because I am an English Major

The Beginning of the End.

2011-09-16T08:56:00.000-04:00

I am standing on the verge of the last day of the first full week of my senior year in college. And I am alarmed. Maybe not alarmed, per se, but definitely apprehensive. And in the past week's scurrying about from professor to professor begging for publishing tips, graduate school tips, internship tips, and tips about how not to go completely insane in the coming months, I have culled some interesting information. 1. I should probably chill out some. 2. I should probably start sending my work out to publishers, online, undergraduate, upper-echelons, everywhere. And 3. I should probably keep up my blog. And that's where it gets a bit weird. Technically, I have kept up my blog, in the form of a photo-based tumblr you can find here, but in the silly process of switching from blogspot to Wordpress (which, for the record, I didn't like as much and for that reason used only three times). Now, I do really like where my tumblr went, and is still (sort of) going - in any case it seems more likely to be maintained now that I am back on American soil than either of the other blogs. But the internet-published writing has sort of fallen by the wayside, and now that the European adventures have come to a halt I'm at a kind of impasse. You see, I've also got reams of (old) poetry on deviantart, the credibility of which I doubt daily and for that reason worry, probably needlessly, that I should remove my profile altogether lest I be classed an amateur, which I am. So I'm sort of... all over the internet and spread rather too thinly to update everything regularly. So I think I'll just stick to here for long written entries, and keep photos and single, witty sentences for tumblr, abandon Wordpress altogether (which I already have) and perhaps someday either overhaul or entirely delete my deviantart. Now if only I could figure out how to get back into livejournal and delete it... You know, because I am an English major.

Moving Out.

2011-02-27T13:05:00.000-05:00

Well, I've migrated to Wordpress for the time being, so I can keep putting up photos of my travels. You can find my new blog here. Still getting used to the system, so the posts will be sparse for a while, but I hope to have it up and running in the near future.

Cheerio! x

An Afternoon in the Royal Parks

2011-02-12T13:04:00.000-05:00

Hello dear readers, it's been a while since I posted but at last I have some truly worthwhile pictures to show you, so here goes. Last weekend was uneventful aside from a trip to Brick Lane to buy books for school and for pleasure, so no pictures there. However, this weekend is the beginning of my "reading week," during which I don't have any classes, so I have begun my (relatively - I do have essays to write) free time with some exploring. Yesterday I walked to Oxford Street for some retail therapy at Primark, got some great boots for only £5, and waited in line for the fitting room for probably longer than I was actually picking out clothes... in any case, a nice afternoon but nothing worth photographing. But this morning the sun was shining aggressively through my window and I decided to take a proper walk. Of course I took an umbrella, as one must do in this city, but thankfully I did not need it. It stayed quite sunny all afternoon, with the exception of some ever-present clouds. I set my sights on the royal parks - St. James' Park, Green Park, Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens - and wandered out into the wind and the sun. Here I will begin the photo-tour portion of this blog post.

I crossed Blackfriar's Bridge:

And walked along the Thames on Victoria Embankment:

And reached St. James' Park just past Westminster Bridge:

They really have some spectacular birds there:

And it is so much lovelier in the sun:

I then went on to Green Park, passing by Buckingham Palace, which I only took one more picture of:

And then I reached Hyde Park, which was by far my favorite:

I stopped for tea and a scone at The Lido Cafe by the banks of the Serpentine (where Percy Shelley's first wife committed suicide, just for your information - in the Serpentine, not at The Lido Cafe):

At some point, I ended up in Kensington Gardens, which was also lovely - it was green enough to fool me into thinking it could be spring:

I stopped to sit in this little gazebo-type thing, because I have an odd attraction to gazebos:

And I took the most artsy-fartsy hipster photo I have ever taken to date:

I actually quite like it.

So there you have it, a Saturday afternoon in the royal parks. I will have to go back when the weather is warmer, but I still think they are lovely in February. I may go to the Tate Modern in the near future (though more likely a weekday than a weekend - I've heard it can get awfully busy) for a proper visit that is not interrupted by a fire alarm, so perhaps I will be putting up a post about that soon. Until then, or until whatever else it is I get into here, cheerio!

Note: You may observe that about half of the pictures I meant to post are missing from this entry. This is because I have apparently reached the limit for free photo posting on this blog... not exactly sure if that's per entry or per whole blog, but if it's per whole blog I expect to be switching to wordpress or something. Ridiculous. I'll see if I can get it sorted out.

Petites Madeleines

2011-02-01T18:17:00.000-05:00

Well, it's past 10pm and I have completed all of ONE assignment for class (reading a selection of poems by Robert Lowell, if anyone is interested) and am trying to avoid watching JUST ONE MORE episode of Skins (original UK edition, of course), so it's time to blog - I'm overdue as it is.

My excuse for being overdue is two that I've had two surprisingly uneventful weekends, or at least one barely photograph-able weekend and one mostly dull weekend that I have documented pretty well but have very little to report about. But I suppose I shall summarize, just in the interest of pretending my life is more interesting than it is. I mean, it is interesting, just not in a way that I can blog about. I'll publish magnificent essays later on, I promise.

Alright, last weekend, after the scintillating tour of churches on Friday, I spent a lovely Saturday being somewhat ill and reading What Maisie Knew, an elaborate piece of modernist fiction that could have been about a third as long as it actually is (TENSE DISAGREEMENT!). I did go to Borough Market for some reason or other... Oh yes, it was to see the Market Porter, a pub that played the part of the Leaky Cauldron in the Harry Potter movies, but my friend and I ended up feeling too awkward to take pictures, so we plan to return later and actually buy a drink. We may do this on a Harry Potter activity day, which is actually in the works, and will include such highlights as Dumbledore's Office (which is IN MY COLLEGE'S LIBRARY), Platform 9 3/4, and the Millennium Bridge. Get excited, people.

On Sunday I walked with a friend to Spitalfields Market and Brick Lane to check out the Sunday market scene. Spitalfields was massive, with loads of nifty clothes, some delicious-smelling (and -tasting!) food, and oodles of "No Photograph" signs. Alas. Here's a picture of a goat that was just outside the market though.

I know, it's not even a real goat. Disappointing.

Brick Lane had just about the most glorious antiques market that I had ever seen, called the Tea Rooms, where one could buy everything from nifty china tea sets to collectible compacts from the 50's and designer cupcakes (yes, cupcakes.). And I located a record/music bookstore that made a hasty retreat necessary - a hasty retreat that led me directly to a book stall that was selling just about every book I have ever wanted to read and/or own. Ever. Thank god I didn't have any cash on me. But I'll be back...

I met up with my British acquaintance of two posts ago (who was, by the way, none too happy to see his tea reported on the internet as underwhelming, and to whom it was necessary to apologize for my brutal American honesty) and we had dinner at Nando's after an adventure on alternative public transportation - the Tubes are often down for maintenance on Sundays. I spent all Monday continuing my vain attempt to finish Maisie, and then survived a semi-hellish week of classes, having gotten precipitously ill on Tuesday, barely surviving Wednesday, and thanking the heavens, or the Queen, or whomever one ought to thank, that my Thursday afternoon class was canceled.

Naturally, I spent my long weekend recuperating. And by recuperating, I mean sleeping for much of Friday, drinking gallons of tea, and taking a trip with the Skidmore group to Canterbury on Saturday, a trip that was followed almost immediately by another punch party, which I left early again because I got sleepy and am generally lame. But wait, I went to Canterbury? Yes, I did indeed. No, Chaucer was nowhere to be found. And the Canterbury trip is the main reason why I have postponed this blog post until now. See, I took a lot of pictures, and we went to see the cathedral, but to be perfectly honest I enjoyed the two-hour train ride, reading Proust (see the title of this post) and watching the gray-green English countryside slip by, more enjoyable than the whole afternoon in Canterbury. Cathedrals look like cathedrals look like cathedrals. And I have seen a lot of cathedrals. But, since I took the damn pictures, here are a few - I tried to keep them unusual and interesting, as you can probably look up better-quality photos on a more legitimate website:

Silly train-window pictures that do not in the least capture the scenery:

We are on a train:

Obligatory rail station sign:

Canal shot:

Really old place:

Gunter :)

Canterbury Cathedral:

Ceiling:

Lovely stained glass:

Relics:

Thought this was pretty neato:

Secret:

Candle burning in honor of something that happened a long time ago that I took note of but don't feel like sharing at the moment, being in a mood:

Martyrdom:

Cool gate:

Angles:

Off-limits, so obviously much more interesting:

Well then, that was Canterbury. We did have lunch in a nice little pub called the Old Buttermarket - the name was the main reason we chose the place. And we bought some fudge. By which I mean, my companions bought fudge, and I cleverly avoided paying almost five quid for a confection that would probably just upset my still-delicate stomach, and sat near them eating the fudge as we all split an enormous pot of English breakfast tea in a cute cafe called Boho. Here is said cute cafe:

(New profile picture, much?)

