New Home

Yesterday, I found my favorite part of Paris: the fourth Arrondissement. It’s got all my favorite cultural outsider demographics: Jews, artists, ex-pats, and gays. I love Jewish culture; I enjoy the company of artists; I am an ex-pat; and French gays are so nice! And it’s the only place in Paris that sells piroshky. Plus, with all the fantastic old architecture, small streets, and funky shops, it’s like they built the entire neighborhood was built for me!

Also: I'm 98.3% sure I just saw a banshee walk past me in the school cafeteria.

Gilles

While Thursday was full of nationally-important news, the rest of my week(end) had its own little events – not nearly as important, but still, interesting.

Friday was completely sedate compared to the turmoil of the strike. I did, however, get my bank card.

(Insert applause and fanfare here)

I was pretty excited about it – and all thanks to the lovely, wonderful bursar. She told me that the school could not give me a check in exchange for cash – but she could. I don’t think I can praise her more. English people: absolutely fantastic. Every single one.  So I got my card, which is very different from American credit/debit cards. The numbers aren’t raised, and there’s a little chip in the top. No, I won’t share a photo of it. Nice try, McLane.

Friday night, my Firstbridge group had dinner at Ralph, the art professor’s house. That was interesting. We waited at the school for Sharman, the psychology professor, who had to pick up her son.

Sidenote: Sharman’s son is so strangely fantastic. He doesn’t speak English, but his mom translated his questions for the non-francophones. Having never met Ralph, he asked about “the nature of his appearance.” Which was really interesting coming from an eleven-year old. He’s also an expert in cheese.

When we got to Ralph’s house, I was pleasantly surprised in its home-y feeling. (I know it’s not really a word.) He and his wife provided the class with wine and appetizers before dinner, and we were joined by George (pronounced “Hor-hay”), the Ecuadorian librarian.

We ate our dinner in Ralph’s studio, an addition he built in the little garden behind his house (which is a little bit outside of Paris, where there’s more room for things like that). His wife made a fantastic chicken dish that was the best thing I’ve eaten since I’ve been here (besides Profiterolle... I just realized I haven’t told you about the glory that is Profiterolle… this is a grave misfortune that must be corrected at the end of this entry).

Dinner was fantastic, with interesting conversation which, at my end of the table, next to George, centered on his experiences in Ecuador and comparisons between his home country and France.

Sidenote: I’m not sure if anyone is familiar at all with the director Wes Anderson, but you should be. He directed Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, Bottle Rocket, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, The Darjeeling Limited, and The Fantastic Mr. Fox. You must have heard of at least one of these films. Especially, if you know me, The Royal Tenenbaums, because it is one of my favorite films of all time (there will be a quiz). Well, he’s coming to AUP! One of the girls at dinner told me this, and I spent the rest of the night dealing with random spasms of smiling and laughter. Wes Anderson – coming to AUP – where I go to school!

Now that I’ve composed myself again, I can tell you about Saturday, which resulted in a very happy accident.

I had the intention of video-taping tourists at the Louvre doing their requisite tourist-type things. However, a conspiracy between the Louvre “Propriety Police” and the tourists themselves rendered that task almost impossible. The “Propriety Police” told me I could not sit, which made all my shots shaky and therefore unusable, and the tourists would not stop pausing directly in front of me. So I left the Louvre. I decided it might be nice to just start walking to a) see more of the city, b) burn off some of last night’s dinner, and c) get away from all those damned tourists. That’s not exactly what happened, though.

 I started out going North, but when my progress was slowed stopped by a rather loud, whale-sized man pushing his equally loud, whale-sized, wheelchair-bound wife down the sidewalk, I decided to head South instead.

I was immediately accosted by a couple who asked if I could help them. “What are you looking for?” I asked impatiently. I was in no mood, but figured “hey, maybe they’ll have an intelligent question to ask.” Nope. They wanted to know where the nearest subway was. At first, I thought they meant metro, which was right across the street in plain view. They didn’t mean a subway. They meant a Subway ©/™/®/etc. NOOOOOOO!!! In one of the culinary capitals of the world, they were looking for a Subway. There is no God. (At least, there wasn’t.) I told them I didn’t know where there was a Subway, but that there were tons of cafés in the area which were all better than any American chain “restaurant.” I kept walking South, which led me to the Seine, where I found God.

