I realize that probably half of what I say is about the language barrier, but it’s because a) it is the common denominator of everything that happens to me here and 2) it is something I never understood the depth of until I was living in it. When people ask me what’s so spectacular about Paris, why I enjoy living here so much, I never feel that I can adequately answer. How can I encapsulate all the fun and magic and beauty and fabulousness that fills this place in one or two sentences? It’s somehow worse when Parisians ask me, because then not only am I doing it in my second language, but to them, Paris is just where they live. It would be like someone spouting to me how wonderful it is to live close to the beach– I agree, but to me it is nothing special, it’s just a fact of life, because that is where I grew up.
So what do I say when they ask? The same thing every time. "I love Paris because it’s like everything here is a grand adventure just waiting to be had; nothing is simple, nothing can ever go as planned, it is always much more glorious and much more complicated (and thus much more hilarious) than life anywhere else." I’ve come to understand my life in Paris as a product of the language barrier: multiply a normal 21-year-old by another language in another country, and there you have it. Because it seems that, in Paris, I only ever understand somewhere between 65% and 75% of what is happening. I am completely ok with that, which is what makes it weird. Because when you factor in my lack of knowledge of what’s going on and add that to the different culture, you end up with... well, adventure. And I love that about living here. Once I came to grips with the fact that everything will take longer and I generally won’t understand why, things came to be much more interesting.
But sometimes I have to remind myself of how much I love that. Like today. First of all, I left the US a week ago, but since all I have had to do since then is hang out with my friends and go shopping, I haven’t really bothered getting back on Paris time. It is difficult to get adjusted when flying East (much worse than when going West, particularly if one doesn’t sleep on the plane), and to really do it requires wandering catatonically for several days until your body gives up on catching up and just starts over. I hate that feeling, so I tried to do it gradually. I realized today that I have done a horrible job and am, in fact, not living on Paris time, but not on US time either– I’ve invented my own time zone, somewhere neither North America or Europe, and I think now that I have made this mess, I should just be locked in a pitch black room for 30+ hours and then be woken up one morning just in time for sunrise. Anyway, that is subsidiary to the real story of today:
Last night I had a church thing and didn’t make it home until midnight, which was fine, but this morning I was supposed to be awake at 7am to get ready for class. This should have been fine, but I couldn’t fall asleep. So at like 130am I gave up trying, turned on my computer, and watched Willy Wonka (the new version), which did nothing for me except convince me that I have been doing a terrible job on my Johnny Depp quest. (What quest, you may be asking, to which I respond, The same quest any woman would be on when put for 10 months in the same country as Jack Sparrow. I want to meet him. He lives here somewhere, it can’t be that difficult, right?) Anyway, after the movie I laid back down and still couldn’t sleep– the last time I looked at the clock, it was 5am. So I somehow wrestled myself out of my warm bed this morning at the crack of dawn.
7am: Alarm goes off, I hit snooze. ("I’ll just hurry.")
710am: Alarm. Snooze. ("I won’t straighten my hair.")
720am: Alarm. Snooze. ("I won’t wash my hair."
735am: Alarm. Snooze. ("I won’t shower.")
750am: Alarm. Snooze. ("How badly do I really have to go to this particular class?")
8am: Alarm. I get tangled in the duvet and fall out of bed, luckily not breaking my wrist this time. Without even thinking about what I am doing, I somehow make a pot of coffee before realizing I have no time to drink it, as I must be out my door in 20 minutes. Shouldn’t be a problem, except of course it is. So I pull on yesterday’s clothes and try to cover up the circles under my eyes, which couldn’t possibly have worked, but I leave anyway.
When I get to the metro, there is, of course, some kind of delay, so I am now going to be late for sure. Eventually I get to the stop (a 10-minute walk from the University), at the exact time class is supposed to start. Perfect. So I go as fast as I can, but of course am late. I get to the classroom 10-ish minutes late, but there is no one there. Excellent. I missed class last week because I was... well... out of the country, and so I decided they must have met at the Louvre this week and I was just not aware. Oh well, hour and a half wait till my next class, so I wandered Chinatown listening to the Gin Blossoms for awhile, and then came back for the second class. I was 20 minutes early, but that usually doesn’t matter because French kids are always early. No one there. So I wait. And wait. Until the time class is supposed to start, and still no one.
Which means: I had no class today and gave up my bed for nothing, and more importantly but less immediately painfully, I thus have no idea when my finals are for those two classes. And of course, I am the only American in them and hence have no one else’s contact info from those courses. Perfect. My life is amazing.
Otherwise...
I have a Chink hat. Now, before you get all politically correct, let me explain. I had a great-great-uncle or something whose name was, quite truly, Chink. I am 21 years old and to this day have no idea if this guy even had a name other than Chink. He lived somewhere far away and by all accounts was slightly crazy, but one of those crazy people that you want to get to know because they are so cool. Despite me having never met him, when I was young he made my entire family Chink hats, which are basically just loose stocking caps. Not extremely useful in Florida, and thus I don’t believe I ever wore mine– it was never cold enough. But when I moved to Paris, all that changed. And the weekend I spent in Austria in the fall was cold enough that I decided I needed one. So I bought a legit Swiss one, much to the chagrin of my family when they found out I had paid for one. ("I have a whole box of them you could have picked from!") My respect for Uncle Chink has skyrocketed every time I wear the hat. Not only does it keep my head dry and warm, it also is perfect, as I now know, for covering up day-old bedhead. I didn’t even brush my hair this morning– just pulled my black-with-embroidered-flowers stocking cap on as I ran out the door to the Passy metro, and all was well.
And now, a rant. What I have to say in the next paragraph is not going to be worth reading, and I know that despite having not written it yet. So you should probably just stop here. But I am going to write it anyway. I hate ticket scalpers, and I particularly detest the newest breed, the cyber-scalper. One of my favorite American bands (I realize I say that a lot, but it’s always true) is coming to Paris in a couple weeks. The tour was announced while I was in the US, so I only found out about it a few days ago, and it was sold out, despite their lack of fame here. Naturally, I was confused, but the woman at Fnac (French equivalent of ticketmaster) told me I should check Ebay France, so I did, and what do I find? Loads of tickets. Ok, some people are selling one or two– that is exactly the amount I need, and quite honest. A friend bails out, you miscount when you order, whatever, and somehow end up with 1, max 2, extra tickets, so you sell them on Ebay with that feature where you put it on at face value and wait for someone to buy it, not auction it off. THEN I find seller after seller with 17, 20, or 30 tickets for auction, which means, of course, they are going for upwards of 30Euros each when they were sold originally for 12, which makes me unbelievably angry because they not only hog all the tickets, but then we, the unfortunate ones who were unlucky enough to be in this country when tickets went on sale, are completely suckered into pandering to their every demand– the band comes out even on this one, because they get paid the same no matter how much we pay for our standing room ticket. The fans come out way behind because they get stuck paying 30 or 40 Euro for a nosebleed or moshpit ticket, to a person who is now going to use that cash to buy more tickets to the next concert coming to town, making it a terrible vicious cycle, and the worst part is that there is absolutely nothing anyone can do– ticket limits work (sort of) in the US because virtually everyone orders tickets online or over the phone, but here, since Fnac is a storefront found in nearly every arrondissement, people pay cash and buy as many as they want.
But I don’t want to end on that note, so I will also tell you this: remember when I bought that Killers ticket, in, like, NOVEMBER for a concert in March? My french friends from church all teased me about it, because I guess the Killers aren’t as big here as I thought, and my French friends were all, "Oh, I can’t believe you bought your ticket already! The concert is 5 months away!" and "I bet it’s in a frame on your wall!" "No, I bet it’s under your pillow when you sleep at night!" and "How can you listen to music by a band with a name like that!? It sounds so violent! I bet they are like, hard metal death rock, aren’t they?" but obviously they are not. So over Christmas break I made my Swedish friend a mix CD with a couple Killers songs on it and she loved it, enough to go buy their newest album. She shared it with her roommate, and the two of them convinced another mutual friends to come, and now they have invited all kinds of people from church, so what was Blair going out on a Thursday night to the Zenith alone to see her favorite Vegas American band (which I totally didn’t mind) has become, as of the church meeting thing last night, over a dozen people, most of whom have not heard their music! I had no idea it would grow so big, but I’m psyched now– it’s gonna be even better with 20 of us than it would have been with just me.
Linguistic challenge of the week: trying to explain last night in French the music style of the Killers. Yo, try it in ENGLISH and you will see how hard it is; the best I could do was compare them to other indie American bands, which obviously did not help with this particular crowd.
Smiling like I mean it,
B
P.S. In case this has given you any ideas, I ALREADY HAVE BOTH OF THE KILLERS ALBUMS (hence them being my favorites), but I don’t have "30 Seconds To Mars" by 30 Seconds To Mars... just throwing that out there.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
While I was in the US for Christmas, my aunt asked me if I had been forced to eat anything really gross since coming to Europe. The worst thing I could think of was the Croque Monsieur I had once ordered by accident. All that is changed now. Tonight Madame invited me to have dinner with her (and her 8-year-old granddaughter). I of course accepted, since I hadn’t been to the grocery store yet. So I walk into the kitchen and she has made paella. Or perhaps she ordered it from somewhere, but the point is, she puts it on the table and it is full of whole shrimp (still looking at me– maybe they were crawfish or something because they were huge. And their antennae had come off and were all through the bowl of rice. And their heads and legs and shells were all still attached.), whole cracked oysters (with shells), and... I kid you not, as though the shrimp were not bad enough, miniature whole octopi. That is, more than one octopus. Or squid, I don’t know. But they had these yellowish round heads the size of a cherry tomato and then eight short little legs (either they were babies or a very small species of octopus. Either way I am NOT okay with that). And what are you supposed to do about that? One has no choice but to eat it, so I took mine in big bites with lots of saffron rice, chewing only as much as necessary and then swallowing quickly.
For dessert we had a galette de roi (King’s Pancake), which is of course not a pancake at all but this large round flaky pastry thing that the French eat from January 7 to the 31st to commemorate the gifts brought to Jesus by the wisemen. Somewhere in the cake, there is hidden a feve, a tiny present for whoever bites down on it first. So you have to eat the cake all in one sitting, and in order to prevent cheating by the server, the youngest person at the table climbs under the table, and the oldest person serves it. As the server cuts each piece, she asks the kid under the table who to give that piece to, and since the child can’t see, it is all fair. So tonight Camille is under the table and Madame is serving, and I am just sitting there confused until I bite onto something porcelain and pull from my bite a tiny Egyptian painting. That is what the prize was, a scene of three Egyptian people making papyrus, painted on porcelain. How cute of a party, though! Madame asked, "Are you Catholic, or Protestant?" as though those were the only two options, and when I said Protestant, she asked, "Oh, well then do you know the story of the Magi?" And I do, but not nearly as in depth as Catholic French people, apparently (I thought, according to tradition, they arrived at the manger on January 6, Epiphany on our calendar. But Madame said they only eat Galettes de Roi from January 7 onwards because that is when they arrived.) And I also only knew the name of one of them– Balthasar. 8-year-old Camille knew all three.)
I think I must have eaten five or six of Ariel’s friends, and I can never call myself a vegetarian again... I ate an octopus.
~B
For dessert we had a galette de roi (King’s Pancake), which is of course not a pancake at all but this large round flaky pastry thing that the French eat from January 7 to the 31st to commemorate the gifts brought to Jesus by the wisemen. Somewhere in the cake, there is hidden a feve, a tiny present for whoever bites down on it first. So you have to eat the cake all in one sitting, and in order to prevent cheating by the server, the youngest person at the table climbs under the table, and the oldest person serves it. As the server cuts each piece, she asks the kid under the table who to give that piece to, and since the child can’t see, it is all fair. So tonight Camille is under the table and Madame is serving, and I am just sitting there confused until I bite onto something porcelain and pull from my bite a tiny Egyptian painting. That is what the prize was, a scene of three Egyptian people making papyrus, painted on porcelain. How cute of a party, though! Madame asked, "Are you Catholic, or Protestant?" as though those were the only two options, and when I said Protestant, she asked, "Oh, well then do you know the story of the Magi?" And I do, but not nearly as in depth as Catholic French people, apparently (I thought, according to tradition, they arrived at the manger on January 6, Epiphany on our calendar. But Madame said they only eat Galettes de Roi from January 7 onwards because that is when they arrived.) And I also only knew the name of one of them– Balthasar. 8-year-old Camille knew all three.)
I think I must have eaten five or six of Ariel’s friends, and I can never call myself a vegetarian again... I ate an octopus.
~B
Monday, January 15, 2007
Maybe I am getting sick. Maybe I am just getting old. But I feel like I have been run over by a herd of grizzly bears. I got in yesterday morning, by the time I got to my apartment, it was 10am. The woman I live with had a vase of cottage roses waiting for me in my room, and a new-to-me duvet. So I started unpacking, decided that was a stupid venture, showered and went to bed. For three hours. Because I didn’t sleep on the plane– at all. But then I had to get up and go straight to take an archaeology oral final in a language I had not spoken in two and a half weeks? Bad, bad idea. Whatever, I got myself there, to the Michelet building, and I wish there were words to describe this place. It is a building off of a public library, Lord only knows what it is supposed to be used for, but it is about three blocks from the restaurant district in the Latin Quarter (named for the language, not the region of Central America). I walk into the public library by accident first, which has these creaky iron doors at least twice as tall as me and twice as thick (this place had to have been some kind of medieval fortress– it’s only a couple blocks from the ruins of ancient 1st-century Paris). So then I am trying to figure out where I am going but all I see is a statue of Tiberius from ancient Rome... Emory has a cast of the same statue in the art history department building, but as I look around the Michelet building here in Paris, I realized that the statue here is likely the original, as the building appears at least that old. I found a passageway to the building next door, and then took a creaky cast-iron elevator to the top floor. When the doors open there, I am faced with this monstrous hallway stretching before me for what looked like kilometers. Apparently I just have an irrational fear of long hallways devoid of people, but it kind of creeped me out. All the doors were shut, and all I could hear was my heels tapping against the hardwood floor. Peeling paint. Tall doorframes on each side of me. I get to the end of the hallway and see a tiny handwritten sign directing me to the left, where another hallway stretches endlessly. This one, though, is lined on one side by windows that I can’t see out of because of the weird glare, but they stretch to the ceiling, at least 10 feet above my head. Finally I make it to the end of that hallway, and there is nothing there but a chair and an unlabeled door. Now, I have a completely rational fear of chairs sitting in the middle of nowhere by themselves. It probably has something to do with the place I worked last summer, but that is another story for another day. So trying not to be scared, I listened at the door of the unlabeled room, trying to determine if there was anyone inside. Hearing nothing, I sit down in the empty chair and try to review my notes... because... oh yeah, those three hours I slept? Those were my study hours. Thus I had somehow managed not to study... again. Ten minutes later my prof comes out and I am sitting there, probably looking sheepish, and he immediately starts speaking at me in rapid-fire French.
"FOCUS, B, JUST FOCUS!" I think to myself.
"Vous pouvez entrer maintenant pour votre examen orale, si vous voulez. Choisissez une option ici et puis vouz avez quinze minutes pour decider ce que vous voulez dire pour une presentation sur ca. D’accord?" Or something like that, he blurts out. I make my best, "I understand but will you please say that again" face, but it doesn’t work and I am stuck trying to figure out what to do. I notice the pack of Camels on the desk and all I can think is "perhaps I ought to take up smoking because maybe then when things like this happen and I have no way to respond, I could just take a drag and it would give me another moment to think. I wonder if he’d let me bum one? NO, NO, NO! Forget that plan! No ciggies! Just because all the French do it does not mean it is a good idea. They also drink coffee out of bowls. Shoot, he is still waiting for an answer..." But out loud all I say is "Ok... ca va bien." "Alright, that sounds good." And then choose a topic. Wonder of wonders, it is one I actually know about (or so I thought), and he looks disappointed that I have chosen it. Incidentally, it was the same building about which he called on me during class in November sometime, and I still didn’t know any more about the dagnab peristyle au fond. Anyway, I take my moment to prepare and then start talking about it, and he keeps writing things down as I speak and interrupting with "Ahh, oui!" and "Exactement!" enough that I know I am doing decently well. Then when I finish, he says, in French, "You mentioned that this room is a cubiculum. Are you sure about that?" But whenever a teacher asks that, you know that you, in fact, were not sure at all, despite how fervently you believed it three minutes ago while in the midst of your presentation. So I figure out what that room actually was, but in the process have to use the word for "roof." Now, this should not be a problem, right? I know words like that. BUT the thing is that the word for roof sounds very much like a dirty word in English. So I rarely use it. Actually, I have never used it. Because I can’t say it without thinking of the dirty English word, which makes me afraid I am going to pronounce it wrong and people will misunderstand. Gravely. And I definitely don’t want to make that error in front of my terribly glamourous French archaeology prof, so I rack my brain for another word. "Ceiling? No, I don’t know that word. Wall? No, he will have no idea what I am talking about. I got it! Top!" So I say something about the top of the building and he says, "Oui," and repeats the word for roof at me, clearly expecting me to repeat it, which usually I would do without hesitation, but this time I can’t do it with a straight face because it suddenly occurs to me that we are nothing but two 20-somethings sitting in the back deserted room of an ancient building in the middle of Paris at 630 on a Friday night talking about... well... I can’t even say it in English, but you get the idea. Something bad. So I look at him and try to remember that he has probably never even heard the word in English and so even if I mispronounce it, he won’t notice. But remember, this is the same professor to whom I asked, with regard to this exam, in a moment of language-barrier induced confusion, "do you want me?" and the thought of that freezes me up even more. But he is still looking at me waiting for me to repeat the word and go on with the sentence, and I can’t do it. I put on my best, "I still know what I am talking about even if it doesn’t seem like it" face, smile graciously, thank him, and continue, all without using the dreaded word.
Eventually I finish my explanation, and he says, "Very good, only why did you start at the back of the building? It would make much more sense to start from the front and work your way back..." and that was his biggest criticism. He gave me a nice speech about how difficult it must be, and taking that into account he was going to give me a 15. A 15 in France is like... I think... the highest B one can achieve (not to mention over twice as good as the grade I got on the written midterm I didn’t study for), so I was thrilled. I must not have looked it, though, and so he tried to explain... "15 in France, what is that like in the US? You use all those silly letter grades, so what would this be?" And so we sat there, with the Eiffel Tower blinking far out the window behind him, discussing the grading system in the US versus France, and then the fact that people in the Roman Empire ate in the same position in which they had orgies. Lovely, I don’t know how he knew that one, but it came up because he said I had described the triclinium wrongly. "It’s not just the dining room, it’s also the room where they hosted the orgies." I must have looked shocked, and he said, "That is why there were three walls of long benches all the way around. So people could lay on them while their servants fed them grapes." At least I think that is what he said. I kind of got distracted after the orgy part, which I only understood because it is pronounced the same in both languages.
From my favorite movie, paraphrased for this situation: "Honestly, anyone who can’t handle making a fool of themselves doesn’t deserve to [learn another language]."
