all manners of famous things. There, we made a pit stop at Le Jardin des Tuileries because it was pretty. And while there, we ran into this nifty sculpture:
We then walked to the Eiffel Tower and paid an exorbitant sum to have crepes at a stand right next to its base. Now, I know that everyone swears by crepes with Nutella or crepes with jam--and the two are indeed delicious--but I had my first crêpe au sucre et citron yesterday and it might possibly be my new favorite. There is something special about the simplicity of a crepe with just sugar and lemon juice, a perfect mélange of sweetness and tartness and beauty that makes it absolutely delectable.
Next was the Latin Quarter, where Notre Dame de Paris is and where all the students go. There, I was miffed to discover crepes being sold for 2 Euro--half the price that I had paid. But I suppose that it's not like I didn't realize that food anywhere near a major tourist attraction would be expensive. The Latin Quarter was very a very lively and happening place; I will definitely come back there at a later time.
To make up for my fiscal irresponsibility, M., A., and I bought sandwiches and ate them by the side of the Seine, à la pique-nique (actually, I'm pretty sure that's not a phrase en français). Did you know that in Paris, sitting down at a restaurant pretty much doubles the price? Un café might be 1.3 Euro if you order it at a counter and double to 2.6 Euro simply because you sat down and ordered it.
La Seine is really pretty normally, but it's even prettier at night.
By the way, I'm pretty sure you can click on any of the pictures to see a bigger version.For anyone who is actually interested, the rest of the pictures that I took yesterday and today should be on facebook sometime soon.
After our repas by the banks of the Seine, we walked back towards the Eiffel Tower. It was getting dark, which meant that the lights would be on, and that there would be a light show at the start of the hour.
But before that, a blurry picture of romance:
From afar, the Eiffel Tower seemed pretty enough...
But it was pretty awesome up close.
I'm going to try to put a lame 7-second video of the light show at the bottom of this post. We'll see if it actually works.
Today, we went to Le Louvre, as admission is free to all on the first Sunday of every month. In the small, slim, tiny, off-chance that you did not realize it, the Louvre is pretty big. We didn't get through all of it and I was exhausted.
This would be me standing in front of the famous pyramids. What, you actually expected to see my face clearly? Nooooo. The sheer ugliness of it in contrast with the beauty of the Louvre would blind you. Instead, you get une image de moi where I am squinting and grimacing and generally only halfway unpleasant.
There was a lot of art. I mostly lost patience with taking pictures after we got past all the classical sculptures. That said, there is a reason why I have a thing for Greeks and Romans.
Yum. Even if he is green, hahaha. Yes, L., I realize that this is an inanimate statue.
Also, I found this statue pretty hot until I realized that the guy was a satyr:
Nothing quite kills the mood like the discovery that he has a tail.
There were some pretty bizarre paintings too, like this one of two naked women, one uh...pinching...the other one's...goods. I didn't take a picture, though, because this is a mostly family-friendly blog. Mostly.
Besides, I'm too classy to take vulgar pictures like that.
And of course, I took the requisite pictures of La Joconde (da Vinci's Mona Lisa) and the Venus de Milo. I lost patience waiting amongst the throng of people at the Mona Lisa, though, so you'll have to forgive me for the horrible pictures.
Come to think of it, my legs don't really exist anymore either.
Yesterday, M., A., and I walked all over Paris--from the edge of the 8th/17th arrondissements to le tour Eiffel to le quartier Latin back to the Eiffel Tower and then back to our neighborhoods. We started our grand journey around 3 p.m., and I got home around 11:30. Maybe one hour was spent sitting down.
The weather was pretty shitty--perhaps the better word would be schizo?--changing from rain to sunshine back to rain back to sunshine again and again. It kind of reminded me of Vermont.
I only make this point about the weather because we went to some pretty awesome places and I couldn't take pictures due to the lack of light. But never fear, my stay in Paris is still storybook pretty and I have photographic evidence of that. For example, this is a random park close to chez moi.
