I'm sitting in the old library of my dorm, in the uncomfortable yet now familiar wooden chairs that creak everytime you make the slightest movement. There is an ambulance wailing through the open balcony window and the cool night air is dancing on the back of my neck, causing the occasional shiver.
I just watched the Eiffel Tower light up for the last time... all 20,000 of its lights illuminating the entire city, a beacon of beauty in the center of it all. My bags are packed, my flights are confirmed and in 24 hours, I will be home.
I am a cluster of emotions right now, and I don't think I will be able to fully sort them out until I am back in my one room apartment in North Philadelphia. These past five weeks have truly changed me for the rest of my life and I have never been prouder of myself for everything I have accomplished.
This entire journey all started with a dream. A longing to appease my own appetite and thirst for life and adventure, my own cravings to do something for myself for a change rather than my resume. The dream seemed so out of reach at first, with having no way of paying for it, parents who were hesitant about its purpose, responsibilities that seemed too important to blow off. It was a week before the application was due and I had thought to throw in the towel until a miracle happened, and I won a scholarship...and then another, and then another until I was able to pay for my dream through all of the time and hard work I had invested into it.
I spent the next 5 months counting down the days, wishing away the weeks, daydreaming of macaroons, the Champs Elysees, the smell of summer in Paris... And now, I have lived it, my dream... and its finally over. I have met some of the most incredible people, eaten the most delicious icecream and pastries, listened to the beautiful rhythms of the streets, indulged in too many bottles of wine, walked until my feet were as rough as the pavement beneath them. I have learned things about myself, new strengths I never knew I had, weaknesses that I worked to make better. I threw all caution to the wind and moved to Paris for five weeks to spend a summer with people I didn't know, in a city I had always loved and I have never been more proud of myself. Proud for throwing the what-ifs and should-I's out the window and just allowing myself to enjoy my beautiful life in the most beautiful city in the world.
As Hemingway so eloquently states, Paris truly is a moveable feast...and I know this summer will stay with me for the rest of my life, no matter where I go or who I meet, it will stay with me always. The people, the city, the beauty of it all wrapped up in five weeks that have changed me forever.
These past few days I have gone around the city, leaving pieces of myself in all of my favorite places. The Luxembourg Gardens, with their fields of lush sunflowers, violets and tulips and my favorite place to clear my thoughts as the sun warmed the sides of my face.... my boulangerie up the street and the woman who made sure to keep an almond croissant stashed away just for me...Bubby the gelato man and his forward, yet genuine remarks about my smile... my favorite bookstore lined with all the great classics and the coziest chairs that make you want to snuggle up with your favorite prose. This city has given me so much and all I have to give it in return is a piece of my heart, to hold on to until the next time I return. The streets, the people, the sounds, the laughter, the music... all of it runs through my veins now, entangled in my every fiber, fully apart of my very being. I am Paris, and Paris is me. As Stein so ingeniously put it, "America is my country, and Paris is my hometown."
Merci pour tout, Paris.... Jusqu'à la prochaine fois. We part only to meet again.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Plan for the Unexpected
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.
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.
Monday, July 18, 2011
La Danse de la vie Parisienne
I'm not sure if I should be disappointed in myself for taking over a week to blog or if I should be proud of myself for occupying my time so well and enoying my time in Paris to the fullest. Again, I'm sorry mom. Here's a new one for the scrapbooks.
This past week has been a whirlwind of events and emotions, full of highs and lows, fireworks and ballets, wine and chateaus and a triple attempt quest for a decent cheeseburger. Allow me to connect the dots and fill in the blanks.
Last Tuesday, after a group of us ventured to Montmarte, the red light district that is overgrown with tourists, tacky souvenir shops, scantily clad women and home to the famous Moulin Rouge, we decided we needed to class up our day and walked down to the National Opera House of Paris in the hopes of securing last minute tickets to the ballet. After being told the only seats still available were in the nosebleeds and had extremely obstructed views but only cost 8€, the broke yet eager college student spirit within us decided to take a chance and we bought 6 tickets in the back of the side balconies.
The interior of the opera house was breathtaking and grandiose in every sense of the word. Although we were all still in our street clothes, covered in sweat and dust from the streets of Paris, stepping inside you couldn't help but feel elegant and exquisite, twirling around in your imaginary ballgown as your jewels catch the light off of the dozens of magnificent crystal chandeliers. Large marble pillars, grand staircases and beautfiful frescoes catch your glance at every turn and as you descend the staircase, for a moment you indulge yourself in a fantasy and make-believe that you are Kate Winslet in Titantic, walking towards an awe-stricken Leonardo DiCaprio, feeling more beautiful than ever.
We made our way to our seats, which were, as promised, in the nosebleeds. Our balcony was directly on the left side of the theatre, meaning we could only really see the right side of the stage from where we were sitting. Additionally, the seats left no leg room whatsoever and the four rows of people sitting in front of us forced us to constantly shift from left to right in our seats in order to catch a glance at the occasional arabesque. To our surprise, we thought we had purchased tickets to see L'autonomie, a contemporary ballet about the works of Francis Bacon, full of lust and sexuality. To our surprise, the curtains opened to a scene from the 18th century to the accompaniment of a joyful and upbeat orchestra and we quickly realized we were about to watch Les Enfants du Paradis, realizing our intended ballet was being performed at an entirely different opera house across the city. After a good laugh throughout the overture, we quickly fixated back to the ballet and the throngs of beautiful ballerinas leapings and twirling across the stage.
I must have moved my seat at least four or five times in the hopes of finding a seat that had visibility and leg room, luxuries that were never designed or intended for an 8€ ticket. Exasperated and feeling the glances from annoyed patrons around me, I finally found a small space in the back of the last row where I could stand and see a decent amount of the stage. After forty minutes or so, my feet began to throb with the melody of the orchestra, but I didn't mind because I was so enthralled with the beauty of everything happening before me. I always say that people have a great appreciation for talents they could never possess, which is why I have such an admiration for dancers. The body itself is a work of art, but to be blessed with the ability to twist, turn and bend it into the most beautiful shapes and forms is not only a work of art, its a masterpiece.