Canterbury, punch party, Sunday. I can't even make up an excuse for my Sunday this past weekend. After getting up in the morning to observe a march in honor of Charles I's execution (or martyring, depending on how you want to look at it), I did nothing but watch Skins. All day. I eventually wandered down to the common room to be social for a bit, but seriously, all day Skins marathon. Not even the pretense of studying. I disgust myself more than a little bit. But hey, I still have a cough... And, in my view, if you are still taking cough medicine, you still have an excuse to sit on your arse watching TV all day. But I said I wouldn't make up an excuse... Anyway, here are the pictures from the march, which look lovely and sunny but do not in any way represent the bitter cold that was probably responsible for my absurd laziness for the rest of the afternoon. Keep in mind that the general impression I got of the event was that NO ONE HAD ANY IDEA WHAT THEY WERE DOING. Neat costumes, though:

Oddly enough, Monday was much better. I was decidedly productive for most of the morning and afternoon, and planned to continue into the evening. 'Twas not to be! This week is RAG week at King's College, a week of charity events during which students can party incessantly in the name of a good cause, and Monday night's festivity was a party on the 29th floor of Guy's Hospital (right next door to me). I hadn't bought a ticket, but a friend had bought an extra ticket that he hadn't ended up needing, so I ended up all dolled up on the 29th floor of a hospital at around 9:30pm. The King's Men, a male acapella group from King's, performed some choice American pop songs, and then a middle-aged DJ played some choice American pop songs as well as some choice American and British 80's tunes, all with a gorgeous backdrop of a magnificent view of London from the "Top of the Tower." Really a fun way to end a dull weekend. But did I take a picture? Nah...

And now it is Tuesday night, one day of lectures down and only two to go... Unfortunately only one assignment down (and a half, if you consider how much Proust I have read) and a large handful to go, so perhaps the blogging should stop here. I will make a concerted effort to have a more interesting weekend this week, so as to keep everyone entertained.

Cheerio!

Churches?

2011-01-21T12:25:00.001-05:00

Last night I went out to a fantastically swanky club with a couple of friends - we'd been contacted by a promoter and were promised free entry and free drinks. Free entry, yes; free drinks, not so much. However, three of us were female, so it worked out. The place was called Aura Mayfair and it had fantastic lights and funky chandeliers and mirrors on the ceiling. It seemed like an old (and rich) crowd at first, but as the night went on more people came in, and many of them were closer to our age. We didn't want to buy drinks (as I expect they were absurdly expensive), so we just started dancing, and pretty much did not stop until the club was about to close. One of us, however, managed to meet a gaggle of investment bankers, one of which looked rather a lot like Hugh Grant but was not, who kept buying round after round of expensive drinks... It was a good night for all, until we had to figure out how to get home. We ended up walking to Picadilly Circus to take a night bus to Waterloo, but we still had a twenty minute walk back to Wolfson. Oh well, it was worth it.

Today I woke up late, having been out all night (by which I mean until 5am - there were birds singing on our walk home), but it was sunny so I had to do something. I decided to follow a walking tour from my guidebook of central London churches. I went from All-Hallows at the Tower to St. Paul's Cathedral with about ten churches in between. I suppose this is where I start posting pictures.

I walked across Tower Bridge, which I hadn't yet done - note that the Thames really is the colour of tea when it's sunny out:

And took a couple of pictures of the Tower of London from the other side:

Here's All-Hallows-by-the-Tower, right by the Tower of London (strangely enough):

And here is a quote said by Samuel Pepys, the fellow whose burial place I was going to see:

I went by The Monument (the purpose of which I still do not entirely understand):

Here's the second church on the path, St. Magnus the Martyr:

And here's St. Clement's, "of nursery rhyme fame," according to my guidebook... This one was actually quite hard to find and I walked by it a few times before going in:

Then, along Eastcheap, I found St. Margaret Pattens:

And St. Olave, where Samuel Pepys was buried (is buried? I hope he's still buried...):

Here's St. Katharine Cree, which I went into mainly because I was freezing:

And here is the Gherkin, which is apparently called the Swiss Re Tower, or 30 St. Mary Axe, but I find the Gherkin much more appropriate:

Then I reached St. Helen's Bishopsgate, of which there seemed to be two:

I couldn't resist. Would someone from the UK actually ride this?:

(This one was on another street...):

And I walked along Cheapside (which is ironically a rather expensive shopping area) to get to Mansion House:

(That's not Mansion House, it's just a street view on my way there)

Here's the Royal Exchange:

And a statue of Wellington:

And, finally, Mansion House:

(impressive, I know)

And St. Stephen Walbrook, which wasn't open to the public:

I also spotted this sign, which I found interesting:

And this one:

Then I passed by St. Mary-Le-Bow:

...on my way to St. Paul's Cathedral, which I'd already seen but not from this side, and which was the final destination of the walking tour:

Then I made my way back to London Bridge and home to Wolfson, totally freezing but glad to have done something with my day. It's not as if I'm particularly interested in churches, but the tour was in my guidebook and it was something to do, since the markets I want to see aren't good until the weekend. In any case, I hope this post didn't bore you.

Most likely there will be more tomorrow, as I plan to do some wandering, or at least stop by Borough Market, where apparently the Leaky Cauldron scenes from Harry Potter were shot. Yeah, I know you're all jealous that you can't go see the Leaky Cauldron. More later - cheerio!

Quite a Weekend!

2011-01-17T10:16:00.001-05:00

Hello everyone, I expect you will all be extremely impressed with my weekend activities. I have begun doing the thing that I did in Paris, where I do loads of things in the space of a few days and then have to put up an extraordinarily massive blog post that is probably longer than is worth reading, but I will include plenty of pictures and try to keep the writing to a minimum, because who wants to read my writing really?

In any case, at the moment I am procrastinating about some articles I have to read for a philosophy course (or "module," which is what they call classes here) and so naturally I figured I would put up a blog post. Besides going to Camden on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday (once to get shown around, once to buy decent boots I can walk in, once to watch my friend shop in exceptionally shitty weather) the end of last week was not particularly exciting. But this weekend I was determined to wander around incessantly, which is what I did.

On Saturday I decided to go to Portobello Road for the antiques market, because it's open on Saturdays (although apparently it is also open on Sundays). So there was my destination, but of course I wasn't going to take the tube - that costs money, even with an Oyster card. So I started walking. I actually just took the way I walk to Strand campus, but instead of turning at Waterloo Bridge I walked down York Road and crossed Westminster Bridge. So of course I was able to see Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Westminster Cathedral during the day, regardless of how gray the day was, which is almost always is here. Here are some pictures:

Also, there was a statue of Abraham Lincoln, which mystified me:

Then I wandered through St. James' Park just to take a look. I'm sure it's lovely when it's sunnier, but I liked it anyway:

And, of course, just beyond the park is Buckingham Palace, which I also took obligatory pictures of:

Also, I liked this gate:

And then I stopped in Hyde Park to sit and write for a moment, and again, I bet it's lovely on sunny days, but those are so hard to come by here that I am more than willing to settle for gray ones:

(yes, that last one is insufferably artsy, but I just had to take it)

So then I assume that I'm pretty close to Portobello Road, as the map I have seems to suggest it (regardless of the fact that my map sort of stops before getting to the area indicated by the Portobello Road Market website), but it turns out that I'm not. I'm just about to Marble Arch, which is at the end of Oxford Street, and I've been walking about two hours now. I happened to run into a King's graduate who told me that I still have about a half hour to walk, and that I need to get all the way to Notting Hill. Honestly, after two hours of walking I didn't really mind. So I did it, and it was about a half hour more. But when I got there I was sort of underwhelmed (as an aside, is anyone ever "whelmed"? you can be "overwhelmed" and "underwhelmed," but "whelmed"? Oh, English...) that it wasn't particularly large or impressive, and was really just a line of shops that I presumed were open every day. Maybe I ought to have gone on a Sunday... Here are some pictures of the street and some of the shop displays:

To be fair, some of the antiques were pretty cool; I just couldn't afford them. Anyway I did find a lovely dress for £15, and then meandered in and out of shops until it got dark, at which point I headed back towards Marble Arch Station to go home. It was closed, for some reason or other, so I had to continue on to Bond Street Station, and I got sort of distracted at Primark... but I did eventually get on the Jubilee Line to London Bridge and get home tired but satisfied.

