The Fine Art of the Adventure

30 septembre 2011

It’s almost incomprehensible to me that I’ve been here 6 (SIX!) weeks!  Holy crap has the time flown by!  It seems like just yesterday I was walking down the street while some girl was pooping on a tree, but that was already two weeks ago!  Today, to celebrate the end of September and the ballin’ (that’s awesome to you old fogies reading this) apples that are available at the open air market, I made an apple pie.  Okay, sometimes I get strange fixations and I find myself obsessing over.  (Case in point my current obsession to go to Morocco, which could end up with a) my death or b) an awesome weekend vacation.)  This week I decided I was going to make a pie, and I kept thinking about it, and decided that, since Friday is market day (so is Tuesday), and I have no classes, that Friday was going to be pie making day.  I looked all over the internet and read more pie recipes than I did reading for class.  Finally I gave up and called Nanny.  I figured if anyone could make pie making simple, she could.  Well, 5 calls later, I had a recipe.  Why five calls?  Well she assumed I was brighter than I actually am.  Common mistake.  While explaining how to make a crust, she said mix 1 cup of Crisco with 3 cups of flour.  I wrote it down just like that got the rest of the recipe.  As I was rereading the recipe later I couldn’t figure out how Crisco and flour made crust, so I called her back to see what held it all together.  “Well water, you fool.”  HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT!?  “I figured you were smart enough to put water in as well.”  Yeah, just call me the telepathic Emeril Legasse.  BAM!

Then I realized that Crisco was going to be a challenge to find in Paris.  I looked up French alternatives online and found some nasty looking stuff that made my host mother roll her eyes in disgust.  Well that was the end of that.  So, on the 90 degree day, I marched my fat ass over the American grocery store, about 40 minutes away.  By the end of the walk I was about dead, but I knew there was a pie at the end of this rainbow, so I kept on trucking.  6.5 Euros later (that’s $8.10), I had a little tub of Crisco and I was marching home.  I smartened up this time and took the metro, which may as well be the Parisian word for sauna.  

It wasn’t until I got home and was thoroughly drenched with sweat that I realized I was supposed to go to an art gallery opening about 2 minutes from the American grocery at the same time I was buying Crisco, but that’s another story.  A Sydney story, no less!

Fast forward about 15 hours and today, after a trip to the market for apples, and lots of other really good things, I set out to apple pie making.  I never considered that I’ve never made an apple pie in my life.  I’ve eaten plenty of apple pies, I’ve cut apples, I’ve put them in the sugar and cinnamon mixture before, but I’ve never done the entire thing.  (Sort of like when I told my host mother I could open an oyster - true statement.  I’m not great at it, and I prefer somebody in a black jacket, white shirt, tie and apron to do it for me, but I can manage.  Well that backfired when she came home with 39 oysters for me to open for appetizers one night.  You may start calling me “garçon” at the next cocktail party)  Back to apple pie: I sat down with my recette (French for recipe) and started making my very first pie crust - results, not too shabby, I have to say.  My host mother started peeling the apples, thank God, and I went to work sugaring and cinnamoning, something I can do like a pro.  Then I put it all together, marked it with a B, and put it in the oven for Baby and me.  Oh no, that’s something different, sorry.  Anyway, into the oven it went.

I waited, made us lunch, and after a while, when I decided it was done (I never asked how long I was supposed to cook the damned thing), I took it out.  Of course, I broke a chunk off the edge, but still I’m pretty proud.  We’ll see if it tastes decent tonight, or if it’s all a farce and tastes like all American crap.

In other topics, school is great, my life in Paris is awesome, and I’m loving it here.  I love the adventures I’m having (see earlier post beginning with ‘I’ve always thought weird shit happens to me’).  Last week, some of you may have noticed my facebook status about going on a whorehouse adventure.  Well, my host mother pointed out an article in the newspaper about some more famous whorehouses in Paris, including one with a completely red, ceramic façade.  Well, the thought of a red ceramic whorehouse seemed too good to ignore, so off I went, knowing that it has been closed since 1945, and whore houses are illegal in Paris.  I found the area, found the street, and finally found the building.  In typical Parisian style, I completely ignored everyone I passed and didn’t make eye contact.  Instead my eyes were fixated on the red ceramic beacon.  I arrived, turned, and faced this beacon of beauty, and took it all in for a minute.  Well, about as I was taking out my camera for a photo or seven, I realized I wasn’t alone.  My EWP (Extra-Whorish-Perception, a distant cousin of ESP) kicked in.  Oh no, I was being watched by at least 8 ladies of ill repute, and a handful were walking toward me, boobs out as though they were fish, served on a platter.  Stop for a minute and let that image sink in.

………………………

>>>>>>>>sunk in yet?<<<<<<<<<

Okay, let’s continue.  So, not being one for 60 year old boobs that are largely uncovered, or 60 year old stomachs that can hardly be covered, I booked it out of that street, hoping that I would reach reality at some point.  Reality was located, so I wandered a bit, thinking a lot about what I’d seen.  I decided I should go back to look at the “maison closée” once again, because I hardly got a glimpse of it head on.  I found the street again, looked down, and I can’t even think of a good way to describe it, but there were more hookers an whores than I’d ever seen in my life.  I mean WOW.  About six saw me looking down, rearranged the goods, gave me toothy (or toothless) smile of seduction, while a couple put ‘er in first and started waddling my way.  That was all it took for me to book it again.  So, my adventure to the whore house (again, closed since 1945) ended up proving one fact: Whorehouses may be illegal, but whores are definitely not.  