After leaving the ballet, a few of us decided to grab dinner at a restaurant just off of Boulevard St. Michel. Eager for a grilled cheese sandwich, I was instead presented two pieces of bread slathered in mayo and covered in emmental cheese, the French equivalent to Swiss cheese. Hating both emmental and mayo, I munched on my frites (frenchfries) and looked longingly at the gelato place a few stores down. After finishing my "dinner," I made a beeline for the gelateria and met a man named Bubby who is incredibly friendly yet sometimes a little too forward. Regardless, he was taken by my appetite for gelato and my "American friendliness" and now gives me quatre boules for the price of deux (four scoops for the price of two). I think its probably one of the best things that has happened to me since I have been here.
Skipping ahead, last Thursday was Bastille Day, France's national holiday. All of us were incredibly eager to celebrate considering we had missed our own independence day festivities and we were craving the celebratory spirit. We loaded up on several bottles of wine and baguettes while my friend really took to the holiday spirit and dyed her hair blue and red with food coloring. Feeling festive, we walked to the Eiffel Tower where we were hoping we could find a grassy spot to picnic with our bags full of wine, bread and pastries. Unfortunately, we weren't permitted to enter with our adult beverages and decided there was no way we were going to let perfectly good bottles of wine go to waste. So, upon improvisation, we took to the park across the street from the Invalides, set up our blanket and spent the next few hours enjoying cheap wine and good laughs with new friends. Around dinner time, we decided it was time to eat because the baguettes, as delicious as they were, were no longer cutting it. Everyone decided on a Thai restaurant, and true to form as the pickiest eater in the world, I ordered a small bowl of plain white steamed rice.
After appeasing our wine-induced appetites, we rushed back to our residence hall and went up to the library balconies where we had an exlcusive and yet amazing view of the Eiffel Tower. After a few more glasses of wine, we were all ready for the fireworks show to begin. The lights on the Eiffel dimmed until the sky eventually went black and only a few seconds later, the skies ignited with explosions of red, blue and white with the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower behind it. As the sky burst open with beautiful showers and eruptions of color, we all toasted to good health, new friendships and to the most amazing summer of our lives.
After Bastille Day, we were all still a little groggy from the previous day's festivities. Everyone was slow and sluggish in the morning however we all eventually found our groove later in the afternoon. We had hoped to go see the ballet again (the correct one this time), however it unfortunately sold out earlier that morning. Disappointed, a few of us decided to wander in the Hotel de Ville district in the hopes of coming across a pleasantly crowded street full of shops, restaurants, art galleries and boulangeries. We found exactly that and with tired feet and empty stomachs, decided to have dinner at a quaint jazz restaurant where three musicians played their hearts out for the diners before them. I ordered my first french cheeseburger. It was dry and tasteless. But yet again, the frites were delicious.
Saturday morning, we woke up early once again for another planned excursion to two chateaus, Fontain Bleu and Vaux le Vicomte. The first chateau was incredibly regal while the second felt very tourist imposed. However, the gardens at Vaux were extravagent and stretched out for hundreds upon hundreds of acres before you, filled with ponds, fountains, statues and rosy pink flowers. It was freezing that day, so I wrapped myself up in my travel blanket and through my shivering, took in the beauty around me, wondering why on earth someone would ever need a house or garden that large, but secretly knowing perfectly well how wonderful it must have been. I ordered another cheeseburger for lunch, this time I received a small square ground beef patty, no bun, no cheese. I dipped it in ketchup and enjoyed my frites, which are never disappointing.
Yesterday was another bad weather day in Paris, as most of them have been, freezing cold with occassional showers. Regardless, it didn't deter me from wandering throughout the Latin Quarter and traversing my favorite street in all of Paris, Rue Moufftard, lined with boulangeries, patisseries, chocolateries and the occassional strolling musician. Bright eyed, I walked along the street and came across a jazz trio performing various songs from the 1920's, its lead singer blessed with the raspy soulful voice of Louis Armstrong. I watched for a few songs, danced in the circle with a very kind old man, a left them a few euro in a tattered hat laying on the street. Afterwards, I picked up a deliciously flaky almond croissant, buttery and sweet, and while licking my fingers I flicked through shelves upon shelves of used books at a vintage bookstore. When the rain started coming down, I knew it was time to head home. I quick ducked into a music store, full of vinyl records from decades past, and after admiring the vast collection of musical genius, I met up with two girls from my group and craving greasy American nostalgia, we went to the Happy Days Diner, a retro 1950's, blue and pink checkered Parisian hotspot. I ordered a cheeseburger, hoping the third time would be a charm. It came out, with poppyseed bun; a slice of cheddar cheese and a plate of frites. It was juicy. It was meaty. It was cheesy. It was home. Ironically, I took the top part of the bun off. One can only handle so much bread.
Today has been, thus far at least, a series of unfortunate events. Despite studying for a few hours, my test this morning seemed impossibly difficult, I realized I have almost run out of money and got lost going to my phoentics class...in the freezing cold rain. I have always hated Mondays but this one seems to want to give me a run for my money. Regardless of how wet, cold and disappointed I was, it didn't deter me from getting another deliciously flaky almond croissant, just as buttery and sweet as yesterday's. A group of us are leaving for Pompidou in about an hour, a modern art museum that is full of crazy colors and installations.
I have exactly two weeks left in Paris and I am now on the downward slope, making sure that I enjoy every single croissant, bottle of wine, moonlit river and sparkling light before I leave. Life is Paris is like a dance, with countless clumsy missteps, romantic twirls and dips, somedays a foxtrot and other days a waltz, but at the end of every dance, you bow and thank your partner for a wonderful time. I'm not quite ready for my final bow yet, however I know that no dance will ever be the same, because Paris, although sometimes a little clumsy, has wrapped me in its arms, twirled me and dipped me as no other city has done before.
