I always have so many "Only in France..." moments that I forget to blog about. For example, only in France...
...will you see a woman, dressed to the nines, smoke a joint as she is walking down the street.
...will said woman be wearing five-inch stilettos. On cobblestones streets.
...is the aforementioned woman at least sixty years old.
...is taking forever to bring out the entree, the plat principal, and the dessert considered good service (the waiters assume that you want to spend forever talking, which, admittedly, is true some of the time).
...will sitting down double the price of your coffee.
...will you see some of the most creative parking on Earth.
...will you see huge posters with full frontal nudity while walking down the street.
...will no one bat an eye at said posters (the U.S. is too hindered by our puritanic roots).
I have more, of course, but you get the point. Anyway, the reason that I bring this up is that today, I had my medical visit to obtain my titre de sejour. It is basically a stamp in my passport that goes along with my visa and states that I am not in France illegally.
It was quite the process to get my visa.
To get your titre de sejour, you had to have a complete dossier filled with things like: attestation of housing insurance, attestation of lodging, attestation that you are registered at a university, etc. After your dossier is complete, they send it off to the OFII office (the equivalent to the INS in the United States). Once OFII receives it, they schedule a time for you to come have a visite medical. In theory, they will also send you a convocation.
After a catfight with my housing coordinator (in which she assured me that I would not need my convocation), I went off to the OFII office.
Of course, the first thing they told me was that I needed a convocation to even enter the building.
D. was right, though, it all eventually worked out (although with a lot of frustration on my part). I think it helped that there were at least seven other kids from my program, all sans convocation. The guy eventually took pity on us and looked up our names on the computer. Thankfully, there were no mishaps and it showed that we actually were supposed to be there.
It was then that I had my first "only in France" moment of the day: despite the fact that I had an appointment and all my paperwork in order, I was told that I would have to reschedule if I did not have my timbre with me. I did.
Just to let you know, that little stamp cost me 55 Euro. A piece of paper the size of my thumbnail. 81.19 USD. Fucker. So, only in France will a little piece of paper be worth a month's supply of food.
As I was in the process of having my medical visit, I encountered a few more "only in France" moments. Only in France...
...will the doctors shout out your weight from across the room (thanks, man).
...will your vision test include famous passages to see how well you can read up close.
...will you take off your shirt & bra in front of a huge black man and have it be completely nonsexual.
...will said experience of you being completely naked from the waist up also include said huge black man pressing you against the wall that is the upright x-ray machine.
They even had a hair clip attached to the x-ray machine so that I could get my hair out of the way. But then again, I was attached to the x-ray machine.
Just for future reference: as good as the French health care system is, they do not include paper dresses for these kinds of examinations. There were also nothing protecting my ovaries when the chest x-ray was taken. I would like to have babies eventually, but I guess the French don't really care.
I also ended up undressing for an old Asian woman (she was the doctor who took my blood pressure and heart rate and all that shit). Who knew you needed to undress for a stethoscope to be useful?
I thought my French was pretty good, but apparently not enough. That second time, I only needed to take my shirt off (and was allowed to keep the bra on).
Guess who didn't realize that until much later?
First step: pressing yourself against a wall while completely naked from the waist up.
Second step: ...going to nude beaches?
Sometimes I really miss the United States and its uptight sensibilities.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
oui je veux tout // yes i want it all
I just had an orgasm in my mouth. Except it was better.
Yes, I know that's what she said, but I'm pretty sure that this metaphorical girl's experience can't have possibly been as good as mine.
In the 4th arrondissement, on L'île Saint-Louis, there is a little store called Berthillon. Berthillon is widely considered to make some of the best--if not the best--ice cream in Paris. Because it's a local establishment and all, you can only find Berthillon ice cream on l'île Saint-Louis. In case you can't make it to the original store, most of the restaurants/bars/cafés on l'île sell Berthillon ice cream; I hear that it's delivered daily.
I took the parents out for ice cream tonight (they are visiting for the week)...actually, I guess that they're the ones who took me out since they paid. In any case, it was amazing. Amazing.
I had the famed caramel au beurre salé ice cream. Something about that salted butter caramel left an explosion of taste in my mouth. It was sweet and buttery and salty and wonderful. I think that it definitely goes on the list of Things That Would Turn T. Into An Easy Woman.
