I have two final exams in about a week, and I'm having problems getting motivated to study for them... except for one extremely warm day, it has been raining for nearly a week straight and all I want to do is laze my afternoons away with a book and a plate of madeleines (or a ganache-covered chocolate cake, or both) in any one of this city's lovely tea rooms. So, partly as a procrastination technique and partly because this is too good to be true, I'm going to direct you all to a video from Flight of the Conchords. It perfectly captures how living here is frequently ridiculous, and always amusing. Enjoy!
Monday, June 15, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Voyeurism encouraged (pelouse interdite).
Summer has arrived in Paris, bringing with it blooming flowers, beautiful sunsets, more tourists, and an extraordinary stench on the metro. Summer has also, mercifully, initiated long strings of sunny days, only occasionally interrupted by impressive thunderstorms. A few days ago, however, the heat got out of hand. For this Californian, who becomes lethargic and irritable (okay, lazy and whiny) when the slightest bit of humidity sets in, it seemed there were only two options: sit at a shady sidewalk cafe and drink, or lie in a grassy park and snooze.
The first option -- settling in with a kir at a sidewalk cafe and people watching -- Paris certainly supports. After all, neighborly voyeurism is a Parisian specialty: staring into others' apartments from across the courtyard, for example, is considered socially acceptable. When looking out the window of my apartment, I have locked eyes more than once with a pedestrian, who was staring at me from the street, one story below. (Further, the pedestrian never finds this encounter awkward, and I'm always forced to look away before he or she does). Don't get me wrong: Parisians are very private people, but they simply enjoy observing the lives of their fellow city-dwellers. Sidewalk cafes, then, are the institutionalization of this voyeurism. Parisians make no bones about why they're having their coffee/wine/aperitif/delicious frites at these cafes: instead of facing across from each other, all patrons are seated next to each other, facing the sidewalk. I, however, did not realize how truly brilliant cafe-based people watching was until it the weather got unbearably humid. I have quickly learned to plop myself down at a cafe, order a kir peche, and stare straight ahead, only bothering to make conversation with my partner in crime to comment on a happy couple or an enviable dress. Little effort, big reward: truly the perfect activity for a summer afternoon.
Option two for dealing with the heat: lying in the grass, listening to music, and taking a nap. I found, however, that the absolute heaven of afternoon naps outside is an experience of which Parisians are deprived. Paris is full of fantastic parks, almost all of which have soft, emerald green lawns (pelouse) that looks ridiculously inviting. With no beach in Paris (the cobblestones on the side of the Seine don't count), the spectacularly green, sun-speckled grass in the Luxembourg Gardens seemed like the best bet for an lazy afternoon snooze. One minor problem: in Paris, lying on the pelouse is strictement interdite -- strictly forbidden. This is because the French, though relaxed about so many other aspects of life, are very, very serious about their landscaping. I'll put up with the cube-shaped trees, but I'll be damned if a landscaping extremist stands between me and an afternoon nap on a miserably hot day. So, boldly, my friend and I laid down on the most inviting patch of grass in the Luxembourg Gardens. For two hours it was bliss, until a certain Frenchman ruined everything. Dressed in a police uniform that was straight out of a French flick from the 1960s, he woke me up from my nap and insisted that my friend and I get off the pelouse, and pronto. He did, however, explain that there was a small strip of pelouse autorisee -- that's right, authorized pelouse -- on which we were allowed to sit. We checked it out, and the sight was hilarious: multiple large groups of Parisians were crowded on one small strip of authorized pelouse, surrouned on both sides by empty, forbidden pelouse. In a country that prides itself on creating a just society, why has nobody protested this?
After finishing an obscene amount of work over the past month, I finally have time to kick back for a few weeks before finals -- I just won't be doing it on the pelouse.
The first option -- settling in with a kir at a sidewalk cafe and people watching -- Paris certainly supports. After all, neighborly voyeurism is a Parisian specialty: staring into others' apartments from across the courtyard, for example, is considered socially acceptable. When looking out the window of my apartment, I have locked eyes more than once with a pedestrian, who was staring at me from the street, one story below. (Further, the pedestrian never finds this encounter awkward, and I'm always forced to look away before he or she does). Don't get me wrong: Parisians are very private people, but they simply enjoy observing the lives of their fellow city-dwellers. Sidewalk cafes, then, are the institutionalization of this voyeurism. Parisians make no bones about why they're having their coffee/wine/aperitif/delicious frites at these cafes: instead of facing across from each other, all patrons are seated next to each other, facing the sidewalk. I, however, did not realize how truly brilliant cafe-based people watching was until it the weather got unbearably humid. I have quickly learned to plop myself down at a cafe, order a kir peche, and stare straight ahead, only bothering to make conversation with my partner in crime to comment on a happy couple or an enviable dress. Little effort, big reward: truly the perfect activity for a summer afternoon.
Option two for dealing with the heat: lying in the grass, listening to music, and taking a nap. I found, however, that the absolute heaven of afternoon naps outside is an experience of which Parisians are deprived. Paris is full of fantastic parks, almost all of which have soft, emerald green lawns (pelouse) that looks ridiculously inviting. With no beach in Paris (the cobblestones on the side of the Seine don't count), the spectacularly green, sun-speckled grass in the Luxembourg Gardens seemed like the best bet for an lazy afternoon snooze. One minor problem: in Paris, lying on the pelouse is strictement interdite -- strictly forbidden. This is because the French, though relaxed about so many other aspects of life, are very, very serious about their landscaping. I'll put up with the cube-shaped trees, but I'll be damned if a landscaping extremist stands between me and an afternoon nap on a miserably hot day. So, boldly, my friend and I laid down on the most inviting patch of grass in the Luxembourg Gardens. For two hours it was bliss, until a certain Frenchman ruined everything. Dressed in a police uniform that was straight out of a French flick from the 1960s, he woke me up from my nap and insisted that my friend and I get off the pelouse, and pronto. He did, however, explain that there was a small strip of pelouse autorisee -- that's right, authorized pelouse -- on which we were allowed to sit. We checked it out, and the sight was hilarious: multiple large groups of Parisians were crowded on one small strip of authorized pelouse, surrouned on both sides by empty, forbidden pelouse. In a country that prides itself on creating a just society, why has nobody protested this?
