I have discovered something ugly in Paris. Not that I was trying. It just kind of happened, somewhere around 1971, when a certifiably-insane architect built Forum des Halles. It was at this time that the city of Paris decided to demolish the traditional, wholesale marketplace Les Halles, and convert it into a massive underground shopping mall, which today is packed with cheap clothing stores, movie theaters and greasy fast food chains. Above ground, the Forum is a displeasing tangle of iron and steel. Below, it's a frightening tangle of teenagers wielding skateboards. Not only is the whole thing ugly to the eye, it's an utter mess of a design and a concept. Multiple levels, directional signs leading to nowhere... enter the great labyrinth at your own risk, and be prepared to fight for your escape. After-hours is particularly complicated, when the shops close, the teenagers go home, escalators and exits are sealed off, and the lost and confused (like me) get trapped inside. More than a few times, I have inadvertently exited the Metro into this underground horror, and have spent upwards of 20 minutes desperately trying to get out. I wish I were joking.
(I considered adding a photo of the Forum here, but it's just too ugly. Search online if you need a visual.)
In sum, Forum des Halles is a giant hell that doesn't belong in Paris. At least the fool who approved EuroDisney had enough sense to ensure the theme park was far from the city proper. How on earth did this mess of a shopping mall squeak past whatever government ministry is charged with preserving the city’s beauty?
There is another very ugly thing I have discovered in Paris: homelessness. Lots and lots of homelessness. I am not sure if it's gotten particularly worse in the past decade, or if summertime gives greater presence to people sleeping on the streets, but the amount of homelessness in the city right now seems almost relentless. It's certainly heartbreaking. I will leave social, political and economic theories aside for now. I just wanted to point this out as being a pretty major problem facing the city – and one that doesn't seem to be getting much attention from the local government or aid organizations. (But then again, I can't exactly understand the local news very easily. So maybe it is getting attention.)
As my 5-week moratorium on airplane travel comes to an end, and I begin to stuff my snazzy Spinner suitcase with shoes and French cosmetics, I reflect on the experiences I have had over the past several weeks, and some of the questions I have found answers to - at times, simply through the art of observation.
Just yesterday, almost to my great relief, I witnessed a small child having a tantrum at a playground. Granted, the tantrum didn’t last for more than a few seconds; his mother shut him down before he could take it any further. But it was a tantrum nonetheless. And the child was French.
I have discovered that a handful of pharmacies do in fact open their doors on Sunday. In the rarest of cases, there are even a few which remain open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. (The pharmacy at Place de la Republique comes to mind.)
I have learned that not all French men have or need multiple lovers. And if they do, the French women in their lives, upon discovery, are most likely to walk away – or come up with an arrangement that works in their favor. Because if there is one thing a French woman is born with, it’s a remarkable degree of self-possession. Limitless integrity. An inherent belief in self. The French woman, practically by birthright, respects herself too much to put up with a man’s blatant, philandering ways. And her man knows it.
As for the showers missing curtains and wall mounts? Well, this all remains a mystery. But worst case scenario, should you find yourself in a rental apartment with an impossible shower setup, just call dad back home and ask him to send over a removable wall mount for the shower hose. It worked for me. Kind of.
And with that, it's time for me to go. Paris, stay fabulous. I'll be back soon.
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Bonjour!
"In Paris, one does not smile at a passer-by or in general acknowledge a stranger’s existence; this is considered unnecessary – even idiotic".
And so it is written in the Lonely Planet guide to Paris. Whether or not it’s true, I find it to be particularly funny. Ignoring passers-by in such a manner would never, ever fly in California – or in most parts of the U.S., for that matter, where greeting strangers on the street is practically part of the national religion. In Southern California, gleaming, sometimes-forced smiles are typically followed by exclamations of "Hi!" "Good evening!" "How are you?" (This last one? No, we don’t wait around for the answer, because honestly we really don’t care how you are doing.)
But Paris is an efficient place, and the French are an efficient people. Aimlessly greeting passers-by may seem friendly, but it is not an efficient thing to do, so it’s just not done here. Unless, of course, you are me. The girl from So Cal.
My stroll to class each morning, from chez moi to Lutece Langue language school on Boulevard de Sebastopol, takes approximately 20 minutes each way. I could hop on a Velib bike to get there, or perhaps even take the Metro. But the walk itself is lovely, and it’s something I look forward to every day. At 8:30 in the morning, Paris isn’t really awake yet. The sun is inching high into the sky, yet the streets remain calm, and traffic remains light. There is a gentle quiet at this time of day, a softness that allows you to hear and feel a different side of the city that you might otherwise miss. Down rue des Archives, turning right onto rue Rambuteau and heading straight past the imposingly magnificent Centre Pompidou museum, the pigeons and street cleaners are in charge of Paris at this time of day. Cafes are sprinkled with the particularly eager early-risers, seated outdoors and taking in the daily paper, a smoke and a coffee before their workday begins. The smell of freshly-baked heaven pours from the upscale boulangerie-patisserie Huré, at 18 rue Rambuteau, where a line has already begun to snake its way through the door. The stunning produce market Aux 4 Saisons at 24 rue Rambuteau is busily setting out its magnificent assortment of fruits and vegetables, splashing the street with colors in every shade of yummy. This walk is so charming, so quaint, I practically skip all the way to school.
These produce vendors, the café owners... I see the same faces every morning, and although I know none of their names – although they remain strangers – I greet each one nonetheless with an effervescent, California style "bonjour!" I can’t help myself.
My smiles and greetings are eagerly returned, and the chorus of bonjour!s and bonne journee!s which follows is so melodic, so borderline movie-like, that I half-expect the entire street to break out into a lively rendition of "Be Our Guest" from Beauty and The Beast – costumes and all. Or at least, for a director somewhere to call out "CUT!".
But neither happens, because this isn’t a movie set. Nor is it a stage on Broadway. There is no director making this all happen, laying out this scene. It’s just... Paris. Simply, naturally, beautifully Paris. I know, kind of nauseating. But I love it nonetheless.
And so it is written in the Lonely Planet guide to Paris. Whether or not it’s true, I find it to be particularly funny. Ignoring passers-by in such a manner would never, ever fly in California – or in most parts of the U.S., for that matter, where greeting strangers on the street is practically part of the national religion. In Southern California, gleaming, sometimes-forced smiles are typically followed by exclamations of "Hi!" "Good evening!" "How are you?" (This last one? No, we don’t wait around for the answer, because honestly we really don’t care how you are doing.)
But Paris is an efficient place, and the French are an efficient people. Aimlessly greeting passers-by may seem friendly, but it is not an efficient thing to do, so it’s just not done here. Unless, of course, you are me. The girl from So Cal.
My stroll to class each morning, from chez moi to Lutece Langue language school on Boulevard de Sebastopol, takes approximately 20 minutes each way. I could hop on a Velib bike to get there, or perhaps even take the Metro. But the walk itself is lovely, and it’s something I look forward to every day. At 8:30 in the morning, Paris isn’t really awake yet. The sun is inching high into the sky, yet the streets remain calm, and traffic remains light. There is a gentle quiet at this time of day, a softness that allows you to hear and feel a different side of the city that you might otherwise miss. Down rue des Archives, turning right onto rue Rambuteau and heading straight past the imposingly magnificent Centre Pompidou museum, the pigeons and street cleaners are in charge of Paris at this time of day. Cafes are sprinkled with the particularly eager early-risers, seated outdoors and taking in the daily paper, a smoke and a coffee before their workday begins. The smell of freshly-baked heaven pours from the upscale boulangerie-patisserie Huré, at 18 rue Rambuteau, where a line has already begun to snake its way through the door. The stunning produce market Aux 4 Saisons at 24 rue Rambuteau is busily setting out its magnificent assortment of fruits and vegetables, splashing the street with colors in every shade of yummy. This walk is so charming, so quaint, I practically skip all the way to school.
These produce vendors, the café owners... I see the same faces every morning, and although I know none of their names – although they remain strangers – I greet each one nonetheless with an effervescent, California style "bonjour!" I can’t help myself.
My smiles and greetings are eagerly returned, and the chorus of bonjour!s and bonne journee!s which follows is so melodic, so borderline movie-like, that I half-expect the entire street to break out into a lively rendition of "Be Our Guest" from Beauty and The Beast – costumes and all. Or at least, for a director somewhere to call out "CUT!".
But neither happens, because this isn’t a movie set. Nor is it a stage on Broadway. There is no director making this all happen, laying out this scene. It’s just... Paris. Simply, naturally, beautifully Paris. I know, kind of nauseating. But I love it nonetheless.
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| rue des Archives, before the rush. (This would be my form of transpo if I lived here. Who said I don't like pink?) |
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| Morning light over Cafe Le Comptoir des Archives. |
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| Breakfast, of course. |
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| All things colorful and tempting at Aux 4 Saisons. Just wait 'til the sliced watermelon comes out! |
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| Metro station Rambuteau. |
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| Centre Pompidou, before the crowds descend. |
Monday, July 19, 2010
If I were French
Today, we continue our lesson on use of the conditional verb tense.
The Hypothetical: Si j’etais francaise... If I were French.
1. I would speak French.
2. I would bear a striking resemblance to Marion Cotillard. It would be uncanny, in fact. I would get mistaken for her ALL the time, and people would stop me on the street asking for photos and autographs. It would be exhausting.
3. I would have long, luscious hair that I could carelessly throw up into a messy knot on top of my head, and still manage to look perfectly put together and effortlessly stunning.
4. I would smoke cigarettes and look beautiful doing so and not give a damn about those silly warnings of the Surgeon General, or whatever he/she is called in France.
5. I would have an adorable dog that would sit on my lap while I dined at a restaurant, and would share my pommes frites with me. Silly American girls jogging past would stop to stare for a moment, and would wish they had their camera on them to take a photo of this "bizarre" sight.
6. I would enter a PACS agreement (Pacte Civil de Solidarite - unmarried couple with full legal rights under French law) and live with a beautiful dark-skinned man of North-African origin (relax dad, this is only hypothetical) and together we would have/adopt a brood of kids so diverse and awesome-looking, they could make up a Benetton ad. Oh wait, maybe this last bit is more suited to my "If I Were Angelina" hypothetical...
7. I would eat freshly-baked bread with every meal, and follow a delicious dinner with an assortment of fromage or chocolate (or both) and never feel even a twinge of guilt, or have a moment’s thought that I am splurging and must work out tomorrow to make up for the rich caloric consumption.
