Home is where your cat is..

DATELINE: 31.07.09 BOSTON, MA

I'm back. Back stateside. Back in Boston. Back in my apt in Somerville, MA. I'm exhausted. Beyond exhausted. I'm happy to see all of you, dear friends. I love you quite truly. But I am having a really hard time with being back.

After getting home tonight (after an obsurdly long ride on the chinatown bus and a short ride with DJ who SO SO graciously picked my very late ass up) I went to the grocery store to buy something to eat. Granted I was tired. I was overwhelmed. I was hungry. But I don't think those are exactly all the reason why I found myself walking the isles of Shaw's Supermarket nearly in tears.

I think that there are places in this world that fit us like a favorite pair of shoes. Where we arrive and slide in, finding a comfortable and familiar fit like an old and well loved pair of jeans. Places where the hardships we find do not sour but only "season" our relationship with the place. Cities where we find ourself feeling endless space to grow and become, despite cramped quarters, cramped streets, cramped buses and metro cars. Places where we are completely at home, despite being complete strangers to the city. Places that for all their little idiosyncrases and elements that make you nuts (like being a target for the constant harassment which is tolerated by the authorities and other members of the society), you love the city and feel she loves you back.

I think that Paris has been such a place for me. It is not just the city of love, it is also a city that is incredibly easy to love.

It is not that I completely dislike Boston. There is much that I like about Boston, and I have fantastic friends here whom I love very dearly. But the truth is that Boston had an expiration date for me, and that date came and went a long time ago. I am struggling with my return to Boston, where I felt no such struggle upon my departure and settling into Paris.

It is a strange feeling - as it no longer feels at all like home to me. I am waiting with baited breath to hear of my acceptance to Lesley University. Because if I don't get in, I mean no offense but I am going to sell off my belongings and my cat and I are going to return together to Paris. This time I cannot leave her behind, because home is where your cat is...

In the company of me, myself, and I

[This is an old post from mid June, but I couldn't get the images to upload before so I was waiting on publishing it]

DATELINE: 12.07.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Going places alone is one of my great challenges in life. I don't mean picking up and moving to another country alone - sure! That one was easy! No, I mean going out alone - like going to concerts, going to exhibits, going to events and activities. For some reason driving across the US alone? No problem. Moving to France alone? No problem (though to be honest I had quite a safety net here). A concert? A club? A show? That freaks me out.

To say it freaks me out is actually not quite accurate. Somehow it just makes me feel exceptionally shy, and anxious. I can think only because it makes me feel a bit lonely. But what is really interesting is that this only holds true *before* I have arrived there and am doing, all by myself, that which I wanted to go do.

Today there was a music festival, a really small one, down in Parc André Cintroën along the south western part of the Seine in Paris. All morning I was trying to get anyone and everyone I know here in Paris to join me there. All those who would have joined me are either simply out of town right now, or have already left France. And so I kicked myself in the arse, got myself out the door, and went alone. And would you know it, I had a great time all by myself.

It's a funny realization that I come by every time this happens. I often do have a great time when I go and do things alone. Getting myself past the "oh it's so lonely" feeling and resolving to go even in the absence of a companion is so hard, and yet, once I'm there I am sometimes very grateful that no one has come with me. Today I wandered through the stands, I listened to the bands, I lounged in the grass and wrote post cards (yes, 16 days before I leave France I am finally sending out cards). I even made a new friend (though I had no interest in anything more than the little 5 minutes conversation we had). When he struck up the conversation with me, though, I felt like somehow he was interfering (if I actually was interested in his company I might have felt otherwise). It was as though I had resolved to go to this alone, found myself enjoying it alone, and then didn't want to change that by joining up with anyone else.

I realized that had someone come with me, I would have been worried that they didn't like the music. I'd have been worried that I was somehow holding up what they wanted to do when I stopped to take 20 photos of kids playing in the fountain. I'd have been too concerned with whether they were enjoying the day to enjoy the day myself.

That this realization has come to me before many times over, and still it is hard for me to get myself to go do things alone is something that baffles me. I think I need to have a little recording that will play every time I think of bailing out of something I want to do just because there is no one to come with me. It will be me reminding myself that in fact when I go it alone, I am never actually alone, and I always have a great time with myself.

Here's some pics and video from today:

Just a crazy and beautiful cloud on my way home. It's about 10pm at this time.

Mini DJs

The Poop Report

DATELINE: 07.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Exclusive exposé, tonight on... THE POOP REPORT!

As we have learned previously, poop goes in the potty. This, we took for granted. This, we took as fact. However, tonight in a shocking candid moment with Alex, age 2, we will learn that in fact, we have been fooled.

Exclusive story, tonight at 11.

Actually, make that at 11:45..or Midnight.. or 1 am. 

I've been feeling for quite some time that easily 1/2 my job as a babysitter is to report on the status of each childs bowel movements. At the end of each session, as I perform what I've come to think of as "the hand-off" to the parent, I give them a little oral report on how their child had been during our time together. Were they fussy? Did they eat? Did they sleep? How much? How long? How many diapers? And the most fun of all: Were there poopy diapers? How did it look? Was there a lot of it? Did it seem painful? Did it cause any irritation? 

The parents will also give me a similar run-down, involving info as to whether or not their child has pooped yet that day, when handing their kid off to me.  I've taken to referring to this as The Poop Report.

When changing diapers I am always reminded of an old bit from Robin Williams' stand-up routine. When talking about becoming a father for the first time and changing his infant son's diapers, he exclaims: "Jesus christ! Did that shit go to Cleveland before it reached his diaper?!" I have wondered this on way, way too many occasions. Except I think it went to 3-Mile Island, not Cleveland. 

I've remarked on being shocked by the varying vibrant colors of dog-poop I have seen planted strategically in the dead center of the sidewalks in Paris. These diapers make that look like child's play (oh, all puns intended). I have seen diapers that suggest this child has been drinking gallon jugs of food coloring, that made me wonder if that kid perhaps is more precocious than she seems and managed to open a can of spinach and dump it into her diaper while I wasn't looking, or if this other kid is perhaps radioactive. 

Alex, my adorable 2yr old little pal, will resist diaper changes at all cost and insist that he has only "peepee" in his diaper even while it is bursting at the seems with chunky rank poo. Sophie, who is not yet 2yrs old but is larger than the average 5yr old, will run around with 5lbs of poop weighing her diapers down. Her parents apply packing tape to the waistband of her diapers - they say to prevent her from pulling them off, but I think it might also be to keep them from falling off due to unusually heavy loads (sidenote: if your kid is the size of a 5yr old at age 2 and seems to be expressing interest in potty-training, please for the love of god, teach the child to use a potty and stop making her run around in 5lb of her own feces). Ellenor, age 6mo, produces the most brightly colored poops - bright green, bright orange, purple... you name it, she's expelled it. At one point I was wondering if we might get a "Napoleon" style, like a 3 flavor box of ice cream.

Today, I had to change Sophie's diaper twice. It was traumatic. I nearly wretched. They were within only a few hours of each other and were totally distinct. The second had bits of undigested food. With the first, we were playing when she suddenly squatted and scrunched up her face. When asked, "Sophie are you pooping?", she would either deny it or simply change the subject. Moments later, you could smell it from three rooms away.  If I were this child and I was running around caked in my own feces, I'd be pulling my diapers off too.

So this evening, after such a wonderously poop filled afternoon, I was taking care of Alex. One may argue that Alex is in denial of his participation in this particular bodily function or he may be confused by the different terms applied in English and French. In any case, whenever I go to take off his diaper to put him into his bath, when he smells to high heavens of a poopy diaper, or when I ask if he has a dirty diaper, he insists that it is only "pee-pee." Even when I pull a diaper off and it is overflowing with "caca", he still says, "No. Pee-pee." 

