Words of Wisdom from a 12-year-old

Yesterday night, as I was explaining how to use "myself, yourself, herself, etc." to my 12-year-old French tutee Jérôme (I give him and his little brother, Angelico (yes, Angelico), English lessons once a week), we got distracted.  Given my penchant for chatting, and Jérôme's devilishly charming nature (I am convinced that he will soon be breaking the hearts of little teenage girls all over Paris), this is not a terribly uncommon occurrence.  But don't tell that to their maman, because I get paid for this gig.  Anyway, inspired by the brief snowfall that afternoon, we began discussing December and our impending vacations.  We discovered that we were both December babies (he was born the 11th, I the 18th); I thought the drizzly-half-snow-gloom was depressing, he thought it was nice ("C'est Paris!" he argued); I told him I was going back to states soon, and we agreed that Paris was a hard city to leave.  "It's funny," I told him in my slow, carefully-enunciated English, "a month ago, I was a bit homesick and I couldn't wait to go back to the West Coast.  And now that I'm leaving in a week, I'm a bit sad to go!"  And that's when Jérôme shared his 12-year-old wisdom with me: "On pleure quand on arrive et on pleure quand on repart" (translation: We cry when we arrive, and we cry when we leave again).

Sometimes the best bits of wisdom are also the simplest and the most obvious--though you don't necessarily see them.  After months of loving and hating Paris, of feeling somewhat enamored and then completely ambivalent, I finally feel as though I am, whether I like it or not, a part of the city.  I hurry through the cold, gray streets with the best of them, trying to bury my hands deeper in my pockets.  I wander starry-eyed around Montmartre, enchanted by the old stones and dazzling views.  I'm a regular at the nearby Café Nemrod, where my friends and I drink wine and nibble on salted peanuts; the clientele ranges from well-dressed but not obnoxiously-trendy 20-somethings to older neighborhood residents (like the old man who reads the paper and usually orders a pain au chocolat and a beer).  I know the guy at the fresh fruit and veggie store, who knows that I like apples that are "tart but a little sweet too."

I am eagerly looking forward to those mountains and evergreens as we fly in over Seattle.  I can't wait to have a little breathing room (and breath fresh, cleaner air!) and drive around in the Subaru blasting forgotten CD's and 80-degree air.  I'm going to bake bread with Daddy, go to Central Market with Mommy, probably be dragged to a ridiculous movie that I will pretend to dislike with Sarah, and tool around Fremont with Emily.  And the dogs will smell as bad as ever!  Nonetheless, I am getting a bit sad to leave Paris.  The feeling is not pronounced, particularly because I'm coming back in January, but it lingers under the eaves and in the twinkling Christmas lights.  I know that I'll come back to the city with new eyes.  Paris will not have changed too much, but my relationship to it will have.  The first chapter of my Parisian sojourn is closing.

The French have a saying, which is employed in all kinds of situations, from grammar lessons to metro strikes: "C'est comme ça" ("It's like that").  It's uttered with the same finality as Jérôme's words of wisdom about coming and going.  Maybe the situation is melancholy, maybe it's frustrating, or maybe it's just neutral; in any even, C'est comme ça.  No solution is offered, no advice or logic is included.  It's completely obvious, and very simple, but also enlightening.  If you're feeling gloomy, let the gloom have its day in the sun!  If you want to punch something, you're not really entitled to violence, but you can scream curse words!  If your feelings are completely ambiguous, let the mediocrity reign!  The expression is a way of acknowledging one's feelings, without trying to change them.  It's refreshing.  You're unhappy, pissed off, jealous, thrilled, excited, glum, ambivalent.  That's life.  C'est comme ça.

The date of my departure approaches, and my sentiments are as mixed up as a bowl of Cassoulet.  But--although I realize this would be an excellent moment to repeat the aforementioned expression, I'll spare you--Cassoulet's is pretty good.  So I'm not complaining.

Bises,

Alice

La Grève!

Nobody loves the French as much as the French.  But I'm not complaining.  Au contraire.  I'm feeling uncharacteristically rebellious and thus have decided to take a page from the unapologetically self-adoring Gaulois.  Which is to say, I've decided to devote today to...myself!  Yes, I'm staging a strike--against classes, constraints, rules, requirements, expectations.  I am going in quest of the self, a task made noble by so many self-obsessed French intellectuals (think of the beginning of Rousseau's Les Confessions: "Moi, seul."  Or Pascal's, "Qu'est-ce que le moi?", a translation of which wouldn't do it justice, but you get the idea).  I have been feeling rather intellectually stifled of late.  I'm in first and second year classes learning to categorize rhymes by their number of homophonies, while Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being and a bizarre collection of short stories by David Foster Wallace that I found at an anglophone bookstore wait on my bedside table.  I remember why I fell in love with French literature; analyzing rhyme-schemes was not one of the reasons.

But I'm uneasy.  I'm so used to following the rules that I'm worried I'm going to get kicked out (I'm not sure who would do the kicking, or from where I would get kicked...the vagueness of this worry signals its inherently psychological nature...where's my therapist when I need her?).  Cultural, geographical, emotional, and intellectual transplantation has not clarified my idea of who I am.  It has, however, brought into focus what I enjoy, and what I don't.  I'll get that paper done at some point in the next couple of days.  But seeing as rigid literary analysis is not going to help me on my quest of the self, I think it's going to have to take a rain-check (and, surprise! it's raining).

So.  We've made an executive decision to Strike (la Grève!).

What do we want?  Good books, creative freedom, time to wander and think and drink coffee and go to cool museums.

When do we want it?  Now!

First order of business: lunch.  Ever notice the lack of hunger strikes in France?  We want change, but we are not willing to sacrifice our Roquefort for it.

Second order of business: the Patrick Demarchelier photography exhibit at the Petit Palais.  The Louvre is great, but not quite alternative enough for an intellectual strike.

Third order of business: starting in on that pile of bedside-table books.  I'm loading a couple into my bag, and staking out a café for the remainder of this rainy afternoon.  No café crème is safe!

Well.  I hope you have found this shamelessly self-interested entry inspiring.  Go forth, dear friends and family, and take a day off to read, write, or do whatever you do that is sacred to your being.  And if anybody complains, yell: "La Grève!!"