8. Work out? As in, voluntarily put your body through a torturous exercise routine and sweat profusely? And for what purpose, exactly, do you do this? To these questions, I would seek explanation from young American women...
9. I myself would never consider such nonsense of "working out" yet my body would be naturally fit and healthy, simply because I (was one lucky be-atch who) ate really good foods, had amazing genes, and lived a naturally healthy lifestyle. My form of exercise would probably be walking in high heels all over Paris... and perhaps regularly enjoying some other activities that I won’t mention here.
10. On that note, I would never be embarrassed or ashamed to discuss or reference sex, nudity or anything of the sort. It would be normal for my Benetton-ad children to see bare boobs and butts on TV, but never bloody shoot-outs, murders or gun violence.
11. I would never worry about any member of my family getting sick and not being able to afford to see a doctor, nor would I worry about my parents or grandparents being able to live comfortably in retirement, nor would I worry about being able to afford an excellent education for my Benetton-ad children.
12. I would grow old gracefully and graciously. I would be one of those stunning older French women who is always put together, wears her gray hair with pride, shuns plastic surgery, and maintains an unwavering faith that the plethora of creams and beauty treatments which line pharmacy shelves will keep me looking magnificent until the day I die.
13. I would be a Parisienne, of course. But a rare breed of Parisian who actually stayed in Paris during the month of July, because I would know what no other Parisians seem to notice: that July is the most amazing, beautiful, weather-perfect time to be in the city. "Let them have their Coast!" I would declare - as though I were Marie Antoinette. "As long as I can have Paris!"
The Hypothetical: Si j’etais francaise... If I were French.
1. I would speak French.
2. I would bear a striking resemblance to Marion Cotillard. It would be uncanny, in fact. I would get mistaken for her ALL the time, and people would stop me on the street asking for photos and autographs. It would be exhausting.
3. I would have long, luscious hair that I could carelessly throw up into a messy knot on top of my head, and still manage to look perfectly put together and effortlessly stunning.
4. I would smoke cigarettes and look beautiful doing so and not give a damn about those silly warnings of the Surgeon General, or whatever he/she is called in France.
5. I would have an adorable dog that would sit on my lap while I dined at a restaurant, and would share my pommes frites with me. Silly American girls jogging past would stop to stare for a moment, and would wish they had their camera on them to take a photo of this "bizarre" sight.
6. I would enter a PACS agreement (Pacte Civil de Solidarite - unmarried couple with full legal rights under French law) and live with a beautiful dark-skinned man of North-African origin (relax dad, this is only hypothetical) and together we would have/adopt a brood of kids so diverse and awesome-looking, they could make up a Benetton ad. Oh wait, maybe this last bit is more suited to my "If I Were Angelina" hypothetical...
7. I would eat freshly-baked bread with every meal, and follow a delicious dinner with an assortment of fromage or chocolate (or both) and never feel even a twinge of guilt, or have a moment’s thought that I am splurging and must work out tomorrow to make up for the rich caloric consumption.
8. Work out? As in, voluntarily put your body through a torturous exercise routine and sweat profusely? And for what purpose, exactly, do you do this? To these questions, I would seek explanation from young American women...
9. I myself would never consider such nonsense of "working out" yet my body would be naturally fit and healthy, simply because I (was one lucky be-atch who) ate really good foods, had amazing genes, and lived a naturally healthy lifestyle. My form of exercise would probably be walking in high heels all over Paris... and perhaps regularly enjoying some other activities that I won’t mention here.
10. On that note, I would never be embarrassed or ashamed to discuss or reference sex, nudity or anything of the sort. It would be normal for my Benetton-ad children to see bare boobs and butts on TV, but never bloody shoot-outs, murders or gun violence.
11. I would never worry about any member of my family getting sick and not being able to afford to see a doctor, nor would I worry about my parents or grandparents being able to live comfortably in retirement, nor would I worry about being able to afford an excellent education for my Benetton-ad children.
12. I would grow old gracefully and graciously. I would be one of those stunning older French women who is always put together, wears her gray hair with pride, shuns plastic surgery, and maintains an unwavering faith that the plethora of creams and beauty treatments which line pharmacy shelves will keep me looking magnificent until the day I die.
13. I would be a Parisienne, of course. But a rare breed of Parisian who actually stayed in Paris during the month of July, because I would know what no other Parisians seem to notice: that July is the most amazing, beautiful, weather-perfect time to be in the city. "Let them have their Coast!" I would declare - as though I were Marie Antoinette. "As long as I can have Paris!"
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Excusez-moi, France. You want me to do WHAT?
Seriously? You want me to go out and party late into the wee hours of the morning for TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how old/lazy/boring I really am?
Clearly not. Or if you do have an idea, you simply don’t care. Which means you are a little bit evil. That's right, I said evil.
You take this thing called a National Holiday and you let it fall smack dab in the middle of the week. And you give me a day off from class because of it. And you plan accordingly by throwing all these fabulous parties at fire stations all over the city on the night before my day off, so I can be sure to enjoy them. This is all well and good, and I really appreciate your benevolence. Because these fire station parties, the Bals des Pompiers, as they are known, are just too much fun to be missed. I mean, where else in the world is there an annual tradition in which all the fire stations city-wide close off their surrounding streets, open their doors, and welcome with open arms anyone and everyone, of all ages, to join them for an all-night neighborhood dance party? With the firemen themselves working the bar?
So far, no problem France. We are on the same page, you and me.
But then you have to go and MESS IT ALL UP by throwing all these great Bals des Pompiers for a second night in a row. Why must you do this? Is one night not enough? Do you have any idea how much you are torturing me?
I did my duty last night. I was out all night at Fire Station 27 in Montmarte, drinking champagne and dancing to cheesy cover-band music 'til about 4am. I had a great time, ok? But clearly this isn't good enough for you, because if it were, these Bals wouldn't have to happen again tonight!
And to make matters worse, you now tell me that the most happening/hopping/awesome Fireman’s Ball of the entire city is going off tonight within about 8 minutes walking distance from my apartment, on Rue Sevigne in Le Marais. Hot-as-anything firemen. Serving me champagne. Cover bands. Gay boys. Straight boys. Beautiful people. And me, all I want to do is get into my pajamas (which technically would be really easy to do since I am still wearing them) and crawl into bed and stay there for the next 24 hours or so. But no. You have to tempt me out of my state of blissful laziness with hot firemen throwing block parties. France, you are a tease. An evil, torturous tease.
Clearly not. Or if you do have an idea, you simply don’t care. Which means you are a little bit evil. That's right, I said evil.
You take this thing called a National Holiday and you let it fall smack dab in the middle of the week. And you give me a day off from class because of it. And you plan accordingly by throwing all these fabulous parties at fire stations all over the city on the night before my day off, so I can be sure to enjoy them. This is all well and good, and I really appreciate your benevolence. Because these fire station parties, the Bals des Pompiers, as they are known, are just too much fun to be missed. I mean, where else in the world is there an annual tradition in which all the fire stations city-wide close off their surrounding streets, open their doors, and welcome with open arms anyone and everyone, of all ages, to join them for an all-night neighborhood dance party? With the firemen themselves working the bar?
So far, no problem France. We are on the same page, you and me.
But then you have to go and MESS IT ALL UP by throwing all these great Bals des Pompiers for a second night in a row. Why must you do this? Is one night not enough? Do you have any idea how much you are torturing me?
I did my duty last night. I was out all night at Fire Station 27 in Montmarte, drinking champagne and dancing to cheesy cover-band music 'til about 4am. I had a great time, ok? But clearly this isn't good enough for you, because if it were, these Bals wouldn't have to happen again tonight!
And to make matters worse, you now tell me that the most happening/hopping/awesome Fireman’s Ball of the entire city is going off tonight within about 8 minutes walking distance from my apartment, on Rue Sevigne in Le Marais. Hot-as-anything firemen. Serving me champagne. Cover bands. Gay boys. Straight boys. Beautiful people. And me, all I want to do is get into my pajamas (which technically would be really easy to do since I am still wearing them) and crawl into bed and stay there for the next 24 hours or so. But no. You have to tempt me out of my state of blissful laziness with hot firemen throwing block parties. France, you are a tease. An evil, torturous tease.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Excusez-moi, what is a preposition?
A few years ago, I discovered my journal from Mr. Petty’s first grade class. It was buried deep inside a box labeled "My Memories. Don’t Throw Away!". The entries were hilariously simple, along the lines of:
Yesterday my grandma came to our house and she gave me a doll. It is pretty and it has a red dress and long brown hair. I want to bring her to show-and-tell at school but I can’t because Oscar chewed off her leg. My sister thinks it’s funny. She is mean. Oscar is my dog. He is so cute but now I am mad at him. Then my mom let us eat ice cream for dinner. Wippie hippie!
As I struggle through French class each and every morning, trying to comprehend verb tenses, pronouns, prepositions and sentence structure, I can’t help but envy that 6-year-old kid who had it so easy. As kids, we learn languages without even thinking about it, without realizing what the heck we are doing. We speak and write in the present tense, past tense, future tense, conditional. We use pronouns and possessives and prepositions, and we don’t even know we are doing it.
As an adult, it’s a whole different story. Learning a language is an exhausting process – one that can be humbling, painstaking, and at times, downright humiliating. As I try desperately to learn French, I feel like a child again. Only one with a severe learning disorder.
It’s hard enough trying to comprehend exactly where to place the pronoun or the preposition in a French sentence, but to make things worse, I am sitting there in class thinking... what exactly is a preposition, anyway? Mr. Petty never covered that. He didn’t have to, because we didn’t need to know. Well Mr. Petty, it may have been a GOOD IDEA to teach us kids these minor details, because I would really like to be able to speak French in a way that doesn’t get the response of blank, confused stares and questions that translate as "HUH?"
My homework assignment for the day: use the conditional tense to describe what I want out of the next 5 years of my life. This type of question came often as a kid, only less time-specific: "what do you want to be when you grow up?" But as an adult learning French, my immediate response is: um, excusez-moi, what exactly is the conditional tense?
Diary entry of a 6-year-old, learning to write in English:
What do you want to be when you grow up?
