Of Parting

Okay, I am exhausted and I have to go to bed in order to get up early tomorrow to catch the flight home, but I just wanted to say:

What better way to end a sejour (stay) in Paris than with an offer for a French kiss while walking the streets of Paris?

It truly is a magical city.

Of Productivity and Paradoxes

Well, it's here, whether I like it or not: the final weekend in Paris. I have succeeded in emptying my cupboards of all perishable items, leaving me with little guilt about living off of ready-made, market-fresh, Parisian goodness. It's market time, people!

I realized this week, though (now that my internship is officially over), that I never really said what I was actually doing at the Conservatoire. My biggest project was updating and cool-icizing a brochure for exchange students who come to Paris with the Erasmus program; I might have mentioned that. It was really fun at first. I entered French cyberspace at light speed, becoming intimately familiar quite quickly with the Mairie de Paris (http://www.paris.fr/) and metro (http://www.ratp.fr/) websites. I even created my own cartoons featuring a Ziggy-reminiscent exchange student encountering all the trials of international travel. Later, the project became much more tedious, and I spent weeks (literally!) making nitpicky formatting and grammatical corrections. "Non, cette police est trop grande," my boss would say ("This font is too big."). I would make the monumental and requisite change from 14 to 12. "Non, je n'aime pas trop cette police" ("No, I don't really like this font"). I would change the font (Times New Roman to Trebuchet MS). "Ce couleur, peut-il etre moins rouge?" ("Can this color be less red?"). Sure, why not. The changes were endless, and extremely frustrating.

In the end, though, the brochure (for your reading pleasure, in both French AND English) is beautiful! It kicks the pants off of the Conservatoire's other brochures in terms of user-friendliness and overall aesthetic appeal.

I also spent lots of time in the Mediatheque. My boss had initially planned to have me do some work in the library database: checking registered patrons, searching for doubled 33 records, etc. After about two weeks, though, I succeeded in finishing all the tasks she had planned for the summer! There is never a shortage of projects in a library, though. This week, for example, I went through all the (uncatalogued) CDs in the contemporary music collection looking for ones of which we already had a copy, as well as created library records for recent acquisitions and affixed labels to new documents. Exciting, I know.

But these past weeks have really been fun, if for no other reason than lunchtime. Yes, that may sound rather elementary school, but it's not just due to the food (well, not entirely). Since the Conservatoire's cafeteria closed two weeks ago, it gave all its remaining employees vouchers to use at several local restaurants. We are supposed to have one hour lunch breaks. Of course, when one takes time to walk to the restaurant, sit down, order, wait for the food, eat the food, wait for the food to be cleared away by the less-than-attentive servers, answer the inevitable question of "Un dessert? Un cafe?", eat the dessert or drink the coffee, and allow at least the requisite fifteen minutes of pre-bill digestion to take place, lunch can take a lot longer. This means that I have gotten to know my coworkers really well in the last two weeks. Over the course of du hummous, du caviar de poivron, des gombos, and du falafel (Lebanese); des brochettes, du riz, la miso, and des crudites (Japanese); or des nems, du potage, et plus de riz (Chinese); I have gotten the opportunity to hear about writing studios, hair salons, rice paddies, French expressions, Parisian concerts, the civil servant administration, woes with children, and numerous other topics from bona fide French people--all over the course of around 2+ hours.

At first, I felt very guilty about taking so much time to eat lunch. Here I was, raised in the water cooler and 15-min lunch break culture, taking so much time to eat that the pita bread at our favorite Lebanese restaurant had an opportunity to harden. Now, though, I have learned to appreciate this style of life. In the French workplace, or at least at the Conservatoire de Paris Berlioz Mediatheque, relationships and comfort come before efficiency. This is the reason, I feel, behind the "French paradox," and something from which, upon reflection, Americans could benefit.

France, you see, is in a constant tug-of-war between two modes of life, two epoques of existence. On the one hand, you have the ancient constructs--Versailles, the Louvre, the still-quaint-and-ever-so-common practice of going to the boulangerie for the daily baguette, fromageries, the valorisation of art. On the other hand, though, is the modern, more "western" world--efficiency, consumerism, supermarkets, tourism.

The remarkable thing about Paris, though, is it has managed to capitalize upon both of these modes of existence simultaneously. By funneling money into the "ancient", it ensures that monuments are well-preserved for the "modern", the millions of tourists who make Paris the most-visited city in the world. It provides for the unemployed by paying people to perform the dignified task (in all seriousness) of cleaning the streets so that visitors can go home marveling at the sanitation. McDonald's offers chocolate pastries in the place of apple pies, and cheese and jambon (ham) "a la parisienne" adorn its salads (the containers of which feature reminders to eat a balanced diet and exercise often). The artists of the ancient village of Montmartre now sell their work to gullible tourists, who sit for portraits and form the bulk of the painters' subjects.

This melange is epitomized, I feel, in a recent dance performance I attended. One of my coworkers (the relationship due to those two-hour lunch breaks!) had an extra ticket to a contemporary dance production, so she invited me to come along. It took place at the Palais Royal, a gorgeous neoclassical/baroque construct right opposite the Louvre. One can actually see the conflation of which I'm speaking in the building itself. While originally built as a palace for Cardinal Richelieu, it now serves as a government building, housing the French Ministry of Culture and the Conseil d'Etat. The front of the courtyard is composed of a modern art piece where pillars appear to come up through the ground, while the back is a formal garden complete with a fountain and nicely-trimmed hedges.

Then there was the performance itself. I don't mean to denigrade contemporary dance; it has its place. But, let's just say, it's not quite my thing. One hundred and ten (silent) minutes of watching people make odd movements on a stage is not exactly what I would tell the Make-a-Wish Foundation. Thus, I was extremely happy when music from a nearby brasserie started up a few minutes into the performance. It was an odd moment, hearing the horn and accordian music--so stereotypically French--played for the enjoyment of tourists, across the square of a building rooted in French history, accompanying the ultimate in dance modernity, dedicated to upholding the French tradition for the patronage of the arts. Yet, the juxtaposition was not at all unpleasant. In fact, for me, it made the whole spectacle more enjoyable.

Perhaps that is why I have enjoyed Paris this summer so much. One still finds vestiges of the fabled French charm, but it is often couched under a layer of modern efficiency that makes it easily accessible to the foreign visitor. Now, I would be the first one to admit that Paris has its problems, but I feel so blessed to have been able to spend this summer here. It has been such an enriching experience, one which, as I sit writing what may be my final blog post from Paris listening to seagulls along the Seine, I fully plan to repeat in the future.

Until next time, this is Rachel Dunn, Paris correspondant, signing off.

Au revoir!

Of Paintings and Pavarotti

Sorry it's been so long since my last post! No, I didn't get lost in the Jardin des Buttes-Chaumont (well, actually I did, but that's not the reason for the AWOL status). I've started to realize how little time I have left in Paris--only one week!!!!!!!--so I've been using the time that remains to do all those things that I had always wanted to do, but never actually succeeded in accomplishing.

One example: buy a painting. I have had a dream of buying an original painting from every country that I visit every since I went to Zambia. Filled with the artistic contributions of cultures from around the globe, I envisioned my room looking like a combination of Pier 1 Imports and the Musee D'Orsay--the epitome of class and intrigue. This hasn't always been realized. In fact, before coming to Paris, Zambia was the only country represented on my bedroom wall (well, unless you count the quintessentially-touristy "RACHEL" spelled out in painted images bought on the street in New York City).

There are several reasons for this: 1) I am a miser when it comes to buying anything superfluous, especially when I know that I will be living in a place for a while or that I will see something similar later. I am the tourist boutique owner's nightmare, as I will visit every store along a street to be sure that I am getting the best possible deal. 2) I don't like to admit to being a tourist. Oh sure, I bought the Chinese name painting, and I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower (a ghastly and vastly disappointing experience), but I don't want to buy a painting that resembles every other one at every tourist stand at every tourist site in Paris. Basically, if the store needs to have a sign that says, "Original paintings", be prepared to buy an un-original painting. I recall one "I Love Lucy" show where she goes to Paris and buys an "original" work of art off of a painter for an exorbitant amount, only after pleading with him to surrender what was "dearer to him than his right arm". She walks away, tickled pink with her taste and powers of persuasion, even as the "artist" furtively takes another of the same painting out of a bag and assumes his "Oh where should I put this next brushstroke" pose. This is what I don't want. Of course, if this is one's decision, the price inevitably is going to be higher (see reason number 1). 3) I'm just plain picky when it comes to art. I want to buy a painting that is both indicative of the culture, reminiscent of my experiences with it, and that I actually like! So, in summary, there is only one painting on my wall.

Now, though, the world is my canvas! Or, the canvas is my world!...Whichever it is, I can now exclaim that propped against my bedroom wall, swathed in a "don't-you-have-anything-more-durable?" bag of white plastic, is a gorgeous French landscape painting in the post-impressionist style. The colors are thick, vivid, and striking: golden-red tints of sunlight on a country field and house. The strokes are bold, reminiscent of the globular lines chosen by Van Gogh in his "Sunflowers".

I saw it at a gallery on my way to the top of Montmartre, the high hill in Paris known for its charming village ambiance, swarms of art galleries and painters "en plein air" (outside), and the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, an architecturally eclectic, yet stunning cathedral perched right on top of the mountain. I had originally visited here with Dad. We revelled in the sales pitches of the portrait artists, gazed at the easels of both the talented and the ennuyant (boring!), drank in the smells of freshly-made crepes, stared open-mouthed at the church's luminescent domes (yet silently, as per the strict instructions of the glaring guides), sampled the butter-soaked buckets (literally!) of mussels at an outdoor cafe, and finally were struck breathless at the incredible vista that opened up onto all of Paris (Wow, that was a long sentence! I really am using used to France!). After seeing all the artists at work, I vowed to return to Montmartre, being reluctant to purchase a painting at the first go-around (see Rachel's Rules of Shopping above).