Making a fool of myself daily in the name of Americans everywhere,
B
"FOCUS, B, JUST FOCUS!" I think to myself.
"Vous pouvez entrer maintenant pour votre examen orale, si vous voulez. Choisissez une option ici et puis vouz avez quinze minutes pour decider ce que vous voulez dire pour une presentation sur ca. D’accord?" Or something like that, he blurts out. I make my best, "I understand but will you please say that again" face, but it doesn’t work and I am stuck trying to figure out what to do. I notice the pack of Camels on the desk and all I can think is "perhaps I ought to take up smoking because maybe then when things like this happen and I have no way to respond, I could just take a drag and it would give me another moment to think. I wonder if he’d let me bum one? NO, NO, NO! Forget that plan! No ciggies! Just because all the French do it does not mean it is a good idea. They also drink coffee out of bowls. Shoot, he is still waiting for an answer..." But out loud all I say is "Ok... ca va bien." "Alright, that sounds good." And then choose a topic. Wonder of wonders, it is one I actually know about (or so I thought), and he looks disappointed that I have chosen it. Incidentally, it was the same building about which he called on me during class in November sometime, and I still didn’t know any more about the dagnab peristyle au fond. Anyway, I take my moment to prepare and then start talking about it, and he keeps writing things down as I speak and interrupting with "Ahh, oui!" and "Exactement!" enough that I know I am doing decently well. Then when I finish, he says, in French, "You mentioned that this room is a cubiculum. Are you sure about that?" But whenever a teacher asks that, you know that you, in fact, were not sure at all, despite how fervently you believed it three minutes ago while in the midst of your presentation. So I figure out what that room actually was, but in the process have to use the word for "roof." Now, this should not be a problem, right? I know words like that. BUT the thing is that the word for roof sounds very much like a dirty word in English. So I rarely use it. Actually, I have never used it. Because I can’t say it without thinking of the dirty English word, which makes me afraid I am going to pronounce it wrong and people will misunderstand. Gravely. And I definitely don’t want to make that error in front of my terribly glamourous French archaeology prof, so I rack my brain for another word. "Ceiling? No, I don’t know that word. Wall? No, he will have no idea what I am talking about. I got it! Top!" So I say something about the top of the building and he says, "Oui," and repeats the word for roof at me, clearly expecting me to repeat it, which usually I would do without hesitation, but this time I can’t do it with a straight face because it suddenly occurs to me that we are nothing but two 20-somethings sitting in the back deserted room of an ancient building in the middle of Paris at 630 on a Friday night talking about... well... I can’t even say it in English, but you get the idea. Something bad. So I look at him and try to remember that he has probably never even heard the word in English and so even if I mispronounce it, he won’t notice. But remember, this is the same professor to whom I asked, with regard to this exam, in a moment of language-barrier induced confusion, "do you want me?" and the thought of that freezes me up even more. But he is still looking at me waiting for me to repeat the word and go on with the sentence, and I can’t do it. I put on my best, "I still know what I am talking about even if it doesn’t seem like it" face, smile graciously, thank him, and continue, all without using the dreaded word.
Eventually I finish my explanation, and he says, "Very good, only why did you start at the back of the building? It would make much more sense to start from the front and work your way back..." and that was his biggest criticism. He gave me a nice speech about how difficult it must be, and taking that into account he was going to give me a 15. A 15 in France is like... I think... the highest B one can achieve (not to mention over twice as good as the grade I got on the written midterm I didn’t study for), so I was thrilled. I must not have looked it, though, and so he tried to explain... "15 in France, what is that like in the US? You use all those silly letter grades, so what would this be?" And so we sat there, with the Eiffel Tower blinking far out the window behind him, discussing the grading system in the US versus France, and then the fact that people in the Roman Empire ate in the same position in which they had orgies. Lovely, I don’t know how he knew that one, but it came up because he said I had described the triclinium wrongly. "It’s not just the dining room, it’s also the room where they hosted the orgies." I must have looked shocked, and he said, "That is why there were three walls of long benches all the way around. So people could lay on them while their servants fed them grapes." At least I think that is what he said. I kind of got distracted after the orgy part, which I only understood because it is pronounced the same in both languages.
From my favorite movie, paraphrased for this situation: "Honestly, anyone who can’t handle making a fool of themselves doesn’t deserve to [learn another language]."
Making a fool of myself daily in the name of Americans everywhere,
B
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Guess who’s back... back again...?
I spent the last 15 days in the US, living it up like a true gypsy. I spent 5 days in my car, hitting up each of the places I have called home, and generally making a whirlwind tour of the Southeastern US. I visited my favorite coffee shop in Raleigh with a friend from high school, snacked on pancakes and fried egg sandwiches at the best diner in Atlanta ("serving food that pleases since 1929") with an Emory friend, saw people I had not seen in 15 years at my family’s old church in Florida, spent the night on my aunt and uncle’s farm in central GA, ate bacon with a friend who never thought he would see the day I became a carnivore, reminded the congregation of Community Christian Church in Beattyville that the Rodeo Queen lives, and realized that being in shape and climbing around on mountains all summer does not mean that eating croissants and quiche every day is a good idea.
The highlight of the vacation-from-my-vacation-life-in-Paris, though, was definitely the night I spent on The Mountain in Kentucky. I worked last summer at this ridiculous and completely insane pseudo-episcopal camp exactly 1.3 kilometers from the dead Center of Nowhere, USA. (See entry from mid-November trip to Alsace for exact location of Centre de Nul Part, France.) That means that the exact Center is on the property of this camp. The camp happens to be the place where one severely handsome Backstreet Boy grew up, and that is a huge part of the reason I took the job to begin with. Because let’s discuss the concept of me working on a mountain for 10 weeks. First of all, I went, nearly immediately, from an electricity-free mountain to freaking Paris, France. But if you can get past the culture shock there (which I nearly didn’t), there is still the fact that it was me working on a mountain. I am not even Episcopal! I showed up for my first day of work only to find... no one. So I drove the circle of camp, and the first living soul I saw was this crazy Jesus-hippie-grizzly bear looking man on a roof. All I could think was that there was no way I was going to blend in.
Anyway, I, little Miss pretend-I-am-French, lived on this mountain, away from civilization, air conditioning, and the real world, for two and a half months or something. I wore no makeup (none, not even concealer. Not even lip gloss, I was down to just chapstick!)... let my hair air dry every morning and then put it in a ponytail (which for me is huge because if there is one thing you should know about me it is that I. Never. Put. My. Hair. In. A. Ponytail.). I even wore a polo shirt every Sunday for this place. Now that is dedication. (But I still rolled the sleeves up to make it a little less New England rich lame Jcrew prepster.) And then, to top that off, I lived in a building shared with several mice, hiked mountains in pouring rain or blistering sun (dragging kids along with me), and spent mornings at least once a week clambering through a cave full of bats by choice. I sweated through my shirt (like, literally through it) almost every day, but the kicker is that by 10 in the morning I was counting the minutes till I sweated through it, because once you do that, you cool down much faster. If ever there were a preconceived notion about me, if ever there were a situation that the majority of the world could not see me in, this would be it. The only thing I could see myself doing less than that would be hitchhiking. Or being put in jail. One down, one more to go, I guess. Anyway, despite my huge fear that I would not fit in, that I would be fired for being too prissy, that I would be the only one there who didn’t know everyone else, etc., it ended up being one wicked cool summer.
Hence the highlight of my trip. So I am getting dressed to go to the mountain last Saturday morning, and all I can think as I am trying to figure out what to wear is, "I really don’t want to go hiking. I am not in the shape I should be to do so, and plus it is cold. So, what can I wear that will be a legitimate excuse to not hike in? I know! Concert tee, black jeans, Chucks. Perfect." Little did I know what was in store...
The entire staff sans one showed up for the night, and we all decided to spend the night. So my boss tells us we can have Patterson, the building where the Bish stays when he comes to visit, so in theory it should be nice, but everyone knows that not only is it haunted but it is also crawling with mice and the value it is insured for, I suspect, greatly outweighs the value of the building. This summer the toilet in it broke, we found multiple dead (and worse, live!) mice, something went wrong with the electricity and the faucet on the outside wall started electrocuting people every time they touched it, the PA system running through it never worked, and there was at least three well-documented ghost sightings in the building. But with five ex-summer staff sleeping there, we thought we’d be fine. Oh, the mice didn’t get me. And the ghosts left us alone. But the rest of the staff? That’s a whole ‘nother banana.
We started the night at the campfire, where we made s’mores until the fire started to die and none of us could handle the idea of more soggy graham crackers. Post-campfire, we headed to the dining hall, which has this industrially-equipped restaurant-style kitchen that no one uses in the middle of the night... except us. So at midnight we stood in there, leaning against the counters and cooking chicken wings, fried cheese sticks ("what do you think would happen if we baked these?"), and spaghetti, and gorging ourselves on peanut butter brownies and cupcakes left over from dinner. Just like old times.
Eventually we head back to the building where we are going to spend the night, turn on the flame-lit furnace-slash-heater, and hang out doing absolutely nothing for hours at a time. It was just like over the summer after the kids had gone to bed, except that this time we didn’t have to be awake at 730 the next morning.
At 300am, we raided the cupboards of the building where we were, finding nothing but a freezer-burned bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit and a half-empty box of nutri-grain bars. I am 100% sure that I ate the other half of that box over the summer when I was hanging out in that building.
At 330, someone turned on Seinfeld.
At 345, we actually ate the Nutri-Grain bars... AND the biscuit.
At 4, I decided to go to bed, on the loveseat where I was laying.
At 405, the boys sneaked up behind me and roared loud enough that I jumped out of my skin and rolled onto the floor, giving me too much adrenaline to go back to sleep... for the moment.
At 500, I declared it really was time for bed, and that I still hate Seinfeld.
At 510, someone dogpiled me on the loveseat, but when I refused to move, I was picked up and carried across the room, in the arms of a guy three inches shorter than me.
At 515, only the three guys and I were awake. Suddenly one of them declared, "we’re going for a sunrise hike!" I quickly realized the ramifications of this proposition and immediately played possum, thinking maybe then I wouldn’t have to go.
At 517, he tried to pull one of the other guys into the hike, who replied, "I’m not going unless Blair does," knowing there was no way I would go.
At 518, I looked at the clock and realized I had to be up in 3 hours anyway... so why not?
The four of us– three ridiculously buff mountain men and me, the girl scared of cave crickets– headed to the camp store to equip ourselves, more out of force of habit than the actual need for provisions. Armed with nothing but a room-temperature bottle of water stuck in my back pocket and a worn-out hoodie, we took off. The trail was thick with fallen leaves, it was dark, I was in Chuck Taylors worn smooth from miles schlepped through the Paris subway, and it was muddy. But we made it... nearly. They were all fine... but I nearly bit it twice. Once I started to slip, remembered I was in my favorite black jeans, and managed to break my fall without my pants touching the mud. But I had forgotten what it was like to live on the mountain. Before I had hit the ground, before I even really knew I was falling, all three of them were laughing at me. But that is how you function when you live on a mountain in the general vicinity of Nowhere. If it had been them (which it never would have been), I’d have done the same. We got to the bottom of the cliff thing you have to climb up for the view of the sunrise, it was still foggy, and we realized it was still just as dark as it had been at midnight.
"What time is sunrise again?"
"Oh, I don’t know, somewhere between 7 and 830."
"What time is it now?"
"545."
They had decided we would watch it from the top of Wolf Pen, my favorite hike and probably the only reason I decided to go with. But to get to the top of Wolf Pen, you have to pull yourself up this mega-rock with ropes that have been there for ages. Not a problem if it is hot, and you are in hiking boots. Also not a problem if you are named Cliff and one of your parents is a mountain goat. But if you have spent the last four months climbing nothing more strenuous than a pseudo-mountain somewhere in Spain to see an ancient military fortress... and it is dark... and you are wearing tractionless Chucks...it’s a little more difficult. Because when it is cold, grabbing a rope just burns. But somehow we made it to the top, where I was convinced I saw an actual wolf. After ten minutes of hanging out on the top, one of the guys voted for leaving:
"Look how dark it is! The sun has got to be hours from rising! Let’s go get breakfast. I bet the cooks are here already..."
Another mountain goat-boy replies, "No, come on, we’ve got to stay! We’ve made it this far, and plus, everyone knows that it’s always darkest right before the sun comes up!"
The rest of us exchange looks.
I call him out on it: "Look, I am not even from the country and I know that bluegrass gospel song that says so... but I really think that is just a song meant to be, you know, figurative? I think once the sun is down it is dark, and if it’s dark, how can it be any darker? There are degrees of light, but not really degrees of dark. Either something is dark or it isn’t."
Long pause.
"The sun will be up soon. We’re staying."
We clambered around on the top, noticing the places where names are engraved, and how completely different the view is when there are not leaves obstructing it. We re-enacted our favorite hikes from the summer; "YOU ARE LOST!" and "Just take your time, there’s no rush..." and the girl who we had to carry up and the one that kicked Trina in the face, and the time I tried to run back from the Saddle, wiped out and still have the jagged scars to prove it and the time my boss forbid us to go and the time we girls went anyway, bear whistles blowing intermittently all the way. And then, what else are you supposed to do when you find yourself on a mountain, in the cold, before dawn? We spooned.
Anyway, soon the sun began to rise, lightening the whole sky almost immediately. We stood around and watched it and tried to stay warm with the geek button and hoods and whatever else we had, until we realized it was too cloudy for a good one, but we could see the parking lot and the cooks’ cars, and we knew breakfast was calling our names. I think that morning was the first time I ever made it to breakfast before my boss. Wearing last night’s clothes but otherwise none the worse for wear, we served breakfast and I remembered just exactly why, despite never meeting anyone more famous than Andy himself, I loved the mountain. (Hint: large kettles of grits, pans of country ham, fresh hot coffee at all hours of the day, and free Ale-8 in returnable bottles, the only kind worth drinking.)
Said my goodbyes after breakfast and took off, back to Beattyville, where I somehow managed to stay awake until 9pm (that has got to be some kind of record, really...). And before that weekend, the last time I stayed up all night by choice and not to study was... well... a really long time ago.
Thanking God I’m a country girl,
B
I spent the last 15 days in the US, living it up like a true gypsy. I spent 5 days in my car, hitting up each of the places I have called home, and generally making a whirlwind tour of the Southeastern US. I visited my favorite coffee shop in Raleigh with a friend from high school, snacked on pancakes and fried egg sandwiches at the best diner in Atlanta ("serving food that pleases since 1929") with an Emory friend, saw people I had not seen in 15 years at my family’s old church in Florida, spent the night on my aunt and uncle’s farm in central GA, ate bacon with a friend who never thought he would see the day I became a carnivore, reminded the congregation of Community Christian Church in Beattyville that the Rodeo Queen lives, and realized that being in shape and climbing around on mountains all summer does not mean that eating croissants and quiche every day is a good idea.
The highlight of the vacation-from-my-vacation-life-in-Paris, though, was definitely the night I spent on The Mountain in Kentucky. I worked last summer at this ridiculous and completely insane pseudo-episcopal camp exactly 1.3 kilometers from the dead Center of Nowhere, USA. (See entry from mid-November trip to Alsace for exact location of Centre de Nul Part, France.) That means that the exact Center is on the property of this camp. The camp happens to be the place where one severely handsome Backstreet Boy grew up, and that is a huge part of the reason I took the job to begin with. Because let’s discuss the concept of me working on a mountain for 10 weeks. First of all, I went, nearly immediately, from an electricity-free mountain to freaking Paris, France. But if you can get past the culture shock there (which I nearly didn’t), there is still the fact that it was me working on a mountain. I am not even Episcopal! I showed up for my first day of work only to find... no one. So I drove the circle of camp, and the first living soul I saw was this crazy Jesus-hippie-grizzly bear looking man on a roof. All I could think was that there was no way I was going to blend in.
Anyway, I, little Miss pretend-I-am-French, lived on this mountain, away from civilization, air conditioning, and the real world, for two and a half months or something. I wore no makeup (none, not even concealer. Not even lip gloss, I was down to just chapstick!)... let my hair air dry every morning and then put it in a ponytail (which for me is huge because if there is one thing you should know about me it is that I. Never. Put. My. Hair. In. A. Ponytail.). I even wore a polo shirt every Sunday for this place. Now that is dedication. (But I still rolled the sleeves up to make it a little less New England rich lame Jcrew prepster.) And then, to top that off, I lived in a building shared with several mice, hiked mountains in pouring rain or blistering sun (dragging kids along with me), and spent mornings at least once a week clambering through a cave full of bats by choice. I sweated through my shirt (like, literally through it) almost every day, but the kicker is that by 10 in the morning I was counting the minutes till I sweated through it, because once you do that, you cool down much faster. If ever there were a preconceived notion about me, if ever there were a situation that the majority of the world could not see me in, this would be it. The only thing I could see myself doing less than that would be hitchhiking. Or being put in jail. One down, one more to go, I guess. Anyway, despite my huge fear that I would not fit in, that I would be fired for being too prissy, that I would be the only one there who didn’t know everyone else, etc., it ended up being one wicked cool summer.
Hence the highlight of my trip. So I am getting dressed to go to the mountain last Saturday morning, and all I can think as I am trying to figure out what to wear is, "I really don’t want to go hiking. I am not in the shape I should be to do so, and plus it is cold. So, what can I wear that will be a legitimate excuse to not hike in? I know! Concert tee, black jeans, Chucks. Perfect." Little did I know what was in store...
The entire staff sans one showed up for the night, and we all decided to spend the night. So my boss tells us we can have Patterson, the building where the Bish stays when he comes to visit, so in theory it should be nice, but everyone knows that not only is it haunted but it is also crawling with mice and the value it is insured for, I suspect, greatly outweighs the value of the building. This summer the toilet in it broke, we found multiple dead (and worse, live!) mice, something went wrong with the electricity and the faucet on the outside wall started electrocuting people every time they touched it, the PA system running through it never worked, and there was at least three well-documented ghost sightings in the building. But with five ex-summer staff sleeping there, we thought we’d be fine. Oh, the mice didn’t get me. And the ghosts left us alone. But the rest of the staff? That’s a whole ‘nother banana.
We started the night at the campfire, where we made s’mores until the fire started to die and none of us could handle the idea of more soggy graham crackers. Post-campfire, we headed to the dining hall, which has this industrially-equipped restaurant-style kitchen that no one uses in the middle of the night... except us. So at midnight we stood in there, leaning against the counters and cooking chicken wings, fried cheese sticks ("what do you think would happen if we baked these?"), and spaghetti, and gorging ourselves on peanut butter brownies and cupcakes left over from dinner. Just like old times.
Eventually we head back to the building where we are going to spend the night, turn on the flame-lit furnace-slash-heater, and hang out doing absolutely nothing for hours at a time. It was just like over the summer after the kids had gone to bed, except that this time we didn’t have to be awake at 730 the next morning.
At 300am, we raided the cupboards of the building where we were, finding nothing but a freezer-burned bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit and a half-empty box of nutri-grain bars. I am 100% sure that I ate the other half of that box over the summer when I was hanging out in that building.
At 330, someone turned on Seinfeld.
