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

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.

mourir loin de moi // to die far from me

Sometimes I get stuck in this mindset that because they are both "Western" developed countries, the United States and France are pretty much the same, escept that France just has more dog poop and cheese. Fortunately, something usually comes along before I get too comfortable and gives me a good whack on the head. Sometimes, France and the United States couldn't be more fundamentally different.

Last Thursday, it was a simple comment about how criminal justice lawyers are on the bottom of the totem pole as far as prestige and pay goes (more on this later) that gave me a sharp reminder of how different the French are.

We were sitting in my Cultures, Institutions, & Mentalités Politiques class. Contrary to popular opinion, I am capable of paying attention in a 2.5 hour lecture. We were discussing the evolution of the French judicial system. After the French Revolution, the much-maligned system where judges could be bought and nobles had separate rules was changed into an institution guided by the principles of égalité, gratuité, and centralisation. The French then had a system where judges were elected and where there was presumably less corruption. A big difference, however, if I understood correctly, is that French judges do not interpret the law in the manner that American judges do. This was revolutionary: a system where people were treated the same and money (or lack thereof) did not dictate the severity of your punishment.

As infamous as it is, the guillotine was also revolutionary because for the first time, those condemned to death was also executed the same way: quickly and elegantly. Before, nobles had the right to take poison or something quick and dignified. Poorer folks were not as lucky.

All this eventually led to talk about the death penalty. France abolished it in 1981, the last--along with Ireland--of the European Union countries to do so (although back then, it was the CEE and not the EU). During his exposé, R. put up a map showing how the world is divided roughly in half regarding the allowance of the death penalty.

Of course, this led to a talk about the state of the death penalty in the U.S. Monsieur R., poor Frenchman that he was, had a bit of a hard time wrapping his head around the Americans' decentralized way of going about it. He just didn't quite understand why we left the decision to the states. Actually, I'm pretty sure he didn't quite understand why individual states had so much power in general. I admit, though, that after someone brought up the fact that death by firing squad was still legal in Utah (I think it was Utah?), I didn't quite get it either.

The notion that we tried the recently-executed Washington D.C. sniper in Virginia (where the death penalty is legal) instead of D.C. or Maryland was also completely astounding to Monsieur R. Not because of the deliberate decision to do so, but because he couldn't believe that there was no national law governing this.

On a lighter note, back to the deal with lawyers. France is not a good place to make money if you want to be a lawyer. As stated before, the French just don't give a damn about criminal justice lawyers (so different from the U.S.!) The profession as a whole, actually, is just not that prestigious. Monsieur R. explained that magistrats were actually better received than lawyers. Something about them being closer to the law and therefore closer to reason. Since I'm not French, his reasoning went a bit over my head.

Just interesting food for thought.

je pouvais faire pire // i could have done worse

Three posts in two days? Don't get used to it!

For those of you who have not been kept up to date on my (mis)adventures with my language exchange partner...

T. & THE CREEPER

A Play in Five Acts

CAST OF CHARACTERS

T., our clueless hero

M1, friend from Princeton

M2, friend from my university

J., friend from Amherst

Creeper, language exchange partner

ACT I: EARLY WARNINGS

T: Hey guys! I'm off to meet with my language exchange partner!

M1: The one we met in Normandy?

M2: The older guy who's not even a student? T., don't go. It's sketchy. I'm pretty sure that he wants more from you than just a language exchange.

M1: Aww...he was nice! You're too suspicious!

T: And besides, why do you need to assume that any friendly Frenchman is sketchy?

M2: Because American girls have a reputation of being easy.

J: How old is this guy?

T: If he wants an easy girl, he picked the wrong one! And probably late twenties, early thirties?

J: He wants in your pants.

T&M1: Guys...really?

M2: Yeah. I'm telling you this as a guy. Guys are constantly thinking of this.

ACT II: THE FIRST MEETING

CREEPER walks up to meet T. It is raining, and CREEPER'S hair is slicked back in a slightly greasy looking manner. In addition, CREEPER has grown a pedophile mustache and beard since T. last saw him.

CREEPER: (doing the French kissing thing) T! How nice to see you! Did you have a good weekend with your parents? Take a lot of pictures?