The second time, though, money in purse, I didn't see anything in the artists' square that caught my eye. Well, that's not quite true. Let me rephrase: I didn't see anything that caught my eye that was less than 200 euros and wouldn't require a magnifying glass to see it from five feet away. Everything that fit in the aesthetically-pleasing, yet culturally-befitting category was way out of my price range. Plus, I had previously nixed anything picturing Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, or the Moulin Rouge; this made my decision even more problematic, as these compose 98% of the subjects depicted on paintings in Paris.

Thankfully, though, I had seen a painting earlier in a gallery on one of the winding, alarmingly-steep side streets that had attracted me instantly. The reason I hadn't bought it straight-away was that it was exactly at what I had designated earlier as the maximum cost threshold. But finding no better substitute elsewhere, I walked meekly back into the gallery, hemming and hawing over the yellow sicker on the frame (Side note: besides the fact that it takes me forever to buy something, the other bad thing about my shopping method is the stares I get from the shopkeepers. They are either angry glares that clearly evince the confirmation of all their prejudices against young people and/or Americans, when I leave without buying anything, or looks of puzzled annoyance when I return. It's hard to remain nonchalant and blend into the 5-feetx5-feet Parisian stores.).

I did it. I had to. I looked at all the other paintings, but I kept returning to the one of the golden field. The nail in the coffin, the straw that broke the camel's back, the thing that pushed me over the edge, was the gallery owner coming up to me and saying, "C'est une jolie piece, ca" ("It's a pretty piece, that one"). I couldn't take it anymore; I bought it. Brimming over with a sense of triumph that was further confirmed with every step, I stuck the painting under my arm, boarded the metro, and headed back to my apartment.

But I didn't have the option of passing the rest of my night savoring my good fortune (or lack thereof, however you want to view it), because it happened to be....BASTILLE DAY!!! Yes, that's right, France's version of the 4th of July, only 10 days later (always fashionably late, the French :) ). I hadn't been able to convince anyone to come with me to the defile (parade) that morning. All of the French people I knew expressed variations of "Oh, it's not worth fighting the fatigue and the crowds to get a good seat", and it seems this opinion had been impressed upon all the PIF interns. So, I had spent that morning lounging around reveling in the day off from work--all the while feeling twinges of self-pity and regret whenever I heard the planes fly right over my apartment. For days, I had watched the barriers going up along the Champs-Elysees, been rerouted on my morning jog by over-zealous French policemen, listened to the rants of Parisians complaining about the numerous metro closings near the parade route, and stalked the Mairie de Paris' website for information about the various military entourages and statesmen that were going to be present. And here I was sitting in my apartment. Blegh.

But, don't worry, I did celebrate Bastille Day! In fact, the night before I had gone with some friends to an outdoor concert at the Place de la Bastille. No, I was disappointed to learn when I arrived at Paris, the prison isn't there, just a statue. But on the evening of July 13th, it was the setting for one of the most eclectic and un-French concerts I've ever seen. The first group was British, and suffered from an absolute extinction of audience participation (of course, this could have been due to the fact that they only addressed the crowd in English). The group following them, though, was Spanish, and had a style reminiscent of slightly rockisized-rumba and salsa. It was amazing!! The male PIF interns I was with were highly skeptical when the lead female singer started, but by the last song they were dancing right along with everyone else in the middle of the street. This time, the audience needed no cues; we waved our arms, stomped our feet, and danced the cucaracha all on our own (there was even a conga line).

After the concert, we had planned to head over to the 6th arrondissement to catch one of the bals de sapeurs-pompiers (firemen's balls). Dozens of these free balls occur throughout the major cities on July 13 and 14, and they are occasions for music, dancing, and DJs from 9pm to 4am. Well, at least for anyone who succeeds in gaining entrance. By the time we arrived at 11 pm, the file d'attente (waiting line) was nearly 5 blocks long! We had only advanced about one of these before a man came around with a megaphone saying the ball was full. While we could have stayed around hoping that the partiers inside would get bored and leave (yeah, right!), we decided it would be a better to go to St. Michel and, perhaps, grab a seat at a cafe or creperie.

St. Michel, located between the Latin Quarter and the Seine, never sleeps. A colorful, vibrant tourist district packed with turkish restaurants (the French equivalent to a Mexican food joint on every corner), brasseries (French bistros), and souvenir stalls, you can find places open and people hanging out until at least in the morning (perhaps later; I'm not exactly sure because I've never been out past that). It is also a great place to find crepes, which is what we ended up doing. The five of us commandeered nearly all the seats in a cute little creperie and sat down to talk, comparing the various flavors of crepes represented and chatting about Princeton, Paris, and life in general. Not quite a fireman's ball, but definitely a great time.

Anyway, back to the post-painting story. I had agreed to meet up with some people from La Vigie to go to the fireworks. If I could survive without seeing the parade, fine, but there was NO WAY I was going to miss seeing fireworks erupting behind the Eiffel Tower.

This resolve, though, was challenged in the hours leading up to sunset. Of the foyer girls, none of the three girls with whom I am sort of close came with us. It was me, a French girl, a Quebecoise, and the latter's boyfriend, sister, and Canadian friends.

This may sound innocuous, but believe you me, it's not. No, I am not Canadophobic. It's just that Quebecois French is ABSOLUTELY, COMPLETELY different from European French! Even the Parisians have trouble understanding their accents, and it's no wonder! The first time I heard Veronique, the girl at La Vigie, speak, I didn't even realize she was speaking French. Now, after a few weeks, I can understand about half of what she says, but her friends' accents were even stronger than hers! And Vanessa, the French girl, always speaks very fast and indistinctly. So, in conclusion, let me just say I was glad our rendez-vous included wine, cheese, and bread, because it gave me an excuse to talk as little as possible.

Well, experiencing Parisian fireworks is quite different from experiencing fireworks in Rochester, MN. People in Rochester complain about finding a parking spot, battling the crowds, avoiding the goose droppings, etc., but they have no concept of patriotic fortitude. Let me tell you, the French have us out-classed when it comes to transcending inconviences to show patriotic spirit. This year, the Champ-de-Mars, the large green space right by the Eiffel Tower, saw 60,000 (!!!) people crammed onto its grass, jostling, pushing, shouting, and maneuvering to best view the spectacular display. Agoraphobics, stay home, please.

This is hardly a simple fireworks display, though. Even before the sun sets, big-name artists perform on a gigantic outdoor stage, their performances projected (with subtitles, so the crowd can sing along) on huge screens for those in less-than-optimal positions. People start arriving in the early afternoon to get a spot on the green.

And then there are the fireworks! Not only are they visually stunning (assuming your position allows you to see them), but they are also synchronized to music played on speakers all along the Seine. So not only do you get a dazzling explosion of vivid color with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop, but everything is in time to Mozart, Bizet, Puccini, and other wonderful classical composers. Even though my view was largely blocked by trees, tall people, and the Tower itself, there was something magical about hearing Pavarotti sing "Nessun Dorma", one of the most beautiful pieces of all time, while seeing cascades of fireworks descend upon Paris. It was definitely worth the lost-in-translation preceding hours and the long metro-less walk back to my apartment.

I can hardly believe that I'm going home in a week! I feel like I'm just starting to get used to Paris. I have gotten to the point where the loss of my beautiful, highly-coveted Paris map is not highly significant, because I rarely need to consult a map to know where I'm going, or at least where the nearest boulevard is.

And now I must leave this city of so many new discoveries and experiences. Paris is where I first lost a piece of luggage, where I learned that I actually do like quiche (LOVE it, in fact!), where I wore out two pairs of shoes exploring back alleyways, where I had my first apartment, where I became addicted to weekly outdoor markets. Thursday night, while walking to Pont Neuf to meet some PIFers to sing songs and eat nutella along the Seine, I had to stop and reflect. I looked out at the sun setting behind the beautiful dome of the Insitute de Monnaie, and I realized how much I am going to miss this city. There is no way I would want to live here for the rest of my life; it is ill-suited for the long-term. But now, single, for a few months, a few years...I have fallen in love with it, and it's hard to think each time I pass a favorite spot that it may be the last time in a long while.

Of parcs...

Okay, everyone, I've found it: the most beautiful spot in Paris. Yes, hard to believe, I know. But what may be even harder to believe is that it is far away from Notre Dame, L'Arc de Triomphe, and even the Jardin de Luxembourg, the famous palace and gardens of Marie de Medici. Yes, to find it you have to go way out into the 19th arrondissement, far removed from the haut-culture et chique boutiques of the centre ville. But any walk or metro trip to the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont is worth the visit, for it is, as I said, the most beautiful spot in the City of Light.

For where else, I ask you, can boast a crumbing greco-style gazebo atop atop a rocky, wooded cliff, the view from which allows sensual pleasures full and free reign? Where else can one wander through hidden grottos loathe to display their hidden cache of pools and waterfalls? Where else can one (literally, in my case) stumble across a peacock being pursued by the plump and playful fingers of a curious toddler? Where else can one cross a scenic footbridge twenty-five feet off the ground that joins two wooded hills in harmonious majesty? Where else can one climb endless flights of stony stairways hidden among flowering bushes and overshadowing trees? Where else can one choose to get lost among giggling, screaming children on swings and jungle gyms, or take a seat underneath the shade of a sprawling chestnut to watch three baguette-laden French septagenarians discuss, perhaps, the rising price of their purchases, or else revel in the silence from a perch at the top of a wooded butte? I have found no such other place in all of Paris, and though I ALWAYS lose my sense of direction in this parc (no grid-layout here), I never regret spending a few extra minutes searching for one of the numerous exits.

Of Panzer Tanks and Patriots

Happy day-after-4th of July!

As you may imagine, the 4th of July is not especially important here. Let's face it: the building where Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and John Jay signed the treaty with Great Britain ending the Revolutionary War (right near my apartment; I walk past it every day!) is relegated to a simple sign affixed to the side of the hotel. And when I asked my coworker if she knew of any celebrations going on in the city, she responded, "What's July 4?"

Obviously, the French don't care that much about American Independence Day.