When I grow up I want to be a truck driver and drive all over and talk into the cb radio to other truck drivers. I would stop at truck stops and eat apple pie with ice cream every single night. I think it would be really fun. When we go on trips in the car my dad talks into the cb to other truck drivers and it’s really funny. They all have funny names. My sister is mean. She never lets me sit in the front seat. I hate her.
(Note the above use of future tense, conditional tense, present tense, and probably a whole bunch of prepositions and pronouns and other things I can’t identify in English.)
Homework assignment of a 36-year-old, learning to write in French:
Write a brief composition about what you would like to do in the next 5 years of your life, using the conditional tense.
In the next five years, I would like to do many things. I would like to learn to speak French perfectly. Also I would like to learn another language, maybe Portuguese or Arabic. I would like to spend some time living in Buenos Aires, and I would like to travel throughout all of Brazil. If I earned more money, I would buy two apartments, one in New York and one in Paris, because I want to live in both cities. Also, if found the time and motivation, I would write the history of my life so far and I would be a very famous writer.
Oh man, I am exhausted! Writing this brief paragraph (in French, mind you) takes serious mental exertion. I wonder if it was this hard when I was 6?
Well, lucky for me, I am not 6 anymore – nor am I about to get back on the road to drive my truck route tonight - which means I get to reward my hard work with a big ol' icy cocktail. In the present tense, not conditional on anything.
Yesterday my grandma came to our house and she gave me a doll. It is pretty and it has a red dress and long brown hair. I want to bring her to show-and-tell at school but I can’t because Oscar chewed off her leg. My sister thinks it’s funny. She is mean. Oscar is my dog. He is so cute but now I am mad at him. Then my mom let us eat ice cream for dinner. Wippie hippie!
As I struggle through French class each and every morning, trying to comprehend verb tenses, pronouns, prepositions and sentence structure, I can’t help but envy that 6-year-old kid who had it so easy. As kids, we learn languages without even thinking about it, without realizing what the heck we are doing. We speak and write in the present tense, past tense, future tense, conditional. We use pronouns and possessives and prepositions, and we don’t even know we are doing it.
As an adult, it’s a whole different story. Learning a language is an exhausting process – one that can be humbling, painstaking, and at times, downright humiliating. As I try desperately to learn French, I feel like a child again. Only one with a severe learning disorder.
It’s hard enough trying to comprehend exactly where to place the pronoun or the preposition in a French sentence, but to make things worse, I am sitting there in class thinking... what exactly is a preposition, anyway? Mr. Petty never covered that. He didn’t have to, because we didn’t need to know. Well Mr. Petty, it may have been a GOOD IDEA to teach us kids these minor details, because I would really like to be able to speak French in a way that doesn’t get the response of blank, confused stares and questions that translate as "HUH?"
My homework assignment for the day: use the conditional tense to describe what I want out of the next 5 years of my life. This type of question came often as a kid, only less time-specific: "what do you want to be when you grow up?" But as an adult learning French, my immediate response is: um, excusez-moi, what exactly is the conditional tense?
Diary entry of a 6-year-old, learning to write in English:
What do you want to be when you grow up?
When I grow up I want to be a truck driver and drive all over and talk into the cb radio to other truck drivers. I would stop at truck stops and eat apple pie with ice cream every single night. I think it would be really fun. When we go on trips in the car my dad talks into the cb to other truck drivers and it’s really funny. They all have funny names. My sister is mean. She never lets me sit in the front seat. I hate her.
(Note the above use of future tense, conditional tense, present tense, and probably a whole bunch of prepositions and pronouns and other things I can’t identify in English.)
Homework assignment of a 36-year-old, learning to write in French:
Write a brief composition about what you would like to do in the next 5 years of your life, using the conditional tense.
In the next five years, I would like to do many things. I would like to learn to speak French perfectly. Also I would like to learn another language, maybe Portuguese or Arabic. I would like to spend some time living in Buenos Aires, and I would like to travel throughout all of Brazil. If I earned more money, I would buy two apartments, one in New York and one in Paris, because I want to live in both cities. Also, if found the time and motivation, I would write the history of my life so far and I would be a very famous writer.
Oh man, I am exhausted! Writing this brief paragraph (in French, mind you) takes serious mental exertion. I wonder if it was this hard when I was 6?
Well, lucky for me, I am not 6 anymore – nor am I about to get back on the road to drive my truck route tonight - which means I get to reward my hard work with a big ol' icy cocktail. In the present tense, not conditional on anything.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Shopper's Rehab
I am pleased to report the following breaking news: Along the shores of the beautiful beaches of Europe, the Speedo is on the decline.
That’s right, my friends. Based on extensive observation over the past two days here in Cannes, I can confirm that European men are now wearing swim shorts to the beach. Standard-length, thigh-covering, leave-a-little-to-the-imagination-please, swim shorts. No more bulging out all over the place, so to speak. Surfer-wear, skater-wear... it seems European men are now taking their beach fashion cues from the likes of SoCal's Manhattan Beach. I never thought I would see the day.
Of course, there are exceptions to this surprising new fashion trend. The over-65 set, for one, who cling tight (pun intended) to their Speedo-wearing ways. These guys have been letting it all hang "loose" for as long as they can remember, so why change their seaside style now (especially now that everything about their bods really is loose!)?
And of course, the Italians. God love ‘em, those Italians will go down fighting for their right to expose their every curve for all the world to admire, no matter how wrong the entire look turns out to be. Well, admire is probably not the word I should use, but I have to admit their complete lack of self-consciousness – that of both the shameless Italians and the senior crowd, in fact – is utterly refreshing.
So here I am, lolling at the beach, blissfully wasting away the hours slathered in sunblock, flipping through French gossip magazines (which for the record cover the same trash as their American counterparts, but in French)... This weekend in the French Riviera is just what I needed to recharge, refresh, and escape the daily grind of life in The Big City.
Oh who am I kidding?! Other than my daily cup of coffee, there is no daily grind in Paris! So far, my summer has been one ridiculously easy-going holiday. As the heat settles in, everything and everyone seems to have slowed down. But a weekend away to the French Riviera? Guaranteed to offer the most excellent people-watching opportunity of the entire summer? And, I don’t need to take an airplane to get there? Sign me up.
I suppose it’s a very good thing I did get away, because it just so happens that July is a Very Dangerous Time To Be In Paris. Terrorist attacks, train bombs, civil unrest in the banlieus, heatstroke... NO! I refer to NONE of these things. Rather, the danger comes in the form of two innocent little words: LES SOLDES.
I shudder at the mere thought.
Every July, across the entire country of France, every single shop – clothing, shoes, bags, jewelry, even chocolate – slashes their prices and announces that the Sales Are On for the month. (This is so unlike the place where I come from, where sales happen on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis, for any and every reason whatsoever.) The July sales in Paris, subsequently, are the event of the summer. And we are talking deep, deep discounts (-40%! -50%! -60%!) on some of the most gorgeous shoes and dresses I have ever seen.
Adding to the DANGER of it all is the Euro’s sudden resuscitation in recent weeks, steadily on the rise, crushing the fragile ego of the US dollar... not to mention my own spending power. Somebody make it stop!
Better yet, somebody stop ME! I had no choice, I needed to be sent away to the Coast for a long weekend of Shopper’s Rehab. Yes, yes, LES SOLDES do extend all the way into Cannes, but I have been far too busy sleeping in sand to pay much attention. And anyway, shopping in Cannes – in the form of Dior, Balenciaga, D&G, Yves Saint Laurent – is way beyond my bank account.
In any event, on my way home from the beach today I did stop by an active-wear store – just to have a look. And wouldn’t you know, the entire line of Men’s Speedo bathing suits were on sale...
That’s right, my friends. Based on extensive observation over the past two days here in Cannes, I can confirm that European men are now wearing swim shorts to the beach. Standard-length, thigh-covering, leave-a-little-to-the-imagination-please, swim shorts. No more bulging out all over the place, so to speak. Surfer-wear, skater-wear... it seems European men are now taking their beach fashion cues from the likes of SoCal's Manhattan Beach. I never thought I would see the day.
Of course, there are exceptions to this surprising new fashion trend. The over-65 set, for one, who cling tight (pun intended) to their Speedo-wearing ways. These guys have been letting it all hang "loose" for as long as they can remember, so why change their seaside style now (especially now that everything about their bods really is loose!)?
And of course, the Italians. God love ‘em, those Italians will go down fighting for their right to expose their every curve for all the world to admire, no matter how wrong the entire look turns out to be. Well, admire is probably not the word I should use, but I have to admit their complete lack of self-consciousness – that of both the shameless Italians and the senior crowd, in fact – is utterly refreshing.
So here I am, lolling at the beach, blissfully wasting away the hours slathered in sunblock, flipping through French gossip magazines (which for the record cover the same trash as their American counterparts, but in French)... This weekend in the French Riviera is just what I needed to recharge, refresh, and escape the daily grind of life in The Big City.
Oh who am I kidding?! Other than my daily cup of coffee, there is no daily grind in Paris! So far, my summer has been one ridiculously easy-going holiday. As the heat settles in, everything and everyone seems to have slowed down. But a weekend away to the French Riviera? Guaranteed to offer the most excellent people-watching opportunity of the entire summer? And, I don’t need to take an airplane to get there? Sign me up.
I suppose it’s a very good thing I did get away, because it just so happens that July is a Very Dangerous Time To Be In Paris. Terrorist attacks, train bombs, civil unrest in the banlieus, heatstroke... NO! I refer to NONE of these things. Rather, the danger comes in the form of two innocent little words: LES SOLDES.
I shudder at the mere thought.
Every July, across the entire country of France, every single shop – clothing, shoes, bags, jewelry, even chocolate – slashes their prices and announces that the Sales Are On for the month. (This is so unlike the place where I come from, where sales happen on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis, for any and every reason whatsoever.) The July sales in Paris, subsequently, are the event of the summer. And we are talking deep, deep discounts (-40%! -50%! -60%!) on some of the most gorgeous shoes and dresses I have ever seen.
Adding to the DANGER of it all is the Euro’s sudden resuscitation in recent weeks, steadily on the rise, crushing the fragile ego of the US dollar... not to mention my own spending power. Somebody make it stop!
Better yet, somebody stop ME! I had no choice, I needed to be sent away to the Coast for a long weekend of Shopper’s Rehab. Yes, yes, LES SOLDES do extend all the way into Cannes, but I have been far too busy sleeping in sand to pay much attention. And anyway, shopping in Cannes – in the form of Dior, Balenciaga, D&G, Yves Saint Laurent – is way beyond my bank account.