On a similar, but slightly more contemporary subject, I’d like to take a minute to talk about bras.  I’ll be honest and say that I don’t know much about bras and their lifting and separating qualities.  I know when somebody isn’t wearing a bra, and I know when somebody is relying on a bra to make up for a lack of boobs, but in general I plead the fifth on the topic of over the shoulder boulder holders.  One thing I thought was relatively simple fact was they are undergarments.  Isn’t the goal of a bra to not have it visible through a shirt?  Well, one thing I’ve noticed in my morning gawkings on the metro is that many females wear bras that are completely visible through their shirts.  At first I wasn’t sure what to think about this, so I took a few days to contemplate and observe.  (After all, much observation leads to more accurate conclusions.)  Well after a few days of research, and many visible bras, and a few nonexistent ones, I made my conclusion.  My grandfather used to say “It’s better to let people think you’re a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”  Well here’s my version, aimed at French females.  “It’s better to let people think that your boobs are naturally that perky and nice than to wear a black bra with cheetah spots under a white shirt and force us to realize that in reality they sag like a mofo.  

And with that je vous laisse partir.  Hopefully that image sinks in.  I’m going to go gawk at my pie a bit more.  

Peace, love and rock and roll,

Willie


PS -  I think the flickr is totally updated.  Not everything is labelled, and there are no plans to label everything, but c'est la vie.  


http://www.flickr.com/photos/dwg3

The Decency of the Indecent French

22 septembre

I’ve long held the belief that weird shit happens to me, much more than other people.  I mean, who else do you know that has been chased across a lake by a moose, had to chase the goldfish out of his bed before getting in, and witnesses a girl pooping on a tree.  I’ve come across far more strange things in Paris, although I’m not sure that all Parisians would find them as odd as I do.  

Take, for example, a couple of weeks ago when I was walking to Trois Fois Vin for a dégoustation (wine and cheese tasting).  [Side note here for the Madre, go to troisfoisvin.com and see about getting some wine shipped back to the states.  This lady is very bilingual and definitely knows good wine.]  Anyway, I was walking toward rue Nazareth when I happened to come across a sushi restaurant.  In itself that wasn’t shocking, sushi is practically as popular as brie right now in Paris!  Chances are that if you throw a baguette, it’ll land within 10 metres of a sushi place.  As I trucked on by, I glanced in the window to see a young man with a toothbrush, brushing a bonsai tree.  No, I’m not kidding, he was scrubbing it all over with the Oral-B and looking all too content to be doing it.  I have to wonder if that’s what hillbillies do with their toothbrushes too; it’s clear that many of the brusher never touch any teeth.

As I think I’ve already mentioned, the French are more than comfortable with nudity.  In a book store I came across a very large book named Big Boobs.  Well since curiosity killed the cat, and I’m all about ridding the world of nuisance animals, I took a peek.  Yep, I could certainly judge that book by the cover.  Held within those two cardboard covers were 200+ pages of big boobs - what some might be inclined to call Tig ol’ Bitties.  That was only one of the many anatomically correct hardcovers (not to be confused with hardcores) in this one particular store.  

This week, at Paris’ famed Bon Marché, (put this on your list PVG- you’ll love it) Maggie and I came across a similar anomaly.  Now, before I discuss said anomaly, let’s first describe the Bon Marché:  Picture Macy’s in New York and Harrods of London having a baby.  It would be the Bon Marché.  The store has everything, including an enormous grocery store across the street.  Anyway, within its hallowed walls, and at least one floor underground, but maybe two, we came across the toy department.  Being any respectable college kids, we had to inspect many of the pieces to see what we would have enjoyed as children, or would even enjoy now. 
Lamenting over the fact that nobody ever bought me the badass farm set that was always set up at Mrs. Pervear’s shop in Northeast Harbor, I found the plastic animals and began oogling them with envy.  Not only were there farm animals, but also whales, lions, and cowboys.  (No cowgirls, political correctness doesn’t matter to the French.  Thank God!)  After looking, with envy, at the Toreador on the horse, I noticed the menacing bull.  Now, this was not your ordinary bull.  Nosireee.  With a ring in his snout, and crouched for the charge, he also had two other attributes I’d never seen on a toy, and they were both hanging between his back legs.  Not only were they hanging there, but they were large and in charge.  Having never been that close to a bull, I haven’t the foggiest idea if they were in scale or not, but if they are, I pity the bull for having two grapefruits bouncing around.  That must be painful!  Further inspection proved that the whales were anatomically correct, as well as the rams, and the people.  African dancers were in their full naked glory, some even having nipple rings à la Janet Jackson.  I love the French.

 Looks painful to me.

  BAHHH RAAAMMM YOOUUU

 No comment.

