30 December, 2006
Noël
I feel incredibly blessed and lucky pretty much every day I'm here, but Christmas was overload on the blessings and luckiness. My friend Rach and I had planned to be alone in Paris on Christmas when our friends Luigi and Clement invited us to spend the holiday with their family in Paris. We were looking forward a good meal and some familial vibes. What we got was a full-out Christmas, complete with a walk down to the major department stores to see the holiday lights, presents--THEY GOT US PRESENTS!!, and a massive delicious home-cooked meal. And, as if things couldn't get any better, there was an adorable giant dog (and you know how I love giant dogs), we played French Taboo (and you know how I love Taboo at any time in any language), AND they gave us each a scratch-off instant-win lotto thing and I WON 100 EUROS! To top it all off we had an encore meal the following night complete with oysters (les huitres) and lamb (gigot d'agneau). It still sucks that I couldn't be home, but this was seriously the best possible surrogate Christmas imaginable.
Antoine Says...
He only studied French authors in high school. "Why would we study foreign authors in translation if there are so many good French ones?" A fair question, though I'd rather have a broad knowledge of world literature than a pinhole knowledge of American lit. I can shoot the shit on Twain, Dante AND Flaubert, he doesn't even know who Twain or Dante is...
Authorized Voyeurism
You may have wondered why I've stopped adorning my posts with lovely pictures of my exploits around Paris. Honestly I haven't taken that many post-worthy pictures believe it or not. Paris has already been photographed so thoroughly and artfully that for the most part I feel it a waste to take one more picture of Notre Dâme or Place de la Concorde. Sure one could argue that my own pictures carry significance beyond their mere aesthetic merit, that fact that I can find a superior picture of Notre Dâme on Google is besides the point. Fair enough. Admittedly at times I find that carrying my camera around compels me to pause and truly observe the picteuresque or dramatic qualities of my surroundings. At other times I find my camera to be a burden because I am constantly stopping to freeze-frame fragments of my life that will never add up to the sum of their parts. In college a friend of mine complained that people spend too much time recording their life and not enough time living it. After college people always complain that they didn't take enough pictures. This seems to be yet another case of finding a happy medium.
In any case, I had begun to fear that I was erring towards too much living and not enough recording, so I forced myself to document an average day in simple snapshots. After several hours spent warring with Facebook I managed to put them up there for those of you with Facebook access. The battle wounds are still fresh; I may not endeavor to put photos up there again for some time to come... I also played around with this map site called Community Walk, which is pretty similar to Google Earth. Basically I linked my pictures to a map of Paris, so you can follow me around Paris on normal, satellite, or hybrid view. Enjoy: http://www.communitywalk.com/map/40567
In any case, I had begun to fear that I was erring towards too much living and not enough recording, so I forced myself to document an average day in simple snapshots. After several hours spent warring with Facebook I managed to put them up there for those of you with Facebook access. The battle wounds are still fresh; I may not endeavor to put photos up there again for some time to come... I also played around with this map site called Community Walk, which is pretty similar to Google Earth. Basically I linked my pictures to a map of Paris, so you can follow me around Paris on normal, satellite, or hybrid view. Enjoy: http://www.communitywalk.com/map/40567
27 December, 2006
Just Desserts
Tonight Antoine tried cooking fondants au chocolat with creme anglaise. The creme came out great; the fondant was tasty (it's hard to make something out of melted chocolate and sugar not-tasty), but the texture wasn't quite right. This may have partially had to do with the fact that he hadn't bought the proper baking tins, so we made ersatz tins out of an empty beer can. In any case, I'd be lying if I didn't admit I got mild sadistic pleasure out of watching a Frenchman fail to cook perfect French pastries.
13 December, 2006
French lesson: Same but Different
American English (AE): I left my tooth for the tooth fairy.
French (F): I left my tooth for the tooth mouse.
AE: I feel like such a third wheel.
F: I feel like the fifth wheel of the carriage.
AE: I've really got a green thumb.
F: I've really got a green hand.
AE: The teacher uses a lot of pie charts.
F: The teacher uses a lot of camemberts.
French (F): I left my tooth for the tooth mouse.
AE: I feel like such a third wheel.
F: I feel like the fifth wheel of the carriage.
AE: I've really got a green thumb.
F: I've really got a green hand.
AE: The teacher uses a lot of pie charts.
F: The teacher uses a lot of camemberts.
French Kids Say the Darndest Things
Me: “Do you know what Spring Break is?”
(long pause; kids in deep thought)
Kid: “Is that like Prison Break?”
Antoine says...
French people don’t use credit cards. The idea of spending money you don’t have is perilously frightening to them. I tell him that many many Americans have accrued thousands of dollars of credit card debt, and that furthermore, credit cards, loans, and credit ratings are at the core of a good chunk of American’s personal finances (I qualify this assertion by noting that I am just beginning to understand my own personal finances). He says there is pretty much one kind of loan in France, and there are no credit ratings. If you have a good secure job you get a loan. However, many French bank accounts allow you to maintain a modest negative balance without interest or penalty.
Antoine says...
French people don’t invest in stock because they find it far too risky. “Who invests in the French stock market then?” I ask. Americans and Brits largely. “What do French people invest in?” Real estate.
44 rue du Docteur Roux
I have moved. Why? What was wrong with Emma and her perfect flat on Rue la Bruyère? Well, nothing was wrong with it per se. When I first showed up in Paris the idea was that I would crash with Emma for the first few weeks and then we’d discuss and see how things were going. That conversation was significantly delayed because of life getting in the way, but finally we did sit down and chat. Emma made the valid point that my American fresh-out-of-college lifestyle was on a somewhat different wavelength than what she is used to and perhaps I would have more fun having a place of my own. She also said, “It’s not your fault you’re loud, it’s just that you’re American.”
My reactions to this turn of events were many and varied. I didn’t disagree with her; I did often spend my days lazing around the flat and my nights out until the wee hours, and I can be loud (though I found it unnecessary to attribute this quality to my nationality).
I was however somewhat shocked to be flung into the impossible Parisian housing market without even a chance to redeem my ways. Life at Emma’s had generally been just that—life AT EMMA’S, so I was almost excited about the prospect of HAVING a place of my own. But I was not at all excited about the prospect of FINDING a place of my own. I had friends who had been looking for 6 weeks and still hadn’t found anything; Emma was giving me until the end of November; time to get a move on…
The details of searching for a flat are painful and uninteresting. If you’re familiar with the New York housing market, envision that but as a foreigner from a generally despised country. However, I can’t really complain, because in contrast to my many friends who were and are still searching nearly two months into our contracts, I found a place within 10 days.
I’m now living on the other side of town in the 15th arrondissement in a really cute flat with a French kid named Antoine. Antoine is 23, from Lille (a town near the Beligan border), and a business student. He’s spent summers working in California and London so his English is great, and he hopes to return to the US for more business school. So far he’s taught me a lot about French politics, economics and slang, I’ve tried to return the favor.
I would thus like to commence a regular feature of my blogging called “Antoine says…” Naturally Antoine is as fallible as any other mere mortal, and he’s always up for a good debate, so if you’ve heard conflicting opinions do let me know.
My reactions to this turn of events were many and varied. I didn’t disagree with her; I did often spend my days lazing around the flat and my nights out until the wee hours, and I can be loud (though I found it unnecessary to attribute this quality to my nationality).
I was however somewhat shocked to be flung into the impossible Parisian housing market without even a chance to redeem my ways. Life at Emma’s had generally been just that—life AT EMMA’S, so I was almost excited about the prospect of HAVING a place of my own. But I was not at all excited about the prospect of FINDING a place of my own. I had friends who had been looking for 6 weeks and still hadn’t found anything; Emma was giving me until the end of November; time to get a move on…
The details of searching for a flat are painful and uninteresting. If you’re familiar with the New York housing market, envision that but as a foreigner from a generally despised country. However, I can’t really complain, because in contrast to my many friends who were and are still searching nearly two months into our contracts, I found a place within 10 days.
