la diosa fredda // the cold goddess

I keep trying to write about Italy but keep getting blocked, so I will take that as a sign that I am not supposed to. Just know that it included:

• the night bus
• walking by Montparnasse Cemetery at 4 a.m.
• lots of good food, to include paninis, clementines, pasta and pizza
• no good tiramisu
• Rome & the Colosseum
• Venice: Murano, Doge’s Palace, more pretty things than I can count
• nice bus drivers who don't take our money
• freeloading
• very, very cold feet
• a bottle of whiskey and trashy Chinese food
• good friends

I think everyone who reads this realizes that I am now back in the States. Nevertheless, I had plans for a lot of posts, so I will continue to update this blog with stuff about my travels to Prague & Saint Malo as well as the must-see landmarks in Paris. For posterity’s sake.


While I work on those posts, here are two pictures of Rome and Venice.

freddo come un lungo addio // cold like a long goodbye

A couple of days ago, I got an email from the US Embassy. For those who are curious, here is a selected quote:

"Last year, U.S. citizens reported that glass bottles were hurled, extensive public drinking and drunkenness occurred, and sporadic fighting broke out in Paris around the Champs-Elysées, the Champ de Mars, and Trocadero. Parked cars being set ablaze is also a fairly common feature of revelry in France, occurring even in upscale neighborhoods."

I did not see any burning cars, but celebrating New Year's in Paris was still a singular--and at times, traumatic--experience. But let me start at the beginning:

My friends and I all met up at P.'s apartment for appetizers and drinks. His place was ginormous and only a couple of blocks away from Etoile/l'Arc de Triomphe, so we opted to walk there afterward to greet the new year. This ended up being a really good idea, because all the metros looked like this:

Waiting for fireworks.

The stroke of midnight came as a bit of a surprise as there was no collective countdown. One moment, people were noisy and crazy, and the next...they were noisier and crazier. After exchanging bisous (the French don't hug, remember?!), we decided to walk down to the Champs-Elysées to see what the rest of the masses were up to and to celebrate. Unfortunately, the other 50,000 people there seemed to have the opposite idea; my friends and I were pretty much like fish trying to swim upstream.

Sea of fish people.

Speaking of fishing, you know how there's that scene in Mulan where all the soldiers are taught how to fish with their bare hands? Well, I was walking, trying to not get trampled by the mob, when someone definitely tried to fish me.

Yeah, um...what?

After the first grab at my ass, I was like, "Okay. Just have to keep moving, this is just like changing stations at Châtelet. Just keep moving." ("Just keep swimming," if you're going to stick to the Disney theme.)

So I moved away. He followed. From the nether reaches of creeperdom, there was another grab, with some finger action on the thighs. I pushed his hand away and tried to move forward. I made P. go walk behind me. The hand made a grab at my breasts.

Apparently in Paris, New Year's is akin to Opposite Day. Or rather, Do Whatever the Fuck I Want Because They Can't Stop Me Day.

Do you know what it's like to feel a strange hand tear your tights and try to finger fuck you? In a mass crowd where you cannot get away as easily? And know that the same creeper is doing similar things to your female friends standing right next to you? And to look back and see the person who was doing it, and find his face completely impassive?

No? I hope you never do. That was possibly the one time that I have felt terrified while in Paris. I still get angry thinking about it. Still freaked out.

Thankfully, the boys came to our rescue, and we eventually got to a less crowded space. I gave my camera to J., and he took pictures for the rest of the night.

J. knows I like eye candy. I'm not sure how I feel about these two, though.


This is the less-crowded part of the Champs-Elysées.

We ended up walking all over Paris, randomly taking pictures and just as randomly getting our pictures taken. My memories of that night include: bitter cold, very drunk P., J. almost getting into a fight, M. & I wondering why the hell we spent time with so many boys, J.'s friend playing gentleman and trying to protect us, P.'s sister E. and I bonding over our shared traumatic experience, and the bitter cold. (I have become quite the pussy--I'm sure that it was just in the 20's or something. It's just...I didn't have my winter clothes with me!)

Anyway, I did not make New Year's resolutions that night, and neither did my friends. I have made them since then--or rather, have had them made for me. We'll see how spectacularly I will fail.

For those following along on my love life: I did not kiss anyone for New Year's. I wanted a prince, not frogs. And these frogs (heh) all chain-smoked anyway. Man, I am so clever I kill myself.

Happy New Year!
-From some random quartet.

I know I'm writing about New Year's three days too late. But on 01/01/10, I was busy writing my Christmas post. Do take a look-see if you're interested.

mon beau sapin // my beautiful christmas tree

Happy new year!