Books are God. Books are the only things pure enough in this world to lessen tourist-induced anger – especially incredibly old, beautiful French books.

During the weekends, the dark green, graffiti-covered boxes that line the Seine are opened up by street vendors, many of them to sell books, a few of them to sell vintage dirty magazines, and a couple to sell antiques.

I came to one vendor’s box that was especially alluring. All of his books were magnificent classics, originals from the 19^th and 20^th centuries. I asked him if he had any Charlotte Bronte. He didn’t – but that didn’t discourage me from looking for other treasures. I found one tiny book one inch thick and the size of a credit card – 800 Euros. I asked him if that was the real price, and it was. Apparently, the book was printed in the early 1800’s, and the size of the print (almost microscopic) required a lot of craftsmanship. Overall, he was really nice. We talked about books, and where I was from. I told him I was a student, and he told me that he has two sons my age. He gave me his business card with his phone number, email, and the names of his sons – just in case I wanted to meet them and get some French friends.

The bookseller’s name is Gilles (“Jeel”). Gilles absolutely made my weekend fantastic.

Sunday was nothing but doing laundry, but I guess it can’t be all excitement all the time. That would be too tiring.

Quiet Chaos

A sticker I saw on my way home. It says, "I struggle [against] the classes."

Yesterday was quite interesting, and, like today’s title, was filled with a sense of quiet chaos.

The French have many pastimes, and enjoy exercising them on a regular basis. They love smoking, drinking coffee, drinking wine, driving fast, and, most of all, going on strike.

Strikes in France aren’t exactly like strikes in the states. They’re much more organized. They even inform the public when they decide to strike. Yesterday’s  was about the move to reform retirement. Nicolas Sarkozy wants/wanted to raise the age of retirement – something the French would definitely not stand. So, they strike. (Today’s vocabulary word: strike)

My experience of the “grève” was definitely not as dramatic as the media makes it look, but I didn’t really trouble myself to be in the way of the strikers. What I did see, however, was really interesting.

I don’t have classes on Thursdays, but I came to school to use their internet, and on my way back home, I saw several police vans parked in the middle of Avenue Bosquet (just to the east of the Eiffel Tower). There were a couple satellite news vans there, including TF1, a major television news network. Only a few police officers were walking around.

I then walked to the Louvre, where I was supposed to meet a couple friends. Walking back down Avenue Bosquet, the sight was a bit different. Now there were more vans, more police officers, and a larger roadblock. I would have taken pictures of this, but I was on a mission (from God).

I got to the Louvre, forty-five minutes late, and decided to people watch for a while. For an hour, I watched tourists around the inverted pyramid in the Louvre taking pictures, and posing in strangely similar ways. (I decided to make a sort of compilation video of people and their poses. I think I’ll try to put it up some time next week.)

After walking for much longer than I ever intended, I decided to take my chances with the metro. There weren’t too many people going into the metro. How full could it be? Answer: this full.



Photo: Thibault Camus/AP



While this is not a photo I took, it’s definitely an accurate representation of what I experienced. Only ¾ of the trains were running, making the metro especially crammed. At one stop, there was the disheartening sound of engines turning off. The train didn’t leave for about four minutes. We were stuck like sardines in the hot, smelly metro. At least the people were polite.

Getting off at Ecole Militaire on Avenue Bosquet, I didn’t think anything would be different from when I passed by earlier. Wrong. Now there were crowds of people with signs and stickers and raised voices.  I kept walking to the school, passing by several fleets of “Policier Nationale” (National Police) in full crowd gear – helmets, shields, batons, heavy boots, and armor reminiscent of a rhino or some prehistoric dinosaur. By then, the entire avenue was blocked off.