T: Yeah. How are you? (T. is slightly weirded out by the bisous, but chalks it up to the fact that a. she's a prude at heart when faced with strange men, and b. Frenchmen do this all the time)

CREEPER: Fine, fine! Let's sit down at this café here and have a drink. You like fruit juice?

They end up at Paradis des Fruits. T. finds out that CREEPER does not drink or smoke, a first (and a rarity) amongst Frenchmen. To her, he seems nice enough, and she begins to relax...

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah...I used to date this one Japanese girl that took pictures all the time.

T: ...oh, really? Hahahahha.

CREEPER: So you are full Vietnamese? Completely Asian?

T: Yes, although a lot of people think that I am wasian.

CREEPER: Yes...your eyes look different, like you could be Eurasian. How old are you, anyway?

T: Twenty.

CREEPER: Really? I could've sworn you were at least twenty-two. Maybe twenty-three.

T: Yeah, people think I'm older. How old are you?

CREEPER: (smiles creepily) How old do you think I am?

T: ...I don't know.

CREEPER: Thirty-one.

There is an awkward silence.

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...my Chinese girlfriend...blah blah blah blah blah.

T: (to herself, after the third reference to ex-girlfriends who were Asian) Fuck! Guy has an Asian fetish! (to CREEPER) ...I'm sorry, what was that?

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah...Why do you study politics? Me, I came to my job rather by accident blah blah blah blah...

(At this point, the waitress comes by. It has gotten dark outside and the café has dimmed its lights. She proffers a single lighted candle, to be placed in the middle of the table.)

CREEPER: So, T...do you have a white boyfriend or a Vietnamese one?

T: ...what?! ...none at the moment...why? (It occurs to T. that perhaps she should've said, "He's actually big and black.")

CREEPER: I just wanted to know. Some families have a problem with dating outside your race. I had a Chinese coworker once--her family took a very long time to accept her Indian boyfriend.

T: ...right. Well, my parents don't have a say who I date.

The meeting continues. Near the end, CREEPER makes a comment about how the French joke about sex much more easily than do Americans. T. responds, saying that she jokes about sex all the time...with her friends. CREEPER says that in France, you can even joke with strangers. Eventually, after resisting the urge to check her watch for the umpteenth time, T. leaves. The meeting ends with, of course, un bisous.

ACT III: MIDWEEK

T. is in the middle of a crowded supermarket, recounting her horribly awkward experience to her friends, when her phone rings.

M2: I told you that he wanted in your pants.

T: Possibly. But he could just be really friendly! Hang on....(taking out her phone) hello? Oh hi!

CREEPER (voice from backstage): Hello! I just wanted to call and try to set up a time to meet tonight?

T: What? Can you say that again?

CREEPER: It's me...you don't remember me? (creepy chuckling)

T: (under her breath) Jesus fucking Christ... (out loud) Of course! I just can't hear you. What are you saying?

CREEPER: I want to set up a meeting time for tonight!

T: I'm not actually free tonight...or the entire week. Only during Sunday? Can you send me an email?

CREEPER: Of course!

ACT IV: THE SECOND MEETING

They meet and font la bise.

CREEPER: If you like coffee, maybe next time I will take you to my office and make you coffee there? It will be cheaper.

T: Uh...no thanks! I like cafés just fine!

The conversation progresses much as before. T. is unable to concentrate on French, so most of the exchange takes place in English and badly broken French. T. claims tiredness.

T: I actually wanted to talk to you. You see, I signed up for this during the beginning of the year, when I didn't have many activities. Now as you can see, I am not free during the week, and only a few times during the weekend since I'll be traveling so much. I'm just not going to be able to meet you for the requisite amount of two times or three times a week. Maybe it will be better for you to find a new partner?

CREEPER: ...I understand. I like you, but it will be better for me to find someone who I can meet with more often. (jokingly) I'm sad that you don't like me enough to stay!

T: ahahahaha. Mkayyythanksbye!

ACT V: REACTIONS

T: So I got myself out of that situation.

M2: Good girl. But I told you he was creepy.

T: ...

So I guess my life wouldn't make for a very good play.

comme ceux d'avant // like those before

Now that the Great Bitch Fest of 2009 is over, I'd like to bring something more...savory (in the food/taste sense of the word) to your attention:

French cuisine is generally known as one of the best in the world. But what about the times when les français get a craving for junk food? Something more trashy? Something not quite so refined?

