On music, rock stars, and the culture of France, a treatise:
1. I have decided that from now on I will only listen to bands that utilize the magic that is the tambourine. There is no good reason why everyone should not incorporate this into their music.
2. I discovered a band called The Sounds that rocks for several reasons:
a. they are swedish. I don’t know why that makes them cool. ABBA and Ace of Base are also Swedish and that doesn’t make THEM cool.
b. they use the tambourine
c. the tambourine player, for one song, switched and played cowbell instead
d. the lead singer has a mullet.
3. Emo French children hate the world even more than American ones. This can be proven if one takes into consideration the number of French ones that paint tears on their faces at rock shows. It significantly outweighs the number of American ones.
4. I have not been as hot as I was tonight since the dances at the Cathedral Domain during Junior Conference this past summer. Only there it is cool to be sweaty, because the staff always is sweaty, and we are the cool ones, so thus it is fashionable. But sweating through your wifebeater and camp staff t-shirt at 1130pm on the fourth of July outside with 9 other staffers who are equally soaked is one thing; doing it in the middle of a posh Parisian club in a black sparkly halter top to the point that your hair is soaked and your makeup is melting off in the middle of October is quite another. Gross.
5. I think the measure of a good concert is how many people have to be carted off in the middle of it because they have fainted. Tonight’s count: 3. I have not seen that many since my days as a Backstreet Girl.
6. Proof Blair is getting old:
a. I turn 21 in 8 days.
b. I no longer see any need for mosh pits.
c. I can legally drink alcohol here, but at the concert tonight found myself marvelling at the lack of age of the people drinking 1664 beer from the bar at the club. (Sidenote: I think 1664 is the equivalent of Beast or Silver Bullet in the States. My only basis for this rather presumptuous statement is that it is the kind of beer sold at McDonald’s here and I can not imagine McDonald’s going with some high class libation)
d. Okay, really the only reason I think I am getting old is this mosh pit thing. I used to be able to mosh with the best of them... well, maybe not the best of them, but I could stand my ground and push back if needed. Tonight I found myself avoiding the moshers and really rather perturbed at the idea that they somehow think it improves the quality of the show, when in fact all it does is make us all as sweaty as them.
7. If a band wears t-shirts of ANOTHER band, that is cool... it’s like giving props to people who are cooler than them. If that band is someone awe-inspiring, like, say, The Smiths, it is a good sign because it shows the influences of that band are, you know, meritable. If the shirt, however, is a band like Atticus... run and hide. Who in their right mind advertises the fact that Atticus influenced them? Hence the reason the band FICKLE is terrible. Uck.
Now, an explanation of the above list:
Tonight I went to see Panic! At the Disco here in Paris. They are one of my favorite American bands, but since they are not nearly as popular here (insert comment on French taste/American lack thereof here, if you wish), the concert was not sold out and I managed to snag a standing room only seat at a club about a block from the Moulin Rouge.
One opening act from the States who made me cringe to think that this could possibly be what people associate with the US... The lead singer insisted on speaking French throughout their entire set, which was a shame because he kept referring to this city as "Perry" and then would bust out lines like, "SALUT, tout le monde!" Butchering the pronunciation beyond belief. (Not to say that I am a model of phonetic perfection). I suppose if one were in Germany, one could attempt that and it would be regarded well (take, for example, the famous phrase, "Ich bin ein Berliner") but in Paris, they would rather you just didn’t attempt. At concerts, it is probably in the best interest of the singer to just not speak... the audience likes to forget that La France did not produce such musical delights. Moment of cultural-centricity (is that what it’s called when you realize that you subconsciously think your country is better than everyone else? Anyway...): the band sampled Queen’s "We Will Rock You" and as they started singing it, I found myself thinking how I should really know that song better than everyone else, because, I mean, it is QUEEN. And then I realized that Queen, I think, is British. Ouch.
Anyway, second opening act comes out, and I realize the lead singer either has a mullet or is a chick. Turns out, she is BOTH, making this not only the first concert I have paid to see with a woman in it at all but also the only band I have ever seen with any mullets. What luck. They were awesome– the Sounds, from Sweden. Check it out.
Then the real band comes out and it is amazing, and it is quickly obvious that the crowd is NOT anglophone. The band sings fast, I suppose, but I was one of the only ones singing all the words... the crowd would know the loud words, and some bits of chorus, so it would be like, "I CHIME IN...[insert Blair still singing at the top of her lungs in accompaniment to the lead singer and band]... DOOR... [more of the Blair/Brendon duet]... RATIONALITY." They covered a Radiohead song and a couple Smashing Pumpkins... I was DEFINITELY the only one that knew those. So the set is going and I am still thinking how COOL it is to be in a room with other Americans– the band. Because seriously, living here where everyone is from Paris/Germany/London/etc. means that every time I meet someone from the States it is as though I have met someone from... like... Proctor, Kentucky, or something equally unknown. In my head, it means we should be friends.
Because of this, and because I was by myself, I decided to try to get backstage after the concert. Now, this was a very ill-thought out plan, for several reasons. My main reason for thinking it would work was that everyone knows you can’t get backstage in groups, but by yourself, you still stand a chance... particularly when you have the trump card of SPEAKING THE SAME LANGUAGE AS THE BAND. So after the show I wander outside to look for a creperie because I was hungry. It was at this point that the idea of getting backstage came to me. What, you may be asking, was I going to do once I got back there? In fact, I did not stop to ask MYSELF that question till I was safely on the homeward bound Metro. Had this plan succeeded, I don’t know what I would have done. But now I’m getting ahead of myself.
In looking for a creperie, I stumbled upon the side door of the club where the concert was. The door opened onto a staircase, and there was no guard, so I thought I might as well try it. Here is where things get dicey... and where I become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Call me a liar, I’ll lie with the best of them. Though this tops any lies I have ever told any employers...
I walk through the open doors, up the flight of stairs, without getting stopped. I get to the top of the stairs, and this bouncer comes up making obvious "no" gestures (he didn’t even bother to talk, I think because he knew anyone stupid (gutsy?) enough to try sneaking backstage HAD to be American), and I open my mouth with every intention of saying "I’m sorry," but instead what comes out is "I think I left my jacket up here"... IN FRENCH. This was a stupid lie because my jacket was tied around my purse strap at the time. But I have probably told stupider ones. But the bouncer looks at me like he doesn’t care, so I hold my head high and wander back down the stairs. Never giving up the search for a late-night crepe, I keep walking. I passed the back exit to the club, with a roll-down door still shut that I assumed the tour bus was parked behind. There were people hanging out in front of it, but I was like, "yeah, Blair, what are you going to do, lay down in front of the bus and refuse to let them leave till they hang out with you?" [[The fact that I had no long-term plan for if I made it to the band still did not occur to me]]. So I thought I would give up, found a crepe, and on my way back the door was almost devoid of all the last-minute emo kids that had been hanging out in hopes of giving their demo to... someone. And as I walk by, myrtille crepe in hand, still drenched in sweat to the point that I can feel pomade melting out of my hair and running down my back, a roadie walks out of the building. We make eye contact, by accident, and I find myself saying "Pardon, monsieur, je suis..." but he interrupts with a wave of his hands and mumbles something about not understanding. Duh. He is a roadie with an American band, not a train conductor. So I start over, "Oh, sorry. I am an American student at Emory University, I’m studying here for the year..." all true so far, but now it goes sharply downhill. I DO NOT KNOW WHERE THESE WORDS CAME FROM BECAUSE THEY WERE DEFINITELY NOT IN MY HEAD... "I am an American Studies major and I am here to research my honors thesis [[does Emory even have an honors thesis program??]] on [[now it gets really intelligentsia-sounding]] the dispersion and popularity of non-mainstream American music throughout continental Europe, particularly in France." What amazes me is that I THOUGHT of that on the spot. And somehow kept going... "I have already interviewed a few other bands for my research, including Snow Patrol, who was here on Friday, to get a European perspective on it." I think I used too many big words, though, because at this point the man still did not look convinced, so I threw in the MOTHER of all lies, "I was supposed to interview Panic a few weeks ago when they were playing in Cologne, but there was a train strike so I couldn’t get there, and I would just love a chance to talk to them about their impressions after having toured Europe." Let’s dissect this sentence, shall we?
Lie#1: NO I was not supposed to interview them. Obviously.
Lie#2: Do I have any idea if they played Cologne, a few weeks ago, months ago, or even AT ALL? NO.
Lie#3: THERE ARE NOT TRAIN STRIKES ANYMORE IN EUROPE.
Lie#4:I lucked out on the "after having toured" thing, because the roadie told me then that this is their last European stop. But still. When it came out of my mouth, it was a lie, because I did not know that there was any shred of veracity to it.
I finished with "My research is going to be published in the New England Journal of Undergraduate Research for the Betterment of the American Society as well as on the Rolling Stone website and in Paste Magazine." At this point I suppose I guessed right with a lot of those lies, because the guy goes "Wait here" and disappeared inside. I have no idea if he believed me or was just going to get someone ELSE to kick me out, but while he was gone I suddenly realized that I was going to have to have legit questions about the transatlantic nature of emo kids or whatever it was I told him (at the same time I realize that I have neither a tape recorder nor a notebook to transcribe). I quickly made up some questions that sounded terribly technical, enough that I would have to spend as much time explaining the question as the band would spend answering them, but I realized my only hope if he let me back there was if the roadie left and I could just tell the band I had lied– and then get kicked out. ORRRRR bank on them having a sense of humor and propose we all go get crepes TOGETHER. The roadie returns, another scary-bouncer-looking man in tow, and the other guy (who may have been the one that I lied to at the beginning of this story about the jacket), scowling, says, "Who did you say you work for?"
And I was like, "Err, I don’t work for anyone, I’m doing research for my honors thesis..."
"Where’s your press pass?"
"I, uh, don’t have one because I’m just a student..." The scary one shakes his head at this point, turns and leaves, and the roadie apologizes for him but says if HE says no I can’t come in, but if I have my questions written out he could give them to the band and see if they would do it and email me... yada yada. So I left, disappointed to have not made it in, but satisfied with my multi-continental efforts at becoming a professional band-aid/groupie-in-residence.
I did run into the drummer for the American opening act, though, on the street, so that was cool. And I mean, really, that was all just practice for the furtherment of my career as a band-aid, right? Research, I call it. Amazing.
Next time, I bring my tape recorder.
"I gave my heart to rock and roll,"
B

