Updates: French Style, Eating, Pricing, and Touristing

Since you’re reading this, I assume you know a few things about me.  Namely I’m easily amused, sometimes by things that wouldn’t be considered funny in polite company.  Let’s get that right out in the open.  I can find humor in almost anything, even if it comes at the expense of somebody else, and Paris (Parisians) is (are) no exception.  One thing that strikes me every time I leave the house is the variety of clothing that people wear here, especially considering their age and work.  On the métro every morning I take a few minutes out of my thirty minute ride to just look around and see what people are wearing to work.  Men wear jackets and ties and other boring things, but it appears that ladies can wear almost anything they want.  

Ranging from very conservative outfits to incredibly provocative, I guess it all works here.  Luckily, their high heels are like an alarm clock to make sure I don’t miss one as she struts by.  You can hear them from about a mile away, so there is ample time to judge and make presumptions about this complete stranger.

On the airplane ride here I read an article detailing the arrival of “la mode prep” in Paris.  I always thought that Parisians wore black clothes whenever possible, and the thought of skittle-colored Parisians almost struck me as comic.  Berets and Vineyard Vines belts?  Luckily the prep culture hasn’t attacked Paris like an unwanted STD, but every once in a while somebody pays homage to New England’s Breton reds and blue seersucker.  I’ve walked by a couple of stores trying to sell the concept, but to date I’ve only seen a few true examples in the flesh.  Interestingly, boat shoes are massively popular in Paris right now.  They don’t have Sperrys (yet), but lots of wannabes walk around the city’s cobbled streets.  It’s an odd contrast between men in pointy leather shoes, wannabe Americans in boat shoes, and ladies in high heels.

Parisians are also not afraid to flaunt it if they’ve got it.  What is ‘it,’ you ask?  Well, it can be just about anything.  One great example was a lady of about 60 years on Boulevarde St Germain de Pres earlier in the week.  She was cruising down the street in her heels and jeans, with a white tank top on.  Well, I wouldn’t have taken such notice if I hadn’t noticed somebody’s face as the two passed one another.  I looked up and quickly realized the reason for the strange face.  This Parisienne had decided to forgo a bra for the day.  I guess more power to her if that’s how she wants to roll (or bounce), but the story doesn’t end there.  No, in fact it gets better.  Through her white tank top one could clearly see the outline of her two nipple piercings.  I guess I it’s sort of cruel to be chastising this style; if a 60 year old woman can still catch the attention of every man who sees her, propz to her!

As far as my life goes, ça va bien.  I’ve survived one week of SciencesPo methodology courses, and now we’re working in smaller classes groups of about 15 to really get the details of the SciencesPo style.  The professeur for my group is a very fun French woman who speaks very fast and who reminds me of my own French prof in High School.  She looks just the same and has the same mannerisms.  I’ll try to get a picture at some point, but there is no doubt that you have doppelgänger in France, Lori!

At home things are also amusing.  My host brother, Alexis, who has Down syndrome is very funny and makes occasional visits to my room to fill me in on little tidbits.  After I got out of the shower on Saturday morning, I could hear him knocking on my bedroom door, but I decided to ignore it and see what happened.  Since I have my own shower and sink room, I figured it could almost be justified that I didn’t hear him.  Well, he’s very persistent, and the next thing I knew he was in my room.  Oh well, I thought, I’ll go out and see what he wants.  He wanted to be sure that I would open the shutters on my windows because the sun was out.  <<Ah, oui, bien sur!>>  (Many windows in France have shutters that they close every night and then open every morning.)  Alexis’ room is next to mine, and he can pretty much see who’s coming and going in the house from his room.  He can see the toilet room from his room, and whenever I leave it, he always asks “ça va?” (is everything going okay?).  I’m glad somebody cares about my bodily functions.

Since last writing, I’ve been touristy and have made the most of the nice days for walking around the city.  Friday night we ate what appeared to me to be Shepard’s Pie, sans veggies.  It was hamburger and potatoes cooked into a casserole.  We also had salad, and cheese for dessert (my favorite part).  It’s important to note the French dinner hour: 8 o’clock or later.  To make matters worse, you’re not supposed to snack between lunch and dinner.  Well, that’s not exactly easy, but I’m trying my damndest.  The SciencesPo soirée that night was in Montmartre, an “artistic” (aka sketchier) area of Paris.  Although it’s famous for the stunning Basillique du Sacré Coeur, the district is also home to the Moulin Rouge and countless sex shops and clubs.  All in all, it was a fun time, but I’m not going to rush back to hang out there in the wee hours of the morning.  