And that was not all that was in store for the evening. At about ten that night my floor held a punch party, which is a notorious event in which everyone pays a few quid to get in and an enormous bowl of punch is made and everyone gets quite sloshed (have I mentioned that I love the drinking laws here? Well I do.) and doesn't remember much. Unfortunately, after quite a few glasses of punch, I had to use the bathroom, and the bathroom was just temptingly close to my room, and I felt like lying down for a bit, and then I woke up at 4am. I am terrible at this.

Needless to say, I woke up yesterday morning with an incredible hangover, but the sun of all things was shining in through my window so I got up at 10am, took two Excedrin, and made some tea and toast before heading out towards what I expected would be a park. I did not take an umbrella, as I'd carried one around all day yesterday and it hadn't rained, and it just looked so seductively sunny before I left... But, as a new friend here has informed me, the weather in London is sentient, and it will fuck with you mercilessly. It started to drizzle just as I was far enough away not to want to go back for the umbrella, so I ended up at the Tate Modern, which is actually quite close to where I live. I went up to the third floor, which is entitled "Poetry and Dream," basically a lot of surrealism. Not really a good plan for the hangover... In fact, just being indoors was terrible, so after taking a few pictures I sat down on a chair someplace and wrote a bit. Here are the pictures anyway:

Now at some point in my writing an alarm went off in the museum. It went of for a minute maybe, and then turned off. A few minutes later it went off again, then stopped. This happened three or four times before it became clear that we all ought to leave the museum, and so we did. So I have seen the Tate Modern, through a sort of mental haze, for about a half hour. I'll have to go again.

At this point it had stopped raining, so I wandered through a cute little garden:

And walked along the Thames to sit a bit at Gabriel's Wharf, inhaling some relatively (for London) fresh air. Here's a picture of the wharf:

And decided I'd just go to Covent Garden. It was sort of crowded, as it was Sunday, but I looked around for quite a while, tasting samples of tea and taking pictures in several of the quirky shops. Here are a few highlights:

A miraculous little toy shop:

(yes, that was an Edward Gorey toy theatre. I wanted to buy it so badly.)

And fresh-made soap from Lush that looked to pretty to use:

And a shop called Octopus that sold really weird household items:

After that, I bought a bite to eat and stopped in a weird little garden to eat it. It may be less strange and gloomy in the sunshine, but somehow I doubt it. Anyway I liked it. Here are some pictures of the spot:

After that it was sort of drizzling again, so I headed towards the National Gallery which, like the Tate, is free to go into, and is also indoors. It's right by Trafalgar Square, which I hadn't photographed in (relative) daylight yet, so here are a few shots:

And then I went into the museum, where you are apparently not allowed to take photographs, so I won't post any of the ones I took before I discovered that fact, for fear of highly unlikely legal retribution. Anyway here's the outside:

To be honest, I found much of it quite boring - loads of religious art from Spain and Italy and the Netherlands, but eventually I found the Impressionism section, saw some Monet and Pissarro that I hadn't before, as well as one of Van Gogh's Sunflowers series and one of Degas' Dancers series. At this point I was satisfied and, after a peek at some Cézanne, I started to walk towards Baker Street Station, where I was supposed to meet a friend from the area. I walked up Regent Street, which is actually quite impressive at night, and took these two pictures because, as I have said before, I am actually a prepubescent boy:

I apparently overshot my turn, and ended up wandering around near Regent's Park, which was already closed. Luckily I ran into three Americans studying at Regent's College, and Baker Street Station was apparently one of the only places they knew how to find. So after some looking at a map, I got there and realized that it was very close to the Sherlock Holmes Museum (which I am planning to visit), as indicated by this statue:

The rest of the night was uneventful, dinner at a little pub, tea that I was told insistently was "proper English tea," but seemed pretty commonplace to me, and now here I am on Monday afternoon having to actually do reading - to think! I am expected to do coursework! Oh well, there's my update for now. Expect more wandering next weekend.

Cheerio!

Ode to Several Grecian Urns

2011-01-11T14:35:00.000-05:00

Hello again! I've had an interesting couple of days without much photo documentation, but I'll share what I've got.

Yesterday morning I woke up early to a lovely sunrise that I don't know if I fully captured but will try to reproduce here:

Ehh, not so good. But you get the idea.

After that, I had a quick breakfast and walked to Strand Campus to be welcomed by the philosophy department. And it was not at all what I expected. We all gathered in a room, were spoken to by a woman who I'm sure is a lovely person but whose thick Italian accent was both intimidating and confusing, and then were dragged up some stairs, down some stairs, lost half the group, found them again, and were informed that not only had our classes already started but also that we had to personally e-mail our professors in order to get our timetables for seminar groups. Also, I was told that one of my classes, "Ethics, PHILOSOPHY, and Literature," is in fact a theology course. RIGHT? So that was exhausting. And then I had to go to Tesco to buy dishware so I could eat like a civilized person, and I bought some groceries but they had only ONE bowl and it was chipped, so I couldn't buy it, and a bowl was really all I needed badly.

After this frustrating day, I went out to a lovely little German pub with some people who live in Wolfson with me, and had my first real pint here - a pint of delicious German beer I might add. Called Hell or something. Actually, definitely called Hell. And then I stayed up far too late playing pool and Guitar Hero, both of which I am terrible at. I didn't go to bed until 3am and, thanks to the philosophy department, I had class this morning. So I am quite tired and do excuse me if I babble or make horrid typos.

I got up this morning, participated in my first real London commute, walking at 9am with all the crowds of people who have work and class and whatever other activities they must be on time for. I was expecting the first class to be a basic introduction, with a syllabus and an overview, but instead the professor just jumped right into class, explaining Cartesian mind body dualism and its flaws and counterarguments, and apparently we already have reading assigned. Thank goodness it's Descartes, which I've already done pretty thoroughly, and pretty recently too. Otherwise I'd be entirely lost. Also, thank goodness classes here are only an hour long; 10am-11am was just about all I could handle.

After that I had until 4pm until the theology department welcome, but I didn't feel like going back home, so I looked for someplace to eat lunch. I found a little park-like spot that was properly English-looking in the drizzly gray weather. I thought it was positively lovely. Here are a couple of shots, which betray the strangeness of my taste in outdoor spaces:

After stopping there to eat a sandwich on an only-slightly-damp bench, I went back out onto the street to find someplace else to wander toward. And upon looking at a curbside map of the area, I realized that I was about five minutes from the British Museum, so that's how, halfway by accident, I ended up wandering around this afternoon among lots of lovely objects that the British have stolen from other peoples and accumulated here. Of course, some pictures:

From the outside:

And the immediate inside (no lines or anything - you just wander right on in):

It really is a lovely building - it's worth the visit just for that:

Some Egyptian things:

Here are those Grecian urns I was talking about - I couldn't help the reference (see the title of this blog):

And I thought this was adorable:

Now here's some classical stuff and such:

Seriously though, why on earth is the Parthenon in London? Explain that to me:

(Yes I know that's not the real Parthenon - here's some of it here, STILL IN LONDON):

Oh yes, that's why:

And I thought this was a clever photo to take:

And then I started doing the "History of the World in 100 Objects" tour, and started here:

But I got completely distracted when I wandered into the Enlightenment room. This is a bell jar! I was much more excited than was appropriate:

And here are some lovely tiny globes:

And here is a fake of the Rosetta Stone (you are allowed to touch it, though I don't know why - probably because you are so repressed from not being able to touch anything else in there):

And I took these two pictures because I am actually a nine year old boy:

I took this picture because it made me smile more than was appropriate:

But can you see why I could not advance past this room for quite some time? No, I wasn't quite drooling, but I was close. Of course they're all old boring books from the king's library... but they still smelled of books, and they were still positively lining the walls:

I sort of tried to get back to the 100 objects thing, but I got rather tired, so this is the only other object on the list that I bothered to find (neat, isn't it?):

And this guy was just magnificently awesome:

So I pretty much just saw the ground floor. I will most definitely go back, when it rains again, which will be soon, and by soon I mean almost always.