We went first to the area around La Place de la Concorde, where there all manners of famous things. There, we made a pit stop at Le Jardin des Tuileries because it was pretty. And while there, we ran into this nifty sculpture:
We then walked to the Eiffel Tower and paid an exorbitant sum to have crepes at a stand right next to its base. Now, I know that everyone swears by crepes with Nutella or crepes with jam--and the two are indeed delicious--but I had my first crêpe au sucre et citron yesterday and it might possibly be my new favorite. There is something special about the simplicity of a crepe with just sugar and lemon juice, a perfect mélange of sweetness and tartness and beauty that makes it absolutely delectable.
Next was the Latin Quarter, where Notre Dame de Paris is and where all the students go. There, I was miffed to discover crepes being sold for 2 Euro--half the price that I had paid. But I suppose that it's not like I didn't realize that food anywhere near a major tourist attraction would be expensive. The Latin Quarter was very a very lively and happening place; I will definitely come back there at a later time.
To make up for my fiscal irresponsibility, M., A., and I bought sandwiches and ate them by the side of the Seine, à la pique-nique (actually, I'm pretty sure that's not a phrase en français). Did you know that in Paris, sitting down at a restaurant pretty much doubles the price? Un café might be 1.3 Euro if you order it at a counter and double to 2.6 Euro simply because you sat down and ordered it.
La Seine is really pretty normally, but it's even prettier at night.
By the way, I'm pretty sure you can click on any of the pictures to see a bigger version.
After our repas by the banks of the Seine, we walked back towards the Eiffel Tower. It was getting dark, which meant that the lights would be on, and that there would be a light show at the start of the hour.
But before that, a blurry picture of romance:
From afar, the Eiffel Tower seemed pretty enough...
But it was pretty awesome up close.
I'm going to try to put a lame 7-second video of the light show at the bottom of this post. We'll see if it actually works.
Today, we went to Le Louvre, as admission is free to all on the first Sunday of every month. In the small, slim, tiny, off-chance that you did not realize it, the Louvre is pretty big. We didn't get through all of it and I was exhausted.
This would be me standing in front of the famous pyramids. What, you actually expected to see my face clearly? Nooooo. The sheer ugliness of it in contrast with the beauty of the Louvre would blind you. Instead, you get une image de moi where I am squinting and grimacing and generally only halfway unpleasant.
There was a lot of art. I mostly lost patience with taking pictures after we got past all the classical sculptures. That said, there is a reason why I have a thing for Greeks and Romans.
Yum. Even if he is green, hahaha. Yes, L., I realize that this is an inanimate statue.
Also, I found this statue pretty hot until I realized that the guy was a satyr:
Nothing quite kills the mood like the discovery that he has a tail.
There were some pretty bizarre paintings too, like this one of two naked women, one uh...pinching...the other one's...goods. I didn't take a picture, though, because this is a mostly family-friendly blog. Mostly.
Besides, I'm too classy to take vulgar pictures like that.
And of course, I took the requisite pictures of La Joconde (da Vinci's Mona Lisa) and the Venus de Milo. I lost patience waiting amongst the throng of people at the Mona Lisa, though, so you'll have to forgive me for the horrible pictures.
Anyhow, this was all just a pretty long-winded explanation for why I no longer have feet. Because the fact that I no longer have feet ties perfectly into Reason #1 for Why-I-Will-Never-Be-Une-Vraie-Parisienne: I am almost dead after today, but all of the walking was done in flat sandals and tennis shoes.
I say this because nothing puts you to shame more than a reedy Parisian mother leading her son on a tour around Le Tour Eiffel while wearing four-inch stilettos. On cobblestone streets.
Oh Paris, why can't I have your sophistication and savoir-faire? Your grace and balance? Your lack of back pain and your disdain for orthopedic inserts?
Next time, Reason #2 for Why-I-Will-Never-Be-Une-Vraie-Parisienne. But for now, your own 7-second light show. Remember to tilt your head to the side because Idon't know how to can't rotate it.
I say this because nothing puts you to shame more than a reedy Parisian mother leading her son on a tour around Le Tour Eiffel while wearing four-inch stilettos. On cobblestone streets.