It wasn't all all ponies and unicorns, however. By the time I had finished my ice cream, the sweet aftertaste was a bit cloying and stuck to my throat.Sorry. Didn't mean to take the sexual analogy this far.
Mom wasn't the biggest fan (thought it was too sweet), but she did enjoy the mango sorbet. Likewise, Dad liked the vanilla. They both complimented the coffee ice cream.
It's okay that they didn't like the caramel ice cream though. I guess not everyone is up for having orgasms in their mouth.
...Paris has obviously turned me to the the most depraved of souls. In retrospect, I'm kind of disturbed that I mentioned "orgasm" and "mom and dad" in the same blog post.
Yes, I know that's what she said, but I'm pretty sure that this metaphorical girl's experience can't have possibly been as good as mine.
In the 4th arrondissement, on L'île Saint-Louis, there is a little store called Berthillon. Berthillon is widely considered to make some of the best--if not the best--ice cream in Paris. Because it's a local establishment and all, you can only find Berthillon ice cream on l'île Saint-Louis. In case you can't make it to the original store, most of the restaurants/bars/cafés on l'île sell Berthillon ice cream; I hear that it's delivered daily.
I took the parents out for ice cream tonight (they are visiting for the week)...actually, I guess that they're the ones who took me out since they paid. In any case, it was amazing. Amazing.
I had the famed caramel au beurre salé ice cream. Something about that salted butter caramel left an explosion of taste in my mouth. It was sweet and buttery and salty and wonderful. I think that it definitely goes on the list of Things That Would Turn T. Into An Easy Woman.
It wasn't all all ponies and unicorns, however. By the time I had finished my ice cream, the sweet aftertaste was a bit cloying and stuck to my throat.
Mom wasn't the biggest fan (thought it was too sweet), but she did enjoy the mango sorbet. Likewise, Dad liked the vanilla. They both complimented the coffee ice cream.
It's okay that they didn't like the caramel ice cream though. I guess not everyone is up for having orgasms in their mouth.
...Paris has obviously turned me to the the most depraved of souls. In retrospect, I'm kind of disturbed that I mentioned "orgasm" and "mom and dad" in the same blog post.
Friday, October 23, 2009
d'une maison de bois // of a wooden house
Two weeks ago (see how behind I am?!), my university hosted a trip for us to go to Mont St. Michel in Normandy. It was a weekend trip with a packed agenda; over the course of two days, we visited Bayeux, Omaha Beach, Mont St. Michel, and some random chateau.
I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday morning and managed to drag myself out of the house by 6:30. I don't know whether it's due to France's location or that winter is coming or both, but it was pitch dark when I stepped outside. For a city that is usually so vibrant and teeming with life, Paris gave a pretty good imitation of a ghost town. I walked past Gare St. Lazare and traversed a good chunk of Boulevard Malesherbes without seeing more than two or three people. I'm not going to lie--it was kind of creepy.
Because it was ungodly early, I really considered sleeping on the bus. M. from Princeton, however, was awake, and I would've felt like a bad seat mate. There were also random French people sitting near us, so I just stayed up to chat. Now sure how successful that was, though, seeing as I don't really do the whole "human being" thing in the morning unless I've had some coffee.
Did I mention that I am a coffee addict?
Thankfully, after an hour or so of me blinking stupidly while trying to process sounds that were not a part of the pounding in my head, we stopped at a rest station. It's strange how downing two shots of espresso in rapid succession (the coffee was shitty and not worth savoring) can improve your mood. It wasn't nearly enough caffeine, but at least I could string together enough words to make a somewhat-coherent sentence.
It was at this rest station that I made the acquaintance of M. from Marseilles (who caught my attention because K. seemed very interested in him). From him, I found out that the French people on the bus with us came because they were interested in finding language exchange partners. Interesting, no? I had filled out a form indicating my interest in early September, but had pretty much forgotten about it. And pretty much forgot about it again as we got on the bus and headed off to Bayeux.
The village of Bayeux houses a very famous and very detailed tapestry that recounts the exploits of William the Conqueror. Various scenes depict Guillame going to war, feasting, being crowned king, going to war again, etc. The cathedral in which the tapestry used to be displayed had burned down twice (both times with the tapestry inside), so it's a huge miracle that this thing still exists at all. Due to its fragility, however, I was unable to take any photos to share with you guys.