I’m now living on the other side of town in the 15th arrondissement in a really cute flat with a French kid named Antoine. Antoine is 23, from Lille (a town near the Beligan border), and a business student. He’s spent summers working in California and London so his English is great, and he hopes to return to the US for more business school. So far he’s taught me a lot about French politics, economics and slang, I’ve tried to return the favor.
I would thus like to commence a regular feature of my blogging called “Antoine says…” Naturally Antoine is as fallible as any other mere mortal, and he’s always up for a good debate, so if you’ve heard conflicting opinions do let me know.
04 December, 2006
Turkey Day and Tequila
In almost all things food-related France beats American hands down. Thanksgiving is a notable exception. Not only is Thanksgiving a magnificent display of the few dishes Americans know how to cook well, it is also a significant milestone in the lead-up to Christmas. Many stores around Paris have had Christmas decorations up for two weeks now; it just doesn’t seem right. However, manually tearing down premature tinsel seems a bit dramatic, so I opt for a more civil protest—throwing my own Thanksgiving feast and making Europeans eat it.
The invitation is my first attempt at French poetry:
"Thanksgiving sera," un poème de E. Silverstein et S. Shimanoff
Thanksgiving sera
Ce jeudi, ooh la la la
Dinde dinde sur le plat
Samedi chez moi
Festoyez, n’oubliez pas
Tarte à la citrouille.
Translation:
Thanksgiving will be
This Thursday, ooh la la la
Turkey on the plate
Saturday, my place
Celebrate, do not forget
To eat pumpkin pie.
As anyone who has hosted a Thanksgiving knows, it requires considerable advanced preparation. Step one is acquiring my mother’s pumpkin pie recipe and my grandmother’s turkey and stuffing technique. Step two is finding a turkey. I am told that the best way to secure a good turkey is to order one in advance, so I go down to the market near my school on Wednesday to discuss turkey matters with the butcher. They butcher me a beautiful 4.3 kilo turkey, which I pick up Friday afternoon. Step three is waking up at 9am Saturday morning to begin the long haul to dinner. Early on I give up converting English measuring units into metric and am pretty much eyeballing everything. Therefore, the recipes from my mom and grandmother serve mostly as inspiration rather than true recipes. My grandmother had been extremely precise on the turkey-cooking process: 325 degrees for 15 minutes per pound. Much math ensues: 4.3 kilos = 9.5 lbs. x 15 minutes = 2.4 hours at 325 Farenheit = 163 Celsius. After seasoning and stuffing the turkey I turn to my oven to put my calculations into action. I am confronted with a temperature dial numbered 1 through 9. 1 through 9?? Grandma didn’t say anything about a 1 through 9. I am screwed… In my head I envision where 325 might be on an oven dial back home, turn the knob, stick the bird in, and pray. Saul and I then decide to head out for some last minute shopping, leaving the turkey alone to slowly cook on mystery temperature 6.
We head to one of the two American specialty stores in Paris, The Real McCoy, in search of fresh Ocean Spray cranberries. This store creeps me out big time. It has the feel of a 50s bomb shelter, lined with boxed and canned products that will never go bad, ever; mostly things I am glad to not be eating on a regular basis anymore: Doritos, Fluff, Jello, Shake and Bake, Goya Adobo. The prices are astronomical. 10 euro for a bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups, 7 euro for a box of Pop-tarts. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy me some Reese’s and Poptarts back home, but it seems absurd to spend so much money on products so obviously inferior to their French equivalents—chocolate and breakfast pastries that is. We buy the cranberries and flee.
As we head home I’m beginning to think it was a mistake leaving the turkey unsupervised on mystery setting 6. For all I know my flat is burning down. Turns out a Thanksgiving miracle has occurred. Not only is the flat not burning down, the turkey has beautiful golden crispy skin and moist white meat beneath. I might actually pull this Thanksgiving thing off…
Friends show up slowly but surely, in fashionably late French style. My French friend Catherine informs me that the oven settings are clearly meant to be multiplied by 30 degrees Celsius. Thus, setting 6 is equivalent to 180 degrees Celsius, or 356 Farenheit, close enough to Grandma’s recommended 325. ‘Twas a good guess.
I’d like to take a moment to parade my cosmopolitan guest-list before you:
Team US:
-East Coast: me (NY), my friend Henson (NJ, in Paris for the weekend)
-West Coast: Saul (OR), Keith (CA)
-South: Rachel (TX)
-North: Wayne (AK) and Dave (MN?)
Team Europe:
-La France: Fabien, Catherine (co-worker), Claire (Rachel’s roommate)
-Deutschland: Yvonne (my German counterpart at work)
-The United Kingdom: Raj (Fabien’s girlfriend), Emma and Anna
The 14 of us (delightfully split 50/50 US/Europe, no?) devour dinner and move on to devouring the tequila Henson graciously brought duty-free from the States. Europeans tend to savor their liquor; we Americans show them how to quickly down it with salt and lime. Incidentally, Henson had bought nice enough tequila that it was sort of a shame to contaminate it with such collegiate rituals, but old traditions die hard.
Voila, two American traditions imported to Europe in one night: Turkey Day and tequila.
18 November, 2006
Toussaint Part Deux
The post-Halloween portion of break begins with a mild sense of abandonment. Saul is in Tours visiting family, Rachel is in Cadiz, Spain, visiting a friend, Emma and Anna are both in London; I have the entire 9th arrondissement to myself. Aside from petty things like raiding the fridge and leaving my pajamas on the bathroom floor, I take advantage of my relative solitude by resuming activity during daylight hours and seeing some things. Such as:
Saint Sulpice: Yes, the “Rose Line” of Da Vinci Code fame is “marked” by an obelisk and a brass strip running through the church. No, the church is not happy about it. Signs posted on the wall next to the obelisk tactfully debunk the novel and insists there is no Rose Line. Evidently the gnomon, as it is properly termed, of Saint-Sulpice was created in order to observe Earth’s rotation. This was accomplished via a tiny hole in the facing wall that casts a beam of light on the obelisk at various astronomically significant times. Wikipedia’s two-cents: “Brown's novel confuses the Paris Meridian [or “Rose Line”] with a local meridian found in the Parisian church of Saint-Sulpice, marked in the floor with a brass line (the Paris Meridian actually passes about 100 meters east of it).” So in Dan Brown’s fiction the two lines are one in the same, and in the church’s fiction the Rose Line doesn’t even exist (though to be fair the term “Rose Line” is fictional). Seems no one finds the truth particularly persuasive.
Exhibit of Disney art at the Grand Palais: This exhibit’s main purpose in life is to demonstrate the relationship between Disney’s early work and his immediate influences—19th century paintings and illustrations, and early 20th century films. In doing so the exhibit places Disney within a broader art historical framework and also conveniently highlights the European elements of Disney’s work. I spent two hours of intellectualized nostalgic bliss gazing at oh, say, the original animation cells of Alice in Wonderland side by side an 1865 first edition of the novel complete with John Tenniel’s illustrations. Tacked onto the end of the exhibit is a section on the subsequent influence of Disney on later art, specifically surrealism and pop. Apparently Dali and Disney spent years working on a joint film, which was never fully realized until after their deaths (at the hands of Roy Disney). Needless to say, the final project was pretty bizarre. But all melting clocks aside, this exhibit is great because it offers a new way to experience and appreciate the seemingly familiar.
Vaux le Vicomte (a.k.a. Erin and her friend Melanie get the hell out of Paris for the day): Back in the day Louis XIV’s finance minister, Nicholas Fouquet, hired the architect Le Vau, the painter Le Brun and the landscape architect Le Nôtre to design and build him a chateau on the outskirts of Paris. The resulting masterpiece was so impressive that before it was even completed Louis XIV threw Fouquet in jail and ordered Le Vau, Le Brun and Le Nôtre to build him something bigger and better. Thus was born the royal vanity project par excellence, le Chateau de Versailles. The musketeer, d’Antagnan, and the “man in the iron mask” also figure into this history in ways I would appreciate more had I ever read Dumas.