Oh Paris, why can't I have your sophistication and savoir-faire? Your grace and balance? Your lack of back pain and your disdain for orthopedic inserts?
Next time, Reason #2 for Why-I-Will-Never-Be-Une-Vraie-Parisienne. But for now, your own 7-second light show. Remember to tilt your head to the side because I
Thursday, September 3, 2009
de la bouche du metro // from the mouth of the metro
Between today and yesterday, I learned all manner of things:
The Du P. family is incredibly photogenic. Every single one of them could be models. Even the ones that married into the family. The grandchildren are the cutest beings in the world--they are the sort that makes you go, "Babies! I want one!" upon seeing them. There is one woman who had given birth to three children and still had a flat stomach. I just don't understand how Frenchwomen are so svelte. Also, Madame might be close to being a retiree, but I'm pretty sure that she is more sophisticated and fashionable than I am. By far.
Madame and Monsieur are incredibly nice and accommodating. Madame makes it a point to ask me how my day is and what I did. When I ask her for suggestions, she always has a lot of recommendations for me. Monsieur is a little quieter, but fiercely intelligent. I really enjoy talking to him about current events. I have also promised to show him how Skype works.
They have spent time in the States, so they know English well enough to give me some help when I stutter for too long. I adore them.
I find myself dealing with a weird dichotomy. During the day, it is French French French, and I feel my language skills really improving. At night, simply due to the blog or friends and family, I speak a lot of English, and then it feels like I am not. I don't know if I actually am, but it's an interesting thought/realization. Maybe you guys will just have to suffer through more of my sprinkled-in French, both in blogs and in talk. I feel better when I add in random French, comme si I am making more of an effort or something. It's probably the "or something."
It's only been two days, but...Paris, je t'aime.
- The sex district of which I spoke of is in le 9è arrondissement--only about a ten-minute walk away from my house. This is good to know, I guess, should I ever have a need for taking sketchy pictures ("Mom! Dad! Guess where I am?!") Or should there ever be an affaire between myself and a Frenchman, I will know where to get us sex toys and lacy lingerie. Additionally, I like to culture myself--the erotic museum will surely accomplish that.
- Frenchmen are incredibly feminine. I really love them only for their accents. There have been two instances so far when I have thought that someone was a woman until he opened his mouth. When I mentioned the lacy lingerie in No. 1, I was not necessarily implying that I would be the one to wear it.
- Despite their Eurotrashy tendency to wear pants that are tighter than my own, Frenchmen still occupy some sort of pedestal on my head. Being hit on by Frenchmen in the sketchy part of town feels just as greasy as being hit on by Mexicans in downtown Los Angeles, and yet, on some level, it feels somewhat classier. Maybe it's because it is done in French.
- I have a pretty good head for direction...sort of. I can't really understand why or how I am learning the layout of Paris so much faster when I never could deal with New York City. Paris is not straight city blocks, but narrow streets of quaint charm and occasionally, understated elegance.
- I must be pathetic, because I have a phobia of appearing touristlike and so am embarrassed to whip out my camera and take pictures. But no worries, I will get over myself soon. In any case, it's been really overcast/raining the last two days--I tried taking pictures today and it started pouring a minute later. Pictures of Little India will come when I manage to find it again, and I promise that you guys will have photographic evidence the next time I go to Les Champs-Elysées or L'Arc de Triomphe.
- I am going to get completely spoiled in Paris. And also as fat as a tub of lard. I've been pretty good, but soon I am going to give in to the tempting calls and smells of the four boulangerie-patîsseries and two marchés within five minutes from my apartment. Foodgasm.
The Du P. family is incredibly photogenic. Every single one of them could be models. Even the ones that married into the family. The grandchildren are the cutest beings in the world--they are the sort that makes you go, "Babies! I want one!" upon seeing them. There is one woman who had given birth to three children and still had a flat stomach. I just don't understand how Frenchwomen are so svelte. Also, Madame might be close to being a retiree, but I'm pretty sure that she is more sophisticated and fashionable than I am. By far.