Oh yes, then I was welcomed to the theology department, although I was pretty much falling asleep by 4pm and didn't absorb much. And then I took the bus back to Wolfson, made tea and eggs for dinner because I didn't seem to buy anything at Tesco but breakfast food, and now I have a little while to change and maybe nap before going to some American sports bar around here that my building-mates apparently like quite a lot. Funny, I go to England and I end up in Irish pubs, German pubs, American bars... Well I have plenty of time to find places that are actually English - plenty of time.

That's all for now - cheerio!

A Lover's Walk

2011-01-09T12:28:00.000-05:00

Well, we had another sunny (although quite chilly) day here in London, and I did some more sightseeing to make the most of it. I got up at the crack of noon to wander about the city on my own a bit, and just went across the London Bridge and tried, but failed, to find The Monument (whatever that is). I wandered around a bit on some random side-streets and along the Thames, and got this nice picture of a couple of bridges - if I'm not mistaken, the one in the forefront is in fact the London Bridge:

And a few shots of a little courtyard someplace with a fountain - I certainly hope I can find it again, as it seems a lovely place to stop and read or write a bit when it is no longer January:

I also came across a statue of a man on a cell phone, the purpose of which was unclear, but which I found curious enough to photograph:

I settled for locating the Tower of London during daylight hours so I could take some photos. Of course the place was swarming with tourists, but I got a few decent pictures:

And yes, that last bit is, in fact, a skating rink on the grounds of the Tower of London. Curiouser and curiouser.

And just before the Tower was this lovely establishment that I also thought I ought to document:

And then I found a nice little spot called Tower Place, which was quiet and almost entirely unpopulated, where I took a few more pictures:

Then I walked back across the bridge to London Bridge Station to meet up with a group to see "Lover's Walk," a "promenade" show that walks the audience through the South Bank. While I was waiting I saw this:

I know, I found it funny too.

Anyway, "Lover's Walk" was both a teeny bit cheesy and quite believable performance that, to be honest, left me feeling a bit melancholy. I didn't take many photographs, as it made me feel sort of awkward, what with being in a rather small group led about by two people, but I took this one in which both actors appear:

In the background you can see the Gherkin (or at least that's what I'm told it's called) - reputedly the ugliest building in London. You can tell which one it is because it looks like a gherkin. No, seriously.

And I snapped this one as well, because the view was just lovely:

And here's some important ship that is reputedly an eyesore but in fact looks quite nice at night when they light it up with multicolored lights and it looks rather like a float in a gay pride parade:

Obviously, I took those in the daytime.

Now I haven't a clue what I'm doing this evening, and tomorrow I have a departmental welcome from the philosophy department at King's College, and then I think I need to buy some dishware at Tesco (no, that wasn't included either... how was I expected to pack all this stuff?), so I don't know when more pictures will be coming, but our classes don't begin until the 17th and I still haven't seen Buckingham Palace...

On that note, cheerio!

And Now For Something Completely Different

2011-01-09T06:53:00.000-05:00

I had forgotten to post about the fact that I now have proper sheets, which I bought at Primark for £10, as well as some towels, which cost me a total of £9 - this is turning out to be quite an expensive city. In any case, now my room is properly furnished, and I'm sleeping much better and can shower and wash my face at my leisure. And now that my room is properly furnished, I can post a few pictures of it that I took yesterday.

Here's my view of the city from the window (and I also get quite a lot of sun in the morning, when there happens to be sun...):

And here's a general view of the bed and desk (as you can see, I added a tapestry to liven up the space):

And here's my little in-room sink area (really very nice to have):

And the results of my first grocery shopping trip (minus the perishables, of course, which are all in the communal fridge, which I have chosen not to post a picture of... that's a fine bone china mug by the way, which I got for 99p at some ridiculous shop):

And here is my toiletries shelf, if anyone is even remotely interested (I told you I was obsessive):

And, this is mostly for my mother, here's the stowaway that I brought along (also note the leopard print throw that I bought - somehow I can't feel at home without leopard print all over the place...):

And that's that. Now I have a furnished bed to sleep in, although the mattress is still tiny and rather hard, and how you all (all two or three of you, I mean) know what it looks like. Now I'm off to do some more adventuring, and I shall certainly post more later.

Cheerio!

At The First Clear Day

2011-01-08T14:53:00.002-05:00

Contrary to its title, this post is nothing like a surrealist painting.

BUT, we finally had a nice sunny day in London and I had quite an adventurous afternoon. I had planned to get up early and explore on my own, but I ended up sleeping until past noon and just went along to London Bridge Station at two in the afternoon to meet up with my friend Alex, a Skidmore student who's originally from London. We went to Borough Market for lunch (which also happened to be breakfast for me) and to look at all the lovely food stalls and smell the lovely smells (really, it was magnificent. And so here is a photo of my first ceremonial plate of fish & chips (it's cod from fish!, a vendor that Alex insisted sells the best fish & chips in London):

...and here is a photo of what they looked like after I was done with them - minus the handful of leftover chips that I somehow managed to spill on the street (because, as you will learn, I am obsessive compulsive about documenting things like this):

But Borough Market really was lovely - they had all manner of breads and cheeses and meats and olives and spices, even smoothies and a vegetarian stand or two. Here are just a few pictures I took of some of the stalls:

These fellows were quite nice and even smiled for my photo (that would never ever happen in a Parisian market...):

Apparently ostrich meat is quite popular here:

After the market, we walked across the Millennium Bridge to St. Paul's Cathedral (although of course we didn't go in - what with the lines and the crowding - it's easier to appreciate from outside):

And on our way to the Cathedral we saw Shakespeare's Globe Theatre:

And the Tate Modern:

And then we went to Covent Garden and saw a fellow on a unicycle who was juggling dangerous things in his underpants (pictured below he's got knives, but later on in the show he had chainsaws):

And then I went on my own to Trafalgar Square:

And after that I had an absurdly long walk home, on which I saw Westminster Abbey (albeit from across the street:

And the London Eye all lit up for the night:

And the long walk was made a bit more pleasant when I saw this restaurant:

Which was interestingly RIGHT ACROSS from an Alice in Wonderland billboard featuring Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter. But now I think I'm going out someplace or other, as it is Saturday night, so I shall leave off here and post more when I have more adventures and corresponding photos to share. Cheerio!

Off to Sea Once More...

2011-01-06T23:27:00.001-05:00

Well hello there, I suppose it's time to begin blogging again, as I find myself in London for five whole months. It's only my second day but I'm so exhausted and have done so many things it feels like a week. It's after 4am here in London, but thanks to jet-lag I can't sleep, so I suppose I shall write.

I got into Heathrow yesterday morning at 7am, took forever in the customs line, then looked for the shuttle my program director had promised, and upon finding no shuttle took an express train to Heathrow Central intending to take a coach bus to Victoria Park, but ending up taking the tube. Now, I saved a bunch of money, which is very important in a place like London, BUT I had a hellish time getting my luggage into the tube, making a changeover, then walking three blocks from the nearest station (London Bridge) to my residence hall. Really, how could my luggage have been that heavy? It wasn't overweight at the airport... Anyway, my shoulders still ache.

Finally, I arrived at Wolfson house, quickly unpacked some essentials, then took a bus to Strand campus for registration. I was about an hour late, but it didn't seem to matter, as everyone else was still lined up and I got through the process fine. Then I spent about an hour in a Starbucks smelling the familiar smell and feeling terribly homesick and exhausted. Then we had a bit of a welcome lecture at 2, and were told all manner of things about King's and London and I tried my damnednest not to fall asleep in my seat. Afterward, I walked back to Wolfson house with a friend, and in the evening had a little wine-and-beer get-together in the common room and met all the study abroad students staying here, as well as a few regular students. Then a bit of dinner and... can't sleep. Didn't fall asleep until about 2am, and I had to get up at 9 this morning. Oh, the wonders of international travel. If only I could teleport home for a hot shower and a sleep in my own bed - did I mention that Wolfson doesn't provide linens? Well, they don't. I have no sheets, just a pillow and duvet. And no towels. So no showering until I buy some. I suppose I'm still adapting.