Tonight I am giving him his bath. He is playing with his boats and the bubbles and generally enjoying himself. I am feeling thankful that he has stopped fighting tooth-and-nail to avoid taking his bath. I am thinking how it's been such a good evening and how easily everything has gone. 

Alex is sitting sort of in a squat playing with his boats. Suddenly he looks at me and says, "Uh oh." I say, "Uh oh? What's 'uh oh' for buddy? Why do you say 'uh oh.'?" He stands up suddenly and turns around as if something has bit him in the rear, and I see what the "uh oh" was for. I have counted my chickens before they have hatched, and Alex has pooped in his bath. Twice. 

I pull him out as fast as I can and plop him on his little potty, hoping to avoid further contamination. While he sits there insisting that it is only pee-pee, I go through the process of fishing all the little bits out of the bath, draining the bath, and sanitizing the tub, before refilling it and starting bath time all over again.

I guess poop does not always go in the potty 

(thinking back now, I remember from my childhood years a little boy of 4 or 5 who shall remain nameless, who pooped out of a second story window of a house... it wasn't his fault - older boys, also to remain nameless, dared him to do it.).

Three Thoughts for Wednesday

DATELINE: 01.07.09 PARIS, FRANCE

I have three thoughts that I would like to share with you tonight, which occurred in precisely the following order:

I love love love my neighborhood Fromagier. They have great cheese. Good prices. And are always such a pleasure to visit. I also love having a little bit of cash that I feel I can allow myself to spend 8€ on cheeses.

The film crew is back. With a vengeance. This evening they were filming a scene at Cafe Turgot. Like all good french films there are a lot of scenes in this movie outside of cafes. Of course, that is assuming that all the times I have seen the film crew in my neighborhood it has been for the same film. I have got to figure out what the title of the film they are shooting is.

God Damned Stupid Fucking Pigeon!! Fucking pigeon shit on me! At the bar a few doors down where they lend me a wet rag with which to wash my arm (thankfully it was mostly on my arm) the attractive young bartender tells me that it means I am going to win money. Yeah? Well I'll be waiting, but... Make it snappy!

What Are These...?

DATELINE: 29.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

I may have mentioned before how much I adore the children that I take care of here. They are really such distinct personalities, often quite a handful, but truly in the end a lot of fun. It's interesting to be seeing the different stages of development and discovery they are each at.

A few nights ago I was taking care of Ellenor, the roughly 6mo old girl that I usually watch during the days, and her older brother, Julien. Julien is exactly 4 years old, is very precocious, very talkative and energetic, completely obsessed with anything related to pirates, and totally adorable. I only watch him on occasion. This was one such occasion.

At some point in the evening after feeding Julien and Ellenor dinner I was changing Ellenor's diaper. Julien was looking on.

Completely out of thin air he says to me, "Do you have a baby in your belly?"
"No, I don't. Why do you ask?"
"Because your belly is not flat."
(I'm thinking, "watch yourself, kid.") I reply, "Oh no, Julien. My shirt is not flat, but my tummy is, I promise."
"No it's not. My tummy is flat. You have nipples."
What could I do but laugh. "Ahh, I see. Yes, in fact this is true. I have breasts, and breasts have nipples."
"Why?"
"Well, when little girls like your sister Ellenor grow up to be big girls like your mommy and I, they have breasts."
"Why?"
"For feeding babies."
"But you don't have a baby in your belly."
(sharp kid.) "We have them even when we don't have babies in our bellies."
"Why?"
"So that they are ready for when we do have babies in our bellies."
"ooohhhh. So you might have a baby in your belly?"
"Not yet, kiddo."

We then promptly returned to far more important matters: Pirates.

This evening I was watching my little friend Alex, age 2 years. Alex is really precocious for a 2 year old. He is verbal on a level more like a 4yr old, very independent, sly, and well aware that he is cute as hell. When he is trying to get out of something he doesn't want to do or get out of being in trouble for having done something he shouldn't have done, he likes to go around the living room pointing out all of the portraits of himself and mama & pappa. He always goes first to the photo of himself and exclaims, "That's me!" He then replicates the huge grin he is wearing in the photo.

Tonight he is trying to get out of eating his dinner. He has, as of late, had decreasing interest in eating dinner until mama & papa are home. But feeding him his dinner is part of my job, so I have to at least try. So he is trying to weasel out of it, slide off his chair, and return to playing. I'm standing next to his chair to prevent him from exiting. He is running through all manner of distractions and excuses for getting down out of his chair, but they don't work as well as they used to. I too am a quick learner.

At this point he looks up at me and asks, "What are these?"
I look down to see where he is pointing. He is pointing at my breasts.
Before I can respond he asks, "Bubbies?"
He is now halfway out of his chair.
I cannot help but laugh.
"Yes." I reply, "Now eat your dinner."

But I am too late. He has slid off his chair while I was distracted by his question.

Dammit!, you're good at this game, kid.

Princess Fluffy

DATELINE: 25.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

I saw the most astounding thing today. I was on my way home from the Boulangerie and saw a woman walking towards me who looked to be in her late 50s, possibly older. She had her dog with her.

Now, I have seen various sizes of dogs being carried in the arms or "slung" over the shoulder, like one may carry a small child. I have seen dogs being carried in carriers that are nearly identical to a Baby Bjorn. I have seen dogs being carried in purses and in recent months in bags made specifically for carrying your pet that are made to look like this infamous Burkin Bag.

But this, this was a new one. This one takes the cake.

This woman was carrying her little dog in arms outstretched, upon.... (drum roll please!)...

Upon a SATIN PILLOW (with lacy trim). 

She held the little shiny satin pillow the way the ring-bearer in a wedding might carry the pillow upon which rest the wedding rings, or the way a maitradi at an exceptionally expensive restaurant might carry the tray upon which rests your bill: with two hands, the pillow resting on her forearms, arms are slightly outstretched, balancing the precious pup as though she were afraid with every step that she might disturb it. Fluffy lay curled upon the pillow snoozing, looking sleepily out at the scene on the street.

People, you have all gone mad! It's. A. Dog! If nature didn't want this creature to walk on the ground, it'd have grown wings!! 

I mean, seriously?? Seriously?! A satin pillow??!

Pas Bon: A Recipe

DATELINE: 21.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

1 Young Blond

1 Late Night Subway Ride

20+ Drunk Men

4 Large RATP Sécurité Guards

1 Extra Large Ill Tempered German Shepherd

The hour: 3am. The "Blond": me (I'm considered blond here)

Yesterday was a huge party all over Paris. It happens every year to celebrate the summer solstice, the first official day of summer.  It's called the Fête de la Musique. In every square, many street corners, and pretty much anywhere else someone could put up a sound system, there is live music. All throughout the day and well into the night, there were people in the streets drinking, dancing, enjoying. For this festival the metro continued to run through the night (usually it stops at 12:30am on a Sunday and then you have to catch the rare passage of the Noctilien bus). 

Last night I went to the festival with "the Mexicans": Alex & Ivan, Naomi & Juan, Raymundo, and a number of their friends. The plan had originally been to go salsa dancing. I was stoked and had prepped myself accordingly (but thankfully had remembered to wear sneakers this time). After waiting at the rendezvous point for the longest 5 minutes in human history (which according to all other accounts was an hour and 15 minutes), I met up with Alex & Ivan and learned what "Mexican Time" is (they said it! not me!). Anyone who thinks I'm bad when I'm 20 minutes late, you ain't seen nothin'!!