After finishing an obscene amount of work over the past month, I finally have time to kick back for a few weeks before finals -- I just won't be doing it on the pelouse.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A little bit of everything, and a lot of ham
I live! I know it has been a while, but the last month or so has been extremely busy with visitors, traveling, and a ton of schoolwork.
Rewind to the end of April, when my friend Rachel (who is studying in Bologna for the year) came up to visit me in Paris. After living in Paris for three months, I've learned to discriminate when it comes to food and culture: without refusing a cafe creme that isn't made with delicious, artery-clogging heavy cream or being picky about in which museum I prefer to view Monet's water lilies, I would be simply overwhelmed by this city's cultural bounty. The arrival of a good friend who reads food blogs and loves art, then, helped me refine my list of Paris' finest. Guided by my local knowledge and the New York Times travel section's omniscience, Rachel and I set out to be more culturally discriminating than Parisians themselves. Between strolling in the Luxembourg Gardens, museum hopping, and drooling over beautifully creamy stationery, we ate everything -- but not anything. A typical exchange went something like this:
R: Lauren. Stop. This place is famous for its macarons!
L: I don't really like macarons, though, Rach. I think I'll hold out for something at the boulangerie.
R: You'll like these. We're buying some. NOW.
Through our combined efforts, by the end of the weekend I had not only shared with Rachel the best coffee, tartlettes, cheicken, baguette, and ham in Paris, but I had also further refined my bonnes addresses for food in Paris: Laudree for macarons (which I found I do indeed like very much), and Jean-Paul Hevin for The Best Chocolate I've Ever Had -- dark chocolate raspberry ganache (nb: I realize "best chocolate" is a big claim to make, but I'm willing to make it for this bit of heaven). The total damage: fourteen pastries between two girls in five days. Apart from the food adventures, having a visitor who so appreciated a big city was lovely, because it helped me get past Paris' less favorable aspects (public urination, grey skies, the fact that nothing works properly) and appreciate everyting that makes Paris such a wonderful place to live.
About a week later, I found out that I'm going to be living the Parisian life for a month longer than I had previously anticipated: I'm going to be helping a professor from Sciences Po with some research that he is doing on the French Revolution. I'm a huge fan of the American Revolution -- how could one deny the Founding Fathers' brilliance or the underdog narrative? -- but nothing could be cooler than learning about the French Revolution in Paris. Safe to say I'm sufficiently excited. Fringe benefits? Time at the National Archives and an extra month of food in Paris...not too shabby.
Finally, last weekend I went down to visit a friend in Barcelona. After living in a beautiful, but uniformly old and overwhelmingly haussmannian city for the past few months, Barcelona was a bit shocking, and very cool. It was founded as a Roman city, but now includes modern skyscrapers and a ton of modernismo -- kindof like the Spanish version of Art Nouveau. Let me tell you: modernismo -- especially Gaudi -- is seriously trippy. Gaudi's philosophy was that nature, since created by God, is perfect, and thus architecture should use forms found in nature. This resulted in a park that is decorated with mosaics and smashed bottles and a cathedral whose towers look like melting candlesticks. But by far the coolest sight of the weekend was in fact not modernismo, but -- get ready for me to be predictable -- a super interesting history museum. The Museu d’Historia de la Ciutat is a museum of the Roman history of Barcelona. But this is no boring history lesson: the main rooms of the museum are simply Roman ruins, with glass walkways built over them. You walk around these ruins and see everything: the doorways to houses, the waiting room of the laundramat, the wine cellars... it was phenomenal that these ruins were so old, and yet walking around them gives you the feeling of being so connected to history, and so similar to the people who lived there. One last thing about Barcelona: the ham. I love the ham in Paris, but the ham in Barcelona was a horse of a different color: it was salty, uncooked, and absolutely delicious. Parisian ham wants a baguette and butter, but Spanish ham has to be eaten alone to be properly appreciated. Suffice to say that I nearly ate my weight in this stuff, it was so good.
Other than that, there's not too much going on in Paris. There was a three-week-long, day-and-night protest in favor of the Tamil Tigers (a rebel group in Sri Lanka) outside my apartment that just ended a few days ago, and I took a four-hour exam on Saturday morning (if that isn't sadistic, I really don't know what is). I have a lot of papers to write and a friend visiting from the States on Thursday, so I've gotta run... you'll hear from me soon!
Rewind to the end of April, when my friend Rachel (who is studying in Bologna for the year) came up to visit me in Paris. After living in Paris for three months, I've learned to discriminate when it comes to food and culture: without refusing a cafe creme that isn't made with delicious, artery-clogging heavy cream or being picky about in which museum I prefer to view Monet's water lilies, I would be simply overwhelmed by this city's cultural bounty. The arrival of a good friend who reads food blogs and loves art, then, helped me refine my list of Paris' finest. Guided by my local knowledge and the New York Times travel section's omniscience, Rachel and I set out to be more culturally discriminating than Parisians themselves. Between strolling in the Luxembourg Gardens, museum hopping, and drooling over beautifully creamy stationery, we ate everything -- but not anything. A typical exchange went something like this:
R: Lauren. Stop. This place is famous for its macarons!