However, here's a photo taken inside the museum.
And the cathedral. Sorry for the quality; my ISO was set really high for some reason, and I didn't figure it out until later.
I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday morning and managed to drag myself out of the house by 6:30. I don't know whether it's due to France's location or that winter is coming or both, but it was pitch dark when I stepped outside. For a city that is usually so vibrant and teeming with life, Paris gave a pretty good imitation of a ghost town. I walked past Gare St. Lazare and traversed a good chunk of Boulevard Malesherbes without seeing more than two or three people. I'm not going to lie--it was kind of creepy.
Because it was ungodly early, I really considered sleeping on the bus. M. from Princeton, however, was awake, and I would've felt like a bad seat mate. There were also random French people sitting near us, so I just stayed up to chat. Now sure how successful that was, though, seeing as I don't really do the whole "human being" thing in the morning unless I've had some coffee.
Did I mention that I am a coffee addict?
Thankfully, after an hour or so of me blinking stupidly while trying to process sounds that were not a part of the pounding in my head, we stopped at a rest station. It's strange how downing two shots of espresso in rapid succession (the coffee was shitty and not worth savoring) can improve your mood. It wasn't nearly enough caffeine, but at least I could string together enough words to make a somewhat-coherent sentence.
It was at this rest station that I made the acquaintance of M. from Marseilles (who caught my attention because K. seemed very interested in him). From him, I found out that the French people on the bus with us came because they were interested in finding language exchange partners. Interesting, no? I had filled out a form indicating my interest in early September, but had pretty much forgotten about it. And pretty much forgot about it again as we got on the bus and headed off to Bayeux.
The village of Bayeux houses a very famous and very detailed tapestry that recounts the exploits of William the Conqueror. Various scenes depict Guillame going to war, feasting, being crowned king, going to war again, etc. The cathedral in which the tapestry used to be displayed had burned down twice (both times with the tapestry inside), so it's a huge miracle that this thing still exists at all. Due to its fragility, however, I was unable to take any photos to share with you guys.
However, here's a photo taken inside the museum.
And the cathedral. Sorry for the quality; my ISO was set really high for some reason, and I didn't figure it out until later.
Unfortunately, it was at Bayeux that I had my first encounter with Bad French Food. Normandy's specialty is the crêpe. So, apparently illogically, I thought that I wouldn't be able to go wrong if I ordered a croque-monsieur (France's version of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich) and a crêpe (citron-sucre, of course). Normandy's other specialty is cidre, but that's beside the point.
Obviously, college students' desire to save money leads them into making Bad Food Decisions.
My croque-monsieur had been frozen. The lady microwaved it. Twice. The crêpe was soggy and was obviously reheated in the microwave too. I didn't realize that it was possible to make such bad food for things that are French staples.
Luckily for me, M. from my university is a boy and will eat anything, so I ended up foisting all the stuff on him, having lost all of my appetite. Objective sources say that I was unable to do anything but repeat, "What the FUCK?!" and "Pute!" and "Espèce de merde!" over and over for the next two hours or three.
I guess it's obvious that I tend to be laid back except in matters of food?
To my friends' relief, our next destination distracted me enough from my misfortunes to shut me up. In the States, I am right next door to D.C., and I can say that I've never managed to find in any of the monuments what I found here at Omaha Beach. There, the air was laden down with the weight of history. Flowery words, yes, but totally true. The sacrifices that countless men made, the lives they left behind, the gratefulness that one feels for their accomplishments...it's all there. I don't know about other people, but for me, it was a very moving experience.
The cemetery where all the soldiers are buried.
A monument set up by the French.
The beaches where the invasion took place. Notice how small it actually is.
Obviously, college students' desire to save money leads them into making Bad Food Decisions.
My croque-monsieur had been frozen. The lady microwaved it. Twice. The crêpe was soggy and was obviously reheated in the microwave too. I didn't realize that it was possible to make such bad food for things that are French staples.
Luckily for me, M. from my university is a boy and will eat anything, so I ended up foisting all the stuff on him, having lost all of my appetite. Objective sources say that I was unable to do anything but repeat, "What the FUCK?!" and "Pute!" and "Espèce de merde!" over and over for the next two hours or three.
