It is hard to believe that I have been living in Paris for the last four weeks and that I will be leaving in only five days. I spent so many months dreaming about being here, and now that I finally am, sometimes it hardly feels real, until I walk out onto my terrace and see the Eiffel Tower staring me in the face. Again, as per request of my mom who has just recently learned to email and demanded I update my blog (in all caps mind you....not sure if she was yelling or just didn't know how to take caps lock off), here is another post about last week, with stories full of pastries, jazz, wine, haircuts, sandy beaches, free concerts and moraccan food, regardless of the often miserable weather conditions.
On Monday, a few of us trekked over to Centre Pompidou, a modern art museum full of incredible pieces and installations. The outside of the building is just as interesting as the works of art it holds. Upon first looking at it, it appears under heavy construction, with multicolored tubes and pipes tangled around scaffolding, with large chunks of plastic and wire stapled in miscellaneous places. I am normally not a big fan of art museums, however this one had a certain je ne sais quoi about it that made every room and piece of art more fascinating and intriguing than the last.
On Tuesday, with the weather still uncooperative, we visited the Cluny Museum, an interesting and under-appreciated museum that houses art and artifacts from the middle ages. Equipped with intricate tapestries (which I admittedly have no appreciation for), wooden carvings, a room full of stained glass windows, countless statues and a special exhibit on swords and their mythological and symbolical importance from the middle ages through the modern era, the museum went beyond what little expectations I had. I love museums, but truthfully I have often felt that a city's most interesting artifacts aren't behind plexiglass windows but exist everywhere around you, on undiscovered side streets where you can touch, breathe, feel and taste the true treasures and jewels of Paris.
On Wednesday, I did something crazy. Well, crazy for me at least, as anyone in my family would know. I chopped off my hair. The act itself is nothing out of the ordinary for me, considering I have had short hair my entire life. However, after growing my hair out for the better part of two years because I was so scarred from my last grooming experience, I had practically vowed to never get my hair cut again. Probably because I never wanted to be compared to Billy Idol for the rest of my life after the last botched job of a bleach blonde buzz cut, a look that not even the most glamorous A-List celebrity could pull off. I don't know what got into me, especially considering that I would hardly be able to communicate with my hairdresser what I wanted, but I was feeling spontaneous and I went for it. I walked into a hair salon right next to my favorite Boulangerie on Rue St. Jacques and somehow figured that the incredible croissants next door must somehow make this place credible, logic that can only be explained for my obsession with almond croissants.
I walked into the salon, and in broken French explained that I was a student at the Sorbonne and wanted to cut off a good chunk of my hair but could only spare 25€. After agreeing upon my budget, a man who weighed no more than 100 pounds with the fierest cheekbones I have ever seen, wearing an XXS Rolling Stones t-shirt adorned with glitter and sequins sat me down at the sink. He took one look at the mop on my head, reached for his most intense conditioner he had, and began scrubbing furiously, trying to bring life back into my clearly deceased locks of hair.
I sat down in the cutting chair, trying not to panick when I realized I had no idea how to describe to my hairdresser in French what I was looking for and instead began making motions with my hands, hoping that hair salon sign language would be the universal connector that would help us understand each other. She smiled, nodded her head and began snipping away as inches fell to the floor. I closed my eyes, thinking somehow if I didn't watch it would mean I could open my eyes and everything would be perfect. Luckily, thats exactly what happened. After leaving the hair salon, along with about 5 to 6 inches of my hair, I felt Parisian chic and quick grabbed an almond croissant before heading home.
That evening, a large group of us were invited over to our Program Director's apartment for a homemade meal, something we were all desperately in need of after scraping by on stale baguettes and pasta for the last few weeks. Being the picky eater that I am, I was both nervous and excited to see what had been prepared for us, knowing very well that I would have to eat whatever was put in front of me. In addition to an incredible spread of appetizers that included saussicon, carrot slaw, beet salad and tomatoes in vinaigrette along with basket after basket of baguettes, the main course was a Moroccan dish called tagine, a stew typically prepared with lamb, garlic, carrots, olives and rice, well-seasoned with Middle Eastern spices. However, she prepared a tagine de poulet, made with chicken instead and as I nervously took my first bite, I was in heaven. The spices mixed with the tenderness of the meat made me feel so warm and full inside, the first sign of a meal prepared with time and care. The night was accompanied with five bottles of wine, a platter of cheeses, a chocolate cake and conversations about our most embarassing celebrity crushes, the societal constructions of gender and of course, in true French fashion as Madame says, discussing delicious foods while eating delicious foods. We dined and drank from 7 pm until past 11 pm, which is completely normal and acceptable by French standards.