In any event, on my way home from the beach today I did stop by an active-wear store – just to have a look. And wouldn’t you know, the entire line of Men’s Speedo bathing suits were on sale...
Monday, July 5, 2010
Big Boys Do Cry
Just when I thought it safe to take a 5-week vacation...
Just when I thought I was clear to spend my mornings napping, my afternoons mastering the art of walking on cobblestone in high heels, and my evenings cheering Spain all the way to World Cup victory...
Just when I thought I really had "nothing to do", the call of duty has come.
No, not from the Foreign Service. As if! Other than having to give up copious amounts of blood for medical testing (and with the blood, a whole lot of tears) nothing is expected to happen in that part of my world for a long, long time. Rather, I was offered the opportunity to write – and get paid for doing so. It’s nothing fancy, just drafting content for a corporate website. But for a gal like me, who on occasion has ventured to consider herself a "writer", this is an opportunity that cannot be passed by.
To be fair, I knew this was coming, I guess I was just secretly hoping it would get postponed until après-vacances, or at the very least, après World Cup final.
But maybe this came in the nick of time. Truth be told, walking on cobblestone in high heels is painful. And after watching Paraguay’s Oscar Cardozo weep uncontrollably like a big ol’ handsome baby at his team’s loss to my team last Saturday, head buried with shame deep inside his jersey, I am starting to wonder about the whole competition thing – and thinking I am too much of a sensitive wuss to ever be a true sports fan in the style of the European Footballer. As he fell to the ground in sheer agony, every single player on that field - Spanish and Paraguayan alike - offered hugs and soccer love, trying to console an inconsolable Cardozo. It was heart wrenching to watch, so much so that I wanted to get on a plane, fly to South Africa, make all the players form one huge circle, and holding hands, sing "Kumbaya". After which of course, I would inquire as to who was single and interested in joining me for dinner.
But instead, I will write. And get paid. And take some time out on Wednesday night to throw on a pair of heels, trot across the cobblestone street to Café La Pierre, and settle in to watch Spain kick Germany’s footballing ass. Just please boys, no tears this time. I can’t handle it.
Just when I thought I was clear to spend my mornings napping, my afternoons mastering the art of walking on cobblestone in high heels, and my evenings cheering Spain all the way to World Cup victory...
Just when I thought I really had "nothing to do", the call of duty has come.
No, not from the Foreign Service. As if! Other than having to give up copious amounts of blood for medical testing (and with the blood, a whole lot of tears) nothing is expected to happen in that part of my world for a long, long time. Rather, I was offered the opportunity to write – and get paid for doing so. It’s nothing fancy, just drafting content for a corporate website. But for a gal like me, who on occasion has ventured to consider herself a "writer", this is an opportunity that cannot be passed by.
To be fair, I knew this was coming, I guess I was just secretly hoping it would get postponed until après-vacances, or at the very least, après World Cup final.
But maybe this came in the nick of time. Truth be told, walking on cobblestone in high heels is painful. And after watching Paraguay’s Oscar Cardozo weep uncontrollably like a big ol’ handsome baby at his team’s loss to my team last Saturday, head buried with shame deep inside his jersey, I am starting to wonder about the whole competition thing – and thinking I am too much of a sensitive wuss to ever be a true sports fan in the style of the European Footballer. As he fell to the ground in sheer agony, every single player on that field - Spanish and Paraguayan alike - offered hugs and soccer love, trying to console an inconsolable Cardozo. It was heart wrenching to watch, so much so that I wanted to get on a plane, fly to South Africa, make all the players form one huge circle, and holding hands, sing "Kumbaya". After which of course, I would inquire as to who was single and interested in joining me for dinner.
But instead, I will write. And get paid. And take some time out on Wednesday night to throw on a pair of heels, trot across the cobblestone street to Café La Pierre, and settle in to watch Spain kick Germany’s footballing ass. Just please boys, no tears this time. I can’t handle it.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Nothing can be everything
I never before thought it possible to fall in love with a piece of luggage. But alas, it has happened to me. I am smitten.
Last weekend I brought utter joy into my life with the purchase of a top-of-the-line Samsonite Spinner Silhouette 11 26" Expandable in blue (on sale at Macy's, bien sur!). I figured that since I am literally living out of a suitcase, I might as well go all the way and get a great one, right? This bag was worth every penny. Sturdy, lightweight, and zero effort required - with four nifty little wheels, the thing practically moves itself. Even the American Airlines agent at the check-in counter was impressed. She felt bad putting stickers on it. I gave her my blessing.
Meanwhile, I have found a nice little home to store this fab new purchase and empty out its heavy contents for awhile. For this next round of Parisian living - aka Paris Part Deux - I (somehow) landed myself a gorgeous, spacious and impossibly affordable apartment in Le Marais, my dream neighborhood in Paris, in the center of just about everything - at least, everything that is adorably "Paris" to me. And as of this very moment, I am on vacation. Yes, a real vacation. Today marks the start of 5 entire weeks of doing nothing at all. 5 weeks blissfully free of airplane travel. 5 weeks of not coming within 10 feet of an airport. 5 weeks free of stress, void of any complications whatsoever. Other than daily French classes, there is absolutely nothing on my agenda. I have convinced myself that after an insane year, and after the surprising success of having passed the FSOA, I deserve this. Thus I offer sincere apologies in advance to my loyal readers, but my goal for the next 5 weeks is to be totally boring.
Although knowing me - and as many of you know me - something nutty will happen. So consider keeping your expectations low, but stay tuned nonetheless. Notice I haven't ruled out travel by train...
Last weekend I brought utter joy into my life with the purchase of a top-of-the-line Samsonite Spinner Silhouette 11 26" Expandable in blue (on sale at Macy's, bien sur!). I figured that since I am literally living out of a suitcase, I might as well go all the way and get a great one, right? This bag was worth every penny. Sturdy, lightweight, and zero effort required - with four nifty little wheels, the thing practically moves itself. Even the American Airlines agent at the check-in counter was impressed. She felt bad putting stickers on it. I gave her my blessing.
Meanwhile, I have found a nice little home to store this fab new purchase and empty out its heavy contents for awhile. For this next round of Parisian living - aka Paris Part Deux - I (somehow) landed myself a gorgeous, spacious and impossibly affordable apartment in Le Marais, my dream neighborhood in Paris, in the center of just about everything - at least, everything that is adorably "Paris" to me. And as of this very moment, I am on vacation. Yes, a real vacation. Today marks the start of 5 entire weeks of doing nothing at all. 5 weeks blissfully free of airplane travel. 5 weeks of not coming within 10 feet of an airport. 5 weeks free of stress, void of any complications whatsoever. Other than daily French classes, there is absolutely nothing on my agenda. I have convinced myself that after an insane year, and after the surprising success of having passed the FSOA, I deserve this. Thus I offer sincere apologies in advance to my loyal readers, but my goal for the next 5 weeks is to be totally boring.
Although knowing me - and as many of you know me - something nutty will happen. So consider keeping your expectations low, but stay tuned nonetheless. Notice I haven't ruled out travel by train...
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Four Questions
I have to give a shout-out here to what could be the funniest blog and writer I have come across on the internet. Laughing-out-loud 100% guaranteed: http://factsoptional.blogspot.com/
Now, on to my four questions. Number one: Why is this night different from...
Just kidding.
My questions relate not to Passover, but to French culture. Truth be told, I have many, many questions about the culture I am currently living among. But in the interest of time, I have narrowed them down to four general topics that have left me dumbfounded. They are as follows:
1. The French Shower. What’s the deal? Why is it the norm here in Paris to install a shower hose, but without a wall mount to hold the hose in place? Or a shower curtain, for that matter? Don’t the French get how much water and time can be saved by a hands-free shower? Maybe I am all too heavily influenced by my "Conserve Water! California is facing a drought!" childhood, but France is a progressive society, all about saving the Earth and whatnot. Imagine the efficiency that would result if I were able to wash my hair with two hands, rather than one? Shave my legs without having to hold the shower hose with one hand and try to balance with the other? And imagine the amount of conservation if there was a shower curtain that kept water inside the shower, rather than letting it spew all over the bathroom floor?
2. Pharmacies. In all fairness I have never thoroughly read The New Testament (go figure) but I have to wonder if somewhere along the way, God granted France the right to perfect health on Sundays. This would be the only sensible explanation to the fact that on Sundays, along with everything else (from grocery stores to my beloved Sephora) pharmacies are closed for business. How can this be? Are the French fortunate enough to never get sick on a Sunday? Do sneezing allergy attacks, stomach flues and splitting migraine headaches only occur Monday through Saturday?
3. Sex. (Now that got your attention, didn’t it?) We have all heard the stereotype about the French man who has more than one – sometimes many – lovers simultaneously, whether he is married, single or otherwise. (And let's remember that stereotypes exists for a reason.) So here’s what I want to know: do French women put up with such nonsense because they are totally OK with it? Or do they feel they have no choice, as though it’s some cultural norm they simply need to accept? Or do French women and wives have many lovers of their own? (Which would at least be fair!) Or none of the above?
And my fourth question goes to back to trying to understand why and how French children are so well behaved - see previous post. (Additional note on this topic: last night I attended a dinner party in a beautiful apartment in the 19th. The hosts have a three-month-old baby. They put her down to sleep around 9 PM. When I left the party, somewhere around 2 AM, she was still sleeping. Apparently she sleeps through the night, already at 3 months. More proof that French children are perfect.)
Without a doubt, my four questions require further investigation. Which is why I will be returning to Paris after the FSOA in Chicago. Inquiring minds want to know, and there is research to be done! Check back here as answers unfold to these pressing questions.
Now, on to my four questions. Number one: Why is this night different from...
Just kidding.
My questions relate not to Passover, but to French culture. Truth be told, I have many, many questions about the culture I am currently living among. But in the interest of time, I have narrowed them down to four general topics that have left me dumbfounded. They are as follows:
1. The French Shower. What’s the deal? Why is it the norm here in Paris to install a shower hose, but without a wall mount to hold the hose in place? Or a shower curtain, for that matter? Don’t the French get how much water and time can be saved by a hands-free shower? Maybe I am all too heavily influenced by my "Conserve Water! California is facing a drought!" childhood, but France is a progressive society, all about saving the Earth and whatnot. Imagine the efficiency that would result if I were able to wash my hair with two hands, rather than one? Shave my legs without having to hold the shower hose with one hand and try to balance with the other? And imagine the amount of conservation if there was a shower curtain that kept water inside the shower, rather than letting it spew all over the bathroom floor?
