L'Etrangere

Des mots parisiens

2009-08-07T06:31:00.005+02:00

Des larmes au Louvre

2009-08-03T22:35:00.004+02:00

It could be viewed as unfortunate that one of my most vivid memories of Paris is a sad one. But the melancholic image is so beautiful that I don't mind reliving it.

It was mid-December. A period of my Parisian experience that is a blur of travel plans, my brother's visit and the excitement and disappointment of that lost internship debacle.

Ben and I were visiting the Louvre during its Wednesday nocturnal hours. After stopping by the random bits that we wanted to see, we decided to pass through the ever-crowded halls of large-format romantic paintings. Giant tableaux by French romanticism's heavy hitters - Delacroix, Ingres, David - abound. The richly painted ruby rooms are noisy and crowded but an eternal must-see.

Exhausted from a long day, difficulty sleeping and the wear of depression, I nearly collapsed on one of the large hall's giant leather ottomans. Sitting side-by-side with my brother an argument over something or another broke out between us. With my emotions intensified by everything that had happened over the last few days, I began to cry. There, with swarms of Japanese tourists and Parisian art students whizzing by, with giant walls covered with epic, larger-than-life paintings, I sat silently sobbing.

And the last thing I remember is my brother, without saying a word, putting his arm around me in the only gesture that could possibly matter.

Paris Plage

2009-07-20T19:51:00.005+02:00

Paris Plage began today along the banks of the Seine. Each year since 2001, the city of Paris sets up a makeshift beach along the Seine River from late July through mid-August. The "beach", complete with sand, palm trees, lounge chairs and more, occupies the walkway and stretch of highway along the right bank of the Seine.

Photo courtesy of The Associated Press

Although it's not quite the real thing, Paris Plage offers a pretty great approximation of the beach for those who can't make it to the Mediterranean.

Photo courtesy of The Associated Press

It's a momentary oasis within bustle of urban Paris.

Le Pont des Arts (selon le NY Times)

2009-07-19T01:25:00.004+02:00

Read the New York Times' take on the Pont des Arts here.

Their vision is somehow even more romanticized than my own.

Tarte aux pommes

2009-07-17T18:52:00.005+02:00

I knew I had to do something French to celebrate Bastille Day, la fête national française, on Tuesday. While listening to bad French pop music and adolescently angsty French pop-rock was inevitable, I decided to try something a little more à la française: baking!

For my first foray into French baked goods, I chose a very simple, but tasty treat: la tarte aux pommes. During my year in Paris, I ate a number of wonderful apple tarts and it came to be one of my favorite French desserts. Combined with the fact it’s a cinch to make, the tart was a no-brainer choice. (The super easy recipe follows below).

I had a great time singing along to French songs and baking the tarte in my Parisian-sized kitchen. Oh, la nostalgie! Plus, my co-workers praised my tasty concoction.

It was nice to bring a bit of France to Columbus.

TARTE AUX POMMES

Ingredients:
2-5 Golden Delicious apples (amount depends on size of apples and size of crust)
Lemon Juice (juiced yourself or purchased in those handy lemon-shaped containers)
2-3 tbs of Sugar
1 tsp of Cinnamon
2-3 tbs of melted margarine or butter
1 Pie Crust (you can make your own if you so desire)

Preheat the oven to 400°F.

Peel, core and slice as many apples as you’ll need to fill the crust. Brush the exposed parts of the apples with lemon juice to prevent discoloration.

Arrange the apple slices in concentric circles within the pie crust. Try to fit in as many slices as possible.

Sprinkle some of the sugar and cinnamon over the tart, then spoon the melted butter on top. Add the rest of the rest of the sugar and cinnamon and you’ve good-to-go.

Bake for 45-55 minutes or until the apples are golden brown.

Serve cool or warmed up with a dollop of strawberry Bonne Maman jam on top.

Voilà et bon appétit!

Le Pont des Arts

2009-06-27T19:56:00.003+02:00

Originally build in the early 19th century at which time it was the first metal bridge in Paris, the Pont des Arts’ smooth, sparse arches span the Seine from the Louvre to an important looking building that will never be l’hotel de la Monnaie [the mint] no matter how many times I claim it is.

Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The subject of a George Brassens song, Le Vent, the Pont des Arts is classic, timeless, Parisian.

But at night, the bridge comes alive in a less savory way. Teenagers and college students of all nationalities flock its uncomfortable wooden slats for nighttime debauchery. Although it is mostly a popular spot for lycéens [high-school students] and lacks the authenticity of the Canal St. Martin and the class of the quays of the Seine, the crowded and tawdry bridge can still be a lot of fun.

I first visited the Pont des Arts under unusual and random circumstances back in November. You’ll remember the Chinese photography student named Marshall – with his too-skinny legs in his too-skinny jeans and his broken glasses taped together, seemingly par hazard but probably done just so to concoct and idealized artsy imagine – with whom Hannah had, bien sûr, made friends at the European Film Festival. When the last film of the night had been cancelled, Rebecca and I (somewhat reluctantly) and Hannah (inherently less so) took up Marshall’s offer of free entertainment for the evening. We ended up on the Pont des Arts drinking mini Kronenbourg bottles that Marshall had provided while he captured video for some sort of photography-related art project. It was an altogether bizarre but enjoyable evening that introduced us to the Pont des Arts camaraderie (I distinctly remember the blonde-haired, pink-cheeked French youth innocently offering up his white Dixie cup as he requested a bit of beer).

It seems only appropriate that my second and final encounter with Pont-des-Arts nightlife arrived on my final Saturday night in Paris. The experience occurred equally by hazard. I had spent an absolutely wonderful Saturday with friends. The day began at the Champs-Elysees stamp market (featured in Charade) where Rachel and I spent altogether too much money on old postcards. After lunch at Rachel’s place, as rain began to fall, the skies cleared and we met up with Rebecca and Amy for a lazy afternoon at a Marais café. Berthillon ice cream and a stroll along the quays of the Ile-St-Louis concluded the evening. We headed back to Rebecca’s place where she cooked us a lovely Frenchified American dinner. Stuffed and satisfied, we decided to venture back outside for a nocturnal stroll.

That is when, on a whim, we stopped chez Ed, the local épicier [grocer] – this time, we had to supply our own Kronenbourg – deciding to do the trashy American thing and join the crowds on the Pont des Arts. Rachel objected of course, but there was no stopping us. Why not enjoy such a warm summer’s eve among the drunken masses? The girl who puked mere feet before our original resting place on the bridge provided an adequate counterpoint, but we settled in elsewhere and managed to have a good night (plus, what Parisian night is not complete without a little public vomiting?).

With laptops, boom boxes, guitars and other instruments filling the air with the sounds of summer, we settled in to listen and observe. I particularly enjoyed a raucous version of the Cranberry’s “Zombie” and the mother who had brought her young daughter out to dance with the drunken guitarists. We applauded the cunning of Red Cross volunteers who swarmed the bridge looking for donations. We debated once again the function of that domed building that was not la Monnaie. We guessed and remarked upon who was American and who was not picking up multitude accents and languages. And I simply felt a part of something, there on the packed wooden slats.

There among something so un-American, so seemingly clandestine, four quiet, unassuming American girls sat, watched and listened, taking in for one of the last times (at least for me) the carefree breeziness of a Parisian night.

Paris pas cher

2009-06-27T17:51:00.003+02:00

Interesting NY Times article on "Frugal Paris ."

Casse-toi

2009-06-26T07:04:00.008+02:00

Although it's an utterly bizarre video, the fact that Lily Allen's newest clip is partly set in Paris mades me unsurprisingly nostalgic.

Décalage horaire

2009-06-26T01:57:00.002+02:00

Décalage horaire has always been one of my favorite French phrases; it means “jet lag,” but it seems to communicate something more. Horaire communicates the time element, but décalage means “gap” or “discrepancy.” A more literal translation might be “time discrepancy.”

This hidden sentiment within the French phrase seems to reveal the fact that there are more than just differences in time zones that change as we travel around the world. The fundamental way that we view time and its passage differ from one place to another.

Although I’ve long ago adjusted to the jet lag I at first suffered from upon returning home – waking up at the obscene hour of 6 a.m. each morning was irritating for this night owl – I still seem to suffer from this “time discrepancy.” I’m back in the U.S., but I am judging the world around me by the French paradigm that I came to understand and appreciate.

I am sure Columbus is a lovely city, but it just doesn’t stack up to my Parisian ideals. Likewise, I am having trouble adjusting to my 40-hour work week. One of the things that I loved about Paris was how secondary work seemed to be to them. Some may call the French lazy, but this indifference to their jobs showed how much they truly valued the important things in life. They worked, but they always found time to spend a leisurely afternoon at a café or stroll through the park. I have yet to master the art of striking that balance.

Chez Monet

2009-05-24T23:44:00.012+02:00

Friday I ventured again outside the périphérique with my friend Rachel to see the beautiful house and garden of Claude Monet in the charming Normand town of Giverny. This post is mostly an excuse to show off some stunning photographs, which still do not at all capture the vibrancy of the real thing, but I will try to recount my lovely day in words as well.

After just a 45 minute train ride, we were transported into the quaint and spirited region of Normandy. A pleasant (although hot under the beating sun) five-kilometer walk brought us into the delightfully pretty town of Giverny, home to Claude Monet from 1883 to his death in 1926. The tiny village swarmed with tourists, and we had to wait nearly two hours to enter the Fondation Claude Monet, the artist’s former home and gardens. The wait, however, was well worth it, and pleasant company helped to pass the time.

Once inside the gardens, we were overwhelmed by the colors and smells of rows and rows of beautiful and diverse blossoms. The flowers were each so stunning and lively; the colors were so vivid and striking. As the sun continued to beat down, we took shelter in the Japanese garden portion of the grounds. Bamboo shaded pacific paths besides trickling streams. Tranquility reigned in this iconic garden where Monet’s water lilies were found.

The colors of Monet’s house, especially the dining room and kitchen, were almost as vibrant as the gardens, although the crowd in the house made it a bit difficult to take it all in peacefully. Throwing a final envious look over the full and flowering garden, we stopped by the bookshop for some postcards and headed out.

We visited Monet’s grave in a calm, little cemetery. Then we found a pleasant little field in which to enjoy our picnic before embarking on the heat- and sun-filled walk back to the train station and our ultimate ride back home to Paris.

In all, it was a lovely day and an unforgettable sight and experience. What a wonderful start to my amazing last weekend here in Paris.

Je reviendrai

2009-05-19T13:52:00.002+02:00

I had my end-of-the-year language evaluation yesterday, and I have to say that I think it confirmed what I've been feeling. Sure, I made a number of fautes [mistakes], but I could feel the change in my tone of voice, my gestures and my rhythm. I felt completely comfortable speaking French.

And that's how I've come to feel about my year here. It's only just recently that I've become fully comfortable with my surroundings: Paris, France, French, etc. This makes it all the more unfortunate that I have to leave so soon. I am increasingly jealous of my friends who are staying for the summer or even for just a month - anything to extend the experience and delay the inevitable.

But one day, we'll come back. It will never be the same...we'll never have the same liberty, the same naivete, the freetime, but we'll find a way. Several months ago, I would have said that my abroad experience had satisified my desire to explore Paris; I probably would even have said that I didn't feel a strong urge to come back in the future. But, oh so suddenly, something has changed. Perhaps it's the inevitablity of my return, but I am now hoping and dreaming that I can find someway to live in Paris again, no matter how briefly.

Changement

2009-05-12T23:55:00.002+02:00

I don’t know when it happened.

…but suddenly I feel like I can speak French.

Yes, I’ve been claiming I could all along, but it was a mere mirage au début.

I wish I could remember the exact moment.
I would love to recall how it happened.
I don’t really know how to explain it.
Something has changed in me and I don’t know what it is.

France, tu m’as changée, tu m'as touchée
…mais je ne peux pas l’expliquer ni en anglais ni en français.
France, you’ve changed me, you’ve moved me
…but I can’t explain it neither in English, nor in French.

L’Armistice

2009-05-09T01:28:00.003+02:00

VE Day tradition?

To my surprise, I stumbled upon a group of French guys playing American football on the grass near les Invalides today. The mere sight of an American football was enough to pique my interest.

Despite their best efforts, they seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the rules. There were a number of illegal forward passes attempted and even they couldn’t decide if it was legal or not to push someone out of bounds. They appeared to be having a good time though so who would want to spoil their fun.

Aux « States »

2009-05-09T01:18:00.002+02:00

As my time in Paris comes increasingly closer to its definitive end (I have but three glorious weeks left here), time runs short and my list of obligations and expectations runs long. I expect these next three weeks to be jammed full of homework, studying and profiting from my last few moments in France. I don’t anticipate having too much time to write about it all, but do not fear my faithful reader(s): I will use my impeccable memory and first few nostalgic days back home to recount it all. So look for more updates after the first of the month.

In the meantime, to quell my return anxiety and remind myself of the wonderful things back home (you know, besides family and friends and stuff) in the States, here are some of the silly American things I am desperately looking forward to:

Cinnamon Life cereal
Deep-dish pizza
Free refills
Driving
24-hour supermarkets and stores open on Sundays
Sunchips
Reliable libraries
Prevalent public restrooms
Milkshakes
www.pandora.com

Panoramas de la mer

2009-04-27T18:45:00.010+02:00

Accompanying text describing my wonderful spring break adventures in the South of France will hopefully soon follow, but since I actually have homework to do, pictures will have to do for now. Here’s a couple from each of the beautiful places we visited:

Nice

Monaco

Marseille
Ile d’If
Cassis
Arles
Avignon

(with my lovely travel companions)

Un peu de psychanalyse

2009-04-12T19:45:00.000+02:00

My anxiety about eventually leaving Paris is mounting. I have less than two months left, and even those two months will blow quickly by considering the next 10 days will be dedicated to travel and the two weeks after that will be busy with the bountiful papers and presentations I have due. By that point, it will be mid-May, exams will be approaching and my year will be winding down – so soon!

It appears that this anxiety has been manifesting itself in my dreams. Elaborate and convoluted, my dreams rarely make much sense, but they do often shed light on my present psychological state. Lately I’ve been having a reoccurring dream (each time the scenery and the events are a bit different, but the scenario ends up being pretty similar) where I find myself back in the U.S. about to start my senior year; except, instead of being at Smith, I’m back in high school. I didn’t hate high school enough for this to be an out-and-out nightmare, but it’s a disorienting and worrisome experience.

Anyway, it’s not really my high school: some teachers and students from Rockford do surface, but there are also people from my present there with me. It’s also not clear that I am in a high school. The atmosphere is either loosely defined or reminiscent of a combination of campuses, including that of Université Paris Diderot. But I do know I am in high school because of that magical dream sensation that tells you where you are and what’s going on without ever really telling you.

Although these dreams aren’t nightmarish, they quickly become disconcerting and frustrating. Even though I am the same age as those around me, I do feel like I am too old to be in high school. Likewise, I quickly tire of the patronizing manner in which the members of the administration treat us (in the most recent dream, I stood up during a beginning of the year assembly – taking place in a room that looked a lot like Amphi 11 in the Halles aux farines of Diderot – and expressed my disgust with the infantile treatment we were receiving and the unnecessary information that was being conveyed to us). Lastly, I seem to have already studied all of the material that is to be presented in my classes. In bringing this up to the teachers, I am either ignored or mildly scolded for having read or studied or done too much.

Now, what could this all mean? I think it’s certainly a reflection on the fact that I view returning to Smith next year as a step backward from the independence and personal progress that I have made while here in Paris. Additionally, it may be reflecting a frustration at the prospect of facing the maternalistic bureaucracy of the college. The dream may also be commenting on the fact that I will be studying a number of texts that I have studied before in the classes that I have chosen for next year. My subconscious potentially views this repetition as a reflection on my education: I have already studied all there is to study (not even remotely true) so why should I return to Smith?

The dream generally seems to convey the sentiment that I will be out-of-place and out-of-sorts when I eventually return home. This is something that I’ve been ruminating on for some time. I don’t know if it will show itself to be true or not, and I won’t be able to find out until I have made it back.

In the meantime, I will keep dreaming – and analyzing what comes out.