After getting ourselves repeatedly lost lost within less than an 8 block radius (no, no substances to blame it on, either), we finally managed to connect with Naomi, Juan, & Ray. We then headed toward what I thought was our butt-shakin' destination (pour fair du salsa!). Like the blob that ate Chicago, along the way we picked up another several people, and eventually staked our claim on the edge of a square not far from the metro station Belleville. There was at first a sort of African music playing, and then that gave way to dueling Brazilian drum troops (there is a specific name for this intense kind of rhythm, but for the life of me I can't remember). While the drums were great and a lot of fun, sadly, it seemed salsa dancing had been abandoned. 

After a few hours the drums stopped and the party broke up. Everyone began making their way for the metro. I got on the line that would take me straight home (thankfully did not have to deal with switching trains) and Naomi, Juan, & Ray walked home. 

Now, if I may say in my own defense, traveling home alone at 3am had not been on my agenda for the evening.  Alex lives along the same route as I do and I had assumed that I would travel at least part of the way with she and Ivan. However, they took off before we even arrived at our destination. The other members of our party live in the opposite direction from me.  So there I found myself, at 3am after the Fete de la Musique, alone on the metro.

Well, not exactly alone. Much to my dismay, upon boarding the train I realized that the car I had boarded was full of a group of drunken men. Most of whom seemed to be part of the same group. I took the one open seat and prayed they wouldn't take note of me. I was not so lucky. 

Now, a bit of an aside - there is something that happens to me often here, in broad daylight, in all places, at all times. I think that because I am "blond" (I'm a readhead, dammit! A redhead!), and most French women are not, I stick out like a soar thumb. It's as if I am wearing a large flashing arrow above my head that screams: "Hey! This one here is a foreigner!" However, it is not the typical "frenchman" who perpetrates this harassment, so this is not a typical "French" behavior.  In the interest of not perpetuating any sort of stereotypes about any particular ethnic groups I will refrain from singling any out by specifying. 

Ladies, if you think that the kind of cat-calls and obscenities sometimes slung at us as we walk down the street in the US are bad, you cannot begin to imagine what happens here. I have ben stopped on the sidewalk, stopped on escalators, stopped on the street - my path blocked as they ask me *in English* (_never_ do they even try French - clearly, my little blond self is not French): "Speak english? What's your name? Where you from? How you doing? Where you going?" I have been approached in grocery stores and on the metro. If I respond at all, even to just say "laissez-moi" (meaning leave me alone), they persist. On many occasions I have not responded at all and they proceed to profess their love for me ("it's OK, I love you. I love you."). I learned quickly to not respond at all, and if I am able, to simply keep walking (fast), or to get off the subway at the next stop and change cars. Once I was followed but thanks to an open seat next to someone who looked burly, the guy left me alone. I am so appalled at how common this is, I cannot tell you. I am baffled. Has this EVER been a successful tactic for ANYONE??? What is the point of this harassment? I would think it was meant to show off to their friends except most of the time, the guy appears to be alone. I would like to quote my childhood friend Shela: Boys, if you think for even a moment that this is a way to meet a woman, a way to get her attention and maybe her number, "Brother, you gotta be outchyer damn mind!" 

Ladies, if you journey to France, you must learn the phrase "Laissez-moi, canard." (Leave me alone, asshole) - but be careful with the "canard", I'm warned that these men can get really aggressive if you insult their egos. Mostly, just learn how to not respond when someone stands in your way and tries to get your attention.

So last night I sit down on the metro at 3am to find myself in a car full of drunk 20-something men. I hope to go unnoticed, but the odds were against me. I sit down in the only available seat, and a moment or two later two of the guys switch seats. The guy now next to me tries to engage me. He won't stop and I can't go anywhere else.  I am surrounded on all sides by his buddies. He persists and I eventually give him the talk-to-the-hand and say "laissez-moi! laissez-moi!". I kid you not, he simply laughs. Thankfully at that same time some kid sitting a seat behind us begins to projectile vomit. The perfect distraction, I head for the door as we pull into the station. This is not my stop but I will exit and change cars. 

Only, the train doesn't stop. Nor does it stop at the next one. I am getting a bit nervous that I cannot escape this group of drunk men and that the train also won't be stopping at *my* stop. I'm trying to remember anything I learned my self-defense classes, things taught to me by friends who studied martial arts, and from the few sessions of capoeira I took. I look further down the car and see that way on the other side of these guys is a group of security guards who are laughing as everyone begins dodging the vomit. I decide I am going to go stand next to them. 

The train stops, I open the door and slip out. I follow the guards who get on in the next car down. I get in behind them. There are very few people on the train now. The guards are 4 men in suits that say "RATP Sécurité". They are all well over 6 ft tall, all have shaved heads, broad shoulders, and chissled jaws (and let's not leave out, really nice butts). They have with them a large German Shepherd who is snarling at the crowds, and pulling at his leash.  Ahh, safety.

I get on and ask one of the guards what stations the train will be stopping at. He shows me the map and thankfully mine is among them, two stops up.  I position myself next to them, but behind angry fido. There is a guy sitting in the seat next to our canine friend who says to me "Beutiful dog". I say "Very big dog". He then procedes to try to pet this dog's behind!  Anyone with half a brain knows it is a very bad idea to try to pet a strange dog from behind, much less a very large, ornery, police dog!! Loud enough for the guards to hear it guards hear it, I say, "ne touches pas! ne touches pas!!"  That was when I realize this guy was also going to give me trouble. I'm like a damned magnet! 

But now the guards also have also taken note of him. He starts in with the "speak english? where you from? what's your name?". I ignore him and move so I am standing next to the door, in between two of the enormous guards. We arrive at my stop and I make a point of making myself known to the guards. I thank them for their help, wish them a good night, and exit the train.  I looked back to make sure that none of my unwelcome friends had exited at my station and saw the guards with snarling dog in hand keeping an eye in my direction (or maybe they were just checking out my ass - I don't know, but I think they saved my ass so if they want to check it out as I make my way thankfully safely home at 3:45 in the morning, that's fine by me). Thank god for the RATP and their huge dog!

To the RATP I would like to say: Thank you for making "enormous and intimidating" a requirement for joining the security force. To the RATP Sécurité guys and their snarling dog: Thanks for making my trip home a safe one.

One Fine Day in Montmartre

DATELINE: 14.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

My bowl o' cafe au lait this afternoon... I could not have said it better myself. I'm not sure if the face was there before I added the sugar, but I didn't notice it until after. I prefer to think it happened accidentally when I put the two sugar packets in.

This was happening next to Metro Abesses, in Montmartre. Later on I saw a little girl who could not have been more than 2 or 3 years old strapped into this thing absolutely FLYING through the air. She looked both amused and terrified at the same time. It was hysterical.

What I am unable to upload for you just yet (until I find a way to shrink the file) is the "junkyard" style band that was performing next to the trampolines and the little munchkins that were getting their grooves on in front of them.

Ahhhh... Montmartre. I love my neighborhood!

The Europeans Are in Heat (x-rated episode. Not for children or the easily offended)

13.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

How do we know that spring and now summer are finally here?  Suddenly, around every corner, in ever station, in every park, couples are going at it like it's the end of the world.  The Europeans are in heat.  There is simply no other way to describe it.  Everyone is doing their mating dance and, at least in Paris everything is abuzz with raging hormones. 

A few weeks ago, when Fern was visiting, one evening after I'd gotten out of work we met up in the Jardin des Tuileries.  At the beginning of the gardens there is an area filled with rows of hedges and wonderful grassy space in between each row.  Travelers and locals alike hang out here to eat lunch, play soccer, sunbathe, or as it turns out, to engage in public sex.

Fern and I planted ourselves in one of the less rowdy rows to take in the early evening sun before going home to make dinner. It was about 7:30pm. In our row we were just a bit left of center, there was a group of people (with an American guy who never stopped talking) behind us at the far right end of the row. Between us and them there were a few more people napping in the sun. To our left there are two couples, one is maybe 5 feet away and the other is maybe 10-15 feet away at the far end of the row. All of the rows are filled with people. One of the rows flanking ours has a group of shirtless men (late teens/early 20s maybe) playing soccer, who keep accidentally sending their ball soaring into our row and running over to retrieve it.