But American expatriates do! It's an amazing phenomenon that happens to people when they go overseas: suddenly their sense of patriotism is augmented tenfold, and a simple St. Louis Cardinals hat is enough to spark an instant, on-the-spot friendship--albeit, a friendship confined to the duration of time required to cross the Champs-Elysees or Rue de Rivoli without a risk of involuntary manslaughter. Suddenly, McDonald's is no longer a contemptible vehicle of Supersize Me! obesity, but a fondly-remembered place of childhood repasts and playland parties.

In my case, the 4th of July was provocation enough to break my unintentional burger-and-fries boycott and head out with a group of Princeton-in-France interns to "Breakfast in America", an American-style diner located in the Quartier Latin. This cute, if somewhat Paris-sized(meaning small!), restaurant was created by a man from the US in an effort to bring a touch of Americana to a breakfast-starved French nation. He did an admirable job. Not only does the biliingual menu list the English descriptions au-dessus (above) the French ones (rare, believe me), but the red and chrome tables come complete with Heinz ketchup bottles (which, just as in the USA, still deviously manage to squirt ketchup everywhere except on your burger--and in extreme quantities!), the chef rings one of those cute little bells when the orders are ready, and chili cheese fries are back on menu! There were about 20 or so of us, so between all the Princetonians, an American family, and the five or so guys at the counter, the restaurant was packed.

I just recently moved from the foyer where I was staying all of June into an apartment right by the Musee d'Orsay, so I invited one of my roommates and her friend (both French) to come along and experience some American culture. My roommate Loriane was unable to come, but Charley was eager to meet some Americans and practice her English, in which she certainly succeeded. By the time we had all finished our variously-smothered patties of ground beef and cheese, some of the interns had taught her all the slang and swear words they knew, though it must be said in their defense that she reciprocated, and actually asked them to do so.

After eating the very authentic meal (topped off with the partage [sharing] of a brownie drizzled with fudge sauce), we all then headed over to the apartment of one of the PIFers. Let me tell you, I felt very bourgeoise indeed after viewing Rudy's twenty-first floor furnished flat, complete with modern styling, a doorman, and an absolutely breathtaking view of the Seine and the Paris skyline from the balcony. Its price tag (very high, believe me) is definitely warranted. We then proceeded to sing all the patriotic songs we could think of, including all the hymns of all the branches of the military--and this was before we had any wine! It was a really fun time, with just about all the students in PIF (and then some) present and accounted for. Charley and I stayed until we began to fear that we would miss the last metro, then sat and talked in one of the metro stations before going our separate ways. So, if my fourth of July was devoid of fireworks, it was at least full of American spirit, and one I won't soon forget.

---

Speaking of forgetting, there is one last stop on the Paris-in-a-week-with-Dad saga that I would like to relate, simply because it was so fascinating. If you ever happen to fly over Paris and see a brilliant, golden dome reminiscent of St. Peter's Basilica, you are probably seeing Les Invalides. Orginially created as a hospital for wounded soldiers by Louis XIV, it is now also a museum and mausoleum for France's war heroes. Most notably, it is the burial site of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Now, if anyone has a hankering to see a tomb that is absolutely GAG-ME gaudy and self-laudatory, you must visit this tomb. Oh, don't get me wrong, it is stunning and beautiful, a huge sarcophagus mounted within the crypt so that visitors on the floor above can look down the large circular opening and examine the incredible marble adornment. That is, of course, assuming, that they can take their eyes off of the paintings filling the inside of the dome itself. Down in the circular crypt, visitors can promenade around the sarcophagus and see the multiple representations of a quasi-divine Napoleon: Napoleon is the symbol of justice as he hands his Code to the people, Napoleon is the symbol of prosperity as Hellenic maidens recall the richness of his reign, Napoleon is the symbol of power as he triumphs over his enemies...you get the picture. In all of these representations, of course, he sports a muscled, Herculean figure that almost makes you forget all those unflattering pictures you may have seen of the 5-foot general. The whole construct of the hall is pretty spectacular; so spectacular, in fact, that Dad and I came away thinking, "Is this the same mortal, bloody, prententious, dictatorial Napoleon that we've heard about?" It is almost bordering on cultish, the amount of reverence given to this extraordinary, but very human human being.

But Les Invalides also has a museum, and one of the current exhibitions is dedicated to WWI AND WWII. Sound ambitious? It is, both for the museum and for museum-goers. It took nearly four hours for Dad and I to get through it, and this was with my prompting Dad every so often that it should take less time to read about the war than to fight it.

Nevertheless, it was extremely well done. For the Battle of the Marne, for example, an overhead projector projected moving images representing military units on a large-scale model of continental Europe, while a voice narrated about the course of the conflict. Being in France, the exhibition had legitimate and quality artifacts, including clothing, pictures, medals, weapons, full uniforms, etc., for every facet of the war. Even for D-Day, one could sit and watch film of the Normandy landing while looking at the parachutes the French paratroopers used to penetrate behind enemy lines.

I had very little idea of the role of French troops in the conflict prior to this exhibition. After their occupation in 1941, I assumed that any military role France played was confined to small-scale operations under the control of the Nazis. This exhibition, though, helped clear away that idea faster than you can say French patriotism. It is to be expected, I suppose, but the degree of Franco-centrism in the exhibit was almost comical sometimes. Nearly every paragraph describing D-day, for example, made sure the reader knew that there were indeed French paratroopers there. They may not have stormed stormed the beaches with the Americans, Canadians, and Brits, but they were there! If ever the French army was involved in a particular battle or campaign, the exhibit gave it lengthy curtain time.

Yet I don't want to ignore my own log and sound pretentious or conceited myself. The exhibit was, as I said, fascinating. I particularly enjoyed the section on the Liberation of Paris. The musuem combined actual film footage of the French Resistance with photos, radio broadcasts, and objects in such a way that you really felt like you were getting a well-rounded, accurate depiction of the series of events. It was especially interesting to look at pictures of the conflict and victory parades and recognize monuments that Dad and I had just visited, even the previous day.

And of course, one can never forget any images related to the Shoah (Holocaust). One room, almost black, was dedicated to the liberation of the concentration camps. I will never forget the film showing liberated prisoners dragging their dead comrade to a mounting pile of corpses at Auschwitz, or the awful realisation that a huge hill being pushed by a bulldozer was not composed of dirt, as I originally thought, but decomposing bodies. It is things like this that always make me question how people can believe in the innate goodness of man, and the lack of his need for salvation. And it is then that I echo the line of Horatio Spafford in a radio drama I heard as child. Spafford, after losing first all of his money in the Great Chicago Fire, lost all his daughters as well in a shipwreck, prompting him to write the lyrics to my favorite hymn, "It is Well with my Soul." In the drama, upon visiting the place where his daughters were drowned, Spafford cries out, "Oh, Jesus, come soon, come soon! Or if it not be soon, then give me the strength to bear it."

Thus, while the exhibit was, as I said, quite lengthy, I only wish that I had had the concentration and mental stamina to stay completely engaged throughout the entire thing. It was definitely one of my favorite things in Paris thus far.

Of pastorals and palaces

After investigating the possibility of an extra-Paris excursion on Sunday night, I found that one could get a package deal to visit the château of Fontainebleau; for 22 euros, one can get a round-trip train ticket, entrance to the chateau and grounds, an audio guide, and a little guidebook. What a deal! Plus, all the websites said that Fontainebleau was worth the visit. So, after waking up at a very unvacation-ish hour to get to Gare de Lyon, Dad and I quitted Paris for the country.

There is something very romantic about a train. Maybe it’s a genuine love of history, maybe it’s due to all those American Girl books as a child; I’m not sure. But there is something unescapably beautiful about watching the scenery right beyond your fingertips change from industrial electrical wiring to unsculpted woods and post-card towns, seeing the color transform from placid gray to a mixture of burnished red and forest green, noticing, even approaching at high speed, the very air around you slow its pace. A big city is magical; this is most certainly true of Paris. But until you leave the Eiffel Tower-hawking vendors and the car-packed boulevards, you never realize how much you miss the silence of a walnut lane, the fragrance of a rose bush, the expanse of a sky devoid of buildings, the greeting of a caroling bird that is NOT a pigeon, and the caress of a breeze not created by a metro tunnel, but by the simple breath of God.

I found this to be true in visiting both Chantilly and Fontainebleau. Those who come to France and never outstrip their zones 1 and 2 metro tickets are missing out on one of the beautiful passages (in the literal sense of the word): the realization that the best of man is only a dim reflection of the glory to come. To some this may seem like it would by a dreary, depressing realization. On the contrary, though, I find that these bursts of the country have a purifying, uplifting effect that acts as preparation back into that other, city world.

I must say, though, that Fontainebleau is hardly the antithesis of the best of Parisian achievement. Exactly the opposite, in fact. The stunning architecture, immaculate furnishings, marble sculptures, and roaming gardens impressed me much more than any other palace I have seen, including Versailles. Every time we entered a room, I thought, “Wow, this is beautiful! Surely this is the height of extravagance and taste; the following rooms can only be a disappointment.”

This never happened. Each successive room brought a newly-distended jaw, as the 16th-century castle revealed itself in all its Baroque, Renaissance, and Napoleonic splendor. The castle was begun by François I in 1538, but unlike many other royal residences, it was maintained right up through 19th century. This means that Napoleon’s throne room is only a few rooms away from the blue and gold embroidery of Marie Antoinette’s private sitting room, which looks out onto the Grand Canal begun by Henry IV, which is not far from the gilded marble columns of the chapel begun by François I. Somehow, the castle escaped the ravages of the Revolution, and instead pays homage to the always beautiful, yet inescapably transient periods of French history.

My favorite room was either the throne room, simply because it was so stunning with its gold plumes and scarlet velvet it looked like a movie set, or the chapel, which was covered floor to ceiling in paintings, and featured a magnificent organ in the back of the sanctuary. My favorite artifact was definitely the nearly four-foot, fully-sculpted urn featuring scenes of Leonardo da Vinci painting at the court of François I. The colors were so brilliant and the carving so detailed that I had to block traffic for several minutes in an effort to find the perfect camera setting.