Quatre villes charmantes

2009-04-11T21:11:00.001+02:00

It is now officially April (and, in fact has been for some time – I’ve been a bit behind on my blogging) and Paris is full of signs of spring: brilliantly green leaves have popped up as if overnight on the trees lining the city’s Haussmannian boulevards, Parisians are flocking to green spaces to pass lazy afternoons on the grass (I should know; I spend a lovely afternoon among the groups of young people lounging about the Place des Vosges) and night doesn’t fall until well after 8 p.m. This lovely transition from the chill and dampness of winter makes it even more difficult to concentrate on the massive amount of work that keeps piling up. It’s equally hard to image ever leaving this beautifully blossoming city, although I will be doing so all too soon (My flight delivers me back to the other side of the Atlantic on May 30).

I believe this all explains why I haven’t recorded my thoughts here in a while, but I decided to use a quick minute, just days before I leave for spring break in the south of France, to catch up on my amazing experiences. In the last few weeks, I’ve visited four enchanting cities beyond Paris:

Amiens Less than an hour and a half from Paris by train, Amiens, I’ve decided, would be an excellent place to live. One could experience the charm and tranquility of quaint small-town life yet remain a mere train-ride from the excitement of Paris. Amiens certainly had a lot to offer in the realm of charm. The plentiful canals of the Saint-Leu district earn the town’s nickname as the “Little Venice of the North.” The Victorian houses (including Jules Verne’s) of the Henriville area create a cozy, old-world feel. And like every other French city, the centre-ville is a shopper-friendly pedestrian area with all the stores one would expect. Amien’s centerpiece, an enormous 13th-century cathedral twice the size of Notre-Dame de Paris, caps the town’s charm with a detailed and awe-inspiring beauty; it may be the most beautiful cathedral I’ve ever seen. I can’t forget to mention the excellent galettes my mom and I ate at a crêperie along the river: my mom’s contained ratatouille and chicken and mine, goat’s cheese, tomato and honey.

Boulogne-sur-mer A rainy and cold first day in a deserted Boulogne-sur-mer left me disappointed with my travel decision, but a sunny and pleasant second day more than made up for the unfavorable conditions of the first. The old fortified, hilltop town of Boulogne-sur-mer provides a haven of history and tranquility amongst the activity of this modern port. Throughout our visit, we walked the circumference of the historic town’s walls, which gave excellent views onto the city and English Channel beyond. We also visited the city’s musée des beaux arts, housed in a former castle, and the more modern basilica. Our walk to the beach was a bit miserable the first day due to the gale-force winds and occasional moments of drizzle. When we returned to the beach the second day, however, the wind was gone and with the sun shining, it was a perfect afternoon for walking the beach and collecting shells. A number of the town’s inhabitants had the same idea and the pier and harbor were busy with families out for a Sunday afternoon stroll. We joined the families to order hamburgers and fries from stands along the channel and enjoyed a lunch in the sun before boarding our train back to Paris.

Bruxelles Just last weekend, my friend Rebecca and I caught the train to Belgium for a weekend of unabashed tourism. We started out in Brussels, which is a mere hour and a half from Paris by the lightning-fast Thalys train. With the help of an irreverently hip free map from our hostel and the advice of our friend who spent a semester in Belgium, we wandered the city, hitting the major sites of the centre-ville like Manneken Pis (an adorably tiny statue of a little boy peeing), the Grand Place and the Royal Palace. We also took the time to enjoy the Musée des beaux arts where we admired the fantastical images of Bosch and the overwhelming tableaus of Rubens. We even indulged our love for Tintin at the Comic Museum. Of course, we also ate waffles and chocolate and enjoyed a beer before dinner. I very much enjoyed the intricate and whimsical architecture of the city which made it so very different from Paris. The numerous open plazas also promoted a sociability and openness that made such a huge European capital seem friendly and welcoming.

Bruges The real Venice of the north, Bruges is an enclosed, canal filled town that feels more like a Disney attraction than an actual municipality. Each street, each storefront, each corner is as picturesque as the next, and even on the chilly, cloud-filled day of our visit, its charm shined through. Rebecca and I followed our guidebook’s walking tour which led us past a number of delightful canals, adorable facades and historic buildings to its end at the serene Béguinage, a daffodil-filled courtyard surrounded by cute Bruges houses. Along the way, we snacked on a cornet of fries and sampled some more chocolate. The highlight of the visit (besides the sheer beauty of it all) was emerging from dinner to join the crowd on the Markt plaza for a free outdoor Belgian rock concert.

Les bonnes promeneuses

2009-03-31T22:48:00.016+02:00

I’m happy to report that I had, for the most part, a great time with my mom while she was here in Paris with me for a little over a week. In addition to exploring nearly all of Paris on foot, we took a weekend vacation by train to Amiens and Boulogne-sur-mer – an excellent experience that I hope to write more about later.

It was a bit surreal to have someone so assuredly part of my American life here in my Parisian life (almost as surreal as the wonderful afternoon I shared today with a friend from high school that I have hardly talked to in two years who was visiting Paris on her spring break from studies in Scotland).

It was, however, incredibly rewarding to share Paris with such an eager and excited visitor, even if I am a bit of a lacking tour guide.

We did so much in our short time together that it’s almost impossible to recount it all. I guess I should have kept a journal like my mom. Since I’m a very visual person, I have plotted the majority of our Parisian walking adventures below.

Friday, March 20: Jardin du Luxembourg, L'Ile-de-St.-Louis, Le Marais

Saturday, March 21: Promenade plantée, Canal Saint-Martin, Parc des buttes-Chaumont

Sunday, March 22: Montmartre, Montparnasse, Le Champo-Espace Jacques Tati

Monday, March 23: Jardin des Tuileries, Rue de Rivoli

Tuesday, March 24: Galléries Lafayette, Place de Vendôme, Trocadéro, La tour Eiffel, Montparnasse

Thursday, March 26: Le 6e arrondissement

I imagine that you now understand why the week was fatiguing. Unfortunately, I don’t have much time to recover before I head off to Belgium with my friend Rebecca on Friday. But with April upon us, I’d rather be head-spinningly dizzy that get a goodnight’s sleep.

All maps copyright of Google and Tele Atlas.

Le printemps arrive

2009-03-17T23:54:00.004+01:00

Palais Royal et Parc Montsouris

Profitez bien!

2009-03-16T22:36:00.002+01:00

I am beginning to realize just how much I love living in a big city like Paris (particularly at a moment in my life when I have a fair amount of time on my hands). At any given moment, there are more possibilities of how to spend your time that you could imagine. Originally, this was a bit overwhelming for me. With so many interesting propositions I could hardly decide what to do. Often, I would do nothing or very little due to sheer overstimulation. But now, I am beginning to learn how to balance the millions of options and seize each moment. My schoolwork may be suffering a bit, but at least I am profiting from Paris.

My weekend started early when on Thursday night, I went to Le Roi Lion [The Lion King] with my friend Jamie. Arriving early to faire le queue [wait in line], we got discounted student tickets – a great price and great seats in the second row of the first balcony. I absolutely adored the production. The costumes and puppetry were truly amazing, and the songs were of course great. I really enjoyed listening attentively for the changes and adaptations in the French lyrics. In all, it was a pretty awe-inspiring performance, and I loved every minute of it.

Friday, I met up with my friend Rebecca and her friend’s friend to check out the free exhibit honoring Le Petit Nicolas at the Hôtel de Ville. Studying the original Sempé drawings and reading the accompanying texts was as entertaining as le petit Nicolas himself. It made me want to read more of the stories. We capped the afternoon off, enjoying the wonderful weather, by strolling around the Marais. We ended up at the Place des Vosges and decided to stop in the Victor Hugo house since we had never been. After dinner, I met up with another group from the Smith program to watch a new copy of Woody Allen’s Manhattan at one of my favorite tiny Latin Quarter theaters. We stopped at a cozy bar for drinks and conversation afterward.

I was determined to get some homework done Saturday so I hopped the RER down to Parc Montsouris where I grabbed a bench to do some reading. The weather was not as nice as I hoped, but the scent of nearly blooming flowers made up for it. Unfortunately, my solitude was interrupted by a well-meaning-enough old Frenchman who wanted to strike up a conversation with me (I have to admit that this sort of attention will not be missed when I return to the States).

When tiny droplets of rain began to fall from the already cloudy skies, I caught the tram to the Parc des expositions to explore the Salon du livre, a huge book and publishing exposition that lasted through the weekend. A number of authors and publishing companies were present for signings and conversations, but I mostly just reveled in the atmosphere of what seemed to me like a giant bookstore.

Saturday night was consecrated to Hitchcock. After seeing the poster Friday afternoon, I was quickly determined to attend a double feature of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho and Gus Van Sant’s 1998 shot-by-shot remake. My friend and Hitchcock-classmate Zoë came along (although she ended up missing the first film do to miscommunication), and we had quite a night of Hitchcock, including the lengthy discussion/question-and-answer session that followed the two films.

After an already eventful weekend, I was determined to make it to the Comédie Française on Sunday. I’ve been meaning to check it out for sometime, and it was the last week for Cyrano de Bergerac. I absolutely could not miss such a classic of French cultural history. Although I arrived over an hour early to wait in line for the discounted tickets, I merely missed out on my opportunity after waiting for half an hour in the wrong line. I luckily got a ticket. Unfortunately, my seat was in the second balcony, all the way to the left, making it possible to see only half of the stage. But with some creative standing/leaning/moving about, I could see more than was expected and, of course, I could hear it all. The performance was in turns hilarious and moving – altogether a thoroughly entertaining experience.

After taking the bus home, I finally retired myself for the evening to try to catch up on my work. But I can’t say I regret pushing it aside to take advantage of the many cultural experiences this city has to offer.

L’Opéra, le tourisme et du champagne

2009-03-09T22:43:00.003+01:00

Salut, les punks!

I feel like I haven’t written anything here in forever. That can be interpreted as a good thing, as in I’ve been doing too many amazing things to take the time to record them here, or it could more accurately be a reflection on my recent spurts of laziness and utter lack of gumption in all aspects of my life. I have, however, done some pretty sweet things in the last few weeks. I’ve been returning diligently to check items off on my “to-do list” as they are accomplished, but I’ll try to expand on a few of my more interesting conquests.

This last weekend was pretty eventful. Earlier in the week, I stumbled upon a ticket to the opera – Smith’s theater class was going and M. Bloom offered me one of the extra places to which I literally responded, “Pourquoi pas?!” So Friday I had the privilege of getting dressed up and joining my amies at the enorme Opera Bastille. An excellent example of romanticism, Werther was full of lost love, torment, angst and agony and, ultimately, suicide. What fun! Despite the subject matter, the music, scenery and general experience was pleasant and fun. It was a truly great and unforgettable experience; my thanks go out again to the generosity of this Smith program.

Unfortunately, I had to pull myself out of bed early on Saturday morning to get myself to the lovely Gare de l’est where the Smith crew reconvened for a daytrip to Reims (pronounced like the French word for prince without the “P”). I indulged in the Smith-provided breakfast of a croissant, which I chose over the pain au chocolat, and the short train ride and the Champagne countryside passed quickly by.

Once in Reims, we partook of a tour of the Corot exhibit at the Musée de Beaux Arts, which was burdened by an utterly banal tour guide. Next, we received our audio guides for the tour of our choosing. Yes, these clunky devices made us the visual definition of overeager tourist, but the buildings we saw on the Art Deco walk were pretty cool. It was a great way to explore the city.

Before heading back to Paris at the completion of our brief séjour, we visited Mumm’s champagne facility, where a tour and tasting were enjoyed by all. Returning to Paris, we were greeted by the city’s typical overcast skies and biting droplets of rain, an unfortunate contrast to the warming sun we had enjoyed earlier in Reims.

In addition to my busy weekend, I’ve been going often to the cinéma (35 Rhums, Le code a changé and Harvey Milk were all wonderful), profiting from the increasingly frequent spring-like days and visiting interesting exhibits (this one made me fall in love with Serge Gainsbourg). Plus, I somehow found myself on a tour of the UNESCO building…I’m still not quite sure how that one happened.

Well, we are well into March now and the time is passing absolutely trop [too] quickly. My weeks, and particularly weekends, to come are quickly filling, but it’s all for the better. My mom will soon be visiting, and we will be traveling to Amiens and Boulogne-Sur-Mer. A high-school friend will be stopping in from Scotland. I will, hopefully, be participating in a weekend trip to Belgium. And Spring Break will bring me to the Côte d’Azur and Provence. Also, I guess I still have that school thing to do…

L’air en dehors de Paris

2009-02-24T00:54:00.002+01:00

I’m at the point now where writing this in French would probably be plus facile [easier] and certainly more natural. For the sake of my Anglophone readers, however, I will do my best with my limited English vocabulary and warped, French-tinged syntax.

I was about to compose this blog as a list of all the milliers [thousands] of wonderful things that I did this weekend, but I realized that I have been listing a lot recently.

So I’ll skip the myriad ways I have been profiting from Paris and focus on my après-midi [afternoon] which was spent 88 kilometers from the city. Two friends and I decided to benefit from our semi-vacances [vacation] by visiting the charming town of Chartres and its famed cathedral.

For me, the train ride from Gare Montparnasse southwest through the banlieues [suburbs] and subsequent quaint towns and fields was as rewarding as the visit of Chartres itself. To leave the hubbub of Paris for the open skies – même si [even if] they were sad and cloud-filled on this sunless day – always fills me with such happiness. I love remembering that there is a France outside of Paris, even if Parisians themselves have trouble with this concept. The massive, open expanses of fields and the beautiful tree-lined creeks only add to this child-like joy.

After passing our hour-long ride in a silence that was a mixture of awe, paresse [laziness] and repose [rest], we had arrived at our destination. Already, the town’s massive cathedral was hard to miss. We headed straight there and marveled at its ancient façade. We marveled too at the expansive vista of the town of Chartres visible from behind the architectural wonder. I wouldn’t say that the view of the town was particularly beautiful, but it was undeniably pleasant to stand at such a precipice and take in the fresh air of la campagne [the country]. It’s a bit hard to understand and probably irrational, but for some reason, each breath seems different away from Paris.

When we finally entered the cathedral, we were not disappointed. Its vibrant stained glass was beautiful, and its sheer échelle [scale] was breathtaking.

After leisurely taking in the magic of the cathedral, we strolled about the tiny streets of Chartres and eventually found a local brasserie where we warmed up with some boissons chauds [hot drinks]. It was so pleasant to observe the regulars prennent leur bière [drink their beers] at the counter and the mothers bring their children in for an afterschool treat.

Before hopping on our train, we grabbed some pâtisseries to hold us over until dinner. Waving good-bye to Chartres and its lovely cathedral, we sped back to Paris.

Parcs de l’avenir et du passé

2009-02-24T00:43:00.005+01:00

A few weeks ago I visited two different parks in Paris' 19e arrondissement. The first, Parc de la Villette, is quite clearly a possible vision of what the "Park of the Future" would resemble. The second, Parc des Butte-Chaumont, is a fantastical, yet completely preserved artifact of the 19th century.

In this slideshow of juxtapositions, try to guess which is which...

Ce que je veux faire avant de rentrer

2009-02-16T23:14:00.037+01:00

As promised, here's my semi-translated first draft of my list of things that I want to do before leaving Paris. It's random and it's so much, but I think I can do it!

~~See at least one play~~
~~Finish my "City Walks of Paris"~~
~~Find all the landmarks from the film~~ Charade
~~Watch at least one more French movie at a theater~~
~~Read along one of the quais of Ile Saint-Louis~~
~~Drink with friends on the quais of the Seine/Pont des arts/along Canal St.-Martin~~
~~Watch at least one film from the Nouvelle Vague at the film library~~
~~Actually send people postcards !~~
~~Watch a French film at Reid Hall~~
See the French production of The Lion King
~~Go to the Comédie Française~~
~~Eat a macaroon~~
~~Go to the flea markets~~

See the following expositions before their respective end dates:
~~« Notorious » (le 22 février)~~
~~« Rapa Nui, L'Ile de Pâques » (le 1er mars)~~
~~« Instants d'architecture » à la Maison du Danemark (le 8 mars)~~
~~« Gainsbourg 2008 » à la Cité de la Musique (le 15 mars)~~
~~« Le petit dessein » au Louvre (le 13 avril)~~
~~« 80 + 80, photo_graphisme » (le 25 avril)~~
~~« Le Petit Nicolas» (le 7 mai)~~

Visit the following:
~~Musée de Picasso~~
~~Maison de Victor Hugo~~
~~Musée Rodin~~
~~L'Orangerie~~
~~Musée d’art moderne de la ville de Paris (again)~~
~~Musée de Cluny~~
~~Musée de la vie romantique~~
~~Espace Krajcberg~~

Outside of Paris:
~~Giverny~~
~~A weekend trip with my mom~~
~~The South of France~~
~~Bois de Boulogne~~
~~Bois de Vincennes~~
~~Take a day trip to one other French city outside of Paris~~
~~Brussels~~

~~Look at the gare Saint-Lazare~~
~~Look at the gare de l'Est~~
~~Go in Notre-Dame~~
~~Find Guy de Maupassant's tomb at the Cemetery Montparnasse~~
~~Return to see the auditorium of the Opera~~

Explore:
~~Parc Montsouris~~
~~Cemetery Montmartre~~

This list is a "work in progress," and I'll be returning to add things or cross things out as I do them!