Fern is laying on the grass casually looking around. I am sketching her.  Suddenly she starts laughing and draws my attention to the couple at the far left end of our row, who are again less then 15 ft from us. They are wearing business attire and I would guess are in their early 30s. They were (for want of a better phrase for it) dry-humping with complete indiscretion. They don't seem to realize they are visible to the other people around them.  

After a while they proceed to test out a variety of positions, seemingly in search for the optimal position for... for what? Ah, now we see... for the dry-humping to become something much less innocent. At this point the man lays down on the grass on his back, expectant, arms by his side. The woman crouches at his side. He lays his jacket over the crotch of his pants. She fixes her hair. Fern and I watch, mouths agape.  Is she seriously about to do what it looks like she is about to do???

For a moment she seems to reconsider, and then resumes her former position on top of him. They return to their prior activities. But then she shifts, unzips his pants, reaches in and proceeds with a fully public hand-job (I could get clinical here and say instead "manual stimulation", but it seems wrong to get all clinical when discussing a couple going at it in the middle of a crowded public space).  While the coat over his crotch may have been a nice, if not slightly innocent, gesture, it does absolutely nothing to disguise the action. 

Fern and I are still watching, mouths agape as if staring at a traffic accident. We are just barely keeping ourselves from exploding into astonished laughter, our American sensibilities still unable to believe that these two are getting it on right in front of everybody.  But what we witness next is like something right out of a movie, and we collapse in fits of uncontrollable laughter.

As we are watching this couple, three armed guards in full military uniform and toting large automatic weapons, who I would assume are patrolling the gardens on security detail, enter our row from the other side of the hedges.  The are walking in a line, one behind the other. They are between where Fern and I sit and where this couple are laying. At first they are looking toward Fern and I.  Then guard #1 turns and spots the couple.  He nudges the guard behind him, who turns, looks, then nudges guard #3. As they pass into the next row of hedges they are all staring at the couple who have yet to realize that anyone around them is aware of what they are doing. The best part: as the third and last guard in this row passes into the row of hedges on the opposite side, he pauses and cranes himself backward, watching as long as he can before his view is cut off by the hedges. I just about died of laughter.

Then! To top it off, a pedestrian enters our row from the end on the other side of the couple. Where he enters is right near their heads. He takes notice of them and proceeds to walk around them, down to their feet, around and back up toward their heads, all the while staring with equal indiscretion. He stands there watching them for a few moments before moving on.  He is then followed by a series of other guards who suddenly appear in our row... inconspicuously checking out the action. It is only at *this* point, after all that and with Fern and I in hysterics not 15 ft away, that the couple realize they are being watched and make some effort to be more discreet.  They fail miserably and elect to finish in the same way they started.  

Two days later Fern and I are at Versailles.  We are having lunch with Katy in the beautiful overgrown grasses along the banks of the lake beyond the Chateau gardens. There are people paddling around the lake in little rowboats. One stops not to far from us. It in are a young couple - again, I would guess late 20s. The woman lays back in the boat, and her male companion proceeds to climb on top of her, bed down and hoist her dress over her head with his teeth! 

It's amazing. It's spring and the Europeans are in heat!  That or else someone is dumping aphrodisiacs into the water supply... 

Hmm... I'm feeling kind of thirsty. If you'll excuse me I think I'll go get myself a glass. A very very TALL glass.  ;-) 

I was eaten by a bear

13.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Ok, that is a flat out lie, but how else to explain the long silence?  I could tell you that I was busy with final exams, that I had a back to back string of guests and then travelled to visit Misa, that I am now working more than full time as a babysitter and it's frying my brain, or that between my Bermuda Triangle quality wifi connection and the flurry of visitors and munchkins zapping my brain I simply haven't been able to make it happen.

But I prefer to simply tell you that I was eaten by a bear.  That's much more exciting and has the added benefit of making me out to sound like I should have my own PBS adventure show. Can't you just see me fighting back snarling bears and irate wild boars?  I would of course wear tall leather boots, faded and patched jeans, a big belt and a t-shirt that is always stuck to my skin because when you are fearless, you always sweat a lot.  I would also have a signature pocket knife always with me and a cool jacket that was both practical and totally hot.

Hmmm... I think I just created a female Indiana Jones.

I've many stories to relay, all back-logged and on the To-Do list for tomorrow.  For tonight though, just one:

The Playing For Change band is headlining the Glastonbury music festival in Glastonbury, England at the end of June.  I thought I could go until I connected some dots and realized that my expired visa might get into the UK but would not likely then get me back into France.  Minor problem, no? I am heartbroken that I cannot go.  I feel like a puppy who can see the bit tasty treat just on the other side of the glass door, I keep running for it but then I smack into that glass door and can't get the treat.  So I am laying in front of the door wimpering, hoping someone will take pity on me - or at least, open the door.

So this evening I am leaving my house.  I'm exhausted. Taking care of other people's tiny munchkins takes more out of me then I had anticipated. So I am headed to the metro for shift #2 of babysitting for today, I am tired, my brain is on Auto Pilot.  I am crossing the street at the end of my block, Rue Rodier, and a car pulls up to the light and stops.  I get a few steps past this car before I realized that the music blaring from the open windows, the music to which the driver is totally jammin' out, is PFC's "Stand By Me"!!!  I nearly fell over when I realized it!!  

This very small moment both shot me to the moon and broke my heart at the same time.  It sincerely hurts me that I cannot go to Glastonbury.  I need a coyote to ferry me into the UK and then back into France.  I need a telletransportation device. I need a bear. A bear to eat me and then spit me back up on the other side of the border.  =(  I need a valid visa.

Life's Simple Pleasures

DATELINE: 06.05.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Coming home from interviewing for yet another babysitting job this evening I saw a scene that made me laugh out loud.  

It's a lovely evening.  Not too warm, not too cool.  The clouds have broken and the sun is shining through.  The late day sunlight is casting long shadows on the shoppers, strollers, and cafe patrons.  

I am walking up my hill feeling good, having landed yet another babysitting job, and enjoying the mild parisian evening.  I crossed the street near my favorite boulangerie, full of pastries I cannot afford. I looked up the hill, at the final two blocks to climb to my street, and saw a small boy no more than 4 years old.  He was standing at the outer edge of the sidewalk, not quite hidden behind a parked car.  He had his pants around his ankles and his shirt hiked up above his chest, and a HUGE grin on his face.  He stood proudly for all to see, peeing into the street, grinning from ear to ear as his mother and siblings hurried down from the next block up to hide our little naked friend from passers-by.  He however was clearly too thrilled with himself to worry about what the neighbors might think.  He too was enjoying the simple pleasures of life: the mild summer evening and the simple thrills of public nudity and urination.

Aahh, the simple pleasures in life. 

However borderline inappropriate this might be, I wish I'd gotten my camera out of my bag in time because the whole scene was hysterical.  

Cinco de Mayo!!!!!!!!!! (subtitle: HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATRICK!!)

DATELINE: 05.05.09 PARIS, FRANCE

By a show of hands, how many of you think Cinco de Mayo is Mexican Independence Day?

A week or two ago I decided that on May 5th, Cinco de Mayo, I would rally everyone I know to go out and have a little Mexican evening to celebrate what I thought was the holiday of Mexican Independence.  I told everyone that as an American I am culturally obligated to celebrate other culture's holidays without actually knowing what they are about.  (think about it. It's true). 