Bisous,

Alice

...later that day...

I still have not done any homework.  I have, however, gone to a fabulous photography exhibit, demolished a double café and a croque monsieur, seen an excellent movie, and lounged at two different cafés with friends.  We discussed such lofty, intellectual pursuits as MTV's The Hills (a horribly idiotic and yet fascinating reality-television show about rich, spoiled girls flouncing around L.A.  I miss California enough to sigh nostalgically at the smoggy sunsets) and how academic success affects our self-conceptions.  Given that my academic success has a profound effect on my idea of who I am and what I'm worth, one would think that my day of Strike would leave me feeling low and remorseful.  But I guess that good ol' French joie de vivre has gotten to me; here I sit, writing a blog entry instead of a analytical paper, contentedly chewing on some dark-chocolate-covered-caramels.  I hate to concede defeat--sorry Hershey's!--but the chocolate here is divine.

Here are the highlights of my rogue afternoon:

En route to the Petit Palais, my friend and I ran into a kitschy, little Christmas market by the Champs Elysées.  At one stand, there was a VAT (as in, the size of a small car) of bubbling cheese rounds and potatoes.  Since we had recently accomplished Order of Business #1 (lunch), we contented ourselves by whiffing the delightful vat (I've tried to think of a better word but vat is really the mot juste).  Not subtle, not particularly refined, but you can't really go wrong with a gargantuan vat of cheese and potatoes.

Once inside the gorgeous Petit Palais, we found the Patrick Demarchelier exhibit quite captivating.  We're talking modern photos of naked ladies next to classical statues of naked ladies.  Lots of naked ladies, another great love of the French people.  But in all seriousness, the expo was great, until we ran into...Patrick Demarchelier himself!!  The photography master was being filmed in front of his oeuvre; we recognized him from the photo he took of himself with the Princess Diana.  In sneakers and a raincoat, he was no rockstar, but we were a bit star-struck nonetheless.  Wednesday afternoon rebellions do pay off!

Then off we went to see The Visitor.  We tried to buy tickets for "The Visitor," only to be looked at quizzically by the vendor.  So, more slowly, my friend repeated "The Visitor"; still no sign of recognition.  I mean, the movie's title is English, and they were only showing one movie at that hour, so by process of elimination...Finally I said "le Visiteur," pronounced "vee-zee-TEEEUUEEUUURR" and a good laugh was had by all.  But do go see this movie if you haven't already, I give it top marks.

Seeing as my caramels are heavily depleted, I think it's time I wrap it up and do the one Order of Business I have not yet accomplished.  The books on my bedside table await.  My fluffy bed beckons.

Goodnight to all.  May my day be inspiration to you all.  The French have done it before, and they'll do it again.  Why?  Because it works.  And it's a fabulous excuse to take a day off.  Long live la grève!!

Je rêve à Paris...

So.  I'm sitting at my desk, wrapped up in a thick purple scarf, the ubiquitous down vest, and wool ski socks.  The rich, dark (fair-trade, or commerce équitable, I might add!) liquid in my little coffee machine (who I have christened Geneviève in light of her refined Frenchiness) is seriously depleted.  I am supposed to be finishing my essay on Zola's La Bête humaine, but I am studiously ignoring the open word document and gazing, a bit dazed, at the scene outside my window.

Across the courtyard, a white-haired man is smoking out of his window and checking on his window boxes which are overflowing with some voluptuous species of vine.  He is also checking on the progress of the storm.  I too am glued to my window, typing blindly and smiling irrepressibly.  The morning broke sharp and clear; the horizon glowed orange and cool blue, and a chill wind crept in through the cracks at my window.  But a massive gray cloud was moving in, scooting over Paris like that spaceship over D.C. in Independence Day.  Slowly the horizon began to disappear into a vague white-gray.  The bells have begun to ring, and I have the distinct impression that they are announcing the arrival of (no, not Jesus) snow!!  It's now snowing in earnest; fat flakes are swimming up and down outside my window.  Sorry Zola, but for a girl who's been living in Southern California for a couple years, snow is WAY more exciting than Jacques Lantier and his beastly qualities.  Luckily for my essay, the snow has slowed and the flakes are looking dangerously similar to drizzle.  

...Later that day...

So I've just read something really interesting that reminded me of myself.  You'll have to excuse the egoism of that remark but this is, after all, a blog about me (I'll get to Paris in a minute).  Here's what Aimee Liu has to say about the enjoyment of pleasure:

I tend to think and see my way toward pleasure instead of touching or tasting it.  Also, my enjoyment comes less from taking in sensation than from producing reflections of it.  The milky light of winter, a man and his small child holding hands in silhouette against the ocean...such impressions excite me with the desire to turn them into something else: a phrase or picture or story...However, the constant need to capture and take control of experience interferes with the immediacy and scope of feeling.  I have to consciously remind myself to stop thinking; to absorb the light, shape, sound, texture, and smell of the moment; and let these sensations happen to me instead of trying to take possession of them.

Paris is a city of pleasures big and small; from the ravishing monuments and exquisite gardens to a perfectly frothed café crème and the coziest, miniscule bookstores, pleasure hangs on the eaves of this city and seeps from the stones like the juice of an overly-ripe fruit.  It's wonderful and intoxicating, but it can also be overwhelming.  Especially for a perfectionist.  I have mentioned, in a previous entry, the vague sense of nostalgia that comes over me when I see or smell or experience delightful moments that I know are about to disappear.  I want to capture them, bottle them up, and save them so I can pull them out later and smell them like an old perfume.  But it never struck me until I read the above passage this very desire might actually be interfering with my experience of the pleasure of Paris.  What if I accepted the transiency of my Parisian sojourn; what if, indeed, I learned to relish its ephemeral nature?

I have heard so many of my comrades, upon their return from studying in foreign countries, rave about how fabulous the experience was.  I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed when I found out that Paris wasn't going to be fabulous ALL the time (however unrealistic that expectation may have been).  I think part of the beauty of being temporarily expatriated is exactly that: it's temporary.  It's exciting and magical and totally bizarre.  It's dreamlike: you see everything through an altered lens, you can't figure out if it's real or not, you often feel more like an observer than a participant, and the closer you look, the less clear things become.  When you wake up, you're a bit dazed and confused, but you remember that the dream was really remarkable.