On Thursday, the entire group went out to a jazz bar in the Latin Quarter in order to enjoy a night of free jazz music and a few drinks. However, after looking at the prices on the drink menu, a few of us decided we would just stick with the free jazz for the evening. First rule of thumb when going to a jazz bar....go with people who actually enjoy jazz. Besides myself, I think there were maybe two or three other people in our group that actually took the time to listen and enjoy the music. It was a jazz trio, with a stand-up bass player, a keyboardist and the charming and very talented vocalist named Bernadette. The music was great, full of French soul and la joie de vivre. I sat in my chair and merrily tapped my feet to the beat, swaying and smiling at Bernadette's every coo. Afterwards, a few of us went up to Rue Moufftard, found a decent looking bar and ordered a round of drinks to cap off the evening.
Friday was both my best and worst day in Paris, which is suitable considering Paris can sometimes be the most beautiful and the ugliest city in the world depending on which way you choose to look at it. After being with 20 other students around the clock for over three weeks, I decided I needed some "me" time and I ventured out on my own, without a plan, agenda or route in sight. I like the way that Paris has changed me. Back home, I am the most calculated, overly-scheduled, agenda checking person anyone has ever met. I always have a plan and I stick to it, hardly ever venturing outside of the lines I have drawn with such precision. However, in Paris, I have let go of all these obligations and I now walk with no direction in mind, just with the goal of seeing something new, trying something new, going somewhere new. Being here has made me realize that often times the best adventures are the ones unaccounted for, the roads less traveled, the muscian playing on the lonely street corner, the best damn macaroon you've ever laid your lips to on a street so small if you blink you'd walk right past it. These are the things that make Paris magical. Not the Louvre, not the Eiffel Tower, not Notre Dame.... but rather the father and son tap dancing on a worn piece of wood to Edith Piaf, the softness of the grass and the sweet smell of the flowers in Luxembourg as you watch little boys and girls innocently play with their sailboats in the fountain, the sun warming the side of your face as you sit along the Seine river eating the most incredible Berthillion icecream, turning your lips purple from the fresh raspberries.
I began my unplanned adventure by heading over to the Seine and enjoyed Paris Plage for about an hour, a month long festival that occurs every summer from the end of July until the end of August, when the right bank along the river is transformed into a beach with over 5,000 tons of sand and large umbrellas and beach chairs mixed intermittently. Equipped with a good book, I found a cozy little chair and dug my toes deep into the sand as I looked around me and had one of those incredibly gratifying and satisfying moments where you suddenly realize you are living your dream and its all right in front of you, touchable and tangible. While reading, a very nice guy from Bordeaux came and sat in the chair next to me while we discussed our mutual love for Paris and a good bottle of wine. After talking for about an hour, I excused myself because I still had plenty of exploring to do.
I continued to walk in the direction of Hotel de Ville and stumbled upon a church only a few blocks away from Pompidou. It appeared very small from the outside but I was drawn in by the most hauntingly beautiful voice I had ever heard echoing off the old stone walls and pillars. I walked in and quietly took a seat in the back and for the next forty minutes closed my eyes and lost myself in the the crescendos and harmonies, not having a clue what she was singing about, but not caring because I knew it had to be about something beautiful.
After the performance I continued to walk, turning down whatever street pulled me in its direction. After ducking it and out of small art galleries and quirky stores full of handmade jewelry and pottery, I decided to grab a table at a corner Brasserie and ordered a large glass of Chardonnay for myself as it began to rain and I watched people dance between raindrops in a desperate attempt to stay dry. After I finished my glass and worked my way through another fifty pages in my book, I wandered over to Hotel de Ville again to watch a little bit of the free FNAC concert. I only stayed for two performances but the hour I was there was an incredible experience, being shoulder to shoulder with people as the music makes your entire core shake while you watch older men in cutoff shorts drink wine out of a sippy cup and perform a routine similar to Jennifer Beals' flashdance.