So as of this afternoon, I had 6 people on board.  Though, I still had to resolve the question of WHERE were we going to go.  I researched Mexican restaurants, thinking they would be holding some form of celebration and we could all go and have a drink. I learned that it is not permitted in restaurants in France to only have a drink.  Eating is required.  So the Mexican restaurants went out the window.  And the troops began dropping like flies.  

Alex, my new Mexican doctor friend whom I'd met at Naomi & Juan's party was by this point at my apartment.  (I can see all your little heads filling with ideas... sorry to burst your bubble but Alex is a lady, not a hunky man. Sorry, peeps)  We decided on just going to any bar (not necessarily Mexican).  One by one, we lost the rest of the party and Alex and I decided to just pick a bar near my apt rather than traipse out to Republique as planned. 

Here is the best part.  I thought, as I mentioned, that Cinco de Mayo is the holiday of Mexican Independence.  I asked Alex about this. I am wrong.  She couldn't tell me what the holiday actually was though.  While at my place her father happens to call. She asks him.  Alex's dad informed us that, in fact, Cinco de Mayo celebrates a battle between Mexico and France, in which France *lost*.  He told us that battle never existed.  At least not as far as the French are concerned.

Did I mention that her father is French and her mother Mexican? 

I am still cracking up that we, an American and a Franco-Mexican woman, were headed out to find a bar in Paris in which to toast specifically Mexican perseverance over France.  

All together just *way* too perfect. (If you understand French nationalism, you will see how funny that is)

Salud! To Mexico!!!!

Poop Goes In the Potty

DATELINE: 21.04.09 PARIS, FRANCE

"Poop goes in the potty.

Puh-poop goes in the potty.

yeah.

Poop goes in the potty.

It doesn't go on your friends.

It doesn't go under the table.

yeah.

Poop goes in the potty.

Puh-poop goes in the potty.

..."

Oh!  Well thank god we cleared that up! I was beginning to think the proper place for poop was in college lectures, newspapers, and congressional debates.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what is stuck in my head after tonight's session of babysitting. It's a hip-hop style song on a CD of contemporary children's songs.

So much for the songs of yore, that we all remember so fondly.  They have been replaced by such gems as, "Poop Goes in the Potty."

Is this something that parents these days are having difficulty teaching, so much that a producer of children's music felt it would be good to record a song about it?  I just can't shake the vision of, say, Jay-Z potty-training his kid, standing before him in the bathroom bustin' out with: "Poop goes in the Potty! Yeah, poop goes in the potty! Boy-eeeeee".  Or better yet, a 40+, balding accountant.  

SNL are you listening??  This skit just writes itself.

Back to my research paper....

Don't forget kids: It doesn't go on your friends. Puh-poop goes in the potty!  yeah!

A little poem

DATELINE: 16.04.09 PARIS, FRANCE

This is a little poem.

I will call it:

What I Will Be Eating for the Next Week

Beans & Rice

Beans & rice & corn

Beans & rice & corn, add more tomato

Beans & rice in a tortilla

Beans & rice with cheese

Beans & rice and salad

Rice & rice & beans

Let's get zesty

Beans & rice, add chili paste

Beans, beans, beans, and beans.

And rice.

Spam, spam, spam, and spam.

Hold the spam, please.

I hate the IRS

DATELINE: 15.04.09 PARIS, FRANCE

I say this every year and I mean it sincerely every year: I hate the IRS.

Our tax system is backwards as far as I can tell, and the IRS seems more concerned with ensuring that we on the bottom of the pigpile are coloring inside the lines rather than making sure the big pigs on the top aren't laundering money. 

This year in particular, what has inspired my disdain is the taxation of unemployment benefits.

Am I the only one who thought that a portion of all the taxes that I have paid in previous years was paying into a pool of money from which, by paying in, I am entitled to draw should my job be lost due to, say, outsourcing to a satellite company in Colombia being incorporated as a separate entity to take advantage of corporate tax loopholes? 

But I digress.

So can we see please, with a show of hands, how many of us believed that the way this works is: over your years of slaving away for the man (maybe you are lucky enough to not be a corporate slave) you paid your taxes like good boys and girls, a portion of which was your contribution to the big happy pool of money known as the Social Security system, and that during that time your employer, or various employers, were also throwing in a portion of money to that big happy pool in your name. Then, should you get handed a pink slip you are entitled to draw from that system in the form of Unemployment Assistance (or benefits), which will be payments amounting to about 60% of what your paychecks had been under your salary.

How many of you are just barely getting by on your current salary and would need to do some careful budgeting in order to make all ends meet and pay all bills on only 60% of that? Come on now, am I the only one among you with the monkey of credit card debt on my back?

Ok, now - think about how much harder it would be if taxes were taken out of your unemployment benefits, meaning that roughly 1/3 of that 60% were then taken back by the Fed as taxation on your benefits payments - money which they are disbursing to you which you had previously deposited through payment of your taxes taken from your paychecks when you did have a job.

OK, now how many of you knew that Unemployment Assistance benefits are not only considered fully taxable income but are also expected to be *repaid* - not unlike a loan with a really shitty interest rate?

Is anyone else bothered by this? Does anyone else think that this really screws the little guy (ie me)??

I expect that while many of you may be unsurprised by this info, you may not have really known this unless you yourself have been through it, or been privy to the outraged rants of someone who has... =D

Come on now, doesn't this seem just a little bit backwards? It was bad enough when I just felt like the tax code was unfairly weighted on the lower classes, and that my tax dollars were being used to fund wars I don't support and the arrogant, destructive missions of a malicious president. But I dutifully continued to pay my taxes because I thought that when I was down and out, the system into which I had paid would otherwise not be there for me.

I'm beginning to really understand why people drop off the radar and stop paying their taxes.

Since I'm already "playing dead" here, maybe it's worth it to just "get lost" in France...  Is France's taxation system any better?  Beuler? Beuler? Anyone?

Somethin' strange... in the neighborhood....

DATELINE: 14.04.09 PARIS, FRANCE

For the last week or two one of the streets I take on my route home has been roped off. Not entirely blocked off, but there has been that red and white striped "no parking zone" tape strung the length of it on both sides. The cars that were parked there when it was put up were roped in. Every so often a few traffic cones would appear blocking some parking spots.

I wondered about it half-heartedly on several occasions. Misa and I wondered about it together on our way home from the Tahiti 80 Concert.

Today I found out what it's there for.

Today on my way home I stumbled upon a film in the making. It is a scene involving a car with 4 passengers driving down the street. They were rehearsing it and blocking the shoot at about 8:30 so my guess is they wanted to shoot at night.

I chatted briefly with an older woman who was also watching the action. I had actually passed by she and her husband walking their dog a few blocks back. We were unable to determine if the shoot was for a film or a TV show or a commercial, but she did tell me that regarding the actors in the car, she had seen them before on TV -at least, for the two who were seated in the front seats. If I understood her correctly she was saying she had seen them in TV broadcasts of films. A man and a woman.

I later asked one of the police officers standing blocking the other end of the street what was happening. She told me they were shooting a film but wouldn't tell me what the name of the film was or anything else. It's likely she didn't know. I wasn't bold enough to ask the crew themselves.

The video of it and the photos are fantastically exciting <>, so hold on to your hats, kids!
=)

a plus!

Hungover blogging

DATELINE: 12.04.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Wow, so... um, drunk blogging. I'm surprised that entry was at all intelligible. Whew. The Misa and I were quite the pair last night. Misa conked out in her bed so soon after we got home that I had to poke her to make sure she was still alive. I didn't think I was so drunk - though I definitely was unable to keep in a straight line on the walk home. But I woke up on several occasions this morning feeling very much the misery of a hangover. It's been a long time since I've drank that much beer (I passed on the wine because I started with the beer and opted for consistency).

