26 Septembre 2013
Five days in Paris goes by really fast, and today I’m headed over to Chalons en Champagne to start my job (boulot as they commonly say in France). My time in Paris was spent walking, exploring, eating, drinking, and sleeping. It was all great, however. I saw lots of people who I haven’t seen in a long time and it made me feel super popular (when trying to get over jet-lag, anything you can do to boost self-confidence is a good thing). I had lunch with Francie, one of the Trinity professors, drinks and dinner with Ann Lawson, who I hadn’t seen in over a year and with whom I studied in Paris in 2011, lunch, coffee, and ice cream with Romy and Charlie, drinks with Charles (I met Romy, Charlie, and Charles this past year at Trinity while they were studying in America), and finally lunch with my “buddy” from the Trinity “Buddy Program,” Marie Audrey. All in all it was great to see them, and I wish I’d been able to see some of my other peeps in Paris. But I guess that just means I’ll have to come back again… soon…
Ice cream flour (blueberry, raspberry, and lemon sorbets) with Romy and Charlie
Steak Tartare with Ann Lawson
While a lot has stayed the same in Paris, after a few days in the city I realized that a fair amount has changed as well Some of my favorite bars (namely Footsie, about which I blogged about in 2011) is gone! It was a great bar with a big open room, sort of styled after English manor houses, with wood beams, a big fireplace, and drink prices that changed depending on the “market.” (Every 200 seconds the prices changed depending on what was being purchased and what wasn’t.) It was also the place where the yuppies hung out after work. Now I cannot figure out where they go; I guess I’ll have to research that.
Another dilemma that I’ve come across is that one of the homeless people who lived around Trinity is missing. For the most part, the homeless people (the clochards) are exactly where they were in 2011, with the same scraggly looking dogs, still smelling like pee. But one, a woman who never wore pants, is nowhere to be seen. So, if anybody sees a pantsless woman begging for money and eating flan with her hands out and about in the world, send up a smoke signal, I want to be sure that she’s okay.
Without a real schedule (except for meals and drinks with friends), I’ve had plenty of time to walk (and walk and walk and walk and walk) around the city. I bet I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said I walked 6 to 8 miles a day in Paris. Oh, and did I mention it has been in the mid to upper 70s everyday since I arrived, with about 245% humidity? It’s been a rough period of adjustment after a summer in Maine with only a few really humid days. Anyway, while I’ve been out walking (being what the French call le flâneur) I’ve had plenty of time to see and be seen (a big part of being the flâneur - vois et être vue). Everybody knows I’m good at examining people and in my firsthand research thus far the thing that really stood out to me in my walks around Paris is how much less formal the city has become in 2 years. Shockingly so, actually. Now, that’s not to say it’s gone all to Hell, or worse yet: that the Parisians look American, but there are few fewer people who are truly well dressed. The arrival of the basket or the sneaker (basically just the French words for sneaker) in Paris is noticeable. Now, let’s get one thing straight right away: these aren’t your average Air Jordans. These are French sneakers, so they still look a bit different. While some of the twenty-somethings enjoy their Converse All-Stars, which they undoubtedly purchased at some ungodly price, most people wear what I can only describe as sort of classy sneakers. They’re normally dark color (black and navy blue seem to be especially popular), made of leather or suede, and have a very low profile. Lucky for me, I had made the conscious decision not to bring sneakers to France because I had no idea what was à la mode (in fashion, not covered with ice cream) right now. After a day traipsing about in hard leather French shoes, I knew it was time to change, so I pulled out the trusty ol’ driving mocs and went on a sneaker hunt. I went to all sorts of stores: big ones, little ones, expensive ones, cheap ones… you name it, I was there. I went into the touristy ones on the Champs Elysées like Adidas and saw their exorbitant prices and finally ended up finding a very nice Puma shop in the Marais. In 23 years I never thought I’d own a pair of Pumas, but now I do. And I have to admit that I really like them. They’re comfy, rubber bottomed, black, leather - basically what I was after. And I didn’t spend an arm and a leg for them. Well… I guess my mom can decide whether I spent an arm and a leg on them when the credit card bill arrives.
Fear not, world: point French shoes still exist. I believe these were a mere 400 Euros.
