Homeward Bound

Paris, France

I have a little under 12 hours left in Paris so stuff is getting real.

As promised, I spent today wrapping things up. I did some adult stuff, like airline printing and banking, and then I meandered around the city getting sentimental. It was raining, so that helped to set the mood as well. After finishing all my errands, I met up with some friends at Angelina in the Luxembourg Gardens, which brings my semester to a full circle – if you’ll remember my first trip to Angelina in the early weeks of the semester.

Now, buckle up, it’s about to get very heavy. I’m in the middle of packing, which means I’ve just found a hoard of memories hiding in my drawers, and I’m trying to find a way to fit everything in my suitcase to bring back home.

Overall, this has been an amazing semester. There are still things I’ll need to do when I make my inevitable return to the city – inevitable because I’ve fallen in love. I came to the city with a lot of expectations about what the semester was going to bring, some of which were met and many of which were exceeded. It wasn’t always perfect, but always important.

I’ve eaten more bread and cheese and chocolate than probably ever before in a 4 month period. I’ve had wine ranging from top shelf vintage to barely palatable.

I saw more art than I thought possible. I consumed a lot of ‘culture’ and a lot of culture. I learned what a model public garden looks like (it involves impossibly well maintained trees, miniature sailboats, and well dressed toddlers), and how a model manifestation is run. I’ve also seen what a poorly run manifestation looks like, and I’ve come to understand the differences in poverty and unemployment and disgruntled citizens between Paris and New York.

I’ve figured out how to address catcalls with a French pout and a raised eyebrow. Even more importantly, I’ve learned to laugh at myself with abandon. It’s ok to look like a tourist sometimes, because that student visa? It really means you’re going to be confused for a couple of months, and then you’re just going to accept that sometimes you stick out. It makes it that much more special when people ask you for directions to the nearest post office.

I’ve crossed bridges of all shapes and sizes, physical and metaphorical.

I’ve passed many a midnight in Paris, and even a couple dawns.

It was great, and fun, and messy, and sometimes very hard. But most of all, Paris was beautiful and it gifted me some extraordinary opportunities and experiences. It was a weird and wonderful semester and merci bien to everyone who was a part of it. We’ll always have Paris.

Profitez Bien

Paris, France (yes, I’m still here and alive)

Ok, first off, I did really intend to write a post about spring break in a timely manner. Then, I got back to Paris and, I don’t know, life happened. And I do have a half written post about spring break sitting in an open Word document. But I’ve just realized that I have about 36 hours left in Paris, so I figured I would catch you up with my primary city first. Maybe the spring break post will find its way to you a little bit after I return and get settled back in. And it’s a little terrifying to me to say that.

There is a phrase in French, “profitez bien,” which sums up what we’ve all been trying to do these past couple weeks. In fact, we’ve all been profiter-ing bien in an increasingly manic way the past couple days. What does it mean to profiter bien, you ask? Well, if you’re wondering about the three different spellings, that’s just because the first one is conjugated, the second is Frenglish and the third is, well, the unconjugated phrase. As for meaning, the closest English equivalent would probably be to take advantage of a good opportunity — the literal translation is to profit well, but that doesn’t quite do it justice. Actually, there really isn’t a translation that does it justice. So, imagine if you would, a phrase that encourages you to make the most of an excellent opportunity, and to have fun while doing it. That’s probably close enough.

In an effort to profite bien, here are some of the things I’ve done since returning from break.

I went to observe a session of the French National Assembly. This was less of a profiter-ing thing, as I went with my French Political Life class, but it was still cool! We saw the Prime Minister! We saw other ministers! We realized that politics pretty much sounds the same no matter what language it’s spoken in! But really, it was very cool experience. And now the French government has more identifying information about than I really thought was possible or necessary. Also, we had a delightfully confusing moment where one of our classmates bungled the security check line and it triggered a small argument between the two security guards about whether it was ok for a man to tell a woman to put her arms up. All in all, a fun, cultural experience.

Next up is the beginning of the end, in terms of activities. Which is sad. Generally, I’m having mixed feelings while I write this post, just so you know.

I went to an amazing burrito place along Canal St. Martin. It’s called El Nopal and we went to celebrate the end of one of our classes and the final being over, because sometimes burritos fix everything. We took our (seriously awesome) burritos to mange along the Seine, in the glorious, glorious sunlight. We actually have had really lovely weather recently, perhaps because Paris understands that it’s currently going through a mass exodus of American college students. After our exploration into the Mexican food that Paris has to offer, we went a more traditional route and headed over to a nearby bakery. Voted the best bakery in 2013, Du Pain et Des Idées is a little further in from the canal, and a perfect complement to anything you might be doing in the area. I got a pastry called a “sancristan,” apparently a springtime only specialty, which tasted like love and the top of a crème brulée. Then I went back to the apartment to finish writing a paper for another class. I did real school here, guys.

This past weekend was when the real threat of leaving started to hit us all, so that was good.

A group of us went to a bar up by Canal St. Martin (it’s just a really cool, if totally in the process of being gentrified, area), le Comptoir General. We waited in line only to be told that they weren’t letting anyone else in for the night, but they weren’t prepared for our wheedling. I say “our.” It was really just one, particularly talented friend, who I will always be indebted to for getting us in everywhere despite the protests of French bouncers. We did eventually get in, which is exciting, because it was cool. In general, Paris has very small spaces. Restaurants are small, stores are small, supermarkets are very small. But they had two large repurposed factory spaces with an enclosed garden in between the two and a pretty good playlist, so we were able to have one last dance circle before we all left. Then they closed and we were left to our own devices. We found our way to the night bus, which was less exciting than advertised as most everyone just wanted to go to sleep, and then back to our respective homes because we had BRUNCH PLANS.

If nothing else, this blog has been a tribute to my passion for brunch. And it lives on in this post.

At a reasonable hour the next day, I made my way up to Tuck Shop, an Australian run coffee shop. A group of us met up there and had brunch, which was a croque madame muffin (basically a little pastry shell with egg and cheese and avocado baked in it) with salad and smoothie and assorted other treats. Good choices all around. After lingering, as is the Parisien and brunch-ien way, we walked around the area, explored some thrift shops, and then got milkshakes. Because brunch days mean taking it easy.