The sun didn’t shine at all the entire day, lending the whole scene a certain ambiance. The air was almost electrified by the prospect of anarchy. It was both exciting and a little unnerving.

There was no violence (that I saw), and it seemed like the blockade was unnecessary. As I walked home from the school that night, there were dozens of police vans rushing down the street – more than I could count.

I returned home that night exhausted from all the walking, but I couldn’t forget that sense of quite chaos.

Le Louvre

As a result of my metric system failure, all of the bed linens I suffered for last weekend were useless, and so my Saturday was spent on a pilgrimage to IKEA to exchange said failures for sheets that might actually fit.

I got all the way to IKEA – RER, buses, metro, and all – with only one run-in with a creepy guy. It actually reminded me a bit of the book “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.” If you give a Corsican guy on a bike the time, he’s going to want to ask you if you’re English. If you tell him you’re not English, he’s gonna want to follow you down the Seine. I guess it’s not so catchy. We’ll stick to mice and cookies.

Sidenote: Why is it that people always think I’m English? Do I look like I spend my time in a sweater, wandering the moors with a sheep and a cup of tea while talking about  tennis and the queen? Don’t answer that.

The complete lack of problems with the whole return/exchange process was surprising and refreshing after my week of customer service hell. My only complaint is with the food. Or maybe it’s more of an observation. The 50 centimes ($0.75) hot dog at IKEA definitely tastes like a 50 centimes hot dog.

The fruits of Saturday’s labors? One set of dvala sheets and matching bibbi-snurr pillowcase and duvet cover.

I’ll wait for the applause to die down.

Moving on.

The larger part of my Sunday was spent at the Louvre. I made sure to take a few pictures of things I thought notable.

My favorite part of the Louvre has to be its painted and gilded ceilings. It’s so exciting to be able to correctly identify Greek and Roman gods and scenes from their respective mythologies. I almost wanted to tell passers-by, “Hey, did you know that’s the gorgon Medusa?”

Or, “Oh my gosh, look at that great rendition of the failed flight of Icharus, who fell from the heavens after melting his waxen wings by flying too close to the chariot of Apollo!”

After walking for about three hours through the museum and seeing some of my favorite pieces (pictures to follow), I sat down and began to watch the people walking past, and what I saw was a little frustrating and greatly disheartening. In the fast-paced society of consumerism in which we now find ourselves, it seems that even art isn’t safe. The people I saw at the Louvre yesterday were only interested in the most famous pieces, and paid little attention to anything else. All they did was walk and snap pictures of everything. Some even had video cameras, pausing on each sculpture or painting for a second, then moving on to the next. No one stopped. It seemed that no one cared – like they wanted only the photos to say they had been to the Louvre, without ever experiencing the Louvre. It seems to be the M.O. of tourists everywhere: take a lot of pictures, but see nothing.

I think that maybe cameras shouldn’t be allowed inside museums, to force people to actually see the beautiful things for which they came.

I’ll step off of my soap box now to share a few things I really enjoyed.

1.)    The chance to see some of the works housed in the museum’s basement. Apparently, there was some threat of flooding in the Louvre’s basement, and so some of the pieces were moved into the Etruscan section. I thought it was so special to get a glance at artwork very few people, except museum employees and art historians, ever get a chance to see (even if they were behind bars and under plastic tarps).

2.)    The bust of Akhenaton, a crazy Egyptian pharaoh who completely turned Egyptian polytheism into monotheism (kind of a big deal). No one even stopped to look at the face of a man who caused such a ruckus so long ago. I donno – I was pretty excited in a former-Egyptian-nerd sort of way.

3.)    This isn’t exactly one of my favorite pieces, but I think it explains pretty well why sculptors rarely include pupils in their portraits. I’m not so sure “Looney Toons” is the look this Roman was looking for.

4.)    This statue was part of my incentive to go to the Louvre. I’m not exactly sure what it’s called, or when it’s from, but I’ve always found it fascinating and strangely beautiful.