The chateau was of course gorgeous and dripping in luxury, though having been to Versailles, I couldn’t help but think it was pretty small (only a few dozen gilt ceilings). I am told the gardens are magnificent, but my appreciation of them was completely cock-blocked by the descent of the thickest fog I have ever seen. Visibility was perhaps 50 ft. A garden of grand geometric vistas and crystal clear reflecting pools was transformed into an episode of Scooby Doo. Statues had a habit of appearing out of nowhere; ponds stretched on interminably with the other side obscured in opaque white. Le Nôtre may have molded the natural landscape to his meticulous design, but nature had the last laugh. I supposed Melanie and I could have been pissed, but we mostly laughed right along with nature. Though we were robbed of the conventional garden experience we were offered quite a unique alternative.
After a day marching around in the cold and fog of the countryside we were ready to be back in the lights of Paris. Mission accomplished.
Saint Sulpice: Yes, the “Rose Line” of Da Vinci Code fame is “marked” by an obelisk and a brass strip running through the church. No, the church is not happy about it. Signs posted on the wall next to the obelisk tactfully debunk the novel and insists there is no Rose Line. Evidently the gnomon, as it is properly termed, of Saint-Sulpice was created in order to observe Earth’s rotation. This was accomplished via a tiny hole in the facing wall that casts a beam of light on the obelisk at various astronomically significant times. Wikipedia’s two-cents: “Brown's novel confuses the Paris Meridian [or “Rose Line”] with a local meridian found in the Parisian church of Saint-Sulpice, marked in the floor with a brass line (the Paris Meridian actually passes about 100 meters east of it).” So in Dan Brown’s fiction the two lines are one in the same, and in the church’s fiction the Rose Line doesn’t even exist (though to be fair the term “Rose Line” is fictional). Seems no one finds the truth particularly persuasive.
Exhibit of Disney art at the Grand Palais: This exhibit’s main purpose in life is to demonstrate the relationship between Disney’s early work and his immediate influences—19th century paintings and illustrations, and early 20th century films. In doing so the exhibit places Disney within a broader art historical framework and also conveniently highlights the European elements of Disney’s work. I spent two hours of intellectualized nostalgic bliss gazing at oh, say, the original animation cells of Alice in Wonderland side by side an 1865 first edition of the novel complete with John Tenniel’s illustrations. Tacked onto the end of the exhibit is a section on the subsequent influence of Disney on later art, specifically surrealism and pop. Apparently Dali and Disney spent years working on a joint film, which was never fully realized until after their deaths (at the hands of Roy Disney). Needless to say, the final project was pretty bizarre. But all melting clocks aside, this exhibit is great because it offers a new way to experience and appreciate the seemingly familiar.
Vaux le Vicomte (a.k.a. Erin and her friend Melanie get the hell out of Paris for the day): Back in the day Louis XIV’s finance minister, Nicholas Fouquet, hired the architect Le Vau, the painter Le Brun and the landscape architect Le Nôtre to design and build him a chateau on the outskirts of Paris. The resulting masterpiece was so impressive that before it was even completed Louis XIV threw Fouquet in jail and ordered Le Vau, Le Brun and Le Nôtre to build him something bigger and better. Thus was born the royal vanity project par excellence, le Chateau de Versailles. The musketeer, d’Antagnan, and the “man in the iron mask” also figure into this history in ways I would appreciate more had I ever read Dumas.
The chateau was of course gorgeous and dripping in luxury, though having been to Versailles, I couldn’t help but think it was pretty small (only a few dozen gilt ceilings). I am told the gardens are magnificent, but my appreciation of them was completely cock-blocked by the descent of the thickest fog I have ever seen. Visibility was perhaps 50 ft. A garden of grand geometric vistas and crystal clear reflecting pools was transformed into an episode of Scooby Doo. Statues had a habit of appearing out of nowhere; ponds stretched on interminably with the other side obscured in opaque white. Le Nôtre may have molded the natural landscape to his meticulous design, but nature had the last laugh. I supposed Melanie and I could have been pissed, but we mostly laughed right along with nature. Though we were robbed of the conventional garden experience we were offered quite a unique alternative.
After a day marching around in the cold and fog of the countryside we were ready to be back in the lights of Paris. Mission accomplished.
07 November, 2006
I'm sold
An "apple green" pouf !! - EUR10
Reply to: sale-230426247@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-11-05, 3:56PM CET
I don't have place anymore so I sell my funny "pouf" for 10€...
- This item has been posted by-owner.
- this is in or around Paris
- no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
230426247
06 November, 2006
Toussaint Part 1
We have become nocturnal. The vacation-loving French gave us 10 days off for All Saints Day…er…Week, and absolute lethargy ensued. Both the beauty and the tragedy of three people like me, Rach and Saul becoming friends/roommates/neighbors is that we all appreciate and enjoy the luxury of doing nothing. This does not define us—on the contrary, we have the capacity to be incredibly active people when the mood strikes us—but you can’t deny the allure of waking up around noon and lazing around until you motivate yourself to go buy enough wine, bread and cheese to last until 4am when you finally crash.
That’s pretty much been the past week of my life. Naturally things differe
d each day. One evening we cooked up a pretty decent curry-esque dish for all our French friends as a sort of “Thanks for being ridiculously friendly” gesture. Everyone seemed to appreciate it; I even got Saul to eat it Indian-style with his hands. Bolstered by the success of this culinary endeavor, the next morning I crafted a delicious French toast (no pun intended) seasoned with nutmeg, cardamom, and cinnamon, topped with a creamy apple-almond shebang and drizzled with honey. This was definitely the impromptu culinary achievement of my life.
The chronology of all this is beginning to escape me, but one night our friend Keith invited us out to the Champ de Mars, which is the big field in front of the Tour Eiffel, sort of like the mall in front of the Washington monument. Kids traditionally set up camp there for the evening
and drink wine—not a bad tradition if you ask me. The Tour Eiffel is lit up dramatically at night and twinkles magically every hour on the hour (yes, magically). One of the more annoying Parisian habits is the metro closing at 12:30am. This often leads to long walks home late at night unless you feel like springing for a taxi (which I almost never do). Rachel had the foresight (and need for speed) to buy a bike off craigslist, but Saul and I are wheel-less, so our walk home from the Tour Eiffel took a good 2 hours. Luckily, Paris is a fabulous place to walk around at night. (In case you’re looking for a second opinion).
Sunday Saul and I went up to the marché aux puces (flea market) at Porte Clignancourt looking for nothing in particular (except maybe a bike) and finding nothing in particular (no bikes). Porte Clignancourt is at the very edge of Paris on the boulevard périphérique (ring road) and is somewhat more “urban” and less quaint than central Paris. The market was basically composed of three types of booths: 1. Marked down but still expensive designer clothing, 2. Marked up but still cheap imported Asian incense and wall-hangings, 3. Rap and hip-hop CDs and DVDs. This got a little old after awhile so we wandered a bit off the beaten track and found a cute alley full of antique books, prints, furniture, etc. Highlights included some random person’s daily planner from 1926 and a 19th century engraving of the sm
allish town Saul’s French family is from. Sadly, neither was cheap enough to justify buying. Apparently we only saw perhaps half of the marché and there are definitely several other ones as well, so I forsee plenty more opportunities to buy cheap crap (maybe a bike).
Fact 1: 5 beers fit in an upside-down Frisbee.
Fact 2: Rachel did not believe fact 1.
Fact 3: I proved her wrong.