So, in conclusion...Well, franchement, I really have no conclusion.  Except that maybe Liu's advice to "stop thinking" and start to "absorb the light, shape, sound, texture, and smell of the moment" would be a GREAT excuse to curl up in my bed with a book (feel the fluffy down, the rectangular pillow, the soft glow of my lamp, the sweet warmth of my comforter) instead of doing homework (requires thinking).

Bisous & sweet dreams!

Ho has seen the wind?*

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you:

But when the leaves hang trembling

The wind is passing thro'

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I:

But when the trees bow down their heads

The wind is passing by.

*The error in the title ("Ho" instead of "Who") refers to an oft repeated family joke, recounting the story of the crusty librarian who INSISTED to my father, when he came into my elementary school to volunteer, that it was HO has seen the wind, definitely NOT Who.

In any event, I have not seen the wind.  But I heard it, howling and lashing at my window so violently last night that I decided to close my shudders--which I almost never do because it blocks out the morning light.  That is, when is there is any morning light.  I've been stewing in a melange of annoyance at the French for doing everything the French way, ennui with regard to my homework, sickness (caught an obnoxious cold), and probably a bit of Seasonal Affective Disorder (this was suggested to me by the ever-wise Mutti (translation: Kate O'Neill), who remarked that Paris gloom is a stark departure from the California sun I've become accustomed to).

But this morning, there was morning light!  Glorious, copious, buttery waves of it, flooding eagerly in through my window.  In fact, I'm currently sporting my giant 60's-style shades, which haven't seen the light of day (haha) for a few months.  That roiling windstorm last night blew something into the city.  The air is dry and fresh; as I went out to the boulangerie this morning, I almost felt as though I were in the Cascades, breathing the sweet evergreen air, reading to shoot down a ski-slope.  Then some taxi driver screamed, "PUTAIN!! DEPÊCHE-TOI!!" and I remembered I was still in Paris.  But not without fondness.  My fever is gone, the golden leaves (the ones that must have hung on for dear life last night) are twinkling like Christmas lights, and I'm starting to grow very fond of this city and its people again.  As if it were a boyfriend with whom I'd just had a fight, I'm begrudgingly, but not without great relief, warming to Paris, becoming affectionate, seeing its qualities again.  I just can't quit you, Paris.

So, for lack of adequate poetry-writing skills, here's a list of some little magnificent things:

1. I went to the supermarket the other day looking for cough-drops, which I couldn't find anywhere.  I asked some of the employees, who informed me I had to go to the pharmacy which, it being Sunday morning, were almost all closed.  I was about to roll my eyes at the inanity of all the French rules when one of the employees said, "But you should really try milk and honey."  And the other chimed in, "Yes, warm milk and honey, it really does the trick."  Awww.  How sweet.

2. My windows were a little steamed up this morning.  I'm not sure why this makes me happy; perhaps the reason is that it's such a seasonal pleasure, highlighting the delicious contrast between chill winter air and my warm little room.

3. I was walking home late the other night with some friends when we noticed a truck and some construction workers.  Then we realized they were stringing Christmas lights!  It was like a holiday brigade (anyone who knows me knows how excited I get by holiday lights...VERY excited)

4. Clementines.  Just their happy little shape, their sweet taste, and the lovely smell they leave on your fingertips.

5. Jours feriés, i.e. days off.  Such as today, Armistice Day!

Alright, well that's all I got for now.  Just thought you might like to know that my spirits are high, and I have not seen the wind.

Biz,

Alice

Undeniably, Unapologetically, Unalterably American

They say that one deals with loss in stages.

First comes Denial.  In my case, this was not so much "I'm not in Paris!" as it was "This is GREAT everything is going to be GREAT and easy and...GREAT!".  I didn't believe, intellectually, that leaving my friends, family, and beloved West Coast to set up camp in a strange, fast-paced, cold and rainy city would be easy.  But I think I had such high hopes for my Parisian sojourn that I didn't allow myself to consider the fact that expatriating oneself is often isolating, upsetting, annoying, and always difficult.  A city of contradictions, Paris is at once gray and beautiful, somber and sparkling; I hoped I could stay in the glittering dreamworld and splash through the dirty puddles without getting wet.  It was Denial, through and through.

Then comes Anger.  In my experience, this bit can actually be fun--as long as you have a couple American buds to vent with.  First comes the provocation; the French LOVE dissing American culture.  Here are just a few of my favorites:

"Americans sound like cats when they talk: meeeeooow raaaaaooooww meeeoooowww"

"American coffee tastes like sock juice"

"Your accent is SO funny/cute/American!!" (this one's especially aggravating after having spent half an hour attempting to pronounce particulièrement in Phonetics class)

"American chocolate is dégueulasse"

"Why are you all obese?"

I usually try to laugh off these injustices, but after hearing one too many of these obnoxious generalizations, I get cranky.  And then I realize the elevator in my building is broken.  Again.  And then I learn that the metro workers have gone on strike.  Again.  And then I'm told that you have to wait in line to use a computer with internet at my university, but the computers with internet don't print, and the computers that print don't have internet, and if you didn't have the foresight to bring your own printer-paper, you're shit out of luck.  And then I storm out of my university, only to find myself choking on a cloud of cigarette smoke.  And that is about the moment when I am PISSED.  An outpouring of swearwords will ensue, and they will not be in French.

After Anger comes the stage of Bargaining.  Apparently, it's not the kind of bargaining I've been doing (i.e. "No, I don't have my passport with me.  But here is my driver's license, Sorbonne student card, international student ID card, Scripps College ID, Middlebury ID...can you PLEASE just let me buy the cough drops already?!").  This bargaining is more psychological: trying to find and reclaim, by any means possible, what is lost.  I suppose this stage manifested itself in my consumption of uber-American foods, even ones I don't usually eat in America.  Following some sisterly advice, a friend and I first tried a restaurant off the Champs-Elysées that had a subtle American theme (the clues: "Nonstop Service" and "French Coffee Shop" written out front (for some unknown reason, the French write "French Coffee Shop" in English to signify an American-style coffee shop/diner), more than five varieties of burgers listed on the menu, ketchup and mustard on every table).  We succeeded in feeling pretty American, and pretty greasy, after burgers and fries, but decided that it just wasn't enough.  America is, after all, the land of plenty; one burger at a subtly-themed restaurant just wasn't going to cut it.  Off to the sixth we went, where we found a diner/restaurant called Coffee Parisien.  A hot fudge sundae and chocolate chip pancakes were ordered.  We gorged, we giggled, we reveled in the Americanness of it all.  I had succeeded, with the help of some greasy burgers and even greasier pancakes, in getting back the culture which I had lost!