...oh hey, it's also a new decade. How about that.

Many apologies for my long absence. I had friends visiting, and then I was traveling, and then I was run over by a truck, and then...

Just kidding on that last part. But I really was traveling! A monstrous post or two about my adventures in Rome and Venice is forthcoming. I promise.

In any case, I hope that the holidays have been good to you all. And that you spent it happy and warm, surrounded by family and friends.

On that note, did you know that I spent Christmas at a chateau in France?

The crèche. The family is Catholic, so this is pretty traditional, from what I surmise.

Before you get too jealous, though, known that I am still trying to decide whether it would've been more awkward to be the lone American amongst 160 French aristocrats (as I expected), or as the lone stranger amongst my host family's immediate family (what actually happened). The lowest moment of my Christmas séjour might have been when we were discussing Christmas traditions and my host mother mentioned that Christmas is a time that the French typically only spend with their closest, most immediate family members. Cue the awkward music.

And so it was that I spent Noël with Madame, Monsieur, their four children, their children's spouses, and their four grandchildren.

French Christmas trees, even aristocratic ones, are not as big.

Some highlights and lowlights:

1. I wasn't expecting presents, as it was way more than enough that they'd invited me to their chateau and fed me delicious French food for four days. But they got me books! In French, bien sûr. Madame said that it was to help me with my French. On a somewhat related note, I am currently working on A Thousand Splendid Suns // Mille Soleils Splendides in French; I have never read the English version.
2. The entire du P. family is extremely photogenic. Despite the fact that I felt like an ugly duckling 20 out of the 24 hours of the day, I think I spent my days in a dazed stupor, wondering how I was allowed into their company. Holy shit.
3. I ate a lot of good food. A lot. Oysters and beef ragu and foie gras. I think that foie gras might be the first French dish that I do not like. I had such high expectations for it, too! When the time came to eat it, everyone cut these huge pieces and put them on their plate. I, of course, followed suit. Except that it was possibly the richest thing that I have ever put into my mouth, and I had such difficulty swallowing it (no jokes here, please). I know that it was just me, too, since it was an old family recipe and everyone else loved it. But to the Asian in me, it tasted just like pure, unadulterated fat.
4. On a side note, I had the worst tiramisu ever. Someone had made it and added crème de marrons and used langues de chat instead of ladyfingers. As a result, the chestnut flavor was overpowering and there was no discernable pastry anywhere. Oh well.
5. If the chateau didn't make it obvious, then I will say it here: the du. P is extremely rich and blue-blooded. In the running for the Second Most Awkward Moment: everyone, including me, was sitting in the salon, when Madame says the following to her three daughters and one daughter-in-law, "Come to the kitchen. I just took out some old gold pieces that I want to pass on to you." Um.
6. That said, I was very surprised by the level of restraint that I saw. I guess it's because they're old money that they're not very ostentatious? The majority of the gifts were books and things that showed a lot of thought and care and not necessarily costly. I mean, there were the random opera tickets and necklaces, but still. I did notice the consumerism that seems to drive most of America. I'm just generalizing, of course.
   
7. The grandchildren are very well-loved, smart, and well-behaved. In short, not me. The smart and well-behaved part, I mean. This made playing with them so much easier. Not to add that it's much less awkward for me to play with children than to interact with French Strangers That I Don't Really Know But Am Celebrating Noël With Anyway. J. is 6, and she has two little brothers: C. (3), and F. (8 months). There is another grandchild, C. (6 months). And they are all so cute. Soooo cute. I think I am now known as the emergency babysitter, hahahaha.

I didn't take many photos, mainly because it's So Weird to take photos of a place that someone actually lives in. And the fact that Noël, while awesome, was also incredibly awkward for me as a Random Stranger from the States. The chateau is located near Dreux, in Normandy. It has its own postcard. Ask me to show it to you sometime.

That said, this was the view from my window. At the chateau.

To come: posts about New Year's in Paris, adventures in Rome and Venice, and the requisite places to visit should you ever find yourself in Paris.

berce mon coeur // cradle my heart

Your worst disappointments always stem from your greatest expectations. I speak, of course, of Laduree.

Laduree is one of the most famous bakeries in Paris, known especially for their macarons. I haven't been able to confirm it, but I have heard that they provided said delicacies for the movie Marie Antoinette. I suppose that that should've been my first sight--Things That Look Good® tend to taste like shit compared to their more rustic, home-baked cousins.

