Rainy day

I am at a cafe, sitting at a table in a corner by the window. Fat raindrops jump, one by one, from the overhanging storefront. I am at Cafe Titon. The walls are bright green and the accents are deep red and there is jazz playing, but yesterday it was punk. In the far corner, a young French girl is talking very loudly. She is excited about something. I get wireless here.
I am going to become a "regular" at Cafe Titon, I decided. Becoming a regular, I realize, is not something one should really decide on. In the world of regulars that I imagine, you choose a place to patronize, and suddenly, without any effort or time put in on your part, the waiters know your name and your order, and you get drinks sent to you, and you're allowed behind the bar to grab your own drink or something. But that just didn't seem like it was happening for me, so I sought out Cafe Titon (there were a couple other cafes in the running for a while, but Titon beat them out), made a conscious decision, and now I will come here every day until they greet me with a "Bonjour Kate!" goddammit!

Choosing Cafe Titon coincides with a general trend of regularizing my life in Paris. I have my cafe picked out I have my class schedule picked out. I picked a day for weekly visits to the Louvre (Thursdays, 4-6---by the end of December I might have seen half the museum). Things are falling into place. I need lots of regular, planned things to keep myself from becoming completement bouleversee, overwhelmed and panicked by too many things that are ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL to do and see.

Last night I went to a bar by myself. A huge group of IES girls went to Kilty's, this Irish pub in Bastille. I was supposed to meet them there, but when I got to Bastille, I just couldn't bring myself to enter, to spend my night speaking English and standing in a mob of Americans. So I went down the street to some random pub where drinks were two for one, and made friends with the bartenders and waiters and a pair of middle-aged French cops from Marseille who were in Paris on business because something top-secret is going down with the mafia apparently. One of the guys let me see his gun. It was fun.

Today I spent an hour in the rain trying to find Shakespeare and Co, and getting hopelessly lost. Despite my wet jeans, it was actually a nice way to spend the afternoon. St. Michel and Saint Germain are beautiful, interesting parts of Paris. I found a restaurant or something called "Bedford Arms" and took a picture of it. And side not for the rents--I found La Rhumerie. It looks pretty good, I think I'll stumble in on some cold November day and drink a grog or some other version of hot alcohol (p.s. hot alcohol, what a great idea!).



This was supposed to be a short entry, but I still have so many things to say. I'm not a very good blogger, I don't think.

Tonight Theo is taking me to play poker with him and his friends. Should be interesting.

Tomorrow I have plans to go shopping with Loubna, the French woman I met last weekend. Let the bank-account routing begin.

I just went to Crus et Decouverts, this wine store down the street from me that was written about in The Boston Globe. The guy was super nice and helpful and I tried, very inarticulately, to explain to him what kind of wine I like, and he picked out a bottle for me. A white wine that is a mix of Chardonnay and Sauvignon, made with no pesticides, and I should look for a smoky, fruity, floral flavor. This paragraph is pretty much just for my dad.
I'm trying to figure out if I can distinguish Americans from Parisians. Today I stood next to two women, waiting to hear if they spoke English, because I thought that one of them was eating her apple in a distinctly American way. I'm not sure what that means.

Next time will be shorter, I swear. I'll set myself a word limit or something.

Maggie I just IM-ed you and you're not responding. You bitch.