Now, perhaps it sounds as if we have been doing some cool things with our break, but I swear we were mostly lazy as all hell. The one thing we DID put some modicum of effort into was Halloween.
The biggest bummer of French Halloween is the costumes, or rather, the lack thereof. The French simply do not understand the fine art of crafting the perfect Halloween costume. They think it’s all about witches and ghosts, end of story. When Rachel explained to them that last year she and two friends went as Pink Floyd albums (with the real album art painted on their backs) our French friends seemed impressed but also a bit flabbergasted. It was pretty obvious from the get-go that we could easily get away with not dressing up at all, but I love Halloween far too much to stoop to lame French standards. I wanted to somehow keep it real while still keeping it French, so I ended up concocting this bizarre costume out of Camembert cheese containers. The upside of this was definitely getting to eat all the delicious Camembert (seriously, it’s divine). I crafted a Camembert cheese bra, necklace, and earrings, and entitled my costume ‘Mademoiselle Camembert.’
Our night started out late as usual. In fact, it seems the preceding week of late-nights was really just warm up for this, the latest night of all.
Another American assistant, Susie, had a Halloween gathering, which was quite pleasant and tame—kind of reminiscent of my 4th grade Halloween party put on by the class-moms. Indeed her mom had sent her honest-to-god American
candy corn and fake spider web. There was a best costume prize, which I was told I WOULD HAVE WON had I showed up on time…oops. Turns out some girl dressed up as Hawaiian won (not nearly as deserving as Mademoiselle Camembert…)
We hadn’t gotten to Susie’s until around midnight, so by the time we had finished off all of Susie’s wine it was around 1:30am and thus, post-metro. Our French friends are chummy with the guy putting on this techno party on a barge in the Seine, so we had been promised free entrance (a 12 euro savings—whoever says the French aren’t friendly has just met the wrong French people). Naturally, the party barge was a good hour’s hike from Susie’s party. We finally showed up around 2:30/3am.
Turns out it was worth the hike. The party was packed, but ther
e was still room to dance. NO ONE was in costume, so I quickly ripped off my Mademoiselle Camembert bra and stuffed it in my purse. I’m not much of a connoi
sseur of techno, so I can’t speak to the quality of the DJ’ing, but I think it’s fair to say it was solid without being ground-breaking. Knowing the guy throwing the party was money—we hadn’t managed to get in for f
ree, but he made it up to us with several free drinks, and Rachel got to dance up on stage.
We finally headed home around 7am. The metro was up and running again, and we were just about Halloweened out. We mustered up enough energy to pick up some delicious buttery flaky pastries for a pre-sleep breakfast. The perfect end to a pretty decent Halloween all things considered. Though after three days defending why we carve jack ‘o lanterns, bake pumpkin seeds, and put effort into our costumes, I definitely missed a real American Halloween.
That’s pretty much been the past week of my life. Naturally things differe
d each day. One evening we cooked up a pretty decent curry-esque dish for all our French friends as a sort of “Thanks for being ridiculously friendly” gesture. Everyone seemed to appreciate it; I even got Saul to eat it Indian-style with his hands. Bolstered by the success of this culinary endeavor, the next morning I crafted a delicious French toast (no pun intended) seasoned with nutmeg, cardamom, and cinnamon, topped with a creamy apple-almond shebang and drizzled with honey. This was definitely the impromptu culinary achievement of my life.The chronology of all this is beginning to escape me, but one night our friend Keith invited us out to the Champ de Mars, which is the big field in front of the Tour Eiffel, sort of like the mall in front of the Washington monument. Kids traditionally set up camp there for the evening
and drink wine—not a bad tradition if you ask me. The Tour Eiffel is lit up dramatically at night and twinkles magically every hour on the hour (yes, magically). One of the more annoying Parisian habits is the metro closing at 12:30am. This often leads to long walks home late at night unless you feel like springing for a taxi (which I almost never do). Rachel had the foresight (and need for speed) to buy a bike off craigslist, but Saul and I are wheel-less, so our walk home from the Tour Eiffel took a good 2 hours. Luckily, Paris is a fabulous place to walk around at night. (In case you’re looking for a second opinion).Sunday Saul and I went up to the marché aux puces (flea market) at Porte Clignancourt looking for nothing in particular (except maybe a bike) and finding nothing in particular (no bikes). Porte Clignancourt is at the very edge of Paris on the boulevard périphérique (ring road) and is somewhat more “urban” and less quaint than central Paris. The market was basically composed of three types of booths: 1. Marked down but still expensive designer clothing, 2. Marked up but still cheap imported Asian incense and wall-hangings, 3. Rap and hip-hop CDs and DVDs. This got a little old after awhile so we wandered a bit off the beaten track and found a cute alley full of antique books, prints, furniture, etc. Highlights included some random person’s daily planner from 1926 and a 19th century engraving of the sm
allish town Saul’s French family is from. Sadly, neither was cheap enough to justify buying. Apparently we only saw perhaps half of the marché and there are definitely several other ones as well, so I forsee plenty more opportunities to buy cheap crap (maybe a bike).Fact 1: 5 beers fit in an upside-down Frisbee.
Fact 2: Rachel did not believe fact 1.
Fact 3: I proved her wrong.
Now, perhaps it sounds as if we have been doing some cool things with our break, but I swear we were mostly lazy as all hell. The one thing we DID put some modicum of effort into was Halloween.
I actually found some decent pumpkins at an alimentation (sort of like a bodega for those familiar with Spanish Harlem or Ghostwriter) for 7 euro a piece. Sunday night we took the pumpkins over to Fabien’s and had a little pumpkin-carving party. Considering the lack of authentic pumpkin-carving tools I think we did a damn good job. We displayed one on a ledge outside Fabien’s window, which looks out on a really busy boulevard. I hope people saw it and smiled, though they may have just scoffed. Fuck ‘em.
I had promised my French and British friends not only an authentic jack ‘o lantern but also the authentic American delicacy of toasted pumpkin seeds. The combination of loads of time on my hands and residual French-toast-glory led me to dream up more than your average seeds. Inspired by an online recipe for “Pumpkin Seeds: Three Ways” I made one third regular salted seeds, one third curried seeds, and one third chai tea seeds. Honestly, I think they all taste pretty similar, but the Brits seemed to dig ‘em, especially the chai tea ones, which they claim taste like sausages. Go figure.
I had promised my French and British friends not only an authentic jack ‘o lantern but also the authentic American delicacy of toasted pumpkin seeds. The combination of loads of time on my hands and residual French-toast-glory led me to dream up more than your average seeds. Inspired by an online recipe for “Pumpkin Seeds: Three Ways” I made one third regular salted seeds, one third curried seeds, and one third chai tea seeds. Honestly, I think they all taste pretty similar, but the Brits seemed to dig ‘em, especially the chai tea ones, which they claim taste like sausages. Go figure.The biggest bummer of French Halloween is the costumes, or rather, the lack thereof. The French simply do not understand the fine art of crafting the perfect Halloween costume. They think it’s all about witches and ghosts, end of story. When Rachel explained to them that last year she and two friends went as Pink Floyd albums (with the real album art painted on their backs) our French friends seemed impressed but also a bit flabbergasted. It was pretty obvious from the get-go that we could easily get away with not dressing up at all, but I love Halloween far too much to stoop to lame French standards. I wanted to somehow keep it real while still keeping it French, so I ended up concocting this bizarre costume out of Camembert cheese containers. The upside of this was definitely getting to eat all the delicious Camembert (seriously, it’s divine). I crafted a Camembert cheese bra, necklace, and earrings, and entitled my costume ‘Mademoiselle Camembert.’
Our night started out late as usual. In fact, it seems the preceding week of late-nights was really just warm up for this, the latest night of all.