At 345, we actually ate the Nutri-Grain bars... AND the biscuit.
At 4, I decided to go to bed, on the loveseat where I was laying.
At 405, the boys sneaked up behind me and roared loud enough that I jumped out of my skin and rolled onto the floor, giving me too much adrenaline to go back to sleep... for the moment.
At 500, I declared it really was time for bed, and that I still hate Seinfeld.
At 510, someone dogpiled me on the loveseat, but when I refused to move, I was picked up and carried across the room, in the arms of a guy three inches shorter than me.
At 515, only the three guys and I were awake. Suddenly one of them declared, "we’re going for a sunrise hike!" I quickly realized the ramifications of this proposition and immediately played possum, thinking maybe then I wouldn’t have to go.
At 517, he tried to pull one of the other guys into the hike, who replied, "I’m not going unless Blair does," knowing there was no way I would go.
At 518, I looked at the clock and realized I had to be up in 3 hours anyway... so why not?
The four of us– three ridiculously buff mountain men and me, the girl scared of cave crickets– headed to the camp store to equip ourselves, more out of force of habit than the actual need for provisions. Armed with nothing but a room-temperature bottle of water stuck in my back pocket and a worn-out hoodie, we took off. The trail was thick with fallen leaves, it was dark, I was in Chuck Taylors worn smooth from miles schlepped through the Paris subway, and it was muddy. But we made it... nearly. They were all fine... but I nearly bit it twice. Once I started to slip, remembered I was in my favorite black jeans, and managed to break my fall without my pants touching the mud. But I had forgotten what it was like to live on the mountain. Before I had hit the ground, before I even really knew I was falling, all three of them were laughing at me. But that is how you function when you live on a mountain in the general vicinity of Nowhere. If it had been them (which it never would have been), I’d have done the same. We got to the bottom of the cliff thing you have to climb up for the view of the sunrise, it was still foggy, and we realized it was still just as dark as it had been at midnight.
"What time is sunrise again?"
"Oh, I don’t know, somewhere between 7 and 830."
"What time is it now?"
"545."
They had decided we would watch it from the top of Wolf Pen, my favorite hike and probably the only reason I decided to go with. But to get to the top of Wolf Pen, you have to pull yourself up this mega-rock with ropes that have been there for ages. Not a problem if it is hot, and you are in hiking boots. Also not a problem if you are named Cliff and one of your parents is a mountain goat. But if you have spent the last four months climbing nothing more strenuous than a pseudo-mountain somewhere in Spain to see an ancient military fortress... and it is dark... and you are wearing tractionless Chucks...it’s a little more difficult. Because when it is cold, grabbing a rope just burns. But somehow we made it to the top, where I was convinced I saw an actual wolf. After ten minutes of hanging out on the top, one of the guys voted for leaving:
"Look how dark it is! The sun has got to be hours from rising! Let’s go get breakfast. I bet the cooks are here already..."
Another mountain goat-boy replies, "No, come on, we’ve got to stay! We’ve made it this far, and plus, everyone knows that it’s always darkest right before the sun comes up!"
The rest of us exchange looks.
I call him out on it: "Look, I am not even from the country and I know that bluegrass gospel song that says so... but I really think that is just a song meant to be, you know, figurative? I think once the sun is down it is dark, and if it’s dark, how can it be any darker? There are degrees of light, but not really degrees of dark. Either something is dark or it isn’t."
Long pause.
"The sun will be up soon. We’re staying."
We clambered around on the top, noticing the places where names are engraved, and how completely different the view is when there are not leaves obstructing it. We re-enacted our favorite hikes from the summer; "YOU ARE LOST!" and "Just take your time, there’s no rush..." and the girl who we had to carry up and the one that kicked Trina in the face, and the time I tried to run back from the Saddle, wiped out and still have the jagged scars to prove it and the time my boss forbid us to go and the time we girls went anyway, bear whistles blowing intermittently all the way. And then, what else are you supposed to do when you find yourself on a mountain, in the cold, before dawn? We spooned.
Anyway, soon the sun began to rise, lightening the whole sky almost immediately. We stood around and watched it and tried to stay warm with the geek button and hoods and whatever else we had, until we realized it was too cloudy for a good one, but we could see the parking lot and the cooks’ cars, and we knew breakfast was calling our names. I think that morning was the first time I ever made it to breakfast before my boss. Wearing last night’s clothes but otherwise none the worse for wear, we served breakfast and I remembered just exactly why, despite never meeting anyone more famous than Andy himself, I loved the mountain. (Hint: large kettles of grits, pans of country ham, fresh hot coffee at all hours of the day, and free Ale-8 in returnable bottles, the only kind worth drinking.)
Said my goodbyes after breakfast and took off, back to Beattyville, where I somehow managed to stay awake until 9pm (that has got to be some kind of record, really...). And before that weekend, the last time I stayed up all night by choice and not to study was... well... a really long time ago.
Thanking God I’m a country girl,
B
Friday, December 22, 2006
If nothing good had ever happened since I got here, if this whole semester was completely for nothing, what happened to me last night made it worth it. No, really... I’m not kidding. Probably this is the best story I have had to tell since coming to Paris. Last night, it was sometime around 21h00, or 9pm, and I was making dinner in the kitchen. Now, I am leaving this country on Sunday morning, and I am almost out of groceries, so I didn’t want to buy any more... and I didn’t feel like cooking, and honestly, if I see one more quiche, one more tortellini, or one more scrambled egg, I will throw it or myself out the window. My aversion to quiche will not last, I am sure, but the other two? I have eaten those at least 3 meals a week for the last 3 months. I don’t think I can do it anymore.
Back to the story. I didn’t feel like cooking and couldn’t think of anything to make that didn’t involve eggs or pasta, so I bought a demi-baguette and was prepared to eat a demi-baguette with honey for dinner. I am 21, I am totally allowed to do things like that. I may have had a glass of wine with it, who knows? But then, a care package from the US arrived, and the demi-baguette was suddenly much less appetizing. Because in this package, which came from my favorite Deepher ever, was maple syrup. And AirHeads, and Milky Ways, and an Emory newspaper, and a lot of other things that I have not seen in months. But there was maple syrup. And though some of it had leaked out and become maple cement that glued the box together, the rest was still intact, and suddenly I had never been so hungry in my life. But I couldn’t let the demi-baguette go stale... "I know," I thought to myself, "I will make french toast. Oh, this is so ironic, since I am in France." So I sliced the demi-baguette... and realized that I had no idea the exact measurements of french toast batter. But I made a traditional Swedish cake sans recette, and if I can do that, I can do french toast, right? I mean, I speak the language, no big deal. One egg, a splash of milk, and way too much cinnamon later, I was dipping my tiny slices of baguette (real French baguettes are only about the size of... I don’t know, a small roll of tape, so I had a lot of tiny slices. I put them in the pan to fry, and toute de suite, in walked Madame Laudet to make her dinner. So we begin to chat, and I try desperately not to burn the bejeebees out of my dinner, when she leans over my pan and says, with utmost gravity, "qu’est-ce que tu fait?" What are you making? My dad says french toast was named after an American whose last name was French, and thus it is not actually from the country of France. But my dad says a lot of things that are not true, so I never really believed him; who keeps track of those kind of things anyway? But as soon as she asked, it hit me that I have never in this country seen French toast on a menu anywhere. "Grille-pain français?" No. Quite excited that for once I get to explain something to Madame, I grin from ear to ear, flip one slice of baguette over, and say, "Oh, c’est mon dîner. Aux États-Unis, on le mange; en anglais, il est ‘french toast.’" Oh, this is my dinner, it’s an American dish called french toast. "How strange!" she says, "so charming! What is it?" Oh, right, that would be good to explain. "It’s a little bit of egg, milk, and cinnamon," I say, pointing to the bowl of batter. "Oh, so you bake that?" she asks, thinking it must be like a cake. "No..."
"Oh, you pour it over the bread?"
"No..."
"Oh. Well, what are you going to DO with it, then?" I think she had begun to think I made it up. Alas, then it would be called Hurm Toast, which somehow does not have the same ring to it.
"I dip the bread in there, and then put it in the pan to cook. You eat it with... uh..." here I forgot the word for syrup, though I probably never knew it, since they don’t eat it here, at all. But Madame filled in the blank for me.
"Avec des legumes?" "With vegetables?"
"What?! No!" I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
"With cheese? Like a sandwich?"
"No, not at all... with syrup, actually."
"Ahh, I love syrup! I never know what to put it on, though." Yeah, that’s because you don’t have pancakes here.
"Do you want to try it?"
"Sure! You eat it for dessert?"
"No, it’s a meal... usually breakfast, but I decided to make it for dinner." So I take out the prettiest, least burned looking morceau, put it on a dessert plate for her, and poured some syrup on it. I assumed she would know that you eat it with a fork, which was a stupid assumption, so she picked it up and ate it with her fingers, but immediately pronounced it delicious.
"This is amazing! I bet kids love this! It tastes like dessert, though, I can’t believe you eat it for a meal!"
And thus a 21-year-old American girl introduced an 81-year-old French woman to the world of egg-coated fried bread, only ironic because all the American world thinks it is a French food anyway.
~Just a few more days,
B
Back to the story. I didn’t feel like cooking and couldn’t think of anything to make that didn’t involve eggs or pasta, so I bought a demi-baguette and was prepared to eat a demi-baguette with honey for dinner. I am 21, I am totally allowed to do things like that. I may have had a glass of wine with it, who knows? But then, a care package from the US arrived, and the demi-baguette was suddenly much less appetizing. Because in this package, which came from my favorite Deepher ever, was maple syrup. And AirHeads, and Milky Ways, and an Emory newspaper, and a lot of other things that I have not seen in months. But there was maple syrup. And though some of it had leaked out and become maple cement that glued the box together, the rest was still intact, and suddenly I had never been so hungry in my life. But I couldn’t let the demi-baguette go stale... "I know," I thought to myself, "I will make french toast. Oh, this is so ironic, since I am in France." So I sliced the demi-baguette... and realized that I had no idea the exact measurements of french toast batter. But I made a traditional Swedish cake sans recette, and if I can do that, I can do french toast, right? I mean, I speak the language, no big deal. One egg, a splash of milk, and way too much cinnamon later, I was dipping my tiny slices of baguette (real French baguettes are only about the size of... I don’t know, a small roll of tape, so I had a lot of tiny slices. I put them in the pan to fry, and toute de suite, in walked Madame Laudet to make her dinner. So we begin to chat, and I try desperately not to burn the bejeebees out of my dinner, when she leans over my pan and says, with utmost gravity, "qu’est-ce que tu fait?" What are you making? My dad says french toast was named after an American whose last name was French, and thus it is not actually from the country of France. But my dad says a lot of things that are not true, so I never really believed him; who keeps track of those kind of things anyway? But as soon as she asked, it hit me that I have never in this country seen French toast on a menu anywhere. "Grille-pain français?" No. Quite excited that for once I get to explain something to Madame, I grin from ear to ear, flip one slice of baguette over, and say, "Oh, c’est mon dîner. Aux États-Unis, on le mange; en anglais, il est ‘french toast.’" Oh, this is my dinner, it’s an American dish called french toast. "How strange!" she says, "so charming! What is it?" Oh, right, that would be good to explain. "It’s a little bit of egg, milk, and cinnamon," I say, pointing to the bowl of batter. "Oh, so you bake that?" she asks, thinking it must be like a cake. "No..."
"Oh, you pour it over the bread?"
"No..."
"Oh. Well, what are you going to DO with it, then?" I think she had begun to think I made it up. Alas, then it would be called Hurm Toast, which somehow does not have the same ring to it.
"I dip the bread in there, and then put it in the pan to cook. You eat it with... uh..." here I forgot the word for syrup, though I probably never knew it, since they don’t eat it here, at all. But Madame filled in the blank for me.
"Avec des legumes?" "With vegetables?"
"What?! No!" I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
"With cheese? Like a sandwich?"
"No, not at all... with syrup, actually."
"Ahh, I love syrup! I never know what to put it on, though." Yeah, that’s because you don’t have pancakes here.
"Do you want to try it?"
"Sure! You eat it for dessert?"
"No, it’s a meal... usually breakfast, but I decided to make it for dinner." So I take out the prettiest, least burned looking morceau, put it on a dessert plate for her, and poured some syrup on it. I assumed she would know that you eat it with a fork, which was a stupid assumption, so she picked it up and ate it with her fingers, but immediately pronounced it delicious.
"This is amazing! I bet kids love this! It tastes like dessert, though, I can’t believe you eat it for a meal!"
And thus a 21-year-old American girl introduced an 81-year-old French woman to the world of egg-coated fried bread, only ironic because all the American world thinks it is a French food anyway.
~Just a few more days,
B
Thursday, December 21, 2006
I look so French it hurts.
When I arrived in this country, I thought I was going to have to quit listening to rock music and dressing like a rock star and wearing my hair as though I am a groupie or left-handed bassist. I soon realized I was wrong– the French rock/emo scene is crazy, full of hipsters who wear better clothes, listen to worse music, and wear more eyeliner than the American ones. But unfortunately for me, I got my hair cut into this sophisticated, terribly chic and unbelievably short style three days before moving to this country, so I have been condemned to not looking like a hipster for months now. I kept putting off getting a haircut because, though unbelievably glamorous, I knew it would cost my first born child for me to get a decent cut in Paris.
Enter the Quartier Latin, street where the riches of ages are sold. No, wait, that is somewhere in London, but still, the Quartier Latin, streets where everything you thought you couldn’t afford is suddenly 35% cheaper when you brandish your student ID.
(I’ve noticed, by the way, that I have become significantly more impulsive since living in this country– there are several plausible reasons for this, all of which are too complicated to explain here, but it helps to know that when listening to any adventure which occurs in this lovely city.)
Completely randomly, I decided to get my haircut today– I passed a window of a salon offering student rates, it looked nice, I didn’t have anything ELSE to do, so I went in and asked for an appointment. I had just enough time to run back to my cybercafe and print a picture online of a haircut I liked– though in the US I usually just talk it over with the stylist and leave it in their hands, I figured here it would be way simpler to have a picture. So I went and printed the picture, which happened to be of a male American rockstar. This is not unusual for me– I wear my hair short, rockstars wear theirs long, and so on the off chance I DO bring a picture for the stylist, it is, more often than not, at least since graduating high school, of a guy.
But that is in the US.
And here in France, "why would you want to look like a man?" So as I am trying to explain that, no, I don’t want to look like him, I just like the layers on the sides of his head and the diagonal bangs... I realize I am completely unprepared for this experience. When I go to the salon in the US, we use words like "bangs," "messy," "piece-y," etc., and I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO SAY ANY OF THAT IN FRENCH. So I come armed with my black and white picture of a man with emo hair, and more or less nothing else. I don’t even know the word for "part," when I have to explain to her that she is doing it on the wrong side. (In case you are wondering, it is "le raie.") But the thing is, the stylists have to check with you before they just start whacking your hair off. So she keeps saying, "Il n’est pas tres jolie; vous devez etre plus jolie que lui..." "He is not very pretty, though– you really ought to be prettier than him, we will make you look much better." And then she starts explaining to me, in complicated terms I am sure not even a neuroscientist could understand, the exact process my hair is going to go through in the next 40 minutes, to which I nod my head and pretend I understand, till she gets to the back and says, "VOL-OOOOOM! Ici, PLUS DE VOL-OOOOOM!" "Back here, MORE VOLUME!" but in this tone of voice which suggests I have not been doing my own hair justice by wearing it messy and slightly flat. I wanted to explain to her that I do not have a diffuser or flat-iron compatible with her country’s ridiculous electric current, but I realized it was useless and she was right anyway– I did need more volooooom. The place was amazing... they massaged my head and shoulders, brought me coffee to drink while she cut my hair, wrapped me in a black kimono to keep the hair off my clothes... all the while chatting about my hair, the guy’s picture I had brought, etc. Slightly awkward, but it went off without a hitch, and now, I promise you, I look so French I fool myself. Sometime after I moved out, I started wearing my hair over my eyes, which everyone in the USA over the age of 35 hates, and everyone with any style under the age of 30 loves. This cut is no different, but in the French winter wind, with all the layers and voloooom, it is ridiculous.
Last night a friend called me and wanted to know if I could go to the circus... in an hour. She had extra tickets (four of them) that her famille d’accueil had given her, and needed someone to go with. Because the circus is, quite possibly, number 3 on my list of favorite things to do (after, incidentally, going to concerts and getting my haircut), and because I am a college student and thus completely incapable of passing up things that are free, I had to say yes. This particular circus (Le Pinder Cirque) is located in the 19th or 20th or something, and is thus as far away from my apartment as it is possible to go while still remaining in Paris. It is also about 30 feet from the periphérique, the edge of Paris.
(Sidenote: I have a grave fear of the periphérique. Once you leave it, you are in veritable no-man’s land, with no guarantee of a Metro stop for kilometers around, no maps, and a high likelihood of no one understanding when you open your mouth, even if you do speak Parisian french. Beyond the periphérique is the Wide Real World, le Grande Monde Vrai, and it terrifies me. I stay away from it as much as possible. In Paris, it is completely impossible for me to become truly lost because I have this fabulous book of maps of every quartier, that fits neatly in my poche and goes everywhere with me. But beyond the periphérique... no maps. No guarantee of ever returning to Paris, or the US, or anywhere really.)
But the circus is pretty much ON the periphérique, so I had to conquer my fear for the night... We thought the circus was outside, so we were both dressed like onions– a synopsis: camisole, oxford shirt, wool sweater, heaviest winter coat ever (which comes to my knees); gloves, scarf, hat, boots, knee socks. But we get there to discover it is in a legitimate tent. A REAL one. Which is amazing. It was just like walking into a Killers video... Everything was red and gold and navy, with a huge tiger head at the entrance, carnies yelling things in French, selling gaufres, crepes, popcorn sucré, barbe à papa, orangina and 1664 bière. The fact that they were selling beer should have been our first hint that this was no Ringling Bros., but we continued like nothing was amiss. We noticed signs that read "soiree privee," private night, but didn’t think about it because we had tickets... apparently, though, we got some kind of exclusive circus night, since it was a private function. It was a one-ring circus, which at first made me think it would be lame, but it was most definitely not. Growing up, I remember going to the circus every year with my whole family– not surprising since my dad worked his way through undergrad as a professional clown/magician (what?), but this was nothing like the American version.
Anyway, the ringmaster (ringbearer? ringleader? What is the word in English?) came out and introduced everyone in French, obviously, and it was so... cinematic. The tent was warm and heated, and the canvas ceiling had gold stars painted on it. Delightfully kitsch. The clowns were all old-school, the kind one sees in Art Nouveau books, with the pointed hats that are so scary. The acrobat act came out– the Famille Baeta de Brasilia... The two women of the act wore feathers on their heads and thongs... and not much else. And this was a family event. I wanted to cover the eyes of the little kids sitting next to me– there is no reason anyone should ever be 30 meters in the air with no pants on. But here’s the real kicker: the women were not even acrobats. They didn’t do anything but climb up the platform and make Price-Is-Right style gestures at the men who did the tricks. The reason French circuses (circi? Cirqui?) are cooler than American ones: there are none of these silly concerns in France with things like... you know, safety... so no one used nets, not even the woman who came out in nothing but a corset and sheer pants to do a gymnastic act on a hula hoop hanging precariously 40 meters above the ground. (These meter distances, by the way, are approximately one third of what I think the distance would be in feet. This means that they are wrong for several reasons: 1) a foot is not 1/3 of a meter; 2) I can’t tell distances in feet at all anyway.)