I went to Laduree for the first time in mid-September, a Madwoman on Mission for Mouthwatering Macarons. You know how some women waffle over which pair of shoes they want to wear? Well, I do that when faced with a choice of pastries, except I'm worse. It took forever, but I eventually decided on the macaron with the caramel au beurre salé. (I am a woman of immense faith, you see, and I was convinced that salted butter caramel could make anything taste better.)

Imagine, then, the sheer despair that overcame me when I bit into that macaron, expecting heaven and being confronted instead with a stale and oversweet monstrosity. I experienced my first true heartbreak that day--even worse than the disappointment I felt upon discovering that Magnolia Bakery in NYC sold dry cupcakes.

But you see, I am a sucker, easily swayed by pretty packaging and whispered promises. And so, a month later, with M. from Princeton's friends visiting, I took the opportunity to go there again. Despite having been burned in the past, I stepped through its green doors with hope in my heart.

Knowing better than to pay 1.50 Euro for a measly pastry the size of a half dollar, I (very logically) gave up an arm and a leg to try out one of their bigger pastries. M. from my university did the same so that the two of us could each sample two different desserts.

I guess I should've known. My pastry came to me in a pretty green box, further protected from the weather by a plastic bag. Upon opening the shiny lid, I was confronted by the comforting sight of chocolate and coffee pastry cream. Eating said pastry (I forget its name)....that was a disappointment. There was a brief moment of clarity where I realized that at least 80% of the 7.60 Euro I paid for the confection went to the Department of Making Shit Look Good.

But I can only be fooled so many times, Laduree. I have some friends visiting soon, and so I will probably be suckered into visiting your establishment again. This time, however, I will be strong and resist your siren's call. I will fortify myself against your sugary charms with a ton of chocolate before venturing into your territory. Never again, Laduree. We are over.



On an unrelated note, a Frenchwoman who is on a perpetual diet asked me for my Chocolate Espresso Torte recipe. I guess that means I win at life?

Up next: Paris as a Tourist Destination, or How T. Will Take the Opportunity to Document and Photograph Touristy Places that She Should've Done the First Time Around

tâche d'être heureux // try to be happy

I haven't cooked too much lately, mainly because I've gotten a) busy, and b) lazy. I've also been willfully eating like shit for the past two weeks. Oops.

That said, I made this for dinner:

Sweet soy glazed chicken and onions on a bed of steamed broccoli.

I actually wasn't a big fan, despite the fact that it came out looking delicious. One of the few times food blogs have led me wrong.

To make up for this pedestrian effort, I made Chicken Cacciatore the next day. It is a stew with tomatoes, mushrooms, zucchini, red bell pepper, and...chicken. It was much more delicious and satisfying, but does not photograph anywhere near as well.

And comme d'habitude, I made enough to last a week. Or at least three days.

la vie n'est pas un théâtre // life is not a play

I forget sometimes that Paris is a large city and therefore potentially dangerous.

Despite the impersonal reserve of Parisians, the city is set up so that you always feel as though you are walking through a series of villages. While this is true of the charming neighborhoods like Montmartre, it also applies to the shabbier working-class neighborhoods.

A few days ago, I witnessed my first act of violence in Paris.

We'd been reading about the increasing instances of "senseless" urban and suburban violence in class, so the topic was already on my mind. It was, however, something that I thought of in a purely academic light. Sure, I always joked with my friends about getting mugged or dying in a ditch somewhere, especially during the times when we'd walk through an especially unsavory part of town, but I never really took it seriously. Because to be honest, Paris is a pretty safe city. Many people have it a lot worse elsewhere.

But seeing a girl get beat up by a gang of other girls while you are stuck, helpless, on the other side of the Metro tracks changes your perspective quite a bit.

My faith in humanity remains intact, however, as there were people on the other side who could and did immediately come to the girl's help. People do give a shit.

I was never overly naive about the realities of the world (or even of Paris). I also am fairly certain that I would be an unlikely target for any gangs. Thus, I am relatively safe. Regardless, it is always a bit saddening and disconcerting when you realize how much clearer the rose-colored glasses have become.

Girl-on-the-Metro, wherever and whoever you are, I hope that you got home okay and that you are safe.

quel est ce mystère // what is this mystery

I was feeling super-depressed when Thanksgiving rolled around. This was unexpected, seeing as I wasn't really into it while in the States. In addition, I'd thought that since the French didn't celebrate it, it'd be better since there would be no reminders.

Instead, I got out of class at 7:30 p.m. on Thursday night, feeling utterly bereft and maudlin.

This malaise, however, might have been due to the fact that M. had been whining about it too. And since misery loves company...

I'm not blaming anyone. Really.