Des Ecossais

2009-02-15T02:32:00.004+01:00

I just witnessed a group of drunken, kilt-clad Scotsmen and women singing Auld Lang Syne and songs by the Cranberries in the Metro at 1:45 a.m.

What will Paris have to offer me next?

Une carte de mots

2009-02-11T21:39:00.002+01:00

Here’s a really neat visual representation of my Parisian hopes, goals and expectations as conveyed in my study abroad application:

Courtesy of http://www.wordle.net/.

Trois mois et demi?!

2009-02-11T20:57:00.003+01:00

This evening our lovely directrice Marie-Madeleine hosted an apéro where she discussed with us the impending end of our time in Paris – a mere three and a half months away! – and how we should go about making the best of this time so that we leave here sans regret. It’s the kind of thing that I take to heart, so the meeting evoked in me both a deep sadness and a thorough determination to finish the year strong.

Marie-Madeleine asked the group why we came to France and set out about making sure that we have – or at least will have before we leave – accomplished those goals. Although I remained silent at the meeting, I have decided to return to my JYA application essay to verify my true espoirs [hopes] and begin going about making them happen.

In the next few weeks to come, I will be making, as Marie-Madeleine suggested, a list of all the things I want to accomplish between now and May. It will be excessive. It will be random. But, I can do it and I should. For all its wonders and all its faults, I’ve loved Paris so much up until this point, and I just want to make absolutely certain that I have done and discovered all that I can and all that I have dreamed of while here.

******************************************************************************

Pour ceux qui lisent le français et qui s’y intéressent, voilà mon « essai d’application » (ignorez les fautes de grammaire, svp) :

Depuis que j’ai visité Paris pendant une semaine il y a deux ans, j’ai été sûre que j’y retournerais. Au cours de ma visite, j’ai découvert qu’à Paris, les choses historiques (des musées, l’architecture classique, son histoire riche) et les choses vivantes et modernes (la mode, les jeunes, la politique, l’art moderne) se mélangent ; ce mélange me plaît beaucoup. J’ai besoin de retourner à cette ville pour explorer davantage ce mélange qui fait le cœur de Paris. En même temps, j’améliorai mon français, j’approfondirai ma compréhension de la littérature et je gagnerai une assurance.

En étudiant une année à Paris, j’améliorai énormément mon français. Pour faire mes études françaises, c’est important que mes capacités de parler égalent mes talents de lire et d’écrire. Cependant, je manque de confiance en mes paroles. Dans ce milieu francophone où il faut que je parle français, je ne peux pas rester timide. Peu à peu, j’aurai confiance en tous mes mérites de la langue française.

J’ai choisi d’abord d’apprendre français parce que j’aimais bien cette belle langue historique. La langue rend tangible ce que c’est que d’être français. Comme son cinéma, son théâtre et sa littérature, la langue est passionnée et sincère. Elle a aussi une simplicité complexe. C’est un paradoxe, mais il y a une profondeur de cette langue franche. Tous ces traits paradoxaux de la langue et de la francophonie m’intéressent beaucoup. Paris elle-même émet cette passion et les paradoxes. Elle est ancienne, mais elle est moderne. Elle est grande, mais elle donne l’impression d’être une communauté.

Ces paradoxes ainsi que l’histoire riche et littéraire de Paris m’attirent. Il est probable que Paris est le centre littéraire de France (et il est possible qu’elle se trouve au centre de toute la littérature d’Europe). Dans un cours français concernant la littérature de Paris que j’ai pris pendant ma première année, j’étudiais cette tradition littéraire de Paris qui est la ville de Zola, d’Hugo, de Flaubert et de Modiano. Paris a fasciné profondément tant d’auteurs (les Français et les expatriés des pays étrangers) que j’ai lus ou que je voudrais lire.

Comme une étudiante de la littérature comparée, je voudrais étudier en détail pourquoi Paris attire tant d’auteurs influents. Je voudrais découvrir ce dont ils s’inspirent dans cette belle ville. Pour achever ma concentration sur la littérature française, il faut que j’étudie académiquement les auteurs français, mais je souhaite aussi vivre la littérature française. Je flânerai dans les rues et je mangerai aux cafés où ces auteurs passaient leurs temps et dont ils s’inspirent. En étudiant à Paris, je comprendrai plus profondément ces romans, ces auteurs et cette histoire que j’adore.

Étudier une année à Paris exécutera certainement mes études, mais j’espère aussi devenir plus indépendante et plus assurée. Une année dans un pays étranger sans ma famille et sans mes amis sera difficile, mais comme je m’adapte, j’apprendrai ce que je peux faire moi-même. Il faut que je sois indépendante et persistante dans mes études et ma vie quotidienne à Paris.

Ce contact avec une nouvelle culture me forcera à essayer des choses que je ne fais pas d’habitude. Habiter au milieu d’une autre culture me contraindra aussi à voir le monde sous un angle différent. Grâce à ces adaptations culturelles, je gagnerai à Paris une confiance en moi que je manque maintenant. Cette expérience m’aidera à surmonter mes peurs et mes manques d’assurance pour que je puisse faire face à mon avenir en confiance.

Je comprends que Paris ne sera pas, peut-être, exactement comme mes rêves, mais je suis excitée de découvrir Paris et d’apprendre tout concernant sa langue, sa littérature, son histoire et sa culture.

Les Actualités

2009-02-05T23:08:00.003+01:00

So the grèves continue at Paris VII. Luckily, one of my professors appears to not be participating in them, but I’ve already missed two classes of my other course. Regardless, the culture experience this opportunity brings to try to understand France’s culture of social movement and suivre les actualités [follow the news] has been priceless.

You can see my fac [university] at the beginning and then again at the end of this clip:

Télézapping : Enseignants-chercheurs-frondeurs
Uploaded by lemondefr

Also, I just watched President of the French Republic Nicolas Sarkozy give a live press conference/debate in which he addressed la crise [the economic crisis], these strikes and a number of other issues facing Europe and France at the moment. His skill as a debater and orator was evident as he tightly maneuvered around tricky topics. Even among such a packed docket of current issues, Sarkozy took the time to praise Barack Obama for what he, as a man with African origins (this still BLOWS the minds of the French), has already accomplished by being elected. I can’t say that I am always one to agree with Sarko, but occasionally throughout the hour his persuasiveness did push me over. Although I’m not sure that he had much to say in the concrete…

Canal Saint-Martin

2009-02-02T21:17:00.003+01:00

10e arrondissement

Expos et promenades: Ma vie parisienne

2009-01-30T19:07:00.006+01:00

Lately I’ve been doing a lot of what my friend Zoë so elegantly called “carping the diem.” And by that I mean leaving the comfort of my room, getting out there and doing interesting things in this lovely city. This week I’ve had a lot of “Oh yeah, I’m in PARIS” moments so here’s a brief rundown:

Watched François Truffaut’s Les 400 Coups and spotted 17th-arrondissement landmarks.
Explored the 20th and looked out on foggy Paris from Parc de Belleville, a vantage point 26 feet higher than Montmartre.
Navigated around the massive Père LaChaise cemetery taking in the sullen and tranquil ambiance and gawking at the graves of: Baron Haussmann, David, Vivant Denon, Jim Morrison (stereotypical, but I kind of had to), Honoré de Balzac, Eugene Delacroix, Molière, Guillaume Apollinaire, Marcel Proust, Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf.
Took the bus – a lot – reading my collection of Anna Gavalda short stories all the while…oh how Parisian I have become.
Visited Paris la Belle, an exposition on poet, screenwriter, lyricist and artist Jacques Prévert in the Hôtel de Ville.
Browsed the Museum of modern art of the city of Paris.
Strolled around Passy.
Took advantage yet again of the soldes [sales] and spruced up my wardrobe more than was necessary – but when after someone asks me where I got such-and-such item I can haughtily respond “Paris,” it will all me worth it.
Toured Balzac’s House where he lived and worked for seven years in what was then the outskirts of Paris.
Benefitted from a fleeting sunny Parisian day by walking from my apartment across the Seine and past the Place de la Concorde to class in the 8th.
Perused an intriguing photography exhibit at the Jeu de Paume, entitled Un regard étranger. Paris / Les Américains.
Walked the length of the Tuilleries.
Visited the Palais Royal and peered through the multicolored glass panes which give a look through the construction barriers onto the restoration of Daniel Buren’s Les Deux Plateaux installation.
And I finished my sunny Friday afternoon reading peacefully in the Louvre.

Un enfant gâté?

2009-01-29T19:23:00.000+01:00

I guess I should have knocked on wood after that last post.

Paris is in plein [full] grève aujourd’hui [today]. Taking action against the current economic climate and various Sarkozy administration movements toward privatization (particularly of the post), tens of thousands of workers in diverse sectors are taking part in a national day of grève [strike]. The RATP had warned against extensive perturbation [disruption] of a number of metro lines – in actuality, the Metro seemed to be running quite smoothly today – and Post Offices and other such establishments were closed across the country. An estimated 40,000 to 50,000 individuals were expected to participate in a demonstration from the Bastille to the Opèra.

Is it the spirit of social movement in action or the obnoxious cries of “un enfant gâté” [a spoiled child]?

The latter is how my host mom characterizes the Parisian penchant for striking – and it is particularly Parisian, she notes. France’s workers have been spoiled and they have a tendency to throw tantrums in the form of grèves [strikes] until they get their way, she argues. What’s more, she contends it’s only those who have secure enough jobs who can even strike in the first place, while empathizing with the small business owners who are equally struggling. Clearly not all Parisians share this view on the grève, but it’s an interesting perspective.

In a completely unrelated grève, the Université of Paris VII is protesting poor wages and working conditions. The movement is somewhat hit-or-miss and each U.F.R. [department] has the right to choose whether or not they will strike. At present, my department (Lettres et cinéma) is on strike through Tuesday at which point they will vote again on whether or not to prolong the movement. If this strike lasts, I will have to find replacements for my two classes at the university which would certainly be dommage [a pity] because I have thoroughly enjoyed my experience with Paris VII and have picked some intriguing courses for the semester.

Alors, on verra…

Paris Manif’

2009-01-25T01:10:00.001+01:00

I think for any American studying abroad in Paris it’s obligatory to remark on the culture of social movements in France. Manifestations [protests] and grèves [strikes] are practically national pastimes. So much so that this tendency is frequently the butt of French jokes and jokes about the French – including France’s representation in Czech artist David Černý’s controversial Entropa piece.

The frequency with which lycéens [high school students] throw protests (like throwing a party…and skipping school at the same time) is certainly funny. It is equally frustrating how often the traffic on Metro and RER lines is perturbé [disrupted] due to grèves. It is nevertheless honorable that the French feel passionately enough about issues to take public action for change. Since the protest era of the lat 60s and early 70s, most Americans have become cynical and jaded (myself included…even at my young age). The French, while cynical and ironic in daily interactions, still seem to respect and privilege the art of the protest.

Although much different than the typical manifestations for workers’ rights or education reform (or against education reform, it’s often hard to tell), Paris has recently turned its focus to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Always a touchy subject, a recent pro-Palestinian demonstration on January 3 turned violent when protestors, among the more than 21,000 demonstrators present, took to burning cars, breaking store windows and looting.

Since then, protests have taken place each weekend as Parisians rush to show their support for Palestinians in Gaza.

When I received a warning in my inbox from the U.S. Embassy, advising that I avoid the pro-Palestinian demonstration that was to take place at 2:00 p.m. today in and around my quartier, I was more tempted to attend than discouraged from it. I did, however, have other plans for the afternoon and understood that in reality it’s best not to meddle with these types of things – especially in a foreign county AND especially one where racial and religious tensions are high.

On my way to the BiFi this morning, I did pass by part of the demonstration’s projected route. The C.R.S. vehicles lining Boulevard Montparnasse gave the normally lively and cheerful street an eerie vibe. On my short walk to the Raspail Metro station, I saw more C.R.S. vans and police cars than I could count. The authorities were clearly not taking any chances with the projected 15,000 “non-violent” demonstrators.

This scene immediately reminded me of October 17, 1961. On this oft-forgotten, sordid day in Paris’s history, Arabic-Franco tensions were infinitely higher. We were in the thick of the Algerian War, and the FLN’s presence in Paris was stronger than authorities would have liked. Likewise, Maghrébin [North African] immigrants lived in even worse conditions than today. The défavorisées [disadvantaged] banlieues were at this point literal bidonvilles [slums/shantytowns].

On October 17, 1961, a completely non-violent protest against a Parisian curfew directed solely at Algerians ended in tragedy when C.R.S. agents and police reacted severely and violently to stop the demonstration at all costs (Charles de Gaulle had given préfet of police Maurice Papon “carte blanche” to do so). Tens of thousands were arrested, hundreds were beaten and dozens of unlucky individuals were même [even] thrown into the Seine. Between 100 and 300 people were killed in the mayhem.

Thankfully today’s protest remained peaceful. But scenes of the present are haunted by the hidden truths of the past, and it is important for the French and foreigners alike to remember this tragic and sordid day that France tries so hard to forget.

La troisième ville : Vienne

2009-01-21T20:01:00.008+01:00

I just watched The Third Man – an excellent film noir set in 1949 Vienna – this afternoon and was, thus, inspired to complete my travel triptych with my tales from Wien.

Of our three destinations, Vienna was the city that reminded me the most of Paris. Its late-19th-century buildings are of a similar architecture as those of Paris. Its Habsburg palaces blatantly recall the style and opulence of Versailles. And of the three cities, it was the place where I felt the guiltiest for not being able to speak the language. Although the Austrians didn’t seem as fervently zealous in their protection of German as the French are of their language, English was less common than in Amsterdam (where it was ubiquitous) and less appreciated than in Prague (where I detected mild amusement from those with which I spoke in English). I guess the city served as a good transition back to Paris.

We pulled into the bus station in Vienna around noon and proceed to the U-Bahn – Vienna’s equivalent of the Metro – where we successfully purchased our 72-hour passes and boarded the train in the direction of our accommodations. Thanks to a detailed map of the area that we had sketched out, using Google Maps, the night before, we avoided conflict and made it easily to the Elisabeth Guesthouse. When we arrived there was no on in sight and no response upon ringing the bell. We were searching for their phone number amongst my paperwork and standing confused in the hallway for a number of minutes when an endearing old Austrian man emerged from a nearby doorway. He eventually led us to our room which was more like a bitty apartment complete with kitchen and entryway.

We took the U-Bahn into town where we visited the impressive and very tall St. Stephen’s Cathedral. After that, we anticipated our standby tourism strategy of walking about the city looking at various pretty things. Unfortunately, the weather, which – coinciding with our departure from Prague – had recently turned frigid, foiled this tactic. We quickly grew very cold. We ducked into a nearby church to warm up, and Peterskirche [St. Peter’s Church] turned out to be a delightfully ornate Baroque art piece.

Fighting off the cold, we continued on to get a look at the Hofburg Palace, pride of the Habsburgs, and carried on to the MuseumsQuartier, an overly conceptual mall/museum complex where it seemed a number of things were closed. This was the moment when we began to realize that the Austrians must celebrate some sort of Boxing-Day-like holiday for which life shuts down on the day after Christmas. We began to fear the fermeture [closure] of all eating establishments, and dinner plans became a concern. Luckily, we had blown our remaining crowns on snacks at our nonstop convenience store in Prague so at least we wouldn’t go hungry. Nevertheless, we decided to walk the length of a major thoroughfare in search of something warm to eat. The only place open was MacDo [McDonald’s], and although we were reluctant – we passed one up before ultimately deciding to give in at the next – it turned out to be worth it, if only for the intriguing cross-cultural exchange that took place as I tried to order from the entertained (and entertaining) German-speaking cashier.