Until next time, de Paris... avec l'amour.
This past week has been a whirlwind of events and emotions, full of highs and lows, fireworks and ballets, wine and chateaus and a triple attempt quest for a decent cheeseburger. Allow me to connect the dots and fill in the blanks.
Last Tuesday, after a group of us ventured to Montmarte, the red light district that is overgrown with tourists, tacky souvenir shops, scantily clad women and home to the famous Moulin Rouge, we decided we needed to class up our day and walked down to the National Opera House of Paris in the hopes of securing last minute tickets to the ballet. After being told the only seats still available were in the nosebleeds and had extremely obstructed views but only cost 8€, the broke yet eager college student spirit within us decided to take a chance and we bought 6 tickets in the back of the side balconies.
The interior of the opera house was breathtaking and grandiose in every sense of the word. Although we were all still in our street clothes, covered in sweat and dust from the streets of Paris, stepping inside you couldn't help but feel elegant and exquisite, twirling around in your imaginary ballgown as your jewels catch the light off of the dozens of magnificent crystal chandeliers. Large marble pillars, grand staircases and beautfiful frescoes catch your glance at every turn and as you descend the staircase, for a moment you indulge yourself in a fantasy and make-believe that you are Kate Winslet in Titantic, walking towards an awe-stricken Leonardo DiCaprio, feeling more beautiful than ever.
We made our way to our seats, which were, as promised, in the nosebleeds. Our balcony was directly on the left side of the theatre, meaning we could only really see the right side of the stage from where we were sitting. Additionally, the seats left no leg room whatsoever and the four rows of people sitting in front of us forced us to constantly shift from left to right in our seats in order to catch a glance at the occasional arabesque. To our surprise, we thought we had purchased tickets to see L'autonomie, a contemporary ballet about the works of Francis Bacon, full of lust and sexuality. To our surprise, the curtains opened to a scene from the 18th century to the accompaniment of a joyful and upbeat orchestra and we quickly realized we were about to watch Les Enfants du Paradis, realizing our intended ballet was being performed at an entirely different opera house across the city. After a good laugh throughout the overture, we quickly fixated back to the ballet and the throngs of beautiful ballerinas leapings and twirling across the stage.
I must have moved my seat at least four or five times in the hopes of finding a seat that had visibility and leg room, luxuries that were never designed or intended for an 8€ ticket. Exasperated and feeling the glances from annoyed patrons around me, I finally found a small space in the back of the last row where I could stand and see a decent amount of the stage. After forty minutes or so, my feet began to throb with the melody of the orchestra, but I didn't mind because I was so enthralled with the beauty of everything happening before me. I always say that people have a great appreciation for talents they could never possess, which is why I have such an admiration for dancers. The body itself is a work of art, but to be blessed with the ability to twist, turn and bend it into the most beautiful shapes and forms is not only a work of art, its a masterpiece.
After leaving the ballet, a few of us decided to grab dinner at a restaurant just off of Boulevard St. Michel. Eager for a grilled cheese sandwich, I was instead presented two pieces of bread slathered in mayo and covered in emmental cheese, the French equivalent to Swiss cheese. Hating both emmental and mayo, I munched on my frites (frenchfries) and looked longingly at the gelato place a few stores down. After finishing my "dinner," I made a beeline for the gelateria and met a man named Bubby who is incredibly friendly yet sometimes a little too forward. Regardless, he was taken by my appetite for gelato and my "American friendliness" and now gives me quatre boules for the price of deux (four scoops for the price of two). I think its probably one of the best things that has happened to me since I have been here.
Skipping ahead, last Thursday was Bastille Day, France's national holiday. All of us were incredibly eager to celebrate considering we had missed our own independence day festivities and we were craving the celebratory spirit. We loaded up on several bottles of wine and baguettes while my friend really took to the holiday spirit and dyed her hair blue and red with food coloring. Feeling festive, we walked to the Eiffel Tower where we were hoping we could find a grassy spot to picnic with our bags full of wine, bread and pastries. Unfortunately, we weren't permitted to enter with our adult beverages and decided there was no way we were going to let perfectly good bottles of wine go to waste. So, upon improvisation, we took to the park across the street from the Invalides, set up our blanket and spent the next few hours enjoying cheap wine and good laughs with new friends. Around dinner time, we decided it was time to eat because the baguettes, as delicious as they were, were no longer cutting it. Everyone decided on a Thai restaurant, and true to form as the pickiest eater in the world, I ordered a small bowl of plain white steamed rice.
After appeasing our wine-induced appetites, we rushed back to our residence hall and went up to the library balconies where we had an exlcusive and yet amazing view of the Eiffel Tower. After a few more glasses of wine, we were all ready for the fireworks show to begin. The lights on the Eiffel dimmed until the sky eventually went black and only a few seconds later, the skies ignited with explosions of red, blue and white with the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower behind it. As the sky burst open with beautiful showers and eruptions of color, we all toasted to good health, new friendships and to the most amazing summer of our lives.
After Bastille Day, we were all still a little groggy from the previous day's festivities. Everyone was slow and sluggish in the morning however we all eventually found our groove later in the afternoon. We had hoped to go see the ballet again (the correct one this time), however it unfortunately sold out earlier that morning. Disappointed, a few of us decided to wander in the Hotel de Ville district in the hopes of coming across a pleasantly crowded street full of shops, restaurants, art galleries and boulangeries. We found exactly that and with tired feet and empty stomachs, decided to have dinner at a quaint jazz restaurant where three musicians played their hearts out for the diners before them. I ordered my first french cheeseburger. It was dry and tasteless. But yet again, the frites were delicious.