Saturday morning I spent wandering from my house to the Champs Elysées.  I came across an enormous market where I got a quiche saumon for breakfast.  I also moseyed by the American Cathedral in Paris as well as statues of Ben Franklin and George Washington before arriving aux Champs Elysées.  After a quick lunch of a curry chicken sandwich, I met up with Maggie and Tori, and together we explored around the Arc de Triomphe, and the area.  Since the day was beautiful we intended on making the most of it.  Well, that all went to Hell when the skies opened up and ten gallon rain drops started to fall.  During the storms we’d run into stores to look around and escape the rain, and in the sunny sections we’d walk around some more.  One place we escaped into was a car dealership thingy.  It was five floors tall, with a total of 4 cars for sale.  On the top floors were antique cars and on the bottom floors were the modern versions of the cars.  It was really kinda cool to see the comparisons between modernity and antiquity (yes, the 1950s are considered antiquity to me).  

After that, we went back to Montmartre (just didn’t get enough of the sex shops last night!) to see the Sacré Coeur and the city from Paris’ highest point of land.  We spent a great deal of time there, looking around and avoiding the rain.  An early dinner (7:30) was much appreciated.  The funniest thing about the restaurant was that beer was 3.5 euros while water was 4.  I love being a cheapskate.  After dinner we dispersed to go home and shower before another bar soirée.  This one was in the 1^st, and was definitely the best so far.  Finally there was almost enough space and a good time was had by all as we chatted, spread lies about ourselves, and spent more money than we should.  Luckily, some guy named Mike who claimed to be a chemist decided to buy a lot of people many drinks, so we didn’t even have to spend as much money as we thought we did.  

It's Friday, Friday!

As Rebecca Black likes to point out from time to time, “It’s Friday, Friday!”  And that means the first week is over.  It’s been an interesting adventure thus far, but mostly enjoyable.  Tuesday was an open day as Tori and Maggie finally arrived from their escapades all over Europe getting to Paris., and since our SciencesPo welcome program started the next day.  (A massive thunderstorm kept them from landing on Monday night, so they got to visit Bruxelles and explore the buses of Europe.)  Tuesday morning I took a two hour wander (it really couldn’t even be called a walk) to the Louvre mall from my apartment via la Tour Eiffel on Tuesday where I used the Apple Store’s computers to check my email (aka catch up on Facebook creeping), and to buy a French computer charger.  That was after my hour long jaunt to locate and interrogate the men at “Orange” to get the deets on cell phones in Paris.  After our Trinity meeting was done, Mary, Tori, and I went to the Eiffel Tour to play tourist for a bit and to grab a bite to eat.  One thing we all commented on that evening was the fact that it stays light until after 9pm, and is really nice even around 9:30.  I’m not sure how long it will be like that, but for now it’s a nice change.  

Wednesday was day one at SciencesPo, and it about did me in!  Starting at 9:30 and lasting until about 5, we learned about many aspects of the academic life and extracurricular life of the university.  SciencesPo is especially picky with how papers and oral presentations are completed, so it was a lot of very dry lecturing.  Like all good Frenchies, we had a 2 hour long lunch period at which we were supposed to meet people and network.  Good idea - not easily executed.  Take 500 kids from all over the world, make them all jet-lagged, make sure nobody has figured out or acquired a cell phone yet, put them in a foreign country, and then expect them to suddenly become best friends?  Righhhhttttt.  Anyways, I think we all met a few people and made the best of it.  Dinner that night was at home (pork, French potatoes, salade verte, as well as brie and chevre with some fresh bread).  Delicieux!  Wednesday was another day of classes and info sessions followed by the world’s fastest shower - seriously, I’m think I outdid myself to try to be on time- and dinner with friends.  After dinner we went to a couple of bars to meet more SciencesPo kids.  Now that’s how to actually make friends!  None of this Jardin-du-Luxembourg-awkwardly-making-friends-over-picnic-food… put a few drinks into us and then see how many friends we make then!  

Every day this week, except Friday, was pretty warm (32 degrees C) so I’ve been trying to adjust to life sans shorts.  While shorts do exist in France, they are not very popular and are mostly worn by American tourists and French people who want to be American.  Given my goal not to stand out, it’s been mostly dark jeans, a polo, and black shoes for me.  So far two people have openly confused me for French: the sushi delivery man looking for a road, and the elevator repair man.  I’d say that’s a win!  

A massive thunderstorm last night cooled things down today and it’s perfect now.  Sort of drizzly, but fine with me.  A good chance for me to pull out Parisian accouterment number 11: parapluie (umbrella).  Today I only had methodology class from 11:15-1:15, so the majority of my day has been getting my French life in order, which is going like wildfire.  Getting my student ID card from SciencesPo (still don’t have it), my OFII forms validated (still not done), my Trinity Transfer Application completed (about 50%), my rental/house/whatever insurance filled out (nope).  At the rate I’m getting these official forms filled out, I don’t know why nobody has tried to throw me out yet.  All in good time, I guess.  

