C'est l'heure

(It's time) Today as I was rushing (running, sweating, and looking very un-chic) to catch the metro to meet friends for a farewell picnic the realization hit, “This is the last time I will be running late in Paris.” Usually I deplore my ineptitude to be punctual but this time it was saddening. The last time? Oh, tragedy! There will be an abundance of “opportunities” to be late in the future but not so many to live in Paris.

It will be lovely to be back in pristine Montana but first here are a few qualities I have saveored and will miss about the City of Light.

1. People have all the time in the world for each other whether they be a friend, colleague or the baker. When you ask how people are they don't bark, “Busy!” They stop, look you in the eye and are truly present.
2. The great people I have met.
3. The art of conversation.
4. Beauty and aesthetics matter in daily life. Flowers on windowsills, a good baguette, an evening stroll.
5. The diversity of cultures, opinions, etc...
6. Speaking French.
7. Art (galleries, architecture, posters, graffiti, street art..)
8. Concerts, museums, ballets, even operas.
9. Old stuff: history, buildings, gates, anything.
10. Public Transportation (bus rides invariably become community conversation hubs)
11. Riding my bike through the streets with library books in the front basket.
12. Walking everywhere.
13. Focus on quality: food (much fewer preservatives), products, small artisan shops.
14. Running along the Seine while booksellers applaud, “Bravo!”, watching the water flow under the Pont du Carrousel or 6am on the Pont Alexandre III. Heck, anything along the Seine River.
15. Living in a place where big current events occur.
16. The beauty of this city.
17. All of the great little neighborhoods and parks.
18. Working on life goals: living in Paris, French fluency.
19. Always something new to explore.
20. Knowing you will have a surprise or challenge every day.


Here are some things that won't be missed!
1. General disgruntlement of all Parisians and love of complaining.
2. Stinky polluted city.
3. Lots of sex. Everywhere.
4. Planning your evening according to when the metro closes.
5. Pigeons. Oh, horrid carriers of pestilence.
6. Dog poop. Wearing open toed shoes is a risk.
7. The stress of living in a city.
8. Always having to be aware.
9. Lunch can last 4 hours.
10. Knowing you will have a surprise or challenge every day.

Jeter

mai 2011
(To throw) “You're going to Paris? You have to throw marshmallows off of the Eiffel Tower!” Hannah exclaimed. Well, I didn't actually throw them off the tower since I was afraid I might kill someone. Marshmallow Manslaughter doesn't sound like fun times. But here are three marshmallows from America and here they are just for you Hannah, Sierra, and Jandi!

Merci, Hemingway

Mai/May 2011
Tonight is a Hemingway night. It's Paris and it is raining outside. Earlier, at the fruitier (fruit shop), after the long bus ride through the puddle of a city, the prim nosed lady at the counter quipped that my bag of apples came to 1,80€. “I don't know if I have that much.” but lo and behold, there it was in my porte-monnaie (wallet). I was as surprised as anyone, for this is Hemingway's Paris where ends barely meet. How he could afford to eat oysters and drink so much liqueur, who knows. I suppose post-war Paris was just different.

That little sack of hard bright apples fit perfectly in the crook of my arm. The lady with the nose seemed relieved that I didn't need another sack to carry it. As I stepped out from under the awning and around the queues of people waiting for their baguette I remembered when I used to work at that gallery down in Bigfork. The people at the grocer used to call me the “girl who never wants a sack.” Watching a girl juggle an armful of groceries must be good enough entertainment in a small town.

But this is a big town and there is always something to see. An old man bundled in a trench coat and plaid was struggling to mount his bike as he crossed the street, one foot on the ground, the other hobbled on the pedal. He was having a bear of a time. His eyes bulged with the effort and his hands were knuckled gray over the handle bars. Was he was smiling or grimacing? I wanted to laugh for his sake but wasn't sure if he thought it was a joke.

But back to the apples and going home. Below my place is a bar where only men hang out. It is the Bar de l'Avenue. They are always there, watching football (soccer) on the TV that hangs in the corner. The barman stands behind the zinc*, wiping tall beer glasses with a great square torchon (dishcloth). He spins the glasses with just a few fingers inside because his hands are too big. The men hunch deeper into their leather jackets when the score gets bad, their cigarette smoke drifting out onto the sidewalk tables. On the other side the cordonnier (leather worker) leans on the door frame of his shop, arms crossed. He avoids my gaze ever since I didn't want to pay him what he asked of me to fix my broken purse.

To get to my place you walk through a dark corridor where the wall's paint is peeling and the smell of mold hangs somberly. I punch in the code on the doorpad in the inner courtyard then push the carved wooden door into the narrow passageway of the foyer. It always smells musty and fishy. Up four flights of creaky wooden stairs where my foot, short as it is, hangs over the edge of the steps. After the spiral I can hear the lady in her apartment facing mine listening to her maghreb (North African) music, which she doesn't turn off until the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes I stumble over at 4am, telling her its just “trop fort” for crying out loud. She politely turns it down. The next night it is the same story all over again.

My studio is small and dingy. Yes, dingy would be a good word for it. Just the place a writer would write a novel. A place where a misstep puts a hole in the floor, everything sits crookedly, and crawlers need to be removed from the bathroom or bed every day.

It is only seven o'clock and I should go out and enjoy this city as gray drifts into night. The Louvre is open late but I feel like staying in. It is the moment to justify turning on the lamp by the window to augment the bare bulb in the wall. Maybe I'll open the window a crack to listen to the rain.

The patter of raindrops falling on the neighbor's terrace gives a little company. As the night grows so do the sounds. The toll of church bells reverberate along the stone buildings of the boulevard and the “bom-pah bom-pah” of sirens bounces down the street. The sound of French sirens is so endearing, the opposite of their task. After the ambulance passes, the whizz of car tires cuts efficiently through pools in the street.