Madame and Monsieur are incredibly nice and accommodating. Madame makes it a point to ask me how my day is and what I did. When I ask her for suggestions, she always has a lot of recommendations for me. Monsieur is a little quieter, but fiercely intelligent. I really enjoy talking to him about current events. I have also promised to show him how Skype works.
They have spent time in the States, so they know English well enough to give me some help when I stutter for too long. I adore them.
I find myself dealing with a weird dichotomy. During the day, it is French French French, and I feel my language skills really improving. At night, simply due to the blog or friends and family, I speak a lot of English, and then it feels like I am not. I don't know if I actually am, but it's an interesting thought/realization. Maybe you guys will just have to suffer through more of my sprinkled-in French, both in blogs and in talk. I feel better when I add in random French, comme si I am making more of an effort or something. It's probably the "or something."
It's only been two days, but...Paris, je t'aime.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
entre ciel et terre // between heaven and earth
Looking back, perhaps my trip to and initial moments in France were a bit auspicious. At the very least, it was eventful.
At the airport, I encountered a bitch who wanted to charge me $50 for being four pounds over weight on my luggage. I also dealt with a very nice man who typed with one finger to exchange my money. I got the bitch back by putting back almost everything I'd taken out after she gave me back my suitcases to take to the security scan machine.
Without an extremely nice woman who randomly let ten lucky people skip to the priority line, I would not have made it through security in time.
On the flight to Dublin, I made friends with Tara-the-art-teacher...who also happened to be a missionary going to Glasgow for two years. We commiserated over the idea of packing our lives into a couple of suitcases and laughed at some of the silly flight safety procedures. Really, who can tuck themselves into even a semblance of the fetal position when sitting in a cramped airplane seat? I ate my last Chipotle burrito for a year and watched The Reader and Ghosts of Girlfriends Past. I wish I hadn't bothered to watch the second one and gone to bed instead.
I also read and reread the majority of the letters (save the one marked "SPECIAL OCCASION ONLY"). I love my friends. I miss my friends like crazy.
I spent three hours in Dublin talking with Tara and spying on this one dude who was sitting a couple seats away from me. He was short and looked like the biggest bro in the world (seriously, a prime candidate for Bro Rape). In a very non-bro-like fashion, he struck up a conversation and started a game with two French children sitting next to him. By the time we boarded the plane, the kids were in love with him. Who knew bros spoke such good French? I suppose that this is supposed to teach me not to make assumptions.
On the plane to Paris, Vincent-the-bicyclist struck up a conversation with me. Turns out he'd been flying in from IAD as well. As an engineering student coming back from a year off--which he'd spent bicycling around Europe and South America--he was excited to learn that I was going to be studying in Paris. By the time the flight ended, I had Vincent's number and an offer to meet up with him and his friends that very night. They were apparently going to get together by the Seine for wine and cheese. I told him that I was probably going to pass out from exhaustion after the trip, and at the very least, I needed to get to know my host family, but that I appreciated the offer. I gave him an email address when he asked me for my phone number after giving me his. He said that he was glad that I had friends and contacts waiting for me in Paris, but that I also had a friend in him and to not hesitate if I needed anything.
Frenchmen are so friendly!
Don't worry, guys. As nice as Vincent looks, Taken is fresh in my mind. Ironically, it was also one of the movie choices during my flight from IAD to Dublin.
It was pouring rain when the plane landed, but had changed to a slow drizzle by the time I got my luggage. I got totally lost (sort of) at Charles de Gaulle, wandering around and trying to find my driver. But it turns out that it wasn't my fault--the driver was just late. Since I was using a shuttle service, I and six other people got on and we took off.
To get a good idea of Parisian driving, think of all the bad Asian women drivers that you know (hah!). Multiply them by 1000 and put them on the streets. Lanes don't really exist here unless you count the small medians.
Due to la circulation (traffic), I also got a very good view of Paris' sex district. I have never seen so many sex shops in my life. Anyone need some DVDs or special toys? It was like...three streets' worth of Fantasy World, except bigger and better, with more "services." Nothing beats sitting in a sketchy-looking gray van while crawling past the sex shops.