Today was a bit better, as I'd gotten at least some sleep (I'd slept only about 2 or 3 hours on the plane, and fitfully at that - I can't sleep upright, or on moving things), and I had the English Department welcome and a lecture on student life in London, then walked to Tesco to do a bit of grocery shopping before a student union event at the Waterfront Bar. On which walk I took this photo, my first in London:

It's right on Waterloo Bridge. See, there's the London Eye, and Big Ben, and a tiny bit of Westminster... and that's about all I know right now. I'll post more pictures once I do more exploring.

Anyway, grocery shopping, bus back home, tube to the Waterfront, silly pub quiz, met lots of lovely new people, and then went out for a night on the town. In fact, I didn't get home until 3:30am. But that sort of adventuring isn't for blogging about, now is it? So I'll leave it at that, and maybe try to get some sleep... Still can't believe I'm really here. Blimey.

An Unwelcome Message

2010-11-18T13:28:00.000-05:00

Well, for once I am writing an opinionated blog post. I took a break from my desk in the English Office to visit the ladies' room, only to find an unsettling flyer taped to the door.

It read: "Food For Thought: Did you get into Skidmore because you're smart, or did Mommy and Daddy buy your admission? Think about this the next time you question whether students receiving financial aid deserve to be here."

I almost tore the damn thing down. Now, I am attending Skidmore on financial aid. A LOT of financial aid, without which I would certainly not be here. I am under the impression that I am receiving this aid because my family is in a situation of financial need and, perhaps, because I have maintained a 4.0 as long as I've been here. Sentiments like the one on that flyer make me sick. I do not need some anonymous outside party to defend my right to be at Skidmore; I'm confident that my past academic achievement got me here, and that my current academic achievement places me on a top rung here.

But what really gets me is that an attacking message like that sparks anger on both sides of the divide. I do not like to think that lots of students are here just because of the wealth of their parents. I like to think that Skidmore accepts students based on academic achievement, as all college should. But if I were a student from a wealthy family, a flyer like that would most definitely NOT make me think twice - it would make me angry. The simple fact that a student's parents are wealthy by no means indicates that the student isn't smart, or that the student is just getting a free ride based on their parents' income tax bracket.

If you're a student on financial aid, one sure way to get people to question whether you deserve to be here is by attacking other students who you have never met and probably, because you are probably classist, will never meet. Class generalizations go both ways, Skidmore - your assumption that a wealthy student is stupid or doesn't deserve to be here is just as bad as, if not worse than, the (supposed!) assumption of wealthy students that you do not deserve to be here. Honestly, such a message is a declaration of class warfare; sentiments like that draw a dramatic and uncrossable line between classes, barring communication and understanding while encouraging broad generalizations, bias, and outright hatred. If you don't want generalizations and unfair assumptions made about you, don't make unfair assumptions about others; don't make enemies out of your classmates.

In any case, if you're the kind of person who would put up such a nasty flyer, maybe you don't deserve to be here. You should know better, Skidmore.

Extremely Sad and Incredibly Happy.

2010-11-09T08:43:00.001-05:00

This weekend I finished a book by Nicole Krauss called The History of Love. It is the most wonderful thing I have read in a very long time, and I was reminded of that bittersweet moment of ending a beautiful story, unwilling to let the characters go but glad to see them through to the end - a moment that I do not believe I have felt since I read The Neverending Story (over and over) as a kid. Although I guess The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi was bittersweet to finish as well, but mostly just bitter - I dragged out the last pages for a week.

In any case, The History of Love is an indescribably beautiful book that I shall, at this moment, feebly attempt to describe. I could not put the damn thing down. I spent all weekend reading it in my window-seat, ignoring much more urgent homework (yes, the glory of being assigned a novel for homework is a double-edged sword). It tells the story of an old man, Leopold Gursky, who survived the German invasion of Poland with the sole motivation of a girl, Alma, who had left their hometown in Poland for a school in America shortly before the Nazis arrived. It also tells the story of a young girl, Alma, whose father has died and whose mother refuses to fall in love with anyone else. It also tells a story of a book, The History of Love, which Alma's father gave to Alma's mother in the first days of their courtship, and for which Alma is named - you see, each girl in The History of Love is named Alma, who the author describes as "the first girl." Alma's mother is asked by a mysterious benefactor to translate the book from Spanish to English as Alma tries to find the real history behind The History of Love. Meanwhile, Leopold lives his life alone, alternately awaiting death and celebrating life. The stories are tied together in beautiful linguistic subtleties, words and sentences appearing in one section and then another, a theme from The History of Love repeated by one character or another in conversation or narration. Also, the passages from The History of Love that are revealed in the novel taste of a magical realism, reminiscent of but more tender than Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude.

It occurs to me that I have said almost nothing here about the enchanting, magnetic nature of the story, and why it made me sob outright in my window-seat and turn the final pages with an anticipation that might have been appropriate only if I was actually a character in the book and ache inside as if the book had put love there, or at least reminded me of the love that was already there. And the truth is, I have no idea. It's books like this one that both remind me of why I wanted to write in the first place, and fill me with despair that I will never, ever write anything as good. But it's just gorgeous - the language; the humanity and mystery of the characters; the carefully interwoven web of story, themes, and language; and the astonishingly accurate account of what love feels like, looks like, sounds like, and is. I was consumed by a ferocious desire to read the book, The History of Love, that is mentioned in the novel, as well as a childlike sadness knowing that it isn't a real book. However, the actual book The History of Love was plenty satisfying. I only wish that there were more of them... although, upon reflection, wouldn't they all be the same?

Interestingly enough, I discovered that Nicole Krauss is married to Jonathan Safran Foer, most famously the author of the novels Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I have only read a couple of his short stories, my favorite being "Here We Aren't, So Quickly," but from that beautiful piece of work I would have to say it's a lovely match that makes me deeply envious in a way that I don't entirely understand. She dedicates The History of Love "For my grandparents, who taught me the opposite of disappearing, and for Jonathan, my life." Ah, to be writers in love - especially writers of such lovely things.

So, everyone who is reading this now ought to go out and read The History of Love and be ready to put aside a whole weekend and, most likely, if you are as sentimental as I am, a box of tissues.

You're welcome.

Ha Ha Ha.

2010-10-25T09:33:00.000-04:00

That's the London Eye. I learned this fact in a book called Netherland that I read for my Contemporary Imaginations course. It is not a Ferris Wheel at all. How foolish I feel.

By the way, Netherland is by Joseph O'Neill and it's quite a good book, in addition to its inclusion of trivia about the geography of London. I shan't go into it now as I should be doing various and sundry other tasks.

Also, these various and sundry tasks include researching the pragmatic (as in, belonging to pragmatism, not pragmatics, which is different) take on the philosophy of language and language acquisition, and this leads me to recommend another thing to my loyal and I'm sure by this time immense group of readers: WNYC's Radio Lab, specifically an episode entitled "Words." Well, I told you I was an English major, didn't I? Here I am doing a philosophy project and all I can think about is language. And Public Radio. TYPICAL. But anyway, that episode of Radio Lab discusses oodles of interesting things, such as how Shakespeare originated an absurd quantity of our current familiar phrases and aphorisms in English, AND the startling question of whether pre-verbal children actually "think" or not - the conclusion of one scientist being that they do not. Check it out.

Now I return to my studies, hoping to have left you all slightly more enlightened. (TYPICAL)

Off To Sea Once More.

2010-10-08T16:55:00.000-04:00

Well hello dear readers, it looks as if a more interesting blog is once again on the horizon.

This morning I got an e-mail informing me of my acceptance to King's College London's Study Abroad program - so in early January I shall be off overseas again, this time in London, where I will speak the language and thus (I hope) have even more exciting adventures than the ones I had in Paris.

I will also (I hope) have a better camera by that time, so the quality of the pictures on this blog should improve.

So aren't we all terribly excited about these new and wonderful things to come? I'm sure we are. However, I am still at Skidmore College in lovely Saratoga Springs, so I predict a prolonging of this somewhat dry spell in this lovely blog I have here.

Nonetheless, Halloween may be interesting enough to document, and I'm sure I'll be bored enough (or procrastinatory enough, as the case often is) to write occasionally between now and January. But until then, wish me luck with regards to getting the courses I want :)

That seems to be all for now, folks.

Oh, but here's a picture of King's College:

I wonder if the enormous Ferris Wheel is there all the time...

I lied.

2010-09-21T20:54:00.001-04:00

That was not all. That was not it, at all.

Here is a link to my new favorite webcomic, at the beginning of a strange and entertaining series that warmed my little English-major heart:

Pictures For Sad Children

However, I suggest you just go ahead and read the whole damn thing. That's what I've been doing anyway.