I've fished out one of the apples and savor the crunch of it. It is crisp and tart, cleaving away decisively.

It's a good night, you know. Paris is not always so kind. Many people come visit but much fewer come to live. There is a reason for that.

Hemingway wrote, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

In saying this, he answered my hopes and fears. It is good to be here. While it is sad to go there is no need to fear. Paris is such a place that even if you leave, its personality will grow in your soul like an apple seed, rooted and determined to never leave your memory of experience.

Living in Paris is not always easy yet it is rich. It is a gift and I'd like to think I have learned a thing or two along the way. Now it's black outside and there is nothing to see except my own reflection in the glass. It's time to close the window. Goodnight.

*The zinc refers to the traditional practice of using zinc for bar counter tops.

If you would like to explore my neighborhood:
1. Click this link: Google Maps.
2. Enter in: 88 Avenue de Saint-Mandé 75012 Paris, France
3. Select Street View.

Journal Intime: le 23 janvier 2011

(Journal Entry January 23, 2011) I recently came across this journal entry from earlier this year. It is a fun story and perhaps you will enjoy it. It is unedited so forgive the excessive descriptive words and run on sentences. When I write for myself I put all of the words I like in!

“Tonight in the metro there was a man playing a guitar at Champs-Élysées Clemenceau (metro stop). At first I thought he was a homeless man because there was a rolling grocery basket before him and he was crouched on the floor. But the music made me notice him. Only a few strums made me know I wanted to put some euros in his little hammered metal pot he had wired to the basket. It was beautiful. Gorgeous. It was played so lovingly. So tenderly. I couldn't quite place the music. Spanish? South American? It was so lovely I sat and stayed while my train went through, so as to listen for five more minutes. It was one of those moments where I looked all around me at the tiled metro walls, the gray steel beams overhead, and then the reflection of my hand and cheekbones in the glass of the automatic barrier of the metro. I was seated on the the new trendy chairs they have been installing – lacquered white with the smile shaped slit in the back. 'Kadyn, this is your life. You are used to all of this.' Amazing.

I kept returning to this man and his guitar. Too bad he doesn’t have a cd. It was the kind of guitar music I like the most – Spanish inspired, with some lilting, soft, tender refrains, other dark, soothing reverberations, lots of finger picking, and then bright and intricate melodies interweaving together. There's something about a man and a guitar. It's so classic. Picasso even painted it. I am not talking about the guys who start playing the guitar to get chicks. You know, the ones who play the same stupid chords over again with the same stupid strumming pattern over again, that sing with their eyes closed as if they've got so much soul but can't quite get their voice in sync or in tune with what they're squeezing out of their guitars. Oh I know, I went to a liberal arts school, after all. I'm well acquainted with this sort.

No, I am talking about the men who cradle their guitars and sing with it like they would an old friend, meeting through thick and thin.
Like this man in the metro. With every refrain and stanza he played you couldn't help but hear how much he loved to play. It was so intimate, so loving. You felt like you'd walked around a hedge in a garden and accidentally interrupted a private conversation between two old friends. You feel sheepish but relish, even if for just that small moment, the comfort that emanates from two that share a history.

One minute was left before the next train would come. I hated to interrupt his musical reverie but something drove me to talk to this man. As I approached he could tell I had a question. 'Your music, where does it come from? What countries inspired it?'

'Oh, it's from everywhere. Spain-' and then my train came, blustering out all noise, but I think one of the places he said was Morocco. I told him, shouted rather, to be heard that I found his playing to be very good, then ran to get on the train.

I looked back at him, an older man with faded blond hair, a yellow guitar, with his knobby knees up high before him since he was sitting on the low concrete ledge playing his guitar. A black umbrella laid next to him, unfastened, and seemed a little useless. No rain could ever dare fall on such a melody...

Well, that was such a sweet end to my day. Lord, thank you so much for this time. I know this is blessed, sacred time - not because I am here in Paris, but because you are working in me while I am here. I feel like I'm living out something of great significance but that I can't quite put my finger on it. Either way, thank you so much. I know someday I'll look back on this time with bittersweet longing. I'll forget all of the hard stuff and just remember the romance.”

Tomber Amoureux

(To fall in love.) Well, Corsica was just as beautiful as anticipated. The people were warm, chatting it up without any rush. If a winsome local gentleman had asked for my hand and to live the rest of our days on this sun-kissed alpine studded jewel in the sea, I would have been hard pressed to utter anything save a southern accented “oui”. The culinary penchant for sausage and all things milk-based would have presented the only setback. Don't worry. I still have both of my hands.


Instead, Katie and I enjoyed the fruits of being young independent women.


We swam in the ocean with the jellyfish (yikes!), sipped wine with toes in the sand, and bronzed ourselves appropriately.


We meandered the streets of centuries old cliff-side cities, risked our lives on fast paced mountain roads and desert landscapes, and nearly froze to death sleeping on mountain passes.


Katie learned that Europeans eat late, Mediterranean men are quite friendly, and that sanitary standards differ from America.


All in all, it was a very good trip. It was another reminder that this big wide world is well worth discovering.

Ile de La Beaute: La Corse

Island of Beauty: Corsica
7 Mai

“Have you ever heard of Corsica?” Didier ventured, eyebrow raised .
Oh boy, you have no clue who you are dealing with. I am a Schmautz, aka recepticle of random useless knowledge. “Yes, it's where Napoleon was born.”
He chuckled, pleased. This was the first conversation I recall ever having about Corsica. It was at the dining room table with my host father on my very first trip to France. He was a jovial man who daily offered Schnapps for breakfast, “Peach? Mint?” It was unclear why he thought this was so funny but he did, and now it kind of is, in a weird way.

