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)!!