The whole circus was amazing, much more R-rated than any circus in the US ever would be, in short, exactly what one should expect from a French circus– more Moulin Rouge than Barnum and Bailey, but I digress. High point of the show: "Far Western Jack," the "american" act. "Far Western Jack" came out driving a covered wagon, which held his menagerie. He wore rolled-up jeans, a plaid shirt, and a neckerchief. Not a bandanna, but like an ascot. What? Anyway, his covered wagon contained a gray poodle that can ride a Vespa (perhaps it is the same one I witnessed in my neighborhood a few weeks ago?), one of those dogs from Dutch Master paintings who let the guy stack a cat on his back, and a chicken that would lay an egg on Far Western Jack’s head on cue. So many objections to this as a representation of American culture, but perhaps the biggest problem was that, though I immediately wanted to repudiate (is that the right word? My English is failing faster than my French is improving) their idea of American culture, I couldn’t because as soon as the guy came out, "Cotton-Eyed Joe" came blaring over the speakers. I hate that song. I mean, I detest it, almost as much as the Hokey Pokey. But as much as I think it should be wiped off the face of the earth and never spoken of again, the fact remains that if there is one staple song of every event I have ever been to with dancing, it is "Cotton Eyed Joe." And, for someone who doesn’t really dance very well, I think I have been to an abnormal number of dancing events in my life... It doesn’t matter if it is a high school dance, prom, a sorority formal, a frat party, a camp dance, a wedding, or a nightclub, that song is always played– the only one that is on par with it is Nirvana’s "Smells Like Teen Spirit," but that is different because you obviously can’t play that at a wedding (though I probably will at mine), AND Nirvana, though American, is kind of just the quintessential angsty youth band worldwide. So the point is, despite the fact that poodles and those whippet looking dogs both originated in Europe, they still nailed the USA when they picked that song. And what’s even worse: now YOU will have it stuck in your head all day long.
Sucker.
The whole circus was amazing, but the fact that it was in a real tent made it unbelievably cool... and there was a magician act that consisted of 5 men and a woman dressed like The Matrix, who danced and cut each other in half.
But as I said, it has been an unusually eventful 48 hours... Yesterday a friend of the woman I live with called me. She’s a journalist for an international TV station based in Paris and she is doing a series on young foreigners living in Paris. ("I want to do something about strangers in France," she said in broken English on my voicemail.) And she asked me not if I was interested, but if I would meet with her today to discuss it. Because I can hardly speak French on the phone, and she can hardly speak English (though she does it better than I speak French), and she wanted to see what my language skills were like in person. She only lives around the corner from me, so I went to her apartment in the afternoon to discuss the series, which I didn’t completely understand. Apparently, it is (any amount of this may be wrong, we were both communicating in second languages) something between a documentary and MTV’s Real World... She has already written the storyboard for it, and they are going to film what she called a "pilot episode" to see if the network will buy it, and if they do, then they do a season of it... and if not, they don’t do a series, but just newsbites twice a week on the nightly news with updates or stories about the "strangers" they are covering. So when we met, it was pretty much an audition or interview or whatever to make sure I was interesting, not boring, could communicate, etc., and when I got to her apartment she said, in French, "Oh, I am so glad you could come, I just wanted to see what you looked like and make sure you were compatible with the image we are trying to present." I don’t know what that means. But whatever. So she is supposed to call me later on to tell me if they want me to be involved in the whole thing or just one or two episodes or whatever... She said, and I quote, translated, "The only problem I could foresee is that your French is very much in the middle– you are good enough that the average French person could understand you, but not good enough that they would want to listen to you for more than 15 minutes, and I don’t know if the network wants someone very good so they don’t have to pay for an interpreter, or someone very bad, so it looks like a true foreigner who can barely speak the language. But you speak pretty well, and much better in person than on the phone." I felt as though there were approximately the same number of insults in that speech as compliments, but since I had only just met this woman and I have only been studying this language for two years AND she called me to be in her show, I decided to forget the insulting parts and just go with the fact that a French person told me my French is decent.
That, mes amis, is huge.
~Tadpole
When I arrived in this country, I thought I was going to have to quit listening to rock music and dressing like a rock star and wearing my hair as though I am a groupie or left-handed bassist. I soon realized I was wrong– the French rock/emo scene is crazy, full of hipsters who wear better clothes, listen to worse music, and wear more eyeliner than the American ones. But unfortunately for me, I got my hair cut into this sophisticated, terribly chic and unbelievably short style three days before moving to this country, so I have been condemned to not looking like a hipster for months now. I kept putting off getting a haircut because, though unbelievably glamorous, I knew it would cost my first born child for me to get a decent cut in Paris.
Enter the Quartier Latin, street where the riches of ages are sold. No, wait, that is somewhere in London, but still, the Quartier Latin, streets where everything you thought you couldn’t afford is suddenly 35% cheaper when you brandish your student ID.
(I’ve noticed, by the way, that I have become significantly more impulsive since living in this country– there are several plausible reasons for this, all of which are too complicated to explain here, but it helps to know that when listening to any adventure which occurs in this lovely city.)
Completely randomly, I decided to get my haircut today– I passed a window of a salon offering student rates, it looked nice, I didn’t have anything ELSE to do, so I went in and asked for an appointment. I had just enough time to run back to my cybercafe and print a picture online of a haircut I liked– though in the US I usually just talk it over with the stylist and leave it in their hands, I figured here it would be way simpler to have a picture. So I went and printed the picture, which happened to be of a male American rockstar. This is not unusual for me– I wear my hair short, rockstars wear theirs long, and so on the off chance I DO bring a picture for the stylist, it is, more often than not, at least since graduating high school, of a guy.
But that is in the US.
And here in France, "why would you want to look like a man?" So as I am trying to explain that, no, I don’t want to look like him, I just like the layers on the sides of his head and the diagonal bangs... I realize I am completely unprepared for this experience. When I go to the salon in the US, we use words like "bangs," "messy," "piece-y," etc., and I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO SAY ANY OF THAT IN FRENCH. So I come armed with my black and white picture of a man with emo hair, and more or less nothing else. I don’t even know the word for "part," when I have to explain to her that she is doing it on the wrong side. (In case you are wondering, it is "le raie.") But the thing is, the stylists have to check with you before they just start whacking your hair off. So she keeps saying, "Il n’est pas tres jolie; vous devez etre plus jolie que lui..." "He is not very pretty, though– you really ought to be prettier than him, we will make you look much better." And then she starts explaining to me, in complicated terms I am sure not even a neuroscientist could understand, the exact process my hair is going to go through in the next 40 minutes, to which I nod my head and pretend I understand, till she gets to the back and says, "VOL-OOOOOM! Ici, PLUS DE VOL-OOOOOM!" "Back here, MORE VOLUME!" but in this tone of voice which suggests I have not been doing my own hair justice by wearing it messy and slightly flat. I wanted to explain to her that I do not have a diffuser or flat-iron compatible with her country’s ridiculous electric current, but I realized it was useless and she was right anyway– I did need more volooooom. The place was amazing... they massaged my head and shoulders, brought me coffee to drink while she cut my hair, wrapped me in a black kimono to keep the hair off my clothes... all the while chatting about my hair, the guy’s picture I had brought, etc. Slightly awkward, but it went off without a hitch, and now, I promise you, I look so French I fool myself. Sometime after I moved out, I started wearing my hair over my eyes, which everyone in the USA over the age of 35 hates, and everyone with any style under the age of 30 loves. This cut is no different, but in the French winter wind, with all the layers and voloooom, it is ridiculous.
Last night a friend called me and wanted to know if I could go to the circus... in an hour. She had extra tickets (four of them) that her famille d’accueil had given her, and needed someone to go with. Because the circus is, quite possibly, number 3 on my list of favorite things to do (after, incidentally, going to concerts and getting my haircut), and because I am a college student and thus completely incapable of passing up things that are free, I had to say yes. This particular circus (Le Pinder Cirque) is located in the 19th or 20th or something, and is thus as far away from my apartment as it is possible to go while still remaining in Paris. It is also about 30 feet from the periphérique, the edge of Paris.
(Sidenote: I have a grave fear of the periphérique. Once you leave it, you are in veritable no-man’s land, with no guarantee of a Metro stop for kilometers around, no maps, and a high likelihood of no one understanding when you open your mouth, even if you do speak Parisian french. Beyond the periphérique is the Wide Real World, le Grande Monde Vrai, and it terrifies me. I stay away from it as much as possible. In Paris, it is completely impossible for me to become truly lost because I have this fabulous book of maps of every quartier, that fits neatly in my poche and goes everywhere with me. But beyond the periphérique... no maps. No guarantee of ever returning to Paris, or the US, or anywhere really.)
But the circus is pretty much ON the periphérique, so I had to conquer my fear for the night... We thought the circus was outside, so we were both dressed like onions– a synopsis: camisole, oxford shirt, wool sweater, heaviest winter coat ever (which comes to my knees); gloves, scarf, hat, boots, knee socks. But we get there to discover it is in a legitimate tent. A REAL one. Which is amazing. It was just like walking into a Killers video... Everything was red and gold and navy, with a huge tiger head at the entrance, carnies yelling things in French, selling gaufres, crepes, popcorn sucré, barbe à papa, orangina and 1664 bière. The fact that they were selling beer should have been our first hint that this was no Ringling Bros., but we continued like nothing was amiss. We noticed signs that read "soiree privee," private night, but didn’t think about it because we had tickets... apparently, though, we got some kind of exclusive circus night, since it was a private function. It was a one-ring circus, which at first made me think it would be lame, but it was most definitely not. Growing up, I remember going to the circus every year with my whole family– not surprising since my dad worked his way through undergrad as a professional clown/magician (what?), but this was nothing like the American version.
Anyway, the ringmaster (ringbearer? ringleader? What is the word in English?) came out and introduced everyone in French, obviously, and it was so... cinematic. The tent was warm and heated, and the canvas ceiling had gold stars painted on it. Delightfully kitsch. The clowns were all old-school, the kind one sees in Art Nouveau books, with the pointed hats that are so scary. The acrobat act came out– the Famille Baeta de Brasilia... The two women of the act wore feathers on their heads and thongs... and not much else. And this was a family event. I wanted to cover the eyes of the little kids sitting next to me– there is no reason anyone should ever be 30 meters in the air with no pants on. But here’s the real kicker: the women were not even acrobats. They didn’t do anything but climb up the platform and make Price-Is-Right style gestures at the men who did the tricks. The reason French circuses (circi? Cirqui?) are cooler than American ones: there are none of these silly concerns in France with things like... you know, safety... so no one used nets, not even the woman who came out in nothing but a corset and sheer pants to do a gymnastic act on a hula hoop hanging precariously 40 meters above the ground. (These meter distances, by the way, are approximately one third of what I think the distance would be in feet. This means that they are wrong for several reasons: 1) a foot is not 1/3 of a meter; 2) I can’t tell distances in feet at all anyway.)
The whole circus was amazing, much more R-rated than any circus in the US ever would be, in short, exactly what one should expect from a French circus– more Moulin Rouge than Barnum and Bailey, but I digress. High point of the show: "Far Western Jack," the "american" act. "Far Western Jack" came out driving a covered wagon, which held his menagerie. He wore rolled-up jeans, a plaid shirt, and a neckerchief. Not a bandanna, but like an ascot. What? Anyway, his covered wagon contained a gray poodle that can ride a Vespa (perhaps it is the same one I witnessed in my neighborhood a few weeks ago?), one of those dogs from Dutch Master paintings who let the guy stack a cat on his back, and a chicken that would lay an egg on Far Western Jack’s head on cue. So many objections to this as a representation of American culture, but perhaps the biggest problem was that, though I immediately wanted to repudiate (is that the right word? My English is failing faster than my French is improving) their idea of American culture, I couldn’t because as soon as the guy came out, "Cotton-Eyed Joe" came blaring over the speakers. I hate that song. I mean, I detest it, almost as much as the Hokey Pokey. But as much as I think it should be wiped off the face of the earth and never spoken of again, the fact remains that if there is one staple song of every event I have ever been to with dancing, it is "Cotton Eyed Joe." And, for someone who doesn’t really dance very well, I think I have been to an abnormal number of dancing events in my life... It doesn’t matter if it is a high school dance, prom, a sorority formal, a frat party, a camp dance, a wedding, or a nightclub, that song is always played– the only one that is on par with it is Nirvana’s "Smells Like Teen Spirit," but that is different because you obviously can’t play that at a wedding (though I probably will at mine), AND Nirvana, though American, is kind of just the quintessential angsty youth band worldwide. So the point is, despite the fact that poodles and those whippet looking dogs both originated in Europe, they still nailed the USA when they picked that song. And what’s even worse: now YOU will have it stuck in your head all day long.
Sucker.
The whole circus was amazing, but the fact that it was in a real tent made it unbelievably cool... and there was a magician act that consisted of 5 men and a woman dressed like The Matrix, who danced and cut each other in half.
But as I said, it has been an unusually eventful 48 hours... Yesterday a friend of the woman I live with called me. She’s a journalist for an international TV station based in Paris and she is doing a series on young foreigners living in Paris. ("I want to do something about strangers in France," she said in broken English on my voicemail.) And she asked me not if I was interested, but if I would meet with her today to discuss it. Because I can hardly speak French on the phone, and she can hardly speak English (though she does it better than I speak French), and she wanted to see what my language skills were like in person. She only lives around the corner from me, so I went to her apartment in the afternoon to discuss the series, which I didn’t completely understand. Apparently, it is (any amount of this may be wrong, we were both communicating in second languages) something between a documentary and MTV’s Real World... She has already written the storyboard for it, and they are going to film what she called a "pilot episode" to see if the network will buy it, and if they do, then they do a season of it... and if not, they don’t do a series, but just newsbites twice a week on the nightly news with updates or stories about the "strangers" they are covering. So when we met, it was pretty much an audition or interview or whatever to make sure I was interesting, not boring, could communicate, etc., and when I got to her apartment she said, in French, "Oh, I am so glad you could come, I just wanted to see what you looked like and make sure you were compatible with the image we are trying to present." I don’t know what that means. But whatever. So she is supposed to call me later on to tell me if they want me to be involved in the whole thing or just one or two episodes or whatever... She said, and I quote, translated, "The only problem I could foresee is that your French is very much in the middle– you are good enough that the average French person could understand you, but not good enough that they would want to listen to you for more than 15 minutes, and I don’t know if the network wants someone very good so they don’t have to pay for an interpreter, or someone very bad, so it looks like a true foreigner who can barely speak the language. But you speak pretty well, and much better in person than on the phone." I felt as though there were approximately the same number of insults in that speech as compliments, but since I had only just met this woman and I have only been studying this language for two years AND she called me to be in her show, I decided to forget the insulting parts and just go with the fact that a French person told me my French is decent.
That, mes amis, is huge.
~Tadpole
Sunday, December 17, 2006
I spent last night at a Swedish friend’s apartment, helping her get ready for the church Christmas party that was going to be at her place. It was supposed to be traditional French-style, we had decided, so she bought foie gras and toast; I made mulled wine, we had grapes and cheese and couscous salad and pasta salad and canapes and baguette of course, and rose wine and chocolate covered strawberries... It was amazing. And somehow it seems that no matter where I end up I always am one of the sort-of hostesses of the Christmas party of the year, as my friends and I in the States always do the same thing.
I got to Lydia’s apartment a few hours before everyone else was supposed to so that I could help cook, decorate, etc. We put the wine on to cook, cut and washed salad, chopped veggies, all in her tiny kitchen. Wait a minute– this kitchen is legitimately no bigger than... well, a walk-in closet. Two people can fit in it ONLY if neither of them is doing anything, they stand shoulder to shoulder, and the one on the doorway side leaves before the other. So fitting the two of us in there for a few hours was... excruciating. The top of the cabinet became the shelf for already cooked pasta, which had to be made in 4 sections because there was not a pot big enough to hold it all by itself. The couscous was the same; but the drainer Lydia has is less of a drainer and more of just a hole– the bottom is mostly broken out, so it doesn’t really work... at all. The pot of couscous had to be put in a kitchen cabinet after it was made because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else... Add to this the fact that Lydia, though fluent in English, is still Swedish, and I, though learning French, do not know words like "strainer," "ladle," "nutmeg," etc. AND I still don’t really understand measurements here (in grams and milliliters) or temperatures (in Celsius), and you have quite an adventure.
Before the guests arrived, we had ruined my shoes by splashing them with boiling wine and olive oil, splattered both of ourselves with chocolate, butter, and orange juice, and nearly peed our pants from laughing so hard.
Excerpts of my favorite conversations of the night:
"Lydia, do you think I should put nutmeg in the mulled wine?"
"Nut what?"
"Meg?"
"Who’s that?"
"No, no, nutmeg– in the wine?"
"Oh, I don’t think mulled wine usually has nuts in it, does it?"
"I don’t know, I’ve never made it. I’m American, remember? We don’t drink it."
"Oh, well, no, then, no nuts."
"No, wait, that was not the point– it’s not nuts, it’s like... a spice. Like cinnamon– cannelle, you know? You put it in things...?"
"Oh. What’s it taste like?"
"Ummm... like pumpkin pie?"
"What is that?"
"Um, nevermind. It tastes like Christmas."
"That’s not a taste!"
"Never mind, the cinnamon will be enough I think."
No, the cinnamon was not enough. Write this down: if you are ever making mulled wine, IT MUST HAVE SUGAR IN IT. A LOT. Because somehow all the sweetness evaporates when you heat wine, so you have to add sugar. Like a lot.
Later that night:
"Hey Blair, maybe you should start making the cake now?"
"Ok, did you buy a box or are we doing it hardcore, from scratch?"
"Hardcore? What does that mean? It sounds like something only rock stars say!"
"I mean, do you have cake mix? Or should we make it from scratch?"
"Blair, I wish I could speak English like you-- you talk like a rockstar!"
"Yeah, but I am 21 years old and my own grandmother thinks I speak like a California Valley Girl!"
"I would rather talk like a California... a California what girl?... than a Swedish one with an accent! I sometimes don't understand when you talk because you go so fast. But you know all the good English expressions that I still have never learned."
"Lydia, you are nearly fluent in three languages! I would trade with you in a minute!"
"Oh, but it is so cool to listen to the Americans talk... they have such good expressions, way better than English people. But oh yeah, we have to make it from scratch, I couldn’t find any boxes at Franprix."
"Ok, where is the recipe?"
"I lost it. But it’s ok. It’s all in my memory, you know."
"Oh, ok, well you want to tell it to me?"
"Yes. My mom sent it to me. It’s a traditional Swedish cake. You start with 150 grams of butter."