Then I woke up.  With a tummy ache and what felt like a sugar-hangover.  I needed a shower (need I remind you of the extreme-grease-overdose?).  So they were right.  No matter how many American restaurants I visited, I was not going to be able to get my culture back.  I had even missed out on celebrating Obama's election with my fellow citizens!  I was thoroughly down, feeling a little lonely and a lot dispirited.  What was an American girl in Paris to do?  I called my mommy.  "This sucks.  I quit."  She soothed me with some motherly words of wisdom, and I eventually dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.  Reality had struck: it wasn't American food or politics I was missing (CNN and sweet potatoes could calm those woes), it was all the Americans I left when I came to Paris.  After congratulating myself for recognizing such a deep-ish emotional truth, I came to this conclusion: well it still Sucks.  This was the stage of Depression.

But finally, or so they say, one arrives at the stage of Acceptance.  For me, Acceptance means not minding the crowds on the Metro, getting mesmerized by the interaction of the autumn light and the stately buildings, admiring those perfectly manicured gardens, hanging out with friends--French, American, and other nationalities, finding the most delightful apples at the farmer's market, becoming a regular at the local (slightly overpriced but friendly) café.  I wouldn't say I've passed through all the stages of loss and arrived comfortably at Acceptance.  Rather, I have days of Acceptance and days of Depression, moments of Bargaining and moments of Anger.  I can say, however, that I have fully disposed of Denial; studying abroad is full of ups and downs.  While there is loss, there is also gain.

I think I'm going to take a little afternoon stroll over the Musée d'Orsay and stop at Erik Kayser Boulangerie (it's become a bit touristy, but the bread is still soo good).  I would definitely say that's a gain.

Bisous,

Alice

p.s. check out my new photo albums, "Bordeaux," and "An American Night in Paris" on my Picasa web album (http://picasaweb.google.com/AliceinParisFrance)!!

Le Mal du Pays...Otherwise known as Homesickness

For the past couple of weeks, I'd been floating on a tide of caffeinated bliss--bouncing into the kitchen to whip up another version of sauteed onions with tuna and peas (I've been eating variations of this dish for days; the reason is not yet known), bouncing into class, into cafés with friends, into gardens, into yoga, even bouncing into the library at which I'm now a member.  My friend Quentin has described me as very bouncy, and also noted the lack of equivalent adjective in French.  But my bounciness came to an abrupt halt at the end of last week, and left a yawning void of fatigue in its place.

So it has arrived, as everyone said it would.  I thought I could avoid homesickness if I just kept running forward at full-speed: making friends, reading books, drinking café crèmes, going out even when I didn't feel up to it.  Unfortunately, using avoidance as a coping mechanism can only work for so long.  I began noticing some cracks in my strategy.  I lavished an unusual amount of attention, complete with cooing and ear-flapping, on a black lab ambling innocently down the street (I miss you Duffy!); the owner looked at me as if I were a bit off-my-rocker.  I scroll lovingly through the phonebook in my cellphone, missing the friends listed there.  I bought miso soup mix and organic brown rice udon noodles--my therapist would say I'm projecting my affection for Taiki onto the food of Taiki's people; she'd probably be right.  I miss eating Alice's Teashop scones with Twin A, I miss wandering around the Upper West Side with Emily, I miss bugging Mommy while she's trying to work, I miss making bread with Daddy, I miss those big, sad, brown eyes Louise uses to get more meat, I miss having coffee with my friends at the completely un-scenic Richmond Beach Starbucks.

This weekend, however, my homesickness came with physical symptoms.  I slept.  And slept, and slept.  I am deeply tired, and I've learned that this breed of tiredness can't be alleviated by any number of cafés crèmes.  Life abroad is a continual challenge.  I sometimes equate it with one of those endless slogs up an Adirondack trail.  You arrive at some great lookouts, and if you're with my dad or one of his brothers, you test your geographic knowledge and find you can name most of the peaks in view.  The break, the view, and the ability to know where you are in relation to your surroundings make you feel pretty great.  But the upward slog must go on.  So you pack up your Nalgene and trail-mix and get back to work.

This weekend, however, a little break just didn't suffice.  So I set up camp under my down comforter, downloaded a season of an American TV show (Mad Men), and got out the novel I'm reading by Barbara Kingsolver (i.e. not French lit).  Here I sit on Sunday morning, coffee in hand, feeling refreshed but not completely renewed.  But I'm not too worried; I think the bounce will come back, though it make take a few more 10-hour nights of sleep.

Any advice from those who've experienced homesickness, or from those who have temporarily lost their bounce, is welcome.

Bisous & sweet dreams,

Alice

French Yoga: Survival of the Fittest

Bonjour à tout le monde (or, more accurately, my dedicated and occasional readers)!

First, here is the link to my pictures:

http://picasaweb.google.com/AliceinParisFrance

Second, I know I have already written far too many blog posts on the subject of seasons, but I can't resist including a little bit more here. It was gloomy today; rained off and on. Autumn has begun in earnest. Now the sky is a deep foggy blue, with barely perceptible clouds hanging over my horizon of rooftops, chimneys and domes. I have lost many hours sitting at my desk, gazing out at the buildings and the sky. For some reason, the changing of light carries more significance here than in other places. Maybe I'm just projecting my romantic conceptions of Paris onto normal sunrises and sunsets (thanks, Therapist!), or maybe the light really is more dramatic here. It's clear that I'm not the only one who wells up with vague emotions at the sight of a beautiful Paris scene: falling autumn leaves sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight; the sweet, burnt smell of my foyer's garden; a vine-covered house with cracked paint and musty old windows; a strange little street--you can't remember how you got there, or where it leads--that wound its little cobblestone way up some hill in a quintessentially Parisian fashion; the smell of melting cheese on rue Mouffetard; the plump yellow lab that parades through my quartier with his weary-looking master trailing behind. I always experience a twinge of nostalgia for the transiency of these lovely moments. I want to capture them, bottle them up, grasp them with my camera...but they slip away just as quietly as they arrived.