That night a group of us met up again and after having a petit dinner party, we went out to see Night at the Museums. Basically, from what I’ve been able to figure out, it’s a night where most public museums stay open late and sometimes host events. We went to l’Orangerie, and were able to see the Monet water lilies (along with some other excellent pieces) in all their glory at 11:30 at night. And this was actually a good prelude to the next day when we went to go see the lilies in person.

On Sunday, three of us went on a true and proper out-of-town adventure. We met up at the St. Lazare station, fended our way through the confusing world that is French train tickets and got on the train with mere minutes to spare. Where to? Well, where every other American in Paris seemed to also being going – Giverny of course! After arriving in Vernon, we walked to Giverny by way of a wrong turn through a petonque tournament (bocce. It’s the French word for bocce.) and then a pastoral riverside walkway. While the walk did give us beautiful and charming view of the village, it was really hot. Cue the adventure aspect. After an overheated 45 minutes we got into Giverny proper and found sandwiches. Also other Americans, but that was a recurring theme to the day. Then it was off to the house and gardens. Rebecca had thought ahead and gotten tickets beforehand, which meant that we avoided the forever-long line and were able to cut through to the gardens for a quick entrance.

The gardens were, sincerely, an eden. Even though they were packed with people, everything was in full bloom and it made the sense of profiter-ing bien even stronger. We made our through, made sure to snag tons of pictures, and generally took it all in. The house was a little hotter, a little more cramped, but still fascinating and beautiful, though pictures were interdit, so officially I don’t have any. After the gardens and house, we ran into another friend and her mother, because, like I said, everyone came to Giverny on the same day.

After “doing Giverny,” (thanks Midwestern American family we overhead in the garden from whom I borrowed this term) we meandered then decided to catch the shuttle bus back to Vernon. Decided might be too strong a word as we saw it and ran after it with a group of British girls in an attempt to not walk back. It was a surprisingly short bus ride for what had seemed like a pretty lengthy mini-hike. Back in town we re-hydrated, assessed our already appearing sunburns and settled in to wait for our second crowded train of the day. And it was definitely all worth it.

Yesterday was beautiful and hot, and I managed to go to two picnics. Profitez! The first was a mini picnic and the second was on the Champs du Mars, with an excellent view of the Eiffel Tower. Pictures to follow, I promise.

Then today was lunch with a family friend and a museum exhibit I’ve been latently trying to visit since April. Rebecca and I went to the Petit Palais for the “Paris: 1900” exhibit, a fitting setting since the palais was constructed for the 1900 World’s Exhibition. The exhibit was wonderfully curated and very interesting, but more than that, it summed up a nice picture of what people tend to think of when they think “Paris.” It focused on the art nouveau, the fashion, the nightlife and the stages of Paris during the Belle Epoque, and was a pretty wonderful way to bring things to a (near) end.

And so, there’s that. I’ve been profiter-ing bien, trying to fit in as much as possible. Did that seem rushed? Do I seem rushed? Is it because I’m leaving so soon and I’m not good at processing big emotional events? Maybe.

I’ll continue to profite tomorrow, and hopefully update after that. As long as I get a headway on packing, that is.

A demain!

Last Day in Morocco

After an intense pastilla lunch (intense in that I ate three pieces of chicken and almond pastilla) we made our Academic Director take a picture with a bunch of us from the program.

Things I Will Miss About Morocco

1. Juice
   There’s a woman in the medina who we all call Juice Lady, and she opens her shop every day but Friday (the day most people eat couscous and go to mosque). She makes fresh squeezed orange juice, and other fruit juices as well. And let me tell you something, when you have had Juice Lady’s fresh squeezed, made with love orange juice, it is really hard to drink anything else. She makes each glass to order, and can use cold or room temperature oranges. And she serves everything up with such kind eyes (I assume also a kind smile, but she wears a niqab, so we can’t really tell) and is so patient with our Arabic. Service like this would probably cost over 5 dollars in New York. Here in Morocco, Juice Lady charges 50 cents (4 dirhams). I don’t know what I’m gonna do without her.
2. Rghiaf
   This flaky, oily bread is my favorite Moroccan food. In the village, I assisted with the making of rghaif, so I know how much butter goes into each amazing slice. It’s a lot of butter guys. We used half a tub of “I Can’t Believe It’s Barely Margerine” to make around 15 rghaif. Only problem is, I don’t know how to make the dough, so when I leave Morocco, I’m also leaving behind this amazing dish.
3. Looking at Moroccan Guys
   They may catcall you in the street, and harass you on Facebook, but I’ve never been to a place where all the men are so attractive. Call me an objectifier, but I’ve been objectified all semester. This is me fighting back. The guys here are cute. I’d give them my number if I knew they wouldn’t call it 20 times.
4. The Hammam
   I know you think you get clean in a shower, but you haven’t experienced clean until you have scrubbed your body all over with a rough sponge type-thing for over an hour in a steaming room. I double washed my hair every time I went to the hammam, just because I didn’t think it was truly clean the first go round. The public bath is also an excellent place for gossip, which is one of my biggest vices. But it makes bathing so much more fun!
5. Moroccan GPS
   Nothing in Morocco is effectively mapped, so if you want to go somewhere, your best bet is ask people. But no one in Morocco is that good at giving directions, so your better bet is to ask one guy, follow his directions for a bit, then ask someone else, follow her directions, and then ask someone else. If you had asked me in January if I liked this system, I would have responded with a hard no. But that’s what was so great about Moroccan GPS. It forced me to do two things I’m very scared of: speak in Arabic and ask for help. Moroccan GPS helped me step way out of my comfort zone, and I think I’m a better person for it.
6. The People
   A lot of this post has been pretty superficial but this is about to get way serious. Moroccans are some of the nicest and most helpful people I have ever met. People are always ready to give you directions, or invite you to their house for couscous. And people are so kind and complimentary when I try to speak my broken Arabic. People always want to know about your life, your day, your studies. Some might find it tiring to answer the same questions so many times, but I have loved to see how much complete strangers care about my Arabic studies, and my opinion on the weather. I think my biggest culture shock coming back won’t be the “American Excess” or hot showers on command. It will be how unfriendly everyone appears to me after close to four months in the friendliest country I’ve ever been to. I have loved my time in Morocco because of the people, and I am so sad to leave behind all the friends I have made here, and all the strangers who I know would treat me like a friend. It’s been amazing Morocco, and I hope I can return one day.