Saturday morning, we woke up early once again for another planned excursion to two chateaus, Fontain Bleu and Vaux le Vicomte. The first chateau was incredibly regal while the second felt very tourist imposed. However, the gardens at Vaux were extravagent and stretched out for hundreds upon hundreds of acres before you, filled with ponds, fountains, statues and rosy pink flowers. It was freezing that day, so I wrapped myself up in my travel blanket and through my shivering, took in the beauty around me, wondering why on earth someone would ever need a house or garden that large, but secretly knowing perfectly well how wonderful it must have been. I ordered another cheeseburger for lunch, this time I received a small square ground beef patty, no bun, no cheese. I dipped it in ketchup and enjoyed my frites, which are never disappointing.
Yesterday was another bad weather day in Paris, as most of them have been, freezing cold with occassional showers. Regardless, it didn't deter me from wandering throughout the Latin Quarter and traversing my favorite street in all of Paris, Rue Moufftard, lined with boulangeries, patisseries, chocolateries and the occassional strolling musician. Bright eyed, I walked along the street and came across a jazz trio performing various songs from the 1920's, its lead singer blessed with the raspy soulful voice of Louis Armstrong. I watched for a few songs, danced in the circle with a very kind old man, a left them a few euro in a tattered hat laying on the street. Afterwards, I picked up a deliciously flaky almond croissant, buttery and sweet, and while licking my fingers I flicked through shelves upon shelves of used books at a vintage bookstore. When the rain started coming down, I knew it was time to head home. I quick ducked into a music store, full of vinyl records from decades past, and after admiring the vast collection of musical genius, I met up with two girls from my group and craving greasy American nostalgia, we went to the Happy Days Diner, a retro 1950's, blue and pink checkered Parisian hotspot. I ordered a cheeseburger, hoping the third time would be a charm. It came out, with poppyseed bun; a slice of cheddar cheese and a plate of frites. It was juicy. It was meaty. It was cheesy. It was home. Ironically, I took the top part of the bun off. One can only handle so much bread.
Today has been, thus far at least, a series of unfortunate events. Despite studying for a few hours, my test this morning seemed impossibly difficult, I realized I have almost run out of money and got lost going to my phoentics class...in the freezing cold rain. I have always hated Mondays but this one seems to want to give me a run for my money. Regardless of how wet, cold and disappointed I was, it didn't deter me from getting another deliciously flaky almond croissant, just as buttery and sweet as yesterday's. A group of us are leaving for Pompidou in about an hour, a modern art museum that is full of crazy colors and installations.
I have exactly two weeks left in Paris and I am now on the downward slope, making sure that I enjoy every single croissant, bottle of wine, moonlit river and sparkling light before I leave. Life is Paris is like a dance, with countless clumsy missteps, romantic twirls and dips, somedays a foxtrot and other days a waltz, but at the end of every dance, you bow and thank your partner for a wonderful time. I'm not quite ready for my final bow yet, however I know that no dance will ever be the same, because Paris, although sometimes a little clumsy, has wrapped me in its arms, twirled me and dipped me as no other city has done before.
Until next time, de Paris... avec l'amour.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Gardens of Giverny
When the surreal becomes real and when utopia unfolds before you, you will have found yourself in the gardens of Giverny, the same gardens that surround Claude Monet's house and encompass his entire life's work.
Although Monet's work is breathtaking and his efforts to capture the beauty surrounding him are valiant and exceptional, there are no words or paintings that can compare to the tangible perfection outstreched before you. Weeping willows gently kissing the water with their whimsical tendrils, rays of warm light dancing across lily pads as they slowly and elegantly waltz down the stream. An old bridge, worn from years of memories past overlooks two weathered rowboats, serenely floating under a grand oak tree. You lose yourself in the sweet symphony of smells and palette of colors before you, so rich and vibrant that you are tempted to paint with the petals to create a masterpiece even Monet would have deemed worthy and inspired. It is sensory overload of the highest proportions and almost too much beauty to digest, making you hope and pray that this is what heaven looks like.
After wandering through the gardens, you stumble upon Monet's house, picturesque in every sense of the word. Enveloped in vines that twist and turn as if performing an impeccable tango, flowers of every color framing the sanded pathway leading up to rickety green stairs, Monet's house is nothing short of a fantasy. When you walk inside, you are greeted by the smell of old parchment, much like the smell of opening up a well-read book, musty yet full of history. The walls are adorned with an abundance of Japanese art and personal art, intermingling his inspiration with his own works of genius. The furniture is antique at its finest, boasting the most impressive woodwork and adorned with ivory lace. His kitchen, open and spacious yet still warm and cozy, transports you and if appreciated closely, will allow you to smell and almost taste the exquisite meals that were once prepared centuries ago by a man obsessed with all things beautiful. Lastly, you make your way upstairs to the extravagant windows that open up to the utopia before you, allowing the vibrancy of the colors, the sweetness of the flowers and the warmth of the sun to rush in at you, all at once making you gasp in sheer awe of the magnificence that lays ahead.
It was spectacular. It was inspiring. It was majestic. It was fantastical. It was graceful. It was heaven.
After leaving Giverny, we traveled to Rouen, the small town where Joan of Arc was infamously burned at the stake. Although Rouen was nice and was home to a few beautiful churches and cathedrals, it was hard to appreciate after experiencing the perfection we had just come from. Altogether it was a nice quaint town and it was the first time I experienced my first authentic macaroon. I ordered the framboise et chocolat (raspberry and chocolate) and it was as delicious as I had hoped it would be.
Throughout the weekend we went out to enjoy Paris nightlife, traipsing from one cafe to the next and visiting a few bars inbetween. Although the weather turned on us, we all still managed to have a great time, soggy dresses and all.
Yesterday we visited a flea market in the 18th arrondissement, otherwise known as the North Philadelphia of Paris. After getting lost and then stumbling onto a street lined full of vendors selling cheap gold watches and overpriced fruit, we decided to head home for the day and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening relaxing and catching up on schoolwork.