If you've gotten this far, thanks for indulging my sentimental ramblings. You may be wondering what any of that has to with the title, "French Yoga."

Zen, relaxation, peace. The reason for the gap in my blogging has been the return of school, work, and stress after a relatively relaxing summer. I realized recently that I was going to have to adapt to Paris in ways I did not expect. Sitting in the softly-lit study room of my foyer, trying not to fall asleep over Balzac's Le Père Goriot (I love you Balzac, but of all the things I could say about your books, "chill" and "relaxing" do not come to mind), I had a sort of ephiphany. Having finally located some obscure word in my giant French dictionary, only to find that it signifies a specific kind of 18th century trellis ("thanks B.Zac!" I thought, "this will be SO useful in everday conversation!"), I came to the marvellous conclusion that I was working too much. Enough with the intellectual intricacies of ye olde Père Goriot, I needed some Sentimenal Education (OK, I promise to stop with the pretentious jokes). Working at my usual feverish pace was totally killing the mood, not to mention impeding upon my exploration of an incredible city. I needed some relaxation. ASAP.

Wandering is the quickest, easiest, and often best way to relax in Paris. But a strong case of perfectionism calls for something a bit more forceful than a peaceful walk. Careful what you wish for...

I show up to yoga wearing (obviously) my yoga pants and my little earings with the "Om" symbol. I even managed to put on a bit of my Sandalwood scent. So I was feeling pretty yoga-rific. Then the instructrice arrives; if you think you wear organic, recycled cotton pretty well, you clearly have never met Maryam the Yogi Goddess. We start off pretty normally with some basic stretches. But Maryam the Yogi Goddess doesn't manage to hide her true nature for very long. While we're all in downward dog, I hear her say to another student, "But what are you doing? That isn't downward dog at ALL! Here, let me show you..." and Maryam the YG proceeds to SIT on the student until she has bent him into the correct position. Forceful intervention indeed...I being to sweat.

Maryam the YG is not your average West Coast yogi; the latter are usually incredibly sweet, and are really into "going at your own pace" and "doing what feels good for YOU." Maryam the YG does not care what feels good for you. One of her favorite saying is, "It hurts, I know. Believe me, I know better than you!" Translation: Weaklings! Quit your whining. Oh, and by the way, I'm FAR superior to you. She also likes to yell at her students; for instance, "You there! In the corner? What the hell is that? Put your RIGHT arm behind your left leg? It's really not that hard..." As for the connetion of mind and body, Maryam the YG's thoughts are as follows: "There is no magic moment where your body just decides the be flexible. Use your mind to TELL your body to do the stretch. Yoga is just forcing your body to obey your mind...No suffering. Just doing."

This may not sound like your cup of green tea. And at first, I was more than a little affronted at Maryam the YG's brusk style. But by the end of the session, I had changed my mind. The yoga class was difficult, and at times uncomfortable; but once I got it, I really felt fabulous (so fabulous, in fact, that I was practically lounging on fellow metro-passengers on the way home). My French yoga class mirrors, in many ways, my experience in French culture: sometimes painful, always challenging, but ultimately really rewarding.

In conclusion, I have been studiously not working, and I feel pretty great! We'll see if that changes once Sunday rolls around...luckily there is my trusty farmers' market to soothe my working woes. Sweet potatoes, beware!

Gros bisous!!
Alice

You know you're becoming Parisian when...

So! I don't have much time to write because classes at the Sorbonne have started, and not gradually I might add. I'm suddenly in the middle of a slew of literature courses (the Poetics of texts and the Genre of the Fairly-Tale for starters), all of which seem very interesting, and all of which have pas mal de travail (a good amount of work). More on that later. For now, a few moments I've experienced recently, each of which has made me feel a bit more Parisian.

You know you're becoming Parisian when...
1. You magically float through metro turnstiles, while those poor newcomers shuffle through their belongings to find a ticket (you secretly have a Carte-Navigo in your bag, which has a special chip that is detected by the turnstiles)
2. You now require three different kinds of yogurt on any given day (I prefer a light, almost runny, raspberry yogurt for breakfast; a vanilla mousse/fruit confit after lunch; and a thick coffee-flavored cream after dinner...go to even the shabbiest supermarket and you will discover that the varieties are infinite)
3. You never take of your scarf. Never.
4. You find yourself saying, "Beeunhh ouaih" instead of "ummm, ouiee"
5. You pass by the Assemblée Nationale, Église st. Clotilde, numerous gardens, Invalides, and seven different pastry shops on one walk
6. You (a former vegetarian of two years) pass a Poulet Rôti and think you have died and gone to heaven, all in one whiff
7. You are stopped in the street and asked for directions (this has happened to me twice! success!)
8. You are almost happy that you feel sad, because being chipper just would not go with the gray skies and falling rust-colored leaves
9. You no longer regard smokers as unusual or smelly...in fact, you begin to regard NON-smokers as out of the ordinary
10. You no longer think of bread as a "bad carb," or even a "carb," but rather a god-given right
10b. You find very good bread at the Shopi (the equivalent of Safeway...I know what you're thinking, but Shopi bread is really quite good! You just have to know how to choose it)
11. You are propositioned daily outside the Sorbonne to join a student protest
12. You don't think that stores entirely devoted to dog furniture, clothing, and accessories are weird
13. You find that everyone you know is a foodie (your student-friends opt for gourmet cheese and a baguette instead of pizza; you read celebrity interviews in magazines only to find that the subject of the interview ranges from the star's favorite chocolate shop to where they go for prime fish; your friend is affronted when you worry that chocolate isn't good for you; your other friend comments that the eclair you just shared was "not bad: the pastry could have been flakier, and the topping was dry, but the mousse inside was OK")
14. You hop out of the metro as soon as the doors open, before the train has fully stopped
15. You become bored...Just kidding! I'm definitely not yet bored, there is way too much to explore. I'm discovering Paris by bits and pieces. I'll let you know when a few more fall into place.