Things I Won’t Miss About Morocco

1. Street Harassment
   I really cannot overstate how annoying the street harassment is in Morocco. It’s near constant, and it does really start to wear on you. As a woman, it makes you feel very unwelcome in the public space, and at times, can be unsafe. On my last full day in Morocco, a man tried to push me up against the wall by my school. Nothing that bad happened, but it’s pretty jarring to get accosted in broad daylight while walking with other people, one of whom is a guy. But not all street harassment is physical. I am just as annoyed by the catcalls. We all had our own strategies for dealing with cat calling. I was a fan of the “walk like a badass” approach, where I walked through every street as if I was holding a very large bat. Or, for my fellow nerds out there, Mjolnir. But my friend took the much more interesting, “shame approach.” During our last week, whenever my friend was cat called, she would turn to the man who had yelled at her, and ask him to apologize. Amazingly, it actually worked (sometimes). There is hope for ending cat calling in Morocco, but I’m glad to be leaving it behind.
2. The Souika Butt Poker
   The oddest form of street harassment I encountered was a man (I assume) who I have dubbed the Souika Butt Poker. Literally, I had my butt poked with what felt like a pencil, multiple times, on two separate occasions. I recognize how weird that sounds, but I swear to God, it’s the truth. The worst thing about the Souika Butt Poker is that it takes you awhile to realize that someone is poking your butt. And the man is fast, so I never was able to see who it was. Not gonna miss that crazy weirdo, but I am a little upset I never solved the mystery.
3. Souika
   Related to number 2, I’m really not going to miss Souika, the street I lived on. In general, I loved the Rabat medina. There was always something going on, there were so many cool things to buy, and the people were friendly, and always stopped to talk with their friends. But like everything in life, these are all best enjoyed in moderation. Souika had too many things going on, from beggars, to water sellers, to the call to prayer, to blind men singing, to street harassment. There were too many things to buy, and too many people yelling very loudly about how you should buy their pajamas. And while I love the friendliness of Moroccans, on Souika, this manifested itself in what I have dubbed Souika Pace, which meant that so many people were calling to friends that literally everyone on the street walked like a tourist in Times Square. The combination of these things could really raise the blood pressure.
4. Medina Juice
   This is liquid mixture of rain or water people use to clean the road in front of their shops, combined with any number of other liquids, like spilled juice, fish guts, vegetable water, and probably urine. The point is, you never know what is in Medina Juice, and stepping in it after the hammam, or really any time, is enough to totally ruin your day.
5. Moroccan Dudes on Facebook
   Facebook is very much used as a dating site here, as it is a space for young people to get to know each other outside of the prying eyes of their parents. This is great. The Internet is amazing, and has given us so many more opportunities to connect. I just wish all the guys whose friend requests I accepted would stop connecting with me every single day. I had one man who friended me, who proceeded to like every single picture I had posted in the last 2 months. We’ve all received copious messages from guys we had met for an afternoon and who found us on Facebook. It was interesting to see that the norms around Facebook are not the same in every country, and can be especially frustrating here.

I know this sounded like a really negative post, but don’t worry! My Things I Will Miss About Morocco is coming soon!

Little Stories

This week marked the start of our Independent Research Time, where we have three weeks to research any topic with the ultimate goal of writing a 20 to 40 page paper. They encourage us to really leave the nest and not stay with our host families, so I moved out of my host family’s house and into an apartment in the medina with five other girls. We have literally no obligations during these three weeks, which means we have a lot of time to do fun things. So this is going to be a post heavy on stories. I’ve decided I will tell one for each day, just to space it out.      

Monday: This marked the real start of my ISP research. I’m studying homosexuality and gay organizations in Morocco, and on Monday, someone came to my house to be interviewed. For confidentiality, I didn’t feel like I could have a translator, and my interview subject only really spoke Arabic. Which meant I conducted an interview entirely in Arabic. I would say I understood about 60% of it, which I am taking as a big win.

Tuesday: Don Giovanni, the Mozart opera, was being put on at the national theatre in Rabat, and as one of my roommates is a music major, and another friend takes her name from the opera, we decided to go. It was only my second time at the opera, and I actually really enjoyed ¾ of it. The middle ¼ (beginning of the second act) kind of dragged, I’m not going to lie to you. But my story here has nothing to do with the opera. Rather, it has to do with what happened before the curtain even rose.

Pre-Opera selfie

I decided to find the bathroom, as I normally do before long performances. The National Theatre in Morocco is gorgeous and very fancy. I’m sure there are very nice bathrooms in it, but due to a language barrier, I think we may have been led to the less nice ones. Not that the bathroom was dirty, but none of the doors locked, which I found strange. I figured it wouldn’t be a problem, but me being me, someone opened the door while I was in the bathroom.

At this point in the story, you’re probably like, Bella please no one wants to hear this. BUT YOU DO. You see, the woman opening the door was wearing a beautiful, and fancy, white dress. After I left, embarrassed, I noticed she was standing close to the backstage of the theatre. And when the performance started, I saw that white dress again and realized that this woman was playing Donna Anna in the opera.

So yeah. An opera diva opened the door to my bathroom stall. How was your Tuesday?

Wednesday: This story is slightly less fun. Some friends and I decided to go back to the rural village that we had spent a week in about a month ago. I saw it as a good opportunity to see my host family again, and a nice break from city life, which I felt like I needed. And one great thing about Morocco is that you can get cabs to basically anywhere. But when I say cabs, I mean a gran taxi, which has five other passengers plus a driver. However, it was less than ten dollars for over three hours of driving, so I can’t complain.