If the gaud of this château, though, is overwhelming for you, you can always do as Dad and I did and have a picnic overlooking the extensive gardens and fountain before heading out into the woods for a stroll. Imagine ancient figures emerging from behind forty-foot chestnut trees as you escape all unnatural noise. And if you get tired, you can always sit on one of the stone benches ensconced in the glade, perhaps watch a Springer Spaniel play in a stream, sigh at an octogenarian couple hobble down the path, or take pictures of a passing horse-drawn carriage.

As I do not have the cord to upload my photos, I am unable to furnish proof of the magnificence of this château and its grounds, but I encourage you to Wikipedia it or go to the official website (which has a really neat virtual tour thing) at http://www.musee-chateau-fontainebleau.fr/. It is the next best thing to actually visiting

...and poison.

Greetings, cyber-readers!


I join you now in that mysterious, incorporeal universe of cyberspace from my post at the consultation desk of the Berlioz Médiathèque in Paris, France. Yes, I have other stuff I could (and perhaps should) be doing, but I have been remiss, I admit, in keeping this blog mis-à-jour (up to date).


The reason for this prolonged inactivity is due to the extensive of amount of touring that my dad and I managed to condense into five days. He was in London for a conference, and since it's quite easy to travel internationally once you are across the "big blue wet thing" (au Gonzo, for any Muppets fans out there), he decided to come visit me. Of course, this limited the amount of time I had access to the internet--or anything that didn't come with a giftshop attached, for that matter. Dad has been to Paris before, but only for a short time; thus, it was my turn to play dutiful tour guide and lead him around Paris. This was completely fine with me, for not only did I get to see a lot of sites inaccessible during non-work-week hours, but my meals were all-expenses paid, in a manner of speaking.


This past Saturday was La Fête de la Musique, a relatively new festival that is rapidly gaining popularity around the world. Designed originally to give the young upstart musicians a chance to display their talents (assuming they exist, which they usually do, in this city), this one-day event has expanded to include even major companies like l'Orchestre de Paris and various opera companies setting up shop en plein air (outside) and giving the citizens and tourists of Paris a chance to experience (for free) the high level of cultural quality for which Paris is known.

It is a great thing, but, like all great things, comes with a cost. Thus, after meeting at Gare du Nord, Dad and I battled for our lives on the Paris metro. Packed closer than Princeton students at the Whitman dining hall on Friday night, we fought for breathing space as the temperature rose above already its finally-summerlike level. Saturday night in Paris on La Fete de la Musique is not the best time to travel.

Immediately after dropping Dad's stuff at the Ramos' appartment (they have been AMAZINGLY helpful and courteous throughout all of this), we stopped for some duck and foie gras at a restaurant and headed over to the Louvre for a free concert of l'Orchestre de Paris. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived, the guards were no longer admitting people (I had thought it would be an outdoor concert, but it wasn't, limiting the amount of available seats), so we contented ourselves with hearing them from outside (Tchaikovsky, we think). Even heard through a glass pyramid, the orchestra was good.

And then it was back home, to sleep before a jam-packed week of sightseeing. Here is the final list (approximately in order): Notre Dame (at night), La Bastille marche, le Jardin de Luxembourg, le Quartier Latin, l'Arc de Triomphe, les Champs-Elysees, Chateau de Fontainebleau (outside Paris), Les Tuileries, les Catacombs, le Musee Carnavalet, le crypte archaeologique, Notre Dame (with mass, during the day), Les Invalides, le Petit Palais, l'Hotel de Ville, la Places des Vosges, la Maison de Victor Hugo, le Musee de Fragonard, Montmartre, Sacre-Coeur, and le Musee d'Orsay. Whew!

It would take way too long to recount all the details of these places, so I will just give you the highlights of the week.

On Sunday night, before going to church at St. Michael's Anglican church , Dad and I decided to walk to l'Arc de Triomphe along the Champs-Elysees. It is an amazing walk. The road starts at La Place de la Concorde, where Napoleon planted an obelisk (now gilded gold, of course--nothing too good for the big man himself) taken from an Egyptian temple. Heading west, one then encounters numerous museums hidden among the trees, hedges, and fountains that compose the parks lining the street. Of course, then comes the shopping district, where historic France and its culture, such as Laduree (famous for its macaroons and confections), meets modern hedonism at its height. Louis Vittan, Gucci, Peugeot (French car manufacturer), boites (nightclubs), McDonald's--all are present on this street, where the world's rich, though present, are superseded in buying power by rich-wanna-bes lulled by the setting into financial euphoria and who have dreamed of buying a Coach bag (to express their own individuality, of course) since the company's inception.

One comes next to l'Arc de Triomphe, France's Tomb of the Unknown soldier, and where Dad and I witnessed some sort of military ceremony occurring (too far away to know what kind). We didn't go any farther, but if one did, one would arrive at La Defense, which one of my Greek friends described as the "New York of Paris." Obviously, she has never been to New York. But let me describe it to you, and those of you who have been can judge for yourselves: I went with some of my Vigie friends on Friday night, around 20h. We were in the middle of the square, surrounded by high-rises and shopping malls. The one shopping mall we explored consisted of four floors, complete with McDonald's, department stores, Starbucks, and even an IMAX theatre. Now, you're probably saying, "Hey, that could be New York." But wait, there's a catch: there was no one there. It was Friday night, all the stores were closed, we were the only ones on the esplanade of the famous La Defense arch, and the pigeons were the only ones making any noise. New York? Not the one that I know.

Anyway, back to les Champs-Elysees. I don't want to sound prudish or uptight; there are lots of good things there, too. Even, for example, Raspberry Meringue Haagen-Daas ice cream and sandwiches on the street. LITERALLY, sandwiches on the street. Dad was looking for a place to throw our empty ice cream dish and, clearly affected by the aura of French eco-amicability, picked up an apparently-empty paper bag to go along with it. The catch? It wasn't empty. Inside was an untouched, innocent-looking baguette sandwich, which, on the Champs-Elysees, would normally cost around 5 euros. It looked like some sort of chicken salad. We sniffed, prodded, and exchanged bemused expressions; the bread was still soft and fresh, and the filling smelled fine.

So we ate it. No effects so far, but if at some point in the future Dad keels over from an internal worm in his digestive system or a latent onset of food poisoning, we all know what it is.

More to come!

Of punctuation...

(This was written at 5:28 on Friday evening)

Okay, everyone, it's official: I am officially getting adjusted to French life. Having sauté (jumped) the hurdles of jetlag, guérit (healed) from the first heel-ripping (literally) days of exploration, goûté (tasted) the culinary ambrosia that is French cuisine, and trouvé (found) people to eat with in the all-too-reminiscient-of-elementary-school-cantine (cafeteria), I can now say that I have truly begun to experience Parisian life.




But none of these things was the tell-tale sign of entry into this new phase of existence. What was it, you may ask. Well, yesterday evening when I tried to do some revisions on an essay on my laptop, I started typing as if I was using a French clavier (keyboard). Having become accustomed to the computers at work, I experienced difficulties in readjusting to my own. Who would have guessed?




For no, French keyboards are not the same as American ones. Au contraire, mes amis, they are one of the most frustrating and under-acknowledged methods of torture that was encountered by an American émigrée. For not only are the accents not made with the CTRL key, but commonly-used keys--such as, but not limited to, A, M, N, W, Q comma, period, apostrophe, exclamation point, and all numerals--are in completely the wrong places! Talk about irritating! Especially when Princeton requires its students to create a password involving at least one numeral. Thus, it is highly significant that, after three weeks in France, I have managed to overcome 12 years' worth of muscle memory, begun on those oh-so-fondly-remembered now-dinosaurs in the Ben Franklin Elementary School computer lab. Oh, that is not to say that even now, using the Conservatoire computer, I don't encounter difficulties; in fact, je me suis trompé (I made a mistake) with the w in this very sentence (yes, the one a few keystrokes ago). But, all in all, I am beginning to be able to not have to look at the keyboard again when I type. Ahh, it's a wonderful feeling of liberation.



Almost as liberating, in fact, as the weekend, which it will be in exactly two minutes (don't worry, there is currently no work to do at my post at the consultation desk).

Of protests and pineapple

Bonjour tout le monde!

Before I go any further, I wanted to say a little bit about capitalism. Yes, it may be a weird topic to discuss on a summer blog—or even during the summer, for that matter. For those of us who do not plan to spend our lives wasting away on the 67-bazillionth floor of a Manhattan high-rise, capitalism may not be one of those charming talking points at a dinner party.

Of course, as anyone who has ever seriously contemplated Ayn Rand or the stock market will tell you, capitalism has its faults. We don’t all turn out like Horatio Alger, and for every billionaire who rises from the dust of insignificance to wealth and renown there is a family barely scraping by at the Wal-Mart check-out line. The desire for riches spills over into the moral realm, as people are more than willing to take advantage of their lowers for the sake of the bottom line (which better, by the way, be in the black).

But, again, as anyone who has ever seriously contemplated Ayn Rand or the stock market will tell you, capitalism has its virtues. One only has to look at the current state of affairs in France to see that. Since I have started working here two and half weeks ago, the people at the médiathèque have been on strike twice. I asked one of my non-striking workers what they were protesting. Basically, he said, the French government just employs too many people. The number of fonctionnaires (people employed by the state) is too great to be able to meet all their demands. Even the workers at the Conservatoire are considered state employees, because it is a state institution. In order to keep everyone occupied and curb unemployment, France instituted the 35-hour work week. Compare this to the U.S.; a 35-hour work week is considered scandalously low.

Of course, when I asked one of my striking coworkers about it, the issue was much more serious. I had smiled when he told me that yesterday was going to be yet another strike day. “Non, c’est serieux,” he said (I promptly tried to look as concerned as I could). He went on to explain that the government wants to extend the number of hours in the work week, and is increasingly reluctant to spend money on pensions. Soon, he said, for every retiree who takes advantage of benefits, there will be two people contributing to the tax base (sounds a bit upside-down, doesn’t it?). Plus, he said, gesturing to the very-respectable phonothèque (in which we had just been watching a film version of Madame Butterfly), look at the environment in which they are forced to work!