In any case, we decided that a Thanksgiving dinner was, in fact, absolutely necessary. And that goddammit, the boys were going to have to dress up. (The girls, too. But girls don't need convincing.) And so we did.

We all showed up at M.'s place in Boulogne after having spent a fortune on American food ingredients. Despite the fact that pretty much everyone was milling around in the kitchen, each needing to use the oven and stove more than the last, we got dinner on the table in about four hours. Very impressive, if I do say so myself.

Our menu:

• butternut squash soup (I winged it again this year, adjusting things to my taste with much better results)
• smoked salmon & tomatoes quiche with confiture d'oignons
• garlic mashed potatoes
• green beans with lemon butter & garlic (I guess I was determined that we had some sort of vegetable on the table, even if it was slathered in butter...)
  
• roasted chicken (try finding a full turkey in France on a student budget...)
• pumpkin pie with whipped cream
• apple pie with vanilla ice cream
• M.'s whoopie pies from who-knows-when

and



I forgot my camera, so these pictures actually belong to M. from Princeton. I shamelessly purloined them from facebook.

There was, of course, red wine, white wine, and cider to round things out. Not bad for some poor college students three guys and two girls, huh?

plus légère que l'air // lighter than air

Seeing as it's getting to be exam time for everyone and their mother (except, of course, me), I thought I'd provide you with a little insight to my academic process. Thus, I present you with:

How to Not Fail French University: A Plan

1. For the two classes that I have at la fac, it is necessary to milk my "Je suis une Américaine stupide" status for all that it's worth. In theory, this will get the professors to take pity on me and give me a decent grade. The majority of French kids don't get 15 out of 20, so I don't really understand how my university thinks that making a 15/20 an A constitutes as a proper scale.*
2. For my French class, suck up to Madame K. and do extra exercises to make up for my disastrous attempts at la grammaire française and the fact that I have never seen half of this grammar before.**
3. Give up my France & Europe class as a lost cause and rely on my Cultures, Institutions, & Mentalités Politiques grades to cancel it out. This might actually be possible thanks to Monsieur R.'s generosity. As for Madame G., I have no hope of her ever getting over her narrowminded viewpoint that understanding the big ideas are not as good as regurgitating shit verbatim.

*Writing my papers might also be a good idea.
**By sucking up, I really mean, "Maybe talk in class once in a while."

There is much less required work involved in the French university system. At the same time, it is just as hard, if not harder (and not just due to the whole language barrier). It's incredibly different from the expectations that we have as American students. For example, French kids aren't expected to create a thesis in their papers and defend it--they're actually not supposed to. More often than not, they end their papers having talked about three different possibilities, without knowing what the "right" answer is.

What I mean to say is that I still have no significant free time. Just lots of dead periods. And I've been incredibly bad about filling up said dead periods with French instead of English.

Basically, I'm just a failure. At French, I mean. Sob.

qu'on oublie pas // that one doesn't forget

In the past couple of weeks, I have learned the following:

• Paris is expensive, but London is even more so (I still love it anyway)
• Frenchmen have pissing contests by trying to one-up one another regarding the number of bedrooms that they have at their family chateau. Case in point: my host dad vs. his brother-in-law
• I am a tease (?)
• the French don't do Thanksgiving. In fact, your American-based university program will make sure that you have classes until 7:30 p.m. the day of
• the French suck at bowling. I mean, they really suck.
• I've developed this rather (un)fortunate addiction to mango sorbets and coffee ice-cream that actually tastes like coffee
• somewhat related to the point above, I eat like shit here because I don't drink nearly enough water
• French dolls are anatomically correct. My 3-year-old charge has a baby boy doll complete with all the relevant plumbing
• French kids have no prolem pooping and peeing in front of each other. This might explain why grown-up Frenchmen have no problem whipping out their willies in broad daylight to pee onto incoming traffic

The point is that all these random bits of knowledge, unsavory or no, would not be possible if I were not studying in Paris. This post is a day late (my bad.), but I am quite thankful for this rather eye-opening experience.

I am thankful for you, too. But you already knew that.

fais-moi revivre encore // make me alive again

Last Thursday, I had the (mis)fortune of:

• having to hand in a 10-page explication du texte on the Great Depression (in French!)
• taking a 2.5 hour midterm (passer un partiel, as they say) where I wrote a plan de dissertation on the powers of le Président de la République and a commentaire on the discourse of Robert Badinter
• knowing that I had an impending examen on the following Monday morning

Obviously, I needed a break before tackling said examen on the illustrious Charles de Gaulle and the not-as-well-known Georges Pompidou. Logically, the best course of action was to pick up and go to London for the weekend.

