Ce n'est pas grave, la greve

Un autre greve.

I'm fighting back a deep desire to write in French right now. I will resist.

Un autre greve=another strike. I didn't write much about the last strike, but know that about 3 weeks ago, the French transportation workers decided to strike, for reasons that I won't go into, and the city shut down and everyone had to walk everywhere and classes were canceled and there were big demonstrations near where I live (a very liberal area, ever since that whole French revolution thing, with the raising of the Bastille and the declaration of the rights of man and all that other crap). Demonstrations, by the way, turn out to be a lot of middle-aged people strolling down the street in an endless stream, drinking tall cans of beer, happy to have an excuse to take a day off from work, amidst a minority of more enthusiastic demonstrators who set off smoke flares and hand out fliers to passers-by and shout incomprehensible things from mega-phones. Also, "Seven Nation Army" by the White Stripes is always playing.

Anyway. Aujourd'hui, il y avait un autre greve. All of my classes at IES were cancelled, and apparently angry students were/are blocking the entrances to the Sorbonne and 5 other Paris universities--their strike is unrelated, something to do with some new policy about the autonomy of universities, but they have joined forces with the transportation workers, in a general show of solidarity for the right to organize a goddamn strike! What I've learned, through these greves: 1) French people like to strike 2) Most people who aren't striking hate all the strikers 3) French people hate any sort of change (dont' we all?) 4) Strikes actually mean something here. Stefan, one of my homies from Cafe Titon, told me that he finds American strikes really funny--everyone walking in a circle, holding signs. I believe he used the word "cute" to describe them. There's a lot of truth in that statement. When you see a strike in the states, you drive by, maybe honk if you agree or flick them off you don't, and go about your daily life. Nobody pays the strikers much mind. But here, a strike shuts down the city. A strike changes the way you structure your day, a strike ruins your plans.

For instance, today I was going to go to class and then head to the Louvre (today was going to be Napoleon's quarters), and then go to conversation hour and then out to a bar or something. Instead, à cause du grève, I slept until noon, then spent the afternoon walking around the sunny, cold city, exploring the Jewish quarter of the Marais with some IES friends (there is a bakery called Finklestein's in Paris, by the way), then bought absurdly large bottles of beer and drank them in Place des Vosges until a short, angry, red-faced guard kicked us out because it was closing time, and we relocated to the Seine.

I am going to Amsterdam tomorrow, assuming the greve doesn't thwart those plans, too. The airlines aren't affected by all of this, but getting to the airport is another issue. There is some chaos with the other girls who were supposed to come, because they had train tickets and all the train lines are striking, so I may be spending some time alone in Amsterdam. I'm not worried. Il faut etre courageuse.

Family is great. Yolaine is leaving for a two-week trip to Syria on Monday, so I hope I get to see her on Sunday night when I get home. I'll try to put up some more pictures soon--it's hard to remember to take pictures. When you see the same beautiful things every day, you don't feel a lot of urgency to take pictures--oh, that will all be there tomorrow. But time is fucking fleeting. I'll try. Or I'll at least try to procure some of my friends' pictures.

Wish me luck for Amsterdam.

Thinking of titles is the worst part of having a blog

It is Friday evening. I had a long day—up too early after going to bed too late and drinking too many pints the night before (too many pints=two pints, FYI), then class at the Sorbonne, my three hour Friday class that I’ve missed exactly 50% of the time, then a long walk home, tracing a diagonal line across the city, from the northwest corner to the southeast. When I left class, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun had just reached that late-afternoon angle position that creates dramatic, blinding, isolated spots of light. I reached my apartment beneath an almost indigo sky, with a hint of moon but no stars. I don’t know if I’ve seen any stars in Paris, now that I think of it.

Two remarks concerning class today: 1) during the lecture, the enormous, hour-long class held in “le grand amphitheatre,” I witnessed what I believe to be the French concept of class participation. The professor asked, “do you understand?” and no one responded, because there were a hundred billion people in the room and who wants to be the loser who says, “I sure do understand! Thanks a mill, prof!” so then he said, “I didn’t hear an answer…” so then a few people mumbled and incomprehensible noise which he interpreted to be a yes, and he said, “Bon! Un petit peu d’interactivite entre nous!” 2) In the three-hour “small” class (=30-ish students), I got back an essay and I got a good grade. My professor said it was better than most French students’ papers. This is gratuitous self-promotion right now, but I have no one here who cares/wants to hear that type of thing, so I’m putting it in my blog in the hopes of getting a pat on the back or something. Please excuse my constant need for validation.