I guess it's obvious that I tend to be laid back except in matters of food?
To my friends' relief, our next destination distracted me enough from my misfortunes to shut me up. In the States, I am right next door to D.C., and I can say that I've never managed to find in any of the monuments what I found here at Omaha Beach. There, the air was laden down with the weight of history. Flowery words, yes, but totally true. The sacrifices that countless men made, the lives they left behind, the gratefulness that one feels for their accomplishments...it's all there. I don't know about other people, but for me, it was a very moving experience.
The cemetery where all the soldiers are buried.
A monument set up by the French.
The beaches where the invasion took place. Notice how small it actually is.
After Omaha Beach, we got on the bus and headed off to our hotel. There, I encountered another lackluster dinner (chicken was dry and there was a piece of plastic in my apple tart), but I wasn't as bitter because I wasn't directly paying for it. It was obviously, however, not my day for good food.
Later that night, we all went off to the one bar in town, where M. from Princeton took her first ever shot. Good times were had by all. Tequila sunrises, anyone? We went out for kebabs afterward, and I was happy to be able to have one good meal that day.
Sunday morning, we all loaded our things on the bus again and headed off to Mont St. Michel.
Now, Mont St. Michel has a lot of history behind it. It took a couple of centuries to build (they'd add something new every couple of decades). Is very impressive looking--pretty much an impenetrable fortress. So, with that in mind, and with the best intentions, Mont St. Michel is pretty much a combination of Hogwarts and Diagon Alley. It's a little town in the mountains that is entirely contained within the walls of the castle/fortress. There are little narrow winding walkways that lead nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
If you take out the tourists, it would look very intimidating.
The little town inside the castle walls.
Over time, the plague known as tourism has taken over Mont St. Michel. Not only has that driven the prices up (les galettes, or savory crêpes, started at 9 Euro apiece), but it also means that you find non-French things like churros and kebabs being sold next to the I Love Normandy t-shirts and shotglasses. (D. told me that the churros were horrible, but R. said that the kebabs were not that bad. Just some friendly advice should you ever head there yourself.)
After Mont St. Michel, we were all quite exhausted. Nevertheless, we trudged back to the bus and headed off to some chateau. I honestly don't remember its name because nothing important ever happened there. Still, it was a nice contrast to the gaudy luxury that was Versailles.
Pretty. Tour guide was also very good. Best I've had.
Later that night, we all went off to the one bar in town, where M. from Princeton took her first ever shot. Good times were had by all. Tequila sunrises, anyone? We went out for kebabs afterward, and I was happy to be able to have one good meal that day.
Sunday morning, we all loaded our things on the bus again and headed off to Mont St. Michel.
Now, Mont St. Michel has a lot of history behind it. It took a couple of centuries to build (they'd add something new every couple of decades). Is very impressive looking--pretty much an impenetrable fortress. So, with that in mind, and with the best intentions, Mont St. Michel is pretty much a combination of Hogwarts and Diagon Alley. It's a little town in the mountains that is entirely contained within the walls of the castle/fortress. There are little narrow winding walkways that lead nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
If you take out the tourists, it would look very intimidating.
The little town inside the castle walls.
Over time, the plague known as tourism has taken over Mont St. Michel. Not only has that driven the prices up (les galettes, or savory crêpes, started at 9 Euro apiece), but it also means that you find non-French things like churros and kebabs being sold next to the I Love Normandy t-shirts and shotglasses. (D. told me that the churros were horrible, but R. said that the kebabs were not that bad. Just some friendly advice should you ever head there yourself.)
After Mont St. Michel, we were all quite exhausted. Nevertheless, we trudged back to the bus and headed off to some chateau. I honestly don't remember its name because nothing important ever happened there. Still, it was a nice contrast to the gaudy luxury that was Versailles.
Pretty. Tour guide was also very good. Best I've had.
Before heading back to Paris, we stopped by a little bed and breakfast, le Genty Home (get it? Genty Home? Gentilhomme? ...never mind). There, we feasted on a variety of mini-sandwiches. I don't think the proprietress had ever encountered this many Americans before--especially ravenous college students--as she had a perpetual look of stupefaction on her face. I guess we did go through an amazingly large amount of food at an alarmingly fast rate. She was probably muttering to herself that this was why French women are so thin and Americans are obese. Kidding--she was very nice and hospitable.