Pardonnez-moi

Oops.
It’s been a week and I’m overwhelmed again.
I went to a house party this weekend with my host brother. His name, for the record, is Théo. I know this only because he used my phone to send a text message, and I looked at the message afterward. I still have no idea what my host sister’s name is, and I talk to her every day. Names are hard to understand.
Anyway. House party. We (Théo and I) met up with his friends at a bar in Vincennes, un banlieue, and watched the France vs. Ireland rugby match, then went to a house party nearby. It was utterly fantastic. I met the self-proclaimed biggest Bob Dylan fan in France, who educated me on Bob’s fictitious, publicity-induced relationship with Joan Baez and wrote the names of songs I need to hear and movies I need to see all over my arm. Additionally, I met the French equivalent of Wutang. Wutang, I realize, is a group of people, a large posse if you will, and not one person; nevertheless, Guillaume, on his own, apparently equals Wutang. Intermittently throughout the party, someone would let me know that the rap we were listening to was, in fact, Guillaume. He was actually pretty good, switching back and forth between French and English and making sense for the majority of the time. I made the mistake of telling my new French friends that, sometimes, I like to freestyle when I drink. So they made me freestyle. Freestyling in French is pretty humbling; my rap went something like “Nous sommes ici, à une boum, everyone is dancing in the room.”
I salsa danced and discussed the philosophical wisdom of “Hakuna Matata” and learned how to say “motherfucker” in French. Théo and I finally left at around 4 and made our way home on the night bus, le noctillien. He is utterly fantastic. He invited me to his country house in Bretagne, and told me he would take me to all of the “cool” places in Paris. In a lot of ways, he is the most American guy I’ve met here. He wears t-shirts with holes in them and mumbles and blasts classic rock from his room.
I spent Saturday with the niece of a friend of Yolaine (my host mother). The friend had met me on Thursday night and, unsolicited, arranged a lunch for me and her and her two nieces so that I could meet more people. The niece, Marine, and I spent the afternoon walking around a park and talking—she doesn’t speak a word of English, so the pressure was on—and she told me to call her because she wants to take me to Versailles. On Saturday night, I met a French woman at a club who gave me her number and said that she wants to take me shopping because I told her that I don’t feel fashionable enough in Paris. I’m not sure whether or not everyone is going to follow through on what they’ve promised, but right now I’m pretty much tossing aside the entire conception that Parisians are cold. Je suis complètement bouleversée.
I saw Jim Morrison’s grave on Sunday. And a few other homies.
Tonight at dinner, we were discussing French exclamations, such as “zut!” and “sacre-bleu!” and somehow that turned into every member of my host family saying “fuck.” I don’t think they really got it.
I picked out classes. At IES, I’m taking Traduction (translation), Atelier Plume (creative writing), and Dessin (drawing—drawing for, like, ultimate beginners and/or retards. Yesterday we drew circles and squares and the teacher let us know that—don’t get overwhelmed now—we will be discussing perspective in classes to come). At the Sorbonne, I’m taking Métiers de L’Ecrit (careers in writing); at Paris VIII, the institute for feminine studies, I’m taking Ecrire devant la Mort (writing before death). I’m a little nervous about the university courses. They start next week. I’ll keep you posted.
I saw a French film last night that was possibly the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Un Homme Perdu. I was perdu.
Ok. More soon. Once I get into my regular schedule it will be easier.
Sorry for the meaningless promises. We’ll just have to see how it goes.

A mid-afternoon haiku

L’homme sans-abri—qui
vit seul à Paris—boit du
vin rouge et sourit.

Le Techno

This blog causes me immense stress. Twenty minutes ago, I got into the shower, knowing that I would write this entry when I got out. By the time I had rinsed the last bit of conditioner out of my hair, I had become a wide-eyed, frenzied jumble of half-formed sentences, funny anecdotes, pithy descriptions, and ironical, would-be-witty observations. Now it is all gone and I only have a surfeit of things to write about and a deficit of motivation to actually write it. I put on some Tom Petty and am sitting on my bed and am trying to calm down. Breathe.
Too much happens in Paris.
I am going to explode.
Here is what I will do: I will write about one thing in detail, and then, at the end of the entry, put a list of other happenings. If you want to know more about one of said happenings, I will be open to inquiries.
The Technoparade now receives my undivided attention. Pronounce it “techno-par-odd” if you want to sound French. My story begins on the eve of the parade.
Friday night, some IES girls and I stumbled upon this rugby convention/party by the Eiffel Tower. For those of you who don’t know, the rugby championship is happening in France right now, and last Friday there was a match in Paris, L’Afrique du sud v. L’Angleterre. So we found this big, closed-in tent, filled with TV screens and beer and wine and food and screaming rugby fans. The IES girls stood in a clump and spoke English and giggled. I stood awkwardly three feet away, trying to look French (I think I did passably well—I went to a vintage shop in Montmartre earlier that day and bought some seriously French vêtements). After a while, I managed to weasel my way into a conversation with a bunch of young French people. They were all very friendly and nice and patient with my English and laughed a lot (at me?). Anyway, the upshot of the conversation was that they invited me to join them the next day at the Technoparade.