Tomorrow I am going on an IES excursion to Provins (I, incidentally, pronounce Provins horribly, and it sounds like I’m saying Provence, so I’ve had several very confusing conversations about my weekend plans). We are meeting at 8:15. That means I will be up very early. Because of my deep-seated, perhaps foundationless, disdain for all things IES—and, more generally, all things involving large groups of Americans with digital cameras and guidebooks—I am not too excited for the excursion. But I skipped the other one I was supposed to go on—I guess I skip things a lot—so I feel obligated. But I’ll keep an open mind. I forget exactly what Provins is, but I think it involves going underground at some point, which is cool, and there is a free lunch somewhere in there, which is also cool.

Today I was thinking about how much I like Paris, and the thought occurred to me that maybe I just like places. If I spend enough time in a place, and really think about it as a concept, how it differs from other places, what its people are like, what its culture and history says about it, what kind of lifestyle it promotes, I tend to grow to really love it. This summer, when I was spending a lot of time in Boston for my internship and doctor’s appointments and visiting friends, I started to feel very attached to the city itself. I sat by the banks of the Charles and spilled out three or four pages of florid praise for Boston. During brief trips to both New Orleans and New York this summer, I felt the beginnings of similar attachments stirring inside me. Is it possible that just the idea of place appeals to me? The more I think about it, the truer it sounds. I think I like places more than people, to be honest. No offense.

But maybe not. Maybe I really just love Paris. It is important to keep in mind that everything on this blog could be complete bullshit, since most of what I write are thoughts that come to me while I’m on the metro, between playing rounds of snake on my cell phone and trying to figure out if I’m wearing the same boots as the old lady next to me.

One more thought: When I walk out to the main street in front of my apartment, Boulevard Voltaire, I usually turn left. Left is where things are. If you go right, I recently discovered, there are about 15 blocks which are, I swear to God, all identical. They are all clothing stores aimed at 20-something women, all owned by Asians, all bearing the words, “Pret-À-Porter” (“Pret-À-Porter,” literally translated, means “ready to wear” [isn’t all clothing sold in stores “ready to wear?” have I been missing some crucial post-buying pre-wearing step for all these years? (by the way, thanks for the math bracket suggestion, Maya, but if you take a closer look at previous blog entries, you will see that I was already privy to that tidbit [I am aware the I used the word “tidbit” in my last entry, and since it is quite a distinctive word, I fear that readers might scoff at the repetition, but I just really like the word “tidbit”])]).

Okay.

Dinner then sleep.

Let’s hope Provins rocks.

Au revoir, mama

My mom is gone.

In a sense. She left my apartment about twenty minutes ago and is now three or four blocks down the street, in her hotel room, in a modern, creak-free queen-sized bed, maybe writing in her journal, maybe reading a book, getting ready for her flight tomorrow morning.

Once you decide a trip is over, a trip is over. She might as well be back in Boston already.

It is time to be independent again. After two weeks of visitors and gratuitous neglect of my blog, I am once again alone--just me, Paris, and mes penees. How poetic.

We had a good week, my mom and me. We saw a ballet at the Opera Garnier and ate fabulous meals and walked around the city in the sunshine and walked around the city in the gray-time and walked around the city in the mist, and made plans and canceled plans and changed plans and walked and drank and ate and walked and talked and saw and drew and walked and drank and walked.

Tonight we went out to a little Bretonne restaurant down the street from me, a hole in the wall that I pass almost every day when I walk to Bastille. We drank hard cider--my mom almost ordered this special expensive kind that was about halfway between hard cider and soft cider, but I put my foot down--only the real shit for me--and ate Brittany-style crepes. I feel soft and fuzzy from my hard cider. The cider sort of tasted like mold--but I only mean that if mold can have a really great, tasty connotation. If not, scratch that observation.

Fabulous week. I'm tired and buzzed. I have a mid-term tomorrow, apparently. I learned that little tidbit about three hours ago, and have not altered my plans to accomodate for it at all. Failing doesn't count if you're nine time zones away, right?

Two things

A lot of men in Paris look like Mr. Bean.

Should I buy a beret?

Catching up

I am writing this in my journal. Putting a felt-tip pen to the surface of the paper in my little black journal engenders a much more confidential, intimate feeling than typing directly into the "Publication d'un message" window on the blog website. I worry that the distorted sensibility of this medium will lead to me writing some hyper-introspective, self-analyzing absurdity that I will not be able to bring myself to post on the blog. In any case, if you are reading this right now, it means that I decided the bull-shit to decent-shit ratio was low enough to type up this entry and post it online.

I am at a cafe at the bottom of la butte de Montmartre. My first week in Paris, I ate a croque-monsieur here. I was at a two tables away from where I am right now. Sacre Coeur looms above me. I just went to mass. Four days ago, Dave and I visited Sacre Coeur, and ate sandwiches at the bottom of the hill. I can see the bench where we sat. It is unnerving how quickly your reality becomes your memories.