While not as amusing as my adventures at le Bon Marché, I have to say that I practically pooped my pants with sheer happiness this week when I came across a jar of Skippy at WH Smith, a British bookstore just next to the Louvre.  They may have snarly teeth and they may serve their beer warm, but God bless a limie who loves Skippy and wants it in Paris.  For about 5 euros, I got a jar about 2.5 inches tall and 3 inches around.  Don’t tell me how hard I got screwed, I know.  Remember, I was the one who already wrote about getting raped, screwed, and lucky in terms of drinking.  I feel as though a similar scale applies to peanut butter.  Nonetheless, I scored!

Last weekend, along with being the Paris TechnoParade, 12 hours of laser-filled drunken madness, it was also Journées de Patrimoine, two days when government buildings and museums open up free to the public.  On Saturday I took the opportunity to explore the Palais du Luxembourg, built for Marie de Medicis when she was the queen, and now the home of the Sénat.  It was stunning (that’s for you, Maggie), and I loved it.  It’s amazing to see the number of people who come out for these two days, and who take such pride the rich heritage of their country.  On Sunday, I invited my host mother to join me in going to the Hôtel de Lauzan, a building that, since being purchased by the State in 1928, has never been opened to the public.  It has been undergoing a multiyear renovation, which still isn’t done, but it’s damned impressive!

Pretty much everything is Paris is impressive, as far as I’m concerned.  Their complete lack of self-consciousness or thoughts of indecency, the absence of political correctness, their buildings, their food (and drinks), and my life here.  I’m pretty lucky to go to bed as the light on the top of the Eiffel Tower sweeps over my building all night long.  

On other matters: here’s the link to my still unfinished flickr account.  It has 45 pages of pictures so far, but there are lots more to come.  I don’t expect anyone to really go through it, it’s really more of a safety net for me in case my computer crashes and I lose my pictures.  At least there will be an online backup somewhere.  (http://www.flickr.com/photos/dwg3)

5 days writing, and basically it's poop

15 Septembre until 20 september, when I finished the blog posting.

Last Friday we had the chance to take an overnight trip to Giverny and La Roche Guyon, two little towns about 2 hours outside of Paris.  Aside from being a nice trip into the country, we were also indulged with two chateux, an enormous market, an exhibit on Impressionism, and the home and gardens of one Claude Monet.  

Now, let me start by saying that Impressionism is not my favorite style of art, but even I can take a step back from the wishy-washy muted colors and find beauty in some of the paintings.  Some being the key word.  After leaving Paris, we first stopped at a Museum of Impressionism, where they were hosting an exhibit from the Clark Museum in Massachusetts.  Many of the paintings were very attractive, but by the end of our visit, all the flowers were beginning to blend together.  After the museum visit, we drove a short distance to the Chateau de Bizy, an incredible structure started in 1675, and finished in its current state in the 1909.  It is really an incredible example of countless architectural styles, and with an interior that is second to none.  The main salon has boisery (wood carvings) which originated in another chateau and are really beautiful.  I was really in my element.  

Complementing the woodwork and architecture were many stunning furnishings and pieces of art.  18^th century portraits, Gobelin tapestries, and some beautiful Empire furnishings really made for a beautiful room.  At one end was a piano decorated with gold and painted scenes which the docent allowed Teddy, a Trinity student, to play.  

After the chateau, we were whisked off to our two star accommodations.  From the outside, the hotel resembled every other nursing home I’d ever seen, and upon entering, the combined smells of mediocrity and the eighties were almost overpowering.  Since there are only three boys on the Trinity program, we were given our own room, the handicapped room.  With linoleum floors, and an enormous bathroom, we were content.  The three tiny beds hardly made a dent in the huge room, and I think we had enough space to fit an entire line dancing party as well.  Once we got settled, I went outside to pretend to be social and to get to know some of the other people a bit better.  After a while we went on a little walk around the area, and to visit our only neighbors: a flock of sheep.  The three guys decided to become better acquaitned with the sheep, so we jumped the electric fence (after Teddy made sure it was still active) to run with the sheep.  Well, it’s not quite like running with the bulls, or running to the roar, but everyone was running, all in different directions.  

Dinning was surprisingly good for being served in a glorified cafeteria, and the wine was pretty much delicious as well.  After all, it was something “du Maine” so it was destined for perfection.  After dinner, a handful of us went to the bar to enjoy a drink or two.  Joining us was a group of very inebriated Dutch firefighters, which proved to be a most amusing mixture.  Probably the best part of the evening was when two sets of girls came down from their rooms with problems that needed to be translated to the front desk woman.  Unfortunately I never learned how to say “There’s a leftover pube in my bed,” but the picture that the girl had taken was not only clear in meaning, but it also caused the woman at the desk to laugh out loud.  I did know how to complain for the second girl about the blood stains on her sheets.  Thank God for small miracles.

The next day we ate at the hotel and then went an enormous village market in nearby Vernon.  (Vernon is across the Seine from Giverny.)  After a quick stop and walk, we drove over to the Monet Gardens and House.  After entering the grounds, it was almost like a scavenger hunt to find the house behind all the gardens, but find it we did.  No wonder Monet painted so many flowers, it wouldn’t be hard to get lost in his gardens!  The garden has flowers of every shape, style, flavor, type, texture, height, and bra size.  Literally. 