Either way, that conversation planted a seed. Months later in Nice I tried to convince my friends we really needed to take a ferry down to Corsica. No takers. The question was obviously posed to the wrong people. Now, seven years later, that someone has been found. My cousin! Super exciting, I must say. Katie is coming to France tomorrow (this will probably be the only real-time blog on this entire site). After a couple joyful days of getting to help her discover Paris for the first time we will fly to Corsica.

Corsica. Look it up on the internet. And drool. There is no way it could be more built up in my mind so hopefully it won't be too disappointing when we arrive and find it isn't heaven on earth after all. But you have to admit, the stats are staggering. Corsica is an island in the Mediterranean that is a part of France but still fiercely independent, covered in mountains, and trilingual. Sea. Mountains. French speaking. A deadly combination. It could only be compared to grapes plus chocolate plus crack. Not all at once, and I don't really know if crack is all that good, but people seem to like it.

Our plans revolve around hiking, swimming in the ocean, tasting some wine,camping, kayaking, driving the coast, maybe some canyoning just for good measure, who knows. Don't worry, we'll scope it out for your future trip.

Joyeuses Paques

Happy Easter!
Sunrise over Paris at Sacre Coeur.

Les Soirées

Evening Parties.
Spring is here and that means picnicking along the Seine river and dancing. Can you spot yours truly?

Mmmm...

The other day there was an interesting discovery the extensive Porte de Clignancourt flea market. Besides the English words, do you notice anything odd in thie photo? Click on the pic to enlarge it.

La Princesse de Bel Air

The Princess of Bel Air.
Ok, that title is cheezy. Oh well. It's a Prince of Bel Air joke so there's no way to not be cheezy. I recently moved out of my apartment (the tallest building in the background) in the neighborhood of Bel Air. It was a wonderful place and it will always bring back (mostly...) fond memories.

Au Marché

Oh, the joys of the Saturday morning market!

Lycée

High School

Few would venture to call the French school system "nurturing". Remember how when people talk about their great grandparents and say, “They were old school” or “They were from the old country” to excuse the severity and stoicism of their ancestors? Well, France is the old country. When people came to America they shrugged off the old methods of doing pretty much everything. Over here in the old country, nothing was shrugged. Time just plodded forward on the same track. So education is still old school. This doesn't mean it is less effective, it is just different. There are some ways it could be edged along though, in my opinion. Students are told they are not good enough far more than they are told they are adequate. If I had a euro for every time a teacher told me in front of their students, “This class is not very clever.” or, “She could be a good student but she doesn't work hard enough.” I would be too rich to know what to do with myself.

In junior high or early high school they take exams that slot them into tracks which then determine what track they get to take in life. It is having to decide your future career path when your main concern is if your immediate future includes acne. The track you choose is crucial. If you are in the Science track, you are a smarty pants, you'll succeed in life. Maybe you'll become an engineer. You see, the French love engineers. It is actually kind of weird how much they like them. Engineers are fine, great, no prob. I know lots of great engineers. But it seems so strange that a country that has been steeped in so many philosophers, artists, writers, and all around stick-it-to-the-man visionaries would now become so stuck on engineering. You have to admit, it just doesn't have the same ring.

What if your academics only qualify you to be a STG? Yikes, you are going have the honor of being in a dull job your entire life. Aren't you excited? Why aren't you motivated to get an A on this test now? Literature track? Oh, sorry, you weren't quite smart enough to get on the Science track now where you? Shame.

Bill Gates never would have happened in France. It is a uniquely American model. Overall, the system points out what students don't know and all their failings. Due to this, students are afraid to stand out or improvise for fear they will be slammed down. They take few risks and seem to just want to keep their heads down to slink out of high school.

Granted, there is benefit to identifying and dredging out fault. If you are doing something incorrectly, it is invaluable to be told so you can fix it. Americans, it seems to me, often grow up in an environment where everyone is so youth focused and wants to make their children feel nurtured that we forget to tell people they are doing it wrong. We see this all the time on shows like American Idol. A girl has been rejected and she counters by saying, “They just are all wrong (the professionals). I am the best singer ever and they don't even know.” Her mother then, petting her head, says something equally ridiculous.

So, I have taken it upon myself to give these kids a different experience. Hopefully, they will see that school and learning can be actually be fun! There are three rules in the classroom. 1) Be respectful. 2) No sidetalk 3) Don't be afraid to make mistakes. I always thought that if hell froze over and I became a teacher I would be like Mrs. Brown, my old highschool AP English teacher. She was notorious for her A to ZZZ multiple choice tests and crazy hard expectations but we loved her. She was exacting, loved her material, and treated us like we actually had something to say. We worked in that class not only for the A but for her. I have not been a Mrs. Brown. I have been such an easy teach. However, I do love my students and they seem to like me – wanting to talk to me in the halls, approaching me at the train station and the like. So, ok, maybe these kids won't have a command of English by the end of the year but that wasn't really my goal anyways. Don't tell the French government that. In this class the kids are at ease to volunteer conversation (learning!), are able to ask questions without fear, and see that all Americans aren't either like Britney Spears or Obama. It hasn't been a cakewalk and there have been some rows but am confident we, the students and I, will make it out alive.

Elegance

France. Home of all that is elegant and refined? (look closely)

De Tres Bonne Heure

Very early mornings along the Seine is a priceless experience.

Un Jour Typique

Printemps
A Typical Day

French high school is very different from American high school. To start with, there seems to be a dress code amongst these teenagers, rigid as any Catholic school. For the girls, it is ballet flats, converse, or heeled boots. Skinny jeans, black or stone washed. A fitted top with a leather jacket. Long straight hair, big earrings, lots of eye makeup, expertly applied. For the boys, it is thin soled sneakers or converse, black of course. Skinny jeans, black or stonewashed, usually with lots of seams and excessive stitching. Somehow, they manage to sag their jeans despite the snug fit. It's a mystery of science better avoided. Next, a tight black jacket with lots of pockets and a hoodie, gel in the hair, and a murse. Yep. You read that right. A murse.

