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