And It All Begins Again...

2010-09-21T20:50:00.000-04:00

Well, here I am at Skidmore again, already two weeks into the fall semester. Oddly enough, I have little to write about, or perhaps not oddly at all, as I have been ungodly busy since the semester began. But I still have time to put off starting my homework for this evening, thus I have time to post a long-awaited (but by whom, really?) new entry in this blog.

And what, you might ask, is the occasion for this post? Surely not simply procrastination? Well, not entirely. I could post about the exhilarating hike I took the weekend before last, in the White Mountains in New Hampshire. You see, I'd never hiked a mountain before, but jumped at the chance, not fully realizing how large Mount Lafayette is. But I did it - and lived to tell the tale. Honestly, it was an amazing experience, looking out not only across a huge, picturesque mountain range, but also at the long uphill trek we'd taken to get to the top, and the long, irregular ridge we still had to cross before beginning our descent. Even below the treeline the views were absolutely gorgeous, and I took a few pictures at a peak (Lincoln, I believe?) across the ridge from Lafayette. I will most likely deposit them at the bottom of this post.

In any case, while climbing, and especially while crossing the ridge, I couldn't deny the alarming comparison of the path up and over the mountain to a semester in college - or the whole college experience, for that matter. You start out easy, and when it starts to get steep, you put some effort into it but you think you can handle it. And then it evens out again, and you breathe a sigh of relief, only to see another steep face up ahead of you. The steep bits start to seem endless, but when you take a break and sit down, you get a second wind that lasts for a little while before petering out again. You finally get to the top and you're unbelievably happy and proud, but then you realize that there's another peak you have to cross, and another, not as large as the first, but given how tired you are... you get the picture. And then, you hit the descent (here I'm thinking that year or two you take off after college and before grad school), when you think it will be easy going, but it turns out that it's way easier to fall or sprain your ankle, and your toes start to get blisters, and the sun's starting to go down... and the next day or two you're SUPER sore, but still feel great that you did it. And a while later, you meet up with those same friends and say "let's do that again!" - Bam. Grad school. I am indeed my father's daughter - by which I mean my father is a master of the metaphor, and that I spent half of my time climbing a BEAUTIFUL mountain and thinking about a metaphor for the higher education system. What an English major.

But, now for the REAL reason I began this blog post. Out of curiosity, and over-thinking, and the fact that I inhabit the future more often than I do the present, I went on Skidmore's website to look at the academic calendar for the next couple of semesters. And I discovered that, if all goes as is (tentatively) planned on the Skidmore College website, my college commencement will occur in 606 days. Scary, isn't it? Well, not for you, for me. Actually, maybe for you too, because my mother makes up about %33 of my readership. Anyway, here's to worrying about the future.

And speaking of the future, I have one last bit of news before signing off. Tomorrow morning I will be submitting my application to study at King's College London this spring. If I get into the program (fingers crossed, everyone!), I should have oodles of things to post about come January - January 3rd, if I understand correctly, and am compulsive about dates.

Somehow, I feel as if the fall semester should be ending already, given that I'm already planning for next semester. But it is not, and for now I am stuck in America, so I shall try to find a few things to write about and keep this thing active until I find myself overseas once more.

Anyway, here are the pictures from New Hampshire:

That's all, folks.

Grapefruit Moon

2010-05-28T14:24:00.000-04:00

Hello again, yet another lovely summer afternoon on which I happen to have nothing to do. The thing is, I was doing some thinking about where this blog ought to go now that I'm back from Paris and won't be going abroad again until January 2011, and I realized that maybe it could use some poetry. This relates to the blog title how? Well, first of all, the moon was full last night (or almost full, I never know about these things, in any case, it was lovely). But more importantly I once heard my most recent (and most favorite) poetry professor singing "Grapefruit Moon" (a Tom Waits song, for those of you who are not familiar with it, though I doubt anyone reading this wouldn't know) in the hallway, and that is how she became my favorite poetry professor. See? It relates to poetry. Also, I just really love that song.

You know, to follow this vein a bit more, I got Tom Waits' The Early Years, Vol. 1 for my birthday (the counterpart to Vol. 2, on which "Grapefruit Moon" can be found) and I am simply loving it, so I figured it deserved a little plug, no matter how long ago it came out. The Early Years set shows off a really interesting, softer side of Waits, one that's more traditional rock, and one that is arguably quite a bit easier on the ears than the likes of Bone Machine or The Black Rider, for which even I have to really be in the mood. I would have to say that my favorite song on the album at the moment is "Ice Cream Man," but "Had Ma A Girl" is also bouncing around in my head. And one really can't forget about the sweet, tender strains of "I'm Your Late Night Evening Prostitute" (sounds sarcastic, doesn't it? Funny thing is, it's not). By which I mean, whoever happens to be reading this should really give the album a listen, if they haven't already. Also, they should buy it.

But, back to the future of this blog. I suppose I could keep on rambling about what's on my mind day-to-day, but I really would like to include some actual writing. So I think I will start out just by posting a link to my deviantART account - a website where artists can post their work, supposedly to get feedback from other artists, but in practice rather overpopulated with largely unhelpful pre-teens. Anyway, you can find my poetry here:

http://white-apple-parasol.deviantart.com/

Maybe as new work arises I will begin to put it here, or maybe I will just go back to summer adventures with food and philosophy. We'll just have to see, now won't we?

Here's to Waking Up Old and Responsible...

2010-05-27T15:20:00.000-04:00

Yeah, so catching up on the events of over six months ago is hopeless at this point. But now I'm on summer break and I have time to at least put something up here - which is to say I have yet to find a job and have a lot of free time on my hands. So, I went to Dublin in October, I spent five glorious days there, I stayed in a hostel (Jacob's in fact, quite a good place, and cheap too - with a sauna and everything), I met a gorgeous guy named Fabio (no, really, I actually did), I danced to bad American music in various pubs, I took way too many pictures to put up here, I went out on Halloween, I got poured on and destroyed an umbrella in Wicklow, I went to the Dublin Writer's Museum, I got to see an excellent exhibit of Edvard Munch's prints (for 3 euro!), and on my last night I slept in the Dublin airport to save a day of hostel fees. An excellent adventure, and I can't wait to go back.

Also, on December 18th, I inevitably left Paris for good. During my last week I went to as many museums as I could, some of which were adversely affected by the museum guard strike going on at the time, and many of which were free. In fact, I had my very first experience of Parisian rudeness the week I was about to leave: I went to the Palais de Tokyo, a lovely modern sculpture museum, most of which was roped off "because of remodeling" or some such excuse (you would think Paris would be proud of its striking reputation by now...). I had gone to see an exhibit called "Chasing Napoleon," which included, among other things, a terrifyingly accurate life-sized model of Ted Kazynski's cabin in the woods, and some horrible little frozen room you could sit in while alarming lights and machinery (which you could not touch, or you were responsible for your own injuries) made startling sounds - really a lovely afternoon. In any case, on my way in I asked the desk attendant (in what I thought was rather good French) for one ticket to the exhibit. She proceeded to try to sell me a magazine about all the exhibits for that season, which I did not want of course, and seemed to think I was awfully stupid when I insisted that I wanted a ticket and asked me in loud, ticked-off English "DO YOU EVEN SPEAK FRENCH?!" When I admitted only "un petit peu" she declared "WELL THEN LET'S JUST DO THIS IN ENGLISH." Fine send-off from the city, right? At least it was a neat exhibit.

BUT I did leave Paris and then spend the first week or so at home in a state of disbelief, then spend my first month or so back at Skidmore explaining that, no, I had not just become a recluse during the fall semester, I was in fact in another country. Lovely semester on the whole though, and a gorgeous spring break. But then, suddenly, it was finals week, and I found myself with only one final exam (on the Monday of the week, at that), and then I found myself moving out of Howe 223 and back to my old room in Connecticut. Time does fly.

And now, as of 8:45 pm on May 25th, I find myself twenty years old. Twenty years old. Still getting used to that one. Lots of pressure, you know? The twenties. They're supposed to be the BEST YEARS OF YOUR LIFE. That's really a lot to live up to. But hey, I have ten of them after all. More alarmingly, I'm realizing that I will return to Skidmore as a junior - an upper-classman. Now that's frightening. It seems like about a week ago I was a junior in high school. But that is a train of thought I am trying desperately hard not to follow out. And to make it even more surreal, I've been working a bit at my old elementary school, Oak Grove Montessori. Easily the most pleasant job I could ask for, but I graduated from there eight years ago. And now I'm there with actual authority! How very adult of me. So I suppose I did wake up "old and responsible" on my twentieth - let's see if I can keep this up. Maybe by sort of maintaining my blog? Only time will tell, I suppose. In any case, here is a memento from the nicest evening-before-birthday ever.