A few weeks ago Jessi and I decided we wanted baked potatoes for dinner, so we schlepped down to Monoprix on a quest for pommes de terre (literally, apples of the ground). Only here in France there are no baked potatoes. Apparently Idaho is just a little too far to import them. Here they eat these itty bitty potatoes, like new potatoes, but normal potato color. So we bought a bag of those– the smallest bag they had, which was, like, I don’t know, 2 kilos? 4 kilos? Something like that. I don’t know what that means exactly, but the point is that it is WAY too many potatoes for two 20-year-old girls to eat. Also they are significantly harder to cook because you have to boil them, you can’t just bake them like normal potatoes. AND that one bag provided... many meals for us. In fact, it is still sitting in our little cupboard. So last night I decided I was going to do my part in our effort to rid ourselves of potatoes, and eat them for dinner. I fried up some lardons (kind of like bacon), grated some emmenthal (kind of like... well, I don’t know, it’s some kind of french cheese), and set to boiling the potatoes. (Let it be known, first, that even with my efforts last night we still have 6 kilos of potatoes on our hands. I swear those things multiply.) But I have now learned something important about myself: I do not have the patience to eat potatoes by myself. This is the second time I have tried to cook them when Jessi was not home, and both times I have ended up with a plate full of slightly crunchy potatoes. The first time I convinced myself that they were al dente, and probably I was getting more vitamins that way, but then last night as I was munching, I thought back to my 10th grade AP Bio class, and I am fairly sure that at some point I learned that raw potatoes are poison. But I can’t remember, really. Maybe that was tomato vines... Nightshade family, or something. If Jessi is home, we are great, because she doesn’t let me take the potatoes off until we are sure they are cooked. (She also doesn’t let us put the potatoes in the water until it is boiling. I prefer to put the potatoes directly on the stove, and then consider that all that time before it boils is just shortening the total amount of time they need to cook.) My conclusion was thus two-pronged:
1. I am no longer allowed to cook potatoes by myself. This seems more logical to me than learning more patience, also quicker.
2. We are no longer allowed to buy potatoes in this country. What are we supposed to do with 10 kilos of potatoes anyway? And perhaps, through our inadvertent boycott, the French will realize the necessity of either growing or importing regular-sized potatoes, sold loose so that we could buy just two if that is all we needed. Plus, they don’t have sour cream in this country, so what are we really missing out on anyway.
On another note, I’m taking a 20th century French history class this semester, which is fascinating, because our french textbooks AND our french professor come down much harder on France than on the States, in pretty much every situation. Even things that I learned as mistakes made by the US, things like the delay getting involved in WWII, Wilson’s Fourteen Points, the negotiation of cessation of hostilities [pirates, anyone?] after WWI are treated as just matter-of-fact events, justified and logical, while things like the Vichy government of the German occupation are considered treasonous. I had always learned about France in World War II as a victim of German oppression, not a society anxious to get on the "winning" side, which at the time was Germany. Interesting. The best way to learn the "good guys" of French history, though, is to thoroughly examine a Metro map– if (and only if) there is a Metro station named after any French figure can you be assured that they are a hero.
Furthermore, this week marks the one year anniversary of the student riots and protests in the suburbs of Paris, meaning everyone is on edge to see what is going to happen. By everyone, I do not mean the students at all– they are all as normal as any other day. But nearly all of my professors (including my GRAMMAR professor, good luck finding the link between grammar and student greves) have mentioned it, probably because the Parisian gendarmerie (police force) has predicted this year will bring worse ones. I don’t understand why though since it’s not like the students and suburbanites started rioting for no good reason– 2 young African boys were killed at a power plant, and everyone took offense at the treatment of immigrants (African immigrants are still today called "pied noirs"– black feet, a term originated from the Algerian immigrants back in the day when it was still a French colony and tourist destination). I don’t completely understand the concept of student protests– in France, if you graduate from lycee (rough equivalent of high school) and pass the bac (like an SAT), you can go to any university that you want, you just show up and sign up for classes. Tuition is nil, you pay for books, which are sold at normal bookstores, not campus ones, and so are much cheaper than in the states. That said, the population of France has a free college education at their fingertips, and because of the way classes work here, it is completely possible to work, even full time, while going to school. But still students go on protest. I don’t get it. What could the government (who controls the university system) POSSIBLY have to fear from a bunch of college students? That they will withdraw from the university, leaving it less crowded? Their presence at university is NOT bringing in money– it’s not like at Emory, where the administration has to at least pretend they are listening to us because we all could, in theory, take our bazillions of dollars in student loans elsewhere. But in France, what is there to protest against? The quality of the food in the dining hall? Again, not an issue if you don’t have to pay for it. But over and over again in France the students go on strike and everything grinds to a halt because of it. It’s not even like at Kent State, where the protests were concerning something else but somehow came to involve everyone because of the injustice of the response... It’s like the students just want practice for when they graduate university, get real jobs, and then have to strike a couple times a year.
All that ought to be taken with a grain of salt, because since my arrival in this country, no mode of transportation has gone on strike, and I have not seen any students even looking like they were considering causing trouble. Though I have been invited to join the communist party a couple times– once by a legit communist and the other time by a group of people at school who must be the equivalent of the young republicans at Emory– just the college version of the party or something. It’s weird to me that they have parties called Communist and Socialist, since even the insinuation of being either of those prompts immediate suspicion in the States. Forget suspicion, the first time I read about De Gaulle (who is pretty much the George Washington of France today) being a Socialist, I was shocked– how could a French person defame him like that? And then I realized that is not an accusation here, he would not have been put to trial for that, it is just a fact– like saying that... I don’t know, that Reagan was republican.
Anyway. Potatoes, Communists... it’s all related. In Russia, I hear the communist slogan is "Vodka and Potatoes for anyone who wears Furry Hats." And in Ireland, it’s "Beer and Potatoes for the Catholics," which is truly a problem for them since everyone knows they had that blight thing and ever since then, no potatoes. Voila the reason there are no Irish communists, because they failed to provide the potatoes, just the green beer. Here in France, the slogan is "Wine and Croissants for the Commies" because they, as evidenced above, do not eat potatoes.