Another American assistant, Susie, had a Halloween gathering, which was quite pleasant and tame—kind of reminiscent of my 4th grade Halloween party put on by the class-moms. Indeed her mom had sent her honest-to-god American
candy corn and fake spider web. There was a best costume prize, which I was told I WOULD HAVE WON had I showed up on time…oops. Turns out some girl dressed up as Hawaiian won (not nearly as deserving as Mademoiselle Camembert…)We hadn’t gotten to Susie’s until around midnight, so by the time we had finished off all of Susie’s wine it was around 1:30am and thus, post-metro. Our French friends are chummy with the guy putting on this techno party on a barge in the Seine, so we had been promised free entrance (a 12 euro savings—whoever says the French aren’t friendly has just met the wrong French people). Naturally, the party barge was a good hour’s hike from Susie’s party. We finally showed up around 2:30/3am.
Turns out it was worth the hike. The party was packed, but ther
e was still room to dance. NO ONE was in costume, so I quickly ripped off my Mademoiselle Camembert bra and stuffed it in my purse. I’m not much of a connoi
sseur of techno, so I can’t speak to the quality of the DJ’ing, but I think it’s fair to say it was solid without being ground-breaking. Knowing the guy throwing the party was money—we hadn’t managed to get in for f
ree, but he made it up to us with several free drinks, and Rachel got to dance up on stage.We finally headed home around 7am. The metro was up and running again, and we were just about Halloweened out. We mustered up enough energy to pick up some delicious buttery flaky pastries for a pre-sleep breakfast. The perfect end to a pretty decent Halloween all things considered. Though after three days defending why we carve jack ‘o lanterns, bake pumpkin seeds, and put effort into our costumes, I definitely missed a real American Halloween.
24 October, 2006
Phuler Dokaan (Flower Shop)
Back in the summer of ’06 I briefly considered applying for a Fullbright to study the South Asian immigrant population of Paris. I nixed this idea for numerous reasons; however, I remain interested in the topic. There are sizeable Tamil, Sri Lankan, and Bengali populations in Paris, none of which to my knowledge have been documented to any significant or useful extent. The other day I decided to wander towards the one Hindu temple in Paris (I'm almost positive there is only one, though I find this surprising), in search of I suppose some sort of ethnographic muse. I found the temple; it is crammed into a shabby building at the back of an alley. Signs anounce in French and Tamil that it is open to all, (which is not the case for many Hindu temples.) Inside it is filled with altars dedicated to different deities, each topped with gilded murtis (religious statues) and garlanded with flowers. It essentially has the feel of a typical Hindu home’s personal altar, yet on a larger scale. While I was there a few people came in and paid their respects to the deities, and a brahman (priest) hung out in the corner reading the paper until someone called on him to chant from the Vedas. The temple’s primary community is Tamil-speaking (from south-eastern India); as this is not a language or region with which I am particularly familiar I felt a bit out of my element, but the trip was worthwhile nonetheless.
On my way back from temple my eye caught a flower shop sign written in Bengali, (a language and region with which I am relatively familiar). I paused to decide whether or not to go in—I really had no need for flowers, but I could not just walk past a BENGALI shop in PARIS—for me this is like the intellectual equivalent of Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked ice cream, COOKIE DOUGH and DOUBLE FUDGE BROWNIE; how can you pass it up? I wandered in to find five guys cleaning and sorting through dozens upon dozens of roses. I stalled for time by staring at all the roses trying to “decide” which ones to buy; really I was trying desperately to recall how to say anything practical in Bengali. I ultimately had a mildly productive conversation in a language I like to call Frengalindi. I found out the rose guys are all from Bangladesh, there are around 10,000 Bangladeshis in Paris, and that they don’t appreciate people walking into their shop, looking around for 15 minutes and then asking to purchase a single rose. Go figure. I would love to head back there from time to time and see if I can strike up some sort of friendship with the rose guys, though I think it would be hard to do so, and I don’t know if it would be a completely self-indulgent effort or actually produce something of value/interest to the rest of the world. We’ll see how many roses I can fit into my weekly budget.
On my way back from temple my eye caught a flower shop sign written in Bengali, (a language and region with which I am relatively familiar). I paused to decide whether or not to go in—I really had no need for flowers, but I could not just walk past a BENGALI shop in PARIS—for me this is like the intellectual equivalent of Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked ice cream, COOKIE DOUGH and DOUBLE FUDGE BROWNIE; how can you pass it up? I wandered in to find five guys cleaning and sorting through dozens upon dozens of roses. I stalled for time by staring at all the roses trying to “decide” which ones to buy; really I was trying desperately to recall how to say anything practical in Bengali. I ultimately had a mildly productive conversation in a language I like to call Frengalindi. I found out the rose guys are all from Bangladesh, there are around 10,000 Bangladeshis in Paris, and that they don’t appreciate people walking into their shop, looking around for 15 minutes and then asking to purchase a single rose. Go figure. I would love to head back there from time to time and see if I can strike up some sort of friendship with the rose guys, though I think it would be hard to do so, and I don’t know if it would be a completely self-indulgent effort or actually produce something of value/interest to the rest of the world. We’ll see how many roses I can fit into my weekly budget.
Paper Jam Nationalism
French copy machines are just as bitchy as American copy machines. Yet somehow...it’s even more frustrating because I can’t help but feel like the machine is being anti-American.
Beauty and Ugly
Last weekend Rach and I did some leisurely exploring around the 6eme arrondissement. We happened upon some of the few Roman ruins remaining in Paris. We were somewhat surprised to find kids playing soccer in them, but then noticed a sign marking the area as an official municipal recreational field. Attached to the Roman ruin playground was 
another playground sitting in what looked like the highly manicured courtyard of a French countryside chateau. I thought my childhood playground made of wooden 2x4’s was snazzy… It appears French kids don’t have to worry about getting splinters up their ass.Near the antique play-places is the Jardin des Plantes, or Garden of Plants. This name is meant quite literally; the place is full of beautiful flowers in orderly rows, and lined with trees trimmed hedge-style. All in all a little over-regimented for my taste, but impressive
nonetheless. A sweet stegosaurus stands by the entrance to the Museum of Natural History. (It bothers me a little bit that my elementary school intellect remembers exactly what a stegosaurus looks like yet has forgotten most of the details about the Articles of Confederation.)
nonetheless. A sweet stegosaurus stands by the entrance to the Museum of Natural History. (It bothers me a little bit that my elementary school intellect remembers exactly what a stegosaurus looks like yet has forgotten most of the details about the Articles of Confederation.)Next I convinced Rach and our friend Aly to wander over to check out the Bibliotheque National 
de France (BNF). Honestly, I wanted to the see the BNF because in my favorite book on Paris, Paris to the Moon, Adam Gopnik writes about how it is an absolutely preposterous monument—a total ego project by François Mitterand, complete with pentagon-like security measures and a whole lotta ugly. I believed Adam, but wanted to see for myself. Indeed I dragged poor Rach and Aly along to see a depressing monstrosity of a library. There are a few attempts at welcoming organic life-forms to the dreary campus—one might term them “courtyards”—but they reminded me
mostly of the velociraptor cages from Jurassic Park. Somehow the picture makes it look a lot nicer than it really is; I'm just that good of a photographer... If anything I'd give it credit for being imposing. The bridge to the other side of the Seine is cool though.
de France (BNF). Honestly, I wanted to the see the BNF because in my favorite book on Paris, Paris to the Moon, Adam Gopnik writes about how it is an absolutely preposterous monument—a total ego project by François Mitterand, complete with pentagon-like security measures and a whole lotta ugly. I believed Adam, but wanted to see for myself. Indeed I dragged poor Rach and Aly along to see a depressing monstrosity of a library. There are a few attempts at welcoming organic life-forms to the dreary campus—one might term them “courtyards”—but they reminded me
mostly of the velociraptor cages from Jurassic Park. Somehow the picture makes it look a lot nicer than it really is; I'm just that good of a photographer... If anything I'd give it credit for being imposing. The bridge to the other side of the Seine is cool though.A New Cast of Characters
Meet Rachel: Super-Texan, super-liberal progressive, and thus defying all (particularly French) stereotypical conceptions of Bush-toting Texans. Passionate about scuba diving, skateboarding (specifically longboards), smoking pot, and geography (did you know Venezuela means something like “little Venice”?).