Two minutes later, after the butter has already been put on to melt...
"Or maybe it is 200 grams of butter... Oh well, 150 will work. It will just be a little healthier."
"Ok, what’s the next ingredient?"
"Mmm, eggs. Yes, definitely eggs. And then do flour, sugar, and cocoa."
"How many eggs?"
"Two? Three? I don’t know, how many are usually in a cake?"
"Well, you only have two in your fridge, so I think for this cake there will be two."
So the traditional Swedish cake ended up being made with 150 grams of butter, 2 small brown eggs, all the sugar in Lydia’s apartment, about a handful of flour ("Lydia does that look like 100 grams to you?" "Sure, I mean... I think. You know, just do what you feel." "Yeah, but I don’t feel anything since I have never seen a gram of anything in my life."), 4 heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder, and about 2 tablespoons of milk.
That is not the recipe for a cake.
I don’t know what is a traditional Swedish cake recipe, but I am fairly confident that is not one.
"How long should we cook it, Lyds?"
"I think, until it is dry on the top."
"At what temperature?"
"Whatever the oven is at right now when we take the toast out."
Twenty minutes later, as we are removing it from the oven...
"Um, Lydia, I didn’t put baking powder in it."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn’t think of it till right now, because you didn’t say it and I thought maybe they don’t use baking powder in Sweden."
"Yeah, we definitely use it. Maybe that is why the cake is so flat?"
"Yeah. Well, at least it will be chocolatey."
"How much cocoa did you put in?"
"Four spoonfuls, and then a generous sprinkle."
"Sprinkle?"
"Like, a little more."
"Oh. FOUR SPOONFULS? That powder is FRENCH cocoa– it’s like pure ground cocoa beans– it’s going to be REALLY chocolatey. Did you put enough sugar in?"
"Um, I put in all the sugar you had."
"THE WHOLE HALF A KILO?"
"I don’t know– that whole jar over there."
"Maybe we should say a prayer over it first..."
"Maybe we should taste it before we serve it."
"That’s a good idea. You are so clever, Blair."
"I like that you say ‘clever.’ It is a highly underused word in America."
"But it is English, right?"
"Yeah, you definitely got the language right."
"Blair, you have gotten stuff all over you! Is that mulled wine? And what’s that spot?"
"That’s the olive oil that spattered on me when you were trying to open the lid using my oxford shirt as a grip."
"Oh, right. Maybe you need a... what’s the word for that thing you use so you don’t make a mess?"
"A maid? Une femme de menage?"
"No, you know, like this!" Lydia explained, brandishing a dishrag like a matador.
"Apron? A tablier?"
"Exactement! Oui! Maybe you should tuck this into... I don’t know, your neck?"
"But then it would be a bib."
"Well, you have stuff all over yourself. Maybe you need it."
"All over me because you ran into me when you were holding an avocado!"
"Oh. Well, here, put this on, it will make you feel more official."
Later on...
"Blair, will you cut up the percy– the purs– parc– what do you call that green stuff in English?"
"Mold?"
"No! That plant stuff?"
"Parsley?"
"No no, not parsley! That is a name, not a salad plant! In French it’s persilia... what’s the English word?"
"Parsley!"
"No, that is a person’s name! Like that guy, Rod... Rod Parsley!"
"You mean Rod Burgundy?"
"No, who is that? Rod Parsley! The American preacher!"
"I don’t think I have heard of him. But in the US we don’t really eat parsley. We just kind of use it for... you know, garniture."
"Oh. But why don’t you eat it, since it is edible?"
"I don’t know. Lots of things are edible, but we don’t eat them all in the US. We leave that to the French. Hand it to me, I’ll cut it up and put it on the foie gras."
Ten minutes later, after the plate of foie gras crackers has been put on the table with parsley on each cracker...
"Blair, you did wash the persilia, right?"
"I thought you did!"
"No– it wasn’t wet, was it?"
"No... I just thought it had been dried really good. Oops."
"Oh well, there aren’t really that much pesticides in France at this time of year..."
"Lydia, we are like Lucy and Ethel."
"No, we are Lydia and Blair."
"No, I mean... have you ever seen ‘I Love Lucy?’"
"No, I never really played video games when I was growing up."
"What?"
"Lucy who?"
Thus I realized that the concept of fluency in a language is as much a matter of culture as it is language. Lydia knows who Jared Leto is– a B-list American celebrity that my own ROOMMATE has never heard of; she knows who Rod Parsley is (even I don’t know that one); but she can’t remember the word for crackers, doesn’t know what nutmeg is, and can’t understand why we don’t eat parsley in the US.
I on the other hand know the word for "fire extinguisher," "goat," and "lightbulb," in French, but can’t figure out how to ask my professor when the final is without hitting on him, I don’t know Monica Bellucci’s husband’s name, and I don’t know whether Michel is a man or woman’s name. I think Lydia is better off than I am.
Joyeux Noel,
The highly misunderstood B
I got to Lydia’s apartment a few hours before everyone else was supposed to so that I could help cook, decorate, etc. We put the wine on to cook, cut and washed salad, chopped veggies, all in her tiny kitchen. Wait a minute– this kitchen is legitimately no bigger than... well, a walk-in closet. Two people can fit in it ONLY if neither of them is doing anything, they stand shoulder to shoulder, and the one on the doorway side leaves before the other. So fitting the two of us in there for a few hours was... excruciating. The top of the cabinet became the shelf for already cooked pasta, which had to be made in 4 sections because there was not a pot big enough to hold it all by itself. The couscous was the same; but the drainer Lydia has is less of a drainer and more of just a hole– the bottom is mostly broken out, so it doesn’t really work... at all. The pot of couscous had to be put in a kitchen cabinet after it was made because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else... Add to this the fact that Lydia, though fluent in English, is still Swedish, and I, though learning French, do not know words like "strainer," "ladle," "nutmeg," etc. AND I still don’t really understand measurements here (in grams and milliliters) or temperatures (in Celsius), and you have quite an adventure.
Before the guests arrived, we had ruined my shoes by splashing them with boiling wine and olive oil, splattered both of ourselves with chocolate, butter, and orange juice, and nearly peed our pants from laughing so hard.
Excerpts of my favorite conversations of the night:
"Lydia, do you think I should put nutmeg in the mulled wine?"
"Nut what?"
"Meg?"
"Who’s that?"
"No, no, nutmeg– in the wine?"
"Oh, I don’t think mulled wine usually has nuts in it, does it?"
"I don’t know, I’ve never made it. I’m American, remember? We don’t drink it."
"Oh, well, no, then, no nuts."
"No, wait, that was not the point– it’s not nuts, it’s like... a spice. Like cinnamon– cannelle, you know? You put it in things...?"
"Oh. What’s it taste like?"
"Ummm... like pumpkin pie?"
"What is that?"
"Um, nevermind. It tastes like Christmas."
"That’s not a taste!"
"Never mind, the cinnamon will be enough I think."
No, the cinnamon was not enough. Write this down: if you are ever making mulled wine, IT MUST HAVE SUGAR IN IT. A LOT. Because somehow all the sweetness evaporates when you heat wine, so you have to add sugar. Like a lot.
Later that night:
"Hey Blair, maybe you should start making the cake now?"
"Ok, did you buy a box or are we doing it hardcore, from scratch?"
"Hardcore? What does that mean? It sounds like something only rock stars say!"
"I mean, do you have cake mix? Or should we make it from scratch?"
"Blair, I wish I could speak English like you-- you talk like a rockstar!"
"Yeah, but I am 21 years old and my own grandmother thinks I speak like a California Valley Girl!"
"I would rather talk like a California... a California what girl?... than a Swedish one with an accent! I sometimes don't understand when you talk because you go so fast. But you know all the good English expressions that I still have never learned."
"Lydia, you are nearly fluent in three languages! I would trade with you in a minute!"
"Oh, but it is so cool to listen to the Americans talk... they have such good expressions, way better than English people. But oh yeah, we have to make it from scratch, I couldn’t find any boxes at Franprix."
"Ok, where is the recipe?"
"I lost it. But it’s ok. It’s all in my memory, you know."
"Oh, ok, well you want to tell it to me?"
"Yes. My mom sent it to me. It’s a traditional Swedish cake. You start with 150 grams of butter."
Two minutes later, after the butter has already been put on to melt...
"Or maybe it is 200 grams of butter... Oh well, 150 will work. It will just be a little healthier."
"Ok, what’s the next ingredient?"
"Mmm, eggs. Yes, definitely eggs. And then do flour, sugar, and cocoa."
"How many eggs?"
"Two? Three? I don’t know, how many are usually in a cake?"
"Well, you only have two in your fridge, so I think for this cake there will be two."
So the traditional Swedish cake ended up being made with 150 grams of butter, 2 small brown eggs, all the sugar in Lydia’s apartment, about a handful of flour ("Lydia does that look like 100 grams to you?" "Sure, I mean... I think. You know, just do what you feel." "Yeah, but I don’t feel anything since I have never seen a gram of anything in my life."), 4 heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder, and about 2 tablespoons of milk.
That is not the recipe for a cake.
I don’t know what is a traditional Swedish cake recipe, but I am fairly confident that is not one.
"How long should we cook it, Lyds?"
"I think, until it is dry on the top."
"At what temperature?"
"Whatever the oven is at right now when we take the toast out."
Twenty minutes later, as we are removing it from the oven...
"Um, Lydia, I didn’t put baking powder in it."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn’t think of it till right now, because you didn’t say it and I thought maybe they don’t use baking powder in Sweden."
"Yeah, we definitely use it. Maybe that is why the cake is so flat?"
"Yeah. Well, at least it will be chocolatey."
"How much cocoa did you put in?"
"Four spoonfuls, and then a generous sprinkle."
"Sprinkle?"
"Like, a little more."
"Oh. FOUR SPOONFULS? That powder is FRENCH cocoa– it’s like pure ground cocoa beans– it’s going to be REALLY chocolatey. Did you put enough sugar in?"
"Um, I put in all the sugar you had."
"THE WHOLE HALF A KILO?"
"I don’t know– that whole jar over there."
"Maybe we should say a prayer over it first..."
"Maybe we should taste it before we serve it."
"That’s a good idea. You are so clever, Blair."
"I like that you say ‘clever.’ It is a highly underused word in America."
"But it is English, right?"
"Yeah, you definitely got the language right."
"Blair, you have gotten stuff all over you! Is that mulled wine? And what’s that spot?"
"That’s the olive oil that spattered on me when you were trying to open the lid using my oxford shirt as a grip."
"Oh, right. Maybe you need a... what’s the word for that thing you use so you don’t make a mess?"
"A maid? Une femme de menage?"
"No, you know, like this!" Lydia explained, brandishing a dishrag like a matador.
"Apron? A tablier?"
"Exactement! Oui! Maybe you should tuck this into... I don’t know, your neck?"
"But then it would be a bib."
"Well, you have stuff all over yourself. Maybe you need it."
"All over me because you ran into me when you were holding an avocado!"
"Oh. Well, here, put this on, it will make you feel more official."
Later on...
"Blair, will you cut up the percy– the purs– parc– what do you call that green stuff in English?"
"Mold?"
"No! That plant stuff?"
"Parsley?"
"No no, not parsley! That is a name, not a salad plant! In French it’s persilia... what’s the English word?"
"Parsley!"
"No, that is a person’s name! Like that guy, Rod... Rod Parsley!"
"You mean Rod Burgundy?"
"No, who is that? Rod Parsley! The American preacher!"
"I don’t think I have heard of him. But in the US we don’t really eat parsley. We just kind of use it for... you know, garniture."
"Oh. But why don’t you eat it, since it is edible?"
"I don’t know. Lots of things are edible, but we don’t eat them all in the US. We leave that to the French. Hand it to me, I’ll cut it up and put it on the foie gras."
Ten minutes later, after the plate of foie gras crackers has been put on the table with parsley on each cracker...
"Blair, you did wash the persilia, right?"
"I thought you did!"
"No– it wasn’t wet, was it?"
"No... I just thought it had been dried really good. Oops."
"Oh well, there aren’t really that much pesticides in France at this time of year..."
"Lydia, we are like Lucy and Ethel."
"No, we are Lydia and Blair."
"No, I mean... have you ever seen ‘I Love Lucy?’"
"No, I never really played video games when I was growing up."
"What?"
"Lucy who?"
Thus I realized that the concept of fluency in a language is as much a matter of culture as it is language. Lydia knows who Jared Leto is– a B-list American celebrity that my own ROOMMATE has never heard of; she knows who Rod Parsley is (even I don’t know that one); but she can’t remember the word for crackers, doesn’t know what nutmeg is, and can’t understand why we don’t eat parsley in the US.
I on the other hand know the word for "fire extinguisher," "goat," and "lightbulb," in French, but can’t figure out how to ask my professor when the final is without hitting on him, I don’t know Monica Bellucci’s husband’s name, and I don’t know whether Michel is a man or woman’s name. I think Lydia is better off than I am.
Joyeux Noel,
The highly misunderstood B
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Remember that midterm I didn't know about last week, the one for the archaeology class? Yeah, he handed it back yesterday.
I didn't think I had done that badly.
I got a 6.5
Now, before you think to yourself, "This chick must be ridiculously stupid; a monkey with a keyboard and half the time she had to take the test could get better than a 6.5. Don't they give you more than that for writing your name on the sheet?"
The answer to that question is yes, they do give you more than that just for writing your name-- IN THE USA. But since I was taking this test in the good ol' R of F, they don't. But on the bright side, the French grading system is terribly weird, so a 6.5 does not equal 6.5 in the US. Their grades are on a scale of 20-- but not on a scale of 20 like you can multiply 6.5 x 5 and get my actual grade (which would then be a 32.5, which is still nothing to write home about, as it is still flunking.) But because the grades are on a scale of 20, they (because they are so terribly logical with everything, the French) count each letter grade as the same number of points. So, since there are five possible letter grades (some classes have six because in France you can get an "E" on a test), and twenty total points, each letter is 4 points.
Thus an A is 17 and up; a B is 13-17; etc., (This can not be that complicated if The Girl Who Refused To Take Calculus can understand it, right?). This means that my 6.5 is ACTUALLY a pretty solid... well, D, but still, it's better than an F, right?
I can laugh about the 6.5 because I am American and because I don't think I have ever actually gotten a D on anything in my life... Prior to this incident, I would have gone so far as to say that after a semester of constantly being unable to communicate and being forced to resort to gestures (combined with two summers spent working with middle schoolers in sweaty outdoor climates, as well as a lot of other really ridiculous things I have done), I thought I was above being embarrassed.
I was wrong.
The professor handed the stack of tests to the kid sitting at the end of the first row and told him to fish his out of the pile and pass them on. But then, perhaps realizing that I would be embarassed to have everyone in the class SEE my 6.5 (though it really doesn't matter since none of them know my name anyway), he grabbed the stack back from the kid, pulled my test out of it, hands the stack back to the kid, and comes over to me. Now I started to get nervous.
A transcript of what was to follow, as translated into the Modern English by me:
Blair, in her head: "Shoot, this means he is going to talk to me."
Archaeology Prof, out loud: "FRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrench."
Blair, in her head: "Oh no, that is my test he is holding. He is probably talking about it. I should probably start listening to what he is saying. Dang it, why am I thinking this in English, quick, switch to Francais. Ok, ok, je pense, je pense, mais qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?"
[nods head when Professor pauses, as she guesses appropriate]
Archaeology Prof, still in French, translated: "You didn't do too well on this, but don't worry, it's really not a big deal..."
Blair, in her head, in French: "Right... right, easy for you to say not a big deal-- it's not one of YOUR two grades for the semester in this class."
Archaeology Prof continues: "it's not a big deal at all, don't worry, you did fine considering you are American and this is not at all the scale you are used to, so this grade does not mean the same thing that it would in the US, so don't think you are going to fail or anything."
Blair: "ok, ok, no problem, all right, thank you!" thinking "Please stop talking to me, this is so awkward, and you must think I am so stupid! Should I tell you that I didn't know about it, or will that make it worse since then it is just stupid that I couldn't figure out what you were saying?"
Archaeology Professor: "Oh, also, we need to schedule a time for you to meet up with me to do your oral interrogation for this class."
What Blair thinks is going to come out of her mouth: "Do you want me to do the oral final before Christmas break or after?"
What actually comes out of her mouth: "Vous me voulez...?" ("Do you want me?")
I should have kept talking then, ignored the rather awkward mistake I had just made (It's a pretty dirty thing to say in French, also a pick up line), but when I realized what I had said I got so nervous and freaked out that I just stopped talking because I didn't want to make it worse. So he tries not to grin and says,
"Pardon?"
Blair trying to fix what just happened: "I mean, uh, do you want me to take the test in January?"
Prof: "Wait, you are going to be here in January? Oh, that is fabulous news! Yes, we wait until January then! Perfect!"
This is the same professor that, about three weeks ago, I tu-ed mercilessly in conversation, calling him by the informal "you" instead of the proper one, despite the fact that even though HE is the professor he has always called me by the formal one. So after first asking him, more or less, to be my friend by calling him "tu" instead of "vous," I now have also tried to pick him up. Great.
Oh well, my only hope is that someday he will be walking down the Champs-Elysees and pass a Presse, and see a smiling brunette face staring at him from the ads on the side of the kiosk and think to himself, "Cette femme-la, elle me parait tres tres familiere... je pense que je lui ai connu, peut-etre? That woman in the ad looks so familiar, I think I must have met her sometime... but why would I have ever met a woman who lives in Paris and is working as a band-aid? And what is this, since when do band-aids and groupies make it on to the cover of Le Monde? Oh, but look at this gramatically proper sentence that she is quoted as having said, she must be a vrai parisienne after all. I wonder why she looks so familiar? I know, it must be because she looks so much like that Molly Ringwald who was in all those movies from the US when I was a kid."
Je rigole,
B
I didn't think I had done that badly.
I got a 6.5
Now, before you think to yourself, "This chick must be ridiculously stupid; a monkey with a keyboard and half the time she had to take the test could get better than a 6.5. Don't they give you more than that for writing your name on the sheet?"
The answer to that question is yes, they do give you more than that just for writing your name-- IN THE USA. But since I was taking this test in the good ol' R of F, they don't. But on the bright side, the French grading system is terribly weird, so a 6.5 does not equal 6.5 in the US. Their grades are on a scale of 20-- but not on a scale of 20 like you can multiply 6.5 x 5 and get my actual grade (which would then be a 32.5, which is still nothing to write home about, as it is still flunking.) But because the grades are on a scale of 20, they (because they are so terribly logical with everything, the French) count each letter grade as the same number of points. So, since there are five possible letter grades (some classes have six because in France you can get an "E" on a test), and twenty total points, each letter is 4 points.
Thus an A is 17 and up; a B is 13-17; etc., (This can not be that complicated if The Girl Who Refused To Take Calculus can understand it, right?). This means that my 6.5 is ACTUALLY a pretty solid... well, D, but still, it's better than an F, right?