L: I don't really like macarons, though, Rach. I think I'll hold out for something at the boulangerie.
R: You'll like these. We're buying some. NOW.
Through our combined efforts, by the end of the weekend I had not only shared with Rachel the best coffee, tartlettes, cheicken, baguette, and ham in Paris, but I had also further refined my bonnes addresses for food in Paris: Laudree for macarons (which I found I do indeed like very much), and Jean-Paul Hevin for The Best Chocolate I've Ever Had -- dark chocolate raspberry ganache (nb: I realize "best chocolate" is a big claim to make, but I'm willing to make it for this bit of heaven). The total damage: fourteen pastries between two girls in five days. Apart from the food adventures, having a visitor who so appreciated a big city was lovely, because it helped me get past Paris' less favorable aspects (public urination, grey skies, the fact that nothing works properly) and appreciate everyting that makes Paris such a wonderful place to live.
About a week later, I found out that I'm going to be living the Parisian life for a month longer than I had previously anticipated: I'm going to be helping a professor from Sciences Po with some research that he is doing on the French Revolution. I'm a huge fan of the American Revolution -- how could one deny the Founding Fathers' brilliance or the underdog narrative? -- but nothing could be cooler than learning about the French Revolution in Paris. Safe to say I'm sufficiently excited. Fringe benefits? Time at the National Archives and an extra month of food in Paris...not too shabby.
Finally, last weekend I went down to visit a friend in Barcelona. After living in a beautiful, but uniformly old and overwhelmingly haussmannian city for the past few months, Barcelona was a bit shocking, and very cool. It was founded as a Roman city, but now includes modern skyscrapers and a ton of modernismo -- kindof like the Spanish version of Art Nouveau. Let me tell you: modernismo -- especially Gaudi -- is seriously trippy. Gaudi's philosophy was that nature, since created by God, is perfect, and thus architecture should use forms found in nature. This resulted in a park that is decorated with mosaics and smashed bottles and a cathedral whose towers look like melting candlesticks. But by far the coolest sight of the weekend was in fact not modernismo, but -- get ready for me to be predictable -- a super interesting history museum. The Museu d’Historia de la Ciutat is a museum of the Roman history of Barcelona. But this is no boring history lesson: the main rooms of the museum are simply Roman ruins, with glass walkways built over them. You walk around these ruins and see everything: the doorways to houses, the waiting room of the laundramat, the wine cellars... it was phenomenal that these ruins were so old, and yet walking around them gives you the feeling of being so connected to history, and so similar to the people who lived there. One last thing about Barcelona: the ham. I love the ham in Paris, but the ham in Barcelona was a horse of a different color: it was salty, uncooked, and absolutely delicious. Parisian ham wants a baguette and butter, but Spanish ham has to be eaten alone to be properly appreciated. Suffice to say that I nearly ate my weight in this stuff, it was so good.
Other than that, there's not too much going on in Paris. There was a three-week-long, day-and-night protest in favor of the Tamil Tigers (a rebel group in Sri Lanka) outside my apartment that just ended a few days ago, and I took a four-hour exam on Saturday morning (if that isn't sadistic, I really don't know what is). I have a lot of papers to write and a friend visiting from the States on Thursday, so I've gotta run... you'll hear from me soon!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
In search of the great outdoors
I love Paris. I love the rainy weekend afternoons in the Louvre, the cozy cafes, the cobblestone alleyways lined with glowing boutiques, and the metro musicians who serenade commuters and lovers alike with Bach and Mozart... something here makes me smile every day.
A few weeks ago, however, I started to feel antsy. "Self, chill out," I said, but after a few more days, antsyness had become a nagging anxiety. I ate more chocolate and drank more wine (this has become my first response to any problem in Paris) -- I even went on a few runs -- but the feeling wouldn't go away.
All of a sudden, it hit me: I hadn't been in the great outdoors since January. A Californian used to equally quick access to beautiful mountains and miles-long beaches, city life had started to wear me thin. The Tuileries, however beautiful, were not cutting the mustard when it came to outdoorsiness -- I mean, come on, the trees are pruned into cubes and you can't even lie on the grass. I needed to climb something, go on a real run, hike, bike ride -- in short, I needed what the French call a "petit weekend." Parisians love Paris (there was an evening lecture at SciencesPo a few weeks ago examining the question "Paris: est-elle le centre du monde?" or, "Paris: is it the center of the world?"), but sometimes even Paris can get a bit insupportable. The desire to escape the pressure of living at the center of the world drives Parisians (and curly-haired history majors) to do a petit weekend in the countryside.
In search of a travel buddy and some ideas, I called my very dear friend Rachel, who is spending the year studying in Bologna. She, too, was ready to escape the city, and we quickly made plans to spend four days in Menaggio, a tiny town on the edge of Lake Como in northern Italy.
Let me tell you: this place is phenomenal. Lake Como is one of three big lakes in northern Italy and southern Switzerland, all formed by glaciers melting into deep valleys. The lake was almost Tahoe blue, and was surrounded first by bucolic hills (dotted with tiny, red-roofed towns) and then, close behind, big snow-capped mountains. The air was fresh, the roads uncrowded, and the sound of the lake lapping against the shore as soothing as the constant horns in Paris are not.
Though it was raining the first day we were there, in the weekend we still managed to make it to a nature reserve, take in some spectacular views from a little white church that clings to the side of one of the hills, and do a lot of walking. Oh, and we ate -- gelato, prosciutto di Parma, parmiggiano, fantastic pizza, great gnocchi... though I will never say a word against the food in Paris, I will say it was nice to eat food whose main ingredient was not butter. And, although my Italian is a bit rusty (I confused pesce, fish, with pesca, peach...fish-flavored gelato, anyone?), it was good enough to be able to chat with a few very sweet people in town... though no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't convince one man that George Washington and Napoleon were in fact very different.