While walking through Monet’s house, I was surprised to see how brightly he painted its interior.  The pink stucco exterior with kelly green shutters was a surprise to begin with, but the azure blue walls, with light trim, and dark blue highlights was really a shock.  As was the green and purple trimmed hallway and bright yellow dining room.  It was really interesting, though, because those are the colors Monet used in so many of his paintings.  After exploring the house, we walked to the more informal gardens, which I really enjoyed.  They were so savage, yet so beautiful.  It was really clear where the inspiration for his water lily paintings came from, and really, it looks just like the paintings.  After our trip through Monet-land, we had lunch in a nearby cafe (again with wine - not from Maine, and not as good).  On our way home we stopped by the Chateau de Roche Guyon, which we couldn’t enter because it’s currently being used to shoot a film.  

After getting back to Paris, I spent the afternoon getting my laundry in order and relaxing before going out that night.  The next day, September 11^th, I went to the events at the American Cathedral in Paris (I really wanted to see the church and it was really beautiful), and then to the event “Les Français N’Oublieront Jamais” at Trocadéro.  Put together by four French men living in New York in 2001, it was a touching memorial and a great combination of French and American traditions.  One American tradition I couldn’t help noticing was that of driving a big car.  The mayor of Paris arrived in a tiny little car (a Renault or Citroen, or something like that), while the American Ambassador arrived in a giant Chevy Tahoe.  Sort of bizarre.  For those of you who want to see some pictures and videos, go to my Flickr site.  Hopefully I have them figured out.  Beware though, it’s not totally up to date, and definitely not annotated yet.  All in good time, young grasshoppers.  *Yeah, well I can't find the webaddress, but I'll work on that so you can see my pics.

On Monday Tori and I had the opportunity to explore near the Bastille where we discovered a few things including a canal, old men playing Petanque, and that French exhibitionism is still alive and well.  Since the first two are pretty self-explanatory (Petanque is a French ball game like bocce), I’ll discuss briefly the French penchant for the naked.  We all know that the French love nakedness.  It’s a stereotype, and if you spend much time around France, you’re going to see a naked thing or two.  (Many more if you venture into the Louvre.)  Anyway, Tori and I were walking down the street and we noticed a little girl by a tree.  Now, at first glance it seem innocuous enough: girl, tree, road, parents, sidewalk… nothing out of the ordinary.  It wasn’t until we noticed that she wasn’t wearing any pants that the first set of alarms went off.  Now, ordinarily a pantless 5 or 6 year old wouldn’t really shock me, but since she was backed up to a tree, I knew something just “warn’t right.”  Side note here, if you want to see a funny youtube, look up the Backing Up Song and watch the first one with the cartoon picture.  Anyway, she was all backed up to the tree, pantless, and bending over, and the she started to poop.  Yeah, she was building a brick wall, laying a deuce, going caca, whatever you want to say… There she was, backed up to a tree between the sidewalk and the road, with her parents sitting just 20 feet away on a bench, dropping a load.  

The best part of this: about 3 days later, I was walking to the metro stop from my house, (which is in a very wealthy and residential area), when I came across a mother and her teenaged daughter, and an empty stroller.  I didn’t really pay attention and changed the song on my iPod to Billy Joel’s “Always a Woman,” (okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it would be funny), when I looked up to see a father holding his daughter so that her back was against his stomach and with her legs out, peeing on the sidewalk.  Seriously, dude, have you no dignity?  At least let the Hoover Dam release at the low part of the hill, not at the very top so it drips down the entire road!

And with that I bid you adieu.  If you’ve made it all the way through this: Way to Be!  I’d have gotten bored about 15 paragraphs ago and gone to facebook.  Clearly you need to get a life.  

A Miscellaneous Melange of a Most ‘Musing Matter

11 septembre 2011

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything amusing, so today’s focus will be emptying off the post it note where I’ve been writing down little funny “trucs” to include on this blog.  They’re hardly related and are a little disjointed, but then again, that’s the way my mind works.  

Chapter 1: Milk and Me

As my family can tell you, I love milk.  I could practically live off milk (and other dairy products) if I had to.  I don’t really know why stock brokers instruct people to diversify their portfolios at all.  Here’s the honest truth from me: buy stock in milk distributors.  At the rate I buy it, the price of dairy stock will never go down.  My milk madness in Paris, however, has been a sudden change.  The French don’t drink milk like most Americans, and certainly they don’t even begin to put a dent in the quantities that I enjoy.  Here, milk comes in plastic bottles of about a liter (about a quart) and here’s the kicker: it doesn’t need to be refrigerated.  In the grocery store, it sits on palettes in the middle of the aisle.  For the first couple of days, I didn’t realize this; I opened the refrigerator in my kitchen and there was the milk on the shelf.  A damned tiny bottle, but hey, it was there.  That’s a good start.  