Now back to homework!

Bisous,
Alice

Reppin' the West Coast in Paris

For those of you who don't know what "Reppin" means, the translation (not from French, but from West Coast argot) is "Representing."

By the way, I added more pictures (yay)!!  The link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/AliceinParisFrance

So back to the topic at hand.  Sandwiched between the days of fall-joy and cultural euphoria are days of incredible frustration.  Sometimes the anger comes because I'm sick of people speaking to me in infantile English just because my French is accented.  Sometimes it comes because I'm stuck inside crafting meticulous "plans détaillés" for essays while my friends (who wisely chose to study art history instead of literature) are out partying.  Sometimes it comes because I'm just trying to take out my trash and a crazed Frenchman is yelling at me about scrap-wood left outside his apartment next door (I told him it wasn't my scrap-wood.  He told me he didn't give an *expletive*); and then the elevator is broken (which happens with alarming regularity); and then the dryer does not work (so that's why it was free!).  My response to the cultural frustration?  Be loud.  Be proud.  Be American!!

Ok, usually I am the first to critique our government, social mores, processed food, car-addiction, etc.  But when the French turn up their noses at me, I have nowhere to turn but back West...far West...all the way to my beloved land of origin: the West Coast.  Here's how I rep the good ol' WC (no..NOT the bathroom for godsakes!!):

I wear my Northface vest.  It's a puffy down vest, rather like a pillow that you can wear.  I also like to think of it as a security-blanket that one can wear in public without attracting stares (for anyone who has seen my real security-blanket, I guess I could try to pull off the bohemian-bag-lady-chic with it but...nevermind).  The Northface vest is warm, lightweight, not at all fashionable and, best of all, a true staple in the Northwest.  It's one of the few reasonable items of clothing I own.  Last Sunday I ventured out to the farmers' market to buy vegetables for soup (which--composed of cabbage, tomatoes, carrots, mushrooms, bell pepper, onions, garlic, and lots of basil--was delicious!); it being a lazy Sunday, I decided to wear my puffy vest, my yoga pants (another celebrated staple of West Coast style: comfy, stretchy, reasonable...) and, for the finishing touch, my Rainbow flipflops (a Must for any resident of California).  I was a bit worried about what the stylish Parisians would think of my mishmash outfit, but just donning my native attire fortified me enough to strut proudly to the Boulevard Raspail.  Not only did I not receive a second glance, I began to notice that sunday Parisians are a different breed from weekday ones.  Tons of people were in paint-spattered sweatpants, unflattering sweaters, and sneakers (always bought with the good intention of running, always used to meander to the market for Sunday dinner).  Compared with these slobby schmucks, I had MASTERED the comfy-casual look!  I strutted my way through the Raspail farmers' market, puffy vest puffing nobly behind me, flip-flops flapping on the pavement.  And I managed not to accidentally steal any sweet potatoes this time!

When I first saw Starbucks in Paris, I was annoyed and somewhat embarrassed.  We Americans are not champions of subtlety.  Not content to let Europeans mock our venti lattes from afar, we decide it is imperative to expand our sphere of influence and introduce those weeny espresso-drinkers to the glory that is a caramel-mocha-extra-shot-light-on-the-whipped-cream-frappuccino (who the hell came up with the term "frappuccino" anyway?).  But, I can't be too dismissive because I, too, am a Starbucks-toter (noun, m/f. one who is seen, more often than not, carrying a paper cup emblazoned with the Starbucks logo; often seen running errands, driving (especially in Southern California), or wandering aimlessly with the cup seemingly glued to the hand; known to be aggressive when seen without Starbucks cup).  In any event, I was feeling a combination of frustration and homesickness the other day when I happened upon that big, round, green sign.  I couldn't resist.  But I decided to keep the visit pseudo-Parisian by ordering a small (i.e. very large by French standards) café au lait.  I clung proudly to my cup all the way home on the metro, even staring down an old lady who gave me a sour look (was it the Starbucks cup?  the puffy vest?  maybe I bumped her with my enormous book bag which is clearly labeled: Scripps College).  I am not even ashamed to say I enjoyed it.  At least I didn't get a frappuccino.

Luckily for me (and for Parisians who are ambushed on the metro by the impressive volume of my vest), the days of frustration are often followed by ones of joy.  I wandered around today without a map, only to find myself in the Tuilerie gardens, visiting a lovely église, outside of the Assemblée Nationale, and walking past the grandeur of Invalides...all within a 15 minute walk!  The magic of Paris is seeping into me (maybe the soup with the abundance of French vegetables helped?).  I even found my-formerly-vegetarian-self salivating over the exquisite aroma of a poulet rôti at the farmers' market.  Fewer Parisians respond to me in English.  And, the coup-de-grâce, my rigid French methodology professor returned an assignment with "Excellent travail" scrawled across the top.

After my wanderings and academic success, I'm in very high spirits.  Though I am still wearing the puffy vest (what? it's warm!).

Gros bisous,

Alice

La Rentée

Apologies to all (but especially Guggi!) for the recent lack of entries!

The reason for my absence: (the eagerly-awaited, the dreaded, the much-advertised...) La Rentrée.  Apparently, getting back to school is so important to the French that they have a name for the whole affair.  Bookstores advertise cute notebooks with quotes from Rousseau, Montaigne, Proust scrawled across the cover.  Mamans tote their well-dressed children to shoe stores for new kicks. Tourists begin to peter out.  Parisians begin to walk a bit faster and look a bit haggard-er on the metro.  And the temperature begins to drop.

I, in my nerdy way, am thrilled.  For the past week or so, all of Paris has been holding its breath, hesitating on Fall's doorstep, not quite ready to commit.  The days remain long but the sun begins to soften in late afternoon.  As I write this, it's 7:30pm and the sky is still bright blue, though a soft orange haze is creeping up the sides of the buildings.  The chimneys are etched in gold and a purple light seems to rise from the streets.  The smell of burned leaves is in the air; the morning will be stark and gray.