2. Pharmacies. In all fairness I have never thoroughly read The New Testament (go figure) but I have to wonder if somewhere along the way, God granted France the right to perfect health on Sundays. This would be the only sensible explanation to the fact that on Sundays, along with everything else (from grocery stores to my beloved Sephora) pharmacies are closed for business. How can this be? Are the French fortunate enough to never get sick on a Sunday? Do sneezing allergy attacks, stomach flues and splitting migraine headaches only occur Monday through Saturday?
3. Sex. (Now that got your attention, didn’t it?) We have all heard the stereotype about the French man who has more than one – sometimes many – lovers simultaneously, whether he is married, single or otherwise. (And let's remember that stereotypes exists for a reason.) So here’s what I want to know: do French women put up with such nonsense because they are totally OK with it? Or do they feel they have no choice, as though it’s some cultural norm they simply need to accept? Or do French women and wives have many lovers of their own? (Which would at least be fair!) Or none of the above?
And my fourth question goes to back to trying to understand why and how French children are so well behaved - see previous post. (Additional note on this topic: last night I attended a dinner party in a beautiful apartment in the 19th. The hosts have a three-month-old baby. They put her down to sleep around 9 PM. When I left the party, somewhere around 2 AM, she was still sleeping. Apparently she sleeps through the night, already at 3 months. More proof that French children are perfect.)
Without a doubt, my four questions require further investigation. Which is why I will be returning to Paris after the FSOA in Chicago. Inquiring minds want to know, and there is research to be done! Check back here as answers unfold to these pressing questions.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Little (French-speaking) people
Let’s take a moment to talk about children, shall we? Spotted today, within the splendid courtyard of Le Palais-Royal: a small child, of no more than 4 years, seated on the edge of a large fountain. He is sandwiched on both sides by his mother and father who, along with the hundreds of barefoot sun worshipers around this courtyard, are dining outdoors and taking full advantage of the unseasonably warm afternoon. The boy sits quietly, nibbling on his lunch and patiently listening to his parents’ conversation taking place above his head. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t cry for attention. He just sits, like the lovely little person he probably is, and allows his parents to enjoy their meal and the beautiful afternoon.
Now let’s cross over to the other side of the Atlantic. Similar setting, somewhere in North America. It’s a lovely day, and mom, dad and child eagerly take to the park for a picnic. They take a seat; mom hands the four-year-old his sandwich. He takes a bite, then throws it onto the ground. He starts to run around the park, chasing pigeons, torturing dogs, throwing handfuls of sand, eating sand, screaming, yelling, and eventually runs off toward the street, where cars whizz past. Mom (or maybe dad) jumps up to run after him, frazzled, exhausted, her barely-touched meal left to the birds. The boy turns around, runs back toward the fountain, falls into the fountain, and the chaos continues.
OK, so I exaggerate. Somewhat. But it is undeniable that there is a noticeable difference between the behavior of French children, and that of their American counterparts. I have been in France many times now, and not once can I recall seeing a child throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store – or anywhere, for that matter. Not once have I seen a child running up and down the length of a metro car, a bus or a train. I have yet to witness a meltdown, a scream-fest, or any similarly out-of-control behavior whatsoever. French children are... different. They are dignified. Civilized. Delightful.
Don’t misunderstand: I do not wish to give the impression that French children are somehow creepy or robot-like in any way. Au contraire! They giggle, they laugh, they play – just like children anywhere. As I sit in the park now, a group of schoolchildren walk past – maybe 15 in all, around the age of 6 or 7 years old. They stop at the fountain, reach in to touch the cool water, their innocent faces full of delight. But they don’t yell out, they don’t splash any water, nor do they bother any of the adults who are here on their lunch break. These children clearly know how to be children, but at the same time, understand that there is a time and place for everything, and a proper way to behave - especially when in a public setting.
Their restaurant etiquette is particularly strong. Dining in France is an art form in and of itself, an essential part of French culture, and children growing up here quickly learn how to fully experience the pleasure of dining. These little (French-speaking) people sit at tables and eat with their families (most likely consuming wholesome meals made without any chemicals or preservatives). And they wait to be excused before leaving the table. While staying with friends in the south of France, an afternoon snack of tea and freshly baked brioche was served. My friends’ two very small children sat with the adults at the table, quiet and unobtrusive, and enjoyed their own brioche along with everyone else. They never demanded attention. They didn’t get up and run off – nor did they ask to leave the table – until given permission to do so. The French children I have witnessed seem to take pleasure in eating their meal, while respecting the cultural importance and the experience of eating their meal.
Debra Olivier writes about French children in her book Entre Nous. She observes Parisian family life: homes that are not overwhelmed by toys; a family dynamic in which the parents dictate the schedule and the rules, not the child; consistent bedtimes that children actually adhere to. Olivier writes that children in France are brought up with the understanding that they have a distinctive place in the family and in society; they are something like little adults, and their parents set the example and expectations early on as to what constitutes adult-like manners and etiquette. Steve Fallon and Annabel Hart echo this in Lonely Planet’s guide to Paris. They write, "France treats its children as adults until they reach puberty – at which time they revert to being children again". Rather than overindulged and spoiled, French children are "corrected and disciplined", and are brought up understanding what proper behavior means.
A Parisian friend has invited me over for champagne and cheese in her home. She has two small children, and she tells me they will be asleep at 8:00pm, so I should come over right around 8:30pm. Based on what I have seen, read and heard, I have no doubt that when I arrive, her house will be neat, her children asleep, and we will enjoy an adult conversation over delicious champagne. My friend Anne tells me that my view is glorified; she doesn’t want to burst my bubble, she says, but times are changing, and French children are not nearly as perfect as I make them out to be. Maybe she is right. Nevertheless, I tell her that if I could somehow guarantee that my own children would come out to be so lovely and dignified, just like these little French-speaking people are, then maybe the idea of actually having them would be less horrifying.
Now let’s cross over to the other side of the Atlantic. Similar setting, somewhere in North America. It’s a lovely day, and mom, dad and child eagerly take to the park for a picnic. They take a seat; mom hands the four-year-old his sandwich. He takes a bite, then throws it onto the ground. He starts to run around the park, chasing pigeons, torturing dogs, throwing handfuls of sand, eating sand, screaming, yelling, and eventually runs off toward the street, where cars whizz past. Mom (or maybe dad) jumps up to run after him, frazzled, exhausted, her barely-touched meal left to the birds. The boy turns around, runs back toward the fountain, falls into the fountain, and the chaos continues.
OK, so I exaggerate. Somewhat. But it is undeniable that there is a noticeable difference between the behavior of French children, and that of their American counterparts. I have been in France many times now, and not once can I recall seeing a child throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store – or anywhere, for that matter. Not once have I seen a child running up and down the length of a metro car, a bus or a train. I have yet to witness a meltdown, a scream-fest, or any similarly out-of-control behavior whatsoever. French children are... different. They are dignified. Civilized. Delightful.
Don’t misunderstand: I do not wish to give the impression that French children are somehow creepy or robot-like in any way. Au contraire! They giggle, they laugh, they play – just like children anywhere. As I sit in the park now, a group of schoolchildren walk past – maybe 15 in all, around the age of 6 or 7 years old. They stop at the fountain, reach in to touch the cool water, their innocent faces full of delight. But they don’t yell out, they don’t splash any water, nor do they bother any of the adults who are here on their lunch break. These children clearly know how to be children, but at the same time, understand that there is a time and place for everything, and a proper way to behave - especially when in a public setting.
Their restaurant etiquette is particularly strong. Dining in France is an art form in and of itself, an essential part of French culture, and children growing up here quickly learn how to fully experience the pleasure of dining. These little (French-speaking) people sit at tables and eat with their families (most likely consuming wholesome meals made without any chemicals or preservatives). And they wait to be excused before leaving the table. While staying with friends in the south of France, an afternoon snack of tea and freshly baked brioche was served. My friends’ two very small children sat with the adults at the table, quiet and unobtrusive, and enjoyed their own brioche along with everyone else. They never demanded attention. They didn’t get up and run off – nor did they ask to leave the table – until given permission to do so. The French children I have witnessed seem to take pleasure in eating their meal, while respecting the cultural importance and the experience of eating their meal.
Debra Olivier writes about French children in her book Entre Nous. She observes Parisian family life: homes that are not overwhelmed by toys; a family dynamic in which the parents dictate the schedule and the rules, not the child; consistent bedtimes that children actually adhere to. Olivier writes that children in France are brought up with the understanding that they have a distinctive place in the family and in society; they are something like little adults, and their parents set the example and expectations early on as to what constitutes adult-like manners and etiquette. Steve Fallon and Annabel Hart echo this in Lonely Planet’s guide to Paris. They write, "France treats its children as adults until they reach puberty – at which time they revert to being children again". Rather than overindulged and spoiled, French children are "corrected and disciplined", and are brought up understanding what proper behavior means.
A Parisian friend has invited me over for champagne and cheese in her home. She has two small children, and she tells me they will be asleep at 8:00pm, so I should come over right around 8:30pm. Based on what I have seen, read and heard, I have no doubt that when I arrive, her house will be neat, her children asleep, and we will enjoy an adult conversation over delicious champagne. My friend Anne tells me that my view is glorified; she doesn’t want to burst my bubble, she says, but times are changing, and French children are not nearly as perfect as I make them out to be. Maybe she is right. Nevertheless, I tell her that if I could somehow guarantee that my own children would come out to be so lovely and dignified, just like these little French-speaking people are, then maybe the idea of actually having them would be less horrifying.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Words, words....
It doesn't seem to matter that it's a stunning day outside. Or that the time is nearly 9pm, and the sun is still - magically - bright in the evening sky. It's springtime in Paris, finally. And springtime in Paris is so far everything I imagined it would be. The days are long and easy - warm, sunny... perfect, in fact. There is every reason in the world to be outside. Nevertheless, on this beautiful evening, the dark interior of this cramped little café is wall-to-wall packed with people.