Now, maybe I’m biased. Maybe I was raised on too many rags-to-riches storybooks. But these reasons just don’t seem to warrant the unceasing civil strife to be found in this country. I turned on my mp3 player this morning while pedaling on the exercise bike in the salle du sport, and instead of the usual morning traffic reports, news, weather, and such, there was music playing. Yep, a strike, this time by a different part of the French labor force. Protests have become a way of life for the French, as common and inconsequential as lint accruing in the Princeton dryers—mildly irritating if not planned for and taken care of, but easily fixed (most of the time). While the medical fees I have been researching for my job seem depressingly low compared to the United States’, and I gaze with mild contempt at the girls at the foyer who complain of having to pay 1000 euros a year for veterinary school, there is something to be said for a metro schedule that isn’t determined by strike dates, and a library whose workers are present more than 86.5% of the time, enabling it to be open for students 100% of the time it is supposed to be.

But one thing I really love about Paris is the sense of community that each arrondissement has (whether this is a result of socialist policies or not, I couldn’t say). This includes each neighborhood having its own defining character, personality, pace of life—and marchés!!! Open-air markets are one of the beautiful things about big cities, and Paris is full of them. Unlike markets in the states, though, the Parisian marchés are an established way of life that its citizens expect and are able to apply to every aspect of their culinary lives. At the Place de la Bastille, for example, ten minutes from where I live, there is a market every Sunday morning. Not only are there fruits and vegetables enough even to satisfy the most stringent vegan, but it is also a place where fish heads cost three euro, berry-laden pastries attract more children than flies, fresh rotisserie chickens get dizzy on their spits (that is, they would if they weren’t already dead), pita bread cradles falafel in fresh hummus, mold blooms on non-imported Roquefort cheese, and young, female, American stagiares learn to their delight that French corn bread does exist (and is work every centime spent—and then some).

Much as you may want to buy up the first box of fresh apricots you see, though, you have to scan the entire market if you want the best deal. I went to the market on Sunday with one of the French girls from La Vigie. We salivated through what seemed like endless lines of food, and even managed to hold off when a vendor tried to entice us to buy strawberries by saying that they are good for having children (yeah, tempting I know). We reaped the rewards of our patience, however. In addition to the soup ingredients I had planned to buy, I came out with two pineapples, a bag full of apples (yay!), and half a loaf of pain au mais (corn bread). The pineapples were part of a lot of four which the vendor was selling for only 1 (count ‘em, 1!) euro, which Marie and split. Of course, they wouldn’t have kept very long, hence the low price, but they were still perfectly succulent and delicious when we ate them…all…that day. Oh, and I must say something about the bread. It neither looked nor tasted exactly like American cornbread; it wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t cut according to the dimensions of a spatula. On the contrary, it was round, beautiful, and looked like the advertisement for Panera or any bakery that touts the worth of its hand-made breads. Plus, as it was only 10 o’clock in the morning, it was still fresh, and had that lovely, dense cornbread texture that makes you want to curl up in front of a fire with a wool afghan. From now on, I am going to check out the boulangeries I pass on my way around the city. That is, if market day doesn’t come first. ;)

Until next time!

Of Percussion and Pyrotechnics

So, I have discovered this week that nodding one's head in response to incomprended statements simply doesn't cut it. No matter how good of an actor you are, there comes a point when ignorance is just...not bliss anymore.

Take Tuesday, for example. I was calmly working in my office, creating a list of LPs of which the mediatheque has more than one copy so the staff knows which records are available to trade to other collections. All of a sudden this percussive Jamaican-sounding music started up in the lower courtyard of the Conservatoire. I could hear (and practically feel) the beat, but since it is two levels down, I couldn't see what was happening (not that I would have understood even if I could have). So, I asked Marie, a motherly black woman, what was happening outside.

Now, I must explain there are certain people I just can't understand very well when it comes to French. One guy I work with is about 26 and speaks INCREDIBLY fast, with utterly no consideration for the poor American stagiare. I have a hard time understanding him. Another guy I work with gets so excited about musical manuscripts that it seems he can't take the time to properly form his lips around the words that come out of them. He's a very amiable, but very classic geek--button-up shirts, big glasses, looks like he hasn't seen the light of day for a while, tells the same stories over and over again (judging by the reactions of my other coworkers at lunch the other day), forgets that he had meant to leave the music score storage area an hour earlier because he is so engrossed by cracking musical pages--you get the picture. He I also have a hard time understanding. Thankfully, though, this is improving, as I have been helping him with various projects, such as pulling and alphabetizing literally thousands of piano scores (some hundreds of years old)

Marie, however, doesn't speak too fast, nor are her words especially indistinct. After pondering the matter, I have come to the conclusion that she must have an accent to which I am not accustomed. This week's events lend evidence to that view.

Anyway, I asked her what was going on downstairs. I caught the word "groupe" and something about someone leaving, maybe? I figured it wasn't a big deal. I smiled, nodded--and promptly went to see what was going on for myself. It was indeed a percussion ensemble. I arrived at the end, just in time to see one of the group members, to whom I had been briefly introduced the week before on my two-day long tour of the Conservatoire, shake everyone's hand and get applauded. Not wanting to appear truant, I went back to my post. Later, Marie came in and asked me if I wanted to go to lunch. I said sure, so after her shift at the desk we headed out of the library. She said we were going to meet another woman, and a few other things, but nothing sounded out of the ordinary (of the things I understood). My 2,75 euros armed and ready for the cantine, we set off.

Imagine my surprise then, when, instead of the cafeteria, Marie led me to a bamboo forest off of the forum where a veritable feast of bread, cheese, wine, tartes, and quiches were spread across two large tables. I was even more surprised when Marie started acting the perfect hostess, cutting the tarts, greeting people, and supervising food distribution to the approximately forty or fifty people who turned up. It appears that it was a good-bye celebration for the percussionist, and he, being from "the islands", Marie told me, had specially selected many of the dishes (half of which were made by Marie).

I confess, I was a little wary of the tartes at first. It was sort of like going to a good ol' Minnesota potluck, where there are so many "hot dishes" in various shades of brown and gray that, for the ones you don't recognize, you just say a quick prayer and hope your fork doesn't meet with something wriggling or capable of cracking your enamel. I must say that these tartes and quiches were labeled, but, even my limited French aside, there were a lot of things I've never heard of before. I recognized shrimp, tuna, and a couple that looked like cheese and ham. Now, if I had realized that Marie had made many of them, I would have made more of an initial effort to try them all, but as I was still reeling from the shock of entrance onto the scene, I needed some coaxing--in the form of Marie practically force-feeding me a mysterious piece of tarte in a manner which reminded me of those wholesome, midwestern potluck ladies at home (or, alternatively for those of you who have never encountered such, Mrs. Clause in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: "Eat, Papa, eat!").

After that, I figured, what the heck. After assuring myself that I had indeed never had the various kinds of fish Marie was describing to me, I dug in and tried just about everything--with the most pleasant results! I discovered that even the tastes of fish and egg (both of which I have tried to avoid over most of the course of my twenty years) can be masked by a skilled cook and well-chosen seasonings (and a flaky crust). Plus, even after buying a drink at the conservatoire cafe, I ended up spending less on lunch than I would have at the cantine. :)

On Thursday, however, my incomprension of rapid French concerned something rather more important. My boss had invited me the day earlier to a staff meeting discussing library policies Thursday morning. As I find these, in relation to French politics, can be interesting, I decided to attend. When I arrived at work, though, on Thursday, my boss told me that due to a personal problem, she was delaying the meeting. She didn't say more than that (I'm sure this time!), but she appeared very disheveled. Her normally very classic-Librarian hairstyle had been superseded by none at all, and even her clothes weren't up to their usual neatness. When the other workers arrived (I am pretty much always the first one there; I will describe French work habits at some other point), she explained that she was postponing the meeting, and then went on to describe something that was, judging by her visage and the reactions of my coworkers, extremely grave that had happened to her house. She described how she didn't know how to comfort her children who had seen all their toys destroyed, but I completely missed what had actually happened!

The situation was significantly serious, and the French was flying so fast, that it would have been extremely awkward for me to interject with, "Pouvez-vous repeter ce que vous avez dit, s'il vous plait?" The problem was, whenever I was close to someone with whom I felt sufficiently comfortable to ask, my boss was always nearby. Then, as the day wore on, my query became even more irrelevant as the conversation became more and more distant. I tried to eavesdrop when the situation was explained to people later, but with no success. A flood, perhaps? I rushed to my French dictionary (which I keep surreptitiously and unceasingly near me at all times and for which I thank God nearly every day that I remembered to bring it at all)--"inondation"? I didn't remember hearing that word.

Yesterday I finally got up the courage to ask Yann (the nice, geeky one) what had happened (given my previously-described difficulty in understanding him, it wasn't my first choice, but what could I do?). It turns out that my boss' house had caught on fire! They aren't sure about the full extent of the damage, but it sounds like it is great--"un coup dure" (hard hit), Yann said. Please pray for her and her kids (she is divorced, I believe).

On a completely unrelated note, some of the girls from La Vigie and I went to Chantilly today. I needed some initial convincing, because I was really tired from the work week, the girl who prefers to speak French with me wasn't going, and it is expensive, because the train is outside the normal Paris zones (1 and 2). I was really starting to regret going at all when I got on the train, but at that point it was too late to turn back. Plus, I was the social link between one girl from Princeton in France and the other two girls I had met at La Vigie.