En fait, I'd bought my tickets on Tuesday night--two full days before the paper and the exam. In light of this disclosure, I admit that the trip was obviously not as spontaneous as I'd led you to believe. My apologies.

Anyhow, D. and I left Paris on Friday morning, departing from the Eurolines station in Bagnolet. We spent the bus ride--which lasted more hours than I care to count--sleeping, talking (in English!), and complaining by turn. A favorite subject of ours was the ridiculous process of going through customs. In all seriousness, it was like a video game: you stopped every couple of meters, drove around in circles, navigated various obstacles, performed like a monkey in heels...

We got through customs only to end up in a claustrophobe's nightmare: the ferry.

Our huge bus was boxed in by this...contraption.

All I can say is that I'm really glad I'm not claustrophobic. But seriously? D. & I were so happy to be going to London that we didn't much care.

One of our first views of London after a couple of hours on the highway.

We arrived at Victoria Coach Station around 6:15, only to be given the herculean task of somehow making it to our hostel. The process happened much like this:

1. Getting from Victoria to King's Cross via the London Underground: simple enough, albeit expensive at 4£ per single trip ticket
   
2. Getting from King's Cross to our hostel, located on King's Cross Road: more complicated than it should have been

You see...I was exhausted remiss in my duties and did not do as much research as I should have. All I had was the address. Fortunately, we ran into a very nice man who took us to the hostel and gave us some very good advice. Apparently, the road we were heading down (after making a wrong turn. Of course) led to a more unsavory part of London. Not where "two nice American girls" would like to go. Whoops. Thank you, Mr. Nice Englishman!

Public Service Announcement: Don't head down Gray's Inn Road after getting out from King's Cross. Apparently at night it fills up with a multitude of unsavory characters.

But I digress. D. & I stayed at Clink, a hostel housed in what used to be a courthouse. They kept a lot of the old structure and it looked very cool. IN general, it was nice, clean, and safe. The only bad things were the bathrooms, in which you left dirtier than you came, but I guess you can't have everything.

We made friends with some sweet Australian girls and some crazy Italian girls. I meant to go dancing with them both nights that we were there, but alas, my exhaustion (from work, traveling, and playing tourist) got the better of me on both nights. I guess I am just not a crazy party animal.

Clink's internet room was actually the old court room.

On Saturday, we did...well...everything.

We dropped by Buckingham Palace to see the Changing of the Guard.

Men in uniform always equates to an increase in my libido. But this is my future husband. Just saying.


I can't believe that they do this everyday. Or every other day.

It was an interesting ceremony, even if it got monotonous after a while. My favorite parts were a) when they had someone systematically check the little guard houses and b) the shuffling required during various parts of the whole act.

This is my other future husband. D. and I got him to smile, haha. Victory!

We then had lunch at an Italian restaurant in the Covent Gardens. This was after we walked through the artisanal crafts market, of course. An Italian man made me (and D.) a heart-shaped pizza. I'd marry him if he wasn't so old.

D. & I then met up with an old friend (one that I hadn't seen in 7 years). We were supposed to go on a walking tour, but the tour never showed up. T., kind soul that she was, played tour guide for us instead.

She took us to see Big Ben...

...and Westminster Abbey.

After taking a little break, we headed off to see the Tower of London.

Creepy? More like awesome!

And what trip would be complete without the Tower Bridge?

Sorry. This was the best one I had without my face in it.

And then, even though it was raining, we headed off to Saint Paul's Cathedral.

Pretty!


We also caught a glimpse of the Globe.

My flats were utterly destroyed by the rain, so D. & T. teamed up and convinced me to buy 3-inch-heeled boots. This involved some hardcore bargaining--I convinced a hapless young man to give me a 5£ discount. Win?

The next day, D. & I found time to hit up Platform 9 & 3/4 before leaving. I'm not too big of a Harry Potter fan, but it was fun.

"My trolley won't move!"

On the way back, D. & I couldn't stop talking about how much fun we'd had and how we didn't want to go back to Paris. In particular, we were immensely charmed by the advertisements and signage that we encountered in London:

I think that one of the best things about London was how friendly people are. Everyone smiles and makes small talk and is so helpful. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed all of this, living in Paris with the über-reserved French. But it was just so nice to interact with people and to not feel like they were looking down on me. (Seriously, my biggest sense of accomplishment in Paris comes on the days when some French(wo)man judges me to look safe, knowledgeable, and French enough to ask me for directions...) I think that this was a big reason why I didn't want to leave.

Anyway, that's neither here nor there. Just know that London was awesome. As always, pictures with my face in them are on facebook.