They go to the store and buy steak-flavored potato chips, of course!

This is not my picture. I ate my bag and guiltily threw away the remnants at the Metro before I remembered that I wanted a picture.

I can attest that the steak-flavored potato chips do, in fact, taste like meat. And like steak. The roast-chicken potato chips are almost as good (albeit a bit blander, in my opinion). And I'm pretty sure that the chorizo potato chips tasted like the Spanish sausage that they were inspired by.

A tiny part of me is ashamed that I bothered to try this, but only a tiny part. (On a side note, this is why it's so nice to hang out with boys: you only feel guilty for buying shit like this for a brief moment.)

Before you lose all respect for me and my taste buds: note that while I liked this, it did not merit both a "food" and a "sex" tag. :P

arrêtez, vous êtes fous // stop, you're crazy

Looking through my entries, I've noticed that everything is either a "France is great!" post or a "France is ridiculous...but in a funny way!" post. It was definitely a conscious decision on my part to keep it that way. Sure, I blog for you guys, but I am also writing for me. I want to reread this when I am old, want to be able to say, "Ah...those were the days!" When my memory is gone, I want to read about happy things, not moments of frustration that are no longer important.

So yeah, I want to romanticize Paris. I want to keep your visions of it--those of who have not visited--pure and untainted. To those who have been here and who have truly found it to be the City of Lights and Love, I want to bring back your sense of nostalgia. Besides, no one likes a complainer (I admit to bristling a bit when my parents were here and complained of the differences). Sure, there's dog shit everywhere and everything is three times smaller, but the good far outweighs the bad, and what you view as "inferior" is often just a different way of thinking.

All that said, I thought I'd give you a bit of insight to the French university system. After much thought, it saddens me to say that the only positive thing that I can take from it is that it really teaches you to be self-driven and independent--you have no other choice. You either do what you think you need to, or you fail. Since the university system is such an essential component of study abroad (at least for my program), I thought I'd say something about it. Just some thoughts to keep in mind for those who might be planning to come here to study in the future.

(Why yes, this is related to an important decision that I have recently made. But my reasons for that are my own--even though I guess I'm effectively explaining them here--and I could care less what anyone thinks or what judgments they might pass on me.)

1. On my first day of class à la fac, I spent close to an hour of a three-hour lecture/discussion walking around with my class because our room was double-booked. And the second place we went to was double-booked. So was the third room, actually, but we got to stay there. But the place we ended up at didn't have enough chairs for one-third of the students.
2. Every time I go to this class now, students still have to go searching for chairs when they arrive.
3. Lecture/discussion is misleading. Professors (often two different ones for each component) lecture at both (and often repeat the material). Students give an exposé once a semester, but otherwise are not expected to talk.
4. Class is often one big three-hour block, once a week. Forget the research that shows how one's attention span only lasts an hour and a half at most. They don't really give a shit whether you absorb the information or not.
5. Actually, they (the teachers, the administration, etc.) don't give a shit, period.
6. The system is designed to let the smart ones pass and the dumb ones fall by the wayside. The teachers themselves aren't going to put in any effort. (On a side note, they are fonctionnaires, so they are guaranteed their jobs for pretty much the rest of their lives. And teacher evaluations don't exist here). They told me that on the first day of orientation.
7. Continuing along the "they don't give a shit" line, I'm pretty sure that only two out of my six teachers know my name. Or even recognize my face. Update: Actually, I take that back. Maybe one teacher knows my name.
   
8. Here, they grade you on the form/method--and how much you can repeat back at them--rather than the ideas. You can't say, "There were debates and the French ended up choosing A, B, and C..." You have to say, "The French first had to decide between A1 & A2. After that, they then moved to decide between B1 and B2..." This is the difference between a 1.5/4 and a 3.5/4. You don't get a 4/4 here in France.
9. There is often a big disconnect between what you are supposed to be able to do and what you can actually do. This is probably due to the bureaucracy, but also especially prevalent in what the program tells you while you are in the States and the reality of the program in France. "Take any classes you want? No, we meant, 'take whatever you want given these conditions...'" And while they are at it, they will also act surprised when you confront them about grades for things you were never told was going to be graded.
10. "Oh! By the way, there are also random expenses that we didn't tell you about." But that's okay, it's not like they knew we were international students. Or that they knew these things were required or anything.
11. Libraries here open for a very small set of hours. The circulation system is a nightmare. And you are way out of luck if you need to pee. For some reason, I can't seem to let this go.