Anyway, we had to take a cab from Rabat to Khmisett, and then we were meeting some friends to go from Khmisett to Oulmes. As we were all standing in Khmisett, a man came up and put his arm around my friend. All of us were on the phones with our host families, so we tried to just ignore the man. Then he went around, trying to shake people’s hands, before putting his arm around my friend again.

At this point, Italian Bella came out and pushed the man away while swatting his arm and yelling. I’ve always found that making a scene is a fairly effective way to deal with situations such as this. I even yelled at the man in Arabic!

That last part ended up not being so great, because while I thought I was yelling “Leave! Leave!” in the command form, I actually ended up yelling “He left! He left!” Which I’m sure confused not only the man, but everyone around us.

The village was so beautiful it was worth any weirdness in the travel

Thursday: I ate sheep intestines. 

Friday: I finally got sick in Morocco (possibly from the sheep intestines). I would tell you more on that story but it’s a little gross.

Again, doesn’t matter. The village was beautiful.

Saturday: I don’t actually have a funny story from Saturday because I spent most of the day researching and playing Doge 2048, only one of which was a good use of my time.

Sunday: We intended to have a fun brunch for Easter, but I got an email at 10:30 from the person I had interviewed on Monday telling me that I could interview their friend at 11. So instead of brunch I dashed out to this person’s house and had a three-hour interview with them and their friend. See! I’m working*!

*Actually only an hour of this was an interview, and I spent the other two just talking to them because they were both incredibly interesting people. But still. I am kind of working!

Protests

Protests are not uncommon in Rabat, and especially common close to where I live. At least once a week there are a group of people demonstrating in front of Parliament, which just happens to be about three blocks from the edge of the old medina, where I live. As a rabble rouser from day one (thanks Mom and Dad!) I made it a goal to see a protest take place before I left Morocco. A week ago, I got my wish, in a big way.

I was heading back from an interview I had done for my independent study project (maybe more on that when I finish it…) and I ran into a friend from the journalism program. She is writing an article about the unemployed degree holders movement in Morocco. Basically, there are a lot of recent college graduates who really want government jobs. However, since 2011, the government has not hired that many graduates, claiming that no one is qualified for the jobs. Former students have been demonstrating since 2011, both for jobs in the government, and for a reform of the education system, to ensure that graduates will be qualified in the eyes of the government.

Interestingly, American graduates are facing many of the same worries Moroccan graduates are, in that neither group is confident in their ability to find a job. I’ve been very interested to see the different ways that manifests itself (for example, Moroccan youth really want jobs in the government, which is totally the opposite of most American youth I have met). However, this is probably a subject for another post.

Anyway, I ran into my friend, and she said that the students would be demonstrating every day until April 21st, because 7 members of the movement had been arrested. I ended up talking to one of the protesters, who filled me in on some of the details of the movement.

And then I ended up following her into the protest.

Now, to clear up any confusion, I was not protesting. That is against SIT’s rules. I was observing the protest in a participatory manner (thank you to my friend Caroline, who studied abroad in Chile with SIT for giving me that phrase). This meant I was there as a student of social movements. A researcher even.

I started my observation close to the back of the protest, and while this made for great photos, it got to be a little nerve-wracking when we walked out onto a fairly busy street, and I was walking right in front of a bus. You can bet I quickly moved myself to the middle of the protest so as to not be hit by a car during my totally not rule breaking observations.

I followed the group to the block before Parliament, where they proceeded to have a brief sit-in, angering all of the drivers behind us. My Arabic is still a little rough, but I definitely understood enough to know they were asking for freedom. My new friend was also very helpful, and willing to translate some of the chants for me.

After the sit-in, the group started to move to the Parliament, and I decided I had observed all I wanted too, and I headed home. Also my program assistant saw me observing the protest in a participatory manner, but my leaving was not about that.

I have a lot of kind of conflicted feelings about the protests here, but in general, I am impressed that the students are demanding a change for the situation in front of the Parliament, as opposed to demanding a change over Facebook. In addition, there had just been some protests in my hometown that were not viewed positively, which angered me. I was glad to see that there were people who saw the value in protesting. Finally, I will point out that I happened to be wearing my Woody Guthrie shirt during this protest, and that really could not have turned out any better.

Getting Swept Along With the Current

Paris, France

Bonsoir (or jour) tout le monde!

Isn’t it lovely how you say “everyone” in French? You literally just address the entire world.

I was trying to work up the courage (energy, motivation) to catch up on the blog, so I made a list of the stuff I have to write about. Then the list made me even more wary of becoming current. So, I decided I’ll just post the list and annotate. Here goes:

Science Museum, Shakespeare and Co:

A couple weeks ago – ok, three weeks ago, you got me – I visited the Palais Découverte, Paris’ science museum. Underwhelming. I know, I know, you’re raising your eyebrows, wondering why I went to a science museum in a city especially renowned for its art in the first place. Two reasons: planetarium and dinosaurs. The planetarium show wasn’t great. I think I was expecting more graphics, but we wound up getting a lecture about the next three nights of stars visible in Paris, in the most lulling, exceptionally French voice I’ve heard in a while. And I’ve heard a lot. Also, there were no dinosaurs. Some strange timeline with pictures of dinosaurs but no actual dinosaur bones. Kind of a letdown. But on the bright side, the mechanical science interactive features were pretty cool. The twelve year olds who were there also agreed. After the museum, we made our way over the Shakespeare and Co., the famous English language book store located across the Seine from Notre Dame. There was a line out the door in the middle of the afternoon, so we opted out, but I went back later in the night and it was a pretty magical experience. Full of little nooks and crannies, they have one of those collections that is a perfect mix between contemporary lit and classics and, though I didn’t check it out extensively, what appeared to be an awesome rare books collection. Expectations: met.

Rocky Horror:

A whole group of us tried to go see Rocky Horror Picture Show on Saturday, only to be met with the declaration that you’re supposed to reserve tickets the Wednesday before the show. Because they always sell out. Because we’re supposed to know that Rocky Horror is that popular in Paris, I guess. But, they kindly told us that the show happens every week, so we might try again another time. In lieu of Rocky Horror we found a bar in the area (well, the show was in St. Michel, so we headed a little further south into the 5^th, close to the Pantheon) – a pretty fun experience since a couple of the other girls had dressed up for the show. Fun fact for readers: fish nets have yet to become a normal thing in Paris. You will get catcalled. But, I get catcalled wearing a trench coat and glasses, so I think their standards might just be different than our expectations.