Today, we are visiting Notre Dame and tomorrow we are going to attempt to conquer the Louvre, although this may have to be done in multiple parts throughout the coming days. With three weeks left and two weeks already gone, I find myself in an indescribable limbo, missing pieces of home while trying to live every moment to its fullest while I am here. As I read Paris to the Moon I have stumbled upon a quote that best captures my whirlwind of emotions, "In Paris we have a beautiful existence but not a full life, and in Philadelphia we have a full life but an unbeautiful existence." I am hoping that one day I will find a way to marry the two.
Until next time... de Paris, avec l'amour.
Although Monet's work is breathtaking and his efforts to capture the beauty surrounding him are valiant and exceptional, there are no words or paintings that can compare to the tangible perfection outstreched before you. Weeping willows gently kissing the water with their whimsical tendrils, rays of warm light dancing across lily pads as they slowly and elegantly waltz down the stream. An old bridge, worn from years of memories past overlooks two weathered rowboats, serenely floating under a grand oak tree. You lose yourself in the sweet symphony of smells and palette of colors before you, so rich and vibrant that you are tempted to paint with the petals to create a masterpiece even Monet would have deemed worthy and inspired. It is sensory overload of the highest proportions and almost too much beauty to digest, making you hope and pray that this is what heaven looks like.
After wandering through the gardens, you stumble upon Monet's house, picturesque in every sense of the word. Enveloped in vines that twist and turn as if performing an impeccable tango, flowers of every color framing the sanded pathway leading up to rickety green stairs, Monet's house is nothing short of a fantasy. When you walk inside, you are greeted by the smell of old parchment, much like the smell of opening up a well-read book, musty yet full of history. The walls are adorned with an abundance of Japanese art and personal art, intermingling his inspiration with his own works of genius. The furniture is antique at its finest, boasting the most impressive woodwork and adorned with ivory lace. His kitchen, open and spacious yet still warm and cozy, transports you and if appreciated closely, will allow you to smell and almost taste the exquisite meals that were once prepared centuries ago by a man obsessed with all things beautiful. Lastly, you make your way upstairs to the extravagant windows that open up to the utopia before you, allowing the vibrancy of the colors, the sweetness of the flowers and the warmth of the sun to rush in at you, all at once making you gasp in sheer awe of the magnificence that lays ahead.
It was spectacular. It was inspiring. It was majestic. It was fantastical. It was graceful. It was heaven.
After leaving Giverny, we traveled to Rouen, the small town where Joan of Arc was infamously burned at the stake. Although Rouen was nice and was home to a few beautiful churches and cathedrals, it was hard to appreciate after experiencing the perfection we had just come from. Altogether it was a nice quaint town and it was the first time I experienced my first authentic macaroon. I ordered the framboise et chocolat (raspberry and chocolate) and it was as delicious as I had hoped it would be.
Throughout the weekend we went out to enjoy Paris nightlife, traipsing from one cafe to the next and visiting a few bars inbetween. Although the weather turned on us, we all still managed to have a great time, soggy dresses and all.
Yesterday we visited a flea market in the 18th arrondissement, otherwise known as the North Philadelphia of Paris. After getting lost and then stumbling onto a street lined full of vendors selling cheap gold watches and overpriced fruit, we decided to head home for the day and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening relaxing and catching up on schoolwork.
Today, we are visiting Notre Dame and tomorrow we are going to attempt to conquer the Louvre, although this may have to be done in multiple parts throughout the coming days. With three weeks left and two weeks already gone, I find myself in an indescribable limbo, missing pieces of home while trying to live every moment to its fullest while I am here. As I read Paris to the Moon I have stumbled upon a quote that best captures my whirlwind of emotions, "In Paris we have a beautiful existence but not a full life, and in Philadelphia we have a full life but an unbeautiful existence." I am hoping that one day I will find a way to marry the two.
Until next time... de Paris, avec l'amour.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Chardonnay and Claude Monet
Being in Paris this past week and a half has brought out my appreciation for two things: wine and art, especially when you mix the former with the latter.
The beauty about wine in Paris is how incredibly cheap it is. A decent bottle of Chardonnay will only run you around 4€, while an average sandwich costs around 7-8€. The other day I picked up a bottle of pamplemousse and pêche Chardonnay which was the perfect accompaniment to a night out at the Eiffel Tower with three lovely ladies and an oversized blanket to enjoy the view from our perched hill. After bargaining down a bottle of champagne from 15€ down to only 5€, warding off two drunk frenchmen with terrible pickup lines, and filling up our cameras with memories that will last decades from now, we hopped the last metro home at 1 am, slipping into bed knowing we would have to wake up in only a few hours for our 8 am class.
Yesterday, a few of us visited the famous cimetière du Père-Lachaise that houses the final resting spots for some of the greats, including Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Chopin, Gertrude Stein and my favorite, Oscar Wilde. The weather was gray and dismal, an ideal setting for such a peaceful yet melancholy place. The cemetary is unbelievably large, with some gravestones dating back to the early 1700's, reminding you that nothing in this world is infinite. The incredibly steep hills lined with cobblestones contains over 300,000 final resting places for Parisians and the lovers of Paris. It was a sombering experience and was abruptly ended when the skies opened and greeted us with cold rain, as if telling us it was time to put our cameras away and leave those resting there in peace. We found shelter in a small Chinese restaurant where a few of us filled their stomachs with overpriced rice waiting for the rain to pass.
This morning I experienced my first French test. Ironically, the parts that were intended to be difficult I found the most easy while the basic questions left me trying to dig back to two semesters ago. After enjoying a small nap and a light lunch, we adventured to the Musée d'Orsay where I used my beginner's French to get us in for free as students of the Sorbonne. Unfortunately, no pictures were allowed to be taken, but it was still an incredibly gratifying experience to lose myself in the works of some of my favorite artists including Monet, Van Gogh and Matisse. After wandering from sculpture to sculpture, painting to painting for three hours, I reminded myself this will be nothing compared to the intimidating and daunting massiveness that is the Louvre.