But the new thing in Paris are sneakers like mine, seen here in the Tuileries Gardens
Now, not all of my time in Paris has been spent doing banal tasks like shopping for shoes. I’ve managed to find some interesting things as well. Take for example the day I was walking by Notre Dame de Paris and I could hear all kinds of screaming and yelling in front of the cathedral. When I hear excitement, like a squirrel, I forget what I’m doing and I need to go investigate. (Fine, call me nosy, but the pictures will more than make up for it.) So I walked over toward the cathedral and up the ramp to the viewing pavilion thing that I talked about last time. I got to the top, and jumping around the bleacher-like seating was a wedding party. And not just any wedding party, a wedding party of very animated Asians. They were hooting and hollering and jumping and posing for photos and it was unlike anything I’d ever seen in my life. What made this group even more interesting was their choice of outfits. The groomsmen were wearing what I can only describe as grey gym shorts, a matching grey jacket of sorts (also made of gym short material) knee socks, black shoes, and designer belts (each with a big logo on the buckle). It was so bizarre that even the locals were taking photos with their cell phones, and I joined the crowd of “admirers” standing in disbelief and utter confusion.
I guess I should also give a shoutout to the bride - after all the wedding is all about the bride. I don’t know much (aka: anything) about bridal fashion, but I’m pretty sure your grandmother’s shower cap with flowers on it is not part of the normal outfit. I could go on, but I’ll let you figure it out for yourself. I only hope that my cousin, who’s getting married this weekend choses not to have his groomsmen wear gym shorts to the wedding. It’s a bit chilly to be doing that in Maine right now.
Now the other amusing incident took place while Ann Lawson and I were having a drink at one every American’s favorite Parisian bar: Moose. Moose is technically a Canadian bar, but they hamburgers, and poutine, Canadian beers, and English speaking bar tenders. Sometimes it’s nice to be someplace that at least feels like home. Anyway, we’re sitting at the bar enjoying our Strangebrews when this ancient creature walked in with a giant purse. I’d say she was about 65 years old, but time had not been kind. She bellied up to the bar and immediately ordered herself a shot of tequila. She by herself, bellies up to the bar, and the first thing she orders is a shot of tequila. Even the bartender was taken aback.
With the speed of a roving turtle she took the salt shaker, covered her lime with salt, sucked on the lime for a minute, and then - worst of all- started SIPPING the tequila shot. I thought I was going to became ill just watching. Imagine sipping a shot of tequila… VOMMMMMmmmmm. After a few sips she ordered herself a hamburger to go, paid for everything, and by the time the hamburger arrived, she had finished her shot of tequila. I’d like to give her a solid 25 points for ordering a shot of tequila by herself, and at least 65 for thoroughly grossing out half of the bar as she sipped it.
Presumably chatting about the finer points of doing shots.
On my last night in Paris we went to dinner at my host mother’s daughter’s house, which is right on the Champs de Mars. (The Champs de Mars is the area in front of the Eiffel Tower). Like most French dinners we didn’t even leave the house to drive to Cécile’s until after 8pm and I don’t think we sat down to eat until 9 or 9:30. We had cocktails, nibblies, and chatted in the salon (the living room) before we went to eat our gigot d’agneau (leg of mutton) in the dining room. It was super good. It sort of reminded me of a boiled dinner, or something you would make in a crockpot. There was this giant hunk of meat in a broth, surrounded by potatoes, carrots, spices, and general French yumminess. Served with a good French Bourgogne… yummmm…. Like every French meal, following the main course came my favorite part: le fromage. Served on a giant serving platter, at least 2 feet long and a foot wide was served not one, not two, but SEVEN different types of cheeses. Three chevres, comté (which is sort of like swiss - it’s a hard cheese), St. Nectaire (a soft cheese made from cow’s milk without a super strong flavor), Brie (not that crappy stuff that tastes like cardboard available in the US), and another cheese made of cow’s milk that I didn’t try. It was delicious! And, to top it all off, every half hour, the Eiffel Tower would start to sparkle directly behind me and the room would sort of glisten. (Normally at night the Eiffel Tower is simply illuminated, but every half hour, for a minute or two, the entire thing sparkles and shimmers. It’s really magical.)
Fromage... nom nom nommmmm
The view
And when the Tower sparkles
We didn’t get home from dinner until after midnight, and I went right to bed. This morning I woke up, packed my bags, did some things around the house, and Madame brought me to the gare (train station) so I could head to Chalons en Champagne to move into my new living quarters. I sort of feel like a homeless person, but I’ll be happy when I can finally unpack my suitcases and get myself situation thoroughly. Until then, I’ll just be the American on his laptop while the train buzzes through the French countryside.
Just another Parisian Bagman
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