So the party was the housewarming for Naomi & Juan's new place. They are in the midst of total overhaul renovations and decided to have the party while there is nothing in the house to worry about - no carpets to worry about spills, no furniture to get damaged, nothing on the walls that could accidently get broken. In fact they had recently completed the demolition stage of the renovation, so really there was nothing to worry about. I think this was SUCH a smart idea. Brilliant actually. And it created such a great atmosphere for the party. All the quarks just added to a very positive, all are welcome vibe. The place is going to be so beautiful when they are done - it is a really nice space. And it is not a long walk from where I live - which Misa and I really appreciated.

We had a *very* good time.

There was a lot of salsa dancing.

The toilet doesn't yet have a door.  So there was just this screen and the toilet is on the other side.  We always went with a buddy so that someone could function as the door.  Je suis la porte.

I really have to say, they are an amazing group of people - Naomi, Juan, and their friends/family. I really feel lucky to be part of their circle.

Misa arrived in Paris from Lyon on Friday afternoon.  We met up at the Eiffel Tower after I was done teaching and walked from there to my house.  We went out that night to a music club called l'Alhambra, in the area of République.  We went to see Tahiti 80.  The show was so good and so much fun!  Again, I was kicking myself because much like the Saul Williams show (from which there are only crummy videos up on YouTube), they didn't really check our bags, didn't seem to have any problems with people recording the show, and we were right upfront.  OK. Lesson learned.  When I go to see Phoenix next month I am bringing my camera. 

So yesterday Misa and I went wandering around the Montmarte area, which is really near my house, just to the left and behind the Sacre Coeur.  It is such a great neighborhood!  It is, of course, touristy.  It's famous, so that's unavoidable.  But a lot of cute little streets, and cute little shops.  We had coffee. We stopped for ice cream. We sat in an adorable little park behind the Sacre Coeur to eat it. I will definitely spend more time there.  I am a bit embarrassed that I have been living here in this apt for nearly two months and I hadn't yet discovered what is right next door. Also in Montmarte is the Dali museum.  We didn't go to it but I will very soon.  

Misa just left to return to Lyon.  I am sad she had to go so soon but excited to go visit her in Lyon at the beginning of June!!  Yay!!

Watching the world go by with the ever necessary morning-after cup of coffee.

Pour tout le monde de Paris... A plus!!

Drunk Blogging

DATELINE: 11.94.09 PARIS,FRANCE

Misa is vi9siting me for the weekend.  last night we went to see Tahiti 80.  They put on a great concert.  tonight we went top Naomi and Juan's housewarming party in the house they bought, which they are renovating.  right now =- they have torn down the walls.  i9t's in rough shape.  the toilet it behind a curtiain.  and the lights are precariously stru ng over beams.  it was a great party and we made a new friend.  A mexican woman named Alex.  the three of us stumbled home.  She continued on.  Misa and I stumblemed up my stairs and into my apt.  we floppec on beds.

now we go to sleep.  

great party.

great weekend. 

awesome.

o

The new man in my life

DATELINE: 09.04.09 PARIS, FRANCE

There is a new man in my life.  A very very little man.  He's 2, and his name is Alex.  I speak to him in English and he responds in French.  But language barrier is no obstacle, we understand each other perfectly.  We buy a baguette and he eats the middle, I eat the crust. We make a good team.  =)

This week I began job #2: taking care of Alex.  Three nights per week I pick him up from Creche (little municipal daycare centers that are in every neighborhood) and bring him home.  I feed him dinner, give him a bath, and then we play.  He likes to ride his bike in circles around the apartment.  Sometimes his scooter instead.  On the way home he is careful to point out all of the motorcycles that are parked on the street, in the dealership, or that drive by.  The few blocks we need to walk to reach home pass very very slowly.  

On the way home we will stop at one of two bakeries we pass and pick up a baguette.  This is part of the routine and it is not permissible to skip this.  At the bakery near home the lady behind the counter is his friend.  He calls out her name well in advance of entering the bakery. He will give her the money and she will give him some candy.  He loves her truly.  He also loves her baguettes.

Last night I picked him up and we rushed off to meet "muma" to go to a Passover seder.  Our route to the metro station passed the alternate bakery.  I attempted to avoid buying bread on Passover but Alex would have none of it.  So we bought a demi-baguette.  On the train ride he dug out all of the soft tasty inside.  He liked part of the crust but mostly was not interested and instead would tear it off, sniff it, maybe give it a taste, and then hand it to me.  I quickly learned that it would serve us both best if I just tore off the crust myself after he had dug out all he could of the middle.  Between the two of us, we at the whole baguette.  

The new little man in my life is also very considerate.  Eating the baguette seated on the train we both got well covered in crumbs and flour.  I was dusting it off of this coat and he immediately reached over and began attempting in his little 2yr old way to dust it off of my jeans.  

I heart him already.

A peek into the folds

DATELINE: 04.04.09

Something amazing has happened to me since I've been in Paris. At least, it is amazing to me. For as long as I can remember I have always felt a great deal of frustration surrounding my drawings, and specifically my perpetually failed (I felt) sketchbooks. There would be, from time to time, some painstakingly done drawing that I would feel good about. But they were extremely rare, and usually of something incredibly boring, like a shoe. The kind of thing we all had to do for freshman year 2D drawing classes.

I never felt like my drawings were what I wanted them to be. I was always so intimidated by the question of "what to draw?" and by the vast white space of the page. I've always been really slow when it comes to drawing, and I get hung up on the pointless details. They are (were, maybe??) my perpetual sandtraps, my roadblocks, my kryptonite. I wanted my drawings to have soul, energy, and personality - like Aaron's drawings, or Bethany's.

But since I came to Paris, something has shifted. I am sketching more, and more inclined to sketch than photograph (which is really a total flip), and I actually really like the results. Sometimes the sketches come about frantically - particularly when I'm trying to sketch the woman on the train seated across from me before she notices.

What is more, my sketchbook on the whole has become something more akin to what I have dreamed it would be: A book where the pages are filled with mixes of drawings and text, where the text is winding around and in between the drawings and doodles.

To a degree I've fallen in love with my sketchbook. I don't think I've ever felt this way before... . I don't know what precipitated this change. Maybe it was the book Bethany gave me for my birthday with samples of the sketchbooks of many famous contemporary artists. Maybe it was the mechanical pencil she let me pencil-nap which has become my good friend (never leave home with out it!).

I don't know where these sketches have even come from. But it's something that makes me so happy I can't begin to explain. It is something I am so immensely proud of, though I know that to someone else there may be nothing particularly spectacular about the sketches.

So I want to share them. Here is a selection of some of the drawings I have done since I have been in Paris.

In Italy, near the Duomo in Viterbo.

The quote that was on the crypt read: "What you are now, we used to be.  What we are now, you will be."

Recent self-portrait - waiting in the metro station for my train to come after class last week.

Note to self: buy new sneakers

DATELINE: 02.04.09 PARIS, FRANCE

I've taken to walking to and from school lately.  By lately I mean: this week.  I like it - I like feeling like I am getting to know Paris better.  I like discovering all the little shops, cafes, chocolateries, trendy bars, high fashion stores.  It's good.  

I know it takes me about 15 minutes to walk 1 mile.  It takes me a bit over 45 minutes to walk to school, which makes it roughly 3 miles.  This means that today alone, I walked 6 miles. When I arrived home I was beginning to feel the first tinglings of sprouting blisters on the bottom of my feet, and was surprised.  Until I did the calculations and realized - hmmm.. these shoes maybe aren't so cut out for that much walking.  

If just to school and back is in the ballpark of 6 miles, that means Erika and I must have walked easily twice that on Monday.  Tuesday I walked closer to 4.  Wednesday was just the walk *to* school, but not home.  So add 3.  Then today, 6.  So in the last 4 days I have walked roughly 25 miles if my calculations are even close to accurate.  