5.)    I think this is my absolute favorite piece out of all of the ceiling paintings. It’s so different from everything else, so beautifully dark. Maybe it’s the crows.

6.)    This is definitely my second-favorite ceiling piece. It seems like a normal, Egyptian-themed, death-inspired scene (which is always fantastic), until you notice a little something extra.

See it? No? When I first saw it, I felt like laughing and crying from terror simultaneously. Still don’t see it? It’s the demonic dog breathing hellfire on the left. I definitely need a poster of this.

7.)    This is the painting in front of which I sat the longest. It’s a depiction of Paolo and Francesca from Dante’s Inferno. Would you like me to tell you the story? Okay.

The story of Inferno is essentially the story of one man – Dante Alighieri – and his voyage through hell, through which he is led by his most beloved poet and mentor, Virgil. After entering the gates of hell and passing through the first circle, the pair enter the second circle of hell, reserved for the lustful, who are carried round and round on strong winds for eternity. One couple – the only couple in hell to remain together – is instantly recognized by Dante as Francesca, and her lover Paolo, and he entreats her to tell him their story. Francesca was married to Paolo’s brother, but soon found herself in love with (and loved by) Paolo. Their amour was discovered, and the pair was murdered in each other’s arms by the vengeful brother. Their punishment, according to Dante, is to remain passionately in love – without the bodies necessary to act on their passion. This painting depicts the lovers caught in the winds of eternity, along with Dante (in the red) and Virgil (in green).

I wanted so much to tell someone that story at the museum. I think paintings are more meaningful if you know the stories behind them.

Nothing else important happened this weekend, but hopefully, there is more excitement to come.

An Interesting Week

The past two days haven’t been especially exciting, but they have been interesting.

First, there was the bank fiasco. I believe that there are certain institutions in France which are meant to sort out those who can be successful residents from tourists. The first hurdle to jump through is the visa process. I’ve done that. Then there’s the metro. I’ve definitely figured out the ins and outs of that.

             Sidenote: I’ve been asked to provide a little more description as to what I mean by metro. In Paris, the metro is an underground train system, much like the subway system of New York. There are fourteen lines, almost three-hundred stops, and maybe just as many rats. It’s extremely fast, extremely efficient (once you learn how it works), and smells like a mixture of hot engines and urine. Very tasty. There are also the above-ground bus system and the RER -- which is like the metro, but way creepier (and takes you outside the city limits).

Back to the French screening process. This last one is the most fun, I think. The last way to sort the residents from the tourists is the process of getting a bank card, which has been my latest adventure. Apparently, you cannot get your carte bancaire (bank card) until you have money in your account. You cannot deposit cash into your account until you get the bank card. See where the logic starts to make the mind reel a bit? Now I have to wait until a) a transfer goes through or b) the AUP bursar gives me a check in exchange for 100 euros. Very fun. I highly recommend French banking as a way to spend your weekend. It’s fun for the whole family! (But only one at a time. They won’t let more than one person through the door at the same time.)

Thursday was actually quite nice, with very little stress. I woke up early(-ish) and headed in the direction of “Graphigro,” an art supply store in the 15^th Arrondissement.

             Second sidenote: Shortly after naming my blog “On the Seventh in the Seventh,” I realized that I don’t technically live in the seventh. I live in the fifteenth… just across the street from the seventh. I’m taking advantage of my artistic licenses, though. “On the Seventh in the Fifteenth” or “On the Seventh Across the Street from the Seventh” don’t really roll off the tongue too well.

Apparently, every Sunday and Wednesday, there’s a local market set up underneath the above-ground part of the metro.

Graphigro was a great deal farther than I thought it would be. Through the buildings, I could actually see where the city ended and the countryside began (which was pretty amazing). Everything went off without a hitch. I got my supplies (with student discount, thank you), took the metro home, and was able to finish my art project – a “Parisian still-life” – before getting to class.