The Technoparade is an annual event in Paris, to celebrate techno music—it actually is the inaugural event in a week of techno-related celebration. It consists of a procession of double-decker buses that drive, very slowly, through Paris (starting at Bastille, looping through Montparnasse, and ending back at Bastille, for those who know the city’s geography). Techno DJ’s—apparently some who are pretty famous, if you know anything about techno, which I don’t—are on top of the buses, blasting music, dancing like maniacs, and yelling things like “Paris 2007!” “Levez vos bras!” Oceans of people surround the buses, dancing even more maniacally, elbowing and jumping and screaming their way through the crowd. The parade lasts from noon to 8 o’clock at night, and people apparently stay for the whole time.
I met up with my French homies at about 5—they came to meet me and two other girls, and brought us back to the parade with them, although they had already been techno-ing for several hours—and lasted until 6, which I thought was a formidable feat. It was incredible. People were dancing like there was no tomorrow, and when I gained enough space around me to move an arm of leg, so was I. People stood on benches and on top of bus-stop booths dancing and screaming. I don’t know or particularly like techno music, but it was impossible not to feed off of the energy.
There were a lot of people. A lot. And many of them had been drinking or taking other unidentified drugs since noon. I thought I was going to die. I saw a girl faint and get trampled. Someone gave me a flat tire and I felt certain that if I stopped to put my shoe back on, my life would end, my body slowly disappearing beneath a pulsing river of gyrating hipsters. But the Frenchies were really great, and made sure that we all stayed together and more or less uninjured. Christophe, a particularly tall garcon, saved me more than once with some strategic elbow thrusting. It was quite an hour.


Wow that took a long time. Okay quick list:
1) My host brother is alive. And fun and nice. I hope he wants to be my friend.
2) I saw a corgi pooping today.
3) Other things I’ve seen—Saint Chapel, Sacre Coeur, Musée D’Orsay
4) Really good ice cream
5) I got stalked by a drunk Frenchman in the park (don’t worry, mom, it’s not as scary as it sounds)
6) Americans R Dumb (there are some specifics to back up that observation)
7) The word truc. It’s absolutely the most popular word in Paris and I love it and I want to write a whole entry about it.
8) A waiter at a café told me I had a beautiful accent, and then informed me that Boston was not, in fact, in the U.S., but in Spain.
I think that’s it for now. This was an absurdly long entry. I’m sorry and I applaud you if you read it all. From now on I will try for shorter, more frequent entries. We’ll see how that goes.