After four days of lake-side bliss, I'm back in France... antsyness gone, outdoors fix successful. Back to loving city life...
A few weeks ago, however, I started to feel antsy. "Self, chill out," I said, but after a few more days, antsyness had become a nagging anxiety. I ate more chocolate and drank more wine (this has become my first response to any problem in Paris) -- I even went on a few runs -- but the feeling wouldn't go away.
All of a sudden, it hit me: I hadn't been in the great outdoors since January. A Californian used to equally quick access to beautiful mountains and miles-long beaches, city life had started to wear me thin. The Tuileries, however beautiful, were not cutting the mustard when it came to outdoorsiness -- I mean, come on, the trees are pruned into cubes and you can't even lie on the grass. I needed to climb something, go on a real run, hike, bike ride -- in short, I needed what the French call a "petit weekend." Parisians love Paris (there was an evening lecture at SciencesPo a few weeks ago examining the question "Paris: est-elle le centre du monde?" or, "Paris: is it the center of the world?"), but sometimes even Paris can get a bit insupportable. The desire to escape the pressure of living at the center of the world drives Parisians (and curly-haired history majors) to do a petit weekend in the countryside.
In search of a travel buddy and some ideas, I called my very dear friend Rachel, who is spending the year studying in Bologna. She, too, was ready to escape the city, and we quickly made plans to spend four days in Menaggio, a tiny town on the edge of Lake Como in northern Italy.
Let me tell you: this place is phenomenal. Lake Como is one of three big lakes in northern Italy and southern Switzerland, all formed by glaciers melting into deep valleys. The lake was almost Tahoe blue, and was surrounded first by bucolic hills (dotted with tiny, red-roofed towns) and then, close behind, big snow-capped mountains. The air was fresh, the roads uncrowded, and the sound of the lake lapping against the shore as soothing as the constant horns in Paris are not.
Though it was raining the first day we were there, in the weekend we still managed to make it to a nature reserve, take in some spectacular views from a little white church that clings to the side of one of the hills, and do a lot of walking. Oh, and we ate -- gelato, prosciutto di Parma, parmiggiano, fantastic pizza, great gnocchi... though I will never say a word against the food in Paris, I will say it was nice to eat food whose main ingredient was not butter. And, although my Italian is a bit rusty (I confused pesce, fish, with pesca, peach...fish-flavored gelato, anyone?), it was good enough to be able to chat with a few very sweet people in town... though no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't convince one man that George Washington and Napoleon were in fact very different.
After four days of lake-side bliss, I'm back in France... antsyness gone, outdoors fix successful. Back to loving city life...
Thursday, March 19, 2009
"Vive la grève," indeed.
Insupportable: something that is intolerable, unjustifiable, etc. I realize that this word exists in English, but it's simply not used with the same frequency or enthusiasm as it is in French. In Paris, many things are insupportable -- the one-minute delay on the metro, colors that aren't black, the amount of reading for a class, life in general.
La grève: a strike
When something that is especially insupportable happens, the Frenchman's first recourse is to stage a manifestation -- a protest. When things get especially insupportable, however, he must turn to la grève.
I should correct myself: the word "must" implies that the Frenchman hesitates to use -- even dislikes -- la grève. This is not the case. Over the past month or so, professors (and some students) at public universities in France have been staging des grèves over President Sarkozy's proposed privatization of the French university system: Until he drops the proposal, many departments are refusing to hold any classes. Since Sciences Po is private, I have been, sadly, unaffected by the no-school grèves.
Until today. As an American who wasn't even around when President Reagan fired the air traffic control workers, my experience with grèves is limited to a few childhood memories of picket lines at the grocery store. Today, though, the French showed me how it's done. This is France, so la grève necessarily involved emotional highs and lows.
When I left for school, the metro was still running, but it took me an extra fifteen minutes to get to class. "I hate la grève, I hate la grève." When I left school for my lunch break, I was craving a ham and butter sandwich, made with the delicious, delicous ham from the butcher shop near my apartment. I hop back on the metro, go to the butcher, and... the BUTCHER is on grève. "I just took the metro back to the right bank and the butcher is on strike? What the heck is he angry about? WHERE IS MY HAM?" Needless to say, I was very hangry (hungry+angry) at this point, and not at all a fan of la grève.
Not a fan, that is, until I realized why the French are such fans of la grève: it is one huge party. Walking into the Place de la Republique was sensory overload: the entire plaza was blocked off and literally packed with members of different labor unions, all protesting the French government's response to the economic crisis. There was a lot of shouting and sign/flag waving, yes, but there was also live music, dancing, drinking in public, picnics, pamphleteering... and, merciful Mother of God, barbeque. The emotional low of the morning metro rush and the ham failure was more than offset by the fantastic cooked sausage I got for lunch. After enjoying my lunch and watching the grève for a bit (seriously, this is a real activity), it was time to go back to school for my evening class. Worried that I hadn't done the most complete job on the reading, I hustled to my class to find... it was CANCELLED! Turns out there had been threats against Sciences Po, since it's a very bourgeois, political school, and the purpose of the nation-wide grève was to protest France's supposedly (read: not) bourgeois economic policies.
So, instead of a ham sandwich and a two-hour class, I ate barbeque and took a lovely stroll in the sun (!) along the Seine. Vive la grève, indeed.
La grève: a strike
When something that is especially insupportable happens, the Frenchman's first recourse is to stage a manifestation -- a protest. When things get especially insupportable, however, he must turn to la grève.