My little Puma's were never meant for this degree of work.  I am certain they will not last to the end of July at this rate.

Note to self: money being saved by not buying metro tickets will be used to buy new sneakers.

"Just threaten to take her chocolate. That usually gets her."

DATELINE: 01.04.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Seriously?? Seriously.

Today I had my first session of teaching English, and generally tutoring, a 4 yr old.  Yes, that's right.  A 4 yr old.  Does anybody else find it a little disconcerting that someone might see reason to hire a *tutor* for someone who has yet to reach school age? 

The complaint is apparently partially on the part of the school.  Yes, school.  At age 4.  I have no objections to young children in school-like early education programs, but that is not the case here.  This wee little gal is in actual school - equivalent to what we in the states would consider kindergarten.  And what is expected of her is about kindergarten/first grade level.  The school has complained that her English isn't very good, clearly French was her first language, and that she "has trouble with her letters" - i.e. she can't write them and can't quite keep them straight.  Ok. Um, she's *4*. 

Honestly, how many 4yr olds do you know who can write there own names and say the whole alphabet?  At 4 yrs old, I still expect to see names or words where half the letters are squiggles that only vaguely resemble letters and the other half are backwards.  At 4 I would expect that a precocious child can sing the whole alphabet song and recognize all the letters.  But I would not find it concerning if they couldn't.  I'm not a teacher, nor am I a parent so I don't really know, but to me that just seems a bit unreasonable.  

So I've been hired to help this young gal, we'll call her Princess, learn to recognize her written name, learn her alphabet, and learn her English.  Well, over the course of the slightly more than 1 hr that I worked with her I concluded that her issues were not so much in the knowledge department.  She recognized her written name, she was just bent on that it's not spelled that way.  At the end of the hour she was willing to concede that maybe all of those letters did belong in her name, but not in that order.  

I also concluded that her issues were more in the behavior department then in the intelligence department.  At one point as she was testing my limits and refusing to sit in her chair, her sister came in and told her "If you don't go with Rachel, I am going to give her all of your chocolate."  At which point Princess promptly (but not without a screech -NO!  Not my crack!! -and some pouting) returned to her chair.  It was all I could do to not let my eyes pop out of my head.  At 4 yrs old the major tool used to garner this child's cooperation is candy.  

I'm sorry.. are you _sure_ you're not American?  

I'm just going to venture a guess here, but I suspect this child's behavioral issues may be due at least in part to the level of sugar in her bloodstream.

Erika comes to Paris

DATELINE: 03.31.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Erika blew through Paris this last weekend.  She

arrived on Saturday morning and must, sadly, return to Boston tomorrow (wednesday).

I only got to have her for one day, but it was a fantastic day, and I am grateful that I got to have her all to myself.

We began the day at my place around 11:30am (well, Erika began by walking from Gare St. Lazare to my place in the 9eme arrondissement).  There were a few visits Erika needed to pay to some hotels so we left my house and aimed ourselves for the area near the Sarbonne - over in the 5eme arr. 

Sorry, strike that; *I* aimed us haphazardly in that direction but mostly just generally towards the river, while Erika - more familiar with the city and with a better sense of direction then I, aimed us towards an actual destination.

We meandered the streets, soaking in sun, clear blue skies, amazing weather, familiar company. I hadn't played tourist in Paris yet (I know - shameful), and could not have asked for a better companion or a better day to do so.

So we meandered the streets and eventually found ourselves in a small plaza with a fountain. We stopped for a few photos and to check the map, only to find that we had managed to drop ourselves *exactly* where we needed to be, not even one block from hotel #1 (although I had been aiming for hotel #2).  As Erika said: We could not have taken ourselves more directly here if we had tried.  

We visited the hotel and continued on our way, directly through the Louvre plaza with the Arc de Triomphe (not the main one) and the Jardins de Tuilleries, to the Pont des Arts, and along the Seine, now actually headed toward the Panthéon and hotel #2.  This time, I let Erika lead the way.  

We passed the Notre Dame and some government buildings where a group of (presumably) teachers were gathered across the street protesting the changes that Sarko (as they call him here) wants to make to the French educational system (he wants to cap salaries for teachers, change who gets to determine curriculum - so that he determines curriculum, and change the way the schools are funded).  People are immensely unhappy and the universities have been on strike for more than a month.  We suspect that he was either inside the building across the street or coming through - there was a great deal of security presence, a group of eager protesters, and some news cameramen.

We found our way to hotel #2, paid them a visit, and then had a seat to review our plan.  I ate peanuts. 

We decided to follow through on the original plan: purchase a baguette, a block of cheese, and a bottle of wine and sprawl on the grass either on the Champs Elysée another park, followed by an ascent of the Arc de Triomphe - the one everyone knows.  

One problem with out plan - it was Monday.  Most of the boulangerie are closed on Monday. Sadface.  

We were meandering more or less generally back towards the river and left towards the Arc de Triomphe and found ourselves getting really ravenous.  We found a boulangerie that was open (hallelujah) and bought a sandwich to split and a baguette.  The sandwich: a classic in Paris - Jambon, fromage, et burre dans baguette.  Possibly the most brilliant sandwich ever.  We meandered and ate, and suddenly found we had taken ourselves almost directly back to the Louvre.  I'm pretty sure my sense of direction is not that good, so I am convinced that among the other things stashed in Erika's cleavage there is a compass that has a direct line to her brain.

We walked through the Jardin des Tuileries, stopping for a nap, an orange, more baguette, and some sunbathing in one of the many lawn chairs that live around the man-made pools there. We continued on through the Place de la Concorde and onto the Champs Elysée, stopping for photos of the new roof on the Grands Palais.  This brought us directly to the Arc de Triomph.

We bought our tickets (making an attempt to get the student discount which was thwarted by our birth dates which were printed on the face of our student IDs. dammit.) and ascended the 286 winding stairs, 50 meters, up to the top - being careful to avoid the herd of jostling adolescents from Canada who came hollering all the way up.  You would think that the round and round and round you go up the stairs would have sedated then at least a little.  

At the top of the Arc de Triomphe we violated some of the rules, but not my favorites - no tighty-whities and no tripods.  It's true!  Ask Erika!  Erika seems to believe that the "No tighty-whities" man actually meant "no sunbathing" but I remain unconvinced.  He clearly was wearing tighty-whities.  The "no tripods" rule, I still can't figure out.  

From the Arc de Triomphe we followed Avenue de Friedland to Boulevard Haussmann toward the Gare St. Lazare, where Erika would get back on a train and return to the mystical land of Orly's house in the burbs.  We stopped at a cafe near the church of St. Augustine and spoiled ourselves with more sunbathing (don't worry France, we weren't in our tighty-whities!), good coffee, and a chocolate mousse like none other.  

I dropped Erika at the train with just moments to spare, and followed Ave. de St. Lazare to Rue des Martyrs.  My home turf.  Up the hill, up 6 flights of stairs, and 7 hrs later, I was home. Home and sunburnt.

A perfect day.  I miss Erika already.  

It can't rain all the time

DATELINE: 26.03.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Since my arrival in Paris in mid January the weather has been pretty consistent: grey, slightly rainy, with rapid fluctuations between cold & damp and warm & humid (with a few notable exceptions). The cloud cover has been fairly constant with thick voluminous clouds, often dark and ominous looking. One might mistake this for seattle.  

 

Tonight is one of the few occasions on which the rain has broken free.  It is pounding my windows, whipping back and forth. It's wonderful. I love storms and as I feared, this is all too short lived. As I type it seems to already begun petering off, before I have gotten a chance to snuggle myself in to bed.  