Tonight we are going to a French house party and then heading over to le Marais, the gay district in Paris. I have equipped myself with my favorite dress and a decent bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for the evening. Tomorrow, we are spending the day in Giverny to visit Claude Monet's house and then we will be taking a trip to the small town of Rouen where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake.
Although I miss home and everyone I love, I continue to fall more in love with this city every day. Every street has a new surprise, every museum a breathtaking painting, every grocery story a wonderfully priced bottle of wine.
From me to you, I raise my glass and toast "santé," hoping that you too will be able to experience the beauty that has overwhelmed my life for the next few weeks.
de Paris...avec l'amour.
The beauty about wine in Paris is how incredibly cheap it is. A decent bottle of Chardonnay will only run you around 4€, while an average sandwich costs around 7-8€. The other day I picked up a bottle of pamplemousse and pêche Chardonnay which was the perfect accompaniment to a night out at the Eiffel Tower with three lovely ladies and an oversized blanket to enjoy the view from our perched hill. After bargaining down a bottle of champagne from 15€ down to only 5€, warding off two drunk frenchmen with terrible pickup lines, and filling up our cameras with memories that will last decades from now, we hopped the last metro home at 1 am, slipping into bed knowing we would have to wake up in only a few hours for our 8 am class.
Yesterday, a few of us visited the famous cimetière du Père-Lachaise that houses the final resting spots for some of the greats, including Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Chopin, Gertrude Stein and my favorite, Oscar Wilde. The weather was gray and dismal, an ideal setting for such a peaceful yet melancholy place. The cemetary is unbelievably large, with some gravestones dating back to the early 1700's, reminding you that nothing in this world is infinite. The incredibly steep hills lined with cobblestones contains over 300,000 final resting places for Parisians and the lovers of Paris. It was a sombering experience and was abruptly ended when the skies opened and greeted us with cold rain, as if telling us it was time to put our cameras away and leave those resting there in peace. We found shelter in a small Chinese restaurant where a few of us filled their stomachs with overpriced rice waiting for the rain to pass.
This morning I experienced my first French test. Ironically, the parts that were intended to be difficult I found the most easy while the basic questions left me trying to dig back to two semesters ago. After enjoying a small nap and a light lunch, we adventured to the Musée d'Orsay where I used my beginner's French to get us in for free as students of the Sorbonne. Unfortunately, no pictures were allowed to be taken, but it was still an incredibly gratifying experience to lose myself in the works of some of my favorite artists including Monet, Van Gogh and Matisse. After wandering from sculpture to sculpture, painting to painting for three hours, I reminded myself this will be nothing compared to the intimidating and daunting massiveness that is the Louvre.
Tonight we are going to a French house party and then heading over to le Marais, the gay district in Paris. I have equipped myself with my favorite dress and a decent bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for the evening. Tomorrow, we are spending the day in Giverny to visit Claude Monet's house and then we will be taking a trip to the small town of Rouen where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake.
Although I miss home and everyone I love, I continue to fall more in love with this city every day. Every street has a new surprise, every museum a breathtaking painting, every grocery story a wonderfully priced bottle of wine.
From me to you, I raise my glass and toast "santé," hoping that you too will be able to experience the beauty that has overwhelmed my life for the next few weeks.
de Paris...avec l'amour.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Lost In Translation
Bonjour! I apologize for the delay in writing a new post to my readers (my mom and dad). Classes started yesterday morning and I have been running around ever since. First, let's play catch-up.
Sundays in Paris are extremely lazy or as they claim, "restful." All stores and the majority of restaurants are closed due to France still being majority Catholic. Therefore, I had a pretty relaxing day that consisted of walking to the Louvre (didn't make it inside due to an atrocious line), grabbing some lunch at an Italian eatery (you can put an Italian girl in Paris but you can't take the Italian out of the girl) and then read my book in the Luxembourg Gardens.
There is an unspoken game in the Gardens that I have quickly caught on to. The Gardens, albeit very beautiful, are incredibly large and on Sundays when there is nothing to do, incredibly crowded. The accessible grassy areas where visitors are permitted to sit, were littered with traveling college students and their multiple bottles of wine. Unable to find a place to rest, I noticed several chairs lining the interior of the gardens, overlooking the vast field of sunflowers, tulips and statues of "famous" French intellectuals.
I became quickly annoyed when I saw that the lack of available chairs was due to tourists using a chair to sit on and a chair to rest their feet. They relax in their overcompensating lounge contraptions and smirk at those who stand on the outskirts waiting to pounce on the next available seat. I quickly realized I was now playing a game of musical chairs with the dozens of people around me, all of us, muscles twitching, waiting for the right opportunity to lunge for a chance to steal an opportunity for relaxation.
I keenly observed my competition... a couple too distracted by each other's tongues to be a real threat, another girl around my age too engrossed in her iPhone to take notice and a group of 4 burly Irishmen, the obvious threat, all four of them able to circle in from different directions. However, I quickly developed a strategy that I knew couldn't fail.
I didn't bother to look at chairs preoccupied by couples because they were far too engrossed in each other to move anytime soon. Those seats occupied by the eldery were also immediately ruled out because their limbs were too exhausted, unable to maintain the pace of thirty to fourty years ago. Instead, I looked for the seats filled with little children, trying their best to keep still, but unable to contain their energy that only a five year old pumped full of Nutella and Orangina could possess. I knew that eventually, one of them would leap from their seat to chase a butterfly, kick a stone or run around a tree and their parents would quickly run after them.
It was the perfect plan, because no more than 3 minutes later, two small boys leaped from their seats and started chasing each other; weaving in and out of tourists and trees. I briskly walked over to the chairs and not a moment too soon because two of my Irish competitors were directly behind me, throwing their hands up in defeat because they had just been outsmarted and outplayed. I slid into my chair, whipped out my book, and looked out on the faces of the new players, anxiously waiting for their turn to play, just like I had seconds before.