This morning, a pale gray sky covered Paris, but noontime has seen a triumphant sun break through the blanket of clouds. For the first time in three days, there is blue up above.

Dave should be taking off right now.

I have neglected my blog, and I apologize for that, but life beckoned.

I slept for three fitful hours last night, and I am exhausted, but I feel the need to recap the past week or so, at least perfunctorily (if perfunctorily is not a word, it should be).

A few words on each day:

Sunday: up early, blinding sunshine. the lingering effects of le greve gave me no problems, and I made it to Charles de Gaulle on time. Dave. Walking tour of the neighborhood and Bastille; crepes and cheap cans of beer.

Monday: Class for me in the morning. Back to Reuilly-Diderot to get Dave, who emerged from his hotel, smiling, somehow eluding the oppressive, insipid clutches of jet lag. To Ile de la Cite. Coffee and Notre Dame. A tour of St. Michel, a picnic in the Jardin de Luxembourg. Pain, fromage, raisins. Une grande pomme pour moi. Du vin rouge--a bottle of screw-top Spanish wine (we had no bottle opener) that we left, with a few rancid gulps remaining, in Hotel Mistral yesterday morning. Beaucoup de soleil, mais les palmiers n'etaient plus là. C'est vraiment l'automne.

Walked to Denfert-Rochereau, malgré l'orteil blessé de Dave. What a trooper. Dave liked the big lion at Denfert-Rochereau. Cemetery Montparnasse. Le tombeau de Maupassant. Met Hugo at Trocadero. Dave and he reunite. Two California boys at heart, both born in the wrong place. Stroll under the Eiffel Tower, past l'Ecole Militaire, Les Invalides. Coffee again. Bon Marché. Goodbye Hugo. Late dinner in Bastille. I ordered a disgusting drink and forced myself to finish it. Don't let all those Parisian billboards fool you--un Ricard is disgusting.
Tuesday: Class again for me. A "test." C'est une blague. Long, late lunch in a sun-saturated cafe between Denfert-Rochereau and St. Michel. Croque-monsieurs pour nous deux. Stroll by the seine. Eiffel tower, up to the top. Freezing. Beautiful. But really, fucking freezing. Cans of beer in my apartment to warm up. Jazz club in Montparnasse--le Petit Journal. An American all-female quartet. I used my charm and French prowess to bring the cover charge from $25 to $15. Champagne. We ride line 1 back home--the line where all of the cars on the train are connected so you can see forever--and nobody else is on it, so I take off my shoes and run through the cars and spin on poles and it is fun. Very un-French, I think.
Wednesday: Sunshine and croissants and cafe au lait. Montmartre. Dave ate the best eclair of his life. Sacre Coeur. A French man strumming on his guitar on the steps out front, singing songs like "Torn" by Natalie Imbruglia. He has a lisp. He winks at me. Dave loves the basilica as much as I do, and I am happy. We decide not to drink the wine we brought. Sacrilegious? Out to a bar with Olivier and other French friends to watch a soccer game. We order a giraffe. See below if you do not know what a giraffe is.

Thursday: Louvre. Ancient Egyptian wing. Overcast. To Saint Germain des Pres to pay a visit to La Rhumerie. Finally my dreams of hot alcohol materialize. Dave gets a grog and I get a Cafe Creole. We discuss what, exactly, Creole means. It gets heated. A large old man in a tweed coat and a scarf sits in the corner booth puffing on an impressive looking cigar. He grumbles that there is to much ice and not enough alcohol in his drink. He is great. Shakespeare and Co. I read about the gospel according to Dostoyevsky, Dave reads old history books. Out to dinner at Chez Paul (an "institution" in Paris, according to Theo). We resolve the white wine (me)/red wine (Dave) dispute withe a bottle of rosé. We eat escargot.
Friday: Cloudy. Stroll through le Marais. Patisseries and sandwiches in Place des Vosges. Rugby exhibit at Hotel de Ville. Catacombs are closed. L'Arc de Triomphe. Champs-elysees. The ferris wheel by Place de la Concorde. Crepes. Dinner with my host family. Language barriers. Dave valiantly attempts to explain his major (try translating "Public Policy Analysis"). Yolaine made a tart. Out to a bar with some of Theo's friends, though not Theo (he eventually shows up later on in the night). We leave to go meet Olivier and some other friends near Jussieu. I order a bloody Mary at the bar, because it is 4 euro. It is, I must say, not disgusting. The metro closed, we walk home.
Saturday: Patisseries and coffee. Walk in Bois de Vincennes. We sit on a log and drink tall cans of strong beer (Dave goes all out, downing one with 11.6% alcohol. I can only manage 8.4%). A man carrying a near-empty bottle of wine stops and talks to us for a moment. He says that Paris is too noisy, but that the Bois de Vincennes is like Africa.