It turned out, though, to be a really fun (if exhausting!) day. Chantilly is most famous for its chateau, which is associated with a hippodrome, horse races, and equestrian museum. It's also a really cute little French town, so quietly and nature-ly different from Paris (it has grass--that you can even sit on!). We arrived around 1h30, and decided on the Cafe Noir for lunch. We all ordered these local specialties (of which, of course, I now forget the name) which consist of a something like a slighly-thicker-than-average crepe topped with various cheeses, meat, or vegetables, according to your preference. I ordered one with mozzarella and ratatouille; t was magnificent! In taste, it sort of bore a resemblance to the thin-crust frozen pizzas we used to eat when I was little (which I loved but were, unfortunately, replaced by Digiornos'). Of course, these were loads better! Then, after prowling the streets and being utterly amazed by the comparatively low prices and the amazing-looking pastries (equal to Paris; baked goods are one thing that all of France knows, understands, and is more than willing to share), we found the chateau.

We then realized, though, that we had arrived on a special Chantilly event, the 16th annual gargantuan (and I mean GARGANTUAN) fireworks display! Not only were we disappointed that we needed to get back to Paris and would not be able to see them, but this also meant that the chateau was closing early, and was no longer admitting anyone! We took as many pictures as we could, trying to imagine ourselves inside, and then walked in the adjacent woods. They were stunning! I hadn't realized how much I missed seeing green, natural plant life after living in Princeton and Paris. Walking down a beautiful path along a vine-glazed, cracking stone wall, I could almost see remnants of history coming toward me--a WWI survivor of the nearby Battle of Amiens, a fifteenth-century noblewoman escaping the confines of the chateau. We followed this path until its end (somewhere outside of Chantilly, because the signs showing the way to the center of town pointed in the wrong direction), then came back to the chateau, where people were already starting to reserve their spots for the fireworks (by the way, like everything in France, it seems, these fireworks were enormously expensive to attend if you wanted a decent spot on the grounds).

Of course, though, no visit to the region would be complete without a sampling of creme Chantilly, an incredibly rich, yet extremely tasty vanilla-flavored whip cream invented by the maitre d' of the castle in the 17th century. I tried it on a pistachio ice cream cone. While the quality of the ice cream was, well, somewhat lacking (good flavor, but not smooth at all), the quality of the creme was merveilleuse (marvelous)! Kathryn, the other PIF-er, had it on a gaufre, or waffle, with sugar--also tasty.

So, while it was disappointing not to get to see the wonders of the inside of the chateau, which include a collection of French portraits second only to the Louvre (thank you wikipedia!), the day was not a complete loss at all.

Alas, I have to go! I am being kicked out of the computer room--it's closing time.

Until next time, au revoir!

Of Patrons and Paternalism

Okay, I promise to go at a more rapid pace now

I just finished up my first week of work at the Conservatoire de Paris. My official position is stagiare (intern), and I am mostly centered in the médiathèque (media library) there. That’s where my office (yes, my own office! With a computer, lock, and everything!) is located. My duties in this part of my job include (thus far) comparing lists of people in the library database with people who should be there, and researching the prices of various items that patrons have borrowed that need to be replaced. I had been concerned that my job would bear too much resemblance to my job at Princeton. In some ways, it does. I am definitely experienced with searching for library materials, and starting this week I will be stationed at the desk in the phonothèque (where people come to listen to music and watch movies) and the étage d’consultation (consultation floor—where people can look at stuff but can’t check it out.

The library is very different from the Mendel Music Library at Princeton, however. France has very different, more socialistic policies that, since the Conservatoire is technically a public institution, apply directly to the Berlioz Médiathèque. For example, every book/score/etc. that comes into France must have a copy first at the Bibliothèque Nationale (National Library) here in Paris. Only after that does the government decide where extra copies may be sent. Thus, the library at the Conservatoire is very protective of its materials, even recent books and scores that would be exceedingly common and easily replaceable in the United States. Very few books, CDs, and videos can actually be checked out. And even when people come to the consultation level to listen to a CD, they never actually see it; the person in the phonothèque plays it remotely.

Part of this security is because the library has no way to prosecute people who don’t return stuff. At Princeton, fines accrue that prevent you from checking out books, with harsher penalties for departing seniors. Here, though, there really is no penalty. Fines accrue, but there is no reason for students to pay them. They can still check out stuff, regardless of how many fines have built up. Only this year was a policy instituted where patrons are required to pay 10% of the requisite cost to replace a book (compare this to Princeton, where a $50 processing fee is added to the actual replacement cost). I guess being a private institution in a capitalistic system does have benefits.

The other part of my job is revising a guide for foreign students who come to study at the Conservatoire. I really enjoy this project, as my bosses want the information not just to be up-to-date, but interesting as well. So, I get to add whatever pictures, formatting, and interesting tidbits I want to information regarding housing, transportation, leisure activities in Paris, etc. As I am a foreign student working at the Conservatoire (as well as someone who is studying abroad next fall), it is really easy for me to envision what people would want to know.

So far, things have been going well. Similar to what Margaret (Byron) said in her blog about India, the work environment in France is, well, more laid-back, let’s say, than in the United States. The work week (by law) only lasts 36 hours, and it is interrupted by numerous coffee breaks. The second day I arrived, for example, I came at 9h30 to find no one in the library. Of course, it only opens at 10h30, but while my coworkers’ sweaters and personal items were there, they weren’t! I finally found my boss. “Oh, they’re all getting coffee,” she said. For heaven’s sake, it was only 9h30! The day just began! And after a leisurely hour-long lunch at the cantine (a low-cost cafeteria sponsored by a business, university, or other organization), everyone goes again for coffee! My boss at the library has been really surprised by how much work I’ve been doing (“C’est impressionnant”), but I think it’s just because I don’t take three coffee breaks every day like everyone else. J

Look, I’m getting better! That’s a whole week’s work of info in one post (albeit only regarding one subject)! More to come…

Of Paris and Panic

At this point, it was time for me to déménager (move). I wanted to look as Parisian, and as little like what I was, as possible, so I managed to fit everything, including my purse and the food I had bought in anticipating of having to cook my own meals, into my suitcase and my carry-on bag. I have decided since, though, that there is no way to make sixty-five to seventy pounds’ worth of stuff easy to move on the metro. It was not designed with déménageurs in mind. From the barriers that were too narrow for my suitcase (causing me to enlist the help of a passing Parisian in hefting it over the turnstile), to the endless flights of airs, to the swiftly-closing train doors, it was a muscle-forming experience. As well as being the cheapest way to get around the city, it was also my first opportunity to use my new Passe Navigo, the picture-IDed metro card that allows me unlimited rides for a month (and only at the low, low price of 53,50 euros [yes, those are commas; the French use them instead of decimal points, and decimal points instead of commas in long numbers]!). The card really is a good deal, considering that each ride otherwise is 1,50 euros; plus it is really fun to swipe it on the turnstile and feel like a regular resident.

I finally ended up at La Vigie, though, around four o’clock in the afternoon. It is a foyer (like a hostel) for young female students and interns. At 600 euro a month, located in the heart (and I do mean HEART) of Paris on the Île St-Louis, with breakfast and dinner during the work week, and free wireless (when it works), it really is a good deal. Plus, it is a good way to meet other people my age.

When I arrived at La Vigie, however, the good things were not at the front of my mind. The girl who I was replacing, I was told, had not yet moved out of her room and was completely unreachable. The people at the acceuil weren’t sure what to do; they couldn’t even give me a key to the room, since the girl still had it. This meant that I also was beholden to the presence of people at the acceuil to even let me into the foyer. They let me drop off my suitcase at the room, though. This ended up being rather disheartening, however, for by all appearances the girl whose room I was to take had no intention of leaving that night. Her suitcase was still vide (empty) on top of the wardrobe, her clothes were hung in the closet, and personal items were strewn across the floor. In other words, the room was a typical being-lived-in-by-a-college-age-student scenario. Nevertheless, I dropped my suitcase off, removed my purse and other essential articles, and offered to pass the time in faire une randonnée (taking a walk). I had to be at church by 7 anyway, so I figured I would explore this part of the city, keeping an eye out for low-cost grocery stores, hair salons, etc.

It was a couple of hours later that I started to panic. I realized that I had to begin work the next day, but I had no idea at what time, as it was in an email my employer sent me, and I had forgotten to bring an alarm clock with me! I began a desperate search for anything with an internal clock and a buzzer, but, as I said in my previous post, everything is closed on Sundays except for restaurants and museums. Stores with barred windows seemed to mock me as I walked by and saw beautiful digital alarm clocks through the glass. It was getting close to the time when I had to meet the Ramos’ at church, and I had yet to find anything. Finally, my desperate pleas to God for help (which were many, I assure you) were answered, as I had a burst of inspiration. What is the one type of store in Paris that is just about ALWAYS open? Of course, a tourist trap! I headed over to the area around the Louvre, hoping to find one of those stores that sell anything that sits still long enough to be engraved with “Paris”. Success! I am now the proud (if somewhat retrogressive) owner of a pink and purple Tweety Bird alarm clock for only 15 euros. I would have paid just about any price, though.

At 15 minutes before 7, I arrived at St. Michael’s Church (Anglican), one of the few Protestant churches in Paris. It was the English-language service, which means that I was surrounded by people with (GLORIOUS!) British accents. It was very similar to a non-denominational evangelical church; some of the songs were even familiar. The sermon was the last of a pastor who was moving to an English parish, so it focused on Jesus being the only one worthy of our reverence and worship as the perfect shepherd.

In the midst of the service, though, I remembered that I thought I had read that the acceuil at La Vigie closed at 2000h (8 pm). This meant that if I arrived after that time, I would be unable to get in! Even if the girl had moved out of my room, I may not even be able to access any of my stuff! The Ramos’ offered to let me stay with them for the night, but I didn’t have any extra clothes or toiletries with me, of course (this is starting to sound a bit familiar, isn’t it?). And I still didn’t know what time I was supposed to arrive at work! As soon as the service was over, I swiped my Passe Navigo and hurried back to La Vigie.

My prayers were answered yet again when the same man who had helped me earlier was still there at the desk (it closes at 10, not 8). He gave me the key to my room, but on studying the number, I realized that it was a different room than the one in which I had put my things! Again, momentary panic—until I opened the door to find a beautifully-empty room with my carry-on and suitcase waiting for me. Not only did it have a nice desk, sink, closet, bed, huge window, and multiple shelves, but it was also just about as big as my double last year at Princeton!