As it should be! It's Monday night, and Spoken Word is on. An eclectic group of expat poets and storytellers gathers every week in this funky little artists' nook for Open Mic Night, writer's style. With a breath of courage and a confidence than I have yet to muster, one by one they take to the stage and share their tales, their poems, their rhymes, their randomness - in French, English, Italian... anything goes. So far, I only listen. But the energy is strong, and the beer cheaper than water, so maybe, eventually, I will find the courage to share my own words among this crowd of friendly strangers.
In this period known to me as PPD - Paris Post Dubai - my world has become completely consumed by words. Open mic nights, writers' workshops and the blissful discovery of wonderful little bookstores go hand-in-hand with my so-far flailing attempt to learn French. Thankfully, my language class at Lutece Langue has finally begun, and just in the nick of time. Because so far, in terms of learning French, I haven't been doing well. Regular visits to the Gerard Arnaud yoga studio have helped along my ability to comprehend, but strictly within the limits of a particular vocabulary set I will refer to as "yoga french". Sure, this is good progress in its own right, but hardly practical when out and about, enjoying the streets of Paris. I now know the French for "bend your legs" ... "hug your knees into your chest" ... "turn your face toward the sky" ... But when a homeless man on the street approaches me and asks for money - something, I might add, which seems to occur on an hourly basis - I stumble over myself and can't think of a proper response in his language. Instead, silence prevails and I just smile apologetically, as I am quite certain that telling him to fold into downward dog and press his heels toward the floor is not the answer he is looking for.
And so it is that with each day that passes, French is looking more and more like any great love: complicated, mysterious, utterly unattainable... the less of it I understand, the more I want. Hours later, I am standing at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee, nibbling on dried figs, and intently studying my French dictionary. Just as my sleepy veins willingly absorb the caffeine, I beg my brain to absorb these French words. Behind me, the radio plays – another source of words, another source of comprehension. But after some time, I realize the station that is playing is in Portuguese. Mon Dieu, I think. This is going to take awhile.
As it should be! It's Monday night, and Spoken Word is on. An eclectic group of expat poets and storytellers gathers every week in this funky little artists' nook for Open Mic Night, writer's style. With a breath of courage and a confidence than I have yet to muster, one by one they take to the stage and share their tales, their poems, their rhymes, their randomness - in French, English, Italian... anything goes. So far, I only listen. But the energy is strong, and the beer cheaper than water, so maybe, eventually, I will find the courage to share my own words among this crowd of friendly strangers.
In this period known to me as PPD - Paris Post Dubai - my world has become completely consumed by words. Open mic nights, writers' workshops and the blissful discovery of wonderful little bookstores go hand-in-hand with my so-far flailing attempt to learn French. Thankfully, my language class at Lutece Langue has finally begun, and just in the nick of time. Because so far, in terms of learning French, I haven't been doing well. Regular visits to the Gerard Arnaud yoga studio have helped along my ability to comprehend, but strictly within the limits of a particular vocabulary set I will refer to as "yoga french". Sure, this is good progress in its own right, but hardly practical when out and about, enjoying the streets of Paris. I now know the French for "bend your legs" ... "hug your knees into your chest" ... "turn your face toward the sky" ... But when a homeless man on the street approaches me and asks for money - something, I might add, which seems to occur on an hourly basis - I stumble over myself and can't think of a proper response in his language. Instead, silence prevails and I just smile apologetically, as I am quite certain that telling him to fold into downward dog and press his heels toward the floor is not the answer he is looking for.
And so it is that with each day that passes, French is looking more and more like any great love: complicated, mysterious, utterly unattainable... the less of it I understand, the more I want. Hours later, I am standing at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee, nibbling on dried figs, and intently studying my French dictionary. Just as my sleepy veins willingly absorb the caffeine, I beg my brain to absorb these French words. Behind me, the radio plays – another source of words, another source of comprehension. But after some time, I realize the station that is playing is in Portuguese. Mon Dieu, I think. This is going to take awhile.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Modern, to a point
I have decided that I would make a really bad prisoner. Today I am in Paris, gazing out at the smoggy ash that hovers over the city and listening to the local news. The hot story on the news is about a young French national named Florence Cassez. The 35-year-old has been held in a Mexican prison for the past five years on questionable kidnapping charges; today the effort was renewed to fight for her release. I was in Dubai for 5 days longer than planned, with access to all the creature comforts I could possibly need: a bed, a hot shower, a treadmill, lip balm, peanut butter… All this, and I couldn’t handle it. After only 5 days, I snapped.
Yes, I would make a very bad prisoner indeed. Which is yet another reason I need to always maintain a low profile while traveling, and do my best to stay out of trouble.
Dubai was an interesting, confusing place: modernization permitted, to a point. Open-mindedness encouraged, with limits. All walks of life welcomed, with exceptions. The internet was relatively open, but many sites were blocked, for reasons that seemed contradictory and inconsistent at best. I could stream episodes of the (borderline pornographic) TV show Gossip Girl, but I couldn’t access Skype. I could read Wikipedia’s page on Israel, but couldn’t reach Israeli’s official tourism website http://www.goisrael.com/. It didn't make sense.
On the second night of my “imprisonment”, I was at dinner with a work colleague. He is Irish, and has lived in Dubai for 15 years with his wife and two small children. He is Western in every sense of the word: lifestyle, dress, religion and tradition. He seemed to be a typically cool and easy-going guy, and so I began to pick his brain for suggestions on how to spend these days, how to make the most of my time here. More than anything, I wanted to go to Israel for a few days, at least until the ash blew over and I could return to Paris. I asked him about this, if traveling to Israel from here was an option at all, or if there would be any repercussions. I had just learned that the Israeli delegation were denied visas to attend our conference; I wasn’t sure what a fresh Israeli stamp in my passport might mean if I needed to return to Dubai to catch a flight home.
And so I asked him this simple question; any and all expression on his face disappeared. He looked back at me without a hint of recognition or comprehension, as though I was speaking Hebrew. His response was brief: “I don’t know what you are talking about”.
I asked again: Can I fly to Israel from here? Again, his response: “I really don’t know to what you are referring. We don’t use this word here [“Israel”]. It means nothing to us. It doesn’t exist”.
The mood quickly turned from lighthearted to creepy. I didn’t have much to say to him after that; instead I tried to fathom how such an open-minded dude from Ireland could be so ignorant. The next day, I visited a travel agency at the mall, and asked the travel agent - a young woman from Delhi, India - about the option of popping over to Tel Aviv for a few days. She literally looked away and ignored the question, and instead tried to sell me on a package deal to Sri Lanka.
I tried to give them both the benefit of the doubt; perhaps a requirement of gaining UAE citizenship is to never recognize Israel’s existence? Regardless, I was spooked. I returned to the hotel, gave up on any thoughts of visiting Israel, and settled in to stream another episode of Gossip Girl. Luckily this didn't get me arrested.
Yes, I would make a very bad prisoner indeed. Which is yet another reason I need to always maintain a low profile while traveling, and do my best to stay out of trouble.
Dubai was an interesting, confusing place: modernization permitted, to a point. Open-mindedness encouraged, with limits. All walks of life welcomed, with exceptions. The internet was relatively open, but many sites were blocked, for reasons that seemed contradictory and inconsistent at best. I could stream episodes of the (borderline pornographic) TV show Gossip Girl, but I couldn’t access Skype. I could read Wikipedia’s page on Israel, but couldn’t reach Israeli’s official tourism website http://www.goisrael.com/. It didn't make sense.
On the second night of my “imprisonment”, I was at dinner with a work colleague. He is Irish, and has lived in Dubai for 15 years with his wife and two small children. He is Western in every sense of the word: lifestyle, dress, religion and tradition. He seemed to be a typically cool and easy-going guy, and so I began to pick his brain for suggestions on how to spend these days, how to make the most of my time here. More than anything, I wanted to go to Israel for a few days, at least until the ash blew over and I could return to Paris. I asked him about this, if traveling to Israel from here was an option at all, or if there would be any repercussions. I had just learned that the Israeli delegation were denied visas to attend our conference; I wasn’t sure what a fresh Israeli stamp in my passport might mean if I needed to return to Dubai to catch a flight home.
And so I asked him this simple question; any and all expression on his face disappeared. He looked back at me without a hint of recognition or comprehension, as though I was speaking Hebrew. His response was brief: “I don’t know what you are talking about”.
I asked again: Can I fly to Israel from here? Again, his response: “I really don’t know to what you are referring. We don’t use this word here [“Israel”]. It means nothing to us. It doesn’t exist”.
The mood quickly turned from lighthearted to creepy. I didn’t have much to say to him after that; instead I tried to fathom how such an open-minded dude from Ireland could be so ignorant. The next day, I visited a travel agency at the mall, and asked the travel agent - a young woman from Delhi, India - about the option of popping over to Tel Aviv for a few days. She literally looked away and ignored the question, and instead tried to sell me on a package deal to Sri Lanka.
I tried to give them both the benefit of the doubt; perhaps a requirement of gaining UAE citizenship is to never recognize Israel’s existence? Regardless, I was spooked. I returned to the hotel, gave up on any thoughts of visiting Israel, and settled in to stream another episode of Gossip Girl. Luckily this didn't get me arrested.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
A crack in the cloud
The P.A. system squeals to life, and the 500 travelers sprawled around Gate 202 fall silent, so silent that I can actually hear the sound of 500 people holding their breath.
"Attention passengers traveling on Emirates flight 73 to Paris..." The 2-second pause that follows feels like 2 thousand years. "We will be boarding the aircraft by zone. Please check your boar..." We stop listening; our collective sigh of relief causes a wind tunnel effect across the gate. I have no doubt that everyone around me is feeling exactly as I do: hesitant. Not one of us will dare believe that this is really happening - that an aircraft will depart Dubai and fly into Charles de Gaulle Airport - until the plane touches down at its intended destination.
By pure chance, luck, coincidence – whatever you want to call it – I just happened to be awake and watching CNN at 3:00 AM this morning, when the news broke that airports around Paris would begin to resume service today. I had just returned from a night of debauchery, Dubai-style: drinking cocktails and puffing on hookah pipes at Jambase shisha bar, and later salsa dancing with an Egyptian named Samir at Trader Vics. The evening was planned as a farewell party of sorts for one of the lucky travelers at the Holiday Inn who had secured a flight out the next day. We were 11 in all - a group of virtual strangers that I was perfectly happy to bail on in favor of staying in and sleeping. But had I done so, I wouldn’t have had such a wild night out. I wouldn't have been awake at 3 AM. And I certainly wouldn’t have been one of the first to learn that a sliver of hope had broken through the dark cloud over Paris.
