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.