Quiet Sunday:

As the title denotes, I didn’t do too much. Saw Monuments Men by myself. Pretty good, if heavy handed. If you didn’t already know: the Nazis lose WWII, America is great, art is important. People will die for art, except if you’re American, in which case you will honor other people who died for art. Especially if you’re George Clooney or Matt Damon.

Wine Degustation:

On Monday night I went to a wine degustation. Full disclosure, I’ve now been to multiple degustations and still only have a vague sense of what tannins are. I need someone to explain what tannins are before I have three glasses of wine. That being said, it was very good wine. Also, very good food. Now I have a better idea of how to pair wine and cheese (and meat. There was some sort of delicious charcuterie that looked like meat rosettes), plus the knowledge that I can’t stomach dessert wines. It was like syrup, except not good. Really, I just don’t understand. Aside from the dessert wine incident, it was lovely, and Reid Hall paid, so Best Night Ever, amirite?

Trocadero:

I really shouldn’t say stuff like “Best Night Ever,” because all my nights have been pretty wonderful. On Thursday, a friend who lives by Trocadero plopped a couple of us off on her way home. She had really built this place up, and we were kind of unimpressed getting off at the Metro stop. I should really have learnt by now to stop judging places by their Metro stops. We turned the corner onto an open plaza and promptly experienced the best view of the Eiffel Tower Paris has to offer. You see, Trocadero sits on the hill across the river from the Tower, so, sitting on the steps here you get a perfect, magical, Parisien view of the landmark. We had some wine and gaufres (waffles, for those of you not in the know. As in, me, three weeks ago), and got to watch the glittery light show the Tower puts on for 5 minutes, at the top of the hour. Sometimes I forget I’m in Paris, and what that really means and it’s moments (hours) like that one that help to remind me.

Noodles:

We went back to the awesome noodle place, Happy Nouilles. Still delicious, still noodle-y. I eat so much Asian food in Paris.

Père Lachaise:

I promised more details, so here they are. I went to Pere Lachaise with some friends and we saw pretty much the same stuff as I did with Mum and Dad. The only real difference was probably the greenery, which had become even more lovely than it had been two weeks earlier (ah, the magic of spring). Oscar Wilde’s grave has a Plexiglas barrier around it to stop all those literary hoodlums from making their mark on his (super weird) tombstone. Seriously, look it up. I guess there were vandalism problems in the past, so the gravesite was restored a couple of years ago by Ireland (they know how to treat their national treasures, at least in the afterlife). There are still tokens left by those passionate enough. I mean, I saw several bouquets of long-stemmed roses that had clearly been tossed over the barrier, which requires commitment. You have to feel strongly about someone to get them roses, especially a dead someone, that no one living can actually have met with. Moving on from my confusion, we saw Jim Morrison’s grave as well, also cordoned off. His is less palatial than Wilde’s, just one of the regular raised casket style graves, wedged behind a couple others, but there were tokens here too, and lots of people all trying to get a glimpse. Including us. We saw lots of others as well, but if you’d like a full list…I’m sure you can find one online somewhere?

TACOS:

Yes, they deserved the all-capital title. We went to Candelaria, a squishy, steamy little nook of a taco shop and it was GREAT. We were meeting some friends who were waiting for us in the bar behind the taco shop portion of the place, but we didn’t figure that out until after eating some tacos and trying a margarita, thank goodness. We had to eat standing up, and I had to lift my plate over my head to let people pass by, but it was all worth it. 10/10 would recommend. (Someone pointed out that my enthusiasm probably had something to do with the fact that Paris has so few options for Mexican food, but I refuse to believe that’s the only reason. These were great tacos.)

Horrors of cabs, learning lessons about the metro:

Here’s the lesson about the metro: don’t miss it. Nothing good happens after 2a.m. anyway, so just catch that last train and let it take you all the way home. Unless you plan on staying out until it opens again at 5 a.m., but that takes a special drive I just don’t have. Here’s what happens if you miss the metro, you fool. You end up waiting at a taxi stand with everyone else in Paris who missed the metro for 45 minutes until someone has the good sense to marshal civility into the group and realizes you got there first. Or you could run out into the road to poach a cab, but since that wasn’t either of our styles’, we just waited.

Just take the metro, kids.

Brunch, Pompidou:

The next morning I went to brunch. I rallied for the sake of my commitment to the stylish misfit of meals. Katja and I went to O, Paris! and had a good, if pretty unremarkable meal. But, there was a great view of Paris just steps away from the restaurant, it was a beautiful day, and there was a lot of good, boring food. Wahoo! After brunch (we lingered, but it’s Paris and the whole city is on brunch time anyway) I went down to the Pompidou Center. It was the last day of the Cinéma du Réel festival, a documentary film festival, where I caught a screening of Examen D’État, for my French university class. Some French ladies told me they thought my ballerina bun was cute, then afterwards chatted with me about the movie (the national examination in the French Congo and the corruption that surrounds it – a little heavier than the hair discussion), so it rounded out to be very interesting.

End of Academic Writing, Ile de la Cité:

Our grammar course ended, which was sad because we loved Madame and she loved us. C’est la vie. Afterwards, a big group of us took an excursion to the Seine, and sat on the banks of Ile de la Cité which is apparently the place to be. There were lots of real French kids there; just hanging out, like us, so that was gratifying. Are we French yet? No? It’s the accents and strange, outdated vocabulary, isn’t it?