Aaaaand we got back to Paris pretty late and I had class the next day.
Remember what I said earlier about language exchange partners? It's okay if you don't, because it's been a long-ass post. Anyway, a couple days later, I get an email saying that M. from Marseilles had been assigned as my language partner.
To me, he seemed nice enough, but when I told M. from my university about it, the first thing out of his mouth was, "C'est louche. I'm pretty sure he wants more from you than just a language exchange. All Frenchmen think that American girls are easy." M. from my university continued on to say that he was just looking out for me--that he's a guy and knows how guys think. J. from Amherst agreed.
Maybe they are right? M. from Marseilles is:
But I'm not easy (unless you feed me chocolate). I also have no attraction to M. from Marseilles. So there is no reason to worry.
And such is my life.
Bisous!
Aaaaand we got back to Paris pretty late and I had class the next day.
Remember what I said earlier about language exchange partners? It's okay if you don't, because it's been a long-ass post. Anyway, a couple days later, I get an email saying that M. from Marseilles had been assigned as my language partner.
To me, he seemed nice enough, but when I told M. from my university about it, the first thing out of his mouth was, "C'est louche. I'm pretty sure he wants more from you than just a language exchange. All Frenchmen think that American girls are easy." M. from my university continued on to say that he was just looking out for me--that he's a guy and knows how guys think. J. from Amherst agreed.
Maybe they are right? M. from Marseilles is:
- old (late 20s, early 30s)
- is a real estate agent
But I'm not easy (unless you feed me chocolate). I also have no attraction to M. from Marseilles. So there is no reason to worry.
And such is my life.
Bisous!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
l'amour à boire // love for drinking
I love reading David Lebovitz's blog, but there are times when I just hate him. He can afford to eat all kinds of Parisian cuisine. I keep an eye out for the cheapest formules and usually end up going for the 2.50 Euro crêpe au citron-sucre instead. He can buy his produce at the outdoor markets. I look for the cheap stuff at Franprix and Ed.
This is, of course, not at all his fault. He has a job. I am simply a poor college student. But I'd like to think that I do not eat that much more badly than he does--good food can be found at any price, and it's not like he doesn't appreciate the cheap stuff just as much as I do. It's just that sometimes I wish I could drop 30 Euro on a meal somewhere.
But then again, there are those days when I don't give a damn about the "better," more expensive food. Because, goddammit, I have a loaf of breadthat has probably been infused with crack from l'Atelier des Pains, and I have a good selection of cheese. And I have butter and sugar.
And so there's really no need to hate anyone. No need to feel sorry for yourself. Because something as simple as that can still result in one of the best dinners that you can get in Paris.
Highly addictive demi-baguette with tomme, some kind of bleu, and some other unspecified cheese.
I feel like my love affair with bread and cheese is going to be a lifelong one that will undoubtedly interfere with my other relationships.
This is, of course, not at all his fault. He has a job. I am simply a poor college student. But I'd like to think that I do not eat that much more badly than he does--good food can be found at any price, and it's not like he doesn't appreciate the cheap stuff just as much as I do. It's just that sometimes I wish I could drop 30 Euro on a meal somewhere.
But then again, there are those days when I don't give a damn about the "better," more expensive food. Because, goddammit, I have a loaf of bread
And so there's really no need to hate anyone. No need to feel sorry for yourself. Because something as simple as that can still result in one of the best dinners that you can get in Paris.
Highly addictive demi-baguette with tomme, some kind of bleu, and some other unspecified cheese.
I feel like my love affair with bread and cheese is going to be a lifelong one that will undoubtedly interfere with my other relationships.
Monday, October 19, 2009
ma gorge est sèche // my mouth is dry
Did you know that after a long period of searching, I have finally found my sugar daddy?
I mean it!
...you want proof?
Never let it be said that the French do not have a sense of humor. That said, though, this brand has supposedly been around for 25 years, so maybe the French version of sugar daddy came first?
Apologies re: the lighting. It was dark outside, and there was no natural light.
I figure it's been a while since I've posted about food, and if you know anything about me, you'll realize that it comes close to sacrilege. Ergo(there's that word again!), I will have to rectify the situation.