...sorry, I didn't take pictures.
To recap:
I eventually made it to my apartment. Madame and Monsieur were very nice. They complimented my French even though it sucks. The fed me good food and wine.
Still need to learn to drink wine. I couldn't down very much of it.
More to come later about la vie française with M. & Mme du P., my huge room, and my personal-but-tiny European bathroom.
At the airport, I encountered a bitch who wanted to charge me $50 for being four pounds over weight on my luggage. I also dealt with a very nice man who typed with one finger to exchange my money. I got the bitch back by putting back almost everything I'd taken out after she gave me back my suitcases to take to the security scan machine.
Without an extremely nice woman who randomly let ten lucky people skip to the priority line, I would not have made it through security in time.
On the flight to Dublin, I made friends with Tara-the-art-teacher...who also happened to be a missionary going to Glasgow for two years. We commiserated over the idea of packing our lives into a couple of suitcases and laughed at some of the silly flight safety procedures. Really, who can tuck themselves into even a semblance of the fetal position when sitting in a cramped airplane seat? I ate my last Chipotle burrito for a year and watched The Reader and Ghosts of Girlfriends Past. I wish I hadn't bothered to watch the second one and gone to bed instead.
I also read and reread the majority of the letters (save the one marked "SPECIAL OCCASION ONLY"). I love my friends. I miss my friends like crazy.
I spent three hours in Dublin talking with Tara and spying on this one dude who was sitting a couple seats away from me. He was short and looked like the biggest bro in the world (seriously, a prime candidate for Bro Rape). In a very non-bro-like fashion, he struck up a conversation and started a game with two French children sitting next to him. By the time we boarded the plane, the kids were in love with him. Who knew bros spoke such good French? I suppose that this is supposed to teach me not to make assumptions.
On the plane to Paris, Vincent-the-bicyclist struck up a conversation with me. Turns out he'd been flying in from IAD as well. As an engineering student coming back from a year off--which he'd spent bicycling around Europe and South America--he was excited to learn that I was going to be studying in Paris. By the time the flight ended, I had Vincent's number and an offer to meet up with him and his friends that very night. They were apparently going to get together by the Seine for wine and cheese. I told him that I was probably going to pass out from exhaustion after the trip, and at the very least, I needed to get to know my host family, but that I appreciated the offer. I gave him an email address when he asked me for my phone number after giving me his. He said that he was glad that I had friends and contacts waiting for me in Paris, but that I also had a friend in him and to not hesitate if I needed anything.
Frenchmen are so friendly!
Don't worry, guys. As nice as Vincent looks, Taken is fresh in my mind. Ironically, it was also one of the movie choices during my flight from IAD to Dublin.
It was pouring rain when the plane landed, but had changed to a slow drizzle by the time I got my luggage. I got totally lost (sort of) at Charles de Gaulle, wandering around and trying to find my driver. But it turns out that it wasn't my fault--the driver was just late. Since I was using a shuttle service, I and six other people got on and we took off.
To get a good idea of Parisian driving, think of all the bad Asian women drivers that you know (hah!). Multiply them by 1000 and put them on the streets. Lanes don't really exist here unless you count the small medians.
Due to la circulation (traffic), I also got a very good view of Paris' sex district. I have never seen so many sex shops in my life. Anyone need some DVDs or special toys? It was like...three streets' worth of Fantasy World, except bigger and better, with more "services." Nothing beats sitting in a sketchy-looking gray van while crawling past the sex shops.
...sorry, I didn't take pictures.
To recap:
- Flight to Paris: 8.5 hours + 3 hours layover = 11.5 hours
- Wandering around the airport/sitting through traffic: 3 hours
I eventually made it to my apartment. Madame and Monsieur were very nice. They complimented my French even though it sucks. The fed me good food and wine.
Still need to learn to drink wine. I couldn't down very much of it.
More to come later about la vie française with M. & Mme du P., my huge room, and my personal-but-tiny European bathroom.
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