I should correct myself: the word "must" implies that the Frenchman hesitates to use -- even dislikes -- la grève. This is not the case. Over the past month or so, professors (and some students) at public universities in France have been staging des grèves over President Sarkozy's proposed privatization of the French university system: Until he drops the proposal, many departments are refusing to hold any classes. Since Sciences Po is private, I have been, sadly, unaffected by the no-school grèves.
Until today. As an American who wasn't even around when President Reagan fired the air traffic control workers, my experience with grèves is limited to a few childhood memories of picket lines at the grocery store. Today, though, the French showed me how it's done. This is France, so la grève necessarily involved emotional highs and lows.
When I left for school, the metro was still running, but it took me an extra fifteen minutes to get to class. "I hate la grève, I hate la grève." When I left school for my lunch break, I was craving a ham and butter sandwich, made with the delicious, delicous ham from the butcher shop near my apartment. I hop back on the metro, go to the butcher, and... the BUTCHER is on grève. "I just took the metro back to the right bank and the butcher is on strike? What the heck is he angry about? WHERE IS MY HAM?" Needless to say, I was very hangry (hungry+angry) at this point, and not at all a fan of la grève.
Not a fan, that is, until I realized why the French are such fans of la grève: it is one huge party. Walking into the Place de la Republique was sensory overload: the entire plaza was blocked off and literally packed with members of different labor unions, all protesting the French government's response to the economic crisis. There was a lot of shouting and sign/flag waving, yes, but there was also live music, dancing, drinking in public, picnics, pamphleteering... and, merciful Mother of God, barbeque. The emotional low of the morning metro rush and the ham failure was more than offset by the fantastic cooked sausage I got for lunch. After enjoying my lunch and watching the grève for a bit (seriously, this is a real activity), it was time to go back to school for my evening class. Worried that I hadn't done the most complete job on the reading, I hustled to my class to find... it was CANCELLED! Turns out there had been threats against Sciences Po, since it's a very bourgeois, political school, and the purpose of the nation-wide grève was to protest France's supposedly (read: not) bourgeois economic policies.
So, instead of a ham sandwich and a two-hour class, I ate barbeque and took a lovely stroll in the sun (!) along the Seine. Vive la grève, indeed.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Earthly delight and otherworldy horror
Long time no post, I know... it has been a busy few weeks with classes starting and friends from BC visiting.
Something that Paris does very well: this city is full of cafes and restaurants in which time seems to stand still, in the best possible way. Though this means there really isn't such a thing as a quick bite to eat (with the delightful exception of crepe stands), it lends itself to everything from epic steak-frites dinners to perfect lazy afternoons with a glass of wine. This time-and-calories-don't-exist phenomenon most recently manifested itself on Saturday morning. My friend and I wandered to a restaurant in the Marais called "Le Loir dans la Theiere" -- The Dormouse in the Teapot. This place was so cozy, with big leather chairs and wooden tables, walls plastered with posters, and retro toys hanging from the walls...the perfect place to spend a languorous Saturday morning. (For those of you who have been to Sydney: this is like Gertrude and Alice, sans books). Kristen and I ordered the prix fixe brunch and proceeded to spend three hours eating, chatting, and people watching. It's a fantastic country where three-hour meals are considered a birthright, not an indulgence.
After brunch, Kristen proposed that we check out the catacombs. Quick history lesson: Paris quarried much of the limestone used for the city's construction from beneath its own streets, largely on the left bank. While some Parisians were busy building monuments to their country/emperor/monarch's greatness, other Parisians were dying and being buried in the middle of the city, causing major public health problems and cemetery overcrowding. When important Parisians realized that if they quarried any more limestone the buildings above the quarries might collapse, they decided that -- voila! -- they could make efficient use of space by moving the other Parisians' remains to the quarries. (Apparently, this was ethical in the 18th century, but frankly, I'm surprised someone in Paris didn't protest this decision). And so it came to pass that there are 1.7 kilometers of subterranean, human-boned-lined passages in Paris.
An aside: I've always had a soft spot for Indiana Jones. Adventure, history, travel... really, it has it all. So suffice to say I was pretty excited about the catacombs -- an urban Indiana Jones experience, how cool!
...Or terrifying. You enter the catacombs via a staircase and a long set of dark, low-ceilinged tunnels. The staircase is circular, very steep, and goes on forever, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs you've completely lost your sense of direction. The tunnels twist back and forth, with no sources of light save the occasional overhead lamp. Even scarier than the flickering lamps, however, are the barred-off side tunnels that recede into darkness: we hurried past each one, fully expecting poisonous darts to shoot past or a skeleton to reach out and grab us. You see, when Indiana Jones does something like this, it's adventurous; when I do it, I feel like I'm in a horror movie. The catacombs themselves are simply unreal... all the walls are literally covered in closely-stacked human bones, which are sometimes arranged into designs (not sure why -- the bones aren't going to get cuter if you put the skulls in a circle and surround them with femurs). And, since this is France, the bones are supplemented by tablets inscribed with philosophical quotes on death. For those of you who are so inclined, here's a link to a picture on wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:DJJ_1_Catacombes_de_Paris.jpg
So, I'm back in the world of the living. My classes (which I'm taking in French and English) are a bit hit-or-miss, but I am taking one class, The Origins of American Identity, in which Benjamin Franklin's "Advice to a Young Man on the Choice of a Mistress" is assigned reading. Ben suggests that young men look for older women because, unlike young women, "they are so grateful!!" Politics, architecture, science, agriculture, and illicit relationships -- The Founding Fathers really were experts on everything. Gotta love history.
A bientot!