Last Friday, M. from Princeton, M. from my university, J. from Amherst, and I got together at my place for a potluck dinner. We all enjoyed it so much that we've decided that we're going to do this every week from now now. It was held at my place this because ma famille d'accueil was in Berlin for the weekend. They're still not back as of today, though, so I'm not sure how long they'll be gone. I hope they come back soon. I don't know how the heating system works chez moi and it's cold.
But I digress.
The meal was really a mélange of cultures. J., who was tasked with making the main dish this time, made a Nigerian chicken stew. For the record, his family does not come from Nigeria, but again, I digress. I made Vietnamese summer rolls (they are called roulettes de printemps here, though--"spring rolls"). M. from Princeton brought a salad with nuts and oranges in addition to a baguette and Jewish challah bread. And finally, M. from my university made an apple crumble and served it with caramel ice cream.
I wish that I had a good picture to show you, but unfortunately, the wine and vodka were flowing freely and I forgot to take pictures. This is a picture of some of the food:
Pictured: Nigerian stew, spring rolls, bread, J.'s plate.
Not pictured: salad, apple crumble, ice cream, wine, vodka, orange juice, people having fun
I mean it!
...you want proof?
Never let it be said that the French do not have a sense of humor. That said, though, this brand has supposedly been around for 25 years, so maybe the French version of sugar daddy came first?
Apologies re: the lighting. It was dark outside, and there was no natural light.
I figure it's been a while since I've posted about food, and if you know anything about me, you'll realize that it comes close to sacrilege. Ergo
Last Friday, M. from Princeton, M. from my university, J. from Amherst, and I got together at my place for a potluck dinner. We all enjoyed it so much that we've decided that we're going to do this every week from now now. It was held at my place this because ma famille d'accueil was in Berlin for the weekend. They're still not back as of today, though, so I'm not sure how long they'll be gone. I hope they come back soon. I don't know how the heating system works chez moi and it's cold.
But I digress.
The meal was really a mélange of cultures. J., who was tasked with making the main dish this time, made a Nigerian chicken stew. For the record, his family does not come from Nigeria, but again, I digress. I made Vietnamese summer rolls (they are called roulettes de printemps here, though--"spring rolls"). M. from Princeton brought a salad with nuts and oranges in addition to a baguette and Jewish challah bread. And finally, M. from my university made an apple crumble and served it with caramel ice cream.
I wish that I had a good picture to show you, but unfortunately, the wine and vodka were flowing freely and I forgot to take pictures. This is a picture of some of the food:
Pictured: Nigerian stew, spring rolls, bread, J.'s plate.
Not pictured: salad, apple crumble, ice cream, wine, vodka, orange juice, people having fun
In retrospect, the whole affair seemed to me a perfect balance between classy dinner and crazy college party. It was probably one of the best nights that I've had in Paris.
Preparation for the dinner started as soon as I finished babysitting. From the 19th arrondissement, I took the Metro over to France's Chinatown. There, I dropped by the huge-supermarket-that-has-relatively-cheap-produce-and-shit-solely-because-it's-Asian, Tang Frères. I picked up some lettuce, Thai basil, mint, bean sprouts, shrimp, and some pork belly.
Fun fact: when you do not know how to say pork belly in French, revert to Vietnamese. Only after I had told the butcher that I wanted some thit ba roi (no accents because I can't figure out how to do them for Vietnamese), and only after he'd given some to me, did I notice the sign saying "poitrine." But it's good to know that I can make myself understood, no matter how many languages I have to use.
It took about 45 minutes to get back to my apartment from the 13th, and by then, it was almost five. And so I did what I do best: I multitasked. A pot filled with boiling water went on the stove to cook the vermicelli. In the meantime, I cleaned and prepared the herbs and lettuce and set the shrimp in a bowl of water to defrost. The vermicelli cooked quickly, and after it was finished, I dealt with the pork and the shrimp. After all that, it was only a matter of rolling the rolls (hahaha).
I got everything done by 21h (that's 7 p.m. in American). M. from my university came just as I finished cleaning up. I left the kitchen to him so that he could make his apple crumble as I went downstairs to open the door for M. from Princeton. As we were waiting around, wondering where J. was, we get a call saying, "Can one of you buy me some chicken? I'll pay you back as soon as I get there."
I guess it's a good thing that I was planning to head out to buy the wine anyway.