Class for the past two days has been terrible. Besides having to wake up at 7 am for my 8:30 am class, I was placed into a level of French that is years beyond my level of understanding. I argue with my brain, trying to get it to wake up, forcing it to translate what the professor is saying as fast as possible, but as soon as I figure out a few words, she is already three thoughts ahead. I feel like a small fish who belongs in a pond drowning in an ocean full of sharks, sharks who speak exceptional French fluently while I attempt to swim as fast as humanly possible in order to catch up. Luckily, I had my class changed today and I will be starting in a new one tomorrow morning, although I still have class at 8:30.
Life grows to be more comfortable every day here. I have mastered the Metro, the French keyboard, the rules of the escalator and the always insane Monoprix. I am learning about the art of the crepe, the attitudes of the people, the pace of the city, the way of Paris life. I feel more at home every day I'm here, although I don't know if I will ever be a true Parisian, because smiling feels way too good and butter gets tiresome after the first few days.
I'm off to pick up some books for class.
Jusqu'à demain... de Paris, avec l'amour.
Sundays in Paris are extremely lazy or as they claim, "restful." All stores and the majority of restaurants are closed due to France still being majority Catholic. Therefore, I had a pretty relaxing day that consisted of walking to the Louvre (didn't make it inside due to an atrocious line), grabbing some lunch at an Italian eatery (you can put an Italian girl in Paris but you can't take the Italian out of the girl) and then read my book in the Luxembourg Gardens.
There is an unspoken game in the Gardens that I have quickly caught on to. The Gardens, albeit very beautiful, are incredibly large and on Sundays when there is nothing to do, incredibly crowded. The accessible grassy areas where visitors are permitted to sit, were littered with traveling college students and their multiple bottles of wine. Unable to find a place to rest, I noticed several chairs lining the interior of the gardens, overlooking the vast field of sunflowers, tulips and statues of "famous" French intellectuals.
I became quickly annoyed when I saw that the lack of available chairs was due to tourists using a chair to sit on and a chair to rest their feet. They relax in their overcompensating lounge contraptions and smirk at those who stand on the outskirts waiting to pounce on the next available seat. I quickly realized I was now playing a game of musical chairs with the dozens of people around me, all of us, muscles twitching, waiting for the right opportunity to lunge for a chance to steal an opportunity for relaxation.
I keenly observed my competition... a couple too distracted by each other's tongues to be a real threat, another girl around my age too engrossed in her iPhone to take notice and a group of 4 burly Irishmen, the obvious threat, all four of them able to circle in from different directions. However, I quickly developed a strategy that I knew couldn't fail.
I didn't bother to look at chairs preoccupied by couples because they were far too engrossed in each other to move anytime soon. Those seats occupied by the eldery were also immediately ruled out because their limbs were too exhausted, unable to maintain the pace of thirty to fourty years ago. Instead, I looked for the seats filled with little children, trying their best to keep still, but unable to contain their energy that only a five year old pumped full of Nutella and Orangina could possess. I knew that eventually, one of them would leap from their seat to chase a butterfly, kick a stone or run around a tree and their parents would quickly run after them.
It was the perfect plan, because no more than 3 minutes later, two small boys leaped from their seats and started chasing each other; weaving in and out of tourists and trees. I briskly walked over to the chairs and not a moment too soon because two of my Irish competitors were directly behind me, throwing their hands up in defeat because they had just been outsmarted and outplayed. I slid into my chair, whipped out my book, and looked out on the faces of the new players, anxiously waiting for their turn to play, just like I had seconds before.
Class for the past two days has been terrible. Besides having to wake up at 7 am for my 8:30 am class, I was placed into a level of French that is years beyond my level of understanding. I argue with my brain, trying to get it to wake up, forcing it to translate what the professor is saying as fast as possible, but as soon as I figure out a few words, she is already three thoughts ahead. I feel like a small fish who belongs in a pond drowning in an ocean full of sharks, sharks who speak exceptional French fluently while I attempt to swim as fast as humanly possible in order to catch up. Luckily, I had my class changed today and I will be starting in a new one tomorrow morning, although I still have class at 8:30.
Life grows to be more comfortable every day here. I have mastered the Metro, the French keyboard, the rules of the escalator and the always insane Monoprix. I am learning about the art of the crepe, the attitudes of the people, the pace of the city, the way of Paris life. I feel more at home every day I'm here, although I don't know if I will ever be a true Parisian, because smiling feels way too good and butter gets tiresome after the first few days.
I'm off to pick up some books for class.
Jusqu'à demain... de Paris, avec l'amour.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
l'art de la sieste parisienne
The art of the Parisian nap.
Have you ever experienced one of those moments in your life that is so overwhelmingly perfect...when all of your senses are awakened to their fullest potential and exist in euphoric harmony? For some, this is accomplished through an exquisite meal, for others it may be reached through looking at a beautiful piece of art...for me it is a Parisian nap.
I know this may sound crazy (how can a nap possibly be so perfect that its worth writing about) but first, hear me out.
I have experienced two such moments thus far while I have been in Paris and both have been equally magical. A nap in Paris is unlike any other nap you will experience in your lifetime. I recommend to all potential Parisian nappers to find a patch of grass, preferably under a tree, and come equipped with a good book (I'm currently reading Paris to the Moon), a small blanket and a baguette. As your eyelids become heavy from the literary and carb induced coma you have put yourself in, take a deep breath and slowly close your eyes.