Something that Paris does very well: this city is full of cafes and restaurants in which time seems to stand still, in the best possible way. Though this means there really isn't such a thing as a quick bite to eat (with the delightful exception of crepe stands), it lends itself to everything from epic steak-frites dinners to perfect lazy afternoons with a glass of wine. This time-and-calories-don't-exist phenomenon most recently manifested itself on Saturday morning. My friend and I wandered to a restaurant in the Marais called "Le Loir dans la Theiere" -- The Dormouse in the Teapot. This place was so cozy, with big leather chairs and wooden tables, walls plastered with posters, and retro toys hanging from the walls...the perfect place to spend a languorous Saturday morning. (For those of you who have been to Sydney: this is like Gertrude and Alice, sans books). Kristen and I ordered the prix fixe brunch and proceeded to spend three hours eating, chatting, and people watching. It's a fantastic country where three-hour meals are considered a birthright, not an indulgence.
After brunch, Kristen proposed that we check out the catacombs. Quick history lesson: Paris quarried much of the limestone used for the city's construction from beneath its own streets, largely on the left bank. While some Parisians were busy building monuments to their country/emperor/monarch's greatness, other Parisians were dying and being buried in the middle of the city, causing major public health problems and cemetery overcrowding. When important Parisians realized that if they quarried any more limestone the buildings above the quarries might collapse, they decided that -- voila! -- they could make efficient use of space by moving the other Parisians' remains to the quarries. (Apparently, this was ethical in the 18th century, but frankly, I'm surprised someone in Paris didn't protest this decision). And so it came to pass that there are 1.7 kilometers of subterranean, human-boned-lined passages in Paris.
An aside: I've always had a soft spot for Indiana Jones. Adventure, history, travel... really, it has it all. So suffice to say I was pretty excited about the catacombs -- an urban Indiana Jones experience, how cool!
...Or terrifying. You enter the catacombs via a staircase and a long set of dark, low-ceilinged tunnels. The staircase is circular, very steep, and goes on forever, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs you've completely lost your sense of direction. The tunnels twist back and forth, with no sources of light save the occasional overhead lamp. Even scarier than the flickering lamps, however, are the barred-off side tunnels that recede into darkness: we hurried past each one, fully expecting poisonous darts to shoot past or a skeleton to reach out and grab us. You see, when Indiana Jones does something like this, it's adventurous; when I do it, I feel like I'm in a horror movie. The catacombs themselves are simply unreal... all the walls are literally covered in closely-stacked human bones, which are sometimes arranged into designs (not sure why -- the bones aren't going to get cuter if you put the skulls in a circle and surround them with femurs). And, since this is France, the bones are supplemented by tablets inscribed with philosophical quotes on death. For those of you who are so inclined, here's a link to a picture on wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:DJJ_1_Catacombes_de_Paris.jpg
So, I'm back in the world of the living. My classes (which I'm taking in French and English) are a bit hit-or-miss, but I am taking one class, The Origins of American Identity, in which Benjamin Franklin's "Advice to a Young Man on the Choice of a Mistress" is assigned reading. Ben suggests that young men look for older women because, unlike young women, "they are so grateful!!" Politics, architecture, science, agriculture, and illicit relationships -- The Founding Fathers really were experts on everything. Gotta love history.
A bientot!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Expecting the expected (and still being surprised)
Two weeks in, Paris continues to amaze -- or more accurately, amaze, frustrate, delight, and confuse, all in equal proportions. It is a unique city where one can expect the expected and still be surprised -- pleasantly or otherwise.
A paradox: the French love order, and yet nothing works. The desire for order leads to administration (a French word, by the way), but people in administrative systems here are generally less than helpful, leading to disorder and general frustration. (Side note: there is no word for "helpful" in French. Obliging, amiable, useful, yes; helpful, no). At this point, I am aware of the order/disorder paradox. I no longer expect things to be easy. And yet France still manages to surprise: just when I think I am prepared for a task to be frustrating, it turns into something that's downright painful. For the French, the pain of inefficiency and disorder is offset by the opportunity to negotiate their way to success and then relax with a glass of red wine. As an American who enjoys neither disorder nor negotiation, the only part of the process I enjoy is the wine. Example: buying a weekly metro card, also known as a NaviGo. My first attempt was fruitless: Non, they do not sell them at this station. "Where are they sold?" I ask earnestly. A look of contempt is shot my way. "Tiens, je vous ai dit, pas ici mademoiselle, desole." (Look, I told you, not here, sorry). Window shut, end of story. The second attempt went better: At a different station, I demand a better explanation. The man acquiesces, but he speaks too quickly for my mediocre French and too impatiently for me to ask him to slow down. Then, success: At a third station, I alternatively demand, cajole, and finally charm my way to a weekly metro pass. I go home, pour myself a glass of Semillon, and congratulate myself on a job well-done.
Another surprise: the food. "You are in France," you say, "how could you expect anything other than good food?" I did expect good food. In fact, I expected exquisite food. I expected light souffles and even lighter croissants, rich sauces and even richer desserts. All of these things, blessedly, have turned out to be true. However, the food here still amazes me, every single day. The food -- everything from crepes to tartlettes to french onion soup -- is so incredibly good that you don't simply enjoy it, it actually puts you in a better mood. I've had some of the best chocolate of my life, and I already adore the man who runs the wine shop down the street, but the best food experience I've had so far was with a chicken. There is a streetside butcher about ten minutes from my house that has rotisserie chickens roasting in glass cases on the sidewalk, and on a whim a friend and I decided to buy one and bring it home for dinner. It was juicy, tender, and had been cooked in what seemed to be a whole-seed mustard and rosemary glaze. Words fail to do this chicken justice.