I can laugh about the 6.5 because I am American and because I don't think I have ever actually gotten a D on anything in my life... Prior to this incident, I would have gone so far as to say that after a semester of constantly being unable to communicate and being forced to resort to gestures (combined with two summers spent working with middle schoolers in sweaty outdoor climates, as well as a lot of other really ridiculous things I have done), I thought I was above being embarrassed.
I was wrong.
The professor handed the stack of tests to the kid sitting at the end of the first row and told him to fish his out of the pile and pass them on. But then, perhaps realizing that I would be embarassed to have everyone in the class SEE my 6.5 (though it really doesn't matter since none of them know my name anyway), he grabbed the stack back from the kid, pulled my test out of it, hands the stack back to the kid, and comes over to me. Now I started to get nervous.
A transcript of what was to follow, as translated into the Modern English by me:
Blair, in her head: "Shoot, this means he is going to talk to me."
Archaeology Prof, out loud: "FRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrench."
Blair, in her head: "Oh no, that is my test he is holding. He is probably talking about it. I should probably start listening to what he is saying. Dang it, why am I thinking this in English, quick, switch to Francais. Ok, ok, je pense, je pense, mais qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?"
[nods head when Professor pauses, as she guesses appropriate]
Archaeology Prof, still in French, translated: "You didn't do too well on this, but don't worry, it's really not a big deal..."
Blair, in her head, in French: "Right... right, easy for you to say not a big deal-- it's not one of YOUR two grades for the semester in this class."
Archaeology Prof continues: "it's not a big deal at all, don't worry, you did fine considering you are American and this is not at all the scale you are used to, so this grade does not mean the same thing that it would in the US, so don't think you are going to fail or anything."
Blair: "ok, ok, no problem, all right, thank you!" thinking "Please stop talking to me, this is so awkward, and you must think I am so stupid! Should I tell you that I didn't know about it, or will that make it worse since then it is just stupid that I couldn't figure out what you were saying?"
Archaeology Professor: "Oh, also, we need to schedule a time for you to meet up with me to do your oral interrogation for this class."
What Blair thinks is going to come out of her mouth: "Do you want me to do the oral final before Christmas break or after?"
What actually comes out of her mouth: "Vous me voulez...?" ("Do you want me?")
I should have kept talking then, ignored the rather awkward mistake I had just made (It's a pretty dirty thing to say in French, also a pick up line), but when I realized what I had said I got so nervous and freaked out that I just stopped talking because I didn't want to make it worse. So he tries not to grin and says,
"Pardon?"
Blair trying to fix what just happened: "I mean, uh, do you want me to take the test in January?"
Prof: "Wait, you are going to be here in January? Oh, that is fabulous news! Yes, we wait until January then! Perfect!"
This is the same professor that, about three weeks ago, I tu-ed mercilessly in conversation, calling him by the informal "you" instead of the proper one, despite the fact that even though HE is the professor he has always called me by the formal one. So after first asking him, more or less, to be my friend by calling him "tu" instead of "vous," I now have also tried to pick him up. Great.
Oh well, my only hope is that someday he will be walking down the Champs-Elysees and pass a Presse, and see a smiling brunette face staring at him from the ads on the side of the kiosk and think to himself, "Cette femme-la, elle me parait tres tres familiere... je pense que je lui ai connu, peut-etre? That woman in the ad looks so familiar, I think I must have met her sometime... but why would I have ever met a woman who lives in Paris and is working as a band-aid? And what is this, since when do band-aids and groupies make it on to the cover of Le Monde? Oh, but look at this gramatically proper sentence that she is quoted as having said, she must be a vrai parisienne after all. I wonder why she looks so familiar? I know, it must be because she looks so much like that Molly Ringwald who was in all those movies from the US when I was a kid."
Je rigole,
B
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
There's a generation of future deaf people being raised in Paris right now. I read somewhere since coming to this country that Paris is the loneliest city on the planet. I have no idea how one goes about measuring that, but if they did it by number of MP3 players per capita, Paris wins, hands down. Because I cannot go anywhere (really, no one my age goes anywhere) without an MP3 player and headphones. Whether it's grocery shopping, wandering the Jardins de Luxembourg, riding the Metro, or drinking a cafe au lait alone in a cafe, I nearly always have my headphones with me. This started as a defense mechanism to keep me from either 1) going crazy from hearing too much French when I first arrived or b) being macked on by Frenchmen in a language I still don't know too well. Now it has morphed into this obsession to have a soundtrack of every moment. This would be weird except that it seems all the French people my age seem to share it. None of this is a problem, though it probably makes us all a little antisocial (really, though, no one has any business striking up conversations on the Metro anyway, so it is probably for the betterment of society). The problem, though, is that because the Metro and this city in general are such loud places, we all listen to our headphones at top volume and are probably going to lose our sense of hearing by the time we are 30. Perhaps me, Mademoiselle Illegal-groupie-promoter-of-a-French-rock-band more than anyone else.
Until then, I have every intention of filling my moments of boredom with the Love Actually soundtrack, 30 Seconds to Mars, The Sounds, Rufus Wainwright, Ryan Adams and other terribly non-Parisian bands.
Today on the Metro on the way to class, a guy got in a few stops after me and sat down across from me with his easel case in tow. He was clearly an art student, judging from the tousled Charles Darnley-esque ponytail, careless scarf and velveteen blazer. Anyway, he sat down and pulled a paper bag out of his pocket, which evidently contained his breakfast. Though he tried to keep it contained in the bag, it didn't work, I saw it, and he was eating a chocolate sandwich for breakfast. Like, 2 pieces of sandwich bread with a bar of dark chocolate stuck between them. I think I fell in love. Hahahahaha.
Joyeux Noel,
B
P.S. The Marche aux Fruits down the street from me just put up Christmas trees for sale outside it. You have not lived until you have seen Parisian businessmen in 1000Euro Armani suits trying to haul a sapin de noel wrapped in netting into their 4th floor apartment. Or trying to strap it somehow to the back of their motorscooters. Trust me, life does not get better than this.
Until then, I have every intention of filling my moments of boredom with the Love Actually soundtrack, 30 Seconds to Mars, The Sounds, Rufus Wainwright, Ryan Adams and other terribly non-Parisian bands.
Today on the Metro on the way to class, a guy got in a few stops after me and sat down across from me with his easel case in tow. He was clearly an art student, judging from the tousled Charles Darnley-esque ponytail, careless scarf and velveteen blazer. Anyway, he sat down and pulled a paper bag out of his pocket, which evidently contained his breakfast. Though he tried to keep it contained in the bag, it didn't work, I saw it, and he was eating a chocolate sandwich for breakfast. Like, 2 pieces of sandwich bread with a bar of dark chocolate stuck between them. I think I fell in love. Hahahahaha.
Joyeux Noel,
B
P.S. The Marche aux Fruits down the street from me just put up Christmas trees for sale outside it. You have not lived until you have seen Parisian businessmen in 1000Euro Armani suits trying to haul a sapin de noel wrapped in netting into their 4th floor apartment. Or trying to strap it somehow to the back of their motorscooters. Trust me, life does not get better than this.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Things that scare me:
Parking garages
My archaeology professor
The French consulate, and all the people who work there
30 Seconds To Mars music videos
Roaches (this should probably be at the top of the list, since I once broke my wrist in an effort to avoid a roach. Uck)
Burkas
The Gendarmerie
Large bouncers
To Do:
Stop making ridiculous lists and do homework
Buy a masquerade mask
Find a masquerade party to which I can wear the mask
Get a haircut
Stop watching YouTube and do homework
Throw up the rock fist.
I think it is time we accepted certain inalienable truths: I will never be productive on days I don't have class; I care more about finding a good summer job than getting a tutoring appointment for my final history paper; I will never stop biting my nails; Paris will always be more beautiful than... well... anywhere else; Vegetarians will always be the coolest people on earth.
That is all, good night.
~B
Parking garages
My archaeology professor
The French consulate, and all the people who work there
30 Seconds To Mars music videos
Roaches (this should probably be at the top of the list, since I once broke my wrist in an effort to avoid a roach. Uck)
Burkas
The Gendarmerie
Large bouncers
To Do:
Stop making ridiculous lists and do homework
Buy a masquerade mask
Find a masquerade party to which I can wear the mask
Get a haircut
Stop watching YouTube and do homework
Throw up the rock fist.
I think it is time we accepted certain inalienable truths: I will never be productive on days I don't have class; I care more about finding a good summer job than getting a tutoring appointment for my final history paper; I will never stop biting my nails; Paris will always be more beautiful than... well... anywhere else; Vegetarians will always be the coolest people on earth.
That is all, good night.
~B
Life here has settled into a comfortable routine of days that begin with coffee and Muesli, classes in which I take more notes than I ever have for any American class, errands to the post office or the tabac to buy minutes for my phone, always always being bundled up in the most amazing winter coat I have ever seen in my life, and then no-longer awkward dinner with Madame, which usually includes long pauses as I realize I have no idea what I am saying, but she just waits for me to get it out, corrects my pronunciation, and marvels or commiserates appropriately. Lately the weather has been alternately clear and beautiful (but freezing) or gray, foggy, windy, and rainy... which makes it perfect for sitting in a cafe with a cafe au lait that you pay significantly too much for and a book.
I think I booked the first gig for the band today. See, again, notice the "I think" that precedes that, which should indicate that I am in significantly over my head when it comes to life in this country. Anyway, I got in touch with a club in the 1oth, somehow made myself understood (I think they think I am IN the band, but that is irrelevant), and then the programmateur says, in french, "That sounds great, how about the 28th of March?"
WHAT? Don't I have to, like, send you an email, or a press kit, or a CD or... SOMETHING? The French, who are known for their bureaucracy, have suddenly come through for me, perhaps, and I don't even know what to do with myself.
But since I kind of think it is too good to be true, I am keeping the news to myself till I can call again and confirm everything, negotiate a price and make sure they have all the right equipment... again, I cannot say enough what an adventure this has become, not to mention that all of it sounds so simple, but picture me with my paperwork, french dictionary, list of clubs to call, pencils, highlighters, and laptop spread across the tiny breakfast nook table, which has become my makeshift workspace because somehow the neighbor's wireless network works in there. I sit there with a cup of coffee or mint tea, pouring over the dictionary looking for words like "amplifier," "bass"-- the guitar, not the fish, "salary," "merchandising," "cover charge," and "rehearsal fee." Everything I have to ask must be scripted out to the letter before I pick up the phone, lest I say something completely incoherent (like today when I asked about scheduling a concert "chez vous" (at your house), instead of "chez le restaurant" (at your restaurant)), which was kind of awkward, but I keep going back to the fact that, really, if I can do this for a small band part-time in another language/culture/country/continent, then surely I could do it for a bigger band in my own language/country after college with a degree fulltime... right?
Hahaha, I wish. Ok, time to get on it.
From the city of blinding lights,
B
I think I booked the first gig for the band today. See, again, notice the "I think" that precedes that, which should indicate that I am in significantly over my head when it comes to life in this country. Anyway, I got in touch with a club in the 1oth, somehow made myself understood (I think they think I am IN the band, but that is irrelevant), and then the programmateur says, in french, "That sounds great, how about the 28th of March?"
WHAT? Don't I have to, like, send you an email, or a press kit, or a CD or... SOMETHING? The French, who are known for their bureaucracy, have suddenly come through for me, perhaps, and I don't even know what to do with myself.
But since I kind of think it is too good to be true, I am keeping the news to myself till I can call again and confirm everything, negotiate a price and make sure they have all the right equipment... again, I cannot say enough what an adventure this has become, not to mention that all of it sounds so simple, but picture me with my paperwork, french dictionary, list of clubs to call, pencils, highlighters, and laptop spread across the tiny breakfast nook table, which has become my makeshift workspace because somehow the neighbor's wireless network works in there. I sit there with a cup of coffee or mint tea, pouring over the dictionary looking for words like "amplifier," "bass"-- the guitar, not the fish, "salary," "merchandising," "cover charge," and "rehearsal fee." Everything I have to ask must be scripted out to the letter before I pick up the phone, lest I say something completely incoherent (like today when I asked about scheduling a concert "chez vous" (at your house), instead of "chez le restaurant" (at your restaurant)), which was kind of awkward, but I keep going back to the fact that, really, if I can do this for a small band part-time in another language/culture/country/continent, then surely I could do it for a bigger band in my own language/country after college with a degree fulltime... right?
Hahaha, I wish. Ok, time to get on it.
From the city of blinding lights,
B
Sunday, December 10, 2006
I spent Saturday in Belgium. I love living in a place where I can take a day trip to another country. It’s only about an hour and a half away on TGV (train de grand vitesse, literally, "really quick train"), so I went to Brussels by myself and spent the day wandering the town. Even though it’s a big city when it comes to population, the city is pretty small area-wise, so it still has that small town feel to it, which was cool. My main goal in going was to see Tassel House, this building I wrote a paper on for an architecture class one time, arguing that the construction of it began the modern architecture movement. Once I got there, I found out it is kilometers outside of town, and since I didn’t even know if it was open, I decided to forego it. BUT there was the most amazing Christmas market going on all through the city, so I spent most of the day wandering that. Christmas markets are a European invention, I believe, and happen mostly only in smallerish towns, because I suppose in big cities there are too many people who do not celebrate Christmas to pull off a successful one (speaking of which, I couldn’t believe how many mosques and Arabic stores there were in Brussels, WHO KNEW?? Unrelated but still odd: the city also apparently has a vibrantly booming gay population...). So I wandered the Christmas Market, which winds its way from one end of the city to the other, chatting in French with chocolatiers and people who sold reindeer pate. Reindeer pate. From Norway. Which means it is legit, because everyone knows that Norway is called NORway because it is where the NORth Pole is, and thus Santa, and thus his reindeer, who are native to there. I wanted to buy some because it was so unbelievable, but the former vegetarian in me could not support it AND it cost as much as beluga caviar, so I gave up on that. BUT from the Norwegians I did buy, I kid you not, a "lingonberry polar express drink," which is basically lingonberry cider, heated, with lingonberries sprinkled through it, and vodka. I thought it was just CIDER until I saw the woman pull a fifth from behind the counter, at which point I was like, "Um, peut-je boire ça sans le vodka, s’il vous plaît?" Can I have that without vodka, please? Because it was about 5degrees below zero Celsius, and the last thing I wanted was to be drinking spiked lingonberry juice as I walked around Belgium, a country with three official languages including FLEMISH, which sounds like nothing and has got to be the most useless language to be fluent in. All that detracts from the important part though. I ATE A LINGONBERRY. I didn’t even actually know they really existed, I always kind of thought they were some sort of mythical thing and that lingonberry syrup actually came from kohlrabis or something. But no, they exist, and apparently are a prime staple of the reindeer diet. (This place also sold reindeer furs. At least they weren’t letting it go to waste. But I am still not ok with that.)
Yesterday I made my first phone calls for the band promoter/tour manager "job" that I have somehow scored. I still can’t talk about it without giggling, because not only is it so cooooool, but it’s also exactly what I want to do for a living and it’s just so ridiculous that I somehow ended up with a job like that in another country. Now, let me remind you of something that happened a very long time ago and may or may not have been covered here.
I got sick. And when I did, I had to go to the doctor. So obviously, I had to call the doctor to make an appointment to see her. And when I did, I conducted my first PHONE conversation in french, and promptly swore off using the phone in french, ever, at all, no matter what. Because the receptionist couldn’t understand what I was asking for, or what my name was, or when I wanted an appointment for, or whether I was french, etc. But then I got this job, and all bets were off.
So I started calling Parisian nightclubs yesterday. Most of them I had already sent an email to, but a few of them were brand new. Not only is calling nightclubs intimidating anyway (because the people there are always so cool) but this time I was doing it in FRENCH. It went better than it potentially COULD have... I managed to make myself understood (this "my-name-is-Blair-like-Tony" trick works WONDERS; they understand what I am saying, they always laugh, and then they are like my best friend. It doesn’t hurt that it probably makes them think I am British too, which is always good.); left messages for the "programmateur," a word that is KEY when I call places and which I am still excellent at mispronouncing; AND I even managed to understand when one secretary explained to me that the programmateur refuses to consider bands unless he is sent a CD and press kit.
BUT no callbacks yet. And I am not discouraged by that as in, "maybe this band is not good" but as in "maybe they think I can not speak their language, so they are not calling." But I suppose this is really an excellent way for me to practice, because my comprehension of French is through the roof, since all I do is eavesdrop on people’s conversations in the Metro and take classes in French, but my actual SPEAKING skills? Still lacking. A lot. So now I am getting thrown into this crazy world of French slang, words like "booking" and "management" and "gig" and "amp" and "sound system" that I know in English but am now having to learn in French... it’s fun because it is something I enjoy, but it is wicked hard because I have no idea what I am doing, and have to do it in another language. But the band has been nothing but helpful... I got an email from the lead singer on Saturday morning giving me more advice, and they have all been cool about the fact that this is my first time doing this in my second language.
Today I went to Angelina (a ritzy cafe near the Louvre) that is well-known for it's hot chocolate. This place is in every French guidebook I have ever seen, and I had been there once with my dad (years ago, before I had heard of it or spoke French), so I returned today... and it was exactly as amazing as I remembered it. The building is amazing-- all crown mouldings with gilt trim, one wall with a pastoral 19th-century mural painted on it, the other floor to ceiling mirrors, a wide staircase leading to the upper floor, and cases upon cases of viennoiseries, patisseries, etc. So cute, directly across the street from the Tuileries (the huge garden that abuts the Louvre), and full of people brunching after mass or before a visit to the biggest museum on the planet, in their fur coats and Prada bags... I paid 6,50 Euros for a hot chocolate-- that's about $9. But it's not terribly outrageous for a specialty drink in Paris, and this hot chocolate... well, it served as my lunch, so take that for what it's worth. I ordered a "chocolat chaud blanc" (white hot chocolate), which was brought to the table in a pitcher (solid white), with a pitcher of warmed cream (because this stuff is too rich to drink straight), and a teacup to pour it in. And, literally, I think there is a good chance it is nothing but melted white chocolate with whole cream stirred in. It's hot, thick, sweet, and gooey, and tastes like eating a white chocolate bar.
And, on a random note: Tonight I went to a Lessons and Carols service at an Anglican church here in Paris. All the Christmas Carols they sang were some kind of weird reverse remixes, where everything is made more... classical. The only "american" one they sang was "Go Tell It On The Mountain," which is a song I have never really liked without knowing why, until tonight, when in the midst of them singing it, I suddenly remembered my kindergarten Christmas pageant. Now, granted, I probably had pitched all kinds of fits about this pageant because I hated things like this when I was young, but that is not the point of the story. I have this distinct memory of that song being the song my class had to sing by ourselves. And we had to dress up like we were from another country. I don’t know if kindergarten was assigned the middle east and the older kids got something cooler, or if my family just decided to dress me as an Arab woman, but I am quite sure I did not decide it myself. I distinctly remember wearing this shawl/scarf thing as a dress, all wrapped and pinned around me, that my dad had bought in Turkey or India or Ghana or something, and I remember thinking even as my teacher re-pinned it around me for the 30th time before we went onstage that I looked ridiculous. (I probably did, but it is also insanely weird that someone decided having 38 suburban kindergartners dress up like middle easterners to do a Christmas pageant was a good idea.) Anyway, we sang that song, and I have retained a dislike for it ever since.