P.S. When sitting in a McDonald's filled with small children, attempting to use wireless internet, and a male employee walks toward your table, the best MO is to quickly take a large drink of your Fanta. Then when he speaks to you, keep drinking the Fanta, roll your eyes sympathetically, shrug your shoulders a little, and keep drinking until he leaves. This will mask the fact that you have no idea what he is saying to you in French over the sound of thirty screaming children.

So I realized I may have come down a little hard on the Germans last time. I don’t have anything against them, when they are not yelling at me in another language. I just think that of all the things I have learned since coming to Europe, perhaps the most important is this: be wary of any person who hails from a country who singlehandedly has given David Hasselhoff a career.
I’m just saying.
This weekend my roommate and I went to San Sebastian, Spain, to meet up with a friend, Mike, studying in Salamanca for the semester. Supercute tiny little town in the Basques...
Kind of felt like being in Winter Park with the beach so close by. On our way there Jessi and I had to change trains in Irun, a city that we later learned straddles the border of Spain and France. But we arrived at 6am Saturday morning to Irun, and everything in the train station was in a completely different language... Not French. Not Spanish. DEFINITELY not English. I guessed Basque, though I couldn’t believe it is actually well-known enough to be written down anywhere. Luckily the people spoke Spanish too, and somehow my 4 years has just been dormant or something, because every time I opened my mouth, Spanish words came out. Sometimes more smoothly (and often with a better accent) than the French words I speak here in Paris. Amazing. I had no idea I remembered ANYTHING. I am nowhere near as proficient as I used to be, but I could totally get around on my own in a Spanish-speaking country and be completely fine. I was shocked. Luckily we had Mike with us too, who speaks it like a native, so we didn’t have to rely on my meager skills once we met up with him.
The town was cute, we spent the 2 days there wandering the beach and the old part of town (literally called "Parte Vieja"– the old part). We made our way up one of the surrounding Pyrenees (which means I have now climbed a Pyrenees (if there is only one is it a Pyrenee?) as well as an Alp...) to see the castle and view from on top, but when we got up to the top it turned out to be a FAKE castle with this Natural-Bridge-style theme park attached to it. Some good views of the city and ocean below, but also a rickety wooden roller coaster, an E.coli infested looking boat ride thing, and a bumper car rink literally at the edge of the cliff that dropped straight down into the sea. One strong bump and you are sunk, I guess.
Then down from that mountain, across town, and up the mountain on the other side. (San Sebastian is in kind of a cove with curved peninsulas that sort of mask it from the ocean on each end of town.) The second mountain we hiked up has a huge sandstone Jesus on top of it, surrounded by cannons and fortress-like protection... I don’t really understand what the original purpose of it was, but while we were standing at the foot of Jesus, a door started rattling from the inside and suddenly this thick huge wooden door creaked open and a nun who was at least as old as the door itself came out with a Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-esque key ring to relock the door. What I want to know is how she got up there... I led hikes all summer (which is not to say that I am particularly athletic...) And it was a hard hike straight uphill to get to the statue, and I was in hiking boots, not orthopedic shoes. So I don’t know about that.
Other news of the weekend: I have always suspected the Basque people were crazy. Back in the day we studied them in my Spanish classes, and they are pretty much insane. They are like what would happen if, like, the indian reservation in Montana where we lived when I was little decided they wanted to be their own country and left Montana and started bombing Los Angeles to prove their point. Crazy. We spent the weekend trying to avoid them and their ridiculousness, because Mike says they are crazy as well (though he seems not as convinced as me of the level of their insanity). Luckily, though, they never bomb things IN the Basques, just in cities like Madrid, Barcelona, Seville, etc. The weekend had passed uneventfully and I was relieved we were not going to meet any Basques, when Sunday morning as we sat on the terrazza at a pastelerie (cakerie for you gringos...), we heard yelling and sirens, and pretty soon a protest march rounded the corner. The banners they carried were all in Basque, as were their signs, so we had no idea what was going on, but they were quite adamant about whatever it was. The Basque language, sidenote, is not a dialect of Spanish, it’s a completely different language, more distant than Spanish and Portuguese, but it kind of resembles ancient Aztec writing, which is filled with words like txacyquoatl and which I only know because of art history classes. Ok, back to the story. There are police meandering around the edge of the protesting Basques, who were marching to an amphitheatre in the center of the Plaza we were sitting in, so we had a great view of them. They carried picket signs with people’s pictures on them and kept yelling in Basque about something; completely different from protests in France or the States, and a little worrying since, as previously mentioned, they are crazy.
Ok, enough about Spain, I miss you!
~B

AMAZING pictures from the weekend to come!