Most students do not drive (that comes at 18 if you are lucky) and either get rides from parents or take public transport, whether that be a bus or train to school. There is no parking lot or school bus system for these kids! Upon arrival, they hang out on the pavement between the road and the school gate. Here, they greet their friends with the bise, the kiss on both cheeks and proceed to bum cigarettes off each other. They are highly successful because, especially on cold days, it looks like an atomic bomb has gone off. Smoking is the norm, not the exception.

The bell buzzes and a few minutes later they consider picking up their giant purses (girls) and Eastpak backpacks (boys) but don't budge until the very last minute. The second bell rings and the students pile up outside the locked classroom doors and chat. The narrow hallways here would qualify as fire hazards in the States. But they do allow you to become very familiar with the perfumes, colognes, and overripe scents of your students.

Around five to ten minutes after the final bell has rung the teacher comes strolling down the hall, totally unconcerned. Every time, the students loudly jeer their tardiness. Every time, the teacher waves dismissively, “I had things to do.” (aka shooting the breeze in the teachers' lounge) My students don't really know what to do with me since I am actually punctual. One time, they didn't come and didn't come. I looked out the door, they were waiting for me in the hall! Usually I keep the door open so they can see I am waiting inside. This particular day it had fallen shut. They are so unused to prompt teachers that they didn't even think to knock or try the door.

Once the teacher enters, the students are to file in silently (which come on, never happens) and stand at their desks until allowed to sit and put their bag on the floor, never on the desk. Next comes roll call and the latecomers. Well, we should say the really latecomers because by now they've have already wasted fifteen minutes.

The rest of class depends on the teacher, but overall the French educational methods leave me with little more than pity for these children. It is harsh, uncreative, and resembles stuffing a brain into a box of carefully regimented expectations. Somehow these same kids grow up to have perfectly effective careers, thank goodness.

Their class schedules are similar to a college schedule in America. It is sporadic but the hours extend later into the evening. However, everyone has a 20 minute break in the morning and afternoon for their cafe or cigarette in addition to at least a one hour lunch. When I explained to my students that American kids finish everyday at 3:15p, five days a week rather than the French 6 days, they were sorely jealous. Then they found out that American high schools start at 8:15am and run straight through with only one 30 minute break for lunch. They were astounded. 30 minutes? That is it? Many of them were then glad for the unhurried French method.

Students generally do not have a strong rapport with their teachers. They don't have school sports or clubs. There is no graduation with its robes and fanfare. At the end of your three years of high school you just... walk out of the doors. Au revoir. School is strictly school. If you want to have fun you had better find it elsewhere. The only extracurricular activities I have seen is students making out in the halls – a full contact sport mind you, and the smoking of various substances in the front entry. The students have massive amounts of free time and use it to lounge around the public spaces and flirt. That was what startled me the most on my first day. “Who are all these kids? And why are they all hanging out in the hallways? Shouldn't they be in class or something? And where in the blazes are the hall monitors?”

Yet, loitering aside, there are some benefits to running a school like this too. There is less concern with popularity and the social food chain. The school must save loads of money by not supporting all of these clubs and sports. The emphasis is education. There is no freshman initiation and no pandering for favors. Also, there seems to be fewer parents living vicariously through their children and people missing their golden boy days. Different? Yes. Better? Worse? No, just different. Personally though, I must admit contentment to have grown up in America.

Oh Ciel!

Oh, heavens no!

Jouets!

Toys!

...

All of the best stories just can't be told.

Quoi?

What?

There are times in life where you just have to ask yourself, "Are these people for real?"

(And yes, there is a dog in his, er, man bag.)

The Pink Panther

Tonight there was a man playing the The Pink Panther on the saxophone in one of the arched passageways of the Louvre. The night was black and the light from the courtyard cut furrowed lines through the shadows. The sultry echoes from the saxophone stole from column to column like a furtive glance.

How perfect was this? There we were, a musician, who could have easily been Inspector Clousseau in disguise, a dark evening in Paris ripe for intrigue, and me, a young unknown in a trench coat. All we needed was a woman with a 60’s style bouffant and a string of stolen diamonds. A vintage Aston Martin wouldn’t have hurt the ambiance either.

This is one of the wonderful things about living in Paris. You never know what you will discover around the corner.

A la Bibliothèque

Deuxieme Partie
Part Two

Outside, a blue sign over a wooden door wavered like a mirage between the hasty diagonals of rain streaking down the window. It read, “Children’s Library”. A library! Was it still open? It wouldn’t hurt to check, would it? Most certainly not!

The narrow beveled door swung open in invitation. Inside was a kaleidescope of color, the antithesis of everything in the drizziling outside world. Oh, sweet books! The air was full of the acrid smell of children after playing outside, grubby fingers, and exlamations of “Maman! Maman! C‘est quoi, ca?” (Mom! Mom! What is that?). It was a long sweet gulp of childhood. Oh! Those days of going to the library with Mom and checking out piles of books that leaned like minature towers of Pisa back at home in my bedroom, just bursting to be discovered.

Yet, this is was not anything like the provincial, spacious library I knew as a child. This was a small library, cobbled out of the corner of a preoccupied urban building in a bonafide city. The kids are stylish in their city clothes and after they leave here they will set their book bags over their shoulders and hop on their scooters for the journey home. There are no cars with unlimited loot space for them to take them their books to houses with unlocked doors. These are city kids. They will maneuver traffic, avoid suspicious strangers, and head home, where they will punch in door codes, climb five flights of stairs, and toss their books on a bedside table in a room that was built centuries ago while they go enjoy cassoulet for dinner.

It’s a different world. I won’t go with them for any of that journey though. Instead, I pulled out a book about puppies and sat myself down at a miniature table across from a little Jewish boy in a skullcap reading manga. Chiots (puppies). It was a rather magical book, lots of fun little facts and even cuter pictures. I forgot how much I like puppies!