We worked with charcoal today, drawing a strange scene of white-painted fruits. Here’s my first attempt in charcoal:

And my second attempt, in conté crayon (like charcoal, but harder):

One fantastic thing I got out of art class: a free museum pass. You’ll probably never hear from me ever again, as I’ll be lost in the Denon wing of the Louvre. (Not)

Oh, I also realized/had it brought to my attention that I haven’t put up any pictures of my apartment. So here you go:

Desk/Kitchen Space and Window

Shower/Sink/Front Door Area



Front Door and Bookshelf (Sooo Exciting)



Bed and Clothing Storage (There are Dali paintings and cover art from the magazine The Stranger up there now...)



Desk and "Closet" Space



This is the view not from my window. Rather, it's the view from the top of the stairs looking into the courtyard.






This is the view from my window. If you look out the window and down, there's a seven-storey drop with windows from other apartments that open into it. At about eight every night, people start cooking dinner, and the smells drift up. Mostly it just smells like curry.

 The first night in my new apartment, I had my window open, and I kept seeing this light. It was really starting to freak me out until I realized it was the spotlight from the Eiffel Tower.

   

This is looking down the seven flights of stairs. A bit Hitchcockian, no?



This is in front of my apartment building. A bit blurry, but I think it gives you an idea of where my apartment is.

Because They're French

Sunday was my first day of really, truly, completely hating the French.


I thought Sunday would be great. Our student government planned a trip to IKEA as a chance for people to a) meet new people, b) get to know the city and, most importantly, c) go to IKEA! (What’s better than a bed set called Bibbi Snurr? Nothing.)

Too bad everything went to hell after we left.

The ticket booth outside the particular metro station we tried to get was, for some reason or another, refusing to accept coins, so all thirty+ students had to pile into the metro office one by one to pay a painfully-slow man for their round-trip tickets. Why choose the slowest man in the world for your cashier?

Because they’re French.

We took the metro (RER) all the way to the suburbs where we caught a free shuttle to IKEA. I stress this “free” because it comes into play later on. Going through IKEA was totally fine. Just the same-old freaky Scandinavian names, only with descriptions in French. The day only got interesting after the shopping.

After waiting half an hour for at the bus stop for our shuttle to the RER, we finally flagged down a bus passing us on the other side of the street, running through a bush full of thorns on our way there. Apparently, the specific bus stop we chose only works on weekdays. Why?

Because they’re French.

We got on the bus, and reached the second bus station. Before we got off, though, we had to show the “authorities” our tickets. Um, tickets? Apparently, this was not our charter. Did anyone point that out? No. Were the French “authorities” understanding about it? Hell no. Why?

Because they’re French.

We tried to explain to them that we didn’t know it wasn’t the free charter, that the bus driver didn’t even ask for our tickets, that we were new at the whole French bus thing. A few of the girls with us even looked like they were on the brink of tears. But they wouldn’t have any of it. We all had to pay twenty Euros, or they were going to call the police. I even asked one of the men which tickets he wanted (I had a few metro tickets in my wallet), but apparently, even though I had a ticket, it wasn’t validated, and therefore I should burn and rot in the sulfurous lakes of hell. Why?

Because they’re horrible people French.

In orientation, they told us that, at first, we would hate the French, but would eventually laugh at their little quirks. I have the first part down. I’m just waiting for the laughter.

And now the sheets for which I specifically went to IKEA don’t fit. Why?

Because they’re French.

Let the Excitement Commence!

Until Friday, nothing truly exciting had happened to me in Paris. I guess writing about a lack of excitement stirred the powers that be into doing something about it. And believe me, they did.

Part 1: The Segway Tourists

Walking out of the Grenelle building, I made my way back home for a bite before the evening’s festivities when I saw another group of everyone’s favorite visitors: the Segway Tourists. What made this encounter expecially amazing was the combination of their form (one wobbly little line weaving down the street like ducks) and the song I was listening to at the time (“El Azteca” by Man Man) which created the illusion of some classic Hollywood black-and-white car chase. It was probably one of the funniest things I have ever seen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JPOEWyUHNO8

(^ This is a link to the song "El Azteca" in case anyone is interested. I'm to technologically challenged to figure out embeds.)