Wine degustation:

Friday night I went to another wine degustation, this time hosted by Sorbonne Gourmet, a student run wine club of sorts at the Sorbonne. They had Antonio Galloni leading the event, which was very cool once we realized that he is a real, live, professional wine critic. Seriously, Google it up. Even better, he’s an American, so the event was conducted in English and slow French. What made it even better is that he’s a pretty normal person. He subscribes to the beautiful golden rule that, basically, if you like it, you should drink it. Just because someone else likes one wine, doesn’t mean you can’t like another. That being said, the wines he had picked out were much better than the 2 euro Dia wines we had been picking up, but it’s good to know he’s an expert for a reason. Overall, I still like red, but I have yet to turn down a wine that is given to me by a responsible adult. As far as cultural divides go, it was pretty clear cut who was who. The French kids raised interesting questions about the qualities and tastes of the wines. The Americans chatted with him about marketing strategies. But, we can still appreciate a good wine. Bonus: the French kids hosting the event had given him a really nice bottle as a “thank you,” for leading the event. He offered to share it with us because he was flying the next day and couldn’t take it with him. The Americans were all on board, but the French kids looked vaguely horrified – something we didn’t understand until, in the middle of our glasses, Gabe looked the bottle up and realized we were drinking a €3793 wine. As we quickly calculated, that’s worth more than our lives.

Walking tour of prostitution:

As this title of the subsection suggests, I went on a walking tour on Saturday with my Economie du Sexe class, and we talked about prostitution. We saw a movie in the morning (Eastern Boys, one of the movies that it probably important to see, but I wouldn’t ever say it was enjoyable) then got lunch and set out to explore the red light districts, past and present, of Paris. As is the mark of gentrification, the quarters have moved further and further out from the center of the city over time. We started at the Palais Royale, which is now a completely charming park surrounded by old arcades and apartments, then moved further and further out (and through time…spooky) until we hit St. Denis. I always assumed I have seen prostitutes before, but it never hit me until we literally saw women standing on street corners, soliciting their bodies, that those were prostitutes. We sort of assumed it would be more…subtle? Still, Madame seemed strangely pleased at our shock, and was not at all embarrassed to point out more and more women to make sure we saw what was happening. From what I’ve heard, it in no way rivals Amsterdam’s red light district, but, I mean, come on. It was 3 in the afternoon, in Paris. This is not the side the Chamber of Commerce wants to you see. Well, probably not.

Movies, sangria:

That night I saw Only Lovers Left Alive, which was awesome. It was a vampire movie with a good script and excellent performers, plus the best soundtrack I’ve heard in a while. After the movie, we headed out and found a sangria cave near Odeon (yes, cave. It’s apparently in the basement, but we stayed up top), where we passed the night in witty conversation with some more friends who ran into. Well, mostly we talked about housing and New York, but it was still fun.

Ten Bells, Josephine:

Sunday I tried Ten Bells, one of the ex-pat cafés, known for good coffee. I got a noisette, as per usual, and the scones I tried were pretty out of this world as well. It was little bit of a hike, up in the 10^th arrondissement, by the canals, but it was a beautiful day and it’s Paris. I magically bumped into someone I knew there as well, because Paris is a teeny-tiny little city, filled with so much culture it doesn’t even know what to do. Just kidding, Paris handles all its culture like the polished professional artiste that it is. After brunch (brunch? I’m going to call it that, it fit the time) I headed the Musée Luxembourg for some culture. They’re running an exhibit on Joephine, of Napoleon and Josephine. It was a small exhibit, but I love her so it was well worth it, and a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

There, all caught up!

And now I’m off to the British Isles for a week!

Criminally Pretty (a story of weekends, Part 2)

Paris, France
I left off at the riveting cliffhanger of my parents coming to visit, didn’t I? Well, that’s where I’ll start anyway.
So: my parents came to visit.
Feel all caught up?
Ok, ok, I guess not. But, frankly, this delayed blogging thing is getting to me, so I’ll hit on the highlights.

I cleared out three days, and you better believe we crammed as much as Paris as was possible into that weekend. My parents had flown in on Thursday, so we met up for dinner at a creperie (after a half hour of confusion while they waited for me outside Reid Hall and I waited for them inside. As they pointed out, the door in pretty imposing when you’re not used to flinging yourself into the building, running for a class, as I usually am). Afterwards, we headed to the apartment they were renting and made a plan for the next day.
When I look back at these sorts of things, I really wish I had figured out how to make those nifty maps on Google which show the walking route you have taken and how far you’ve gone. It would be entirely self-congratulatory, because I really just want someone to acknowledge how much I’ve walked since being in Paris. Read: A lot. I’ve walked a lot.

We headed out Friday morning to check out Rue Cler. I’ll take a moment here to let you know that my parents worship at the altar that is Rick Steves, travel guru — lest you think I’m teasing them, you should know I do too. Also that I’m not being paid to talk about any brands (but I wouldn’t mind if that happened somehow, I’m totally not above paid endorsements, mo’ money, fewer problems). With our trustworthy guide in Mum’s hand, we explored Rue Cler, got some brunch which included a pretty decent hot chocolate, then headed over to the Rodin Museum. As the title of the post suggests, this was another astoundingly pretty weekend, because I’m the best tour guide in Paris. This means that while the indoor museum was very cool, housed in one of the old hotels (not a hotel in the sense of paid lodging, but one of the grand townhouses found all over Paris), it was the gardens that were the best part of visit. Plus, we saw a statue that is not only featured in Monuments Men (“a fun romp” as described by a friend, but heavy handed) but, more importantly, looked like Weeping Angels from Doctor Who. There’s your daily dose of culture.

From there we headed over to St. Germain for hot chocolate at Café Flore. Because, you know, I go there with everyone who visits Paris. But this time we sat upstairs, so, new experiences! Though, even I will admit that I pretty much have a circuit I stick to when in St. Germain, as after the chocolate break we headed over to St. Sulpice. I just really like it, ok? While there, we hit on the end of the stations of the cross, since St. Sulpice is a working church. Most of the churches I’ve visited this semester has been, which leaves me in constant fear of stumbling in on the middle of services (before you laugh this off, I once got caught in the communion line of a Spanish mass being held at St. Patrick’s in New York, all because I was trying to see the Christmas decorations).

We walked from St. Sulpice up to the Clooney, then down around Luxembourg Gardens and back to their apartment to regroup for dinner. And what a dinner it was. We went to Le Relais de l’Entrecôte for steak frites, a perfect example of Meals I Only Eat When My Parents Visit Me. Delicious, with the added bonus of the best shoe strings fries I’ve had in a very long while. And that being said, the heartbreak of returning to a country where steak-frites are not a popular menu option will be very real. After dinner we trotted over to Tour Montparnasse to see the city by night. Any time Mum and I are given a vista and a map to identify landmarks, we’re good to go, and Dad got plenty of pictures, so it was a successful outing.