After I unpacked all my stuff, however, I realized that there were no sheets, blanket, or pillow for the bed. I tried to remember if the literature said they were provided or not (sometimes hostels don’t automatically do so), but the question was moot, because the acceuil was already closed.

At this point, I should probably tell you that Paris is in the midst of a cold spell. While New Jersey, Minnesota, and what seems like the rest of the world is experiencing summer weather, France is experiencing what the girls who have lived at La Vigie for several months call a throwback to winter—upper 50s, lower 60s. I had not packed for such weather; as far as coats are concerned, I had only brought some light cardigans and a jean jacket. Without any sort of bed linens, therefore, I bundled up in everything I had, and spent a restless night waking up every hour or so on account of the cold, as well as fear that I would be betrayed by yet-to-be-proven Tweety.

Sorry these posts are so long. Stay tuned (if I haven’t yet lost you) for the next edition of life à la française.

Of prodigals and pyramids

Okay, so I believe I'm up to Sunday.

If Sunday was the day of Jesus' return from the dead, it was also the day of my suitcase's. I had resigned myself to prowling around for a couple of hours before heading over once again to the Ramos' to check on my suitcase. I was already in a distinctly grumpy mood. Christiane had assured me that the roommate who would be spending one night with me was a very nice woman. She was: amiable, kind, quiet.

That is, when she was awake. Asleep, it was a completely different story. I returned from the Ramos the night before completely exhausted. I was unable to sleep, however, on account of my roommate's unbelievable snoring! I swear, even Father Time himself would have awoken to tell this woman to invest in those infomercial products! After getting next to no sleep and breakfasting on the DEFAP's daily provision of bread, jam, and nutella, I came back to my room underneath a black cloud, made even more grumpy by the prospect of having to kill time before the arrival of my suitcase.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard a knock on my door. Opening it, I saw a strange man on my doorstep. It isn't a normal sight at the DEFAP to have young men prowling around girls' doors at 10 o'clock in the mroning; but then again, I would have forgiven any breach of normality or decorum when I saw what was by his side: ;y prodigal suitcase itself, complete with its American luggage tag and "Caution: Heavy" warning label!!! I wanted to kiss the man, but this probably would have been a bit much, even in France. The first thing I did upon bringing it into my room? Put on deodorant(sorry if that is perhaps a bit too much information for some of you, but I get very personal when talking of a subject so dear to my heart)!

Sundays in France are really interesting, because they are both more revered and more abused than in the US, as far as keeping the sabbath is concerned. Pretty much all stores, including grocery stores, are closed. Restaurants, though, are open, except perhaps for some of the boulangeries and patisseries. And the city that attracts more visitors than anywhere else in the world wouldn't of course want to miss out on any of that profit! So museums are all open and waiting for visitors (it reminds me of the Bible passage where Christ throws the moneylenders out of the temple for making His house a den of thieves). In fact, the first Sunday of every month is free for all of the major museums, so they are often some of the busiest days of the tourist season. As a poor college student, it was my duty, of course, on behalf of impoverished twenty-somethings everywhere to take advantage of this hole in the pocket of mercenary tourism.

So, I went to the Louvre. :)

When I came to Paris before, I had visited this paragon of antiquities. However, one is rather limited by one hour and fifteen minutes. Pretty much all I was able to see was La Jaconde (the Mona Lisa), Winged Victory, and the Venus de Milo. This time, however, my time was pretty much unlimited. So, armed with the multi-fold Louvre map (an absolute necessity; the Louvre is also one of the easiest museums in which to get lost, I think), I staked out the places I wanted to see. My childhood dreams of being an Egyptologist dictated a visit to that section, which is entered through a sphinx-guarded doorway. It was very well done, although there are so many artifacts that it is almost overwhelming. I sometimes get frustrated when I visit museums with my father, because he loves to read every single caption and it takes forever; well, if he had been with me this museum trip would probably have lost all of its luster because of its sheer length (just kidding, Dad. :) I would love to visit the Louvre with you if you so desire). I also wanted to see the Babylonian winged lions with the faces of some king (I'm sorry for all those Bablyonian-lovers who may be reading this; I forgot the king's name). Then, there were the apartments of Napoleon III. Talk about luxury! I thought that Versailles was impressive with all its gilded bedchambers, but the extended ceilings and lustrous tapestries here made rivaled even the palace of Louis XVI. I had to stand and gawk at the magnificent dining room, with its marble table capable of seating at least twenty people surrounded by gold-lined mirrors and embroidered wall panels.

The one thing, though, that really was on my mind for this trip to the Louvre was seeing the Code of Hammurabi. I had read about it since I was a child, and on my previous trip I didn't realize it was in the Louvre until we were walking out the doorway. So, I had made seeing it a priority. Nothing--man, woman, child, infant, docent, tourist, cafe vendor, stroller, drink stand, Italian painting, Roman statue, Greek vase, Asian idol, French table, or Egyptian mummy--was going to stand in my way.

Except, perhaps, for the Louvre itself.

You see, I arrived on the LAST DAY of a special Babyon exhibit. Being only a temporary exposition, it was not free, so I had decided to skip it. Imagine my disappointment, therefore, when, after searching in vain through several rooms in the Bablyonian section, I arrived at the long-expected pedestal--and it was empty!!! Instead of the famous artifact, there was a cute little sign that said: "The Code of Hammurabi has been moved temporarily as part of the special Babylon exhibit".

Argh!!!! At this point, I needed to get back to collect my things and move to La Vigie (the foyer where I would be staying for the month of June) before heading to meet the Ramos' and go to church. And my miserliness wouldn't let me justify paying 6 euros just for a quick scan of one piece of rock. Resigned to be deprived yet again of the sight of the world's first legal code (but with the promise of free visits to the Louvre for young people on Friday nights after 6 o'clock in my mind), I quitted the glass pyramid at last.

Getting closer to the present moment...

For all Paris’ beauties, there is one thing I miss about Princeton above all: the wireless network. While it said on the brochure that there was a wireless network at La Vigie (the foyer where I’m staying), it only works about half of the time. This doesn’t seem to bother most of the people working here; I asked the woman at the accueil (welcome desk) if she knew why it wasn’t working, and she said this happens all the time, especially on the weekends. Thus, I am resigned to adding to this blog via Microsoft Word for the moment (I swear by this program; it has saved me many a time).

When I last left you, I believe I was wandering around Paris. It is a wonderful pastime, for there is an incredible amount of things to do and see for absolutely nothing. One of my favorite things is browsing the local patisseries/boulangeries (pastry shops/bakeries) and used bookstores. For anyone coming to Paris, be sure to check out Gilbert Jeune, on the Blvd St. Michel. There are always crates of cheap books out on the street; I picked up a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal, the poetic chef-d’oeuvre (masterpiece) of Charles Baudelaire. Also, it is right in the middle of the Quartier Latin. This is the student quarter, as I might have mentioned earlier. As such, it is the home of cheap food, cheap books, and cheap haircuts (which I have yet to get, much as I desperately need one). For 3 Euro, 1 Euro, and 20 Euro, respectively, one can avail oneself of all three, though it probably wouldn’t be advisable to do all at the same time.

On my third day in Paris, I made the weary trek down to the lobby of the DEFAP on the rez-de-chaussée (ground floor). Europeans, by the way, start assigning numbers to floors one level up from the ground; thus, I lived on what we would call the fourth floor, but French would call the third. I had decided the day before while wringing my hand-washed dress pants into my sink that if I didn’t have word of my suitcase that day, I would go out and buy all the toiletries and other essentials that I needed. I harbored no expectations; my hopes of calling Roissy and receiving positive news were just about nil.

Imagine my joy, therefore, when I called and the automated service said that my bags were out for delivery as of 3 o’clock that afternoon (I only called at 9 o’clock, so I’m not sure how that works out chronologically, but c’est la vie). I bounced up to my room, elated with the expectation that I would have my things that same day. I sent off a quick exultant email to the Ramos’, and headed out to the Tuileries gardens to pass the time. There is no sitting on these lawns, unlike the Jardin de Luxembourg, but the statues and fountains make up for the lack of good ol’ American sod. I came back to the DEFAP around four, expecting to see a suitcase awaiting me in the lobby. Instead, Christiane, the receptionist, told me there was a note for me in my room. I ran upstairs. Instead of seeing my long-waited suitcase, however, there was a message from the Ramos’ saying to give them a call. I did, and they informed me that the airport was planning to drop the suitcase off at their apartment between 7 and 10 that evening; since they were going to be gone for much of that time, I could come over there and wait. This was rather disappointing, since it was a beautiful day and I had hoped to have my exercise clothes in which to go for a run around Paris. Still, it was better than nothing.

The Ramos’ had previously described to me how to get to their apartment. Of course, I had only half-listened at the time, thinking that I would always googlemap it if necessary. Since I was still rationing computer batter life, I decided to venture out anyway; they had told me the metro stop, so I figured I could just ask around if I didn’t find it right away.

Bad idea, Rachel.

I got to Pasteur, the metro stop, and promptly saw that it was necessary to ask someone where the Ramos’ street was. So, I went up to a nice-looking Paris policeman (“Policemen are our friends,” my mother always told me) and asked for the street. He had never heard of it, and neither had his partner. So, I went into a boulangerie and asked there (while, of course, buying a loaf of bread ). None of the three boulangiers had heard of it either. Since I had a Paris calling card, I asked if there was a phone nearby. They all looked at eachother, puzzled. Nope, they hadn’t seen one.

They probably weren’t the best ones to ask, it seems, for right across the intersection from the bakery was a pay phone. I reached Mrs. Ramos, and she met up with me and conducted me to their apartment. It was really cute, but small (as most Parisian apartments are). Mr. Ramos is an artist, so in the back of the apartment was a small atelier (studio) for him to do his paintings and pastels. They had to go to La Fonderie’s regular Friday night meeting that they were trying to start up, so they left me with a TV, the key to their apartment, and directions on how to open the access doors (yes, a dangerous combination). So, I waited for the baggage people to come.