We called it a night and decide we would need to make more concrete plans for the next day in order to avoid growing bitter and cold on the streets of Vienna.

Saturday we hit up a grocery store, realizing the severity of our lack of food. We then hopped on the U-Bahn for the Belvedere. To get there we had to switch to the S-Bahn – Vienna’s equivalent of the RER – and thanks to some incompetency in reading signs we passed by the Prater theme park which allowed us to see the Ferris wheel featured in a dramatic scene between Joseph Cotten and Orson Welles in The Third Man.

We eventually headed back in the right direction and arrived at the Belvedere. Originally the summer palace of Prince Eugene of Savoy, it now hosts an impressive art collection. It understandably had an impressive selection of Klimts; although I don’t think I had heard of him before this trip, I grew to love the work of Gustav Klimt, pride of the modern Vienna art scene. The grand staircase and impressive rooms of both the Upper and Lower Belvedere buildings were also a treat. Plus, the French garden connecting them made me feel at home.

We ended up passing our day amongst the art and stopped off to look at the beautifully lit Karlskirche [St. Charles’s Church] before heading home for the night.

On our last day in Vienna, we stopped by the Secessionist Building whose art nouveau exterior was eye-catching and the Opera which was a bit of a rip-off of Paris’s Opera Garnier.

We spent most of the day in the Albertina, yet another palace-cum-gallery, where a recently donated personal collection featured works by painters from Monet to Picasso and everyone in between (and even some after like Francis Bacon and Mark Rothko). A random smattering of contemporary Austrian art with poorly written – or poorly translated – accompanying text also held our attention. The Habsburg staterooms were equally thrilling, presenting the allure of a fully reconstructed timepiece with prints from Dürer and others decorating the walls. This mixture of luxury and art was particularly appealing to me. It’s like getting two attractions for the price of one!

After I bought some chocolates as a souvenir for my host mom, we began our search around the St. Stephen’s Cathedral for some “Viennese treats” to cap off our stay. Apparently I am spoiled from living in Paris where cafés line the streets and dot each corner, but it was harder than expected to find a suitable establishment. We did eventually locate this immense eatery where I had the milkshake I had been looking for all week and some tiramisu – don’t judge…it’s required to indulge while on vacation – and Ben got a classic apple strudel. Before saying goodbye to Vienna we took the U-Bahn out to Schönbrunn Palace, the Habsburg’s summer retreat, to snap some photos and stare.

The next day, despite frustrations with the S-Bahn which decided to cancel a train making us wait on the cold quai [platform] for a good hour and ten minutes, we made it to the Vienna Airport and happily boarded our plane back to Paris.

Bienvenue chez les profs

2009-01-19T19:00:00.002+01:00

Sunday, I was invited to lunch chez [at the place of] two of my favorite Smith professors. I have had the pleasure of working with and taking classes taught by my advisor Nicolas as well as his wife Fabienne, both French profs at Smith. Although they work in Northampton, they have an adorable, sixth-floor apartment in the 18e à Paris, where they spend their breaks and summers. They had always insisted that we meet up while they were in Paris, and Fabienne kindly invited me to lunch. I was a bit nervous about the encounter. When you consider my lack of people skills and their endearingly awkward comportments, I knew we were in for a show.

It was actually less awkward than anticipated, and I had a lot of fun. They are so sweet and encouraging and were very excited to hear any and everything that I had to say about Paris. We had a lovely French lunch of saucisse [sausage], lentils and potatoes, made complete with a bit of wine. Tea and treats followed.

After lunch, Nicolas had some work to tend to, but Fabienne and I took a lovely walk around the quartier [neighborhood]. I am always thrilled to discover new corners of Paris, and this thriving, diverse neighborhood was a great place to explore. En outre [In addition], Fabienne showed me the surprising traces of littérature and history in her own backyard. We stopped at the apartment building where – as Patrick Modiano learned – Dora Bruder had lived and headed past the commissariat [police station] where her parents had posted a notice in search of her. Later, we came upon the one massive entryway that remains from the luxurious 19th-centurey department store that served as the basis for Emile Zola’s Au Bonheur des dames.

It is that capacity for histories of so many eras to overlap, cross and dialogue on the present-day streets of Paris that I love so much about the city. And these traces exist in n’importe quel [any] quartier. From the Lutécien amphitheater to the remnants of Philippe Auguste’s city walls to the Boulevards of Haussmann and the traces of the Occupation, it’s all here. Two-thousand years of history surimposés [overlapping] on one moderne ville [modern city], and what a lovely ville it is.

Overall, I was very pleased to have spent the afternoon with Fabienne and Nicolas. Seeing their love and passion for Paris made me rethink my own attitudes. Am I spending my time here wisely? Am I living the Parisian life to the fullest? Lately, there’s been a tiny part of me that has been counting down the days until I get to return to the states. I’ve idealized the moments of reconnecting with loved ones, eating at my favorite restaurants, relaxing in my own room and enjoying free soda refills. But I forget how quickly this Paris experience is passing me by. And as soon as I leave, I know I will regret it and wish that I could come back…

Le Pouvoir de Prague

2009-01-14T21:42:00.012+01:00

The second leg of our amazing Christmas-break trip was the stunningly gothic and utterly cinematic Prague.

A 14-hour overnight bus ride transported us across a large swatch of southern Germany, where we encountered some pretty great Germany customs agents. Sample interchange:

German border patrol agent (as he goes to open a bag): Is this your bag?
Czech man resembling every stereotypical Euro-trash movie villain ever (indignantly): May I ask you why you would like to search it?
German border patrol (deadpan): It is my job.

Managing to get a surprising amount of sleep on the crowded bus, we pulled into Prague a little after noon. After some major snafus in trying to locate our hostel, we eventually took the long way around and arrived at the Hostel Elf. Thankfully, there were no spinning elves in sight, but the place was pretty funky. The hallway walls and doors had been elaborately spray painted and the lobby’s leather couches were perpetually filled with characters whom Ben dubbed “degenerate hippies.” In all, our accommodations were pretty nice. The facilities had clearly been recently redone. Plus, there was a kitchen and free Internet at our disposal.

By the time we ventured out it was late afternoon and, with suitable maps in hand, we set out for town. I had to find a bank to change my Euros to Czech crowns, and we were, of course, in search of the ever-elusive dinner. I exchanged my money, and we headed into the Old Town section of Prague. There, we encountered a number of old-school Gothic buildings. They were each so striking, as historic artifacts of a time past and in their dissimilarity to the Haussmannian constructions that I have grown so used to in Paris.

We stumbled upon a Christmas market in Old Town Square. Still quite commercialized, it struck my as utterly tradition in comparison to the phony chalets erected on the Champs-Élysées. We strolled through the tiny, old streets of the medieval section of town until we reached the river where the beautiful Vltava and the vista of the illuminated Charles Bridge and Prague Castle gave us a wonderful first impression. We ended up finding dinner at a restaurant which could have been mistaken for a basement, or wine cellar, but where we were pleased to find English translations on the menu.

As much as I loved the exoticism of words peppered with V’s and upside-down circumflexes which resembled excited arrows bearing down on unsuspecting letters (sample word: Pražský hrad), I had no luck with the Czech language.

The next day was Christmas Eve and rather than take the time to relax while museums and most attractions were close, we decided to explore the city by foot. We walked – I should say hiked – for over five hours straight. But we did cover the whole city, including its parks and outskirts. Although Google exaggerates a bit because it cannot find the exact paths we used to maneuver through parks, this is a vague approximation of our trek.

From our hostel we headed off to the point on our map intriguingly labeled “Prague Metronome.” At said spot, we found, high atop a hill, a giant, working metronome. Curious, we climb up the massive set of stairs for a closer look. While the metronome, a modern sculptor’s 1991 creation as a replacement to a giant Stalin statue, was cool, it was the view from the hill that was breathtaking. All of Prague unfolded clearly before us with its colored rooftops and cluttered quartiers.

As the day unfurled, we visited the Prague Castle where we took a look inside St. Vitus’s Cathedral – you have to give props to the Bohemians for giving love to some of the lesser known saints – whose flying buttresses could challenge Notre-Dames’, and bought some postcards at a bookshop where Franz Kafka lived and wrote. The views from the castle were equally pretty, but crowded with tourists – we had the lookout from the metronome all to ourselves. Another perfect example of the tourist crowd-think mentality.

We fought the crowds down to the Charles Bridge, sight of a number of music videos and a climatic Mission: Impossible scene. It’s also old and historic and stuff. Afterwards, we made our way back up the hill. The road we were on became increasingly steeper until it terminated in another set of unbelievably long stairs. Although we were exhausted when we got there, Petrin Hill was a lovely – and deserted – park. I snapped photos of the scaled-down Eiffel-Tower copycat and the labyrinth, which was unfortunately closed. After a lengthy and disheartening search, we finally stumbled upon the Ukrainian, pagoda-like church that we had been looking for all along. Wet, cold and sore from all the walking, we decided to head home as night fell. We detoured past St. Wenceslaus’s – another one for you – Square and settled in for a cozy evening at the Hostel Elf.

Our last day in Prague was Christmas. We took the opportunity to visit the modern section of the Prague National Gallery, which happened to be open – much to the chagrin of the very bored museum guards. The place was immense, and we easily wasted the day away there. We finished off our stay in Prague by taking a walk through the Jewish Quarter, which we had yet not visited, and stopping at a café to use up our remaining crowns on some Christmas treats. The café may have been a bit “frou-frou,” but I was extremely pleased by my pancakes with yogurt and forest fruit. I imagine that Ben was equally sated by his hot apple pie and vanilla sauce. Plus, the café was broadcasted VH1 Classic on its flat-screen TVs. What’s better than some Toto “Africa” to cap a great Prague experience?

Prague was a wonderful palimpsest of histories from the Bohemians to Kafka to the Communists on which the present of an up-and-coming modern European city is being written. Although it may have worn us down a bit, Praha’s stunning vistas and dramatic spirit were unforgettable.

We bid our adieus to the Hostel Elf early the next morning and made our way – much more successfully this time – to the bus station to head off for Vienna.

La Neige

2009-01-05T22:46:00.005+01:00

This beautiful surprise in the jardin of Reid Hall almost made waking up for my
9-a.m. cours de traduction worth it:

Amsterdam sans souci

2009-01-04T12:42:00.007+01:00

With the songs of the same name by Guster and Peter Bjorn & John ringing in my ears, Ben and I set off for Amsterdam ridiculously early on the day after my last class before break.

The train plowed through Belgium quicker than the Germans (too soon? I don’t think so) and made stops at all of the Netherlands’ major cities – which are surprisingly close together even for the tiny speck of a country that is Holland – before finding its terminus and our destination at Amsterdam’s Central Station.

Once we had located our adorable, canal-side hotel, one member of our party took an epic nap while the other explored the nearby Museum Quarter and the adorable Prince William Canal, noting interesting restaurants and attractions along the way. For dinner, we tried out the nearby Pancake Corner where I ate a “pizza pancake,” and Ben tapped his England nostalgia for some fish and chips.

We ended our night at the Van Gogh Museum which is open in nocturne Friday nights, complete with DJ. The atmosphere was fun, and the art was great. The large collection of Van Goghs was laid out chronologically, and detailed texts – always translated in perfect English – gave context and insight into Van Gogh’s troubled psyche.

The next day was full of walking – a common theme of our vacation(s) – and colonialism. We walked “Farther Afield” as our guidebook put it to the Tropenmuseum. Formerly a testament to the colonial glory of the Netherlands (yes, the tiny country was a colonial power, controlling the massive Indonesia for hundreds of years), the “Tropical Museum” now hopes to offer ethnographic “stories” from across the world. It was a bit like the Musée Quai Branly but much more anthropological. And although the cartoon Indian with an accent fit for Apu clearly crossed the line of good taste and cultural sensitivity, the museum was well-done and held the attention of two self-proclaimed po-co enthusiasts. Plus, an exhibition on the influence of Vodou in Haiti was enlightening and surprising.

After learning that the National Maritime Museum was closed for renovation – along with half of Amsterdam – we strolled about the harbor and back to the Leidseplein, the bustling plaza located near our hotel. We chose a British sports bar for dinner. This helped to cement Ben’s theory that Amsterdam is really just an extension of the UK. He says that Amsterdam was the most like Great Britain of any city he’s been to (outside of GB, of course).

The omnipresence of English and Dutch’s tonal familiarity helped to add to this Anglophonic atmosphere, but for me, the most important factor was le style de vie of the Dutch. They seemed so laid back, so breezy, so…happy. After living in Paris for four months, it was a shock to see Europeans who looked and acted carefree. They smiled and laughed as they passed, leisurely riding their bicycles. They weren’t overly concerned with their outfits, and they weren’t threatened by the English language the way the French are. They were visibly happy, something so rare chez les Français. It was a welcome break from my French surroundings.

Our third day in Amsterdam was filled with more museums. Having purchased a money-saving “museumkaart,” we had free access to all the state-run museums; tapping our frugal Dutch heritage, we profited. Although Amsterdam’s equivalent to the Louvre, the Rijksmuseum (“state museum”) was limited due to renovations, it offered a very manageable selection of the Dutch masters, including a sizeable Rembrandt collection and a number of Vermeers.

We tried to stop in at the Filmmuseum, but after a confusing exchange with the friendly cashier, eventually learned that they didn’t have an exposition showing.

The foam (fotografiemuseum Amsterdam) proved interesting, however, and we finished our night there before heading to the Pancake Bakery. Suggested by our guidebook, the intimate eatery offered over 50 varieties of traditional Dutch pancakes. Ben’s cinnamon-apple and my cheese pancakes were excellent, and the friendly service reminded me how different from Paris Amsterdam really was.

On our final day in the city, we finally embarked into the panic-attack inducing, tourist-filled areas of Amsterdam. Until this point, we’d mostly mingled amongst natives on the outskirts of town, but we decided we should see the city center before we departed. We dropped our bags off at Central Station and walked down Damrak. We found them alright; tourists swarmed the street like screaming teenagers at an ’N Sync concert circa 1999. Souvenir shops, fast food and tacky museums abounded. I found it hard to see the allure of this people-filled destination. I much preferred the quiet canals and local parks we had spent our first three days exploring. But the crowd-think mentality apparently rules among tourists. The good thing is this collective thinking makes them easy enough to avoid: simply hop on a side street or take the next road over and life will be nearly tourist-free.

After fighting off the crowds, we saw an intriguing contemporary art exhibit in the “New Church” – another Pont Neuf situation considering the church dates from the 15th century. Since Amsterdam’s contemporary art museum was closed for renovations – shocker – select pieces were on display within the church. The theme of spirituality united the exhibit, making the randomness of contemporary art more palatable. As always with the Dutch, the text accompanying the art was extensive and informative, this time presented in a take-home booklet.

We spent the afternoon in the amusing Amsterdam Historical Museum and passed by the “Old Church,” a 13th-century wonder located squarely in the Red Light District, just before closing.

We caught our bus to Prague later that night without a hitch.

We’d seen so much in Amsterdam that it felt like time to move on, but I was still sad to leave that laid-back Amsterdam style and those glorious canals behind.

La Douceur du foyer

2009-01-01T18:47:00.001+01:00

Sometimes it seems that vacationing can be equally, if not more, stressful than la vie quotidienne.

That is certainly how I felt the day before my departure, when I made my last post, and the sentiment persisted a number of times throughout my near two weeks of travel across Northern and Central Europe and back to Paris.

But, in all, I would have to say that I greatly enjoyed the trip. We made sure to keep things low-key, resisting my typical tourist-on-overdrive style in favor of a more laidback and leisurely attitude. Amsterdam, Prague and Vienna were all great. Although my obsessive compulsiveness regrets that I did not see everything that there is to see in these lovely cities, I am happy with what we were able to do and see. I got a great feel for each of the three cities and their dynamics which were all so different – from each other and, especially, from Paris.

I will be updating more about the trip and each city, hopefully with pictures – that is if I have room to save all 400-plus of them on my nearly-full hard drive – within the next few weeks as things settle back down for me.

During my vacation, I thankfully managed to free my mind – for the most part – of all the stress and work that plagued me before the break. Unfortunately, I have returned to face it all again in Paris. The decision to forget my troubles during the break was reasonable and psychologically helpful, but it is now becoming a bit regrettable; now back and settled into my home-away-from-home that is Paris, I am overwhelmed with the responsibilities and tasks before me.