Off to Franprix I went. There's something to be said about having a supermarket right next door. There, one of the cashiers hit on me, mainly because:
Let me just state for the record that I love J. He's so...crazy. And exuberant. As in: totally American and not French. He shouted my name when he saw me, and totally attempted to do the suave French bisous thing. Except it ended up being a half-American-hug-half-French-greeting. And the first words out of his mouth (after I'd asked him why the hell he ended up at Villiers instead of going directly to Rome or Europe like I'd told him to): "I went to Villiers because I was smoking hash with this guy."
Hahahahaha, made no sense whatsoever. I got the story later on, though, so it was all good.
The dinner went swimmingly, although we all ended up with a lot of extra food. Even though I was horribly sick and couldn't really taste anything, I fell in love with this one cheese that M. from Princeton brought. She said it was called tomie? I think? I need more.
The three of us ended up staying up and talking until around 4 a.m. We played 10 fingers and taught J. to play hearts. We all talked really openly and I felt really comfortable with all of them and I'm glad that I have had the opportunity for that here in Paris. Subjects included: sex, education, France, why boys masturbate more than girls do, pornography, etc. I love having guy friends, hahahaha.
J. & M. from my university think that I and M. from Princeton are vixens waiting to be released (well...mostly J.). Which means that he spent the entire night trying to spike M. from Princeton's drink with more vodka. (I was off the hook because a. I was sick, and b. I didn't need vodka to talk outrageously.)
Then we all found a place to sleep. And I did so, content with this patchwork family of sorts that I'd found for myself in Paris.
Upcoming: more food, or why I don't feel guilty not cooking; my trip to Normandy/Mont St-Michel; and why I am only staying for the semester in Paris instead of the year.
Preparation for the dinner started as soon as I finished babysitting. From the 19th arrondissement, I took the Metro over to France's Chinatown. There, I dropped by the huge-supermarket-that-has-relatively-cheap-produce-and-shit-solely-because-it's-Asian, Tang Frères. I picked up some lettuce, Thai basil, mint, bean sprouts, shrimp, and some pork belly.
Fun fact: when you do not know how to say pork belly in French, revert to Vietnamese. Only after I had told the butcher that I wanted some thit ba roi (no accents because I can't figure out how to do them for Vietnamese), and only after he'd given some to me, did I notice the sign saying "poitrine." But it's good to know that I can make myself understood, no matter how many languages I have to use.
It took about 45 minutes to get back to my apartment from the 13th, and by then, it was almost five. And so I did what I do best: I multitasked. A pot filled with boiling water went on the stove to cook the vermicelli. In the meantime, I cleaned and prepared the herbs and lettuce and set the shrimp in a bowl of water to defrost. The vermicelli cooked quickly, and after it was finished, I dealt with the pork and the shrimp. After all that, it was only a matter of rolling the rolls (hahaha).
I got everything done by 21h (that's 7 p.m. in American). M. from my university came just as I finished cleaning up. I left the kitchen to him so that he could make his apple crumble as I went downstairs to open the door for M. from Princeton. As we were waiting around, wondering where J. was, we get a call saying, "Can one of you buy me some chicken? I'll pay you back as soon as I get there."
I guess it's a good thing that I was planning to head out to buy the wine anyway.
Off to Franprix I went. There's something to be said about having a supermarket right next door. There, one of the cashiers hit on me, mainly because:
- I am Asian.
- I was clearly not French.
Note to self: remember next time that it's une bouteille of vodka and not un bouteille.Apparently people who speak French with a little accent are exotic and desirable. Hahahahahaha. - I was buying alcohol. Not just wine. But vodka. And orange juice. Sketch!
Let me just state for the record that I love J. He's so...crazy. And exuberant. As in: totally American and not French. He shouted my name when he saw me, and totally attempted to do the suave French bisous thing. Except it ended up being a half-American-hug-half-French-greeting. And the first words out of his mouth (after I'd asked him why the hell he ended up at Villiers instead of going directly to Rome or Europe like I'd told him to): "I went to Villiers because I was smoking hash with this guy."
Hahahahaha, made no sense whatsoever. I got the story later on, though, so it was all good.
The dinner went swimmingly, although we all ended up with a lot of extra food. Even though I was horribly sick and couldn't really taste anything, I fell in love with this one cheese that M. from Princeton brought. She said it was called tomie? I think? I need more.