Thank you baby :)

Until next time, au revoir. (Oh yes, relish that delicious redundancy)

Oh No...

2010-01-25T14:30:00.001-05:00

I knew this would happen. Look at me; it's January 25th and this blog is backed up to mid-October. Ouch. Something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I mean, I have excuses: I was busy when I got back, there was too much to write, I had homework, I was busy spending every weekend exploring Paris's museums and graveyards, I was busy all break baking cookies and going out with friends I had been an ocean away from and spending quality times with my parents and my dogs and my full-sized mattress (you saw that picture of my apartment in Paris), but the fact still stands that I have left quite a lot out between now and then and I still would like to get most of it down for posterity. What to do, what to do? I left off right before I headed off to Dublin, and I suppose I'll have to start back there.

Actually, I could start before that, since the Monday before I was supposed to depart I had a doctor's appointment, something to do with finishing up the absurd visa process I went through in order to stay in Paris a mere two weeks longer than the 90-day-we-don't-care-you're-only-visiting-thus-do-not-need-a-visa period. Well I got on the metro in the morning for my 10am appointment and found the street I was looking for in my handy-dandy Paris Pratique map, but the address I was looking for was not there. I double-checked the letter I'd been sent, and it turned out that the address was actually in Montrouge, just South of Paris. Great. I find the nearest metro station, meanwhile calling the program director in Spain, which was not at all helpful, figure out how to get to Montrouge, and that it will take me an additional 20 minutes. Needless to say, I am quite late. So I call the office that I'm supposed to be finding, in hopes of notifying them that I went to the wrong place and was getting there as fast as I could and was not blowing off my appointment. Of course, I must do this in French. I was pretty sure I got the message across that I would be late, but the response of the irritated-sounding woman on the other end of the line was entirely a mystery to me.

Finally, I get to the right stop, find out that the building I'm looking for is only half a block away, get there, wait in line, and entirely break down in tears in front of the receptionist. It may have had something to do with the fact that I'd gotten hardly enough sleep, was probably a little hung over, had been running all over Paris to find the damn place, and had only eaten a baguette for breakfast. Luckily, she was a very kind woman and spoke English, and she assured me that my tardiness was not a problem, I could just go sit in the waiting room until I was called, which I did. Finally I am brought up the stairs into a strange assembly-line-like medical examination procedure, where in one room my height and weight were taken, in another I took an eye exam (during which the nurse said things like "do you really think that's a three?), in yet another I went into a little stall to remove my shirt and undergarments but not my jeans or shoes and then had my ribs and lungs X-rayed by an Indian man, then I went to one last room where a Chinese woman looked at the X-ray, listened to me breathe, and made strange jokes. I got to keep the X-ray as a souvenir. As exciting as all of that sounds, the real story begins now. I took my signed bill of health and went into one more waiting room. When I was called, I went into an office to get whatever amendment to my visa that was needed for me to travel outside the Schengen States (yes, Ireland would be outside of that area), only to discover that I had neither the necessary proof of residence in France, nor a proper photograph of myself, nor the 55 euro stamp that for some insane reason was not sold there but only in tabacs and treasury-type establishments. I freak. I am trying to explain to this woman in French that my host family is in Venice and thus cannot sign a statement that I live with them, and that I am leaving for Dublin on Wednesday and am terrified that I will not be allowed back into France. After this goes on for a while, she finally finds someone else who speaks better English, and it is explained to me what I can do to get these documents and where I can find the elusive, ridiculously expensive stamp. I am told I can come back tomorrow, and I go on a quest to find all of these items.

1: Proof of residence. I go to the office of the "Gardien" of the building to ask her to write that I live with the Bijassons and she knows this because she is the gardien of the building. I also have to get a copy of her ID to prove that she is such a person. I must explain all of this in French to a person I have pretty much only ever said "bonjour" to. She does this for me, though she seems a bit confused, and I find out later when I come back that "gardien" does not mean landlady like it does in the States, it essentially means cleaning lady. She was apparently very alarmed and embarrassed by my request, which Geraldine informed me (somewhat angrily) after my return. Oh well, one document down.

2: Absurd stamp. I go to a tabac and ask for it, showing them the picture I got in the mail. They say they don't sell it, but another place does. I go towards (or what I think is towards) the other place, and stop at yet another tabac on the way. They don't have it. I continue to look for the one I was told to look for, and realize that I don't exactly know where I am going. Somehow, miraculously, I end up at the Nieully treasury office. I go in. They have the stamp. I fork over 55 euro for a tiny little piece of paper with adhesive on the back side and some purple French person on the front. I am furious, but also relieved.

3: Passport-sized photograph. They have these machines in the metro that take your picture, since apparently in France you need passport-sized pictures pretty much daily. They need them for everything from government forms to job applications (can we all say "discrimination"?). So I went to the nearest metro stop. They didn't have the machine. So I take the bus to where I get on the metro to go to school. They don't have the machine. I take said metro to the stop I get off of to get to the Skidmore center, where I am sure they have the machine. I get in, pay my 2 euro, and pose. The machine takes the picture and prints out 5 passport-sized copies. But I don't know where they printed out. I spend at least 5 minutes trying to find the slot in the little booth and finally decide to go to the desk in the station to explain that the damned machine had just cheated me out of 2 euro. On my way out, I realize that the strip of photographs comes out a little chute in the front of a machine. Idiot. At least I look like I'm heavily drugged in my picture. Again, great.

So now I have to go back to the OFII office the next day to give these pieces of evidence for my eligibility for a French visa. I go in and although I have been told I can just go up the stairs any time after 9am, I am told that no one is in the office and I must wait again in that waiting room. I am finally let up and go back into the other waiting room. Then I go into the little office and make a fool of myself in French in front of probably the most attractive man I have ever seen. Ever. He looked at my documents, he put a funny yellow sticker in my passport, then covered it with another, clear sticker with one of those holographic un-counterfeitable designs, smiled at me, and sends me on my way. I am off to Dublin!

I think I will end this post here, in order to create the illusion of my actually putting up separate posts for my adventures. Also because maybe I should get ready for class... But more because I am further procrastinating about writing out everything I did for five days in Dublin. Sorry, that's all folks.

Les Photographs

2009-10-23T18:14:00.000-04:00

Of course I took loads of pictures during those three weekend adventures, but I did not have the energy to add them to last night's post. Here they are:

Nuit Blanche Weekend:

Parc Monceau, where I spent a gray afternoon and got to see an absolute army of French schoolchildren at recess:

A visit to the Montmartre Cemetery:

A cemetery cat:

Musee d'Art Moderne:

This composition is made of millions of overlapping passages from religious and philosophical texts. It took years.

I thought this looked like a three-dimensional Miro painting:

Matisse, of course:

I went back to the David Lynch window displays on Saturday night (they looked much better in the dark):

Amsterdam:

The most futuristic bathroom I have ever seen:

Belgian waffles! (and kaffie)

Welcome to Amsterdam!

Seriously, Dutch is not a real language.

Sunrise over Oosterdok:

We found the Avanti!

The lovely cafe where we had breakfast:

Inside of Cafe de Kloonprins:

A map elephant!

An antique-shop cat:

A lovely old house:

The canals were just too picturesque:

A very artistic elephant:

So, I guess they sell crack in Amsterdam. And I guess hedgehogs like it.

Canal tour:

"Crazy Jack" clock tower:

Our wee little cabin on the Avanti:

An exotic (and actually quite delicious) little drink:

The obligatory highway-sign photo:

Saturday morning in Amsterdam:

Swans actually do this in real life!

Old volkswagen!

Yes, Amsterdam is a Utopia:

Prins Hendrik:

Ons' Lieve Heer op Solder:

A box-bed in the "Our Lord in the Attic" museum:

The view from the "kerk" in the attic:

The pleasure bus:

They put mayonnaise on their fries in Holland. WEIRD.

The rare parrot elephant:

"The Birds of the City" elephant:

A giraphant:
A park sign that I found amusing:

An adorable old-fashioned swing-set:

A friendly little Buddha hiding in a flowerpot:

A bridge leading to the Botanical Garden:

Lovely narrow houses along the canals:

A flowering building!