And waited…

And waited…

And waited some more….

They never came.

Around 9:30, they called the apartment. I didn’t answer the phone, but on hearing the beginning of the message, I raced (too late) to pick it up. I then had to call the airport baggage service people, and they said that they would deliver it the next day, one o’clock at the earliest! Completely frustrated, I returned to the DEFAP.

In order to distract myself from my disappointment, the next morning. I decided to go to the marché aux puces (flea market) at the far southern end of central Paris (central Paris is roughly circular, surrounded by huge roads called boulevards peripheriques [accents, of course]). At this point, I had been wandering Paris for several days (still without luggage, still with aching feet), and it was then that I decided I could take no more. My eyes were overwhelmed by the sheer mountain of stuff at the market: paintings, knick-knacks, jewelry, silverware, books, china—typical flea market items at slightly more sophisticated levels (and prices). After browsing for a little bit, I decided it was time to go back to the DEFAP. My pockets were singed from trying to avoid financial extravagance, and my feet will never be the same again.

Ah, the internet is working!!! I’m afraid I’m going to have to post this and get going. I’m going to visit the home of Victor Hugo, one of the last free sites in Paris which I have yet to see.

À bientôt!

Take 2

Of course, by this time I was really starting to miss my luggage. I had bought my shoes thinking about having to walk a bit, but I had not imagined that I would be wearing these shoes and walking miles and miles around Paris in them. After the first day or two, I began to get blisters on my toes.

Speaking of luggage, where was it? The airport gave me this nifty little automated number to call to verify whether or not it had been found. Usually, they say luggage is found within a day.

Not so with me.

But I had happily followed my mother's advice and had packed an extra pair of clothes in my carry-on, so I wasn't yet starting to smell. Unfortunately, I had packed my laptop charger with my baggage, thinking that I wouldn't require two to three hours of battery life in between home and the DEFAP. I was wrong, however (I must acknowledge, though, that I had also forgotten to buy an adapter to go between French and American voltage, so having my charger wouldn't have been much help at that point), and began rationing my computer time--turning it on just long enough to check my email, do any relevant google searches, and put it into hibernation mode again.

A couple of days after I arrived I met with the Ramos', missionaries from my home church in Minnesota who have a ministry to artists in Paris called La Fonderie. I had only met them once or twice, but they have been EXTRAORDINARILY helpful in securing lodging for the month of July. We decided to meet for lunch at a creperie (insert accent) nearby. Ironically enough, it was right on a street full of market-style vendors of fruit, cheese, meat, etc.--something for which I had been searching for two days. :) French food is nothing if not pretty (at least aside from sandwiches), so our eyes and our stomachs feasted on, in my case, a galette (a savory, brownish crepe [accent]) with chicken, onions, tomatoes, and camembert cheese. Delicious! It was folded very beautifully, but you could still see the filling inside. I wanted to pay for the Ramos' lunches(even prettier salads with salmon and brie cheese), but they wouldn't let me--until they discovered the restaurant didn't take credit cards and they needed my cash to augment their own. :)

Hmmm...what else did I see in those few days? Of course, Notre Dame! I went there initially because a) it is free and b) it is open later than most of the museums. I happened to get there right around 6h00 mass, and, I must say, it made me want to convert. Strictly speaking, the mass is reserved for legitimate parishioners (as opposed to tourists), but I figured that as I had forgotten my camera and did intend to worship (as much as I could), I qualified to transcend the innocent-looking barrier and sit down (*Note: for all those Catholics who may be reading this, I may get some of the terminology wrong in this section; if you are offended, please skip). The liturgy was sung by a woman who had to have auditioned, and accompanied by an organ. There is nothing quite like hearing music praising God reverberating off of rose windows, stone pillars a hundred feet high, and hundreds of statues and paintings. One hears the music fully surround you; it seems to mimic the presence of God himself. I think it even made the candles (lighted on behalf of the dead or saints) quiver, creating a mystical aura in the alcoves. I listened to the homily for a bit; as much as I could tell, it was about God's love in forsaking his divine nature and making himself man.

The second day I arrived, the Ramos' invited me to a gallery opening at La Fonderie. Little did I realize, however, what I was going to encounter. In some cases, it is very clear walking through Paris when one crosses out of one quartier to another; the architecture, people, and overall feel of the city changes. Well, as soon as I passed by L'Ecole de Beaux-Arts, I felt distinctly...out of place. The scent of money was everywhere, as people dressed in the most tasteful (and expensive) manner paraded the streets holding champagne and wine glasses. All the galleries in the quartier had opened their doors, and people were walking in out inspecting high-end works with an air that indicated this was not at all foreign to them. This, I found out later, was all part of Les Portes Ouvertes (The Open Doors), a weekend-long event in the arts neighborhood for artists to exhibit their work for potential buyers. Thankfully, my clothes were dark and slightly dressy, but even so I felt a little out of my depth amidst diamonds, Bordeaux, and coiffured dogs. The Ramos' gallery was small, but extremely interesting, as the Japanese artist was playing with the idea that all of us come from the East, according to the book of Genesis. She had made a north-south line out of sugar on the floor, so as people walked through the gallery, it would be scattered, reflecting that our modern conception of the polarisation of the eastern and western world are unnatural. She, as a Christian, also wanted to show the transcience of life, so all her work is designed to decay with exposure to sunlight and air. It was very interesting.

And thus it begins...

Greetings, earthlings; I have entered the blogosphere. I have now fully adapted to the 21st century, after sending emails to various people about the same event resulted in information duplication. Well, here it goes: my life in Paris.

It's a saying in my household that if anything can go wrong, it will...for my sister. Well, that statement may have to be amended, because so far this trip has been wrought with mishap after mishap. From my very first touchdown at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle airport, things were off to an ominous start.

I should have known better when the woman at the Rochester airport said that though she couldn't merge my two distinct itineraries (one from Rochester to Newark and one from Newark to Paris), she could forward my luggage all the way to Paris; I should have known that something would go wrong. Indeed, something in my gut was telling me, "Rachel, you have five hours at the Newark airport--plenty of time to get your back and recheck it. At least that way you will know everything is kosher." But, of course, I ignored it. And I felt the effects later, when I arrived at Charles de Gaulle and watched bag after bag...after bag...after bag...after bag...after bag...come down the luggage ramp and be claimed by their owners. All, of course, except mine, which never arrived.

Thus began my first encounter with using the French language in a real-life situation. While the whole situation was rather frustrating, it was a little exhilarating at the same time to be able to conduct the entire conversation with the airport lady in another language. Granted, I didn't understand every single word, but I at least got the gist of every sentence, and the proper forms completed.

It was rather funny, though, taking the RER B train from the airport to central Paris to the DEFAP where I would be staying (a protestant mission coalition that houses people short-term). I had always heard of American tourists and their incompetence overseas; indeed, I had even participated in deriding them at length on several occasions. But when said tourists looked to me for help in deciding which train to take--both go to central Paris--and how to get to their hotel--there's a metro map right on the wall--something is out of whack. They appeared to appreciate my advice--until, that is, they asked how long I had lived in Paris. :)

I succeeded in arriving at the DEFAP, however, with no more issues. It was then 9 in the morning, and, I can never sleep on planes, I was eager to get walking around the city in order to ward off jet lag (seven hours ahead of CST). I dropped my stuff off in my surprisingly-clean and quaint little room (again, after having conversed entirely in French), and set off exploring.

For those who haven't been to Paris, one must forget any sort of geometric municipal idealisations when navigating through the city. The city is arranged around gigantic streets (boulevards) which connect round-abouts (places) in a way that is a little reminiscent of a shattered-glass pattern (with multiple loci of impact). The DEFAP is located just off of Denfert-Rochereau, a major place. So, I picked a boulevard and headed down one of the spokes towards central Paris. I first passed le Jardin de Luxembourg (Luxembourg Garden), renowned for its chess-playing, sculptures, sittable green lawns (not common in Paris), and palace/museum situated in the center. One of the coolest things about it is that the wrought-iron fence surrounding the garden features huge pictures from around the world, everything from polar bears, to the effect of drought in East Africa, to city lightscapes. They really are quite beautiful situated against the green backdrop of the garden's flora, and incite introspection from the passers-by (I love that word in the plural!).

Next came le Quartier Latin (Latin Quarter), where all the students live amidst beautiful, Romanesque architecture. While there, I stumbled upon the Pantheon (insert accent here), where such notables as Rousseau, Dumas, Voltaire, Zola, Gambetta (for all you left-wing Francophiles:) ), and the Curies. Originally a cathedral, a huge pendulum hangs from the site's gorgeous dome. Known as Foucault's Pendulum, this provided veritable proof in 1851 that the earth revolves. As the pendulum swings back and forth, the Pantheon (and the whole earth) revolves below it, allowing it to be used as a clock. I finished my tour around 12, and thereby spent several minutes blocking the view of a young child trying to get the perfect shot of the pendulum lined up with the line indicating noon.

Paris is also the city of carb-addicts; baguettes have been and always will be the vogue. Any time of day or night, one is pretty much guaranteed to see someone cradling at least one two-to-three-foot-long loaf of bread underneath his or her arm. Usually, there is one and a half, as half of one is in the process of being devoured by the bearer (or his or her child). Being an Atkins-dropout myself, I partook of this Paris custom. My first meal was a very Parisian one indeed: a baguette avec du poulet et du crudite (again, insert accent). In other words, a hunk of bread with chicken, lettuce, and tomatoes. As far as sandwiches go, these are no Panera knock-offs; they are usually devoid of dressing (except for butter sometimes) and rarely have more than two or three ingredients (ham and camembert is exceedingly common, and plain hard-boiled eggs on a baguette is one French custom that should have been left on the scaffold, as far as I'm concerned). Yet, the bread is usually first rate, and it is easily the cheapest meal you can get in Paris. I think the cheapest one I saw was 2.50 Euros, though they usually range around 3.5-4.

Okay, it's getting late. Stay tuned for the next edition of...a summer à Paris!