Of Observations, Confessions, and the like:

~I know I may be descended from them, but it is impossible for me to take anything the Germans say seriously. For one thing, it sounds hilarious when they talk, but for another, I think you should never trust people who speak a language in which every single noun is capitalized. Who has time to mess with all those Capital Letters?

~If I lived on continental Europe, I would probably be completely against the use of English as a staple language, since no country ON this continent speaks it as their native language, so I do not fault the small towns for a lack of English, that is fine. I realize that it is kind of a bourgeois language, and I am ok with that. So I am not asking for that... I would have been thrilled with French, heck I would have made do with SPANISH, which I can still get by with. But nothing in Fussen or Salzburg is written in any language but German. (Which we have already discussed is ridiculous, due to the unnatural number of Capital Letters. Imagine if Everyone wrote in that Way. Nothing would get done.)

~People in rural Germany and Austria are not allowed, by law, apparently, to eat or buy food between the hours of 2pm and 530pm. If you are planning on eating during those hours, I think you must need a special visa upon entering the country or something, because everywhere I went, it was impossible.

~This completely sums up the experience of attempting to become bilingual: I walked into a shop in a German-speaking country and asked in French whether the clerk spoke English. His response? "Mademoiselle, I think a better question would be what language do YOU speak?" And I didn’t even realize what I had done till he responded to my inane question in Franglais.
((Vous comprenez? Franglais= French plus English, the Gallic version of Spanglish.))

~Furthermore, I need to confess something to you, dear friend. For the past four years, I have been nothing more than a carnivore disguised in vegetarian’s clothing, as evidenced by the fact that, while in Austria this weekend, I ate Wienerschnitzel. And I don’t even know what that is.

~I had a great time in Austria and Germany over the weekend, but note this, France-haters: the people were not as nice as in France-- I got yelled at (in two languages, no less) by an old German woman who (from what I gleaned from her guttural ramblings) was angry because I had my feet on the footstool of the train car seat across from me. She finished with "would you do that in your own house?" To which I replied, sleepily, (this was early morning after a night in a hostel, approximately 7am on my way to Fussen) "Yes?" Because I wasn't sure what answer she was hoping for... Never mind that I had been "on the road" for hours, could barely hold my eyes open... And the whole thing was loud enough for the whole train car to hear-- no matter what language they spoke. Apparently this was the WRONG answer (though it was true-- I am a college student, the idea of shoes on furniture being a problem is as foreign as... well, throwing away food that has fallen on the floor. Plus, I live in Paris. I have seen PUPPETSHOWS in train cars; people asleep on the FLOOR of train cars, and old men slumped against the door with bottles of vodka still uncapped in their hand. Sitting on any surface in a Paris train is a gamble as to what kinds of germs will crawl onto you from the surface you are sitting on; in comparison my hiking boot, which was not even muddy, is a bastion of cleanliness.) I was mortified. Well, mortified is kind of a strong word. Mildly embarassed till I thought about the fact that it really was kind of funny; she was livid over it, the conductor had just walked by and didn't even care.

This fountain is in the gardens of Mirabell Palace, a really old chateau built on the outskirts of Salzburg for the mistress and 10 children of the archbishop (who was supposed to be celibate). The funny part is I had to assume the same position as the statue in order to take this picture, so while I was crouched down to do that, a guy with his camera was standing at a right angle taking a picture of me taking a picture of the statue. This is BrotMarktStrasse in Fussen (literally, Breadmarket Street, I think... but then I only know about 6 words of German, and that is 3 of them). The church at the end is the Evangelische-Kirsche, done in true Alpine style. Ha.
A 15 minute hike (straight uphill) from Neuschwanstein castle puts you on top of Marienbrucke(Mary Ann's Bridge-- the other 2 German words I know), a bridge older than the castle itself, that hangs 2500 feet in the air. Beautiful view of the waterfall below, even though it was crazy mad foggy all day.

View of Salzburg from the Mozartsteg bridge crossing the Salzach River, which divides the old city (left) from the new city (right). In the background is the Universitatskirche Steeple, the place where Mozart first performed. See Marienbrucke at the top, spanning the cliffs? I may not get the Woolly Worm this year, but I guess I got this instead... The leaves were amazing. (This is the view through a window on the top floor of the castle.) Kind of reminds me of a certain place I used to work... Except without all the bears.
Further explanations to come, as well as perhaps more pictures... Since I have taken like 400 since coming to this country.
The French is getting better, ps. I can tell.
~B