My to-do list is chocked full of the things that I need to catch up on. From the practical (grocery shopping) to the silly (reading my favorite Slate columns) to the serious (preparing for a 3-hour, open-note final exam which will take place a week from today), each bullet point adds to my stress. Thankfully, having just finished writing it all down, the tasks are beginning to seem more manageable.

And being back in my cozy room in this intimate 6th-arrondissement apartment gives me the comfort and confidence to get to work.

At least for now, this feels like home.

Bonnes fêtes

2008-12-18T17:15:00.000+01:00

I am a wreck and apparently I am supposed to leave for Amsterdam at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning. I haven’t packed, and I don’t feel particularly prepared. I also feel that I won’t be able to enjoy it in my current state. But I am working on it.

To clarify: I had to give up the New York Times internship. The rules of the Smith JYA Paris are non-negotiable, and I cannot leave the program before the end without losing all of my credits for the year.

I will get over. I know I will. It’s just hard to realize it now. Hopefully I can enjoy my petit tour of Europe despite my present situation.

Thank you to all those have been supportive during this difficult moment and Happy Holidays à tous!

I hate this

2008-12-16T19:44:00.000+01:00

I am beginning to learn that dreams are apparently just meant to be shattered.

At this moment, I hate Smith College and I hate France.

Des bonnes nouvelles

2008-12-13T19:00:00.010+01:00

Ça n’a rien à faire avec Paris ou la France ainsi je vais écrire en français pour que je puisse lier ce « post » à mon expérience parisienne. C’est à la fois un exercice de la langue et une opportunité pour montrer mes capacités françaises et pour vous convaincre que je peux vraiment le parler.

Donc, je vous raconte : je viens de recevoir des très, très bonnes nouvelles.

Jeudi soir était la folie. Après d’avoir eu un jour long et fatiguant de cours, je suis rentrée pour découvrir un mail et un message du Dow Jones Newspaper Fund. J’ai immédiatement dû courir au tabac pour charger mon téléphone portable, qui était épuisé depuis mardi, pour téléphoner aux Etats-Unis.

Le type au téléphone m’a rapidement appris qu’il voulait m’offrir un stage. J’étais très contente. Ensuite, les nouvelles s’amélioraient. Le Dow Jones Newspaper Fund donne des stages à travers les Etats-Unis aux bureaux de « copy editing » chez des dizaines de journaux.

À quel journal travaillerai-je ? Le NEW YORK TIMES, m’a-t-il dit. J’étais en choque. Je ne pouvais rien dire. C’est incroyable. C’est formidable. C’est CHOUETTE ! Le New York Times est le top. Je ne sais pas comment j’avais autant de chance, mais je suis ravie !

En outre, je n’étais jamais à New York. Un été à la ville sera incroyable.

En plus d’une petite danse autour de ma chambre pour célébrer, j’ai contacté ma famille et plusieurs amis par Skype pour partager les bonnes nouvelles. J’étais également contente de raconter l’histoire à ma mère d’accueil qui partageait mon excitation. Hier soir, j’ai fêté les nouvelles avec deux amies de Smith. Nous sommes sorties pour dîner et partager du vin à un resto préféré.

Maintenant, tandis que le choque et l’excitation se calment, il faut que je débrouille tous les détails, y compris comment je vais complètement convaincre M. Bloom que je peux quitter le programme et la France deux semaines en avance…

Des autres bonnes nouvelles : mon frère va arriver demain !

For those of you who are non-Francophone, here is a mild English approximation of the above text rendered by Babel Fish (hilarity may ensue):

That does not have anything to make with Paris or France thus I will write in French so that I can bind this “post” to my Parisian experiment. It is at the same time a exercise of the language and an opportunity to show to convince my French capacities and you that I can really the speech.

Therefore, I tell you: I have just received very, very good news.

Thursday evening was the madness. After to have had one day long and tiring course, I returned to discover an email and a message of Dow Jones Newspaper Fund. I immediately had to run to the tobacco to give the responsibility my cell phone, which was exhausted since Tuesday, to telephone in the United States.

The type on the telephone quickly taught me that he wanted to offer an internship to me. I was very content. Then, the news improved. Dow Jones Newspaper Fund gives internships through the United States to the offices of “Copy editing” at tens of newspapers.

With which newspaper will work I? NEW YORK TIMES, has it says me. I was in shock. I could nothing say. It is incredible. It is formidable. It is OWL! New York Times is the signal. I do not know how I had as much chance, but I am delighted!

Moreover, I was never in New York. A summer at the city will be incredible.

In addition to one small dance around my room to celebrate, I contacted my family and several friends by Skype to divide the good news. I was also glad to tell the history with my welcome mother which shared my excitation. Yesterday evening, I celebrated the news with two friends of Smith. We left to dine and divide wine with a preferred restaurant.

Now, while shocks it and the excitation are calmed, it is necessary that I clear up all the details, including how I completely will convince Mr. Bloom whom I can leave the program and France two weeks in advance…

Other good news: my brother will arrive tomorrow!

Petit à petit

2008-12-10T22:52:00.001+01:00

The last time I reflected on language here I was negative, upset and notably disappointed. But lately, I’ve been thinking back to my first French classes at Smith, or even my classes last year, and I realize how far I’ve come.

The mere fact that I had the courage to give an oral presentation in front of a class of French students is miles of progress from the days I would cry after Fabienne’s class because I wouldn’t and couldn’t participate.

I used to avoid my French professors’ office hours for fear that I would have to speak to them in French, but now, it’s commonplace that my advising sessions and other awkward interactions with Peter Bloom all take place in the language.

Even as recently as last year, I froze and suffered from mild panic attacks when instructed to discuss something in French with a classmate. Today, I can easily carry on an average conversation about life, classes, stress, plans, etc. with my friends.

Not to say that my French is perfect – what an exaggeration that would be (Upon completing my presentation, the professor’s first remark was that it was very “courageous” for us American students to present in French, a tell-tale sign that my French was flawed) – but I am beginning to appreciate my own progressions and improvements. The progress may be on a smaller scale and at a slower pace than I was hoping for, but the progress is there.

I still know there is always more work I can be doing to improve.

I don’t speak French nearly as much as I should. This time of year, the language pledge is becoming extremely lax, even at Reid Hall. It’s unfortunate to see how quickly we can devolve into English. All it takes is one English speaker, and suddenly we are all relieved of the burden of the effort to think in French. I know I’m not nearly as vigilant as I should be, but it’s hard when I am one of a few trying to keep French up.

With the holidays quickly arriving, I will have a lengthy vacation from French with my non-francophone brother visiting and our travels bringing us to non-francophone countries so I am determined now to keep my French up for these last few days before break.

I’ve come so far and I know that with each speaking opportunity I am making progress, no matter how small.

La Pluie

2008-12-08T20:20:00.005+01:00

England may have the reputation as a grey, rainy land, but Paris is an equally damp and godforsaken place this time of year.

Snow may be a rarity here, but winter is certainly the rainy season.

For the past week, it has rained nearly every day. And not a fleeting downpour or some friendly scattered showers, but a consistent, lasting drizzle that soaks through your clothes, your shoes until you are damp to the core and bitterly cold. It may be 40 degrees Fahrenheit, but when considering the wetness factor, it might as well be freezing.

It’s miserable.

And in the few, fleeting moments free from rain, either the ground is thoroughly mouillé [wet] from the most recent shower, the sky is a dark and menacing grey, threatening a new downpour, or, most likely, the both.

So don’t even think about a pleasant sunny day until spring.

No wonder the French are of such bad humor all the time. Endless months of rain are enough to make anyone a sourpuss.

Full disclosure: today, of all days, it actually was not raining.

Also, you should see Charade immediately, preferably in an intimate Latin Quarter cinéma, but your living room will do.

Réflexions

2008-12-07T00:26:00.006+01:00

C’est déjà décembre?

2008-12-02T23:15:00.005+01:00

I saw a movie Sunday that somehow captured a lot of the sentiments that I am feeling about Paris at this moment. The movie was, appropriately, entitled Paris, and I had been jonesing to see it since it came out in February.

Considering the rarity of French cinematic success aux Etats-Unis and the significant time lag usually associated with the eventual appearance of French films in the States (voir Ne le dis à personne [Tell No One] which came out in 2006 but just hit American theaters this summer), I assumed I would have to wait to see it until it eventually made it to DVD. Luckily, the film’s star, Juliette Binoche, is currently being honored with a retrospective at La Cinémathèque française. Donc, I marked the date of the film in my agenda the moment I saw it on the schedule and made sure to make it to the séance [showing].

Directed by Cédric Klapisch (L’Auberge espagnole [The Spanish Apartment]), the film featured his classic fractured visuals of city life and intimate stories of la vie quotidienne [daily life] of insecure and flawed human beings. Among a fairly small pantheon of contemporary French filmmakers, Klapisch has a style and flair that can make the occasionally difficult subject matter that he treats palatable, pleasurable and even funny.

He displayed his mastery of this craft perfectly in Paris. The film revolves around a number of tragically unlikeable Parisians with the central story focusing on a young man in need of a heart transplant – a procedure which he has only a 40 percent chance of surviving.

For me, the film touched perfectly on the fleetingness of Parisian city life. It represented all-too-accurately a number of Parisian tropes that I have encountered on a daily basis and revealed stunning panoramas of the city with the same attention to detail as the bustling city streets and open-air markets.

Likewise, Klapisch captured the contradiction of feeling lonely and isolated in such a vibrant and vivante [living] city. His characters were connected, yet distant with but the smallest details of living in the same city connecting them. So close, but so far.

Lastly, it may be somewhat infantile – meme si c’est [even if it’s] entirely natural – to attempt to apply the life lessons learned from the gravity of the situations within the film to my own severely less grave life, but the film’s ever-present (but certainly not trop [too] heavy-handed) carpe diem sentiment reminded me to make the most of my short time in this city.

The last few days I’ve been glued to my room cranking out two exposés [presentations], but now that those have both been delivered, it’s time to explore Paris anew.

Comment dit-on procrastination?

2008-11-28T21:51:00.001+01:00

The newest Michel Gondry music video.

Dick Annegarn "Soleil du soir" (par Michel Gondry)
envoyé par totoutard

Joyeux Thanksgiving!

2008-11-28T00:10:00.008+01:00

A lot of the other girls were feeling a bit homesick and sad about missing out on their traditional Thanksgiving celebrations this year. I, too, was disappointed to have a full day of classes on the American holiday. But, considering I haven’t had a Thanksgiving dinner of any form the last two years, I was quite looking forward to the good potluck/feast Smith was throwing us.

And it certainly did not disappoint. Our amazing directrice Marie-Madeleine decided to shake things up this year and make the dinner a potluck. This way it was more traditional as everyone brought what they thought was ideal for Thanksgiving. Of course the turkey, bread, wine and cheese were all provided, but the Smithies teamed up or worked on their own to make a plethora of dishes. The selection was entirely too vast and, in that way, accurately captured the Thanksgiving spirit of excess and overconsumption.

Sometimes I question my decision to attend Smith, and I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I wouldn’t choose it again if I had the ability to do it over (a discussion for another time, I guess), but it’s difficult to imagine a more perfect study abroad program. They have pampered us on so many occasions – to the point that some have accused them of trying to make us obese alcoholics.

And it’s more than just the fêtes. The program is a serious one and even if I occasionally doubt my ability to speak French, I know it’s improving because of it. The fact that the majority of Smithies at the dinner were willing to speak French for most of the night (after several glasses of Beaujolais, I understand the switch to English) is encouraging, and as I prepare my schedule for next semester, I am overwhelmed by the number of classes offered at Smith, the Consortium and Paris VII that I would love to take.

You may think that being in Paris would be enough on it’s own to make study abroad worth it, and it may be true, but the program is what can change an expectedly great year in Paris into an expectation-exceeding one.

On the note of language, I dreamt in French last night. That is a sign of progress.

Happy Thankgiving!

Là où les rêves deviennent la réalité

2008-11-23T21:32:00.008+01:00

OK, go ahead and judge me. Just get it out of your system now.

Being closer in my life than I ever have been or than I really ever anticipate being to a Disneyland, I decided, after some convincing from my friend Jamie, to go to Disneyland Paris – as I was informed by Ben, citing Wikipedia, it is no longer called Euro Disney, but officially known as Disneyland Resort Paris – this weekend.

Yes, it’s a very American thing to do, but (1) it’s culturally interesting to consider how the French conceptualize Disney and (2) it’s fun!

Even though it was absolutely freezing yesterday (probably the coldest day since I’ve been here), I still had an amazing time. Thanks to Jamie and Christine, our Disney specialists, we maneuvered expertly through ride after ride, experiencing it all. I am thoroughly impressed by the effort and craftsmanship that appears to have went into the creation of each detail on each ride. And it was impossible not to have a great time. My favorite ride was the old-standby Space Mountain, but I also loved a brand new attraction called Crush’s Coaster with a Finding Nemo theme and enjoyed such classics as the spinning teacups, Peter Pan and the haunted mansion – unfortunately, It’s A Small World was closed for renovations.

I was equally entertained by noting the little details that gave the parks – we visited both the Disneyland Parc and Walt Disney Studios – a unique esprit français [French spirit]. We saw a crêpe stand amongst the Hollywood magic, and they sold French bread alongside Mickey-shaped pizzas and cheeseburgers. Best of all, a mock-up of the boutique from my favorite movie Les Parapluies de Cherbourg had been constructed for picture-taking purposes. This movie is a tragic, nearly operatic French musical from the 1960s, not your typical Disney film.

It’s hard to compare a fictional Sleeping Beauty castle to the live historic artifacts dotting the French countryside, but it’s true that Chenonceau certainly did not have a dragon.

The magique of the weekend continued as a handful of glistening white snowflakes fell from the sky outside me window just before noon this morning. My host mom’s gleeful declarations of “Il neige!” reminded me of how rare the event is here.

As the few flakes transitioned quickly into frigid rain, a mixture of homesickness and pure contentedness washed bittersweetly over me.

M’éclater

2008-11-21T00:53:00.003+01:00

I feel like two heavy weights have been lifted from my shoulders.

En premier temps [First of all] I completed my exam this morning without dying, passing out or crying (all of which were possibilities).

To celebrate its completion and the end of the school week, my friend Rebecca and I decided de flâner [to stroll aimlessly but observantly] around the Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain-des-Près areas. It’s cheap entertainment and I am a flâneuse at heart. Also, I wrote in my JYA admissions essay that one of the reasons I wanted to go to Paris was pour flâner ses rues. Donc, je réalise ce rêve [So, I’m living my dream].

En deuxième temps [secondly] I have also successfully finished making travel plans for Christmas Break.

As many of you know, my brother, Ben, will be coming to visit me for nearly three weeks at the end of December. During this time we will complete a whirlwind tour of some of Europe’s hotspots – and by hotspots I actually mean coldspots because I anticipate that these cities will all be nice and nippy – spending three nights each in Amsterdam, Prague and Vienna. Now that all the travel arrangements have been made, I’m no longer stressed and simply look forward to being a tourist and relaxing.

One final thing to celebrate: I am no longer an illegal alien! Since my temporary visa expired at the end of October, I had technically been living as a semi-illegal resident. Sure, it was a pretty posh life for a sans-papiers, but still a big gênant [annoying] since I couldn’t leave the country. Titre de séjour and chest x-ray in hand, I am now a legitimate Parisian resident.

3 heures, 1 examen

2008-11-19T15:50:00.001+01:00

I am, right now, en train d’étudier [in the process of studying] for my first real French exam. The exam is tomorrow morning and I’m not too sure that I’m properly prepared, but I somehow am maintaining the nonchalance of someone who was either extremely knowledgeable about post-colonial film or actually spoke French.

I am neither.

The professor has kindly allowed me, the only foreign student in the third-year cinema course, to, in lieu of writing out the whole dissertation on the subject she will give us, complete a très détaillé [very detailed] outline. A reasonable suggestion, except when you consider how crazy the French are when it comes to essay organization. My English essays, although often unorganized, get by thanks to a fairly crafty manipulation of words that somehow dazzles professors and makes them believe that I’ve actually said something logical and A-worthy.

This strategy does not work in my pathetic French. What’s more, the French would never be tricked by clever turns of phrases the way my American professors are. They want structure, they want organization and they want neatness. Everything else is secondary.

So with dictionary, double-copy paper, white out and pen in hand, I will set off at the break of dawn tomorrow morning to embark on the quest of a lifetime that is my first French exam.