Part 2: The Dead Man

At a little past midnight, we left my friends flat for the closest metro station, on our way to the Back to School Party. Parked outside the metro station was a van that resembled a normal delivery van in every way except one: it had the word “funèbres,” meaning funeral services. What makes the story a little bit worse is that the stretcher and empty body bag the coroners were pulling out of the back of the van were then carried into the same metro station where we intended to catch the train. We went down the stairs of the metro, hoping that the future occupant of the body bag was in a part of the station we would not be entering any time soon. Not so much. The stretcher was poised just at the bottom of the stairs at the entrance, the body bag opened up to receive whatever unfortunate soul was down there. We tried to pass by, but were stopped by the half-dozen police officers standing around. There was no way we were going to wait around to see the body (even if it would have been morbidly interesting), so we left, walking about six blocks to the closest station.

Part 3: Uzo

The Back to School party was held in a club in a Japanese restaurant called Uzo located in the lower levels of the Paris Aquarium. When we arrived outside the aquarium, there was a huge line of students from the school and other nighthawks ready to party. We finally got into the club, but had a much harder time navigating through all the people. (If there had been a legal capacity to this club, we would have exceeded it tenfold.) My friends and I made our way to the bar to redeem our free drink coupons given out by the school – or rather, by the student government association (SGA), which is pretty much the same thing.

The rest of the time at the club was spent dancing with new people, getting back to the bar with much difficulty, and trying to deal with the increasing heat level of the room.

At five o’clock, the party was supposed to end, and by that time, we were tired of the sweaty masses and loud music, so we decided to leave. Even this proved to be a difficulty. Two rather drunk guys started a fight about something, and were dragged out onto the street by the bouncers who, after the fight began to escalate, called the police. The fight broke up before the police came, but they came nonetheless, carting away at least one person too drunk to walk.

Needless to say, when I got back to my apartment at six on Saturday morning, all I wanted to do was sleep. Too much play and not enough work makes Jack (or Jane) a tired boy (or girl).

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

Once upon a time, I met a French person. This might sound like a fairy tale because, quite frankly, it is. So far, it’s seemed absolutely impossible to meet the French. You can’t smile at people on the streets. No one talks on the metro. The only contact I’ve had with real live Frenchies has been in one of three contexts: in the classroom, in business (restaurants, my landlords, etc.), and the creepy guys who follow you through the park. Maybe that’s why people think of the French as being so magical – like unicorns, you never really get to interact with them.


Other than a complete lack of les connaissances françaises, things here are going well. I had my first round of classes this week. I think I’ll start with the first class and work my way through chronologically.

Every week, from now until December, starts out with German cinema. I’m not too sure of the professor’s name (since he never actually told us), but he’s intensely adamant about his love of cinema. Our first day, we watched the short(-ish) film The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, a black-and-white silent film about a doctor, a somnambulist (sleepwalker), and despotism. Quite an intense introduction to an intense class in which the textbook is intensely titled “From Caligari to Hitler: the History of German Cinema.”

Class numero dos (deux) of the week is a comparative literature course on Dante and medieval culture. The prof really knows his Dante, and pretty much everything else about all literature, now that I think about it. It’s quite refreshing after the disaster that was my last year of high school English. We’re mostly focusing on The Inferno, which is actually really interesting in dark, theological, fire-and-brimstone way. I’ve noticed, too, that some of the professor’s favorite anecdotes come from 9/11, and the perversely-appropriate message with which he greeted students shortly before the first tower fell: “Welcome to Hell.”

My third course is an introduction to psychology. I know I already took an AP Psych course in high school (which was fantastic), but a) those credits didn’t transfer and b) Psych-100 came paired with an introduction to drawing as part of the school’s “Firstbridge” course selections. There was no way I was going to take “My Avatar: Robotics and Philosophy.” The prof is fantastically offbeat in an American ex-pat sort of way, and so far, we’ve been covering more of the European perspectives of psychology as opposed to more American behavioral psychology.