Saturday meant brunch. Because of course it does. Even though I’ve left New York, I’ve refused to leave brunching behind. We went to Mamie Gateaux, home of great food and bowls, remember literal bowls, of hot chocolate. Mum and I shared a bowl, and brunch went off pretty much as expected. As in, wonderfully. Can brunch really go any other way? After brunch, we took a bus from Les Invalides to Père Lachaise cemetery. This was another suggestion per Rick Steves, and we were graced with the perfect comic timing of seeing three other sets of people carrying the same tour book around with them on the bus and in the cemetery. We did the circuit, saw Oscar Wilde’s and Jim Morrison’s graves (descriptions to follow later), and generally enjoyed the weather. Another perfect day, courtesy of the Chamber of Commerce, I’m sure. But before I start making pointed jokes about Parisien civil servants, I should add that my parents had the good (or not so good?) luck of being in Paris during a pollution crisis, so all public transport was free for the weekend. I’ll leave you to your own devices to decide whether that’s a happy thing or not.

After making our way back to the 7th arrondissement, we took a cruise on the Seine. Unlike the last time, I was able to hear the PA system this time, and thus stored up more fun facts to throw at unsuspecting friends while we promenade. We then had an entirely underwhelming croque-madame at some nameless café and called it a night. Touristing is a hard business.

To start off Sunday we headed up to St. Chapelle and the Marche aux Animaux. All very impressive, and very much how I described them a couple of posts ago. From there we headed up into the Marais, on foot because Paris is beautiful and walkable and what more could we ask for? The Marais was entirely packed, and crazy, and super fun. After fighting our way through the main street where ALL the falafel places in Paris seemed to be headquartered, we fought our way back into the fray for pastrami sandwiches from a Yiddish bakery. They were pretty life-changing. Or, at least they were very very good. We took them to Place des Vosges, an old park a couple of blocks away to enjoy lunch in the sunshine. Also, where the Victor Hugo house and museum is located, so we stopped in there to check it out after we were finished. It’s free admission, which is a good thing. While the house was cool, it was small and confusingly curated. The rooms were set up in the style of different periods of his life, so while you’re standing in an apartment he lived in for about 15 years, they’re reconfigured the house so that you see recreations of rooms from his house during his period of exile as well as his time in Paris. Definitely worth seeing, but really only for the truly nerdy (or fans of Les Miserables or the Hunchback of Notre Dame).

After that stop into literary history the three of us went further north to Sacre Coeur. This was the first time I had been up to Montmartre, but it was pretty much as I had envisioned it. Packed with tourists trying to walk up the hill while dodging every kind of souvenir our dear city has to offer. Lots of Eiffel Towers, and since Montmartre still bears the name of the red light district in Paris, there are some pretty creative variations on the famously phallic landmark. ANYWAY. All public transport was still free, so we took the funicular from the base of the hill up to the church itself. There were people completely blanketing the lawns, and it took a while to navigate anywhere, especially in the direction of Sacre Coeur. I got aggressively asked for cigarettes by a Frenchmen who thought he was being cute, which my parents thought was funny. They thought it was even funnier when I was clearly unamused. Oh, families.
Inside the church mass was happening, a perfect example of the juxtaposition that is Sacre Coeur. Mum compared it to Jesus and the moneylenders, fitting since we were sitting in a church, balanced on a hill at the bottom of which sits one of the most famous red light districts in the world. Plus, hundreds of people hawking souvenirs. It’s a beautiful church, but also one of the most chaotic I’ve been to, since there is absolutely no way to stop the hordes of people constantly walking through. We sat for a couple minutes, then made our way back outside. We got the required pictures and view of Paris, then headed back home to the 6eme.

Monday I had classes (I’m here for school, remember?) but I met my parents and a woman we know from New Hampshire for lunch. She grew up in the same town where we spend the summer, but married a Frenchman and has lived in Paris since the late sixties. She comes back to NH every summer to get out of the city, and that’s where we met her. She is, quite seriously, living the dream. We had lunch at Le Dome, one of the famous bistros on Boulevard Montparnasse. We all got lox with crème fraiche, salad, and blinis (my new addition, basically little pancakes that it is appropriate to eat with any spread). I’ve always liked lox, but these were pretty amazing. What was even more amazing was the mille feuilles, which translates to ‘thousand layers.’ Pastry layered with rum/vanilla cream was a pretty good send off before I headed back to classes.

Monday night was St. Patrick’s Day, which I celebrated by attending a party hosted by the school I tutor English at. My job was to walk around, start of conversations with the students and generally make sure they were speaking English. Never have I felt more empathy for the chaperones of middle school dances. Now I knew how it felt to see people visibly slink away from a group when they saw you approaching, all in an attempt to not speak English. Despite that, I’ve gotten pretty good at making conversation in a language no one wants to speak, about topics that are pretty confusing when set to French techno music. Things like, “what year are you in?” and “how is looking for that internship going?” Overall, it was surprisingly fun and we got some beers out of it, so, any complaints are mostly accessories.

On Tuesdays we got up bright and early and made our way over to the Eiffel Tower. At 9:30 in the morning, we were part of the first group of the day to go up and since we had bought tickets online (look at my parents, bringing forethought to the occasion), it was painless getting up to the second level. Better yet, there weren’t many people up there, so views were unobstructed and unhurried. It was a great way to do the Eiffel Tower, if you have to do it at all. Also, they had a surprisingly good pain au chocolat in the café up there.

We descended and I headed over to my French university class which began at noon. When I met back up with my parents around4:30 in the Luxembourg Gardens they were accompanied by our favorite Germany based Americans! (I know the exclamation point makes it sound like I was surprised. I wasn’t. I organized it. It was just exciting). For context, these were the friends I stayed with when I went to Germany in February. They were a sight for sore eyes, and they brought Girl Scout cookies for me, which meant I was the most popular person in Academic Writing the next Thursday. They had a train to catch in the evening, so we hung out in the gardens for a while then wandered through St. Germain, where we stopped at Gerard Mulot so they could pick up some macarons (we picked up treats for later as well) then walked them to the metro.