Having reached the end of this erudite book, I unfolded myself from the kid table. A voice called out, “We have many more books about dogs, you know. Here, let me show you.” A librarian shuffled over in his rumbled wool sweater and began pulling down books. “Dogs of the World, Dogs of Every Kind…” Before I could put two words together there was a sizable collection of dog books on the table. Oh no, I must have looked absolutely enthralled when I was looking at that puppy book! He thinks I want to read every last book here on dogs! How could I discreetly put them back on the shelf without him being offended? I’d really already met my quota of books about puppies.

And then, this might also be a good time to tell him I don’t even have a library card. He’s wasting his time with a yahoo off the street. I don’t know why, but I have been afraid to try to get a library card here in Paris. I practically drool every time I walk by a library but actually going through the paperwork to get one sounds terrifying. It is PTSD from French bureaucracy. Going to do French paperwork is not fun, to say the least. The people make you feel like you are delivering them hate mail and then send you all over the city on a wild goose chase with conflicting advice. It makes you want to resort to violence. French people are accustomed to this bane of their lives and shrug their shoulders, “Yep, it’s stupid. And there is nothing we can do about it except complain.” But this is a happy story about puppies and childhood memories so let’s not waste any more of life in regards to French paperwork.

Yet oh, sweet Monsieur Librarian was accustomed to children and sensed my unease. “Do you have a card?” Oh, thank you so much for asking! I didn’t have the courage! Asking is the hardest part of most things in life! “No, but could you tell me how to m’abandoner?” “Oh no“, he gently corrected, “You don’t say ’abandoner’, you say ’abonner’.” Oh. Stupid. I was so relieved and nervous that I had asked him how I could ‘abandon’ myself, not how to ‘subscribe‘. I laughed aloud as I slapped myself on the forehead on the inside. Come on! You know better than that! Speak French correctly for crying out loud! But that is how it goes when you are speaking in another language. You just have to get used to looking silly.

Oh well. He then showed me how to subscribe without abandoning myself, of which I was quite thankful. He was awfully curious about my interest in puppies. I shrugged sheepishly and said, “I just have a child’s heart. That explains the puppies.” My pride smarted a little so I added, “And reading children’s books is a really good way to learn French, you know.” He diplomatically replied, “ Oh, but you’ve very good verbal skills.” Thanks. But we both know I just asked you if I could abandon myself.

Vocabulary mix-ups besides, within five minutes he handed me my new Parisian library card. That was easy! I wanted to hug him and give him the bise, the two french kisses of greeting but I refrained. If I had a tail it would be wagging.

“Now,” he announced, “I will give you the tour.” I hopped down the steps behind him to the main level and grinned. Every day here seems to turn out to be an adventure. I started out on a nice little bus ride and look, here I am, in the last place anticipated, having a perfectly nice time with a government employee in a magical land of books. He asked me what I was reading in French. “Hemingway” I proudly said, hoping to redeem his undoubted low view of my intelligence. He promptly showed me the classics section and I felt quite pleased.

I selected two books and plopped them down at the check out table like a dog might plop two bedraggled waterfowl at the feet of his master. “Look at what I brought you? Isn’t it great?!” I was so please with it all that I didn’t even listen to what the lady said. “Oh, what?” I had to lean forward, pushed from my happy little world. “They are due in 3 weeks.” Oh, yes, yes of course. And I bounded out the door. It was raining but that was no bother. I rather like rain. Just like puppies.

Ma Tante

My Aunt Dawn came to visit! She had meetings in Paris and stayed an extra day to hang out with me! It was very, very fun. Here we are at the Place de Vosges, a very chic square where Victor Hugo used to live.

A la Bibliothèque

At the Library
Premiere Partie / Part One

Nearer to the second half of today I decided to take the bus home from Argentine which is on the other end of Paris from my place. I was in the mood for a long car ride and incidentally, due to the bus route, was about to embark on a nice west east tour of the city. After scanning my Navigo* and greeting the driver with the customary, "Bonjour, Monsieur" I climbed up into a seat. The bus lurched and swung into the infamous roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe with its whirling circular lanes of traffic and popped out onto the Champs Elysees. This long avenue of lights and stores is as equaly famous, or infamous, depending on how you look at it, with its lineup of legends such as Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Lancel, and even Abercrombie and Fitch. French marketers have no problem using nudity to sell clothing (the irony kills me) amongst other things, so A&F is a shoe in. But anyways, off the soapbox.

From the Champs Elysees, over the river and towards Saint Germain des Pres, lies one of the oldest parts of Paris. Here, grandmothers hunchbacked by age drag their chariots (grocery baskets on wheels) by the fronts of cafes bulging with parisiens complaining about Sarko (President Sarkozy), tourists with sore feet, and college students trying to look Parisian during their year abroad. On towards the east lies the Jardin des Plantes with its menagerie and gazebo high on a hill with a view of the neighborhood. The bus route goes back over the river again towards the hustle and grime of the Gare de Lyon (train, metro, bus station). Time to switch buses. I clambered onto a new one and settled in for the sardine packed ride to my stop, finding my solace by looking up through the window at where the day started up on the Promenade Plantee. The Promenade Plantee is a long narrow park that was built on the rails of a defunct rail line in Paris. It stretches from the East of Paris to the Bastille, where the French Revolution started. I had dreamed that I would someday get to live near this a hidden gem that is elevated above the city. As I savored this answered prayer the bus jerked and I looked down. And saw a wonderous something.

*Navigo is a transportation pass.