Bored yet?

Introduction to drawing will be cool, I think. We actually get to work with nude models (Kendra), which is interesting. To be treated like an adult when it comes to art will be quite a change from painting trees and fruit and other G-rated still lifes.
That pretty much covers all of my courses. Exciting, no? No? I didn’t think so.
I better wrap this up. It’s running a bit long already. What’s going to happen when/if I start having exciting experiences!? I pity your poor souls (and eyes).

Though, for now, I have to go get ready for a midnight party in an aquarium by the Eiffel tower. (I’ll take pictures.)

A domani, and au revoir, mes enfants.

Sunday Sunday Sunday

Sunday was, as some of you know, my birthday, and I had a truly fantastical French adventure planned. My first planned stop of the day was the Père Lachaise cemetery – final resting place of some of the greats (including Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, Frédéric Chopin, Héloise and Abelard, and, my personal favorite, Amadeo Modigliani) – next, to the Louvre (where admission is free for the first Sunday of every month), and finally, for a ride on the Bateaux Mouches as part of an event planned by the school.


After about two hours of forgetting things and going up and down stairs, I was on the metro towards Père Lachaise, feeling very Parisian in my scarf and black dress and vintage raincoat.

Stepping out of the metro station was like stepping into a Calcutta bazaar. Street vendors selling fruit and candied treats crowded the entrance to the metro, and to pass by without smelling something fantastic was absolutely impossible. On my way to the cemetery’s entrance, I found myself in the middle of a sort of antique street show. Dealers from all over the city came to set up shop on the sidewalks, selling all kinds of goods: books, lamps, ashtrays, china, carpets, trinkets, jewelry, magazines, furniture… even human hair for some reason. (To anyone interested, there’s also a shop by my apartment that advertises “100% Human Hair.” I don’t know why, or who would buy it, but they have it. Maybe it’s a French thing.) After wading through all the buyers and sellers, I finally reached the cemetery, and I knew exactly where my first stop would be.
I made my way through the quieter end of the cemetery, with its family plots and mausoleums. I was struck by the extravagance of some – with large bronze and stone statues of mourners or angels – and touched by the quiet simplicity of others. The difference between those who were sincerely loved and missed and those who wanted to be sincerely loved and missed was obvious.

 
I stepped off the path to look at one grave in particular when I heard heavy footsteps and grunting coming up the path. I turned to see one of the guards making his way back to the crematorium. He passed by me without even looking, and, as he was going the same direction as I was, I followed him. With every step, he let out a loud, wheezing grunt. He looked so much like a pig, it was so difficult to keep myself from laughing.
 

 
After about an hour of wandering, I finally found Modigliani’s grave – my main attraction to the cemetery. It surprised me to see there were no visitors, and no offerings or tokens of affection. I guess it made me a little sad to think that such a great artist could be reduced to little more than a pile of dust underneath a rock. I left a little memento and continued to wander, but I couldn’t stop thinking about his grave for the rest of the day.


My next stop was the Louvre, and apparently, I wasn’t the only person in the whole of Europe who knew about the free admission. The waiting line stretched much farther than I cared to walk, and the wait time, as one of the employees told me, was about an hour. I figured I could wait a month, since I live here now.

The Bateau Mouche trip wasn’t until seven, so I had quite a lot of time to kill. I walked through the Tuileries, past l’Orangerie, and along the river Seine for a while. I walked all around the seventh before I decided on the Champs de Mars for some good, old-fashioned people-watching.
Most of the people were either children or tourists – both good for entertainment value. There was the woman who spend five minutes trying to take the perfect picture of her “pinching” the Eiffel Tower. There was the little blond boy who rode his bicycle up and down the pathway over and over, getting in at least three collisions with other children without tears. Then there was the group of tourists on segways. That was pretty interesting.