For their last night in Paris, my parents and I went to La Select, one of the other famous bistros on Blvd. Montparnasse. It was all good, but the highlight was steak tartare. I didn’t know I could like raw meat that much and that makes me ask some questions about myself. Not that many though, because it was great. After dinner we went back to their apartment and had the desserts we had gotten earlier, generally made a Parisien evening of it.

They left the next morning, so I stopped by to have pastries and coffee with them before school. They headed off to another short adventure in Iceland then back home. I just went to class. C’est la vie.
(Ok, yes, it’s a pretty fantastic vie)

Criminally Pretty (a story of weekends)

Paris, France

So, here I am after my small hiatus. Sometimes life catches up to you and then consequently you have to catch up to life. But, there was a lot of hot chocolate and sunshine involved, which can never be too bad a thing.

I’ve spent the last three weekends in Paris. A lot of other people on study abroad programs are doing an excellent job exploring Europe at large, and I certainly hope to do some of that myself, but for now I’ve been perfectly content staying in Paris for the most part. There’s certainly no lack of things I still want/need/feel strongly that I should do here, plus I’ve had visitors, so that means I get to be a tourist! (Not that I’m not a tourist, but there is less pressure to blend in and be French when you’re showing the city off to someone who is visiting). A friend who is studying abroad in Italy came to visit the first weekend, then my parents were here the weekend after, and then this weekend I had all to myself. But let’s start at the very beginning (it’s a very good place to start).

We had three days of nothing but blue skies and sunshine. I was beginning to think Paris reserved all of its sunshine for Sundays, since I haven’t really experienced a Sunday that didn’t seem manufactured for a promenade. Whether that’s the case or not, all of the weekend felt like spring and the only word to describe that is glorious.

My friend got into Paris late on Friday, so we met up near Place de la Concorde and walked the Champs-Elysées. We saw the Arc de Triomphe, got some pictures, then called it a night after making plans for the next day.

The events that follow can only prove one thing: I am an excellent tour guide. We started off the morning at the Eiffel Tower. My friend hadn’t realized why I insisted we get there early, and was hesitant to hazard times for the rest of the places were wanted to go later on, until we were standing in the middle of the crowd that forms under the Tower around 10am on a Saturday. Millions of people. Maybe everyone who was a visitor in Paris was there. Regardless of who they all were and why we were all convened together in the same place, it wasn’t hard to convince my friend that a picture of the Eiffel Tower was better than standing in line to go up. We took some selfies (and some non-selfies featuring the Tower) then struck out for a new area.

Since it was such a beautiful day, we decided to meander along the Seine, in true Parisien fashion. We made our way along the river, crossed over by the Grand Palais (built for the 1900 World’s Fair and still home to an art museum, the science museum, and various exhibit halls) then walked up by Place de la Concorde and through the Tuileries until we hit the Louvre. He needed to see the Mona Lisa, and since we are students we can get into the museum for free. This makes it much easier to justify 15 minute visits to the largest art museum in the world.  We were also mistaken for real Italians, a curious thing that kept happening wherever my friend went in Paris (not that curious, since he looks Italian, and there are not many European ethnicities I can’t be easily lumped into). We saw the Mona Lisa, got a little lost, which can’t be avoided in that museum, then were headed back out into the sunshine. I’m going to keep reminding you it was sunny, because it was THAT unusually gorgeous that weekend. We crossed the river again at the lock bridge, Pont des Arts for anyone keeping notes, then headed into St. Michel to find lunch. We had our pick of the creperies lining the streets, so we chose one and went for it. As is normal with the nameless, faceless creperies crowding Paris, it was pretty good. It’s hard to go badly with crepes.

We walked to Notre Dame after a fruitless search for wifi. Crowded, as to be expected, but the line moved quickly. We did a lap around the church, but since we’ve both seen more churches in the past two months than even our wildest dreams could have predicted, we kept the visit quick.  We walked around island for a little while, found a cupcake place, had a cupcake, then found our way back to the metro. From there we went down to St. Germain, and took a hot chocolate break at Café Flore. I showed him the area, then we hit St. Sulpice, Luxembourg Gardens and Sugarplum bakery for some noisettes (well, just café on his part) before starting to figure out dinner.

After some phone issues (you have to charge those things, you know?) we met up with Layla and Addy for dinner in St. Michel, where we introduced my friend to the magic of fixe prix menus. Plus, mussels, duck, and profiteroles, which is hard to beat

Sunday morning saw the revival of my quest for brunch in Paris. We met up with Katja in the 10^th (11^th? One of the two) for brunch at Holybelly, a café run by expats, as seems to be the style with these brunch places. It was packed, but my friend had gotten there on time and got us in line, so by the time Katja and I showed up it was only about a 10 minute wait. Cramped, but cute, we sat the one big table in the restaurant (other tables were smaller and fit 2 people better than three during the brunch rush), communal and comfy. I got filter coffee (as discussed, this is a rarity in Paris) which was good and one of the brunch options which was amazing. Let me paint this picture for you: pancake topped with fried egg topped with pancake topped with another fried egg, finished off with bacon, bourbon butter, and maple syrup. However good you think that could have been, it was better.

After we rolled ourselves out of the café, we strolled along Canal St. Martin, and yes, it was still beautiful and sunny.  My friend broke off for the metro to make his flight back to Florence, but Katja and I made our way back to the 6^th on foot, which might have seemed like a long walk on a day that wasn’t so nice. By the time we made it to the Seine we had to take off some of the layers Paris weather requires people to wear, and rounded out the walk with a very suggestive bonjour from a gendarme parked near the sidewalk.

Then I went back to the apartment and took a nap.

The week went by quickly, regular school and the start of midterms kept me occupied until my parents got to Paris on Thursday.

Since this is getting to be a pretty long recollection, I’ll leave you on that cliffhanger and post again soon to finish up the epic tale of my time on hiatus.

À bientôt!