I've been incredibly pleased and refreshed at fall's impending arrival, and incredibly tired.  Courses at the Sorbonne haven't started yet, but I'm taking a three-week class at Middlebury's center on the methodology of French literary analysis.  The class should be called: Attempt to Master (in three weeks) the Most Precise, Rigid, Nuanced, and Detailed Style of Essay You Have ever Encountered.  Every class feels like an assault: the (real!) French professor yells at us about the necessity of doing everything absolutely right and then tears our feeble attempts to pieces.  I'm feeling inundated with information, overwhelmed, and stressed.  On the bright side, my professor's response to one of my assignments was, "I'm pleasantly surprised that you understood the homework.  It was almost good" (look of disbelief).  In conclusion: KUDOS to my French friends.  I have a new respect for you and your education system.

What can you do but don a giant wool scarf, munch an apple (which are in season!!), and head off to the metro with a carefully-crafted expression of ennui and existential distress?  You'll fit right in (that is, until you can't help but smile (the French don't smile, remember?) at the crisp fall sunlight).

Gros bisous mes chers lecteurs!

Alice 

Il Faut Manger

So.  I'm sitting at my desk, gazing out over the neighboring rooftops and sluggish blue-gray clouds, and having a little snack of granola (known to the French as "Muesli Croustillant").  Just because I'm in the city of croissants, foie gras, and stinky cheese does not mean I've abandoned my granola-munching, ski-sock-wearing, tree-hugging hippie ways (though it's true that I do NOT venture out of my apartment in Birkenstocks with my SmartWool showing through and those nifty pants that zip-off at the knee to reveal lightweight but somewhat unflattering shorts).  But I digress.  Food: the French are obsessed with it, everyone needs it, and it's one of the most obvious markers of cultural difference.  The following petites histoires are the product of my collision with French food.

1. Le viennois au chocolat

Whoever thought up this breakfast pastry was either a genius or an ancient ancestor of mine (it's also possible that he/she was both).  Basically, a viennois au chocolat is a mini-loaf of soft, chewy, sweet bread with chocolate chips sprinkled throughout.  Have a gander at the picture I so thoughtfully included (intended to make you all fabulously jealous and/or come visit me so I can teach you the ways of the viennois).  

If you know me well, or have spent time with me in a dining hall, you know that two of my absolute favorite foods are bread and chocolate.  As I said before, le viennois au chocolat...GENIUS.  A new friend of mine from the foyer, Marine, and I were discussing sweets the other night.  She said, "Americans really like doughnuts, right?"  I responded, "Oh sure, Dunkin' Doughnuts and all that!  Yeah there're like 87 kinds..."  She looked at me half amazed, half disbelieving.  "Yes, it's true," I continued, "but me?  Moi?  Je n'adore QUE le viennois au chocolat" (rough translation: I adore ONLY the beauteous bread-chocolate-concoction pictured above). She nodded knowingly.  I think we're going to be friends.

2. The Sweet Potato Saga

I wandered over to one of the farmers' markets in my quartier last Sunday morning to find some fresh produce straight from la compagne (the countryside).  I was not disappointed.  The Parisians come out in droves to the good farmers' markets; much jostling and elbowing ensued as we battled for the best fruits and vegetables.  And apparently, some stands are regarded much more highly than others.  There was a gargantuan queue for one stand whose produce, to my untrained eye, looked very similar to all the rest.

But, I suppose I am very particular about my clothing, and will only shop at certain stores even if it means enduring enormous crowds and higher prices.  Daddy is in a continual state of disbelief ("You need another scarf why??!!") over my penchant for buying the clothes of the season; the right clothing, however, contributes to my sense of happiness and well-being.

Similarly, the patrons of Parisian farmers' markets adhere to the trends of the season as religiously as any fashionista to the newest Look (leeks are SO hot right now).  I decided, however, to buy a sweet potato because I adore them almost as much as les viennois.  I wandered over to a pile of pommes de terre douces and picked out a fat one (not dissimilar, in shape, to a man with a big potbelly).  A man (with a slightly smaller potbelly) looked at me cradling my potato and said, "Isn't that potato mine?"  I assumed he was just some crazy Parisian trying to steal my potato.  So I said indignantly, "No, it's mine!"  He just smiled and walked away.  I poked around a bit more and, deciding that my lovely potato was enough, went to the scale to pay.  And there was that crazy potato-stealer!  Only, he was actually the potato-vendor.  Merde-alors!  I blushed and paid.  But he just grinned enormously and said, "NOW that is your potato!"

Now, in fact, I am off to the big kitchen in the bottom of my dorm to cook dinner.  I am feeling lazy tonight so I think a demi-baguette and some cheese will suffice (needless to say, my sweet potato is long gone).  I'm still enjoying the French fare, but I will not hesitate to let you know when I begin to crave something distinctly American.  Hopefully it's not Dunkin' Doughnuts...

Bisous!

Alice

Pictures!!!

here is the link to my Picasa web album: picasaweb.google.com/AliceinParisFrance

Enjoy!

Bisous,

Alice

L'installation: il faut de bon courage!

Bonjour à tout le monde!

Premièrement: the fact that I'm updating my blog is proof of a recent grand succès! That is to say...drum roll please...I have hooked my laptop up to the internet!!! All you high-tech, Wi-Fi-loving, blackberry-toting, email-checking people back home are probably saying, "Ho-hum, what's the big deal?" But as anyone who has lived abroad will know, hooking up one's American laptop to a foreign internet system is no small feat. Here's how it goes:

Step 1: Shlep to the Fnac with Mommy (like Office Depot+Mac store+bookstore+cell phone store+...well, you get the idea)
Step 2: Attempt to navigate the five floors crowded with French students getting ready for la Rentreé; Mommy and Alice adopt "Airport Face," a term coined by the Laskin sisters to describe the open-mouthed, wide-eyed, completely lost expression often worn by K+D Laskin in airports
Step 3: Eventually locate the ethernet cords, endlessly ponder which one will work; much hand-wringing and shrugging ensues
Step 4: Find the registers to purchase the Chosen Cable d'Internet; Mommy breaks out the phrase she has perfected: "Prenez-vous le MasterCard?"
Step 5: Shelp back to the dorm only to discover that the French prefer to package ethernet cords in absolutely indestructible plastic; for lack of scissors, Mommy and Alice attack the package with a nail-clipper
Step 6: Plug the Chosen Cable d'Internet into the MacBook and discover...it doesn't fit
Step 7: Concede defeat

Today, however, I returned to the Fnac with my French friend Quentin (he was a language asistant at Claremont McKenna last year). Maybe it was just that his presence made me more confident, maybe it was because I had experienced the Fnac before, or maybe it was because he knew the magic phrase to ask the Fnac computer experts ("C'est compatible avec le Mac?"), but we found an ethernet cord and it works!!