19 colonial and post-colonial films, 2 wars in Indochine, 3 hours, 1 exam.

Des films, des vitrines et des regrets

2008-11-17T20:59:00.005+01:00

Les dimanches sont pleins de regrets [Sundays are full of regret].

It’s true. Whether I’ve had an amazing weekend, a boring one or slept through it all, I generally spend Sunday regretting the various things that I did not do over the weekend and wishing Monday would never arrive.

That’s pretty much how I felt yesterday. Luckily, the weekend was more toward the side of really amazing, and I was only regretting that I had not done enough homework – a meager and weightless complaint in the City of Light.

So most of the weekend was comprised of unabashed vegging out in front of a movie screen thanks to the European Film Festival at the MK2 Bibliothèque Cinéma just à côté de [next to] the Bibliothèque Nationale. The festival consisted of a bunch of low-budget/independent fictional films and documentaries from throughout Europe. The added bonus was that the whole thing was free for students! I even got a neat-o tote bag with promotional material for posterity.

Over the weekend I saw five films from France, Estonia, the United Kingdom, the Netherlands and France again. The majority were depressing including topics of: AIDS, high school violence, diminishing civil liberties and how wacked out and scary Russia is. The one mildly happy film was a documentary about a Dutch guy who explores the world of Flickr – this one reminded me of a This American Life episode set to slides of stunning photography.

They were all pretty good and for free 99, I wouldn’t complain anyway.

We also made friends with a random, artsy-looking Chinese guy at the films. When our last film of the night was cancelled on Saturday, we ended up hanging out with him on the Pont des Arts over the Seine. It was an interesting night.

Sunday I was movied out and actually tried to get some homework done. Although I didn’t really succeed, I did finish reading The Tempest which was a personal goal and will certainly help me in my exposé [presentation] on Aimé Césaire’s propre [own] adaptation of the play for my France-Afrique class (which has soudainement [suddenly] been cancelled until Thanksgiving because the professor had to head back home – to Congo? – for family reasons).

Before the sun had fully set Sunday night, I did venture outside at the encouragement of Rebecca to balader [stroll] the Boulevard Haussman where the grands magasins [big department stores] have set up beautiful and intricate displays in their vitrines [storefront windows] for Christmas. The children were numerous, but so were the lights and joyful sights. It was all very beautiful and put me perfectly in the holiday spirit…even if I was regretting my lack of studiousness as I enjoyed.

Un week-end de vampires

2008-11-09T23:21:00.010+01:00

No, my weekend was neither spooky, nor a horror film, nor anything to do with Twilight (please, pop culture, can we find some other books to be obsessed with???).

As you may have guessed, I went to see these guys.

They were adorable, endearing and as East-Coast as you’d expect them to be, except they actually seemed like guys you would want to hang out with. Also, they rocked the intimate and antique La Cigale pretty hard. La Cigale reminded me a lot of Chapin Auditorium at Mount Holyoke where I saw M.I.A. last year. I’ve decided from now on, I will only see rock music in such decidedly anachronistic settings.

Vampire Weekend may be young, but they know how to put on a show. Everything was perfectly timed from opening with “Mansford Roof” to the energetic “A-Punk” which kicked off the second half of the show – this, after bass-related technical difficulties tried to derail things, although Ezra Koenig and co. dealt with it pretty well. They encored with “Ça plane pour moi,” a song in French that seemed to be a crowd-pleaser (through the magique of YouTube you can watch it here...except we were way closer than this) and everyone’s favorite: “Walcott” (I mean…). Koenig endearingly thanked the crowd after each song with an incredibly twee “Merci,” and he and the keyboardist had either memorized a few key French phrases or dug up their French knowledge from their days at Columbia to banter in French as much as in English between songs.

It was all too cute. Plus, the opening French band was incroyablement mignon [incredibly cute]. Their combined age couldn’t have been much over 50, but their jangly guitars and moody tunes showed a surprising skill and knowledge of the 80s post-punk era (or, more likely the post-punk revival movement of the early 2000s, particularly à l’Interpol, selon moi [in my opinion]).

<------ Twelve-year-olds

I also saw Quantum of Solace this weekend, which is not even out in the states yet – take that! It must be said that Daniel Craig kicks ass. And, French people don’t seem to understand the humour of Bond.

Obama élu le 44e président des Etats-Unis

2008-11-05T23:31:00.002+01:00

Election night. The anticipation was monumental. This election was four years in the making, and before yesterday, I was still having trouble coming to the realization that we were actually going to elect a new president.

As I discussed last night with friends, all of our cognizant lives (since we were 11 years old), we’ve had Bush. And through good or (mostly) through ill, he’s pretty much all we’ve known. Now things will change.

All day yesterday, I couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t get any homework done. I was anxious. I was nervous. I was surexcitée. I was completely restless. I tried to take a nap in anticipation of my late, late night watching election results, but I could not sleep.

After laying down and fitfully contemplating what was to come, I left my house at 11 p.m. to meet up with friends in the 16th. We had planned to go to an election results party that we had been invited to which was hosted by the Americans Abroad for Obama. The party was to last from midnight until 6 a.m. streaming live CNN coverage of the night. It also promised a delicacy to be known alternately as “Barack O-Bagels” or “Obamagels.”

Rachel, Rebecca and I met up at the Metro stop around 11:50 p.m., and a number of other Smithies were in tow. We joined the massive line in front of the building where the party was to be held (it looked like some sort of huge conference hall) and we waited. And waited. And waited. The line didn’t move much, but we assumed they were probably a little behind in opening the doors. We continued to wait and the line moved a tiny bit.

At some point – I can’t really remember when – something happened and chaos momentarily erupted. Everyone bolted for the door. There was no more line. A few minutes later, someone came out and decided we should be in a line. So we made a line again. And we waited. And waited.

We couldn’t even really tell if people were getting in at all, but we remained hopeful even if a little disenchanted. Around 1:30 a.m. – an hour and a half after the doors had opened – a guy came out with a list trying to be official. He told us to line up alphabetically and then they would work off the reservation list. At first we thought, sure, we can do that. But with a crowd of hundreds who were bitter and maybe a bit cold and maybe a bit buzzed, it didn’t work so well. The little man was getting increasingly frustrated. It was all incredibly disorganized.

A group of Smithies decided to head off in search of a bar where they could watch the results. Rachel, Rebecca and I hesitated, weighing our options. We still had hopes of getting in, especially as people kept leaving, but the whole thing was so entirely muddled that we decided we wanted to go.

We considered going our separate ways and heading home for the night, but we decided the night was too monumental to spend alone in a foreign city. Instead, we opted to go back to Rachel’s place where we could snuggle up to watch the results without bothering her host parents who were out of town.

Unfortunately, this all played out perfectly after the Metro had closed for the night. So we had to navigate the night buses. We almost got lost making a transfer and then just barely caught the bus, but it worked. Then, we still had to walk a bit to Rachel’s house on deserted and mildly sketchy streets. Ultimately, we made it to her spacious and modern 17th arrondissement apartment where we immediately began to warm up and relax.

It was about 3:30 a.m. at this point. We turned on the French news and got Rachel’s computer out, snuggled up on the couch and watched everything unfold from there. It actually ended up being pretty perfect. We could make fun of the French TV anchors, including Marjorie who was visibly pissed to have been assigned to McCain headquarters in Phoenix (Vat is zis cité Feenix? It iz hot and zere are no parties. Vere is BaRack?) and, our favorite, an analyst endearingly nicknamed “Suspenders Scott” (due much more to his attire than his actual name, which presumably was not Scott) who appeared every time the big, color-coded map went up and seemed to actually understand the American electoral system. It was bizarre to be watching such an American event unfold in French. It gave a whole new perspective.

We also were able to check results online from CNN and the New York Times, making sure we were up to the minute. We spent the lulls in between new results watching amusing SNL, Daily Show and other video clips.

Shortly after 5 a.m., CNN projected Obama as the winner, and we collectively jumped for joy on the sofa. A group hug of happiness followed. Each time we saw the numbers flash on the screen or read the text “Barack Obama élu le 44e président des Etats-Unis,” another wave of excitement, disbelief and joy washed over us.

I felt a certain amount of sadness and homesickness, wishing I could have been in the U.S. to celebrate such a historic and groundbreaking American moment. But in all, the night was fun and cute and cuddly, and it was such an experience to take it all in from 4,000 miles away.

This afternoon I bought a Le Monde as a keepsake and chatted with the French woman who works at the crêperie about Barack Obama (to hear how the French pronounce this click here, type his name and select one of the French voices, my personal favorite is Bruno) and how I hope he will change things.

Like many others have said, I am proud of America and I am excited to eventually return home there.

Alloween et des visiteuses

2008-11-03T22:06:00.010+01:00

The French may not fête [celebrate] Halloween, but we sure did.

My super sweet friend Jamie decided that since her host family was out of town on vacation she would throw a mini Halloween (or ’Alloween, as the French would say) party. An excellent cook, she made a full meal for the seven of us: garlic bread and homemade guacamole with chips for an appetizer; lemon chicken, ratatouille and salad for main course; and, finally, chocolate/toffee bars and some sort of apple-pie-like thing for dessert. It was all SO amazing!

For holiday spirit, Jamie placed Halloween-themed confetti on the table alongside handmade Halloween-y nametags (mine featured a pumpkin for the “A”). And of course, there were costumes, including a panda, a cop, a gypsy, “the American stereotype of a French woman,” a flapper (me!) and a lesbian cowgirl. Themed drinks with eyeball garnishes topped everything off.

It was so much fun to kick back and celebrate among friends; I’ve missed that.

Saturday was a bit of a change of pace. As rain drizzled down on Paris, my friend Hannah and I had fun showing our friend Nikki and two other Smithies, who were all visiting from Geneva where they are studying abroad on another Smith JYA program, around town. We had our hearts’ set on visiting the Catacombs (a perfect Halloween-type activity), but, unfortunately, they were closed for the jour férié [holiday] Toussaint. Instead, we opted for the perfect rainy-day activity: hot chocolate at the renowned (and touristy) Angelina’s, which I had yet to visit despite the raves of my camarades [classmates]. Realizing that the overly strong hot chocolate would be too much for me, I opted for overpriced – yet enormous and excellent – ice cream.

It had stopped raining by the time we were finished so we decided to visit Montmartre where we strolled until we found the Café Des Deux Moulins, made famous by Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s Amélie.

It was a pleasure to have visitors since it gave me an excuse to do some of the touristy things that I hadn’t done yet. Sure, they are overpriced and swarming with non-français, but they I have to do them at least once before I leave Paris.

My second overpriced, touristy experience of the day was definitely worth it. The five of us plus another Smithie on the Paris program decided to take a nighttime tour of the Seine on the famed Bateaux-Mouches [literally, Fly Boats]. It was a chilly but clear night, and the ride was, in all, an amazing experience. Once I was able to tune out the droning commentary which repeated in at least five different languages (we felt sorry for the East Asians…when the narration finally got around to their language, the boat was presumably long past the monument in question), I was able to take in a delightfully different view of the city where I live. Each monument or important building was stunningly illuminated for the night, and the tour gave the best view imaginable of each. As usual, pictures could hardly capture the experience.We topped the night off by discovering a cozy place where I ate what can only be described as French Indian Mexican food. The atmosphere of the tiny restaurant was incredibly charming and the service was friendly and welcoming. We even got free aperitifs and a free second pitcher of Kir (which we enjoyed as a digestif because our Geneva friends were dying to try it)!

I stayed in Sunday reading the entirety of a book that I had to finish for class today, but I found even the mundanity of school work a welcome and balanced addition to a perfect Parisian weekend.

Le Bord de la mer

2008-10-29T22:49:00.006+01:00

I apologize for the tardiness of this weekend update, but despite vacations and frolicking, I am still a student and I had an essay to write. But now that I’ve caught up with my school work, I’ll take a moment to recount the week-end magnifique that was our excursion to Normandie.

Just like last time: I got up early on a Saturday morning to board the same charter bus with the same conducteur [driver] in order to escape the monotony of Paris in favor of the vast expanses of the French countryside. After a bit of a debacle featuring a late bus and late Smithies – one of whom had a hectic morning, in which she somehow missed her alarm to wake up at 8:15 a.m., 45 minutes after a bus was to leave, and, eventually, took a train to meet up with us later – we were on our way.

Our first stop was Arromanches, a cute little town on the Normandie shore. There, we watched a film which was a composite of journalistic footage of the disembarquement [D-Day landing at Normandy] and modern-day images of the beach and town. The footage was impressive, but the 360-degree format of the “cinéma circulaire” was unnecessarily dizzying.

Afterward, we lunched on the beach which was à la fois [both] beautiful and eerie. The beach featured the vestiges of un pont artificial [temporary bridge] used during the disembarquement as an ever-present reminder of the not-so-eloigned history of the seaside town.

I found the same mixture of unsettling remembrance and seaside revelry at Omaha Beach. The Cimetière américain [American Cemetery] with its vast expanse of over 9,000 white crosses (and Stars of David) marking those American soldiers who died during the invasion of Normandie was impressionnant [impressive, marking] and émouvant [moving]. Even as it made me hate war, it made me proud for the Etats-Unis.

But in the transition of mere moments, the sun was out and the beach called us. We walked down to where the grass met the sand and reveled at the immensity of the ocean, the softness of the sand and our contentedness to be at the beach.

After regretfully leaving the beach, we shifted historical time periods to visit the medieval Bayeux Tapestry depicting the Battle of Hastings.

Then, another two-hour bus trip brought us to our hotel where we ate dinner. A mere 15 minutes from Mont-Saint-Michel, the anticipation of the next day gripped us all.

And the abbey on the mount was no let-down. Driving up to it, each glimpse of the immense stone monument rising from the bay was awe-inspiring. As we descended from the bus and started our climb through the village up to the abbey, I was overcome with the surreality of the moment, and the vistas from the top were even more breathtaking. Snapping countless photos that could not possibly capture the beauty of the structure or its views, we took a two-hour tour of the abbey with an amusing – and, as a group of Smith girls would note, attractive – guide. Unfortunately, I don’t think I retained much of what was learned as I was too struck by every architectural detail or glimpse of the sea.

I guess I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised by how much of a tourist trap the whole village has become. Gift shops selling everything from postcards and overpriced trinkets to Mont-Saint-Michel cookies and cider lined the tiny, middle-age streets, and tourists of all nationalities filled the narrow walkways. But I understand the flock because Mont-Saint-Michel is an experience not to be missed.

Another two-hour bus ride passed quickly thanks to sleep, not doing homework and our re-enactments of Titanic and the Little Mermaid.

Our last glimpse of the sea before returning to the City of Light greeted us in Honfleur, an adorable and bustling town located just where the Seine meets la Manche [the English Channel]. Unfortunately, it started raining as we walked the town’s delightful streets. We also didn’t get to go to the art museum that I wanted to visit because it was near closing. We did, however, explore a beautiful church, all in wood, and enjoy a goûter [snack] of dessert crêpes and hot cidre – on Smith! – in an adorable restaurant called La Cidrerie. The restaurant’s Halloween decorations – a rarity in France where Halloween is little celebrated – were a welcoming touch.

With a last glimpse at the lit-up, little town and the sea, we boarded the bus back to Paris, where cold weather and dreary days have greeted us so far this week. At least I have Halloween to look forward to Friday and my Mont-Saint-Michel “Entre Terre et Ciel” poster hanging over my bed to remind me of it all.

Un jour dans la vie

2008-10-24T00:32:00.003+02:00

Thursdays are, at best, hectic and, at worst, hell. I have three different classes at three different locations, spread out across Paris. To make matters worse, my school day stretches from 9 a.m., when my first class begins, until 7 p.m., when my last class ends.

Today was no exception and was, in fact, busier than most.

I woke up at 7 a.m. when the first of my two alarms sounded (I’m paranoid after the debacle of two weeks ago, plus my professor now refuses to admit tardy students…which is amusing enough, as long as I’m not the tardy one). I woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head, etc., all before the sun came out. At a quarter after eight, I left the apartment to brave the cold – for the first time this season, I could see my breath – the dark and the Metro.

Perhaps because I was a few minutes later than usual or maybe because of the cold, my train was a bit crowded. It wasn’t too bad, however, and the now-routine ride from Raspail to Bercy, where I transfer lines, and Bercy to my stop went by quickly. As often is the case, the escalator was en panne [out of order] so I had to walk the 106 stairs (yes, I’ve counted) from the station to the street.