I am, as always,
over the hills and far away,
B
Yesterday I made my first phone calls for the band promoter/tour manager "job" that I have somehow scored. I still can’t talk about it without giggling, because not only is it so cooooool, but it’s also exactly what I want to do for a living and it’s just so ridiculous that I somehow ended up with a job like that in another country. Now, let me remind you of something that happened a very long time ago and may or may not have been covered here.
I got sick. And when I did, I had to go to the doctor. So obviously, I had to call the doctor to make an appointment to see her. And when I did, I conducted my first PHONE conversation in french, and promptly swore off using the phone in french, ever, at all, no matter what. Because the receptionist couldn’t understand what I was asking for, or what my name was, or when I wanted an appointment for, or whether I was french, etc. But then I got this job, and all bets were off.
So I started calling Parisian nightclubs yesterday. Most of them I had already sent an email to, but a few of them were brand new. Not only is calling nightclubs intimidating anyway (because the people there are always so cool) but this time I was doing it in FRENCH. It went better than it potentially COULD have... I managed to make myself understood (this "my-name-is-Blair-like-Tony" trick works WONDERS; they understand what I am saying, they always laugh, and then they are like my best friend. It doesn’t hurt that it probably makes them think I am British too, which is always good.); left messages for the "programmateur," a word that is KEY when I call places and which I am still excellent at mispronouncing; AND I even managed to understand when one secretary explained to me that the programmateur refuses to consider bands unless he is sent a CD and press kit.
BUT no callbacks yet. And I am not discouraged by that as in, "maybe this band is not good" but as in "maybe they think I can not speak their language, so they are not calling." But I suppose this is really an excellent way for me to practice, because my comprehension of French is through the roof, since all I do is eavesdrop on people’s conversations in the Metro and take classes in French, but my actual SPEAKING skills? Still lacking. A lot. So now I am getting thrown into this crazy world of French slang, words like "booking" and "management" and "gig" and "amp" and "sound system" that I know in English but am now having to learn in French... it’s fun because it is something I enjoy, but it is wicked hard because I have no idea what I am doing, and have to do it in another language. But the band has been nothing but helpful... I got an email from the lead singer on Saturday morning giving me more advice, and they have all been cool about the fact that this is my first time doing this in my second language.
Today I went to Angelina (a ritzy cafe near the Louvre) that is well-known for it's hot chocolate. This place is in every French guidebook I have ever seen, and I had been there once with my dad (years ago, before I had heard of it or spoke French), so I returned today... and it was exactly as amazing as I remembered it. The building is amazing-- all crown mouldings with gilt trim, one wall with a pastoral 19th-century mural painted on it, the other floor to ceiling mirrors, a wide staircase leading to the upper floor, and cases upon cases of viennoiseries, patisseries, etc. So cute, directly across the street from the Tuileries (the huge garden that abuts the Louvre), and full of people brunching after mass or before a visit to the biggest museum on the planet, in their fur coats and Prada bags... I paid 6,50 Euros for a hot chocolate-- that's about $9. But it's not terribly outrageous for a specialty drink in Paris, and this hot chocolate... well, it served as my lunch, so take that for what it's worth. I ordered a "chocolat chaud blanc" (white hot chocolate), which was brought to the table in a pitcher (solid white), with a pitcher of warmed cream (because this stuff is too rich to drink straight), and a teacup to pour it in. And, literally, I think there is a good chance it is nothing but melted white chocolate with whole cream stirred in. It's hot, thick, sweet, and gooey, and tastes like eating a white chocolate bar.
And, on a random note: Tonight I went to a Lessons and Carols service at an Anglican church here in Paris. All the Christmas Carols they sang were some kind of weird reverse remixes, where everything is made more... classical. The only "american" one they sang was "Go Tell It On The Mountain," which is a song I have never really liked without knowing why, until tonight, when in the midst of them singing it, I suddenly remembered my kindergarten Christmas pageant. Now, granted, I probably had pitched all kinds of fits about this pageant because I hated things like this when I was young, but that is not the point of the story. I have this distinct memory of that song being the song my class had to sing by ourselves. And we had to dress up like we were from another country. I don’t know if kindergarten was assigned the middle east and the older kids got something cooler, or if my family just decided to dress me as an Arab woman, but I am quite sure I did not decide it myself. I distinctly remember wearing this shawl/scarf thing as a dress, all wrapped and pinned around me, that my dad had bought in Turkey or India or Ghana or something, and I remember thinking even as my teacher re-pinned it around me for the 30th time before we went onstage that I looked ridiculous. (I probably did, but it is also insanely weird that someone decided having 38 suburban kindergartners dress up like middle easterners to do a Christmas pageant was a good idea.) Anyway, we sang that song, and I have retained a dislike for it ever since.
I am, as always,
over the hills and far away,
B
Thursday, December 07, 2006
The good karma streak is over. It's probably my own fault for eating lardons last night.
I got a run in my favorite pair of argyle tights today (ok, so they are my only argyle tights, but I bought them in the States and have no idea where to get more here) AND I had an archaeology midterm.
I wish I could explain accurately the depth of unsurety which follows me everywhere I go in this city. I am trying my hardest to learn this language, but it is so complicated, and so I feel often like my language skills are not improving and I am just getting much better at my "I understand and am just too cool to respond" face. Which really means "I have no idea what just happened, so I won't respond so they can hear my terrible accent, and I will just wing it." Because I spend at least one-third of the time that I am not in my apartment wondering what in heaven's name is happening around me. And when I am in class, it skyrockets to five-eighths. It makes for insane adventures and a lot of ridiculousness.
Now, let's review. Yesterday I run into my archaeology prof in Paris, randomly, and get NO WARNING about this midterm. Probably that is normal, since it would have been kind of awkward for him to be like, "Bonjour, now take off your headphones and let me ask, have you or have you not begun studying for the midterm in my class tomorrow, because I know you don't speak this language very well, and you better get a move on." Nevertheless, I would have appreciated it. Because no one else in the class seemed surprised, but I somehow missed the announcement that there was a test this week... So I walk in, he gets there late like always, and starts handing out these sheets and tells us not to turn them over yet, then says, "ok, go, you have 20 minutes" and I am still thinking "This must be a joke. If there were a test, I would have known about it..." But then I realize everyone else in the room is writing furiously, and oh, it is not a joke, but a controle, which is really unfortunate. AND it gets worse-- my archaeology prof is one of those ones (as are all the French) who thinks that they should account for random guesses, so wrong answers deduct points. I HATE TESTS LIKE THAT. Because I am really pretty GOOD at guessing. Anyway, it wasn't really a big deal, and I was not really upset by it, but it just leaves me shaking my head again at the fact that I am sure everyone else in the class spent hours studying this week, and I HAD NO IDEA THAT WE HAD A TEST. Also funny since I only get three grades in the class, and that was one of them. Oh well, maybe participation will boost me up, I talked in that class, remember, so my participation will be through the roof...
But I guess the streak is not completely broken... I got the best belated birthday/early Christmas present of my LIFE today.
It's just been such an insane week, and I have spent the whole thing working for the weekend... tomorrow no class, so I am gonna spend the day picking up my Killers ticket and then... this is really weird... visiting clubs to try to convince them in French to hire this band... HAHAHAHAHA MY LIFE IS COMPLETELY INSANE.
Love,
Adam Ant.
(Blair, like Tony Blair.)
I got a run in my favorite pair of argyle tights today (ok, so they are my only argyle tights, but I bought them in the States and have no idea where to get more here) AND I had an archaeology midterm.
I wish I could explain accurately the depth of unsurety which follows me everywhere I go in this city. I am trying my hardest to learn this language, but it is so complicated, and so I feel often like my language skills are not improving and I am just getting much better at my "I understand and am just too cool to respond" face. Which really means "I have no idea what just happened, so I won't respond so they can hear my terrible accent, and I will just wing it." Because I spend at least one-third of the time that I am not in my apartment wondering what in heaven's name is happening around me. And when I am in class, it skyrockets to five-eighths. It makes for insane adventures and a lot of ridiculousness.
Now, let's review. Yesterday I run into my archaeology prof in Paris, randomly, and get NO WARNING about this midterm. Probably that is normal, since it would have been kind of awkward for him to be like, "Bonjour, now take off your headphones and let me ask, have you or have you not begun studying for the midterm in my class tomorrow, because I know you don't speak this language very well, and you better get a move on." Nevertheless, I would have appreciated it. Because no one else in the class seemed surprised, but I somehow missed the announcement that there was a test this week... So I walk in, he gets there late like always, and starts handing out these sheets and tells us not to turn them over yet, then says, "ok, go, you have 20 minutes" and I am still thinking "This must be a joke. If there were a test, I would have known about it..." But then I realize everyone else in the room is writing furiously, and oh, it is not a joke, but a controle, which is really unfortunate. AND it gets worse-- my archaeology prof is one of those ones (as are all the French) who thinks that they should account for random guesses, so wrong answers deduct points. I HATE TESTS LIKE THAT. Because I am really pretty GOOD at guessing. Anyway, it wasn't really a big deal, and I was not really upset by it, but it just leaves me shaking my head again at the fact that I am sure everyone else in the class spent hours studying this week, and I HAD NO IDEA THAT WE HAD A TEST. Also funny since I only get three grades in the class, and that was one of them. Oh well, maybe participation will boost me up, I talked in that class, remember, so my participation will be through the roof...
But I guess the streak is not completely broken... I got the best belated birthday/early Christmas present of my LIFE today.
It's just been such an insane week, and I have spent the whole thing working for the weekend... tomorrow no class, so I am gonna spend the day picking up my Killers ticket and then... this is really weird... visiting clubs to try to convince them in French to hire this band... HAHAHAHAHA MY LIFE IS COMPLETELY INSANE.
Love,
Adam Ant.
(Blair, like Tony Blair.)
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
In the US, I think there is a show called "Best Week Ever" or something. I have never actually WATCHED it, but there used to be ads for it on MTVU, which I listened to religiously when I used to have actual homework to do, at an actual college campus. I have never seen this show, and thus have no idea what it is about, but I think I might audition for the role of the main character, because this week has truly been the best... ever.
I got a job.
I got a Killers ticket.
I got an extra day to work on my grammar presentation.
I had the best peppermint mocha of my life today.
I ran into some random person from my class at University of Paris today... in the middle of the city, nowhere near the University itself, and it was so... weird!
I am living this ridiculously insanely charmed life, and I just keep waiting to wake up (or have someone call me out) and remember that I am not actually Parisian and I still don't actually speak this language that well...
Despite that, it is almost Christmas, I have a silver metal Christmas tree gracing the coffee table in my bedroom, I have a job doing what I have always wanted to do, and to put it in the words of my best friend,
MoxieRingwald: oh, you know, I'm single and young in paris, how much better does it get, i guess?
Emorly: well...when you put it like that, you are basically the cover girl for cosmo...
I have found myself on the Metro or walking the streets of Paris lately, grinning uncontrollably, like a crazy person, because I just can't help it. So I start grinning, realize I must look crazy, start blushing and duck my head, because if I can't stop the grin, I might as well stop the world from thinking I am nuts. So now it is off to attempt to perfect my grammar to the point that I can send an email to a club owner in Paris, ask for a gig, and then bargain to an appropriate price. All this from the girl that won't even attempt to bargain at the flea market because it is just too awkward.
So I'll listen to The Sounds and the band that I now "rep..." (?) and do my best to be a Real Person and not just a college student thrilled by Life.
"We're not living in America, and we're not sorry..."
~The Sounds.
~B
I got a job.
I got a Killers ticket.
I got an extra day to work on my grammar presentation.
I had the best peppermint mocha of my life today.
I ran into some random person from my class at University of Paris today... in the middle of the city, nowhere near the University itself, and it was so... weird!
I am living this ridiculously insanely charmed life, and I just keep waiting to wake up (or have someone call me out) and remember that I am not actually Parisian and I still don't actually speak this language that well...
Despite that, it is almost Christmas, I have a silver metal Christmas tree gracing the coffee table in my bedroom, I have a job doing what I have always wanted to do, and to put it in the words of my best friend,
MoxieRingwald: oh, you know, I'm single and young in paris, how much better does it get, i guess?
Emorly: well...when you put it like that, you are basically the cover girl for cosmo...
I have found myself on the Metro or walking the streets of Paris lately, grinning uncontrollably, like a crazy person, because I just can't help it. So I start grinning, realize I must look crazy, start blushing and duck my head, because if I can't stop the grin, I might as well stop the world from thinking I am nuts. So now it is off to attempt to perfect my grammar to the point that I can send an email to a club owner in Paris, ask for a gig, and then bargain to an appropriate price. All this from the girl that won't even attempt to bargain at the flea market because it is just too awkward.
So I'll listen to The Sounds and the band that I now "rep..." (?) and do my best to be a Real Person and not just a college student thrilled by Life.
"We're not living in America, and we're not sorry..."
~The Sounds.
~B
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Oh, Life.
Um, so I have somehow gotten a job as a promoter for a French rock band here in Paris. I DO NOT KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. All I can say is that life, when you least expect it, turns out be... ridiculous. So... rewind like 3 days, and here is my life:
Thursday: I find an ad for a "tour manager" for a Parisian rock band. Despite my lack of experience, despite the language barrier, and despite the fact that I do not live here permanently, I called.
Friday: I leave town for London.
Sunday: I return to a voicemail from the lead singer of the band, asking when I can get together.
Monday: I make an appointment with the lead singer and guitarist for Tuesday. I also somehow score a Killers ticket for... well, MARCH, but the point is I am going.
Tuesday: I wake up to a call from my program telling my grammar class today is cancelled, excellent karma since I was supposed to have a presentation today anyway. So I sleep in, get up for the interview, go to the lead singer’s apartment, and love it. The whole band, apparently, thought I was going to be a guy (thanks, unisex american name), but they were stoked about my (meager) experience, love that I am american, and are willing to help me out with whatever I need. Lead singer is highly bilingual, lived in the US for a few years, but the others speak English about the way I speak french, that is to say, not well. Which is fine, because we can get by with each other, but it’s pretty insane. The lead singer is about 5 years older than me, and she works full-time as a model, just does the band on the side. Intimidating? To the max.
Basically, my life is turning into "Almost Famous," and I am totally ok with that. Though I suppose it’s maybe more like "Rock Your World," since I am in Europe and it is not the 70's.
Oh, and the highlight of the meeting with them today was this conversation:
LeadSinger: "It might be easiest for you to communicate with the club owners if you go TO the club, since I know the phone is probably harder for you to understand."
Blair: "Yeah, definitely, that would probably be the way to go."
LeadSinger: "When you go, though, I think you have a great look, you are very chic and have your own style, I can tell, which is great, but when you go, you might want to dress a little bit hipster, you know, black jeans, boots or Converses, or something, because I really do like your look, but I know these clubs cater mostly to a hipster kind of rocker crowd, and it would probably make a difference, you know?"
Blair: "Right, good idea." [Thinking to herself, "WHY DID I CHOOSE THIS OUTFIT??"]
Last night I tried on every outfit in my closet trying to figure out what to wear, finally decided to go typical Parisian, military skirt, high boots, turquoise camisole, and a white wool sweater thing– it was a very typical Blair-in-Paris outfit, but not particularly Blair-in-real-life, since I left all my rock star/real life clothes in the US. So the poor lead singer thinks she just hired some fancy-dressing American, when the truth is that I disregarded all my black clothes for the interview because I didn’t want to look like I was too casual. Bad call.
Nevertheless, I have a job. Doing what I want to do for the rest of my life. In a foreign country. For a band that is decidedly decent. And basically, all this means that it is time for me to stop writing and start dancing around my room to 30 Seconds To Mars.
I am off to do that, and I bid you, as always,
Farewell,
Blair
Um, so I have somehow gotten a job as a promoter for a French rock band here in Paris. I DO NOT KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. All I can say is that life, when you least expect it, turns out be... ridiculous. So... rewind like 3 days, and here is my life:
Thursday: I find an ad for a "tour manager" for a Parisian rock band. Despite my lack of experience, despite the language barrier, and despite the fact that I do not live here permanently, I called.
Friday: I leave town for London.
Sunday: I return to a voicemail from the lead singer of the band, asking when I can get together.
Monday: I make an appointment with the lead singer and guitarist for Tuesday. I also somehow score a Killers ticket for... well, MARCH, but the point is I am going.
Tuesday: I wake up to a call from my program telling my grammar class today is cancelled, excellent karma since I was supposed to have a presentation today anyway. So I sleep in, get up for the interview, go to the lead singer’s apartment, and love it. The whole band, apparently, thought I was going to be a guy (thanks, unisex american name), but they were stoked about my (meager) experience, love that I am american, and are willing to help me out with whatever I need. Lead singer is highly bilingual, lived in the US for a few years, but the others speak English about the way I speak french, that is to say, not well. Which is fine, because we can get by with each other, but it’s pretty insane. The lead singer is about 5 years older than me, and she works full-time as a model, just does the band on the side. Intimidating? To the max.
Basically, my life is turning into "Almost Famous," and I am totally ok with that. Though I suppose it’s maybe more like "Rock Your World," since I am in Europe and it is not the 70's.
Oh, and the highlight of the meeting with them today was this conversation:
LeadSinger: "It might be easiest for you to communicate with the club owners if you go TO the club, since I know the phone is probably harder for you to understand."
Blair: "Yeah, definitely, that would probably be the way to go."
LeadSinger: "When you go, though, I think you have a great look, you are very chic and have your own style, I can tell, which is great, but when you go, you might want to dress a little bit hipster, you know, black jeans, boots or Converses, or something, because I really do like your look, but I know these clubs cater mostly to a hipster kind of rocker crowd, and it would probably make a difference, you know?"
Blair: "Right, good idea." [Thinking to herself, "WHY DID I CHOOSE THIS OUTFIT??"]
Last night I tried on every outfit in my closet trying to figure out what to wear, finally decided to go typical Parisian, military skirt, high boots, turquoise camisole, and a white wool sweater thing– it was a very typical Blair-in-Paris outfit, but not particularly Blair-in-real-life, since I left all my rock star/real life clothes in the US. So the poor lead singer thinks she just hired some fancy-dressing American, when the truth is that I disregarded all my black clothes for the interview because I didn’t want to look like I was too casual. Bad call.
Nevertheless, I have a job. Doing what I want to do for the rest of my life. In a foreign country. For a band that is decidedly decent. And basically, all this means that it is time for me to stop writing and start dancing around my room to 30 Seconds To Mars.
I am off to do that, and I bid you, as always,
Farewell,
Blair
Monday, December 04, 2006
Reasons why today is the best day of my life, or at least perhaps of my 21st year thus far:
It's Monday, but no class.
I slept for like Eleventy million hours last night... (That's not a nap, that's a coma! Say you took a coma!)
I got a call back for this interview thing for this rock star apprentice job in Paris...
And.
Best of all.
Killers spring show?
WHO is gonna be there?
Oh, Yes, that would be...
YOURS TRULY.