Hassles aside (and there have been many), I am making babysteps in becoming a functional inhabitant of Paris. There are little successes everyday, and I celebrate their occurence with a level of enthousiasm akin to, say, the welcoming of a newborn (i.e. a LOT). For example, there was the little dance I did to celebrate my new coffee maker. It makes the best coffee!! Sorry Boris (my coffee maker back in California, currently living with Taiki), but you may have been upstaged. Also, there was the leap of joy into my mountainous pile of pillows (merci Maman!) to celebrate meeting the girls who live on my floor. I heard some giggling the other night so I ventured out into the hall to find (real!) French girls! There is Sophie, Delphine, Marie, and Émode--a very lively bunch who were discussing epic stomach aches when I stumbled upon them (Marie was suffering a bout of la nausée due to some very rich cheese from Émode's region of France).

To clarify: I am living in a foyer (an international dormitory, though most residents are French) full of young women about my age. I'm on the sixth floor and have a big set of windows that look out onto Parisian rooftops and the dome of the Panthéon. It is absolutely lovely (I'll post pictures soon!). The Mesdames who run the place are strict but very nice, and are forever talking about keeping one's room and the comunal kitchen propre (that is to say, very clean). My neighborhood is equal parts commercial and residential--not toursity, which is nice--with some old churches, a hospital, and beautiful buildings mixed in. But the star, à mon avis, of the 6th arrondisement (where I live), is the Luxembourg Gardens. I'm pleased to say that the gardens are less than a 10 minute walk from my dorm.

So, on that note, I'm off to wander around my quartier.

À très bientôt, and don't hesitate to email me at alaskin@middlebury.edu if you want to contact me!

Bisous,
Alice

First Impressions

Good news! I have already met a fellow study-abroad student! Her name is Aarin, she's from Tacoma, WA, and she's doing the Smith College program. She was sitting next to me on our connecting flight from Copenhagen to Paris...small world! In any case, it made me feel heartened to meet another brave soul, venturing out into the wilds of Paris! Unfortunately my feeling of encouragement was swiftly followed by bashfulness at having dragged my maman along with me. I began to question myself: could I do it alone? How was I going to manage in this foreign city all by my lonesome?

Wherefore such (hopefully misguided) worry? Maybe it was due to the fact that it was 7am West Coast time and I had only had a few hours of uneasy, drug-induced sleep. Or perhaps the reality-aspect of my Parisian adventure was finally hitting me. This was not going to be all romantic autumn walks and delicious baguettes...this was starting a bank account, getting a cellphone, finding those ever-elusive French friends, and...taking classes?! Oh mon dieu! It didn't help that my French was a bit rusty after a summer of little practice.

On the other hand, the city is as beautiful as I remember, the parisians all seem to know that I'm American but speak to me in French anyway, and thus far I have encountered nothing but kindness. I've been drinking in the lovliness of Paris as eagerly as the cafe creme I had this morning (SO good omg!).

So, in conclusion, I'm anxious but excited. At least there are copious amounts of wine to ease my angoisse. Cheers!

Bisous,
Alice

Preparation (mundane and magnificent...or at least somewhat amusing)

I am currently in the middle of my petit sejour (short stay) in Seattle. It's overcast. Mommy is sitting at the computer, Duffy is napping on the floor (for those of you who have never had the great pleasure of making Duffy's acquaintance, he is a dog, hence his location on the floor), and Daddy is studying Italian at the kitchen counter. The scene is almost absurdly typical.

I've been preparing for Paris for many months: applying to the Middlebury program, filling out copious amounts of paperwork, having an extravagantly complicated correspondence with the mistresses of the foyer (the international dorm in which I'll be living), traveling to San Francisco for my visa and, most recently, buying one of those extremely dorky wallets that hang around your neck! They are the most efficient way of proclaiming: I am an American! I don't trust Europeans! They drink too much wine and spend much time loafing around cafes! Therefore, I shall wear a wallet around my neck!

Needless to say, I will be hiding mine under my shirt. Even though I know I will be found out for what I really am--American--I have been trying, for years, to become a more French version of myself. There are many fabulous reasons for studying in Paris, becoming very French not least among them. So! In an effort to get a headstart on my transformation, I've been reading French or Foe by Polly Platt. Here are some of the lessons I've learned about how to be French. To wit:

1. No smiling! At least not at strangers. Apparently, if I flounce around producing that signal of American politesse, the French will think I'm a) a hypocrite, b) trying to get something from them, c) completely stupid, or d) flirting with them. So I guess I'll be saving my smiles for those Frenchies who I actually am trying to get something from. Could be useful for crossing beaureaucratic red tape and getting free drinks.

2. Flirt. With everybody. Even though I'm not supposed to smile for fear of flirting with anything that walks (or even things that don't, for that matter), I am supposed to flirt. Platt counsels: "if you can't find your luggage at the airport, look for an official who is a member of the opposite sex to help you. Flirt! Don't smile--do it with your eyes. Your baggage will show up in a jiffy" (29). Note to self: watch French movies. Practice The Flirty Eye Thing.

3. Be incredibly polite. I am not to walk up to strangers, as I have done in New York many times, and say, "Yo where the eff is Broadway??!! The eff-ing subway dropped me at Fulton and I'm totally eff-ing lost. OMG is that a Prada bag?! I LOVE!" Instead my exchanges with French strangers are supposed to go as follows: "Bonjour, monsieur, excusez-moi de vous deranger, mais j'ai un probleme. Je suis absolument perdue!" Translation: "Hello, mister, excuse me for disturbing you, but I have a problem. I'm completely lost!" Note to self: Practice being polite while simultaneously working The Flirty Eye Thing.

So I have my work cut out for me. It looks like a miniscule patch of blue has appeared in the sky, so I'm off to read more French or Foe while attempting to soak up the last rays of summer.

A bientôt!

Gros bisous,
Alice