Later than night a group of us went to the Duplex, a multilevel dance club near the Arc de Triomphe. However... as mentioned previously, Friday was both my best and worst day in Paris. Skipping the details, metros were skipped, fines were given and it was one of the first times I have ever felt truly discriminated against as an American during my stay in Paris. After a ridiculous amount of confusion, anger and frustration those who were able to still make it to the club danced into the wee hours of the morning, failing to acknowledge that we would have to be awake in only a few short hours for our 8:30 am excursion planned for the next day.
After rolling out of bed at the last possible minute, washing my hair in a sink and throwing on the first clean thing I could dig out of my suitcase, we boarded the bus for the city of Reimes to go to yet another church and then later on to the Mercier Champagne factory for a tour of the caves and a complimentary tasting. I was too tired to appreciate the church, or maybe I had just seen one too many, however the Mercier tour was great considering we got to ride on a train for the tour, giving my exhausted feet a chance to rest and it ended with a delicious glass of free bubbly. I slept on the bus all the way home. I gave myself a night off on Saturday and then spent the better part of Sunday getting caught up with various things such as laundry, cleaning and homework. Later than night a few of us went back to the free FNAC concert series since it was the last night of the festival and enjoyed another packed house accompanied by music even better than Friday's.
The past two days have been full of more unantipated, unplanned wandering filled with macaroons, eclairs, used books and silk scarves. My body is screaming at me and pleading with me to give the daily pastries a rest but I just remind it that you only live in Paris once and continue to promise it that there will be a severe decrease in butter, chocolate and bread as soon as we get home. Last night I stuffed myself full of so much incredible food at a Brasserie called Le Bec Rouge for our final group dinner, courtesy of Madame. While others were adventurous and ordered rabbit, escargot and duck I decided to stick to the basics with a grilled entrecote steak with mashed potatoes and I couldn't have been happier because 30 minutes after the plate hit the table, it was wiped clean accompanied by a few more glasses of vin blanc and chocolate creme brulee.
Today I stumbled upon the famous bookstore Shakespeare and Company, well-known for its previous frequenters including Hemingway and Stein to name a few. The walls are lined with thousands of books, old and new and you have the urge to curl up in a corner and begin reading until you have read them all. They also have an antique section of the store next door where you can find original prints and editions from some of the world's most famous pieces of literature. I ventured in and picked up the 2nd printed version,1st edition of J.D.Salinger's Catcher in the Rye and nearly cried with excitement as I held one of the very first copies printed of one of the books that changed my life. Unfortunately, I didn't have the 600€ to spare in order to buy it so I placed it carefully back in its stand and looked at it longingly through the window.
After getting a cone of Berthillon icecream and licking up every drop around my lips, we went to the HD Diner again and I ordered a small side of fries wishing I had foregone the fries and had just bought another cone of some of the best icecream I had ever tasted. I plan to go back to Rue Luis St. L'Ile because there are streets lined with the perfect little chocolateries and I planned on bringing some home for my family. I may just be using this as an excuse to get more icecream, but the intentions are good regardless.
Tomorrow, a few of us are going to walk to the top of the Eiffel Tower and in the evening venture over to Parc la Villette for the cinema en plein air festival where hundreds of people bring blankets and picnic spreads and watch classic French films on a jumbotron. I picked a great 1940's black and white film and will be equipped with two baguettes, two bottles of Chardonnay and a block of comte cheese, as per usual.
I miss everything and everyone at home, but I'm not ready to say goodbye to Paris. I am connected to this city in a way I didn't think possible. This city has helped me to grow and learn in ways unexpected. Every street is more beautiful and perfect than the last, every park more green and lush, every croissant more flaky and buttery... my heart is torn between the people I love and the city I love and I'm realizing now it will never be able to be full and whole. In the next five days I plan to laugh more, walk more, dance more and love more than I ever have before. No bottle of wine, no macaroon and no park bench will be left untouched. If I only have five days left with Paris, then I am going to throw myself into her arms and dance with her until the music stops playing and its time for us to part.
Until next time... the last time, de Paris avec l'amour.
No comments:
Post a Comment