A bit tired, I arrived to my cinema class with time to spare and upon noting my enormous thirst and the stifling hot temperature in the normally frigid room, I bought myself an Orangina. Class went by as normal, but by the end of the three hours, the combination of the heat in the room and the rapidity with which the professor was talking made it difficult to pay attention. Subsequently, my notes suffered and sleep sounded oh-so tempting. At the end of class, I learned the pleasant surprise that next week is apparently vacation for Paris VII so I don’t have class.

Now that I’ve finally mastered the restaurant universitaire [university restaurant], I maneuvered through the cafeteria like an expert, choosing a cheese pizza (which despite questionably including goat cheese is quite good), apple yogurt, vanilla pudding and bread – all for 2,85 euro, which I love.

Part of the *appeal* of my Thursdays is the awkward amounts of time between my classes. It’s too much time to head straight to the next class, but too little to actually buckle down to do work (or maybe that’s my lack of gumption). So I killed some time in the gigantic Paris VII library until I decided it was time to hop on the Metro to the Centre Madeleine where I have my France-Africa class.

The Madeleine Metro stop is conveniently located on the same line as the campus of Paris VII, which means no transferring necessary. De plus, the line in question is line 14. The newest line in the Metro system, it is currently celebrating its 10th anniversary. This novelty translated to more spacious trains, speedier travel and nifty, space-aged glass blockades, which make the tracks suicide-proof. It’s a short 15 minute ride. In fact, it often takes me more time to walk to the building where my class is than it takes to traverse Paris in the Metro because I must cross five different roadways with lights that are never synched for pietons [pedestrians].

France-Afrique passed as usual, with our excitably passionate professor struggling desperately to contain himself as he lectured and us, the students, struggling desperately to decipher his handwriting.

Another awkward break comes between France-Afrique and my final course for the day, Translation. Today, the gap was pleasantly filled with a Smith-style tea. An alumna from ’75, who studied on the Paris JYA program during her day and has since set up an amazing fund which reimburses us for “cultural activities” while on the program, came to chat and share tea and cookies with us. It was just what I needed on a cold and stressful day.

Finally it was time for Translation. We got our first quiz back, and I was pleasantly surprised with my grade. As usual, we went over the translations that we had prepared for class. We also attempted to have a discussion about how one translates the verb “could” into French, but the whole discussion became very muddled as we attempted to complete an exercise without context…and our English-grammar stickler-ness kicked in.

After class I rushed to the Metro to head back to the 13th where I had started my day to see a movie for my service learning course. The movie, Coluche, l’histoire d’un mec, was very interesting, although I am not quite positive that I see the link to community service. I did enjoy the great late 70s/early 80s (when the real-life events of the movie took place) music included in the film: Iggy Pop’s “Lust of Life” (screw you, Royal Caribbean for trying to kill this song) and The Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight,” among others.

I got back to Boulevard Montparnasse around 10:30 p.m. when I stopped at a crêpe stand for my dinner: a delicious egg and cheese galette. I topped my day off by Skyping with ma mere [my mom] and now I am feeling quite ready for some sleep.

Tomorrow, I must write a paper, but I am keeping my spirits high for our excursion this weekend to Mont-Saint-Michel.

Zappons!

2008-10-21T00:10:00.003+02:00

I spent way more time than I should have watching bad French TV this weekend so I feel that it is just to report my findings.

Observations:

1) The French have hardly any of their own feuilletons [TV series]. The popular feuilletons are Desperate Housewives, Grey’s Anatomy, Cold Case and all varieties of CSI (or, Les Experts) – all dubbed in French, of course. Other than those and other American series, primetime (which is later seeing that the French don’t usually start dinner until around 8 p.m.) is often occupied by movies, which are often American and often of questionable quality.

2) Which brings be to observation no. 2: American téléfilms [made-for-TV-movies]. Saturday, I wasted away over an hour of my life watching Le tueur du vol 816, the French-dubbed version of a laughably horrible American téléfilm from 2003 starring the guy from JAG. I really wonder where they dig this stuff up. Why did they decide it needed to be dubbed in French? Who exactly does it appeal to? Likewise, I stumbled across a short-lived TV series called Runaway (staring New Kids on the Block bad boy and my Boomtown homey Donnie Wahlberg) airing Sunday afternoon. I had never even heard of this series so how do the French know about it?

3) The Nanny. Yes, with Fran Drescher. It airs nightly on M6 at about 8 p.m., just around dinnertime. Again, why? Granted, the French voice actress is slightly more tolerable.

4) We do not have cable. Thus, we have eight channels of basic French TV. Of these eight channels, one shows exclusively MTV reality shows, dubbed in français: Mon incroyable anniversaire [My Sweet Sixteen], Ma life [True Life], Mariés avant l’age [Underaged and Engaged], etc. And I mean exclusively shitty reality shows. No music videos, no Laguna Beach or The Hills or whatever wealthy California neighborhood they are on to now. Only the worst-of-the-worst reality merdre. It makes my wonder … and watch in horror.

5) French Lingo. Enough said.

6) The French version of PBS takes the cake. First, I must note that all channels are owned by the state, so in one sense, they are all “public.” But “arte” is the one that most closely approximates public television in the states. Arte is a joint Franco-allemand [France-German] effort which, in addition to showing movies (often good ones) and the nightly news, broadcasts original, and often interesting, programming. One night they aired a live broadcast of La Traviata, which was being performed in a Zurich train station. Yeah, they are that badass. Another night, I watch an hour-long emission [program] on “color.” Seriously, what beats that for randomness?

En bref, you really never do know what you will get comme on zappe through the channels [as one zaps through the channels…yes, “zapper” has, evidently, become a French verb].

Ultimately, all I can say is “Bizarre, bizarre.”

Déçue

2008-10-15T22:17:00.003+02:00

Up until this point, every entry here has been overwhelmingly positive – which is great because that’s a true reflection of how I feel. So, j’hésite [I hesitate] to add any thoughts of negativity. Not because I want to look at this experience completely through rose-colored glasses and forget the bad or stressful moments, but because I don’t want to misrepresent things. Overall, everything continues to be wonderful, but there are moments when I am down and now is one of them.

The problem? I’m discouraged. I’m disappointed. I’m déçue. All because I am beginning to realize that I cannot speak French. Yes, it appears that I can carry on conversations in the language with my American-student friends and my host mother – in fact, I am happy to report that I am beginning to feel more at ease in these exchanges – but, apparently, the rest of the world speaks a different French that I do not understand.

The minute someone other than my host mom, a friend or a professor asks me something, I freeze. It always sounds all jumbled and not-like-French to me. My immediate response of “Pardon” and the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face surely makes me seem as if I’m another stupid American who can’t speak a lick of French. But how can this be? I can grasp Proust, but I can’t understand the boulanger?

My most recent episode ended up invoking a tearful ride home on the Metro after I horribly botched a conversation with a representative of Greenpeace France at a meeting for interested volunteers.

Each time this happens I feel stupider and stupider. I’ve been here for over a month; shouldn’t I be seeing some progress? And my confidence is beginning to dwindle. Maybe I should just start speaking in English; all the French respond to me in it anyway.

Just today, I ventured to the Bibliothèque du film, where I had to subscribe to watch the films for my cinema class. After struggling through the application for the card with the surprisingly patient secretary and successfully employing the nifty coatroom lockers, I headed to the vidéothèque [the library of films]. I observed intently as the girl in front of me checked the film she wanted to watch in the catalogue and then told the librarian, who gave her the film. It looked simple enough. But as I tried to utter, “Je cherche Indochine de Régis Wargnier,” she gave me a blank stare. “You couldn’t find it in the catalogue?,” she answers back in English. We continue to play this game where I stumble along in French and she responds in perfect English as she explains where I have to click in the catalogue and the number I need to give her. This woman was actually amazingly helpful and very friendly, but it’s unfortunate that my French is so horrible to her ears that she’d prefer English.

I again embarrassed myself when I returned the DVD of the 1921 colonial film L’Atlantide – I didn’t actually get to watch Indochine yet because someone had it out – to the desk after I had finished. This time, the patient women from reception was waiting and as I walked up with a friendly “Bonjour,” she replied “Comment?” [What?] as if I was speaking gibberish. She then asked me something I didn’t understand. Finally, we worked out that I was finished with the DVD and wanted to give it back (which I thought was apparent enough), and then she asked me if I was finished for the day or if I had other things to watch.

I knew this was a trap. French people like to do this; they ask you a question as if you have the choice between two options when really you do not. There were clearly people waiting, so I had figured I would have to forfeit my place. But since she asked, I thought I might as well try so I responded that yes, in fact, I do have something else to watch. Snap! That’s me falling right into her trap. She very condescendingly informs me that there are actually people waiting so I can’t hog the terminal and I must patienter [wait].

Thanks for the life lesson, Madame. At least that whole conversation took place in French.

Le temps file

2008-10-13T00:03:00.003+02:00

Another week of schoolwork and classes quickly passes by and with it another weekend to enjoy. After ending my week on a sour note of a stressful Thursday on which I incorrectly set my alarm and nearly missed my 9 a.m. class at Paris VII – my host mom woke me at 8:30, wondering if I had class, at which point I rushed out the door to catch the metro and ended up only 15 minutes late – and became discouraged by my translation course, the weekend was a welcome escape.

And escape I did, mostly from the French language. I hardly spoke it this weekend, and barely even heard it around me, which would seem difficult considering I am living in the preeminent French-speaking country in the world.

I spent Saturday strolling the designer-store-lined streets around the Champs-Elysées and near the U.S. embassy, where tourists abound, especially on a Saturday. Later, I braved the crowded Champs-Elysées shops with friends. There, we encountered all nationalities, including an adorable German child who applauded Alix’s lip-synched rendition of the Chris Brown song blaring over the United Colors of Beneton sound system and an American tourist, who happened to be a professor at Grand Valley State (small world), with his family. Very minimal amounts of French were spoken and even less was heard.

Sunday was no different as Rachel, Rebecca and I visited Montmartre for a street festival. All nationalities were again represented, including the older British man, who during a particularly log-jammed moment in the crowd remarked rather loudly, “The bloke behind me has a large belly!” The knowing look of the man behind him, who clearly also spoke English, was priceless.

My host mom was even in la campagne for the weekend so I lacked Francophone interactions with her. When you add on my time Skyping to those back home (brother, boyfriend, mom, dad) and my guilty-pleasure screenings of Project Runway and Freaks and Greeks, my “plus-français-que-les-Français [more-French-than-the-French]” program director would be appalled.

Not to say that my weekend was a bust. I had a fabulous time swimming amongst the crowds, profiting from the fantastic and unseasonably warm weather and catching up on American pop culture.

Plus, I tried a new pastry. What could be more French than that?

La Rentrée à Paris

2008-10-07T21:18:00.007+02:00

Back in Paris, tout va bien [all is well].

I’ve started all of my classes and I’m being to remember that I’m in college and not on an elaborate field trip. I love all my classes and I don’t yet have that much work to do so it’s not too bad. The only problem is, it’s impossible to concentrate on homework when one’s in Paris. And the Parisian bibliothèques [libraries] don’t make it any easier. Like a foolish American, I decided that after my traduction [translation] class Monday morning I would head over to Paris VII to get some reading done in the library. Silly me: the university library doesn’t open until noon on Mondays. Luckily, the Bibliothèque Nationale is right next door; so I trekked on over, only to find out that the salles de lecture [reading rooms] are closed Monday. Apparently Parisians don’t study on Mondays.

Regardless of this minor inconvenience, I love my classes overall. Last week, I started my Smith course in which we will be translating texts from English to French in order to refine our French writing and work through some of the more tricky and idiomatic points of French grammar and vocabulary. The task is much harder than it initially seemed, but translation m’intéresse beaucoup [interests me a great deal] so I think I will enjoy the class de toute façon [anyway].

I also began my consortium class (the consortium consists of Middlebury, Hamilton and Smith Colleges which all have study-abroad programs in Paris) last week. The course concerns the politics and history of France-African relations since colonization. The professor – Boniface Mongo-Mboussa, what a name! – is incredibly dynamic and passionate; I know I will love this course.

But of course, the life outside of classes is the most exciting part of la vie parisienne. Saturday night was no exception. From 7 p.m. Saturday to 7 a.m. Sunday, Paris celebrated la Nuit Blanche [white night] with expositions, instillations, performances and more taking place throughout the city from dusk until dawn. For my part, I met up with some friends in the 4th at l’Hôtel de Ville, and we strolled about the Marais taking in the excitement and animation on the streets. Searching an inexpensive and warm – although the night was very pleasant, it was a bit chilly – place to eat, we discovered an adorable resto [restaurant] where we will soon be regulars. The space is tiny, but the atmosphere was lively and the menu is diverse and affordable. My friends Rachel and Rebecca ordered mussels and fries and mussels and salad, respectively, for just 7,50 euro. I settled for a galette [wheat crêpe] and fries, seeing as they were out of croques.

After browsing the brochure of events for the night, we decided the majority of the installations were a bit too out-there for us. We opted to visit the Centre Pompidou which was free and open until 1 a.m. for the night. We briefly browsed some of the modern art, but preferred to linger on the sixth floor which grants an astounding view of Paris through its tubular glass walls. It was incredibly pleasing to view the nightlife of the city on this bustling evening, and as always, the monuments at night were beautiful. We sat around the Centre Pompidou chatting for the rest of the evening and decided to call it a night a little after 1 a.m., but a successful and exciting night it had been.

Un conte de fées

2008-09-29T11:58:00.015+02:00

The beauty of Paris is stunning and the bustle of city life can be such a thrill, but after a month here, la campagne nous manquait [we missed the countryside]. After waking up at 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning to board a bus full of Smithies, we found that countryside, and it was as marvelous as one could imagine.

The two-hour-plus bus ride to the Loire Valley was more like passing through a portal into a fairy-tale land, where castles and villages and beautiful vistas reign. The first glimpses of the countryside reminded me of the Etats-Unis [United States], but as castles and ancient bridges popped up here and there, I knew I was someplace special.

During our well-organized trip, I visited four châteaux (two of which we went inside for guided tours) and their jardins, the “castle” where Leonard Da Vinci lived toward the end of his life and a cave where they produce wine, all of which occurred during perfect autumnal weather.

Each castle was as beautiful as the next, but the magnifique Château de Chenonceau was my favorite. Our visit to the castle was truncated by a slightly late arrival (due to minor navigational errors), but our rushed visit gave us just enough time to take in the beauty of the structural marvel.

After picnicking, visiting Clos Lucé (Da Vinci’s house) and strolling the gardens of the Château de Chaumont, we visited the wine production cave for a wine tasting. The night was topped of with an excellent and exciting fondue dinner, complete with four different fondues, with the whole group – including our assistant director’s charming 9-year-old son François who accompanied us on the trip – packed into the basement of “La Souris Gourmande” [The gluttonous mouse] in Tours, France. I don’t know how I had room after so much excellent cheese, but the dessert was also exquisite: meringué glacé (which I chose over the chocolate tart, a popular selection among the crowd) which was a meringue with some sort of fruit cream.

Day two was a bit less hectic, but equally satisfying. We left the hotel around 9 a.m. for a visit of the Château de Blois, where my history knowledge was greatly enhanced by our American ex-pat tour guide who continually reminded us to vote. After lunch at one of the few open cafés – life shuts down in France on Sunday – in the charming town, we traveled to the Château de Chambord, a visually overwhelming gothic-style masterpiece. There, I elected to rent a vélo [bicycle] to tour the jardins and surrounding fôrets [forests]. The view was amazing and it was an unreal experience to be cruising along on a bicycle with this enormous castle looming over us.

We returned to the bus exhausted but satisfied, begrudgingly ready to return to the real world of Paris.

Les vrais cours

2008-09-25T23:00:00.002+02:00

I’ve successfully completed my first week of classes at a French university. Félicitations à moi! Félicitations might be a bit overkill considering I actually only have two courses this semester at Université Paris VII, and those were the only courses of my four total that started this week, but it seems like a milestone nonetheless.