So this whole France thing is going so much better than planned... I love it.
I don’t know how to explain why, really, when I think of the highlights since coming here, they don’t sound spectacular to anyone but me. But I have loved learning this language, this culture, this diet, and this lifestyle. I still have a long way to go, particularly with the language, but the rest has been amazing. And now I can’t say enough about "my" church here. French people, in general, are pleasant and love to get to know foreigners and Americans, BUT it is a HUGE deal to be invited to a French person’s house. They just hang out in public places, never meet up at each other’s house, until they are extremely close. But the people at Hillsong Church have been amazing about inviting me to... well, everything. Last night they had a small get-together at the pastor’s apartment just outside Paris, so I went and had a blast. I walked into the room, and the coolest thing about being there with about 20 other people is that there were at least 4 languages being spoken at any given time. ((English, French, Spanish, and Portuguese)). So I introduce myself to people in French as default, and then as we talk, one of us realizes the other is from Britain or the States and switch to English. Then a girl from Brazil walks up who speaks only Portuguese and French, so we quickly revert back to French for the rest of the conversation. So different from the States! And then on the Metro on the way home, I started wondering whether there are expatriate groups this lively in the States...? In big cities? Atlanta, maybe? ((Though my definition of "big city" has been drastically altered by living here...)) I don’t think so. Because not only here is it French people and "immigrants" but also it’s this whole multi-lingual thing too– not one person in that room spoke only one language, and I was one of the few not legit bilinguals. So now I know people in this city– Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans, Norwegians, Swedes, Swiss people (is there a noun for that?), Colombians, Brazilians, and, most extraordinarily, FRENCH. Finally!
Sidenote: I have learned the appropriate way of doing the double cheek kiss now. ((This is very important, because people here will greet you that way before you have been formally introduced, so you have to be able to do it right so they don’t know you are not French... until you open your mouth and they notice your ridiculous Valley Girl accent.)) So the other person initiates it (because what kind of presumptuous American tries to start that?), they lean in, usually on the left first, put there cheek lightly on yours, make a tiny kiss sound, then switch sides, put their cheek against your other one and say their name. Nothing else, not like "Je m’appelle Blair" or "Je suis Blair" or anything like that, just "Blair." And then you say your name back to them. Now I have gotten the hang of this, which is good, BUT it still creates all kinds of problems because I have to wait for them to lean back so that they can be looking at me when I say my name, since it is almost impossible for French people to say it. Thus the exchange usually goes something like,
Mmwah, Mmwah...
"Camille," says the other person.
"Blair," says me.
"Clair?" [Notice the French way of spelling it.]
"Non, BL-air," says the one whose name is in question.
"Ahh, oui, Blaaaih." That is the closest approximation I can give to the name I respond to here... If I could think of a nickname that is slightly more French I would switch for the semester, since it truly does create untold difficulties. It’s not any easier for British people... but for them it is "Ble-AH?" And Australians, I have now discovered, can’t do it either: "Blee-ah?" I don’t MIND any of that, because I butcher their names on a regular basis. (Last names like Soubaigne, first names like Michel (which is for a man) and then Jean vs. Jeanne. Tres difficiles pour les Anglophones.) But because their versions sound nothing like what I am used to, I often just don’t answer when people call me, because I don’t know that it is my name. So I have considered introducing myself by my middle name, Lauren, but even that is pronounced "Lo-rhen" here, and it is so much more boring than my terribly... exotic name. HA! Just kidding.
Tomorrow night after class I am going to Salzburg for the weekend– getting there takes a whole night on the train, but I have a couchette, so that will be good. I’ll be in Salzburg (Austria) all day Friday, and then early Saturday morning I am taking a train to Fussen, the German town where Mad Ludwig’s Neuschwanstein Castle is located. Walt Disney modeled Cinderella’s Castle at Disney World after this one, and it is supposed to be even better than Versailles, and significantly less crowded... though I will be there on a Saturday, so we’ll see. Where, though, but Paris can you say "oh, yes, I am off to spend the weekend in AUSTRIA, I’ll see you on Monday!"
Fait la bise,
B
P.S. Just found out two of my friends are engaged, plus a friend that I only met since coming to Paris, who is French. All of them are one year older than me.
Yeesh.

We have an apple tree in our garden... and, as my favorite French Grammar teacher says, "Your tree has only one apple on it?" So today I picked one, washed it, and ate it. That may not have been the BEST idea, since theoretically they could be not apples at all. ((In France, I have learned, there are many fruits that LOOK like US fruits but in fact are completely different. Groseilles, for example, or melons... who knows what they are exactly?))
I have also FINALLY finalized my courses... French grammar, History of 20th century France, Techniques des Arts Plastiques (historiography of methods of making art), and Archeologie de Rome et l’Italie. The grammar class and history class count directly toward my major (French)... hopefully the other two will go toward my Art History minor.
Saturday morning I walked down to a market that Madame told me about in our arrondissement– it’s pretty close, on a pieton street, closed to cars. During weekdays, it’s all just shops and restaurants, but little cute shops: a fromagerie, librairie, papeterie, boucherie, patisseries, boulangeries, a supermarche, and then a few nice cafes also. But on weekend mornings, the whole street (which is probably only about 2 blocks long) turns into an open air market; the shops all stand open, the supermarket has a bin of ice with shrimp, lobsters, and oysters waiting to be bought, a portable fruit stand is wheeled in with fresh figs, melons, plums, corn, and confiture. This week men dressed as Musketeers lined the street, bowing to unsuspecting American mademoiselles and handing out pamphlets about a Musketeer play being put on for the next two weeks in the Parc de Ranelagh. The best thing about the marche was that it is all just populated with locals from the 16eme arrondissement, who come out for the Saturday morning market the way people in the States go out to buy, I don’t know, doughnuts on a Saturday morning. So there are couples everywhere, strolling arm in arm with their leashed, invariably small dog behaving like a perfect princess. The dogs are invited into the store without exception, which is hilarious... it's like being in PetsMart everywhere you go, except with nicer animals.
Yesterday we had breakfast-slash-brunch at the apartment of a woman we met at church on Friday– she is half-English, half-French, so we had "scones and jam" and coffee and chocolate. Amazing. Plus it was nice hanging out with someone (nearly) my age who IS French. She’s lived in Paris all her life and knows it backwards and forwards, which was awesome– after brunch we went for a walk and ended up on the bank of the Seine, sitting on a wall with our feet over the edge, being waved at by all the tourists in the Bateaux-Mouches, who are always told by the boat tour guide that "in good weather the banks of the Seine turn into a French beach, as Parisians come to sit in the sun by the water." Such a fun and chill Sunday, doing the typical Parisian thing... I love it. The weather lately is beautiful, it’s autumn I suppose and the leaves are changing... though not as prettily as in the States. They just kind of turn a rusty shade of brown and then fall off (they must all be the same kind of tree, because they are all the exact same color...)
Last night while recopying class notes from Franglais into French, I turned on the tiny TV in my room for the first time ever... and found nothing but an episode of CSI (translated as "Les Experts"), dubbed in French, which I watched, though it was about as annoying as Godzilla movies where the mouths are not in line with the words.
I have amazing pictures, but can't post them because the site is down. Soon, j'espere.
Faire le bise pour moi!
~Blair

This was my first week of classes... Ha.