The three of us ended up staying up and talking until around 4 a.m. We played 10 fingers and taught J. to play hearts. We all talked really openly and I felt really comfortable with all of them and I'm glad that I have had the opportunity for that here in Paris. Subjects included: sex, education, France, why boys masturbate more than girls do, pornography, etc. I love having guy friends, hahahaha.
J. & M. from my university think that I and M. from Princeton are vixens waiting to be released (well...mostly J.). Which means that he spent the entire night trying to spike M. from Princeton's drink with more vodka. (I was off the hook because a. I was sick, and b. I didn't need vodka to talk outrageously.)
Then we all found a place to sleep. And I did so, content with this patchwork family of sorts that I'd found for myself in Paris.
Upcoming: more food, or why I don't feel guilty not cooking; my trip to Normandy/Mont St-Michel; and why I am only staying for the semester in Paris instead of the year.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
pas si simple // not so simple
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 (and check to see the ones that have been posted!)--I am probably typing up even more entries as you are reading this one.
We began our classes at the Sorbonne two weeks ago.
I can honestly say that it's the one thing that I've found to hate about Paris/France.
More to come later about the education system (or lack thereof) and my thoughts about it and potential impending actions. For now, the important things to know are:
I am taking the following classes at the Sorbonne:
We began our classes at the Sorbonne two weeks ago.
I can honestly say that it's the one thing that I've found to hate about Paris/France.
More to come later about the education system (or lack thereof) and my thoughts about it and potential impending actions. For now, the important things to know are:
I am taking the following classes at the Sorbonne:
- La Justice & La Criminalité du XIXe Siècle
- Histoire Economique Contemporaine
- French
- La France & L'Europe après 1945 au présent
- Cultures, Institutions, & Mentalités Politiques
dix ans plus tard // ten years later
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 (and check to see the ones that have been posted!)--I am probably typing up even more entries as you are reading this one.
There are few things that are more simple and more perfect that a Parisian bread and cheese picnic. I don't know why, but I am pretty sure that it is one of those unbreakable laws of the universe.
Anyhow, one Friday night, a week or two ago, a group of friends and I decided that it would be a good idea to buy a bunch of cheese and have a picnic by the Seine (it was. A good idea, I mean). After some mishaps--who knew that bakeries are everywhere in Paris only when you aren't looking for them?--we were well on our way.
This is a photo of me smelling bread. I got teased for it all night...because I couldn't stop smelling it. But bread--good bread--is pretty much my version of crack. And I'm sure that there must be worse things to be teased about...
There are few things that are more simple and more perfect that a Parisian bread and cheese picnic. I don't know why, but I am pretty sure that it is one of those unbreakable laws of the universe.
Anyhow, one Friday night, a week or two ago, a group of friends and I decided that it would be a good idea to buy a bunch of cheese and have a picnic by the Seine (it was. A good idea, I mean). After some mishaps--who knew that bakeries are everywhere in Paris only when you aren't looking for them?--we were well on our way.
This is a photo of me smelling bread. I got teased for it all night...because I couldn't stop smelling it. But bread--good bread--is pretty much my version of crack. And I'm sure that there must be worse things to be teased about...
We had nine (9! NEUF. NUEVE.) different types of cheeses, along with some ham, pâté, and Smirnoff ice (nobody felt like wine). I can't remember what all of the cheeses were, but here is what I can dredge up:
This is a picture of the carnage after we were done. There was still quite a lot of cheese remaining. To the left is C.'s bottle of beer.
- Brie
- Camembert
- Cantal
- Brin (??)
- Gorgonzola
- a type of blue cheese
- La Vache Qui Rit
- some sort of dessert cheese
This is a picture of the carnage after we were done. There was still quite a lot of cheese remaining. To the left is C.'s bottle of beer.
Afterward, we all hopped on the Metro and went off in search of ice cream. Even though it was cold. Long story short, we found it, ate a lot, and all went home with a food baby.
When I leave Paris, it won't be the museums or galleries or theaters that I will miss most. It will be nights like this.
When I leave Paris, it won't be the museums or galleries or theaters that I will miss most. It will be nights like this.
je partais sans bagages // i left without baggage
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...
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...
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