It reminds me of this beautiful song by a Canadian artist named Jane Seibury (I'm sure I spelled that wrong) on the soundtrack to "The Crow".

Last week while hanging out with my friend Massy, an Algerian guy I met a few days after I arrived in Paris, I complained that having long since finished the book I brought to Paris with me (Animal, Vegetable, Miracle), and having gobbled up the book I brought with me from Aaron's place in Rome (Hungry Ghost), I had run out of English language literature.  My textbooks and course readings not withstanding.  I don't know if it is all the Freud or overly self-gratified excessively esoteric literary analysis that is doing this to me, but I feel desperate for books to immerse myself into.  Stories, fiction, leisure reading.  

Massy works at a hotel where there are a lot of books left behind so he brought me one to read.  He gave me Twilight.  I knew very little about Twilight, except that Erika had been obsessed with it, as well as seemingly every other woman around me last fall. I knew they had made it into a movie that was fairly popular, particularly among the high school demographic.  I knew it was a vampire story.  We all love a good vampire story.

Massy gave the book to me last Sunday.  Already I am nearly finished.  I can't put it down.  I have to literally pry myself away from it.  Two hours ago I decided that it would be acceptable to read it while I ate dinner - as opposed to watching episodes of the Simpsons online, or an episode of Lost, for that matter.  I ate, and read.  And finished eating.  And continued reading.  I am a complete addict.  I even caught myself tonight wondering if there is a sequel.  I am going to be sad when this book ends.  All 500+ pages of it are just too few.  How will I get my fix?  I feel like a teenage girl - fantasizing about the leading man in the story.  

Remember that little chant of early teen girls (I must, I must, I must increase my bust... no, we never actually do that guys.  Honest.)?  My chant is now: I must, I must, I must put down this book (and read my psych text instead =( 

I cannot tell you how many nights this last week I have found myself headed to bed, having the debate: It's late already... Do I have time for reading? Maybe I'll just read a few pages.  Then a few pages becomes a chapter. A chapter becomes two. And then I find myself awake at 2:30 IN THE MORNING, with the angle and the demon on either shoulder battling it out, talking myself into putting the book away and going to sleep.  

I think that clearly, I need to meet an insatiably attractive European man to have a nice little European affair... to distract me from the affair I am having with this book.  Though having my nose buried in this book is probably making that harder...

A Tale of Two Arches

DATELINE: 17.03.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Today would have been a good day to be in Ireland.  Dang.  Ah well.  Happy St. Patty's Day to all my Irish.

I have been cooped up in my house studying to my mid-term exam in my Abnormal & Clinical Psych course.  I'm a bit overwhelmed by all the material.  But mostly, it's just made me wish I was a full time student, and that I had the funds to go sit at a cafe, at a table in the sun, rather than in my apt.  But I have faith that that day will come... I just hope it comes soon.

Tonight I will recount for you the very not-so-brief Tale of Two Arches, having nothing to do with my studies except in that you should understand that I am home A LOT reading reading reading, and that I was thrilled for the excuse to do myself up and go out.

At some point in the course of my apartment hunting I contacted an Italian man named Antonio.  Antonio was, like me, searching for a place to live.  I believe that at that point I had made the suggestion that we might fare better if we looked together for a two bedroom rather than each just looking for an open room, as the options for the latter were looking grave from my perspective.  Clearly that didn't happen.

Time passed and at some point I got a message from Antonio, who was still searching, inquiring to my status on the housing front.  I had found a place, but offered to meet for coffee and impart upon this random man all the knowledge I had gained in my apartment hunting experiences here in Paris.  

Somehow we failed to follow through on that as well.

Then one day a few weeks ago, actually, just before I left for Italy, I got another message from him announcing that he had finally found a place to live.  Hooray!  We decided that after all this, and as we are both strangers in a strange land (ok, France is not so strange, but still...), we should still meet up.  I learned that he is from outside of Rome and we decided that after I returned from my trip to Rome we would get together.

Well, this week we finally managed to make a plan.  We set the date: Tuesday (tonight).  9:30pm.  We would meet near the architecture firm he works at, a few stops on the metro from where I live.  He would bring the wine.  I would bring the glasses.  It was a perfectly hatched totally French (in my mind) utterly random rendezvous.  We planned to meet "at the arche in the square".  (The Parisians must love their Arches.  These things are everywhere.)

I was, true to form, running late.  I arrived at the station, exited by the first exit I saw (the stations typically have several), and found myself standing on the street looking for "the Arche".  

Aha!  There it is!   

I very nearly RAN to it, scanning every person in a black jacket that I see in its vacinity.  Are any of them carrying a bottle of wine?  any of them checking their watches? phones?  I have no idea what the man I am looking for looks like.  It could be anybody.  

It's 9:50.  I stand at the arche and wait.  I walk around it a few times, just in case he's on the other side.  No luck.  it's 10pm.  It's looking a bit sketchy around the arche.  I have no credit on my phone and can't call him.  According to the email I received in the afternoon, he is in the same situation.  I see pay phones across the street.  I run over to try to use one.  But they accept only calling cards.  I have only cash.

It's 10:15 and I am looking down the street.  I suddenly notice that there is what appears to be either a fountain or another arche a few blocks away!  Oh crap!  It's another arche!  I quickly walked the few blocks to the other arche, nearly tripping over some guy who jumps in my path and tries to get me to stop and chat.  I arrive at the other arche and there is simply nobody there.  I walk around it a few times.  I look and look, and wait.  That guy I tripped over earlier walks up to me and tries to pick me up.  Sorry kid.  Not a chance.

At 10:30 I decide that Antonio and I have fully missed each other, or I've been stood up.  I head home.  

I arrive home feeling frustrated, a bit annoyed, and disappointed.  I check my email to find a message from him telling me that he waited until 9:50 and then went home, frustrated and disappointed.  

He had been standing all that time at the "other" arche.  

It was a perfectly hatched, totally French, completely random rendezvous utterly foiled by "the other arche".

Le Marche St.-Quentin

DATELINE: 15.03.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Today's lesson: Not all "outdoor markets" are outside, and not all are cheaper than the supermarket.

This morning I visited the market in the 10th arrondissement called Saint-Quentin.  It is about a 20 minute walk from my apt, a little farther than Barbes.  In the hopes of finding cheap prices and good quality in the same place, I have begun exploring the other markets around me.

I had a bit of trouble finding the market because I was looking for a square or a section of road that was filled with the awnings covering each of the little stalls, full of people and produce.  When I finally asked someone to direct me to it, they pointed to a building with large glass doors opening to the street.  Above the doors was a sign that I had completely missed - as I approached from the backside and was looking for tents, not signs.  The sign read in very large type: Marche St.-Quentin.  Doh.

The market itself is very pleasant.  There were not a lot of shoppers, nor a lot of vendors.  It is very small and all of the vendors are permanently installed.  In addition to the produce there are several wine sellers, butchers, a cheese vendor, flower sellers, and a very small hardware shop.  It is lit mostly by the numerous skylights overhead, and in the center of it all I found a small string quartet playing the soundtrack to our sunday morning shopping.

The prices however were less pleasant, and clearly reflected the vendors status as permanent installations, likely paying rent for their space.  I spent 10€ and returned with only three handfuls of un-cracked walnuts, 5 tomatoes on the vine, 2 medium sized eggplants, 7 small blood oranges, and a bulb of garlic.  

I have concluded that the markets are not as a rule cheaper than the supermarkets, and the best way to approach my market purchases is to visit Barbes 1x per week, choosing my purchases carefully, and then fill out the rest with a visit to another market - ideally one that will be less expensive then St.-Quentin.  Beginning next week, I will put this plan into action and run it through the experiment process.  Living cheap in Paris is clearly a very delicate science.