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.

Long overdue: photos of my Parisian digs

This is the main portion of my apt.  One room.  Behind me (and the camera) is the door leading out of the apt.  I am standing in the far corner of the same wall that the table is against.  To my left is a portion of wall of equal width to the wall with the window in it.  Behind that green chair on the left there is a small closet (though larger than the closet I have in Boston.  The door leading to the kitchen is on the other side of the table from where I stand.

This is the kitchen.  Yep.  that's the whole thing.  I am standing in the door that seperates it from the rest of my apt.  If you look closely you can see the two burners that I cook on.  No oven.  Instead, refrigerator.  Tiny, but sufficient for one lone person.  Ok.... so that's really all to be said of that.
This is my bathroom.  My shower.  My sink.  My toilet.  After all the apts I saw with the toilet down the hall, I cannot describe to you how happy it makes me that this is all mine, mine, mine, mine.  

mine. mine mine mine. mine. mine mine mine mine mine mine mine.  

Yeah, it's tiny but incase you haven't caught on, it's *all* mine.  I have never spent more than a few short months living by myself and I have to admit, as much as I have some great friends that came out of roommates, I really am loving living alone.  I mean really, how can you beat the joys of doing dishes in your undies?  =)

Italy: Subject to change without notice

DATELINE: 12.03.03 PARIS, FRANCE

Since my return from a 10 day foray to Rome to visit Aaron, I have been thinking that my impressions of Italy (specifically Rome) and Paris could be summed up as follows:

Italy - Subject to change without notice.  

Paris - Watch your step.

In Rome, and my short trips outside the city to smaller cities/towns, I found that all of the hours and costs of things described in the tourist information on the web or in guide books was wrong. The hours were different by at least an hour in either direction - opening later than info said and closing later, and the cost of entrance was greater than was written.  In some cases, things that were described as free admission had entrance fees.  Train schedules were different when you bought the ticket at the station then they were when we looked online.  Buses that dropped you off at one stop would not necessarily pick you up at that same stop.  The weather in one neighborhood was dramatically different in another.  

In Paris, it amazes me that the image people have of the French is of a people walking with their noses in the air, because if you take your eyes off the sidewalk you are going to step in a pile of dog poo of a color so bizarre you will be forced to ask: What are earth are they feeding that dog??  But, the Parisians seem to have developed some sort of internal radar because most people are not walking around looking at the sidewalk.  Maybe that is a technique for sorting out the tourists and the new kids in town.  

Italy is clearly a country holding stedfast to an anarchic character.  Ignoring the rules seems to an unwritten rule unto itself.  So many people in Rome are jumping the fair on the city buses that it's all over the news. Taxis drive on the tram tracks and into oncoming traffic if it suits them.  They all claim there is a protest blocking whichever street you are trying to get to, that they can't get you there in time and that it will cost you an extra 25€ (until you press them and then miraculously the protest has ended).  In France, you have to present your working papers just to babysit someone's kid 3hrs/day 2x/wk.  No one will hire you for freelance work unless you present your special certification that you are registered as a Freelance worker.  You cannot have a metro pass without having an address.  People jump the fares here too, but those who get busted get slammed with a fine that is higher than a years worth of metro passes. There are rules and the French follow them.  

Which leads me to today's woe: finding work.  I had an interview this afternoon at a place called Konversando.  It is a self-described language "club", offering groups where people come to practice speaking the language they are trying to learn.  The interview seemed to go alright, until I was asked about my certification.  I don't recall what the abbreviation for this thing is, but it's a card, essentially, proving that I have registered myself as a freelance service provider, so that the taxes can be taken out and submitted to the French gov't.  (oops, speaking of taxes, i gotta get on those).  Well, I don't have this card.  Sigh.  I'd been feeling very good about things until then, when things seemed to go downhill and upon the end of the "interview", which lasted approximately 10 minutes, I put out my hand for a handshake as I said: "It was nice to meet you", expecting something akin to a profession post-interview good-bye.  Not only was my hand denied but my interviewer (the club's director) simply said: "Ok. Bye", turned and walked away.  And that was that.

I've been fairly wound all day since then.  This wasn't helped any when I arrived in class to find that, having not checked my school email account this morning, I missed the notice that we would be given our midterm exam in class today (which was supposed to be next week according to the syllabus) and should bring with us all course texts.  Ah, what fun.

I'm off to climb into bed with some abnormal psych texts and a little self-pitty. Harumpf.

a la prochaine fois mes amis.

The Honeymoon is Over

DATELINE: 11.03.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Well kids, it's finally here. I have finally hit what can only be called the first twinges of homesickness. I guess two months is about how long the honeymoon lasts. Now, back from my Italy vacation, I am faced with all the day to day realities again. Mid-term exams. Research papers. Lack of money (I have an interview to maybe teach English at this place called Konversando which is a short walk from my apt. wish me luck). Home on Wednesday night thinking about the people I would otherwise be seeing tonight. Wishing I could make something like WND happen in Paris. I haven't given up yet, don't worry. But most of my friends here, as well as yours truly, are far too poor for that. Missing (just a bit) trudging through the snow, and the possibility of perching myself in front of Mom's wood stove to cook my front and then my back. Missing living off the state. Missing Art Group. Missing that sense of familiarity, and waking in the morning to find myself curled around my cat. Oh, I do miss the good ol' days.

But at the very same moment, as I procrastinate my course reading (oh, how skilled I am in the art of procrastination) by indulging my sentimentality, outside my window, so close I can almost touch it, is a glowing white full moon. It's stunning. I swear to you I see her face (yes, people the moon is female) and she is looking straight at me, and it is amazing. No, i haven't gone bonkers, but the moon is so clear that the plays of dark and light across the surface create an unmistakeable face smiling gently upon a sleeping city.

This is particularly amazing as it means finally, for the first time since I have been in Paris, the night sky is clear. Few if any clouds, no rain. And it happens to also be a night of a full moon.

I tried to take a photograph - with both of my cameras - to share with you. But neither was sufficient to capture it right. I need one of those monster lenses that requires not just one of it's own tripods, but two. A lens that is as tall as I am. Hmm... I suppose that would be a telescope.

So acknowledging the twinges of homesickness I am no less still just thrilled to be here. Realizing I am here to witness the famous Parisian spring. That despite my woes (all involving money - it might not buy happiness, but not having to worry about it certainly helps) I have been granted an amazing experience. And every day I learn something new (like today: I learned that the meat/butcher-shop at the bottom of my hill sells the delicious rotisserie chickens for much less than the guy next to my house, and the produce vendor across the street from my house is from Tangiers, but his produce sucks. Sorry guy. It's not personal.) and meet someone new.

And every day I find yet another way to procrastinate my classwork. Ah, will wonders never cease? =)

So despite the failure of my camera to get a good pic of the moon, I am including this bright and blurry one, just for reference. Now, long past when I should be sleeping, say: Good night Moon. And I bid you all: fait de bonne reve.