Wow. That is all I have to say. I am sure now that I know why Emory requires 5 semesters of French before coming here... getting through the lectures of my 4 classes every week is going to be ridiculously hard. But I will make it, especially since hopefully my French will continue to improve as I am here longer... But it is hard because a lot of the art vocabulary that I need to know I don’t know in English– and hence know almost NONE of it in French. But I run around with my Cassell’s French and English Dictionary in my bag all the time... it must weigh 5 extra pounds but I can’t make it through the day without it. ((sidenote: I discovered a French band called "Les Blaireux." It means BADGER in French. Not the verb, though– the noun. As in, smallish furry rodent.))
Friday my roommate Jessi and I attempted to go to the French Resto-U (slang for "Restaurante Universitaire). It’s like the equivalent of their university dining halls, but since there are bits of French University all over Paris, there are also Resto-U’s all over the city. So we go today (because since we are French students we get free meals there), and realize immediately that although we are experienced DUC-diners (the Emory dining hall), here we have no idea what is going on. So we just joined the line and decided to hope for the best. Luckily we have become good at both pretending we know what is going on and also watching other people to see what they do... so we made it through without incident. At the Resto-U, a meal is 2,70 Euros if you don’t have a coupon. But if you have one, you get a plat (main course), 2 composes (sides), and pain (bread). So we had a typical-ish college dining hall meal, with this stuff called "Creme de Normandie" or something for dessert... The lid said it was made with real cheese... and it tasted like vanilla yogurt mixed with sour cream. Not the best thing I have had since arriving in this country, but I mean... I suppose it is typical French because everyone there was eating it like it was nothing out of the ordinary.
Have still been going to the Hillsong church here; it takes four Metro lines for me to get there from my apartment, but it is totally worth it. And besides the fact that I like having a church here, since everything there is conducted in both French and English I feel like it helps my language skills a lot.
Saturday night was "La Nuit Blanche 2006" across Paris... It means "White Night" and I don’t completely understand the concept, but I think it is just like a new European thing to do. It was a full moon, and they opened one Metro line all night long (usually the Metro doesn’t run from 1h00 to 5h00) and pretty much everything in the city was doing something special. I discovered, in my wanderings of Paris, this amazing restaurant district just next to the Seine on the Left Bank; it’s all winding narrow alley-ish streets lined with restaurant after restaurant: Tunisian, Lebanese, Greek, Thai, Indian, Italian, Spanish, French, and... drum roll... MEXICAN. The streets are not even wide enough for a large van to go through, but it doesn’t matter because it is all Pietons streets (Pedestrian). The few blocks that comprise the area are not at all regular city blocks, the roads all curve and wrap around and fork out– Baron Haussmann definitely never made it here in his renovation of Paris. It was just like walking down the street in the opening song of Beauty and the Beast, when she walks through the crowded marketplace. So to satiate my Mexican craving, Jessi, Jossclyn (another girl from our program) and I visited the Tampico Cantina on Saturday night. To sum up the experience: the chips we ordered at the beginning of the meal came with nacho cheese dust on them... like Doritos. I think that is enough said. Crepes for dessert, and then off to Notre-Dame because, in honor of Nuit Blanche there were Mozart concerts going on all night, and the cathedral, which usually closes at dusk-ish, was open until 1h00. The concert was free and awesome, and being in Notre Dame at night was amazing... They had it lit just with candles, and it was beautiful. And the best part? Since it is a terribly French night with not a huge amount of publicity, there were NO tourists to be found. Outside the Cathedral when we emerged were people juggling flamesticks; people doing interpretive dance, breakdancing, and doing rollerblade tricks. Amazing. Only in France.
We ran into a guy in a Subway uniform on the end of the Pont des Arts on our way home (mind you, it was 11pm at least by this time) trying to hand out Subway coupons or pamphlets or something– apparently they just opened one in Paris. So he yells to us as we walk by, "COME TO SUBWAY! It’s better for you than smoking cigarettes!" Which I thought was odd for two reasons: first, none of us were smoking, and second, he yelled it in English. I realized immediately it was an American accent (here when people can speak English it is always with a British accent, not American). So in surprise, I turn back to him and without thinking about the fact that, though he was about my age, he was a complete stranger and blurted, "Are you American?" prompting the two girls I was with to burst into hysterics. He looked just as surprised as me, probably thinking he was speaking to three French girls who would never understand what he had just said, but in a Pepe LePew-esque voice he answered, "Yes, of course I am, why else would I be stuck with this ridiculous accent?" This is what it is like to live in a foreign country, though: he was from the US, so I immediately considered him an ally of sorts. I had half a mind to stop and ask where he was from, but then had to remind myself that it is not like he said he was from North Carolina, or even the South, but just the States in general. And really, the US is about the size of, oh, you know, the entire CONTINENT of Europe, so it’s not like any wonder that we happened to be from the same country. What IS wondrous is how he got a work permit... hmmmm.
At the end of October one of my favorite bands (Panic! At the Disco) is coming to Paris– I bought my ticket today at fnac– the French Ticketmaster. That was an adventure in itself, and so different from getting tickets to anything in the States. But now I am going to see them at the Elysee-Montmartre (just down the road from the Moulin Rouge...) in 3 weeks!
More soon!
L'amour, Bises!
~B

Oh my...

Monday I was walking through the quartier where my classes are and passed a beautiful Gothic cathedral just across from the Pantheon. I must have walked past it 100 times and just never noticed it... So I went in quietly and the place was awesome. All Gothic with amazing stained glass, it was built in the 1600's or something, and just gorgeous. Then I noticed there were pictures everywhere of various popes (as recent as John Paul II) leading mass there... and as I circled the sanctuary, I came across the tomb of Sainte Genevieve. She’s the patron saint of Paris, and so obviously a BIG deal here. And nobody knows about this church, it’s not a tourist landmark, it’s just THERE with her solid gold sarcophagus in an apse off the main part of the church. Again, I will never understand how this country could just leave something like that without making a bigger deal of it. All around the church were stories carved into the stones of the building of Sainte Genevieve appearing to Parisians or the French in times of crisis– again, like when the Germans were invading during WWI.
Also, I found out over the weekend that there is a Monet museum IN MY ARRONDISSEMENT. Not knowing this is like... living in Largo and not knowing there is a Monet museum in Seminole. It’s not just Monet, but the collection in it came mostly from Monet’s grandson and some other guy, so it is named after the two of them. And the entire bottom floor is Monet’s works. Famous ones, too. The bridges, mostly, and the nympheas (waterlilies), and the Houses of Parliament. Amazing. Tons and tons of them, huge, in the middle of a street of apartments just down the road from me. And also medieval manuscripts and tapestries, and famous works by Degas, Renoir, Manet, Morisot, and tons of other people, all just in this tiny building that used to be an apartment! A large apartment, granted, but still. A block away from the museum is the Parc de Ranelagh, where I hung out afterwards reading... French parks are still nothing like US ones. You generally can’t walk on the grass, just on gravelled paths, and there are sculptures everywhere– nice ones, not like the copper colored ones in the fountains at malls in the States. The whole place was beautiful, and I still can’t believe it took me a month of living here to find it.
Saturday afternoon I went to a French flea market. It’s in the 20th arrondissement, which means It is about a 45 minute Metro ride from where I live, and all the way on the outskirts of Paris. I went with Rachel, my friend from high school who is studying here, and ended up glad I wasn’t alone. It was sort of like flea markets in the States, selling a lot of junk (except this junk was fake Limoges china instead of chainsaw blades with deer heads painted on them) and some cool stuff (bolts and bolts of cloth, pashmina scarves, tea sets, old books...) And also a little bit like the Woolly Worm, much as I hate to say it... there were trailers selling fried food at all corners of the market, though the stuff they sold was still more French than what’s sold at the Woolly Worm. No cinnamon rolls, alas. But there were also carnival-style games and people yelling for us to come look at their stalls, like at the one Mexican market I have been to, though less pushy. One guy (who clearly spoke NO English) tried to convince Rachel and I he was American... and then asked us both for our numbers. Shady. But we also got asked several times if we were Anglaise instead of Americaine, and I LOVE THAT. Because it means the accent, the style of dress, and the attitude of the States is disappearing. I bought a few Christmas presents, my family will be impressed it took me moving to another continent to get me to buy Christmas presents from a flea market. (P.S. In French they are still called flea markets– "Marches des Puces.")