Monday afternoon, I had my first class. The class is titled “Littérature and Histoire” [Literature and History] and concerns the literature of the Algerian war. I was super-psyched about this course because I’ve already done some coursework in this area and found it to be a troubling but interesting moment in French history. Additionally, I’d already read a couple of the authors on the class’s bibliography and I loved their work. With my expectations high, I entered the classroom, and, somehow, I was not disappointed. The class was not the giant lecture hall that I had been warned against, but an average-sized classroom with rows of tables. And the professor was not the strict, by-the-books menace for which I was prepared. She seems very friendly and open, yet extremely knowledgeable in her field. Although she is presumably not Iranian, she mildly reminds me of actress Shohreh Aghdashloo.

The first class was mostly composed of background and historical foundation for our study of literature in the context of the Algerian war. She also laid out what we would be reading over the semester. Also unlike I’d been told, she plainly stated the three books we will be working on together and even gave us the assignment of reading the first three or four chapters of one of an Assia Djebar novel by next week’s class (a surprisingly easy assignment, which suits my slowness when reading French). She also mentioned a fourth book which we should read because, wait for it, the author, Leïla Sebbar, will be coming to our class! I’ve already read a handful of works by Sebbar and even chose to translate one of her texts for a class last semester. I am so excited – I think I will be star-struck.

At the end of class, after our coffee break (the class is a three hour lecture – upside, it meets only once a week; downside, three hours in one room) and lecturing, she went through all the names of the people in the class to try to begin to get to know us. This is when she realized that nearly half of the class was Anglophone (mostly Americans, but a few Britons). She joked that she might as well be conducting the course in English! It’s somewhat unfortunate that there will be that many Americans in the class – I didn’t come all the way to France to take classes with other Americans – but on the plus side, she will be cognizant of us.

My second class, a course about post-colonial French cinema, was this morning. Starting at 9 a.m., it required me to awake much earlier than the time at which I had been habituating myself to get up. It was worth it though. Again, the subject matter of the course is right up my alley so my hopes for the course were high and were met. This classroom was, as promised, a large amphitheatre, but it was not nearly full. In fact, there were probably around 25 students in the class – the majority, this time, seemed to be French.

This course is a third-year (the final year in France’s three-year university program) course while the other course was a second-year class so I was bit worried about the level. But I feel like my combination of film knowledge, familiarity with French colonial history and experience with post-colonial literature make me an ideal candidate for the course. The professor is very young, and she is prone to speaking much faster than the other. It was a struggle to keep up and take notes, but I enjoyed the challenge as well as her lecture style. For this course, the “assignments” are a little more ambiguous, but I plan to feel things out as I go.

Attending two class sessions over the course of a week didn’t really feel like a true start-of-school experience, but I guess I am in the thick of things now, and glad to be thanks to two amazing classes. The rest of my courses start on Monday, but first, a group trip to the chateaus of the Loire Valley…

L’Eglise parisienne

2008-09-24T22:34:00.003+02:00

I’m not a religious person. I never really have been. I have my only particular breed of beliefs that border between atheism and agnosticism. I quietly decline to believe in God and I’m OK with that. But lately, the magnifique [magnificent, in a visually stunning way] churches that I’ve been seeing are making me wonder if I am missing out. To think that someone – some people – possessed a faith so strong that they constructed these physically massive and overwhelming beautiful structures in honor of their God astounds me. There’s something very moving about a faith that strong, and it is reflected, permanently and stunningly in the columns, the buttresses, the stained glass and the rafters of so many Parisian churches.

Here, the vestiges of this insurmountably strong faith are everywhere. Everyone knows la Cathédrale Notre-Dame, and even most tourists discover la Basilique du Sacré-Cœur and Sainte-Chapelle. All three are marvels, wonders of architecture, art and sheer human ability. But what some don’t realize is that awe-inspiring churches loom around nearly every corner of this historically and symbolically Catholic city.

As part of last weekend’s Journées du Patrimoine [Heritage Days], after visiting the Panthéon, a laïque [non-religious, secular] version of the awe-inspiring French church, I decided to enter for the first time a number of these churches, found scattered about my quartier [neighborhood].

Saint-Etienne-du-Mont, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Saint-Sulpice and Notre-Dame-des-Champs are all within reasonable walking distance of my house and each one is as breathtaking as the next. I’m not only moved by the sheer size and magnitude of these human creations, but I also find moving the act of entering each church. Passing through those heavy, imposing doors, I shut out the hustle and bruit [noise] of Boulevard du Montparnasse, or whichever bustling Paris street, in favor of a perfect calm and reflective quiet. I almost feel guilty intruding upon this serenity as I thrust my head sky-ward in awe of the intricate ceiling or beautifully colored glass.

It’s overwhelming.

Il fait parfois me demander si jamais je peux avoir autant de foi…en n’importe quoi. [Sometimes it makes me wonder if I could ever have that much faith…in anything.]

La bureaucratie, c’est la vie.

2008-09-19T18:12:00.004+02:00

This week, I had my first real run-in with the hassle that is French bureaucracy and the university system (this is excepting my visa application which, despite multiple tiers, piles of paperwork and a required daytrip to Chicago, wasn’t actually too bad).

The majority of the 23 Smith students on the program are going to be taking classes with the University of Paris IV – Sorbonne, but there are six of us who have been assigned to Paris VII. Although I was initially disappointed that I wouldn’t be going to the historic “Sorbonne,” I’m looking forward to courses at Paris VII. The campus is brand new in a very modern and up-and-coming sector of Paris, and the course offerings are diverse and intriguing. So I have since become content to be taking classes there.

I was not so content, however, regarding the registration process. Originally, our program director had told me I could simple go to the office for the department in which I wanted to take classes and tell them I wanted to register. Done deal. But it was not to be that simple. When I went to register, I was told by the woman at the welcome desk that since I had no paperwork and no carte d’étudiant [student ID card], I would have to go talk to the man in charge of entering international students in the International Studies office. Unfortunately, he wasn’t accepting students at that time. On a different day, a few of my camarades [classmates] tried the same thing and were told they must come back the next day between 9:00 a.m. and noon to talk to the mec [guy].

We were excused from our orientation courses by M. Bloom, our program director. I stayed back, not wanting to miss notes from one class, but some others went ahead early in the morning. They waited for over an hour to talk to the mec, and when they finally got to talk to him, he told them that he couldn’t help them; he was too busy dealing with the 500+ international students at the university. So, we had missed class and traveled 30 minutes on the metro to the university all for naught. And we still had no idea how we would register for classes.

Somehow, however, M. Bloom worked some magic/pushed things along and was able to give us our student numbers the next day. Thursday, after a bit of guilt-filled shopping at “Hache et Em” [H&M], my friend Rachel and I decided to head back to the dreaded Paris VII to see if we could accomplish anything…and, amazingly enough, we just had to go to a couple offices, tell them for which classes we wished to register and registered we were. Facile-y fromage-y [Easy Cheesy].

I am now officially registered for a course concerning literature of the Algerian war and a post-colonial-cinema class. Now the challenge is surviving French university courses.

Today: Amazing walking through Parc de Bercy, which is a real, let-the-trees-actually-grow-wild park near Paris VII and the Bibliotheque Nationale. Tonight: Indian cuisine in the 10th (Paris is divided into 20 arrondissements [districts] and it’s common to refer to locations by their arrondissement – I live in the 6th).

3 semaines comme des milles jours

2008-09-15T22:11:00.005+02:00

So I’ve been in Paris for less than three weeks, but it already feels like I’ve been here for months, not because my orientation classes are that boring (although I am beginning to tire of them) but because I’ve been able to experience so much so soon. But the thing that I love about this city is that there is still so much more that I want to do. The list of possibilities continues to grow even as I mentally check off the stops completed.

I’ve wandered in many quartiers [neighborhoods], but nowhere near them all. I have yet to return to my beloved Montmartre, and I can’t wait to explore new districts.

I’ve seen the monuments (Arc de Triomphe, La tour Eiffel in day and night, Notre-Dame, Centre Pompidou, L’Opèra, etc.), but there is still a nearly endless list of others that I’ve yet to see. I haven’t even seen the Louvre since I’ve been here, and I certainly haven’t had the chance to visit it or any other museum, for that matter, yet.

We traveled out to Versailles just this weekend, and despite having an amazing time relaxing in the sun, I left another item on my mental to-do list unchecked since the palace itself was too crowded to enter.

At every turn, every moment, I’m experiencing something new and exciting, but meanwhile, I’m beginning to feel like the things left to do are overwhelming…and next week, I start my classes at Paris VII. But all the while, I have time – 9 months (!). I guess I just have to let myself experience Paris a bit by osmosis and trust that eventually I will experience it all.

First French film in France: Jean-Luc Goddard’s A bout de souffle (1960), a classic of nouvelle-vague cinema. I found it fitting.

Une réflexion sur la langue

2008-09-07T22:50:00.004+02:00

A reflection on being (mildly) French-speaking Americans abroad: I continually find it bizarre to be a group of American college students speaking French together on the streets of Paris. There’s something about it that seems backwards, topsy-turvy. These same friends and I would most likely have been speaking English back at Smith except for a few strained situations at the French table or French department events. But here, we are sliding easily into the habit of conversations, text messages and Facebook-wall posts in French.

Sure our French is a little muddled at times and generally spoken at a much slower pace than the sharp, quick jabs of those around us, but it’s French in its own right. I always wonder what those around us think upon hearing our jumbled French. I imagine the Parisians finding it curious since they can easily tell we are American. And I always wonder if – or hope that – some American tourists might mistake us for French upon hearing us speak.

Trying to speak in French at all times has been fun as well as challenging. Sometimes it becomes a game to describe something for which I don’t really have the words or tiptoe around an idea until I’ve captured what I meant to say. But it’s also very exhausting. It sometimes takes twice the words for me to get at a simple idea, and by the end of the day my brain is fatigued.

That’s why it was nice to spend Saturday chatting with my friends and classmates in English. I know we broke the code, but after a week of diligence a day’s slippage isn’t too bad. I hope that as the year progresses though, speaking in French will feel more and more natural even among my American friends.

Mon anniversaire

2008-09-06T01:43:00.006+02:00

I always thought my birthday fell at just the wrong time of the year. The beginning of September is always a time of transition – whether it was starting school, moving into my dorm or, in my present situation, getting acclimated to a new and foreign city. But over the years I’ve managed to have some pretty good birthdays; although, I think this year’s tops the list.

My official start of my birthday here at 12:00 a.m. Paris time was marked by my loyal (and wonderful) boyfriend who made sure to send me a message via Facebook chat. But by morning, I was feeling a bit nostalgique [homesick] especially after seeing a few birthday e-mails and e-cards from home. Sauf pour my host mother joyously telling me “ ’Appy Birthday” (the French always drop their H’s) the morning passed as normal.

It wasn’t until déjeuner [lunch] that my first day to no longer be a teenager truly revealed itself as special. My friend Hannah suggested that we head to this bagel place she had seen earlier for lunch (I would soon learn that, although she undoubtedly loves my company, this was intended as a distraction). We ate our bagels (quite good for bagels being practically unheard of in France) happily, and then Hannah suggested we return to Reid Hall. We returned only to find a horde of smiling Smithies in the salle à manger [dinning room] ready to sing “Joyeux anniversaire!” and present me with chocolate cake and Tiramisu. It was fabulous to be able to celebrate with everyone.

Later that afternoon, while shopping at a nearby H&M (three stories, mind you), I bought myself a très jolie [very pretty] scarf as a birthday present à moi [to me].

For dinner, Madame had asked me to invite two friends pour fêter [to celebrate] my birthday so Hannah and Jamie gladly joined us for a veritable feast beginning with an aperitif (champagne, of course pour fêter) and ending with a fruit-topped cheesecake. The whole meal was excellent! Parfait [perfect]!

Afterwards, Hannah, Jamie and I went to a cinéma just next to Hannah’s apartment and only a couple blocks from mine. It’s an art-house-type cinéma (meaning no French-dubbed Kung Fu Panda or Zohan) and after surveying the numerous tempting choices we settled on Metropolis, a German Expressionist movie from the 1920s – again, excellent!

In all, I’m happy to be 20, and although I couldn’t share the day with the people with whom I am truly the closest, I had the best birthday imaginable.

Mes premiers jours

2008-09-04T19:12:00.006+02:00

As of tomorrow, I will have been in Paris for exactly a week. Thus, an entry here is more than overdue, but as you can guess, my first few days have been a little hectic and I wanted to get settled before I wrote.

My flight here was fairly uneventful, sauf [except for] an hour delay caused by backups on the runway at the Philadelphia International Airport. There were a number of other Smith students on the same plane, and we met a couple of others at Charles De Gaulle so there was a small army of us traveling together on the bus into Paris. It was reassuring to be surrounded by people I knew, and it made arriving in a new country with a new language (well, not new, but different…and although I’ve studied it for many years, I hadn’t spoken or listened to much French for the entirety of the summer) much less terrifying.

We were put up in a very nice, big, Americanized hotel in Montparnasse for the first night. I was understandably exhausted from the travel, but we were able to find a little boulangerie at which to eat lunch – my first real French experience. I also got a chance to walk around the neighborhood a little bit and at each turn I was reminded that I was in Paris: the streets are narrow, the apartments beautiful, and les motos [motorcycles, mopeds, etc.] numerous.

After our first meeting as a group with our program director and assistant director, our host families were to meet us back at the hotel. Unfortunately, my hostess was out of town attending a niece’s wedding so I would not yet get to meet her. I was instead whisked away by my friend Jamie’s host family who were some of the nicest, warmest people I have ever met. Dominique and Catherine and there 10-year-old daughter Elyse welcomed us openly into their home, and it made for a fabulous first impression of Parisian life and Parisians themselves. Plus, their apartment was beautiful and but a few minutes walk from the Arc de Triomphe, where Jamie and I were able to stroll Sunday morning and again Sunday afternoon when we met a friend at a café near the Champs-Elysées.

Sunday was to be my last day with Dominique, Catherine and Elyse, and my time spent with them ended on a high note. For dinner Sunday night (the other meals had been equally fabulous in their own respects due to Catherine’s superb cooking), Catherine, Elyse, Jamie and I took a bus to the Champs de Mars, the park area in front of the Eiffel Tower, were we had a pique-nique [picnic] of excellent sandwiches prepared by Catherine. Afterwards, we played Frisbee in the park, then bought ice cream by the Seine and strolled for the best view of the Eiffel Tower as it lit up at 9 p.m – in all, an absolutely magnificent night.

Monday morning I woke up full of anticipation and a bit of anxiety, ready to meet my hostess who came to the apartment to pick me up at 8 a.m. before my orientation courses. From my first impression, I could tell that she was sweet and kind and that is, of course, true. She’s very maternal and grandmotherly with me (she has 11 grandchildren of her own) and so far I’ve appreciated the guidance and care that she’s given me. Her apartment is on the small side and is historic (she would just say old), dating from the 1880s, but it is very cozy and located in an extremely central location at the coeur de [heart of] Paris. In fact, it’s only a 2 minute walk from the center Smith has at Reid Hall (where all my orientation classes take place) and just as close in the other direction to the famed Jardin du Luxembourg.

This week has been a blur of classes (ranging from phonetics to French history to how to navigate Paris), pleasant lunches eaten with friends and strolls throughout the city. Unfortunately, the weather has turned a bit sour these past few days and Paris is gris [grey] comme d’habitude [as usual]. Thankfully, the cold and the rain have not dampened my spirits or multiplied my stress, and all is well in the City of Light.

J’y arrive.

L'Introduction

2008-08-25T21:27:00.011+02:00

Bonjour!

So here begins my journey into the "blogosphere" (sorry, I realize that term's overused). I'm not sure if I really want to be considered a "blogger," but I think this space will be a useful tool to share my experiences with others and reflect on them for myself.

For those of you who know and those of you who don't, I will be leaving for Paris from Reagan National Airport in D.C. at the end of the week. I will be in Paris for the entirety of the school year -- August through June. I will be staying with a host family (most likely a single woman with a room to spare), but I won't find out who until I arrive. I am participating in a study abroad program with about 25 other women from Smith, but I will also be taking classes at Université Paris Diderot (Paris 7), one of Paris's 13 public universities.

My primary goal in participating in this program is to gain fluency in French, a language that I love, am majoring in and have studied for six years. I am also excited at the prospects of discovering city life, after growing up in the suburbs and attending college in a small town. Lastly, I hope to gain a greater sense of independence and confidence in my own self and my abilities as a student and individual.

Surely, a number of jitters and nerves are dominating my thoughts of the trip at the moment and I will miss a number of friends and family members, but, above all, I love France and French and its culture and can't wait to dive in.

Thanks for reading and I hope you join me on my séjour à Paris.