I don't know how these things happen, except by SHEER LUCK. We won't talk about how much the ticket cost if converted into dollar amounts, because really that is irrelevant.
What is relevant is that this is, seriously, ridiculously amazing.
Now, ROCK ON.
Au revoir,
Mrs. Brightside.
It's Monday, but no class.
I slept for like Eleventy million hours last night... (That's not a nap, that's a coma! Say you took a coma!)
I got a call back for this interview thing for this rock star apprentice job in Paris...
And.
Best of all.
Killers spring show?
WHO is gonna be there?
Oh, Yes, that would be...
YOURS TRULY.
I don't know how these things happen, except by SHEER LUCK. We won't talk about how much the ticket cost if converted into dollar amounts, because really that is irrelevant.
What is relevant is that this is, seriously, ridiculously amazing.
Now, ROCK ON.
Au revoir,
Mrs. Brightside.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
London Calling...
London vs. Paris, a comparison:
Language: English vs. French. In terms of efficiency, London takes the cake. BUT French= much prettier, and Frenchies tend to be more bilingual. Also handy.
Verdict: Tie.
Food: Fish and chips vs. Quiche. (Keep in mind that the "fish" is cod. And the "chips" are fries.) Verdict: Paris.
Style: Ok, so all good designers come from Paris then return every spring and fall for fashion weeks. And Londoners can’t seem to match to save their lives. That said, LONDON IS FULL OF PEOPLE WHO DRESS LIKE ROCKSTARS. Since fashion is really a matter of personal taste, I suppose I should leave it up to you.
But I am the one writing this, so forget it.
Verdict: London.
Music: The Clash. Queen (I think). Lost Prophets (from somewhere in their country). Vs. Rufus Wainwright. London outnumbers Paris, BUT they also spawned James Blunt. Minus 5000 for London.
Verdict: Paris wins by a little.
Public Transportation: London= cleaner. Paris= more efficient, widespread. Also London costs 3Pounds a ride, or about $6.
Verdict: Paris.
Museums: In London are free. What? AND they have 6story slides in the Tate Modern right now, for free. Paris ones are free for me, though, since I study it.
Verdict: Tie.
Prices of everything: Paris wins. No matter what, Paris wins. I refuse to deign to elaborate on this one. Just know this: there is 52 US cents to a British Pound. (And 64 Euro cents to a British pound, making it terribly, prohibitively expensive.)
Driving: Now, I admire the British for sticking to their guns about this left-handed thing. I am left-handed, and it probably would have been easier for me to learn to drive there than in the US. And they won’t let themselves be swayed, so that is cool. But honestly, how does anyone ever leave their country to move anywhere else? NO one else in the world drives on the left (with the possible exception of Australia, which I am not sure about but which was a colony until about 3 years ago, so who knows.) So how do they ever leave their country? Paris drivers are crazy, but at least they are crazy on the right side of the road.
Verdict: Paris, but London takes points for being unique.
Kitsch factor: London. This is a good thing in my book, though. Where else can you buy a furry pink toilet seat cover with a photo of David Hasselhoff in the middle of it? And all the signs say "way out" instead of "exit" which is pretty cool.
P.S. A Queen’s guard soldier outfit weighs 3stone. That is 45 pounds.
Come to London, tonight...
Up until this weekend, all Englishmen to me were Peter O’Toole. All Englishwomen were Julie Andrews. Now I have learned that all Englishmen over 40 are Peter O’Toole, but all younger than him are just straightup rockstars.
I woke up today in London...
I spent the weekend in London at a friend’s flat... so fun. After Paris, definitely my favorite European city. Friday we went to Westminster Abbey, walked past Parliament (which looks just like in Monet’s paintings because, cliche though it may be, London IS that foggy) checked out Big Ben (which I expected Peter Pan to fly around the corner of any minute), saw the London Eye (more like London EyeSORE, but people said that about the Eiffel Tower too, so whatever), wandered in the Tate Modern for about 5 minutes, toured the new Globe, and basically just painted the town red. Oh, and it got dark at 300. Literally. Sunset there is at 345pm. It was cloudy, though, so it was pretty much pitch black at 245pm. It’s not supposed to be that way. Anywhere. I mean, I guess it IS supposed to be that way in London, it just is really... odd.
Follow tourists to Trafalgar Square...
Top 5 Favorite Places in the World:
1. Medici Fountain, Paris, France.
2. Walt Disney World Magic Kingdom, Orlando, Florida, USA.
3. Top of Wolf Pen, Irvine, Kentucky, USA.
4. Camden Market, London, England.
5. Tie: The Majestic Diner, Atlanta, Georgia, USA. And Marienbrucke, Fussen, Germany. And Forestville Farmhouse, Raleigh, North Carolina, USA.
I guess that means it’s really my top 7 favorite places, but I don’t care.
Street where the riches of ages are sold...
Anyway, we spent most of Saturday at Camden Market, which is this astoundingly amazing place where rockstars go to meet each other, buy their clothing, and listen to rockstar staples, like THE CLASH and Bob Marley and The Sex Pistols and lots of other bands who are Truly Very Legendary. So I am wandering through this part called Camden Lock, because it is on a lock in the Camden Canal or something, I don’t really know, and this guy is standing in his stall yelling something about how his bracelets are only 98shillings or some kind of British nonsense, and then the song switches from "Eleanor Rigby" to the opening notes of "All You Need Is Love" and the guy stops midsentence and pronounces for all of us, "We should all stop and listen to the words of THIS song!" then sits down and doesn’t talk again until the song is finished, I suppose as a memorial to his previously hippie days, because this guy was probably Pete himself, the guy the Beatles kicked out in favor of the much uglier Ringo.
Then I keep walking and pass this very Peter-O’Toole-ish man sitting at his booth of high quality sterling silver jewelry, his glasses down his nose where only very smart people wear them, and without looking up from his paper, he says to the guy in the booth next to him, "Oh, Mack?"
Mack grunts in response. My booth owner continues. Apparently Mack’s grunts are a generally accepted form of communication. "Mack, as a matter of interest, why [only he pronounces it "woi"] ‘ave you written ‘macaroni’ across the top of the page?" At which point I started laughing uncontrollably at the gravity with which Mack’s friend had asked the question. Mack saw me laughing and scowled, and grunted in a menacing way. His friend looked up and saw me and said, "Oh, don’t mind him, I think I might have to have him lesioned. He’s gone mad, this time I’m sure of it." And I am trying to compose myself when Mack pipes up with "I wrote it, not that it’s any of your business since that is MY paper you’re reading, because I ‘ad to count the letters for the puzzle. See, right ‘ere it says ‘tubular pasta’ [which he pronounced "tubula past-a" like to rhyme with nasa.] and I thought that might be it." Mack’s friend looks at Mack suspiciously, then back at me before stage-whispering conspiratorially to me, "Last time I checked, love, there was no ‘t’ in ‘macaroni’." To which I suggested "manicotti?" and finished the puzzle for Mack, much to his annoyance.
From there I found a stall that sold shirts that said things like "tea, biscuits, and death metal" and "Let’s Hunt James Blunt" and lots of other clever things, so I stopped to look at them, and the guy comes back to the booth and asks "you all right, then?" and I thought I must have looked sad or something, but apparently that is just the way the Brits ask if they can help you. But now I am not used to this being able to communicate with shop owners/t-shirt makers thing, so to demonstrate my proficiency in the chap’s native tongue, I quite accidentally struck up a conversation. We talked for nearly half an hour, about t-shirt sizes, and his inspiration for making them (the one I bought was inspired when lightning struck his brain in the form of an Eagles of Death Metal album), and he was shocked when he found out I live in France.
"But you’re American, aren’t you? Either that or you have a great accent for being French!"
"Yeah, no, I am American. My French accent is not nearly that good."
"But you are American and you live in Paris? I thought the Americans hated the French, or is that a myth?"
"Well," I responded, "I thought the British rather liked James Blunt, so I guess we are both mistaken."
"Oh, I hate that fellow. He’s given our whole country a bad name, now everyone thinks we sing like raspy soppy idiots with rosy cheeks. I suppose some people like him here, but no one with any taste."
It was amazing. And apparently John Cusack has bought his shirts before. Multiple times. If I had lots of pounds, I would have bought more, because they were amazing, but for now, I will have to settle for one.
Then I keep walking through the market and pass this girl who says to her boyfriend in this terribly Robin Leech-esque accent, "Well, DUH, she HAD to buy it because everyone needs a pole-dancing skirt when they leave home to go to University!" Only in London, I suppose.
Yeah, if I had a job that would somehow pay for me to live in London (yeah right, I don’t think anyone in London has a job like that) I could totally live there. Though it’s such a different vibe than being "on the continent," which seems more... I don’t know, more different from the US. Not that London is like the US... I suppose it is more like it than Paris, definitely more like it than most of the continent, but if you told them that I think they would be terribly offended. It’s just that I think moving there would be way less... traumatic? than moving to, like, oh, say, Paris, France.
Sidenote: I found a shoe store in Chinatown on Thursday and bought new perserk boots in brown– completely a legit purchase, not only were they cheap, but I desperately needed them. Because before you think it is impossible to "need" boots, keep in mind that all my jeans drag the ground because I can’t dry them, and it rains here now more or less every other day or something, and wandering with wet jeans = the worst feeling in the world. Boots are the remedy to that and all the world’s problems, I think, because the heel keeps the jeans from dragging, if they get splashed anyway, the tall boot part is encasing your leg, AND the tall part keeps one’s calf much warmer than jeans alone...
Hot.
Obsession of the moment, via Julia from Annie: http://radio.blog.com
For the expat on the run, this is amazing. I don’t know how it is legal, but for now it is, so I am not complaining!
Time for bed in the wintertime through the fall,
Blair Poppins
London vs. Paris, a comparison:
Language: English vs. French. In terms of efficiency, London takes the cake. BUT French= much prettier, and Frenchies tend to be more bilingual. Also handy.
Verdict: Tie.
Food: Fish and chips vs. Quiche. (Keep in mind that the "fish" is cod. And the "chips" are fries.) Verdict: Paris.
Style: Ok, so all good designers come from Paris then return every spring and fall for fashion weeks. And Londoners can’t seem to match to save their lives. That said, LONDON IS FULL OF PEOPLE WHO DRESS LIKE ROCKSTARS. Since fashion is really a matter of personal taste, I suppose I should leave it up to you.
But I am the one writing this, so forget it.
Verdict: London.
Music: The Clash. Queen (I think). Lost Prophets (from somewhere in their country). Vs. Rufus Wainwright. London outnumbers Paris, BUT they also spawned James Blunt. Minus 5000 for London.
Verdict: Paris wins by a little.
Public Transportation: London= cleaner. Paris= more efficient, widespread. Also London costs 3Pounds a ride, or about $6.
Verdict: Paris.
Museums: In London are free. What? AND they have 6story slides in the Tate Modern right now, for free. Paris ones are free for me, though, since I study it.
Verdict: Tie.
Prices of everything: Paris wins. No matter what, Paris wins. I refuse to deign to elaborate on this one. Just know this: there is 52 US cents to a British Pound. (And 64 Euro cents to a British pound, making it terribly, prohibitively expensive.)
Driving: Now, I admire the British for sticking to their guns about this left-handed thing. I am left-handed, and it probably would have been easier for me to learn to drive there than in the US. And they won’t let themselves be swayed, so that is cool. But honestly, how does anyone ever leave their country to move anywhere else? NO one else in the world drives on the left (with the possible exception of Australia, which I am not sure about but which was a colony until about 3 years ago, so who knows.) So how do they ever leave their country? Paris drivers are crazy, but at least they are crazy on the right side of the road.
Verdict: Paris, but London takes points for being unique.
Kitsch factor: London. This is a good thing in my book, though. Where else can you buy a furry pink toilet seat cover with a photo of David Hasselhoff in the middle of it? And all the signs say "way out" instead of "exit" which is pretty cool.
P.S. A Queen’s guard soldier outfit weighs 3stone. That is 45 pounds.
Come to London, tonight...
Up until this weekend, all Englishmen to me were Peter O’Toole. All Englishwomen were Julie Andrews. Now I have learned that all Englishmen over 40 are Peter O’Toole, but all younger than him are just straightup rockstars.
I woke up today in London...
I spent the weekend in London at a friend’s flat... so fun. After Paris, definitely my favorite European city. Friday we went to Westminster Abbey, walked past Parliament (which looks just like in Monet’s paintings because, cliche though it may be, London IS that foggy) checked out Big Ben (which I expected Peter Pan to fly around the corner of any minute), saw the London Eye (more like London EyeSORE, but people said that about the Eiffel Tower too, so whatever), wandered in the Tate Modern for about 5 minutes, toured the new Globe, and basically just painted the town red. Oh, and it got dark at 300. Literally. Sunset there is at 345pm. It was cloudy, though, so it was pretty much pitch black at 245pm. It’s not supposed to be that way. Anywhere. I mean, I guess it IS supposed to be that way in London, it just is really... odd.
Follow tourists to Trafalgar Square...
Top 5 Favorite Places in the World:
1. Medici Fountain, Paris, France.
2. Walt Disney World Magic Kingdom, Orlando, Florida, USA.
3. Top of Wolf Pen, Irvine, Kentucky, USA.
4. Camden Market, London, England.
5. Tie: The Majestic Diner, Atlanta, Georgia, USA. And Marienbrucke, Fussen, Germany. And Forestville Farmhouse, Raleigh, North Carolina, USA.
I guess that means it’s really my top 7 favorite places, but I don’t care.
Street where the riches of ages are sold...
Anyway, we spent most of Saturday at Camden Market, which is this astoundingly amazing place where rockstars go to meet each other, buy their clothing, and listen to rockstar staples, like THE CLASH and Bob Marley and The Sex Pistols and lots of other bands who are Truly Very Legendary. So I am wandering through this part called Camden Lock, because it is on a lock in the Camden Canal or something, I don’t really know, and this guy is standing in his stall yelling something about how his bracelets are only 98shillings or some kind of British nonsense, and then the song switches from "Eleanor Rigby" to the opening notes of "All You Need Is Love" and the guy stops midsentence and pronounces for all of us, "We should all stop and listen to the words of THIS song!" then sits down and doesn’t talk again until the song is finished, I suppose as a memorial to his previously hippie days, because this guy was probably Pete himself, the guy the Beatles kicked out in favor of the much uglier Ringo.
Then I keep walking and pass this very Peter-O’Toole-ish man sitting at his booth of high quality sterling silver jewelry, his glasses down his nose where only very smart people wear them, and without looking up from his paper, he says to the guy in the booth next to him, "Oh, Mack?"
Mack grunts in response. My booth owner continues. Apparently Mack’s grunts are a generally accepted form of communication. "Mack, as a matter of interest, why [only he pronounces it "woi"] ‘ave you written ‘macaroni’ across the top of the page?" At which point I started laughing uncontrollably at the gravity with which Mack’s friend had asked the question. Mack saw me laughing and scowled, and grunted in a menacing way. His friend looked up and saw me and said, "Oh, don’t mind him, I think I might have to have him lesioned. He’s gone mad, this time I’m sure of it." And I am trying to compose myself when Mack pipes up with "I wrote it, not that it’s any of your business since that is MY paper you’re reading, because I ‘ad to count the letters for the puzzle. See, right ‘ere it says ‘tubular pasta’ [which he pronounced "tubula past-a" like to rhyme with nasa.] and I thought that might be it." Mack’s friend looks at Mack suspiciously, then back at me before stage-whispering conspiratorially to me, "Last time I checked, love, there was no ‘t’ in ‘macaroni’." To which I suggested "manicotti?" and finished the puzzle for Mack, much to his annoyance.
From there I found a stall that sold shirts that said things like "tea, biscuits, and death metal" and "Let’s Hunt James Blunt" and lots of other clever things, so I stopped to look at them, and the guy comes back to the booth and asks "you all right, then?" and I thought I must have looked sad or something, but apparently that is just the way the Brits ask if they can help you. But now I am not used to this being able to communicate with shop owners/t-shirt makers thing, so to demonstrate my proficiency in the chap’s native tongue, I quite accidentally struck up a conversation. We talked for nearly half an hour, about t-shirt sizes, and his inspiration for making them (the one I bought was inspired when lightning struck his brain in the form of an Eagles of Death Metal album), and he was shocked when he found out I live in France.
"But you’re American, aren’t you? Either that or you have a great accent for being French!"
"Yeah, no, I am American. My French accent is not nearly that good."
"But you are American and you live in Paris? I thought the Americans hated the French, or is that a myth?"
"Well," I responded, "I thought the British rather liked James Blunt, so I guess we are both mistaken."
"Oh, I hate that fellow. He’s given our whole country a bad name, now everyone thinks we sing like raspy soppy idiots with rosy cheeks. I suppose some people like him here, but no one with any taste."
It was amazing. And apparently John Cusack has bought his shirts before. Multiple times. If I had lots of pounds, I would have bought more, because they were amazing, but for now, I will have to settle for one.
Then I keep walking through the market and pass this girl who says to her boyfriend in this terribly Robin Leech-esque accent, "Well, DUH, she HAD to buy it because everyone needs a pole-dancing skirt when they leave home to go to University!" Only in London, I suppose.
Yeah, if I had a job that would somehow pay for me to live in London (yeah right, I don’t think anyone in London has a job like that) I could totally live there. Though it’s such a different vibe than being "on the continent," which seems more... I don’t know, more different from the US. Not that London is like the US... I suppose it is more like it than Paris, definitely more like it than most of the continent, but if you told them that I think they would be terribly offended. It’s just that I think moving there would be way less... traumatic? than moving to, like, oh, say, Paris, France.
Sidenote: I found a shoe store in Chinatown on Thursday and bought new perserk boots in brown– completely a legit purchase, not only were they cheap, but I desperately needed them. Because before you think it is impossible to "need" boots, keep in mind that all my jeans drag the ground because I can’t dry them, and it rains here now more or less every other day or something, and wandering with wet jeans = the worst feeling in the world. Boots are the remedy to that and all the world’s problems, I think, because the heel keeps the jeans from dragging, if they get splashed anyway, the tall boot part is encasing your leg, AND the tall part keeps one’s calf much warmer than jeans alone...
Hot.
Obsession of the moment, via Julia from Annie: http://radio.blog.com
For the expat on the run, this is amazing. I don’t know how it is legal, but for now it is, so I am not complaining!
Time for bed in the wintertime through the fall,
Blair Poppins
Dear USA,
If you could please start making your dollar worth a little more, it would really help me out.
Yours Sincerely,
Blair
P.S. I don’t care who your president is, I don’t even KNOW who your secretary of defense is anymore, and I never actually found out who won the House after the November elections. Nevertheless, I am still a citizen. I know how competitive you like to be, and the euro is winning. And the pound has lapped you. So please get on the stick.
If you could please start making your dollar worth a little more, it would really help me out.
Yours Sincerely,
Blair
P.S. I don’t care who your president is, I don’t even KNOW who your secretary of defense is anymore, and I never actually found out who won the House after the November elections. Nevertheless, I am still a citizen. I know how competitive you like to be, and the euro is winning. And the pound has lapped you. So please get on the stick.
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