Nouveau message

In France, my computer speaks French. So now I am in the tab labeled "Publication d'un message." Je cree un nouveau message. Tres bien.
I only get wireless in the living room of my host family's apartment, so here I am, sitting on the couch, hoping nobody noticed that I unplugged an antique lamp so that I could power up my computer. The room is cluttered, but with a very French, intellectual, elegant sort of clutter. There are not dirty clothes and unwanted catalogs and used plates, but old embroidered tapestries and unframed paintings and dusty books and brass bowls etched with intricate patterns and dried flowers and a disconcerting amount of pieces of wood painted with the image of the Madonna in muted, faded tones. Bertrand, my host father, just came home. "Ca va, Kate?" he said, and I stuttered back some nonsense about what I was doing on the computer. What I was doing on this computer, before I started writing this, was looking for cheap tickets to Munich for Oktoberfest. Not that I've found anyone to go with me--people at IES probably think I'm verging on desperation, because my first conversation with any given student goes like this: "Hi, I'm Kate...I'm from Boston, I go to Pomona...hey do you want to go to Germany with me next weekend? Or the weekend after? Whatever works for you, I'm cool." They usually smile and nod and say something about how yeah, in theory, Oktoberfest would be fun. Would it be a horrible idea for me to go to Oktoberfest by myself?
Today I spent almost 20 euro on a pair of tights. As I spoke with the woman at the pharmacy, and she found the right size and color for me, the French words just rolled off of my tongue, my accent sounding impeccable--at least to my ears. So when she rang me up, I just couldn't ruin it all by saying SHIT NO I'm not paying you 25 bucks for some see-through spandex to wrap my legs in. My face must have betrayed my surprise, however, because she began explaining why they are so expensive (they have a control top to keep in excess stomach fat, and they help varicose veins--two issues that are extremely relevant in my life). But whatever. I needed tights.
I realize I haven't even gone over the basics of my first few days in Paris. Details seduce me.
Family--four kids, only three of whom I've met, I'm not sure where the fourth one is, I know I've been told, but I can't really understand. He might just come home really late at night. Or he might be in Scotland. It feels weird to ask now.
Classes don't start until the 24th, but IES is making us go to lots of meetings about how to not kill ourselves or offend French people.
I've been to the Tuilleries and the Champs Elyssees and the Musee Rodin and the Place des Vogues, to enumerate my tourist-y outings.
My bed creaks when I move, but it is comfortable.
I have a balcony.
Alors, je vais vous quitter maintenant. Je pense que je sort pour le diner ce soir, parce-que ma mere d'acceuil est a Normandy. Alors il faut que je m'habille et fait des choses comme ca.
Laissez-moi des commentaires, s'il-vous-plait!!!

Last minute musings

I am ready to leave.

What do I do, now that the to-do list is empty? What can I say, now that I’ve said goodbye to everyone, given everyone my contact information? Anything else that I do is superfluous, anything else that I say is merely speculation. I don’t know anything. I know just as much about what my life in Paris will be like as you do.

In an uncharacteristic move, I don’t have a novel to read on the plane—just a half-completed book of New York Times crossword puzzles, and a Paris guidebook. And my journal. I think that I sub-consciously believe that if I don’t bring a book, I will be forced to write some subtly brilliant journal entry that will lead to a semester of insightful musings in Paris and, ultimately, publication and fame. More likely, I will buy an Us Weekly and read about Katie stepping out of Tom’s shadow.

Today I went to Great Meadows. Dragonflies swarmed and swooped through the oppressive, sudden September heat. I looked at a dragonfly and, for a fleeting instant, wondered whether there are dragonflies in France. It was a retarded thought—of course there are dragonflies in France—but it said something about how I perceive my leaving for Paris. Going somewhere foreign implicates a sort of ineffable transformation. I bought this weird shimmer lotion at CVS today, something that I would never actually use myself, but when I bought it, I truly believed that I would use this lotion in Paris. In Paris, I will be the type of person who wears weird shimmer lotion. In Paris, dragonflies do not exist. In Paris, I will suddenly be inspired to write the great novel of my generation, I will speak impeccable, effortless French, I will read the news, I will develop a taste for red wine, my name will no longer be Kate, pigs will fly.

A few thousand miles, a six hour flight. I might be the same person when I get there.

My host mother is picking me up at Gare du Nord. I have to take a train there from the airport, and I have been assured by both of my parents that I am going to be robbed on the way there. My host mother is “grande et blonde avec un écharpe rouge!” Old ? Young ? Kids ? None ? We shall see…..ads;lkjf;lksajdf;lkajsoiewupr

eeeeeeeek

this feels a little creepy

I have never read a full blog entry (by anyone). Blogs, to me, are the internet equivalent of an enormous bowl of spaghettio's---you think you're gonna love it, but after 2 bites you've really had enough. But now I guess I'm making one. Blame it on peer pressure, ish. Well, I expended a lot of energy to create a blogger account (my first URL choice, "stunnashades" was taken, goddamnit) and to craft these fine first four phrases, so I'm going to decide that this is an adequate first entry. Bye. Do you say "bye" in blogs?