It wasn’t until my host mother was showing me space where I could store things in the kitchen (as though I’m actually going to cook!  Ha!) when I saw the three extra bottles just sitting on the shelf.  Red Flag: Raised.  I just pretended that they were empty bottles, or maybe that she’d reused them for other things…  I’m still telling myself that today, 2 weeks later.  (It’s a different set of bottles now.)  Not long after the introduction to milk storage, I came across the milk aisle in the MonoPrix store.  Like Wal-Mart in America, Monoprix has the answer for everything.  There, smack dab in the middle of the aisle was a mountain of milk - luke warm.  All around, on the shelves, was more milk.  Did you just read anything about refrigeration?  I thought so.  

Back at the house, I had a Q&A with my host mother about milk.  She said that real milk is offered, but she doesn’t get it because it goes bad so quickly.  In my head I was thinking: Hmmmm, a quart of milk: 1 bowl of cereal and one glass of milk.  Yeah, that’s about right.  Anyway, she thinks the stuff she buys tastes better cold, so she keeps the milk that we’re using in the refrigerator, while the stuff in storage gets to stay in the cupboard.  In my goal to be more French, I’m drinking this “milk,” but I can honestly say I don’t know what the Hell I’m drinking.  I keep telling myself it’s just like those little creamer things that restaurants give to people they don’t like for their coffee.  In actuality, I haven’t the foggiest clue if it’s really that or just chalky water.  And I don’t want to.  

Chapter 2: Living with the next Barbaro

I’ve already mentioned my charming host brother a few times on here, but he really is a funny duck.  He’s backed off on checking on my bodily functions, but I do listen to him as he talks to himself (well, lectures himself) throughout the house.  The other day he was very wound up and talking very loud so, sitting on my bed, I was able to get a play by play of his toilet-room activities.  (Remember, toilets are rarely found in the bathroom in France.)  He also gets very riled up in the bathtub.  I don’t know if he has toys or not, but he sure as Hell splashes around.  One of my favorite times of the day is when the phone rings and Alexis runs out to find the cordless phone.  He has a regular phone in his room, but there are times he runs for the others.  I swear to God it’s as though I’m living in Churchill Downs.  I don’t think Barbaro could ever run as fast as Alexis for the phone.  I’m hoping to find a jockey and enter him in next year’s Triple Crown. 

We might have work, though, on decency.  I woke up from a little snooze yesterday and walked toward the kitchen for a cold water bottle.  Well, I turned the corner into the hall way just as Alexis decided he wanted to retie his bath towel.  Now, when I want to retie my bath towel, I just do it.  (I almost just ended that sentence with … like a normal person.  Glad I caught myself).  Well, I guess that method was not going to work for Alexis who just dropped his towel on the floor just in time for me to turn the corner.  Thank god for a slightly darkened hallway and the fact that sheer shock blurred my eyes, because that would have been a horrible way to go blind.  

Chapter 3: The differences between getting screwed, getting lucky, and getting raped - in terms of drinking

Luckily in the past three weeks (well, actually 20 days), I’ve had the opportunity to check out a bar or two in Paris, and a few things have made themselves perfectly clear.  One of the most important things, however, is the difference in drink quality found throughout the Paris.  Some days you feel as though you’re getting screwed, some days you really get lucky, and in other cases you just got raped and ended up with a shitty, overpriced drink. That’s absolutely the worst.  You go in, hoping for a nice cold beverage, you hand over the money questioning yourself in the process because, well, the price seemed a bit steep.  Nonetheless, you want it, so you do it.  (Famous last words, I’m sure).  You get your glass having just watched the bartender mostly fill your pint glass from the pitcher of foam which has about 8 inches of perfectly flat beer at the bottom and then splash some fresh beer from the tap on top.  Getting screwed is sort of like going to a Trinity Frat.  You know what you’re in for, and sometimes it’s decent, but most of time it’s mediocre at best.  Hey, but it’s better than nothing.  Most importantly, it was a fine price.  It’s nothing to write a blog entry about, but it’s fine.  “It gets the job done,” as I was once told by a Duty Free Liquor Store Saleswhale in London.  Obviously getting lucky is finding the perfect bar during happy hour, a truly magical moment.  

Chapter 4: Wine and Cheese > Fire

One final funny thing surrounds a recent event in for some of us studying at Trinity.  As part of our Welcome Program we went to a wine and cheese tasting.  Everyone knows that wine and cheese go together better than Oprah and a slab of bacon, so I could not have been any happier.  Well, we were 2 wines in, and eating cheese like it was our last meal when there was a pop (I’m not going to lie, I didn’t hear it - my excitement for the camembert left me deaf).  Anyway, a few minutes later a screaming girl caught our attention as she pointed to the smoke rolling out of the walls.  I almost didn’t react - smoke and screaming girls is just part of another late night at Trinity, so it almost seemed normal.  After the director the program and the wine lady discussed the appropriate next measure, they decided to call the Pompiers, Paris’ silver-helmeted firefighters.  Well, being Americans, we thought we had to evacuate, so I made a couple “chevre sur baguette” sandwiches and went into the courtyard.  After everyone had eaten the little bit of food they brought out, we started getting restless.  Stupidly we didn’t bring out our wine.  Live and learn, I guess.  The sommelier, embarrassed by the fact that we had stop before finishing the tasting, decided that we should go back inside and get back to drinking.  (This woman had her priorities in order.)  So, without lights and with the door open to get the smoke out, we had some more wine and cheese.  