I've spent the past week in orientation, which consists of a two-hour French language class and two hours of instruction on Sciences Po methodology. The language class is nothing surprising (I mean really, I've been learning and subsequently forgetting the conjugations of irregular subjunctives since I was fourteen), but the methodology course has been...interesting. Sciences Po is very strict about the format in which work is submitted, and so, our professor informed us, we would have to completely re-learn how to write essays. One must explicitly define terms. One must derive a central conflict from the original essay question, and state it in the form of a question. One must have an argument and a counter-argument of exactly the same length for each point. Etc. "Why do essays have to be composed like this?" we asked. Turns out, it's because Louis XIV said so. Seriously -- the man wanted policy recommendations put forth with point and counterpoint perfectly balanced. And so, during the Fifth Republic, the French still insist on writing as they did during an absolute monarchy when a minority of the population was literate. Makes perfect sense. I was expecting a passion for the history of the patrie, but once again the expected took me by surprise.
Finally, the art and architecture. Yes, Paris is the culture capital of the world, but when you spend your time trying to master Louis XIV essays, you sometimes lose sight of that fact. Luckily, my friend Laura was visiting from Bath (where she is studying this semester) and I got to play tour guide. Of course we went to the Eiffel Tower and saw the Arc de Triomphe, but two things I saw with her reminded me of how rich French culture truly is. The first was a medium-sized Art Nouveau wood carving in the Musee d'Orsay. The piece, by Georges Lacombe, is titled "L'Amour." It's a very intimate work, and yet it is not voyeuristic: looking at it, you put yourself in the place of the man or the woman, as opposed to feeling like an outsider looking in. It's really beautiful. The other is Saint-Chapelle. I took a few pictures, but no photograph can convey what it feels like to be in a room in which all the walls are stained glass. Laura put it best when she said that standing inside the upper chapel feels like existing in the middle of a ruby.
So, I spend my days marveling at food, art, and architecture, and trying to resist the urge to bang my head against something hard when things get frustrating.... but hey, I'm having a fantastic time doing it. 'Til next time...
A paradox: the French love order, and yet nothing works. The desire for order leads to administration (a French word, by the way), but people in administrative systems here are generally less than helpful, leading to disorder and general frustration. (Side note: there is no word for "helpful" in French. Obliging, amiable, useful, yes; helpful, no). At this point, I am aware of the order/disorder paradox. I no longer expect things to be easy. And yet France still manages to surprise: just when I think I am prepared for a task to be frustrating, it turns into something that's downright painful. For the French, the pain of inefficiency and disorder is offset by the opportunity to negotiate their way to success and then relax with a glass of red wine. As an American who enjoys neither disorder nor negotiation, the only part of the process I enjoy is the wine. Example: buying a weekly metro card, also known as a NaviGo. My first attempt was fruitless: Non, they do not sell them at this station. "Where are they sold?" I ask earnestly. A look of contempt is shot my way. "Tiens, je vous ai dit, pas ici mademoiselle, desole." (Look, I told you, not here, sorry). Window shut, end of story. The second attempt went better: At a different station, I demand a better explanation. The man acquiesces, but he speaks too quickly for my mediocre French and too impatiently for me to ask him to slow down. Then, success: At a third station, I alternatively demand, cajole, and finally charm my way to a weekly metro pass. I go home, pour myself a glass of Semillon, and congratulate myself on a job well-done.
Another surprise: the food. "You are in France," you say, "how could you expect anything other than good food?" I did expect good food. In fact, I expected exquisite food. I expected light souffles and even lighter croissants, rich sauces and even richer desserts. All of these things, blessedly, have turned out to be true. However, the food here still amazes me, every single day. The food -- everything from crepes to tartlettes to french onion soup -- is so incredibly good that you don't simply enjoy it, it actually puts you in a better mood. I've had some of the best chocolate of my life, and I already adore the man who runs the wine shop down the street, but the best food experience I've had so far was with a chicken. There is a streetside butcher about ten minutes from my house that has rotisserie chickens roasting in glass cases on the sidewalk, and on a whim a friend and I decided to buy one and bring it home for dinner. It was juicy, tender, and had been cooked in what seemed to be a whole-seed mustard and rosemary glaze. Words fail to do this chicken justice.
I've spent the past week in orientation, which consists of a two-hour French language class and two hours of instruction on Sciences Po methodology. The language class is nothing surprising (I mean really, I've been learning and subsequently forgetting the conjugations of irregular subjunctives since I was fourteen), but the methodology course has been...interesting. Sciences Po is very strict about the format in which work is submitted, and so, our professor informed us, we would have to completely re-learn how to write essays. One must explicitly define terms. One must derive a central conflict from the original essay question, and state it in the form of a question. One must have an argument and a counter-argument of exactly the same length for each point. Etc. "Why do essays have to be composed like this?" we asked. Turns out, it's because Louis XIV said so. Seriously -- the man wanted policy recommendations put forth with point and counterpoint perfectly balanced. And so, during the Fifth Republic, the French still insist on writing as they did during an absolute monarchy when a minority of the population was literate. Makes perfect sense. I was expecting a passion for the history of the patrie, but once again the expected took me by surprise.
Finally, the art and architecture. Yes, Paris is the culture capital of the world, but when you spend your time trying to master Louis XIV essays, you sometimes lose sight of that fact. Luckily, my friend Laura was visiting from Bath (where she is studying this semester) and I got to play tour guide. Of course we went to the Eiffel Tower and saw the Arc de Triomphe, but two things I saw with her reminded me of how rich French culture truly is. The first was a medium-sized Art Nouveau wood carving in the Musee d'Orsay. The piece, by Georges Lacombe, is titled "L'Amour." It's a very intimate work, and yet it is not voyeuristic: looking at it, you put yourself in the place of the man or the woman, as opposed to feeling like an outsider looking in. It's really beautiful. The other is Saint-Chapelle. I took a few pictures, but no photograph can convey what it feels like to be in a room in which all the walls are stained glass. Laura put it best when she said that standing inside the upper chapel feels like existing in the middle of a ruby.