Meet Saul: Raised in Oregon, but French enough to carry a French passport (thus avoiding all the administrative bullshit the rest of us are going through) and French enough to speak and understand French far better than I. Has a whole posse of honest-to-god French friends thanks to the French half of his family. Kindly invites me and Rach along to hang with said French posse, so we get a readymade Parisian social life. Word.
Saul is currently crashing with a French friend, Fabien, who lives a few blocks away from me, and Rachel is currently crashing with me until she finds an apartment, so the three of us have found it convenient to consume loads of wine, cheese, and weed, with the occasional dinner party, park outing, or bar thrown into the mix.
Incidentally, Fabien cheats at jenga.
Meet Saul: Raised in Oregon, but French enough to carry a French passport (thus avoiding all the administrative bullshit the rest of us are going through) and French enough to speak and understand French far better than I. Has a whole posse of honest-to-god French friends thanks to the French half of his family. Kindly invites me and Rach along to hang with said French posse, so we get a readymade Parisian social life. Word.
Saul is currently crashing with a French friend, Fabien, who lives a few blocks away from me, and Rachel is currently crashing with me until she finds an apartment, so the three of us have found it convenient to consume loads of wine, cheese, and weed, with the occasional dinner party, park outing, or bar thrown into the mix.
Incidentally, Fabien cheats at jenga.
09 October, 2006
Nuit Blanche
My cell phone rings. It’s Jake: “Hey, aren’t you having a party tonight? I’m at your apartment with some other assistants but you don’t seem to be home.” “Oh yeah, I am” I reply, “but not ‘till 10:30; I’ll be back in half an hour.” Jake says they’ll go bar-hopping and come back.
Hmm, I guess people are actually coming over.
I had invited about 15 people over to pre-game before going out on the town for Nuit Blanche, a city-wide all-nighter when generally underappreciated modern artists fill the streets with installations and Parisians drunkenly wander about pretending to get it. I had only heard back from about 5 people saying they were coming and would bring some cheap wine.
By midnight my relatively spacious but surely not cavernous flat is filled with around 30 people, mostly Americans but a spattering of French guys who are friends of a friend. Wine is flowing generously. So generously in fact that I spill a bit of red on the pristine white canvas dining room chairs. Shit. Ally recommends using white wine to get out the red wine. Keith recommends re-upholstering the chairs. Jen does some quick internet research and decides the thing to do is to concoct a precise solution of Dawn and hydrogen peroxide. Finally, I remember that I threw a Tide to Go pen in my carry-on. It seems to at least dull the red out a bit. I decide to hide all remaining white things…from myself.
Emma walks in at the height of the impromptu festivities and stops dead in the entryway, a look of absolute denial on her face. I quickly scamper over and assure her I will “take care of everything.” She nods suspiciously. Luckily the stained chairs are blocked from view by the mass of bodies. I hope this isn’t the end of our short friendship/housing arrangement.
Once I’m sufficiently full of wine I start encouraging everyone to head out for Nuit Blanche.
The full list of Nuit Blanche attractions is far too overwhelming to digest, but there is one installation I want to see for sure: a gigantic skull made of Indian dishes. I drunkenly set of on my mission, followed by around 10 people trying to keep up with my New York walking pace. The skull is about twice as far from my flat as it appears on the official Nuit Blanche map. But it is pretty cool. Naturally I enjoy any excuse to blab about India, so I eagerly point out all the different shapes and sizes of tiffin (Indian lunch boxes) that form the 10-foot-high cranium. I am awesome.
Post tiffin-skull we basically wander around northern Paris from 2am to 5am in search of anything cool or fun, but finding little. We come across 1 or 2 other bits of perplexing art. I wander into this fabulous Middle-Eastern pastry shop full of jelabees, and I vaguely recall excitedly telling the owner that I had eaten jelabees in India. I don’t think he cared. I bought something yummy with dates in it. I wish I could remember where that shop was…
By the time we actually get to where some of our friends are allegedly hanging out it is nearly 5:30 in the morning, I am tired and sober, and the metro is running again. My will to Nuit Blanche is gone. I half-heartedly wave goodbye to my wandering buddies and sleepily head back towards home.
I use up my last remaining bit of energy loading the dishwasher with all the empty wine glasses and putting the furniture back in order. The Tide to Go has worked magic; the only traces of the red wine are some extremely bleached patches on otherwise aged white fabric.
I sleep like a baby, confident in the knowledge that my accidental party was way more fun than Paris’ intentional modern art-fest.
Hmm, I guess people are actually coming over.
I had invited about 15 people over to pre-game before going out on the town for Nuit Blanche, a city-wide all-nighter when generally underappreciated modern artists fill the streets with installations and Parisians drunkenly wander about pretending to get it. I had only heard back from about 5 people saying they were coming and would bring some cheap wine.
By midnight my relatively spacious but surely not cavernous flat is filled with around 30 people, mostly Americans but a spattering of French guys who are friends of a friend. Wine is flowing generously. So generously in fact that I spill a bit of red on the pristine white canvas dining room chairs. Shit. Ally recommends using white wine to get out the red wine. Keith recommends re-upholstering the chairs. Jen does some quick internet research and decides the thing to do is to concoct a precise solution of Dawn and hydrogen peroxide. Finally, I remember that I threw a Tide to Go pen in my carry-on. It seems to at least dull the red out a bit. I decide to hide all remaining white things…from myself.
Emma walks in at the height of the impromptu festivities and stops dead in the entryway, a look of absolute denial on her face. I quickly scamper over and assure her I will “take care of everything.” She nods suspiciously. Luckily the stained chairs are blocked from view by the mass of bodies. I hope this isn’t the end of our short friendship/housing arrangement.
Once I’m sufficiently full of wine I start encouraging everyone to head out for Nuit Blanche.
The full list of Nuit Blanche attractions is far too overwhelming to digest, but there is one installation I want to see for sure: a gigantic skull made of Indian dishes. I drunkenly set of on my mission, followed by around 10 people trying to keep up with my New York walking pace. The skull is about twice as far from my flat as it appears on the official Nuit Blanche map. But it is pretty cool. Naturally I enjoy any excuse to blab about India, so I eagerly point out all the different shapes and sizes of tiffin (Indian lunch boxes) that form the 10-foot-high cranium. I am awesome.
Post tiffin-skull we basically wander around northern Paris from 2am to 5am in search of anything cool or fun, but finding little. We come across 1 or 2 other bits of perplexing art. I wander into this fabulous Middle-Eastern pastry shop full of jelabees, and I vaguely recall excitedly telling the owner that I had eaten jelabees in India. I don’t think he cared. I bought something yummy with dates in it. I wish I could remember where that shop was…
By the time we actually get to where some of our friends are allegedly hanging out it is nearly 5:30 in the morning, I am tired and sober, and the metro is running again. My will to Nuit Blanche is gone. I half-heartedly wave goodbye to my wandering buddies and sleepily head back towards home.
I use up my last remaining bit of energy loading the dishwasher with all the empty wine glasses and putting the furniture back in order. The Tide to Go has worked magic; the only traces of the red wine are some extremely bleached patches on otherwise aged white fabric.
I sleep like a baby, confident in the knowledge that my accidental party was way more fun than Paris’ intentional modern art-fest.