May I just mention how great the French are?  The sommelier didn’t know if there was a fire in the walls, or not, but since she didn’t see any new smoke coming out of the electrical panel or any other orifice, we went back to our dégustation… before the firefighters arrived!  The best part was that when the pompiers arrived, they apologized for interrupting our wine and cheese tasting.  They never asked us to leave the building and we kept on eating and drinking through the next round.  Unfortunately they did want to look in the ceiling, so we had to leave before round 4.  We were assured, however, that we’d come back to finish another day.  

In America you would have evacuated the minute you saw the smoke and if you were lucky you’d make it out before those damned stupid sprinklers started going off.  You’d never even consider going back in the building (2^nd grade teachers like to inflict the fear of God into their students with stories about the people that go back into burning buildings).  Finally, the firefighters would never apologize for interrupting your wine tasting in a burning building.  I love the French.

In all seriousness

September 5, 2011

Breakthrough:  I think I’m finally crossing the boundary between houseguest and family member.  I couldn’t be more happy.  This past weekend was a little rough because it seemed like whatever I did I caught Hell for it.  In case you didn’t know, the word “no” is hardly in my vocabulary, and “you screwed up” is not something I take well.  Well, luckily I haven’t heard no yet, but it seemed like whatever I did this weekend was a screwup (okay, maybe I exaggerate).  First I did laundry on Friday and had to go back to SciencesPo before the drying was done.  Now, I hate doing laundry, but I tolerate it simply so I have fresh clothes.  I’d learned how to use the washer and dryer, and thought I had it pretty much figured out.  I knew that I was supposed to hang my jeans up in the closet to dry, and that I had to empty the water bucket thing on the dryer before starting it. 

Apparently I’m not supposed to dry my jeans as per the professionals (aka girls), even though I normally do at school.  Here we have this big closet where the water heater lives which also has a clothes rack hanging from the ceiling on pulleys.  It’s pretty nifty actually- you just unclip this rope on the wall and the rack lowers, you put on your pants, and then hoist it back up.  Anyway, apparently I put too many regular clothes in the dryer, and it took two dryings, which is a no no.  Well, after being out practically all night and then waking up late and having a late breakfast at which you learn you put too much in the dryer ne marche pas dans ma vie (just don’t work too good for me, as them Downeastas say).  After breakfast Alexis came in and ranted about something that I didn’t really understand, but I imagine it was something trivial.  Anyway, it was the next day when he went off on me after a similar night that I was really irked.  Not my problem I spent 59 minutes between 2:01 am and 3am trying to flag down a taxi, dude.  I wanted to sleep in.  It’s not dirty or improper as you might think, it’s a fact of life, and I didn’t really ask your opinion, anyway.  

I figured if it was a big deal Madame would have mentioned it, but since she didn’t I just took it to mean that Alexis wasn’t keen on me, and that’s all well and good.  Not every has to really like me, that’s okay.  I couldn’t figure out what I’d done to piss him off, but I guessed it was better that he was pissed off than I was pissed on.  I’ve since learned Madame thinks he’s keen on me, which I guess is better than a thorough detestation.  

Anyway, today, after my first day of the Welcome Program today I was almost prepared to come home to an unhappy 42 year old mentally retarded host brother.  He seemed nice enough and happy to see me.  I was even in a pretty good mood because I’d taken the 20 minute walk from the Eiffel Tower home rather than staying on the Métro.  I’d passed some really beautiful buildings (today I found 104 Passy Kennedy, which is a great Corbusian-inspired building), so I was pretty happy with life.  Madame was happy to see me, since I left before she got up this morning, so all seemed good.  I went into my room, and was working, and then went into the kitchen, was chatting with my host mother and then she invited me to sit down in the living room to chat.  We talked about all sorts of things.  I even got her talking to me about the War in Paris.  She didn’t remember very much of it because she was very young, but had vivid memories of after the war.  She was born in the south of France, but her family moved to Paris at some point just before or at the beginning of the war.  In fact, the 4^th child in the family was born on the day Paris was liberated from the Nazis. 

She told me how her father was actually aiding the Jews, and hiding them and helping them escape the Nazis.  (She actually never used the word Nazis, and only called them Germans.)  Interestingly, he never mentioned his actions until he was on his deathbed.  She mentioned that she had a vivid memory of two German soldiers coming to the house one day to interrogate her father, but never knew what it was about.  She also talked about her fears of the Germans as they were posted throughout the city when she would go on walks with her mother.  By the end of the War, her family had 4 kids and two parents, and food was next to impossible to come by, so they pretty much survived on nothing.  She also said that what food they did have had to be cooked between midnight and 1am because the Germans shut off the gas to the city otherwise and diverted it for their own use.  Therefore her mother would stay up and do all the cooking then with what little for she could acquire at what seem to have been food pantries for housewives.  