Yeah, yeah, I could suck it up. But those who know me know that I chose to go to a liberal arts college. I did that for a reason: namely, to avoid everything that I just listed above. I don't think that this makes me a spoiled bitch.

I also know that all education does not happen in the classroom. But I'm often too busy doing schoolwork to go out and about. And Parisians are a notoriously reserved lot--you can't get to know them unless you put in a significant amount of effort and time.

And finally, the thing that galls most of all?

12. Parisians pay 300 Euro a year for this university system of theirs. My price tag is $43,000.

Actually, it's more than that now that the dollar is so weak. I'm not paying full price (fortunately), but still. Remember how I paid 90 Euro for that stamp a while back? That is almost 1/3 of the annual tuition fee for the French. For what I'm paying, I'd like to get a little bit more, please.

elles passent en un instant // they pass by in an instant

My host family took me to see Gorki's Les Enfants du Soleil / Children of the Sun / whatever the title is in Russian the other the other night. It was kind of a last-minute thing where they were like, "Thao, tu veux aller au théâtre avec nous ce soir?" And I was like, "OF COURSE I want to go to the theatre with you!"

So I still didn't know what it was about when I got to the theater. I'm proud to say that I understood most of what was happening (sort of), even if I failed to understand the overall theme. I can't tell whether it's because Gorki is complicated or because I fail at French. Probably a mixture of both.

It was so interesting for me to look at the kind of people that were at the play, though. A friend of mine once made a comment about how "straight guys just don't get that excited about operas"/plays. I guess that they do in France? There was your standard group of older folks, but there were also A LOT of couples out for a date that night. And these kids were probably still in high school/college.

M. from Middlebury once asked (rather rhetorically, I guess) what the French people do for fun. Yes, there is the party scene, and yes, there is the trashy American TV shows. But for the most part, I've noticed that the French are very well-cultured. I think it's due to the fact that cultural stuff is so readily available in Paris.

France is very centralized; Paris is the center for everything: government, arts, culture, etc. And it is so incredibly cheap for students. My host mom told me that with things like operas and plays, students can go for a significantly cheaper price than can adults. With a student identity card, museums are free (or almost free).

It's a very good business and cultural model, I think. By making cultural stuff so readily accessible to students, you expose them to it at an early age. And by the time they grow up, get jobs, and earn money, they'll be more likely to be willing to pay. In the US, I feel like operas and ballets give off this impression of being more high class and expensive than it really should be. I know that I have never been tempted to go to an opera in the US, for example.

But yeah, just something to think about.

comme le soleil // like the sun

Yesterday, I saw some postcards being sold, 31 for 5 Euro. They all started out with Je pense à toi, or I'm thinking of you.

'Aww...how sweet!' I thought. 'The romance!'

Except then I looked a little bit further. Sure, some of the cards had cutesie quotes like, "I do nothing else all day," and, "With you in my life, I need nothing more."

But.

There were also a couple of cards that were less...poetic.

For example:

"I am thinking about you...I spent two hours remembering the smell of your sex."

Sex. As in genitals. As in vagina.

I thought Parisians were supposed to be classy?

je vais et je viens // i go and i come

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.

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.

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 bread that 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.

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

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:

1. I am Asian.
   
2. 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.
   
3. I was buying alcohol. Not just wine. But vodka. And orange juice. Sketch!

Anyway, I get back, to find out that J. has gotten himself lost. He's at a metro station that is close by, but not one of the two I had indicated when I sent out the directions. So off I go to get him.

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.

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:

• La Justice & La Criminalité du XIXe Siècle
• Histoire Economique Contemporaine

And the following at Le Centre Madeleine (my university's campus in Paris):

• 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...

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:

• Brie
• Camembert
• Cantal
• Brin (??)
• Gorgonzola
• a type of blue cheese
• La Vache Qui Rit
• some sort of dessert cheese

Opinions on the various cheeses ranged from "Hey! This is awesome!" (M. finished an entire round of camembert by himself...) to "Ugh. This tastes like piss!" (No one liked the gorgonzola) Such is the power of cheese, I guess.

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.

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.

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.

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 and illegally 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."

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.