Evening plans include dinner (thank God my food fascination has not diminished since my arrival), and a bar soirée with SciencesPo kids.  SciencesPo has arranged a part of our welcome program called “A Bar A Day” where kids meet every night to have a drink or four and get to know one another.  Other plans include additional sightseeing, a visit to the market, as well as work on my first homework assignment (HOMEWORK!), which is a group project due on Thursday on “la situation dans l’Afrique du nord.”  I think we’re supposed to be meeting on Sunday to work on that.  

Until then, however, I’ll just live “la vie quotidienne.”   À bientôt,  W

In Search of Sleepies

Holy heat.  This country needs to install air conditioning.  I don’t even think the taxi I took into the city had A/C.  I did, however, get to hear all about the incompetencies of George W. Bush, the mistakes of Obama, and a bit on the French health care system, while I tried to figure out what meal I was supposed to be getting ready for and as sweat came out of places I didn’t know could sweat.  I’m referring to my knuckles in case you were wondering, you perv. 

My apartment is beautiful with a nice courtyard both in the front and the back.  I have a nice big room and my own private shower, and two enormous casement windows, which let in a lot of light and fresh air.  My host mother is adorable and so sweet.  She is trying her hardest to make me feel welcome and not pressured into anything.  I did, however, pick up on her innuendo to take a quick shower.  I guess the smell of geriatrics and communal air wasn’t just something I was smelling… Thanks, AirFrance for my new fragrance: Eau d’Avion.  

After my shower, and feeling like a new man in fresh clothes, I had a chance to look around the apartment, which is super French and very beautiful, meet her son Alexis, and have a bite of lunch.  Or maybe breakfast.  Either way it was tuna salad placed inside of a hollowed out tomato.  My very first whole tomato… and not something I’d like to repeat.  Unfortunately I can’t claim the allergic card now, otherwise she’d probably start feeling really bad, so I guess this will be the semester when I learn to eat tomatoes- happy joy!  

After lunch Madame et moi had a chance to sit and talk while Alexis went to take a “siesta” (his words, not mine).  I learned about her, her family, her life, and lots of other interesting things while she fed me two coffees.  Note to self: French coffee is like drinking watered grounds.  It was seriously stronger than turpentine - but I left with a fresh outlook on life.  I gave her some gifts, and the biggest hit was probably the book about Petite Plaisance, the house of Marguerite Yourcenar.  Finally, somebody old enough to give a damn about the first woman elected into l’Academie française.  

I went to the Trinity College site where I met up with Susan, the directrice and 1981 Trinity alum, and Mary, another kid in the Trinity/SciencesPo program.  We got our cell phones, metro passes, and some notes about Parisian living.  Unfortunately something was amuck with the internet at the site, so no email for Willie.  After our meeting and snacks - by now it was getting near lunchtime in our stomachs - we took a quick walk to SciencesPo, where we will both be studying, and then I came home.  It was a pity that Maggie and Tori couldn’t join us as the other two Trinity/SciencesPo students, but I guess they were preoccupied with the Guinesses (Guinni?) found at the Dublin Airport, where they were stuck.  

Back at home I put away my clothes and settled in.  My host mother told me upon entering her house that she had a lot of furniture in her house, and my room is no exception.  Along with the bed I have a desk, desk chair, lounge chair, wardrobe/closet thing, a two-drawer cabinet, credenza, television stand, end table, and a tall modern open shelving unit thing that fits in with nothing in this house.  I’m not exactly lacking in the département des meubles.  

Dinner was veal and pasta, along with a piece of baguette, and a peach for dessert.  I knew I was tired, and it wasn’t until she looked at me and asked I understood her (to while I gave a mumbled ‘oui’ and then proceeded to tell me that my French was much better in the morning that I realized it was really 9pm and time to make sleepies, as Mr. P used to write on our Model UN itineraries.  So sleepies I found.

Reality Checks, Burning Eyes, and Plane Rides

It’s hard to believe that, after 10 years of studying French, I’m actually going to live in the “city of lights” for the next four months.  I’ve been looking forward to this since I arrived at Trinity, and I can think of no better way to really be a French major than to actually spend a sizable chunk of time in France.  I’d also like to apologize for the corny blog but I think, someday, I’ll appreciate having my thoughts written down in a digital format as I live “la vie quotidienne à Paris.”

For those of you unacquainted with the mess I encountered in attaining my visa, I refer you to my last 3 months worth of Facebook statuses (stati?) or to the lovely people at the French Consulate in Boston, with whom I have practically reached a first name basis.  For those still out of the Facebook world, it goes something like this: With just over a week before my flight, and still no visa or passport, I pulled out the big guns and called some friends to give me a hand.  It was about 3 days later that I received a message on my phone from the Boston Consulate saying “ ‘ello Monsieur, we ‘ave received, uh, five mayssagges from two ambassadorres and tree embassies.  Your visa was not approved when I arrived at my desk ziss monning, but iz now okay and will be mailed today.  Please tell everyone zat your visa is okay.”  Sure enough, that was a Thursday and on Friday the mailer package came.  Since that day just over a week ago, I’ve been packing (or avoiding packing) and getting prepared to become Parisian… or at least role play one for a while.  