First, take a few moments to enjoy the smells that are wrapping your body in a blanket of warmth...fresh baked bread, sweet grass and chestnut trees, the aroma that is entirely unique to the city of Paris. Next, find a few moments to quiet your thoughts by carefully listening to the sounds around you, the heartbeat of the city. Listen to the melodic lull of children laughing and chasing each other down the streets, birds singing playful songs and lovers rendezvous-ing on hidden benches. Then, gently feel the cool dampness of the grass beneath your fingers, twisting and twirling each blade of grass, giving each blade the unique attention it deserves. Lastly, before you reach the final stage of the Parisian nap, take one last deep breath and inhale your lungs with the taste of the city, engulfing the flavors of the people and the sights around you; swallowing the beauty of Paris whole.
There is nothing more perfect than a Parisian nap, nothing more physically satisfying. There is this wonderful little park in front of la Tour Eiffel that offers the best naps one could hope to find, providing you with the ultimate surroundings of beauty yet secluded enough not to be bothered by the throngs of tourists in the area.
Last night was another perfect night in my favorite city. Three of us enjoyed a 2 hour walk to the Eiffel Tower while picking up a few necessities on the way (2 baguettes, 2 bottles of wine and cheese). We had a wonderful picnic right in front of the Eiffel and on our way home had multiple French men chasing us for our affections. Two men on a vespa kept insisting they give us rides back to our dorms and another cheeky fellow thought he could use the pick up line, "vous et moi ... dormir ensemble?" to get me to go home with him (Mike...no worries. He wasn't my type!)
Today, the entire group traveled to Chartres and visited the famous Chartres Cathedral, home to the most exquisite stained glass windows that are so vibrant its hard to believe they are thousands of years old. After a lecture on the history of the cathedral and learning how to read stained glass windows, we wandered into the local market where the fruits and vegetables were so fresh they looked as though they were still growing on the vine. I enjoyed un compotes de pommes crepe and a glass of hard cider. With full tummies, we found a grassy spot with the best view overlooking the entire town and enjoyed another wonderful nap.
Tonight a few of us plan to pick up some ingrédients frais au Monoprix and cook up a yummy meal to enjoy from our rooftop terrace the overlooks the entire city of Paris. After our appetites have been appeased, its going to be a night on the town considering its our last free weekend before classes start on Monday. I should also mention that I am terrified for class to begin. I have only taken two semesters of French and somehow managed to place into the 3000 level advanced class on my placement test with students who are years beyond me in French. C'est la vie I suppose.
I'm off to buy groceries! I love that my new biggest concern these days is what kind of wine and cheese pairing I'm in the mood for tonight.
Au revoir mes amis...De Paris, avec l'amour.
Have you ever experienced one of those moments in your life that is so overwhelmingly perfect...when all of your senses are awakened to their fullest potential and exist in euphoric harmony? For some, this is accomplished through an exquisite meal, for others it may be reached through looking at a beautiful piece of art...for me it is a Parisian nap.
I know this may sound crazy (how can a nap possibly be so perfect that its worth writing about) but first, hear me out.
I have experienced two such moments thus far while I have been in Paris and both have been equally magical. A nap in Paris is unlike any other nap you will experience in your lifetime. I recommend to all potential Parisian nappers to find a patch of grass, preferably under a tree, and come equipped with a good book (I'm currently reading Paris to the Moon), a small blanket and a baguette. As your eyelids become heavy from the literary and carb induced coma you have put yourself in, take a deep breath and slowly close your eyes.
First, take a few moments to enjoy the smells that are wrapping your body in a blanket of warmth...fresh baked bread, sweet grass and chestnut trees, the aroma that is entirely unique to the city of Paris. Next, find a few moments to quiet your thoughts by carefully listening to the sounds around you, the heartbeat of the city. Listen to the melodic lull of children laughing and chasing each other down the streets, birds singing playful songs and lovers rendezvous-ing on hidden benches. Then, gently feel the cool dampness of the grass beneath your fingers, twisting and twirling each blade of grass, giving each blade the unique attention it deserves. Lastly, before you reach the final stage of the Parisian nap, take one last deep breath and inhale your lungs with the taste of the city, engulfing the flavors of the people and the sights around you; swallowing the beauty of Paris whole.
There is nothing more perfect than a Parisian nap, nothing more physically satisfying. There is this wonderful little park in front of la Tour Eiffel that offers the best naps one could hope to find, providing you with the ultimate surroundings of beauty yet secluded enough not to be bothered by the throngs of tourists in the area.
Last night was another perfect night in my favorite city. Three of us enjoyed a 2 hour walk to the Eiffel Tower while picking up a few necessities on the way (2 baguettes, 2 bottles of wine and cheese). We had a wonderful picnic right in front of the Eiffel and on our way home had multiple French men chasing us for our affections. Two men on a vespa kept insisting they give us rides back to our dorms and another cheeky fellow thought he could use the pick up line, "vous et moi ... dormir ensemble?" to get me to go home with him (Mike...no worries. He wasn't my type!)
Today, the entire group traveled to Chartres and visited the famous Chartres Cathedral, home to the most exquisite stained glass windows that are so vibrant its hard to believe they are thousands of years old. After a lecture on the history of the cathedral and learning how to read stained glass windows, we wandered into the local market where the fruits and vegetables were so fresh they looked as though they were still growing on the vine. I enjoyed un compotes de pommes crepe and a glass of hard cider. With full tummies, we found a grassy spot with the best view overlooking the entire town and enjoyed another wonderful nap.
Tonight a few of us plan to pick up some ingrédients frais au Monoprix and cook up a yummy meal to enjoy from our rooftop terrace the overlooks the entire city of Paris. After our appetites have been appeased, its going to be a night on the town considering its our last free weekend before classes start on Monday. I should also mention that I am terrified for class to begin. I have only taken two semesters of French and somehow managed to place into the 3000 level advanced class on my placement test with students who are years beyond me in French. C'est la vie I suppose.
I'm off to buy groceries! I love that my new biggest concern these days is what kind of wine and cheese pairing I'm in the mood for tonight.
Au revoir mes amis...De Paris, avec l'amour.
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