Sidenote: it's finally gotten cool in Paris-- we had one day of bitter cold rain, and then just like in Atlanta, that meant the beginning of... I don't know, winter? autumn? But last night I slept with my down comforter all night and was snug and cozy. So today I am leaving my class and pause outside to put on my jacket-- I had my headphones on so I am used to people not talking to me when I am wearing them-- but this old woman stops me and says (all in French, of course) something to the effect of "The whole world is sad, mademoiselle!" And I took out my headphones and said "Pardon?" in my best French accent. And she (who was about 1 meter tall) said "The whole world, mademoiselle, is it sad?" And I said, "Ahhh, ce n'est pas vrai, j'espere..." which was my best effort at "I hope not." And she says something like (this is the best I got out of it, because she was quite difficult to understand, being only a meter high and speaking in French), "well, if the world is not said, why aren't you smiling? Il faut que tu ris un petit peu-- you ought to smile a little bit, for what could a young jolie femme (pretty girl) like you have to be sad about?" I suppose I must not have been smiling... it was cold, I was tired and in a hurry, but she caught me totally off guard. So I grinned and (trying not to sound American) told her I would try to. And she asked me if I was English, I said yes, because sometimes I still forget that BEING English and SPEAKING English are two very different things. She told me she went to college in England, and then quite abruptly said "au revoir" and was off to cheer up someone else. I feel like things like that just don't HAPPEN to me in the US. Or maybe I just don't notice. But it was cool.

A few minutes later, still grinning and listening to my headphones again, I wandered into a papeterie to buy school supplies and the WINDOW-WASHER of all people stopped me and was like, "Pardon, mademoiselle, mais je veut vous dire que vous etes tres mignon." "Excuse me, miss, but I wanted to tell you that you are very cute." It HAD to be the smile that the old woman put on my lips. Hahaha.

Still have mono-induced exhaustion-- yesterday when I finally got home from classes I fell asleep, quite by accident FOR THREE HOURS. I guess I needed it... The French have this saying, "Metro, boulot, dodo" and it means "Commute, work, sleep," because so many people have to live so far out of town that once work is over they come straight home and just stay in. Everyone keeps telling us not to do that, that we should be enjoying our stay here, etc. but now that classes have started and I can barely hold my eyes open, I feel like I am in danger of becoming the living example of the "Metro/Boulot/Dodo" lifestyle.
Oh well, I'm doing my best. And still always having fun.
L'amour,
B

On a random note...

The French don’t pasteurize their cheese. Which is odd because there is a Boulevard and a Metro stop named for Pasteur. I am also not sure that they iodize their salt, but since I have not seen people walking around with goiters, I feel like they must.

They don’t use toilet paper holders, which is just kind of weird.

And almost no one has clothes dryers. This has a profound effect on my everyday life because it means
1)my jeans are constantly baggy from not going through the dryer. Probably this is due in some part to me buying them with the wrong fit or something, but the fact remains that they barely stay up now and I am strongly considering suspenders as a viable method to alleviate this.
2)EVERYTHING is crunchy. I realize that for years people lived with no clothes drying machines, but once you are used to it anything NOT dried is hard and crispy.
3)Fabric softener was made to remedy this problem. But I have never used it, so no one told me that it STAINS. Consequently, everything I washed last night is going to have to be REWASHED because there are large fabric softener spots on it all.
4)I now have to iron almost everything I own. This is a completely novel concept to the 20-year-old 21st-century college student... I own a bottle of Downy Wrinkle Releaser (in the States) and am a firm believer in the concept of hanging things in the shower to steam the wrinkles out. And now I have to iron almost everyday. My grandmother would be proud. I have even learned the appropriate temperature settings to use for different fabrics IN CENTIGRADE.

I was supposed to start classes last Wednesday. After making the commute to the University, I got there to find out that they changed their mind and classes start next week. In France, the university system can just do that. No one complains because the people who live here pay next to nothing to go, since it is like our public school system.

They also write their dates backwards from the US way, which is only confusing on days like September 10 or October 9... But really I like their way better now that I have gotten used to it. It makes much more sense. They also only use military time. Which really also makes much more sense... you never have to clarify am or pm.

Furthermore, the International House of Pancakes is really anything but. Not that I frequent IHOP in the US... ok, who am I kidding, like any good college student, I have spent my fair share of midnight breakfasts there... in many states. And usually I don’t even really LIKE it that much, it’s just something you do with your friends when it is 3am and everyone is hungry. But in Europe they don’t eat pancakes. They do, in France, eat waffles, but only with honey or whipped cream or nutella and bananas. No French toast either. And hence this mild craving for maple syrup has gone unfulfilled because for all I know they don’t even have maple trees here. But in an effort to satiate my maple desires, lightning struck my brain and I realized that IHOP is not only international but they even do you the service of telling you so in their title. Alas, though... it is all a sham.

The following are things that are not good in France:
Croque Monsieur. It’s some kind of toasted bread with a mayonnaisey sauce and cheese and ham. Eww.
Salad Mixte. Already covered.
Sandwiche Nicoise. Not bad... but not good either.
Couscous. Though this one is probably more my fault for not knowing how to cook it.
Mandarin Pressee. It’s supposed to be mandarin juice... but something went wrong, I think.
Frozen pizzas here are good. They usually come with some kind of random topping, including but not limited to whole black olives. This would not be odd except that, since they are whole, they still have pits in them. Are you supposed to swallow them? I don’t know.

This is just for your edification, I have no experience with the following, but also at the grocery store they sell... well, in the States we have those plastic bowls of dry noodles that you just add water to and microwave and then you have, like, beef stroganoff or something. You know what I am talking about? Well, here they have the same thing. BUT IN THE VARIETY OF STEWED RABBIT.

Madame’s 4-year-old grandson made her a list of things that he likes to eat and doesn’t like to eat. It’s posted on her refrigerator, and among the things he likes is "Pate au canard" and "fromage, surtout chevre." Duck pate, and cheese, especially goat cheese. This is a 4 year old. And it’s not like this kid is pampered, that’s just how they roll here.

I have learned, finally, to avoid ligne 1 on the Metro. Not only are the trains always obnoxiously crowded on that line, but I have also come to the conclusion that the RATP only puts new train drivers on it. They swerve and rock and go too fast and then stop short, squeal the brakes, make sparks fly in the windows. How does one even go about swerving on a piece of TRAIN TRACK? I don’t know, but the line 1 operators have a gift for it.

