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