So, I spend my days marveling at food, art, and architecture, and trying to resist the urge to bang my head against something hard when things get frustrating.... but hey, I'm having a fantastic time doing it. 'Til next time...
Sunday, February 8, 2009
"Aujourd'hui, non" (and other facts of life in Paris)
So finally... hello from Paris! Before I forget, my address does indeed have one additional line, which follows my name. It is: Lauren Haumesser, Chez Mme. Chemin, 42 Boulevard du Temple, 75011 Paris, France.
I arrived on Tuesday and have spent the week getting settled in. Paris is beautiful; I've been having so much fun just walking around the city. However, some things here can be a bit different...
Inefficiency: Let's face it: Frenchmen are not Germans, or even Americans. Things here simply happen at a slower pace. Setting up our internet -- literally acquiring a router and putting our laptops on the wifi (amusingly pronounced "weefee") network -- has turned into a nearly week-long process. My friend's refrigerator has been broken for almost a week. The server which Sciences Po students use to register for classes has crashed multiple times. Etc.
Delicious (and inexpensive) wine, cheese, and bread: Frustrated about that lack of a wireless connection? No worries: any problem isn't something a glass of red wine, a crispy baguette, and some fantastic cheese can't put into perspective. Our landlord took my housemate (a fellow Boston College student) and me to the market to be introduced to all of her favorite vendors. All of them were very kind to us, but Maggie and I were most amazed by the cheese stall, where the woman sent us home with a massive assortment of cheese to sample and instructions to remember which ones we liked so she could make better recommendations next week. Also at the cheese stall, a grandpa was holding his tiny granddaughter and teaching her about the different kinds of cheese... it was very cute (and very French).
Manifestations: Protests. I live on the Place de la Republique, where most of the protests in Paris begin. Instead of (or hey, perhaps in addition to) writing letters to their representatives, Parisians protest... a lot. In the five days I have been here, there have been three protests. The liberal Californian in me is amused; the part of me that wants to sleep in is not. The giant statue in the middle of the square is holding a big sign that says, simply, "NON." The protesters are now long gone, but the sentiment remains. Aux barricades!
Anyway, I'm having a fantastic time here. I went to Mass at Notre Dame last night (beautiful, but in French, so I was a bit lost); and today I'm going to brunch at a place in the Marais that has live jazz, and then maybe spending a couple hours at the Louvre. Tomorrow I start a two-week language course, and then finally classes at Sciences Po begin during the last week in February.
Au revoir!
I arrived on Tuesday and have spent the week getting settled in. Paris is beautiful; I've been having so much fun just walking around the city. However, some things here can be a bit different...
Inefficiency: Let's face it: Frenchmen are not Germans, or even Americans. Things here simply happen at a slower pace. Setting up our internet -- literally acquiring a router and putting our laptops on the wifi (amusingly pronounced "weefee") network -- has turned into a nearly week-long process. My friend's refrigerator has been broken for almost a week. The server which Sciences Po students use to register for classes has crashed multiple times. Etc.
Delicious (and inexpensive) wine, cheese, and bread: Frustrated about that lack of a wireless connection? No worries: any problem isn't something a glass of red wine, a crispy baguette, and some fantastic cheese can't put into perspective. Our landlord took my housemate (a fellow Boston College student) and me to the market to be introduced to all of her favorite vendors. All of them were very kind to us, but Maggie and I were most amazed by the cheese stall, where the woman sent us home with a massive assortment of cheese to sample and instructions to remember which ones we liked so she could make better recommendations next week. Also at the cheese stall, a grandpa was holding his tiny granddaughter and teaching her about the different kinds of cheese... it was very cute (and very French).
Manifestations: Protests. I live on the Place de la Republique, where most of the protests in Paris begin. Instead of (or hey, perhaps in addition to) writing letters to their representatives, Parisians protest... a lot. In the five days I have been here, there have been three protests. The liberal Californian in me is amused; the part of me that wants to sleep in is not. The giant statue in the middle of the square is holding a big sign that says, simply, "NON." The protesters are now long gone, but the sentiment remains. Aux barricades!
Anyway, I'm having a fantastic time here. I went to Mass at Notre Dame last night (beautiful, but in French, so I was a bit lost); and today I'm going to brunch at a place in the Marais that has live jazz, and then maybe spending a couple hours at the Louvre. Tomorrow I start a two-week language course, and then finally classes at Sciences Po begin during the last week in February.
Au revoir!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Contact information
Hey all! I have finally managed to secure both a visa and an apartment, so it seems I will indeed be leaving for Paris next week, without becoming an illegal alien and/or a vagabond. Just to clarify, this blog is meant to save me from writing the same email twenty times, but it is not meant to be in lieu of individual communication: I want to keep everyone updated, but I want to hear how your lives are going, too! In that spirit, here's my contact information:
Email: haumesse@bc.edu
Skype: lauren.haumesser
Address: 42 Boulevard du Temple
75011 Paris
France
It strikes me as a bit strange that my street address doesn't include an apartment number, and the phone situation is iffy, but in general, I enjoy correspondence and I love -- absolutely love -- writing letters.
You'll hear from me next week!
Email: haumesse@bc.edu
Skype: lauren.haumesser
Address: 42 Boulevard du Temple
75011 Paris
France
It strikes me as a bit strange that my street address doesn't include an apartment number, and the phone situation is iffy, but in general, I enjoy correspondence and I love -- absolutely love -- writing letters.
You'll hear from me next week!
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