But at the Louvre if you have an art history student ID, you can bypass ALL the lines at the main entrance and sneak in the back way. You don’t even have to go through security that way. Amazing.

Also, you know your French is getting better when you can explain to your Madame, in French, what to do with the honeycomb in the jar of honey you gave her. And when you can explain the concept of wireless internet (WiFi, pronounced WeeFee here) to her. I don’t really even understand that in ENGLISH. Ha.

Today I went down to the office of the Emory/Duke/Cornell program just to pick up mail and check on a class time for tomorrow, and it is a good thing I did because I found out NONE OF THE CLASSES I CHOSE ARE AVAILABLE. Somehow they gave us the list to choose classes for semesters 2 and 4, which are spring only... and so after having been here a month and having chosen my classes 3 weeks ago, I had to rechoose them all on the night before classes start.

Which reminds me... my friends at Emory just finished midterms. And I have not started classes yet. What?

Also, am back at my favorite wireless bar, Petit Defi au Passy, and it is raining so of course the dog is in here too, and they are out of white wine. A bar. This place, I have decided, is roughly the equivalent of the Pizza Hut in Beattyville, KY that had to close down 4 years ago because they kept running out of cheese. A bar running out of WHITE WINE is DEFINITELY on par with that. I've been here before, too, when they couldn't make coffee because the espresso machine was broken and one time when they had no milk for cafe au laits. Their menu is small but has appetizers and desserts for customers... Jessi and I came once for dessert and were told that they had NO desserts here. None, not like they just ran out of one, but they had none of them. I will never understand this country.

And all of that is why I love this place.
~B

Churching:
In France, this entire concept is confusing and requires quite an explanation.
First, the first few Sundays we were here, Jessi and I went to an English-speaking Anglican service at a British church in Paris called St. Michael’s. It was good, very similar to the Episcopal services I went to this summer... including the Eucharist at the end. Now, not only had I forgotten (despite the many lessons) whether it is left hand in right or right hand in left (I blame the fact that it is backwards for me since I am a leftie), but I had also forgotten what you are supposed to say after the priest says "the body of Christ, shed for you" or whatever it is he says. This would have all been do-able, however, except that I ALSO found out I have mono... In the States, that is not a problem in my experience because you can get away with just dipping your wafer in the wine instead of drinking it. But maybe that is an Episcopal thing or maybe that is an American thing, because at this church nobody did that. And believe me, I watched hard. And because I saw nobody do it, and didn’t want to be the only one, I decided it would be better for me to not take communion, so as to avoid creating a mono outbreak in the St. Michael’s congregation. This too, was awkward, when the guy who was supposed to signal us to the front got to me and was like, "it’s ok if you don’t belong to this church, you can still go ahead." Very nice, but what am I supposed to say, "no, sorry, I am contagious." Awkward. But there is this awesome British priest at that church who I just want to sit and have tea with, because he seems like that kind of person. Plus he is old enough to be my grandfather, and I must have read too many mystery novels in my lifetime, because he seems like the perfect candidate to be a sleuth.
We found out about a Hillsong church in Paris, too. Hillsong is an Australian church that is huge there and I have heard some of the music and sermons coming out of their church, and they are pretty good, so we decided to go– it meets on Friday nights and we thought it would be in French and maybe a good way to improve our skills. So last week we went and it was really awesome. They had music more like my church in Atlanta, which was cool, AND the whole thing was bilingual. The music had lyrics in both French and English, and when the guy got up to speak, one of the guys from the band stayed on stage the whole time and interpreted everything he said into French. I am sure it was great for our comprehension having it in both languages, though it did mean that everything took twice as long because it had to be said twice. But it was a lot of fun, and I definitely want to go back.
Yesterday, despite all my misgivings and trepidation, I decided to brave Montmartre-Sacre Coeur. Sacre Coeur (Sacred Heart) is a cathedral on the outskirts of Paris, on top of a steep hill overlooking all of Paris. It’s kind of a Taj Mahal looking building from the outside, all white marble or something with round almost onion-domes, and after getting off the Metro, you have to take the Funiculaire to get to the top of the mountain. (If, that is, you have mono. If you were healthy you could probably walk it, since it is nowhere near as rough as the trails I hiked this summer. : ) ) So you get off the cable-car-esque Funiculaire and the church is right in front of you. I climbed the myriad steps to go in, and it was beautiful– all the art in it is mosaics, which is cool. But the first thing I noticed was that all the words in the mosaics and stained glass were in FRENCH, not Latin. Then I saw a sign that explained the cathedral was finished in 1914. I immediately deemed that fact lame, as the church is not even 100 years old (Notre Dame is 600 or something). But then I kept wandering and found a sign about how during WWI congregants gathered there to pray for Paris when it became apparent they were going to be bombed. 13 bombs were dropped on Montmartre (the mountain that the church is on) that night while they were there praying, aimed for the houses nearby and the church, and every bomb missed and no one was injured. Pretty cool. And the statues and cupola were also beautiful. The view was highly overrated– bird’s eye view of Paris in the daytime is nothing to write home about... just smoggy and crowded. At night I am sure it would be pretty, but it’s a supershady area and I would never go in the dark. Eventually I wandered back out into the bright sunlight, only to see a very very old Asian man with a white ponytail playing REM’s "Man On The Moon" on the front steps of the Sacre Coeur. I gave him all the centimes I had in my pocket just for being cool. The crypte under the cathedral is free, so I went down there too– it’s not a crypt, just another tiny sanctuary and the stations of the cross, and a few more reliquaries, which were cool. Most of them were full of bits of bone, but not labeled as to WHOSE bones they were. A few cardinals were buried down there too, but mostly pretty recently since it’s not been around that terribly long. Also, in the back of the main cathedral there is a statue of Saint Pierre holding the keys to Heaven... and EVERYONE that walked by rubbed his foot. Thoughts? I suppose I should look this up– it’s probably some well-known Blarney Stone kind of legend that I have just never heard of, but I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t do it, because the art history student in me screamed that that is terrible for the statue... but I am still curious. Next to Saint Pierre, there is also what looked like the Shroud of Turin– it was backlit on an X-ray style board with a face and a crown of thorns wound around the man’s head... But I thought no one had one with an actual face? Again, I suppose I just need to look it up.

That is Sacre-Coeur. From the bottom of Montmartre (literally, "hill of martyrs). It's some kind of weird melange of the Taj Mahal and Notre Dame... from the outside anyway.

And a random note: last night for dinner I had baguette with grapefruit marmalade, melon (some weird but delicious kind that has not made it to the US yet), prosciutto, comte cheese and capers. I have truly acclimated to this kind of diet well. Ha! But then last night I got a wicked craving for grilled cheese, so today my plan is to scour the city of Paris till I find cheddar cheese and some sort of bread that can be sliced instead of just torn apart baguette-style.
Bisous,
B