I watched them for a while until I was solicited by a relatively creepy tourist to “please take his photo in front of the tower.” I gathered my things, took the photo, and left. A few meters down the path, I realized he had followed me. “Is it alright if I accompany you,” he asked in French. No. It was not okay. He left, and I found a bench further away. I was soon joined by an old bearded woman who was quite emphatic in telling me how much she disliked the “American language.” (Because, even the French know, in America, we speak American…).

Then there was the Bateau Mouche – just a boat ride full of tourists and a few new friends on the river. Not much to talk about there.

As I finish up this blog, it’s about 9:30 at night. The song “Comptine d’Un Autre Eté” plays quietly in the background, accompanied by the soft sound of rain hitting the roof just outside my window. The smells and sounds of cooking rise up out of the tiny courtyard and drift in on the breeze. All I need is family and a few close friends, but still, je vois la vie en rose.

Killing Tourists

After spending only a week in Paris, it has become excruciatingly obvious why Parisians hate tourists so much. I don’t mean all of the people who visit from other countries – some of them are great. It’s always a great opportunity to learn the differences and the similarities of other cultures and to learn a little about their respective histories. What is not okay, however, is to generally act like an idiot and walk in flocks – a word which here means “a large group of animals of limited or no mental capability.” These “flocks” of tourists love the cliché photo opportunities, and are always able to find the right moment – or the wrong moment – to stop in front of people who are obviously going important places so they can get that great photo of little Johnny standing in front of the Eiffel Tower pretending to lean on it, or a photo of the tower at sunset. (Because you totally can’t just buy a pack of fifty postcards for 1 € with pictures twice as good.)
What really amazes me is how willing many of these people are to follow any kind of authority figure – with or without a little baton with their group’s name painted on it. Just yesterday, I was crossing a rather busy street which, quite frankly, I probably shouldn’t have crossed at the moment. Usually one is meant to walk while the cars are stationary, not hurdling towards the crosswalk at half the speed of light (which, I think, is the actual speed limit in Paris). But I had places to go, money orders to receive, rent to pay – so I crossed, and the part that astounds me is that, even though there were cars coming, and they were clearly visible to the half-dozen tourists standing on the crosswalk around me, they saw me go, and ran across the street with me. I was almost responsible for the deaths of six or seven camera-toting, rubber-necked tourists. Well, not really. But they did follow me. After crossing, I could hear their exclamations of “That was so close” and “Almost didn’t make it,” and I had to laugh – just a little.

But for all the ignorance of the tourists, the Parisians can still be complete jerks. Just getting a few Euros in change was like pulling chicken teeth – absolutely impossible. They’re like crows, too attracted to their shiny money to part with it. I feel that this is not something everyone knows, but it should be taught on day one of French: coins exist in France, but you can’t have them. You need them for the metro and the vending machines and the little things, but still, you can’t have them.

And they’re not too big on the whole customer service thing, either. As I learned today, it’s really hard to get fired from any kind of government job, so you don’t really have to do anything outside your specific job description. Hmm… sounds a bit like something in the states (*cough*Department of Licensing*cough*). ANYWAY…

Besides the lack of customer service and the constant smoking, the French are actually pretty sweet when you get them alone, or, as I do, watch them in the Metro. Sour-faced businessmen who help people with their bags; guys who look like pissed off, punk rock ax-murderers who spare a smile for the little girl sitting next to them; even people who dance to their iPods on the next platform when they think no one is looking.

It’s the little things that make you fall in love with a place.

The First

I decided to start this blog not on my first day in Paris -- which was, as some of you know, about a week ago -- but on my first day alone in Paris.

I sit at my computer now in my own apartment... my first apartment. It doesn't have a view; it doesn't have a kitchen, and the W.C. is in the hallway, but it's absolutely fantastic! (Except for the whole seventh floor part. Lugging two suitcases -- one closer to 100 pounds than I would have liked -- up seven flights of stairs is definitely not my favorite aspect of the city. But it's part of a story -- my story, as unique as the battle scars of a hundred pounds up eighteen stairs seven times in a single afternoon, and the smell of a Parisian Metro station.

And this chapter starts in Paris, in the Seventh Arrondissement... the Seventh Ward.