Dinner at Hugo's beautiful apartment in Montmartre with his friends. He makes quiche. We drink wine and champagne.

We go out to a bar near l'Opera Garnier, where Hugo and Co. are "very famous." We dance, and I drink a Coca Light that tastes nothing like a Coca Light. Home. Sleep. Awake not much later. We get halfway to the train station before we realize that today was daylight savings and we are an hour early. Who is in charge of this shit? After much procrastination, Dave finally boards a train. Dave leaves.
I walk around in the gloomy, delayed morning, from Gare du Nord up to Montmartre, then all the way down Blvd. de Clichy. I listen to Ani Difranco on my ipod and revel in my melodramatic angst. I look at Paris from the top of the hill. Mass.
My coffee is done now. And so am I.

Dave's here

I have many things to describe and write about--the greve, rugby, parties, lifelifelife.
But I will not write about them now.
Because Dave is here.
Goodbye.

quel desordre

I had a lovely weekend from which I have yet to recover. My eyes want to shut and I have class in the morning, but my sense of duty won’t let me rest until I’ve written at least a brief blog entry (I’m using brief in the loose sense of the term…I’m a loquacious lady.)

Highlights from the past few days:

Friday I had my (I believe) final fiasco with the French university system. Apparently when the administration decides to change the day or time of a course, a sufficient means of communicating that change is to post a small piece of paper in the corner of a bulletin board at the end of a long hallway on the 4^th floor of one of the buildings on campus, a building which is not, in fact, anywhere near where the class takes place. The consequence of this apotheosis of efficiency was that I missed my class. But (thank GOD!) I didn’t miss my travaux dirigé (T.D.), the weekly tutorial for the class, during which I listened to a sweaty middle-aged man explain, for three hours, how to read a poem.

Saturday night was the big England vs. France rugby game. To kill the suspense right off, let me just tell you that France lost. It was actually a pretty depressing game—we (we???) were winning until the last 8 minutes. I watched the game with Theo and about 12 of his guy friends from high school, the same group I went to a house party with a few weeks ago. After the game, there was disagreement about where to go next (my friends wanted me to meet them at St. Michel, Theo and his friends didn’t want to go that far away—we were in Vincennes at the time, a suburb just southeast of the city). I ultimately convinced 5 of them to come with me to St. Michel, the incentive being the declaration that “il y aura beaucoup des americaines!” (there will be many American girls).

It was a fabulous night. We all convened at the jam-packed hub of the city’s nightlife, the network of tiny bars, pedestrian streets and drunken students that is St. Michel. After much persuading and screaming directions on my part, the final crew ended up being pretty large and diverse—Theo and his friends, a handful of girls from IES, Olivier—my dread-locked conversation hour homie—and a few random French guys Olivier brought along. It made me happy to witness the successful mingling of some of the different groups of people I’ve met.

The group tapered off one by one, and the night concluded with me, two girls from IES, Theo, and two of Theo’s friends wandering around the streets at 4 in the morning, happily searching for any bar that wasn’t trying to close, realizing that all the metro had long-since stopped running, and listening to Louis and Guillaume rap (I believe I mentioned previously the French Wu-Tang equivalent and the French Bob Dylan aficionado—they are, respectively, Guillaume and Louis). They both call me Kat because Kate is too hard to pronounce. It was wonderful.

Theo was very drunk, which means that he insisted on trying to speak English. Despite a year in Montreal, ten years of hosting American students in his apartment, and three road trips across the states, his English is pretty horrible—but it’s endearing to watch him try, to see the pained look of concentration as he searches fruitlessly for a word, eventually giving up and just saying it in French. In his drunken state, he told me that I was the second best French speaking student they have had (number one was also from Boston, incidentally). He also explained to me, very seriously, and without an ounce of derision, that the Big Mac is the United States’ Mona Lisa—that is, the masterpiece that we have contributed to the culture of the world. I can’t remember all of his reasoning, but it made sense at the time.

I think my plan to become a regular at Café Titon is working. The guys who work there know me now, and say “Hello” when I come in because they know I speak English. Last time, one of them came over and sat with me for a while—when I told him I was from Boston, he asked me if I’d read that article in the Boston Globe that mentioned the café—apparently they all became really friendly with the guy who wrote the article. They know my name now, too. I could be well on my way to getting a “Hello, Kate!” when I walk in.

Today on the metro, a disheveled looking fifty-something man in a dirty t-shirt wandered on, disoriented, his glasses askew. He carried a large square box filled with dirt, with two dismal geraniums poking out, and a massive tome entitled “Ma grossesse, mon enfant” (my pregnancy, my baby). Just an interesting image to leave you with.

P.S. Thanks for the grammar correction, mom. How embarrassing.