Breakfast at the Colonel’s drew my summer to a close, and then after packing the car and zooming off the bridge to Bangor, it was time to eat again!  (Funny, I can already sense that this blog/journal/thing will focus around food.)  Another meal gone and we did some last minute shopping for an extra camera memory card, some notebooks, gum, and granola bars (no wonder America’s airlines are losing money- their food is crap and the stewardesses surly at best).  Interestingly, while in store number 2, I noticed a common theme that would only continue to haunt me.  It appeared that today, Sunday, August 21^st was saggy boob day in Bangor, Maine.  One lady at the airport had gone so far as to purchase a black shirt made mostly of mesh and then let the girls slop and flop around.  Luckily she was on my flight and had to put a number of things in the overhead compartment above me, even though she was seated a number of rows ahead.  Karma?  A good excuse to dig my eyes out with spoons?  I’ll let you decide.

Anyway, back to the airport.  Before getting on the airplane I decided to avail myself of the bathroom and couldn’t help but notice that, as I walked to wash my hands, some man’s knees were sticking out of a stall.  Bizarre, I thought.  As I washed my hands, I happened to look up in the mirror and look right into the old codger’s eyes while he squatted on the john.  “AVERT EYES!, I thought.”  No it wasn’t that the old duffer with the knobby knees forgot to close the door, it’s that the lovely folks at the Bangor “International” Airport have removed the doors from the stalls in the men’s room, except for the handicapped stall, which I guess was occupied.  I’m pretty sure if there was a situation like that involving an animal, it would be called Animal Abuse, and the SPCA would be called.  I guess the City of Bangor just doesn’t care.  

We had a fairly uneventful plane ride to Detroit, with nothing to look at but fields and clouds.  I love looking at the clouds and always wonder what it would be like to jump into them.  Would they be cold?  Or poofy?  I don’t think I’ll try it anytime soon, however, because I don’t like the idea of falling into Farmer Brown’s corn crops, and I’m sure I’d end up getting tangled in one of the thousands of windmills we’ve passed over.  Shashimi-styled Willie?  I think not.  

For those of you (myself included) who could spend a great deal of time thinking about positive things in Detroit, let it be said that the Detroit Airport is awesome!  It’s an enormous thing, with 80 terminals in my building alone and a train.  A TRAIN!  You go up one escalator and hop on the train to get to the other side.  I wasn’t bright enough to figure the train out and went backwards, so I’ll leave that to the pros, but still.  My first vision upon exciting the plane was of the “Jose Cuervo Tequiliria” which almost sent shivers down my spine.  I took a walk from one end to the other, bought a nice set of earbuds for the flight, and sat down at the bar of the Heineken Lounge for dinner and a drink.  I have to say that the conversation at an airplane bar is hysterical.  The waitress is discussing how she makes her son do pushups for fun and how mouthy she was to her own mom because “the bitch was too fat to get up and hit ‘em.”  I also had the chance to learn a bit about the Vegas Union and their insurance benefits… or lack thereof.  

The flight was good- a bit crowded and way too hot, but there was only one crying baby and all the passengers survived.  I’d like to take a moment to discuss proper plane ettiquit, however.  I don’t care how old you are, how important (you think) you are, or how handicapped you are, there is no excuse for taking your chair and jamming it back so far that I jump.  Here I am, minding my own business after just helping the pathetic old man next to me start his movie, trying to get into Midnight in Paris and the dude in front of me decides he can recline so far back that I swear Ernest Hemmingway can see his reflection in my pupils from the screen.  It was so severe that the flight attendant asked him to put it back up some.  Of course, as soon as she was gone, he did it again.  Well, I hate the thought of being in misery for such a long time, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.  About 2 hours into the flight, after being in kneeless Hell for an hour and a half, the man decides to switch seats with the old woman next to him, who has bad knees and has to pee.  He gets up, puts up the armrest, lets her out, and then takes her seat.  My opportunity was so close I could practically smell the sweat on the handle.  Using my gazelle-like motions (according to one Clifton Dock regular, I am practically a gazelle), I hit the recline button and put the seat in its upright position.  I was all ready for an assault again, and had my hands out and ready, but the old woman took so long in sitting down that she didn’t even notice the seat was different.  Of course, a couple of hours later, as the old man was trying to crawl over me to get out, I found out that this hadn’t done a whole lot of good once I fell asleep.  Because I’m picky about what I allow in my lap, and old men are nowhere on my lap’s “Friends list,” I implore you to consider how much you want to sprawl out before you shove an old geezer into some unsuspecting schmuck’s face.