At that very moment, I decided it was time to get out of Dubai come hell or high water; this much-awaited easing of restrictions in France provided an opportunity to do just that, and I wasn't about to let it pass me by. With the encouragement of mom and the financial blessing of my employer, by 4:00 AM I was packed, checked out and on my way to the airport.
The news was accurate: a flight back to Paris was scheduled and confirmed to depart in 4 hours. This alone was a miracle.
The airport was still reasonably quiet as word about Paris had not yet spread. Regardless, I knew that securing a seat on this flight would involve a battle, and I was prepared for the fight. The reservation agent confirmed what I had expected to hear: he wasn't authorized to sell any seats; I would have to stand by for this flight, just wait and see. With determination and relentlessness as my guides, I put on an Oscar-worthy Damsel In Distress performance – tears, messy stories, little white lies - and quickly won over the handsome Emirates Airways supervisor. In exchange for one outrageous charge on my Visa card, he approved the sale, and handed over a boarding pass for the first and possibly only flight out that morning. Holding this precious document in my hand, I felt a strong urge to kiss it. I think I did. Maybe I should have kissed the supervisor instead.
And so it is: I am on my way! But as I sit at the boarding gate now, I can't help but think how anti-climactic this will all turn out to be. As the hopeless hours grew into hopeless days, I had begun to envision all the fabulous adventures I could create from this otherwise irritating situation. Hopping on a flight to Destination: Anywhere; road-tripping with strangers across the continent; taking trains through unknown cities and beautiful landscape. Or blowing off Europe altogether and venturing toward Israel, Bali, Nepal, anywhere but here! I felt unreasonably envious upon hearing of other peoples' adventures and crazy travel plans to get home. It all sounded fabulous, exciting, and utterly complicated.
But alas, the end of this story for me will be a drama-free one. Direct flight back to Paris, 30-minute taxi ride from there. Believe me, I know how lucky I am right now. I know I struck gold by getting on this flight. But as much as I cannot WAIT to get out of Dubai and be on my way back home, I can't help but feel a strange sense of let-down. What can I say, that's just me.
"Attention passengers traveling on Emirates flight 73 to Paris..." The 2-second pause that follows feels like 2 thousand years. "We will be boarding the aircraft by zone. Please check your boar..." We stop listening; our collective sigh of relief causes a wind tunnel effect across the gate. I have no doubt that everyone around me is feeling exactly as I do: hesitant. Not one of us will dare believe that this is really happening - that an aircraft will depart Dubai and fly into Charles de Gaulle Airport - until the plane touches down at its intended destination.
By pure chance, luck, coincidence – whatever you want to call it – I just happened to be awake and watching CNN at 3:00 AM this morning, when the news broke that airports around Paris would begin to resume service today. I had just returned from a night of debauchery, Dubai-style: drinking cocktails and puffing on hookah pipes at Jambase shisha bar, and later salsa dancing with an Egyptian named Samir at Trader Vics. The evening was planned as a farewell party of sorts for one of the lucky travelers at the Holiday Inn who had secured a flight out the next day. We were 11 in all - a group of virtual strangers that I was perfectly happy to bail on in favor of staying in and sleeping. But had I done so, I wouldn’t have had such a wild night out. I wouldn't have been awake at 3 AM. And I certainly wouldn’t have been one of the first to learn that a sliver of hope had broken through the dark cloud over Paris.
A Hookah pipe makes everything seem OK.
At that very moment, I decided it was time to get out of Dubai come hell or high water; this much-awaited easing of restrictions in France provided an opportunity to do just that, and I wasn't about to let it pass me by. With the encouragement of mom and the financial blessing of my employer, by 4:00 AM I was packed, checked out and on my way to the airport.
The news was accurate: a flight back to Paris was scheduled and confirmed to depart in 4 hours. This alone was a miracle.
The airport was still reasonably quiet as word about Paris had not yet spread. Regardless, I knew that securing a seat on this flight would involve a battle, and I was prepared for the fight. The reservation agent confirmed what I had expected to hear: he wasn't authorized to sell any seats; I would have to stand by for this flight, just wait and see. With determination and relentlessness as my guides, I put on an Oscar-worthy Damsel In Distress performance – tears, messy stories, little white lies - and quickly won over the handsome Emirates Airways supervisor. In exchange for one outrageous charge on my Visa card, he approved the sale, and handed over a boarding pass for the first and possibly only flight out that morning. Holding this precious document in my hand, I felt a strong urge to kiss it. I think I did. Maybe I should have kissed the supervisor instead.
And so it is: I am on my way! But as I sit at the boarding gate now, I can't help but think how anti-climactic this will all turn out to be. As the hopeless hours grew into hopeless days, I had begun to envision all the fabulous adventures I could create from this otherwise irritating situation. Hopping on a flight to Destination: Anywhere; road-tripping with strangers across the continent; taking trains through unknown cities and beautiful landscape. Or blowing off Europe altogether and venturing toward Israel, Bali, Nepal, anywhere but here! I felt unreasonably envious upon hearing of other peoples' adventures and crazy travel plans to get home. It all sounded fabulous, exciting, and utterly complicated.
But alas, the end of this story for me will be a drama-free one. Direct flight back to Paris, 30-minute taxi ride from there. Believe me, I know how lucky I am right now. I know I struck gold by getting on this flight. But as much as I cannot WAIT to get out of Dubai and be on my way back home, I can't help but feel a strange sense of let-down. What can I say, that's just me.
Coming down through the ash
The departure board at CDG. I am one very lucky gal.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Delays and cancellations
I am stranded in Dubai, without a single item of warm-weather clothing. No sandals, no bathing suit, no sunblock. Not even a pair of sunglasses. I have come here with a surprisingly small suitcase (surprising for me, anyway) packed with a modest assortment of dark-colored business attire. I thought I would be in and out of here, days and evenings spent indoors at work. Never did I imagine that a cloud of volcanic ash would anchor me to this bizarre place, with a brilliant sun shining overhead and more free time than I actually want to have.
Travel mishaps happen, and I have never been one to be bothered when they do. Cancelled flights, re-routes, whatever it may be, I have always been the sort of traveler who coasts along, believing that everything happens as it should, and that I will get there eventually.
But this time I feel frustrated. After all, it wasn't just anywhere that I was heading back to. It was Paris. And not only was I due to return, but I was ready to do so with a renewed sense of spirit, a rediscovered inner joy that had been temporarily lost. My timing was off when I first arrived in March. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I found it difficult to embrace the opportunity I had created for myself. But this trip to Dubai may have been exactly what I needed. Unexpectedly, the time away has hit my "restart button". It's as though I have been given a rare opportunity to start again, to begin anew my life in Paris. And with a busy week ahead planned for all sorts of adventure and new discoveries, I was eager to get back. But as I sit here at the Atlantis hotel, surveying the latest news and flights statistics – another flight cancelled, another airport closed – it looks as though "starting over in Paris" is going to be delayed for awhile.
Travel mishaps happen, and I have never been one to be bothered when they do. Cancelled flights, re-routes, whatever it may be, I have always been the sort of traveler who coasts along, believing that everything happens as it should, and that I will get there eventually.
But this time I feel frustrated. After all, it wasn't just anywhere that I was heading back to. It was Paris. And not only was I due to return, but I was ready to do so with a renewed sense of spirit, a rediscovered inner joy that had been temporarily lost. My timing was off when I first arrived in March. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I found it difficult to embrace the opportunity I had created for myself. But this trip to Dubai may have been exactly what I needed. Unexpectedly, the time away has hit my "restart button". It's as though I have been given a rare opportunity to start again, to begin anew my life in Paris. And with a busy week ahead planned for all sorts of adventure and new discoveries, I was eager to get back. But as I sit here at the Atlantis hotel, surveying the latest news and flights statistics – another flight cancelled, another airport closed – it looks as though "starting over in Paris" is going to be delayed for awhile.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
The Thinker / Le Penseur
Madame Cotin leans over, her petite body dangerously close to falling off the tall barstool. She wants to pay for my drink, she tells me. Out of nowhere comes this kind offer. It would be her pleasure, she says. It would bring some happiness to her otherwise noir moment. This woman of 72 years, draped in lonely shades of grey, is seated next to me at the bar inside Cafe Mabillon. She is overcome with sadness today, she says. She is upset with her husband, who has once again delivered a large dose of disappointment. I understand all too well, I tell her. She tells me that on days like today, she feels alone in Paris. I understand that too.
Through broken English, bits of French, and morsels of Spanish, we communicate, and somehow we connect. Our conversation turns from dark thoughts to happy banter, and we speak of meeting again, so that we can instruct one another on our respective languages, and maybe for a moment or two, feel as though we have a new friend in Paris.
She throws back her glass of rosé, and with a seemingly lighter step, sets off on her way home, back to that impossible man she loves nonetheless. I watch her leave, then take in my familiar surroundings. Here at Café Mabillon, the feeling of "alone" of which we had spoken is quickly forgotten. I had first come to this spot in Le Quartier Latin two years ago, and I loved it as much then as I do today. The same staff are here, the same manager and his kooky love of American R&B. This is my Café Fiorello of the Upper West Side, my Cheers of TV fame. This is the bar where everyone does, or soon might, know my name. This sense of familiarity, of being known, of feeling so easily accepted, all this is well worth the metro ride across the River Seine.
But I was in the neighborhood anyway. With Nina Simone crooning from my iPod, earlier today I had braved the Free Sunday crowds and took in a visit of the Musee Rodin near the Left Bank. Much like The Thinker (Le Penseur) in Rodin's garden ponders his own life, I sit at this bar now, and ponder my Parisian existence. I observe the women at the Café, and watch them light cigarettes in between apertifs and coffees. (As only Parisian men can somehow look studly carrying a baguette under their arm, only Parisian women can look stunning with a cigarette at their lips.) I observe their natural, effortless beauty, and contemplate the possibility of eschewing my California ways, my obsession with healthful eating, my need for yoga and exercise. I consider channeling Elizabeth Gilbert and her no holds barred embrace of Italy's edible delights; whether eating, praying or loving, Liz Gilbert melted into her surroundings, losing herself in whatever culture she was in at the moment. I wonder what would happen if I did the same here in Paris - if I were to take up smoking, fill my insides with espresso, wine, then more espresso, spend my hours shopping and socializing rather than jogging, spend my money on beautiful clothing and lingerie rather than running shoes and yoga classes. I balance these thoughts against images of Rodin's version of the human body - the muscular, chiseled, powerful forms he sculpted for both his male and female subjects - the body type I too have always considered beautiful.