She told me about her vague memories of the American, British, and German planes flying overhead and the drone that rang throughout Paris even though she was scuttled down into the basement rooms of their apartment building for safety.  It seems terrifying just to think about.  The most impressive part for me was the way she finished every story about her memories of the war.  “Je n’ai pas du peur parce que j’étais avec papa et mamman.”  “I wasn’t scared because I was with dad and mom.”  She talked about the older kids in the basement crying while the planes went overhead, but made it clear that she never cried because she never felt endangered.  I guess innocence truly is bliss.  

Her memories of the years after the War were especially striking.  Because there was no leather for shoes, they resorted to using shoes with wooden soles.  Looking at the ladies in their high heels and haut couture shoes today, I can scarcely think of Parisiens being stuck with wooden-soled shoes!  She said that it wasn’t bad except that in the winter the wood absorbed all the dampness of the ground and that she has never been so cold in her life since then.  Even though everyone was cold though, she said that nobody cared because everyone in Paris was so enthralled to be “libre encore.”  

Tonight Madame invited down Juliette, who is an 18 year old girl living in Mme’s attic studio and is going to a 2 year school which will only prepare her for the exams that allow entry into the nation’s most exclusive private universities.  Juliette is very nice and it was nice to have a young face at dinner.  Tonight we had an omlette for dinner (finally eggs!), homefries, and salad, followed by fromage (my favorite), and a lemon tart.  After dinner we retired to the living and had coffee and talked.  It was really interesting because I got to talk to Juliette some and learned about her education.  Note to self: the reason the French are tri-lingual and super smart is because they go to school ALL THE TIME!  

After Juliette left, Mme and I stayed in the salon and talked more.  We were talking about how she had a studio in the attic (I had no idea), and she explained that they bought it because she liked the view and it allowed her a place to do her art.  Apparently she was quite the artiste and specialized in restoring porcelains and fine china.  I had no idea.  After she had kids and had to take care of Alexis, she ran out of time to do her porcelain work and art.  She told me that she would have loved to have gone to an art school, but she felt that it wasn’t a good idea financially so she went to SciencesPo for “les droits.”  Reminder to the reader: SciencesPo is France’s Harvard and she was there to study human rights in the early 60s.  This chick was smart, and willing to take one for the team for financial security.  After she had Alexis and there was no school for him, she had to quit her studies and take care of him.  It seems like she was planning stopping her studies anyway because they were planning on moving to America in the late summer, but Alexis’ birth in late spring stopped those plans completely.  She felt that, although Americans were (and still are according to her) accepting of mental conditions, she just didn’t want to leave her only safety blanket (France) for a new world with a mentally handicapped child.  

Of course I asked about programs for retarded kids and was amazed to hear that there are almost none in France, even today.  Madame realized that Alexis loves kitchens and being around them and tried for a long time to get him a position in a commercial kitchen, but they all said no.  She finally heard about one for a huge company, and they agreed to hire him.  It’s been a match made in heaven for everyone.  I think he clears tables and such, which is exactly what he does at hom, with remarkable efficiency.  At the time he started, the company was located not far from the apartment.  They’ve since moved to La Défense, the industrial park area just outside the city, and now Alexis takes an hour long bus ride every morning.  When I asked if he liked it, she said he loves his job, and really loves the morning light colors on the big glass towers that one sees on the way to La Défense.  I think it’s great that he finds the beauty in morning colors, even though he’s stuck in a crowded autobus for an hour.

It’s still sad though, that there are no programs for mentally handicapped people here, and Mme mentioned that there are still very few for physically handicapped people.  Sort of a bummer that a first rate country like La France would do this to its citizens, but I guess I’m not a politician.  After this long discussion about deep topics, which I understood remarkably well, I went to the kitchen to get a cold bottle of water from the frig and refill another, and as I left Madame held up her right hand as though to give me a high five.  Instead I grabbed it and she gave me a kiss on both cheeks (elle a fait la bise in French).  It’s like I’m actually family now.  Yeahhhhh!

In the mean time, I’ll just chuckle when Alexis goes to the bathroom and (loudly) gives himself a play by play commentary of the occasion.  At least he’s a happy guy.  It will all be funny until he starts nit-picking me again.  

PS - I have some funny stories to come.  Adventures in the discothèque, and “Drinking: The differences between getting raped, getting screwed, and getting laid.”

PPS -  Happy Belated half-century plus 1 birthday to my mom on Sunday!  Love you!

Paris: The City of Lights, Love, and Calorie Counting

1 Septembre 2011

She is 19, has beautiful big brown eyes, curls, and doesn’t talk much.  She sounds like the perfect girl and she is absolutely smitten with me.  As everyone knows, I’d love to marry a French girl, and I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m not working harder on this one.  Well, she happens to be the 19 MONTH old granddaughter of my host mother, and she’s damned cute (says the guy who really doesn’t even like kids).  Suzanne has been at the apartment quite a lot recently because she’s acclimatizing to her new nursery school, so only goes for short visits during the day while her parents are at work.  Before this I didn’t even realize you’re supposed to acclimatize kids before they get into their new environment, I thought you only did that when you bought a new fish for your fishtank.