The Promenade Plantee

Jam Out

This is one of many reasons why Paris is a wonderful city. RATP, the public transport authority, has a program where they have arranged for musicians to play in the metro to give commuters’ lives some class. Hence, there is a very nice man in the Gare de Lyon who plays his accordion and smiles at me when I pass, a cello player at Palais Royal, a slough of men with instruments and bawdy voices at Concorde, and many other talented musicians across the Paris network. It does relieve stress to hear a lady rolling out La Vie En Rose in the metro as you run full tilt to catch your train.

L’Etrangère

This is a card that my friend Rachel sent for my birthday. She has killer taste in cards and while I have been the lucky recipient of a lot of awesome cards in life, this one just might top them all. The rest of the card is just as good. Click on the card to enlarge it. Thanks Rachel.

The Foreign Woman
Fevrier

I have realized recently that I am that girl. The foreign girl with the accent. It is weird to say, and even weirder to live out. Because, frankly, accents are cool. That is why we used to fake British and Aussie accents growing up. The person who could do a good Scottish brogue always got the most laughs.

However, when you want to learn another language, having an accent is the dumps. It is a much better compliment to have someone ask where you are from than assume you are an English speaker because it is that obvious. In addition, up until now I had been under the impression that the French disliked the American accent.

A while ago at the Saturday market I bemoaned this very accent to the man selling me a pair of earrings. Wide eyed, he exclaimed, “Oh, never lose your accent! It is so charming! You must always keep it, you know, like the Italians do.”

Indeed, the Italian accent is rather nice. Could the American accent really be appreciated? This warranted some research. Well, what do you know! Everyone I asked said the same thing. “Charming. Cute.” They were all fans of the accent.

Alright. Fine. I will keep the stupid accent.

Très Tendance.

Very Trendy.
Fevrier

Guys here have bit of a different sense of style than that of the United States. This guy, for instance is very stylish, in case you didn’t know. Often times, people take styles they have seen in American movies and pop culture and Frenchify it. For example, letter jackets are very in style here. Let’s clarify that. Letter jackets are very in style here for not only high schoolers but also for guys in their 20’s. They have no idea what it signifies but have seen it in the movies. Guys here can wear purple, hot pink, and turquoise as they please. Fur? Why not? He’s a stylin’ guy.

Super Bowl Sunday

Fevrier

As all of you dug into your Doritos and Lil’ Smokies for the Super Bowl of Le Football Americain, I had the chance to partake of a different kind of Super Bowl on this side of the ocean.

Many people may not know this but Paris has the largest Chinatown in Europe. At least this is what Parisiens like to tell me, so if this is wrong, blame the French. Chinatowns are very handy places for many reasons such as their amazing fresh exotic fruit, inexpensive goods, and notably, delicious Asian food. Yum yum. In addition, Chinatown in February means Chinese New Year.

In Paris, the main Chinatown lies in the 13th Arrondissement in the Southeast and is home to many Asian groups. France is stylish so you can be sure they were all about colonialism when it was en vogue. As seems to happen to all post colonialist countries, once the colonized country has been liberated, those people immigrate in droves to the country they were once exploited by. The logic in this escapes me but who am I to talk, I’ve never colonized anybody. Anyways, Paris has a fair amount of immigrants from Southeast Asia. I remember walking in markets in Cambodia where they sold baguettes next to traditional spicy stir frys. It seemed an odd combination but that’s globalization for you. France never colonized China but people have this thing with thinking that everyone that is Asian must be Chinese, hence “Chinatown“, and they have brought hoards of cool stuff with them.

So, when we realized we could have Chinese New Year’s AND a good excuse to have some good food you better believe we took our responsibility to celebrate diversity to heart. We were so excited that we showed up hours in advance to get THE spot we wanted and then waited in the damp morning, craning our necks for the first flicker of a parade banner. Soon, the BAM! BAM! BAM! Of large Chinese metal drums came echoing down the street, ricocheting off every surface. A long parade of red and gold dragons, decorated carts in plumes of incense, and girls dancing with fans came in a flurry. This parade seems to serve as a neighborhood parade as well and welcomed many Caribbean dance troupes as well, which did not seem a likely lien to a Chinese themed parade with its whistles and flourescent feathers and booty shakes but it was fun nonetheless. After, teeth chattering from the cold we huddled into the corner table at a Pho resto near the Tolbiac metro.

One of the cool things the Vietnamese brought with them is Pho, a soup that comes in a bowl big enough to be your hat. A friend and I have been slightly obsessed lately with pho and have been pillaging the city in quest of it. You can get this dish in Kalispell but there is just something special about walking into a restaurant with all of the “regulars” speaking languages you don’t understand around you, regretting your glimpse over the counter to the grim kitchen in the back, and just kind of pointing at something on the menu to order hoping it won’t be too scary (ie. still moving) when it arrives. Sometimes the meat is still raw when it arrives but hey, this is France, people eat raw meat here all the time. No, not joking. I have too. It is a magical bowl of broth, rice noodles, fresh vegetables and meat that comes with sprigs of fresh sesame leaves, bean sprouts and the like to season according to your tastes. Regardless, it is always delicious. It is always, always, a super bowl.

Cher Paris

Guides eating their lunch. And yes, they are wearing berets. 9 Janvier 2011

Dear Paris,

How are you? I am very sorry but I am just your fair-weather friend. Today actually had sun and it put me in such a good mood! I know, I know, it isn’t all about me but we have already established that I am your fair-weather friend so maybe I should up and admit that I am also a self-serving friend.

Take today, for instance. There we were, sitting on a wooden bench in the park behind Notre Dame. The sky was blue, there were a group of Girl Guides* sitting not too far off having a picnic, and even though it was quite cold out, it was nice! Why can’t you be like this more often? I mean, come on, it was fun wasn’t it, walking along the river, over the bridges, and through the backstreets together in sunny, dry weather? I was so excited because it was the first time this winter there was enough sun for me to see my shadow! In fact, it was so earth shattering that I took a picture of it! (I’ll send it to you because I am also self-absorbed. Or better yet, maybe I’ll put it on Facebook so everyone can see it.)