I soak in this culture that is so foreign, so sensual, so French, and I wonder, what might I become if I were to melt into this place? Would I become effortlessly beautiful? Or would I evolve into a woman as dark as la petite Madame Cotin? Or both? Would I become a person I no longer know of as me?
Not likely. But something to think about nonetheless.
Through broken English, bits of French, and morsels of Spanish, we communicate, and somehow we connect. Our conversation turns from dark thoughts to happy banter, and we speak of meeting again, so that we can instruct one another on our respective languages, and maybe for a moment or two, feel as though we have a new friend in Paris.
She throws back her glass of rosé, and with a seemingly lighter step, sets off on her way home, back to that impossible man she loves nonetheless. I watch her leave, then take in my familiar surroundings. Here at Café Mabillon, the feeling of "alone" of which we had spoken is quickly forgotten. I had first come to this spot in Le Quartier Latin two years ago, and I loved it as much then as I do today. The same staff are here, the same manager and his kooky love of American R&B. This is my Café Fiorello of the Upper West Side, my Cheers of TV fame. This is the bar where everyone does, or soon might, know my name. This sense of familiarity, of being known, of feeling so easily accepted, all this is well worth the metro ride across the River Seine.
But I was in the neighborhood anyway. With Nina Simone crooning from my iPod, earlier today I had braved the Free Sunday crowds and took in a visit of the Musee Rodin near the Left Bank. Much like The Thinker (Le Penseur) in Rodin's garden ponders his own life, I sit at this bar now, and ponder my Parisian existence. I observe the women at the Café, and watch them light cigarettes in between apertifs and coffees. (As only Parisian men can somehow look studly carrying a baguette under their arm, only Parisian women can look stunning with a cigarette at their lips.) I observe their natural, effortless beauty, and contemplate the possibility of eschewing my California ways, my obsession with healthful eating, my need for yoga and exercise. I consider channeling Elizabeth Gilbert and her no holds barred embrace of Italy's edible delights; whether eating, praying or loving, Liz Gilbert melted into her surroundings, losing herself in whatever culture she was in at the moment. I wonder what would happen if I did the same here in Paris - if I were to take up smoking, fill my insides with espresso, wine, then more espresso, spend my hours shopping and socializing rather than jogging, spend my money on beautiful clothing and lingerie rather than running shoes and yoga classes. I balance these thoughts against images of Rodin's version of the human body - the muscular, chiseled, powerful forms he sculpted for both his male and female subjects - the body type I too have always considered beautiful.
I soak in this culture that is so foreign, so sensual, so French, and I wonder, what might I become if I were to melt into this place? Would I become effortlessly beautiful? Or would I evolve into a woman as dark as la petite Madame Cotin? Or both? Would I become a person I no longer know of as me?
Not likely. But something to think about nonetheless.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Pesach in Paris
"My people" are ubiquitous in Paris; Jewish folk – particularly those of the Orthodox persuasion – do not go unseen in this beautiful city. The district of Le Marais in particular is an area teeming with Jewish heritage and history. I can't help but smile when I see yarmulke-capped families on their way to Synagogue during this week of Passover, or any other day of the year. Somehow, in one small way, it makes me feel connected.
Let me be clear: I claim no religious adherence to Judaism. To me, Judaism is my culture, my heritage, the common bond that unites me with my family, with my grandparents and great-grandparents, and their complex history of immigration, struggle and success. Rather than observe by attending religious services, hosting or joining a Pesach dinner, and adhering to the many religious rituals and dietary restrictions specific to this week-long holiday, I have chosen to show my faith in my own small way, with just one simple rule of observation:
No bread, or bread-like products of any kind, for these eight days.
I will admit this has never been a challenge in the past, since my diet is light on bread anyway. But in Paris, it’s a different story. Avoiding the many patisseries and boulangeries for eight days straight, rejecting that delicious loaf of olive bread, walking past that toasty baguette, turning a blind eye to the gorgeous chocolate e’clair... here in Paris, this is nothing short of torture. But I have made it this far, only a few more days remain. And instead, I am happily filling my belly with dinners of cheese, chocolate and red wine. No, I do not deserve any pity.
As I avoid bread, I also unravel at the hands of a near-fruitless and all-too-stressful apartment search. Thankfully, all is settled now, and although I have found a place that may not be my ideal selection, it is lovely and bright, and frankly I was growing desperate. I have learned one very important lesson from this experience: the Paris housing market is tough, and relying on Craigslist as the only source for real estate options is a very bad idea.
Due to lack of time, energy and a general interest in doing so, I did not visit many apartments this week. And the appointments that I did make were quick. I have determined that visiting an apartment in Paris (on a budget as slim as mine) takes all of 7.5 minutes: 3 minutes to glance around and decide that the place is either adequate or simply awful, and if awful, another 4.5 minutes of polite conversation with the owner, during which I feign interest and long to make a break for the door. The one place in which I found myself actually lingering, taking a second look around, maybe even a third... the place in which I stood by the large window, took in the view of trees and hills and cobblestone lanes, listened to birds singing and felt the soft, fresh breeze brush against my face... this is the apartment I was meant to take. I am very lucky I got it. And even luckier there is no boulangerie immediately below.
Let me be clear: I claim no religious adherence to Judaism. To me, Judaism is my culture, my heritage, the common bond that unites me with my family, with my grandparents and great-grandparents, and their complex history of immigration, struggle and success. Rather than observe by attending religious services, hosting or joining a Pesach dinner, and adhering to the many religious rituals and dietary restrictions specific to this week-long holiday, I have chosen to show my faith in my own small way, with just one simple rule of observation:
No bread, or bread-like products of any kind, for these eight days.
I will admit this has never been a challenge in the past, since my diet is light on bread anyway. But in Paris, it’s a different story. Avoiding the many patisseries and boulangeries for eight days straight, rejecting that delicious loaf of olive bread, walking past that toasty baguette, turning a blind eye to the gorgeous chocolate e’clair... here in Paris, this is nothing short of torture. But I have made it this far, only a few more days remain. And instead, I am happily filling my belly with dinners of cheese, chocolate and red wine. No, I do not deserve any pity.
As I avoid bread, I also unravel at the hands of a near-fruitless and all-too-stressful apartment search. Thankfully, all is settled now, and although I have found a place that may not be my ideal selection, it is lovely and bright, and frankly I was growing desperate. I have learned one very important lesson from this experience: the Paris housing market is tough, and relying on Craigslist as the only source for real estate options is a very bad idea.
Due to lack of time, energy and a general interest in doing so, I did not visit many apartments this week. And the appointments that I did make were quick. I have determined that visiting an apartment in Paris (on a budget as slim as mine) takes all of 7.5 minutes: 3 minutes to glance around and decide that the place is either adequate or simply awful, and if awful, another 4.5 minutes of polite conversation with the owner, during which I feign interest and long to make a break for the door. The one place in which I found myself actually lingering, taking a second look around, maybe even a third... the place in which I stood by the large window, took in the view of trees and hills and cobblestone lanes, listened to birds singing and felt the soft, fresh breeze brush against my face... this is the apartment I was meant to take. I am very lucky I got it. And even luckier there is no boulangerie immediately below.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The search continues
I ask you this: have you ever tried to find an apartment for rent in Paris?
This does not fall into the category of "easy". Which is probably why, instead, I am focused on finding a yoga studio and a language school. You see, my priorities are in line.
5 days and counting...
This does not fall into the category of "easy". Which is probably why, instead, I am focused on finding a yoga studio and a language school. You see, my priorities are in line.
5 days and counting...
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Living in Paris
Mood Kill: street performers and their blaring hip hop music at the steps of La Basilique du Sacre Couer. There really should be a city ordinance against this. It's just so.... wrong.
(I should note that I seem to be the only visitor to these steps today who is not enjoying the show.)
On this blustery Saturday morning, I woke up in a lovely rented flat in Belleville, and decided I wanted to stroll around the village of Montmarte today. So I boarded le metro, and rode up to Montmarte. Such are the simple pleasures of being in Paris.
I recognize that the last time I posted here, I was in Vancouver. Snow happened, the Games happened, Medals were counted, Anthems were sung. From Vancouver to Whistler to San Diego to Hawaii, back to San Diego, then a stop in New York, I finally landed safe and sound - if not exhausted - in Paris. I think I will stay awhile. I am too tired not to stay!
To make "living in Paris" come to fruition, I still have many things to sort out. Namely, a place to live. But I am not concerned. I trust that something will fall into place. It always does. Because when I leap, the net appears. Every time. Yes, I have to keep reminding myself of this.
For today anyway, I won't worry about a thing. Instead, I will revel in the fact that I am here in Montmarte during my first weekend as a longish-term resident of Paris. I will try to block out the music, and instead gaze up into the sun's rays that eagerly try to poke their way through the billowing clouds. I will wander the same cobblestone streets made famous (to me, anyway) by Audrey Tatou as Amelie. What's there to worry about?
(I should note that I seem to be the only visitor to these steps today who is not enjoying the show.)
On this blustery Saturday morning, I woke up in a lovely rented flat in Belleville, and decided I wanted to stroll around the village of Montmarte today. So I boarded le metro, and rode up to Montmarte. Such are the simple pleasures of being in Paris.
I recognize that the last time I posted here, I was in Vancouver. Snow happened, the Games happened, Medals were counted, Anthems were sung. From Vancouver to Whistler to San Diego to Hawaii, back to San Diego, then a stop in New York, I finally landed safe and sound - if not exhausted - in Paris. I think I will stay awhile. I am too tired not to stay!
To make "living in Paris" come to fruition, I still have many things to sort out. Namely, a place to live. But I am not concerned. I trust that something will fall into place. It always does. Because when I leap, the net appears. Every time. Yes, I have to keep reminding myself of this.
For today anyway, I won't worry about a thing. Instead, I will revel in the fact that I am here in Montmarte during my first weekend as a longish-term resident of Paris. I will try to block out the music, and instead gaze up into the sun's rays that eagerly try to poke their way through the billowing clouds. I will wander the same cobblestone streets made famous (to me, anyway) by Audrey Tatou as Amelie. What's there to worry about?
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