In the last couple of days I’ve had the opportunity to relive my childhood a bit while entertaining a 19 month old.  She waddles around the apartment, going from room to room, and saying simple things in French.  (I’m hoping they’re not words because I can’t understand what she’s saying most of the time, and that’s pathetic.)  I’ve gotten quite good at making and playing with the wooden train set, which is almost the same as the one I had.  We’ve also watched French animal videos on youtube, which have been mutually beneficial; did you know that a hedgehog is called a hérrison?  Well now Suzanne and I do!    

I know most of you think I don’t particularly like kids.  They’re sort of smelly and loud, and go through phases of being absolutely repulsive.  I have to say though, this one is kinda cute.  And she even smells good.  Another great thing about Suzanne is that she forced me to get one nice deed for September out of the way, and it’s only September 1^st!  I hope that doesn’t mean I have to do another one.  I was about to leave to go back to SciencesPo this afternoon when I heard Suzanne crying.  Knowing that Madame was asleep in the salon (afternoon siesta time), I opened Mme’s door and pulled the crying kid out of the crib.  I opened the door and was clearly not what she was expecting, but she gave me a great big smile anyway.  I guess that’s a good thing.  By the time I got to the living room, Madame was awake and I pawned Suzanne off on her.  Salient point: I made a kid stop crying, and that’s a good deed.

One thing I meant to mention in my last entry was a very amusing event that I happened to witness at the Champs Elysées when I was there last Sunday.  I was sitting on a bench watching the people go by and really enjoying myself.  Unlike going to Wal-Mart on a Friday night, an afternoon of people watching at the Champs Elysées only makes you feel ugly and poorly dressed.  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed what I thought was a guinea pig on a leash.  Well luckily nobody had their guinea pig out for a stroll, and upon closer inspection it was a chihuahua (yeah, I had to look up that spelling).  Well, tiny dogs like that don’t interest me in the least, so I tried to pretend it didn’t exist and focused my attention elsewhere.  I happened to turn my head just in time to see the dumb little dog and its owner walk onto one of those grates over a subway air duct.  You know, the ones with the little 1”x2” rectangular holes where ladies get their heels stuck?  Yeah, one of those.  Well, since the chihuahua had legs of roughly the same dimension as the average high heel, he fell right in.  Now, I don’t mean one leg fell through.  Oh no, all four went right in and KERPLOP, there was a dog stuck in the grate.  He couldn’t move.  I sort of imagine his legs kept moving underneath like one of those electric dogs that I love to put on their side when I’m in a toy store.  Maybe I’m an ass (it’s still up for debate in some third world countries), but I got a good laugh out of the whole dog in the grate event.  

Since I last wrote I’ve had a week of methodology courses at SciencesPo, which have been a touch dry (as in super dry), but I’ve survived.  I can’t say that I’ve learned an awful lot, but I’ve met some nice people, which is a good thing.  I haven’t gone to many of the Bar a Night things this week, but I did go to the Wine and Cheese event on Monday and that was a lot of fun.  Crappy wine, and crappy cheese, both of which were gone in the first 45 minutes, but an awesome band.  Instead a handful of us went to the local Monoprix (sort of like Super Wal-Mart), bought bottles of cheap wine, and then got crêpes from a street vender.  After chowing down on the crêpes, we took the (remaining) wine and drank along the Seine.  It was sort of like the Abba song “Our Last Summer,” I can’t even lie.  

I ate at home on Tuesday night and we had some really good (and really rare) roast beef.  I think the center was still mooing, but it was incredible!  We also had some salad, and small, yummy potatoes.  Interestingly, they don’t use butter on their potatoes here- olive oil gets the job done.  As I was eating the oily-potato, I tried to figure out which I liked more: butter or olive oil.  I have to say, you actually taste the potato when you use olive oil whereas otherwise you taste the butter and saltiness.  I’m getting quite fond of this after dinner dessert cheese course, however.  The brie smells so horrible but it tastes sooo good!  I have to say, these crazy Frenchies do food up right, even though they do eat a bit late.  

When I came to France I was initially convinced I would come home and be 1200 lbs.  Well, that may still be true, but I’m starting think otherwise.  At Monoprix today, (it figures that the American gets lunch at the French Wally-World) I noticed that all the sandwiches (which are cheap and decent) have the calories on the side of the box.  The chicken wrap I got today had 367 calories and that’s all I ate for lunch.  Because I go to Trinity, where I’m surrounded by calorie counting biddies (I had to stop the alliteration before it got vulgar), I know that a Chartwells wrap alone, the wrap before they put all that stuff in it, is 300 calories.  Well, after they fill it up with about 7 small pigeons, breaded and deep fried for full caloric potential, pepperjack (because it’s really bad for you), hot sauce to cover the taste, and enough bleu cheese to cover Manhattan three inches deep, there must be about 1500 calories in each wrap.  So, for those of you who doubt my ability to stay svelte and slim despite being in the pastry capital of the world, I have this to say to you: WANNA BET?!

PS - as for pictures, they’re on my camera and I haven’t downloaded them yet.  They’ll come eventually, I promise.  In the meantime, Suzanne and I played with Photobooth on my computer today.  She was rather confused by some of the effects you can put on the pictures, as was I.