Couscous
I am on my way from Issy les Moulineaux, where my school is, to Nanterre, where I have a rendezvous with an archaeology professor. After much lively debate on the matter, I have been advised to take the tram, which loops around the western bank of the Seine linking the southwestern and northwestern suburbs. As I am sitting on the tram enjoying the relatively scenic view I find myself surrounded by a group of oldish men wearing matching tweed blazers and slacks—some sort of French Lyons Club outing perhaps. One of the men asks to see my ticket; I notice the French metro logo embroidered on his lapel. Aha, I had heard they go around checking tickets from time to time, but I never imagined they’d be so well-dressed! I confidently pull out my Carte d’Orange, which is a monthly metro pass. Metro man, even more confidently, informs me that my pass is for zones 1 and 2 only, and the tram is in zone 3 territory. Oops. I pull the “I’m a foreigner” card, which saves me from whatever the ghastly punishment for evading metro fare might be, but they insist that I get off at the next station to buy a ticket. They also insist on waiting with me, all 6 of them; I begin to feel a bit left out without a snappy blazer.
At the station the 7 of us have a nice chat while waiting for the next train. One of them wants to hear all about the New York subway system. We end up concluding that it’s pretty similar to the Paris metro. He then asks me, as I’ve been asked a million times since moving, what New York has that Paris lacks. I pull out my default response: “In New York you can have any type of food you want delivered to your apartment.” This generally seems to impress Parisians. Metro man needs some clarification. “Even couscous?” he asks. “Yes,” I respond, “Even couscous.” Now he’s impressed. He wants to know when the best time of year to visit New York is. Seems he can’t wait to order some couscous to his hotel room. I am amused.
At the station the 7 of us have a nice chat while waiting for the next train. One of them wants to hear all about the New York subway system. We end up concluding that it’s pretty similar to the Paris metro. He then asks me, as I’ve been asked a million times since moving, what New York has that Paris lacks. I pull out my default response: “In New York you can have any type of food you want delivered to your apartment.” This generally seems to impress Parisians. Metro man needs some clarification. “Even couscous?” he asks. “Yes,” I respond, “Even couscous.” Now he’s impressed. He wants to know when the best time of year to visit New York is. Seems he can’t wait to order some couscous to his hotel room. I am amused.
Irony
The past few days I have been sitting in on English classes getting a feel for the level of the students and the general pedagogical method over here. In general I’ve been surprised to find that the kids don’t speak English any better than your average American high schoolers speak French. I definitely had this hyper-self-critical notion that American schools were so much worse than the rest of the world at teaching language, but now I’m hearing that at least among European nations France is also known for is language-teaching deficiencies. I suppose it’s hardly surprising that the two most self-aggrandizing nations in the Western world don’t bother teaching their youth “useless” foreign tongues.
I spent the first half of the classes I attended introducing myself in simple English and responding to students’ questions. Questions ranged from the simple—Where are you from? (being from New York consistently elicited mild awe)—to the seemingly simple yet really quite unanswerable—Where do you plan to live the rest of your life?—to the outright complicated particularly in simplified English—What did you study in school? (“Anthropology and South Asian Studies” received blank stares, “culture and India” worked a bit better, “digging up dead people in India” was a crowd-pleaser).
The second half of class I simply observed, and man were these classes boring. In one class a study-guide question relating back to a short story was, “What adjective does the father use ironically? Using the context and its formation, deduce its meaning.” This of course launched the teacher into a 10-minute lecture on the meaning and use of the word “irony” itself, which seemed to me impractical for a bunch of 16-year olds who have trouble forming a proper statement in English let alone discerning literary devices. Then, to make matters even more hopeless the teacher asked the students to properly intone this ironic line of dialogue (which incidentally was more sarcastic than ironic to begin with). I’m not sure what she was going for being as I don’t think there is a standard in English for proper ironic intonation, but she inevitably asked me, the native speaker, to demonstrate it for the poor kids, so I just went with an over-the-top sarcastic voice. I’m sure the kids went away with a significantly diminished respect for American English…
I spent the first half of the classes I attended introducing myself in simple English and responding to students’ questions. Questions ranged from the simple—Where are you from? (being from New York consistently elicited mild awe)—to the seemingly simple yet really quite unanswerable—Where do you plan to live the rest of your life?—to the outright complicated particularly in simplified English—What did you study in school? (“Anthropology and South Asian Studies” received blank stares, “culture and India” worked a bit better, “digging up dead people in India” was a crowd-pleaser).
The second half of class I simply observed, and man were these classes boring. In one class a study-guide question relating back to a short story was, “What adjective does the father use ironically? Using the context and its formation, deduce its meaning.” This of course launched the teacher into a 10-minute lecture on the meaning and use of the word “irony” itself, which seemed to me impractical for a bunch of 16-year olds who have trouble forming a proper statement in English let alone discerning literary devices. Then, to make matters even more hopeless the teacher asked the students to properly intone this ironic line of dialogue (which incidentally was more sarcastic than ironic to begin with). I’m not sure what she was going for being as I don’t think there is a standard in English for proper ironic intonation, but she inevitably asked me, the native speaker, to demonstrate it for the poor kids, so I just went with an over-the-top sarcastic voice. I’m sure the kids went away with a significantly diminished respect for American English…
05 October, 2006
Puns and Statistics
I walked past a hair salon the other day called ATMOSP'HAIR. This interlingual pun works because the French word "atmosphére," (which shockingly, means atmosphere) has that accent on the 'e' and thus indeed rhymes with the English word "hair." I am amused.
Le Figaro (rightist newspaper) yesterday had an article about integration of minorities in mainstream American and French culture in which the president of the French High Counsel of Integration quotes the following statistics: "74% of French non-Muslims and 71% of French Muslims do not feel that there is much confict between Islam and the modern world." Really? I have my doubts. Will investigate further...
Le Figaro (rightist newspaper) yesterday had an article about integration of minorities in mainstream American and French culture in which the president of the French High Counsel of Integration quotes the following statistics: "74% of French non-Muslims and 71% of French Muslims do not feel that there is much confict between Islam and the modern world." Really? I have my doubts. Will investigate further...
03 October, 2006
20 Rue la Bruyère: Ma chambre
Going clockwise:
I believe the fireplace is purely decorative...
Over the fireplace: Ikea plus A.C. Moore equals cheap magnetic wall art. (I'm sure I find this far more exciting than is warranted; sue me)
Saris on the wall naturally (hung nail-free with blue tack, thank you Tahmid)Also, can you tell the big bed is bullshit? It's two singles united by a common fitted sheet. Therefore, plenty of room for visitors!
FIN20 Rue la Bruyère
Staircase and mini-lift (shoulder-width).
Kitchen to the immediate right of the entrance.
Looking back towards the entrance from the common room. The open doorway leads towards the entrance and kitchen. The closed doorway is a bathroom.
Common room.Haven't taken many pictures yet...
02 October, 2006
Fight Club, Facebook and Fasting
Saturday I went to a literary gathering called Festival America out in Vincennes (imediately outside of Paris). I suppose it might seem a little odd to go to a literary festival consisting entirely of North American authors when in Paris, but I figured it would be interesting to see what such an event consisted of in light of a supposed general atmosphere of anti-Americanism. To be more honest, that was my high-falutin intellectual rationalization for going. Mostly I went because Chuck Palahnuik, author of Fight Club, Choke, and other piercingly hilarious novels, was set to speak, as was Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid's Tale among others) and Johnathan Safran-Foer (Everything is Illuminated).
The more literary events I attend the more I am struck by the inability of authors to speak nearly as well as they write, but Chuck did not dissapoint. He celebrated the ability of authors to push the envelope even further than film or TV directors can because books are so much cheaper to produce and are therefore less market-driven. When asked about the immense cult-like popularity of Fight Club he said, "People tell stories in order to process experiences that are too complex to be immediately assimilated into their identity. In the case of a successful story, such as Fight Club, society at large assimilates the story by creating lesser and lesser copies of it--films, then video games, then T-shirts." He also read an incredibly disturbing short story that caused one guy in the audience to faint (apparently it often has this effect on people). "Writing should not only touch people intellectually and emotionally, but also physically," says Chuck. Mission accomplished.