You get so glum and well, honestly, that sludge you’ve been producing this winter on your streets has been down right nasty. That whole snow, then rain, then freeze act you have been doing turns the streets, with their proliference of feces (dog, bird, human…) and whatnot makes for the nastiest slushee ever conceived. The thought of slipping in it makes me want to upchuck. Would it be so much to ask for you to clean yourself up a little and be more cheerful? I sure don’t think so.

Yours truly, (if you change),
k

*Girl Guides are the equivalent to our Girl Scouts.

Gris

Gray. Janvier 2011

There is really no such thing as color during a Parisian winter. Instead, everything falls within shades of gray. Gray emaciated trees, gray monuments of stone, gray closed faces of Parisians as they walk in gray outfits down gray streets. You feel as though you have stepped one foot into an old black and white film and the other in a big, murky puddle. Because it rains a lot here in winter. And you notice it because you walk everywhere.

When you peek out from under your umbrella at the buildings above you come to realize that Paris is a sponge, really. In the summer months the stone Haussmanian* buildings glow like a girl in love under the rays of a benevolent sun. The same buildings in winter turn dour and severe. The stone reflects and soaks up the light, or the lack thereof.

This gray world is all very film noir. You have to be ready to face that certain melancholic, debonair irony in the everyday. The word “chipper” does not exist in parisien winter vocabulary, so if that is what you are looking for you had better wait to visit during the season when you can wear white again. Otherwise, you’ll fit in like a beauty pageant queen, nervously grinning in your hot pink and rhinestones in a room full of beatniks.

So get used to the gray. And, after a time, you’ll come to realize every shade of gray exists here in Paris. Every shade. There is the light shade of gray that nearly passes as white in the windows of linen shops as you faites du leche vitrine (“window licking” - window shopping). There is the slick black gray of the sidewalks after the rain. The mauve gray or the khaki gray that are in this year, gracing the neck of many a parisienne as they battle the damp cold. The blue gray of the pigeons that rally round small children, knowing that where there are children, there are crumbs. The green gray of the crevices of buildings where moss finds refuge to grow. And of course, there’s the sky. It is a flat gray that hovers gloomily over the city like a slab of unpolished slate propped up by the Tour Eiffel, Tour Montparnasse, and the Sacre Coeur.

Everyday there is a new nuance of gray that you hadn’t perceived before. After a while, this shade seeps into your soul and while formless, begins to mire you into the doldrums. You can see it on the faces of people in the metro and on the street. J’en ai marre! (I’m fed up!) they say, so depressed by this weather. We all long for a brighter season, where that gray world of old film becomes Technicolor. Yet there is value in this season. What it is, none of us is altogether sure. But I’ve a sneaking suspicion it is important to learn to appreciate all these many shades of gray.

* The classic architecture we think of when we think of romantic Parisian buildings.

Les Coiffures

Hairstyles. 9 Janvier

Bed head is huge among women in Paris. That's to say, women carefully foster the tousled hairstyle despite how fashionable their attire may be. Hair, amongst those in my age range, tends to be long and straight-ish. French girls toss their scarves around their necks and let the hair sometimes get caught under the great wool knots, leaving their locks in disarray. It implies, “Heck, I'm beautiful. So beautiful I don't need perfect hair, or perfect anything.” Granted, there is more attention invested there than they'd like to admit, as I've seen this look prepared. French women are really into making gorgeous look effortless, although they in fact spend lots of coin in doing so.

It is an admirable trait though, and I think we American women could learn from it. A refusal of perfection. An embrace of letting the hair fall where it may. Every strand of hair doesn't need to be straightened with a flat iron, there is nothing wrong with a little frizziness. It reminds us of our humanity. One of the greatest lessons I have learned from the French is, Je m'en fiche. I don't care. This concept is a revelation to me and to all American girls who are taught to be “nice” girls. Come on, how many times have you heard the compliment, “She's so nice”? Due to the very different educational system in France, French girls are not quite as encouraged in this area as American girls are. As we grew up we wanted to be liked by everyone. That's high school! If you aren't nice, you are called a female dog. You want to be well liked. Perhaps you'll become Prom Queen. The French don't have prom queens. This must mean something.

Having gone through the gauntlet called American high school and all that I understand this desire to please. Come now, who doesn't like being liked? However, it takes a lot of smiling when you don't feel like it. The French, as far as I can make out, seem far less concerned about all of this nicety and grinning. The French do desire to be considered nice but approach it as they do the concept of beauty. It is less overt, more complicated, and it should be a byproduct of them being great in general, not their central aim. “Oh, whoops! I guess I am gorgeous after all, hardly even noticed.” - Even though they spent hours getting ready... When I ask my students who the popular kids are, they have to brainstorm as a group to come up with people. Ask any American kid and a deluge of names roll off their tongue instantly.

So, thankyou, les françaises (french girls). It is rather liberating to not care quite so much what other people think of you. If they appreciate you, fantastic. If not, that is ok too. Now if only I can figure out how to pull off that hairstyle... Oh, who cares.

Bruno Mars

Has anyone else noticed that Bruno Mars has the world's most beautiful smile? It just makes you want to smile when you see it. http://www.mtvmusic.com/artist/bruno_mars/videos/545417/somewhere_in_brooklyn_live_at_vh1_

Eureka!

January. Long layovers are not fun except if you happen to have it in a place where you have friends! Jen and Lauren, two old college roommates from when we lived in the infamous, feared, and venerable Eureka* house both live around Denver and were kind enough to visit me on my way back to France. We sat on the floor of the Denver airport for several hours sipping hot drinks as we caught up on each others lives. Friendship is a very good thing.

*The house we lived in during college was probably not infamous or feared and was certainly nothing so dignified as "venerable" but we sure had a lot of fun!