Yesterday I utilized the (new? I can't keep track any more) Facebook feature where you can hunt down people in your gmail contact list to see if any of my new fellow English assistant friends had profiles. Of course many of them did, and I proceeded to friend them all. I must say this is an instance of Facebook's indisputable utility for post-college socialization. In college Facebook generally merely reified existing social groups--dorm halls, sports teams, Ukranian egg-makers, etc.--rarely was it truly the only way of tracking down someone on campus. Now, for better or worse, it can be the difference between being friends with someone or not. I've met so many Americans wandering around Paris this past week, and I have not been keeping a running list of people's contact info. Those who are on Facebook may well be invited to my upcoming flat-warming. Those who aren't may not for no other reason than I have no way of contacting them (short of inviting all 100+ American assistants and hoping only the ones I like show up). It would also be nice if everyone switched to transparent gmail addresses so if I know your name I know your email. How the hell am I supposed to figure out who gigglysquashstr47@yahoo.com is??
Today was glorious Yom Kippur. The Jews of Paris were out en masse to attone for their many sins (why all the burning of perfectly good cars?). The service I ended up at was largely orthodox--women separate upstairs and in Hebrew only--but I was struck by the lack of a dress code. I figured it would be the normal orthodox deal for women--long skirts and long sleeves--so I borrowed a skirt from Emma and tried to look the part of a humble, sexless mourner. Turns out the Parisian women were wearing everything from short skirts to jeans, and were probably wondering who the drab orthodox redhead was. I hope God appreciated the gesture...
The more literary events I attend the more I am struck by the inability of authors to speak nearly as well as they write, but Chuck did not dissapoint. He celebrated the ability of authors to push the envelope even further than film or TV directors can because books are so much cheaper to produce and are therefore less market-driven. When asked about the immense cult-like popularity of Fight Club he said, "People tell stories in order to process experiences that are too complex to be immediately assimilated into their identity. In the case of a successful story, such as Fight Club, society at large assimilates the story by creating lesser and lesser copies of it--films, then video games, then T-shirts." He also read an incredibly disturbing short story that caused one guy in the audience to faint (apparently it often has this effect on people). "Writing should not only touch people intellectually and emotionally, but also physically," says Chuck. Mission accomplished.
Yesterday I utilized the (new? I can't keep track any more) Facebook feature where you can hunt down people in your gmail contact list to see if any of my new fellow English assistant friends had profiles. Of course many of them did, and I proceeded to friend them all. I must say this is an instance of Facebook's indisputable utility for post-college socialization. In college Facebook generally merely reified existing social groups--dorm halls, sports teams, Ukranian egg-makers, etc.--rarely was it truly the only way of tracking down someone on campus. Now, for better or worse, it can be the difference between being friends with someone or not. I've met so many Americans wandering around Paris this past week, and I have not been keeping a running list of people's contact info. Those who are on Facebook may well be invited to my upcoming flat-warming. Those who aren't may not for no other reason than I have no way of contacting them (short of inviting all 100+ American assistants and hoping only the ones I like show up). It would also be nice if everyone switched to transparent gmail addresses so if I know your name I know your email. How the hell am I supposed to figure out who gigglysquashstr47@yahoo.com is??
Today was glorious Yom Kippur. The Jews of Paris were out en masse to attone for their many sins (why all the burning of perfectly good cars?). The service I ended up at was largely orthodox--women separate upstairs and in Hebrew only--but I was struck by the lack of a dress code. I figured it would be the normal orthodox deal for women--long skirts and long sleeves--so I borrowed a skirt from Emma and tried to look the part of a humble, sexless mourner. Turns out the Parisian women were wearing everything from short skirts to jeans, and were probably wondering who the drab orthodox redhead was. I hope God appreciated the gesture...
27 September, 2006
Première Message
Let me preface this by saying that I am using my roommate's French laptop with French keyboard and thus will likely truncate my post when my brain and fingers are getting too pissed off at one another to cope (basically the A, W, Z & Q are flipped around, the M is off too, and forget about punctuation marks and numbers...)
My bags were way too heavy and now an embarrassingly large portion of my arms, neck and shoulders are quite sore from dragging the bags up several flights of stairs to get out of the metro. Thankfully there is a lift to get up to my flat. It is an itty bitty european lift with room for three people max, and only in a row front to back, so I imagine it'd be awkward to be the person sandwiched in the middle.
The flat is amazing, far too nice for a beginner flat in Paris honestly. The short version is that I am living with a friend of a friend of a friend from Penn. She owns the flat so is simultaneously my roommate and landlord, which I suppose has the potential to be awkward but thus far has just been sweet (e.g. she's letting me stay for the first week for free and I can basically peace out if I so choose).
She is British so I've been getting as much of an introduction into the ways of the British as the French. This evening she had two of her fellow expat Brit friends over for dinner during which I largely sat and listened because I was insecure about my horrid American accent. (One on one with my roomate has been fine, but three on one was unfair). When I did speak my linguistic instinct was to match their accent, but my don't-sound-like-an-ass instinct was to just speak normally, so I probably ended up sounding like I don't speak much at all.
The most interesting thing about what essentially amounted to my eavesdropping on their conversation is that they kept talking about the Brits and the French and the Germans as if they were just the next town over, and of course, effectively they are. Americans seem to deal with foreign countries with much more distance. We hardly treat Canada and Mexico as international peers, and everyone else is a decent flight away. A few years ago I was chatting with a friend from L.A. and I mentioned something about the 'tri-state area,' -- New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut -- which forms the geographic basis for all our local news and weather. Friend-from-L.A. was intrigued because she said in L.A. the only state of any constant local interest was California. This struck me as odd in the same yet exactly opposite way as my new British friends talking about country A, B, and C all in one breath seemed odd. And of course these girls all speak a healthy smattering of French and German on top of their native English, which just drives me mad with jealousy. Then again, befriending British girls while in Paris won't improve my French much...
My bags were way too heavy and now an embarrassingly large portion of my arms, neck and shoulders are quite sore from dragging the bags up several flights of stairs to get out of the metro. Thankfully there is a lift to get up to my flat. It is an itty bitty european lift with room for three people max, and only in a row front to back, so I imagine it'd be awkward to be the person sandwiched in the middle.
The flat is amazing, far too nice for a beginner flat in Paris honestly. The short version is that I am living with a friend of a friend of a friend from Penn. She owns the flat so is simultaneously my roommate and landlord, which I suppose has the potential to be awkward but thus far has just been sweet (e.g. she's letting me stay for the first week for free and I can basically peace out if I so choose).
She is British so I've been getting as much of an introduction into the ways of the British as the French. This evening she had two of her fellow expat Brit friends over for dinner during which I largely sat and listened because I was insecure about my horrid American accent. (One on one with my roomate has been fine, but three on one was unfair). When I did speak my linguistic instinct was to match their accent, but my don't-sound-like-an-ass instinct was to just speak normally, so I probably ended up sounding like I don't speak much at all.
The most interesting thing about what essentially amounted to my eavesdropping on their conversation is that they kept talking about the Brits and the French and the Germans as if they were just the next town over, and of course, effectively they are. Americans seem to deal with foreign countries with much more distance. We hardly treat Canada and Mexico as international peers, and everyone else is a decent flight away. A few years ago I was chatting with a friend from L.A. and I mentioned something about the 'tri-state area,' -- New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut -- which forms the geographic basis for all our local news and weather. Friend-from-L.A. was intrigued because she said in L.A. the only state of any constant local interest was California. This struck me as odd in the same yet exactly opposite way as my new British friends talking about country A, B, and C all in one breath seemed odd. And of course these girls all speak a healthy smattering of French and German on top of their native English, which just drives me mad with jealousy. Then again, befriending British girls while in Paris won't improve my French much...
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