Christmas

Thanks to some unforeseen circumstances, I had to go MT for Christmas. No, really, it was necessary! It had to do with unchangeable plane tickets and logistics but that is a long and boring story. All in all, it ended up an incredible blessing beyond my hopes to be able to be there for the holidays.


There is no need to gross you out with sappy stories about how much I love my wonderful family, etc, etc... I was quite sick most of the time but it allowed for relaxation and plenty of time with my mom at the Farm. In addition, to recount its sweetness would only make me homesick so let's just refrain from all of that, shall we? It was a lovely time and such a valuable gift to be back in the Valley for that period. The end.

Les Visiteurs

Visiters! December

For various reasons people I know from MT just happen to be here in Paris! What joy! It is a nice cultural transition to prepare me to go home for Christmas.

Willie, a friend from highschool was here and so we enjoyed getting to see each other and she introduced me to a great place to get pistachio gelato!


Connor, who was a Young Life kid a few years ago is now studying abroad as a college student in France! Does life really fly by that fast? He and his brother Andrew stayed with me for a few days. It was fun to see them.

BSF

Last scene: (A young woman in a cardigan stands in the middle of the stage, hands empty at sides, turns slowly around as though searching for something she may have forgotten.)

Voice from the other room: “Are you coming?”

Girl: “Yes, yes. I'm coming. Just wanted to check one last time...” (She looks around the room as she backs towards the door. Stage left. She reaches up, seems caught up in a distant thought for a moment, then taps the light switch off and closes the door behind her. The sound of footsteps fading away is heard.)

End of scene.

It is a small insignificant act but it stuck in my mind like a scene from a play. Last moments lend themselves well to such sentimental feelings. You know, the kind of thing that inspires plays at high school theatre departments where they follow the events of an assembly of characters for a year's time. There is always that inevitable scene of quietude at Christmas that pulls at our heartstrings and gets us in the holiday spirit.

Indeed, this vignette is about all of those things, Christmas break, the end of a period of time, a moment of goodbyes. However, this was a snippet from real life. The classroom really was festooned with red, green, and gold paper crafts cut out and pasted together by children's clumsy fingers. Outside, night had fallen and the frigid air laid itself in crisp layers against the old lead paned windows. Gnarled tree branches shivered stoically in the wind's breath beyond the glass.

It was December 13 and that girl of course, was me. This is the room where for the past few months I have learned how to be a children's leader for Bible Study Fellowship. It has been a journey to go from no teaching experience to having a job where I am expected to teach teens at a public French high school and then volunteer to teach 8-10 year olds. I'm still quite green, as they say but I can't help but reminisce a little as I take the unfolding of these circumstances in.

This is the room where we've taught kids about the history of God and His people in the book of Isaiah. Young children have been learning concepts like redemption, grace, recompense, discipline, and gentleness. Isaiah is an intense book, as spiky and uncuddly book as they come but they've borne it well. Their minds are like sponges and it is astonishing to see how they teach us too. We have the opportunity to teach kids about Jesus. Not the blue eyed, wavy haired, tall guy from the flannelgraphs but rather, the long awaited Jesus foretold by the too much truth talking Isaiah. They are hearing about it here, in this old Gothic style church with its pointed stone archways and rivet studded burnished wood doors. It is happening in this church, one of the first Protestant churches built in France after centuries of deadly persecution by the Catholic church.

A church, established in Paris, attended by children of many different nations. All hearing about God. That is awesome.

Tonight the children have gone, the materials are put away, the Bibles are tucked into bags, and hearts are full of Words. I gaze out the window where the spotlights are illuminating the opposite bank of the Seine river, turn on my heel, and head out. Thank you so much, Lord.

France, qui es-tu?

France, who are you? November.

The town hall had an exhibition recently where they featured citizens of France and their perspectives of What France Means to Me. Here are some of the things they said:

“It's eating couscous with bread.” Elsa


“It's a question of love.” Bernard (Retired)


“Equality, Brotherhood, Liberty.” Leila

“If I wasn't born in France, I never would have had the idea to become a chef.” Guy


“Cheese is France! France is cheese!” Gérard (Gerald)


“A country that's too proud of itself, of its philosophical roots. A totally hypocritical and outmoded bearing that engenders arrogance and pretension to seem like a model in other people's eyes. An unbearable selfishness, an absolutely ridiculous self-importance. Finally, a nation that as well as doesn't manage to own up to its historical contradictions, loathe to open itself to the world because it is unable to equip itself with a plan for the future.” Alexandre (Alexander, student at Political Science University.)


“It was liberty...” Guillaume (William, wilderness mountain guide, Chamonix)


“For me France, it's a country of racists and hypocrites. Yet among all of its defects, this country also has riches such as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre museum and plenty of other things too...” Alik. (French Guyana)

“France, it's the country where I was born. It's the country of my childhood. But I don't really feel French. How can you feel French when you have to watch your back everywhere? Yet I am crazy about France and my father fought for France! There will have to be two more generations for us to be considered French. A second generation North African girl who's kinda sexy, for her it's ok. But for us guys, the blacks, the North Africans, it's ****. It's not that we're haters... we have love! When the French soccer team wins, we're happy!” RimK


“In India, I walk barefoot with my staff. The people kiss my feet. I go to Australia and they feed me. In France, they call the police.” Michel (Michael)

Le Château de Vincennes

The Vincennes Castle. November. This is about 10 minutes from my place. God is good!

Les Céréales

Cereal. November.

In France milk is not refrigerated until after it has been opened. It has to do with their pasteurization process. Don't worry. They know what they are doing. They invented pasteurization after all, as in, Louis Pasteur was French. So, in celebration of this lovely man, I have started eating cereal and drinking milk again. I don't have any bowls yet so breakfast involves a lot of pouring, re-pouring, and re-pouring. There is really no point of this post, it is just to give you a small glimpse of small differences that one faces in a foreign country.