The Botanic Garden in Amsterdam:

A primordial pool, complete with trilobites:

A primordial flower?

A primordial tree?

I thought these looked just like the tree stars from "The Land Before Time:

A path through the rainforest:

Some marvelous pink flowers in the rainforest:

Agave!

A shop called "Conscious Dreams"

Normandie:
The Jardin des Simples, where the monks grew healing plants:

Just thought this would make a cool picture:

Just a nice autumn view of Caen:

A former Medieval dungeon at Caen:

Omaha Beach:

Stars of David alongside crosses in the American Cemetery:

The thousands of crosses that represent only a fraction of the soldiers who actually died in the Normandy battles:

The monument to the missing soldiers:
The statue at the monument to the missing soldiers:

Mea and I by the ocean:

The battlefield as it looks today:

I just thought this was an interesting tree:

View of Mont St. Michel from a distance:

View from the bus window:

Looking up the mountain:

The door of a house owned by a ninety-something woman, one of the five families who completely own Mont St. Michel:

Looking up at the church:

The walls of the Mont St. Michel fortress:

The island between Brittany and Mont St. Michel, which is surrounded by quicksand:

A lovely silhouette of St. Michel:

The room where the monks used to eat (in complete silence, no less):

Mea and I out the window of the abbey:

Saint Michael:

C'est tout pour maintenant!

J'ai oublié mon blog...

2009-10-23T16:16:00.000-04:00

It appears that I have fallen behind in my faithful reporting of my adventures abroad. Not that I expect anyone to be waiting with bated breath for my next story, but, as an English Major, I feel somehow obliged to write everything down, especially since I'm going to Dublin this week for five days and I'm sure that if I don't catch up now, I never will. And anyway, it's now the week of our Toussaint vacation, so I finally have the time.

Alright, last weekend: Normandy.

Two hours on a train. A half-hour on a bus. Welcome to Hotel de Ville! Not, as some would have us think, "a very important hotel," but rather the city hall of Caen, a former monastery and church, where there was going to be a wedding in about ten minutes. We hurried through a meeting-room with odd, block-color carpeting that made me think of a primary school, and the plainly church-like area for wedding ceremonies. What happened to the separation of Church and State? Our group was apparently not interested enough for our guide, who spoke English, but very slowly, and with a distinct accent. She frequently asked us what appeared to be rhetorical questions, but then waited impatiently for our answers, saying "I can't read your minds." Lunch was highly anticipated by all.

After lunch, and another hour on a bus (during which many of us dozed off despite the incessant chatter of our jovial bus driver), we arrived at the American Cemetery, honoring the soldiers who died at Omaha Beach on D-Day (some even before reaching the shore, our--much better--guide informed us). We were led through the museum on the site, watching videos narrated by former soldiers, walking through a timeline of World War II, enhanced by the individual testimonials and full mess-kits (something I always find interesting), complete with shaving brushes, Camel cigarettes, and grenades, of the soldiers. The cemetery affected me much more than I expected, never having considered myself particularly patriotic, and I found myself feeling suddenly incredibly proud to be an American. The guide--an adorable young blond woman who spoke English very well--went to great pains to make the cemetery and the beach come alive for us, reading letters from loved ones of soldiers, and reminding us that the American boys were all around nineteen years old, the Germans often even younger. I'm nineteen years old, I thought, and, for me, getting used to Paris is more than enough to handle. I couldn't imagine jumping out of a plane or rowing to shore from a ship, trying to turn the tides of a then-seemingly-hopeless war. Afterwards, we got to stop on the battleground, and although I knew that all of the ditches and exposed stone are the scars left on the earth by a horribly bloody battle, somehow the field--under the gray, overcast sky that had made the cemetery seem just that much more solemn and moving--was breathtakingly beautiful. We got about fifteen minutes to scamper over hills and under dugouts and take pictures (although this seemed a bit disrespectful, the place was just too lovely not to) before we piled back on the bus for the two hours to the youth hostel.

After an unsatisfying "buffet" dinner that happily ended with "Kir Royale" (champagne mixed with sirop de cassis), we went out on the town, only to find that there was very little town upon which to go out. We found a quiet little bar/bistro, and after drinks we walked down to the beach, where Frederique and Becca threw off their shoes and ran to the water, and the sane portion of the group remained by the rocks. I am really going to miss Frederique when we return to the states.

On Sunday, we got back on the bus to journey to Mt. Saint-Michel, the mountain-ish lump of land that becomes an island at high tide, upon which there is an abbey dedicated to the Archangel Saint Michael, surrounded by a very touristy little village and an imposing medieval fortress. Luckily, it was a clear, sunny day, and we got a full view of the mountain when we were still about twenty minutes away from it, and, when we arrived, we found a marvelous English guide (English as in from England) who lead us up the mountain, past the murder-holes from which the fortress was defended against the British (they never did manage to conquer this little patch of Normandy), past the restaurants and homes owned exclusively by about five families, up really a lot of stairs, into the church, where a Sunday service was just beginning, onto a glorious view from a terrace over the treacherous sand that pilgrims from Brittany once crossed (offering such lovely surprises as impenetrable fog and quicksand, in addition to the sudden and dangerous tides), and all through the abbey. The abbey has been used, throughout its history, as a church, a place of pilgrimage, and an awful prison, and our guide did a bang-up job of evoking its multilayered history. Then we had a very strange (for the vegetarians, at least) lunch at La Terrasse Poulard: a very nice chevre salad followed by an absolutely absurd, foamy, and rather cold "omelette" that must have been at least ninety percent cream. Ah, Normandy... And then, after an hour to wander the identical souvenir shops, we were back on the bus. Then back on the train. Then back in Paris. Much exhaustion was had by all. And some of us had quizzes the next morning! C'est la vie...

The weekend before: Amsterdam

This was a much more exciting adventure than Normandy. This particular adventure made me entirely forget my infatuation with Paris and want more than anything else to move into a house-boat in Amsterdam. Really, it is the perfect place. After seven hours on a bus, during which I was able to sleep a little but then ended up just gaping out the window at the funny Dutch signs, Lucie and I arrived at Amstel station, desperately in need of coffee and a bathroom. The bathrooms were closed. We were to discover, over the course of this weekend, that Amsterdam is rather a bad place to need to use the bathroom, since public toilets are few and almost always cost at least 40 centimes, even after you've paid for a meal in a restaurant. So bathroom use was out. But a convenience store in the station was just opening, and after we stared in puzzlement at the Dutch instructions on what appeared to be a coffee machine for a few minutes, the fellow at the counter, who, of course, spoke perfect English, got us two cups of coffee. It was some of the best "kaffie" I have ever had. Maybe due to the seven hours on the bus. In any case, we had to get to Centraal Station to find our hostel, so we took the metro (really a lovely train, clean and all painted inside with colorfully-frosted cupcakes and galaxies and even a pixellated pit-bull) and then, from Centraal Station, wandered down Prins Hendrikkade (did I mention that they speak a made-up language in Amsterdam? It's supposedly Dutch, but Lucie and I developed the strong suspicion that it's just nonsense that someone made up to mess with tourists--we just couldn't take the signs seriously) towards Oosterdock, where we hoped to find our lodgings, a passenger ship called the Avanti. As the sky lightened, we took what we later realized was a ridiculously roundabout route, past a floating Chinese restaurant, a floating "trick theatre," a floating museum, and a monolithic building designed to look like a ship called the NEMO (we would later discover that it was a science museum, and was designed by the same architect who designed the Pompidou Centre in Paris), before we eventually ended up at Jetty 4, home of the Avanti. It was about 8am, and although I'd e-mailed the manager to notify her of our early arrival, the flustered-looking woman who met us at the door informed us that we could not check in until 4pm since a group of teachers had reserved the boat for the day. She let us leave our luggage in the kitchen, and we headed off to find some breakfast.

At Cafe de Kloonprins, we got buffet breakfasts of sliced meats and cheeses (the traditional Dutch breakfast), fruit, yogurt, cereals, odd biscuit-type products, jam, chocolate sprinkles (yes, they were at the Avanti too, no, I don't know what they were for), and, of course, coffee. Well-fed and caffeinated, we found an inexpensive map and, after waiting in line for the buses, decided just to walk to the Van Gogh museum. Damrak Straat, the road we had to take, was absolutely overflowing with tourists and souvenir shops, and I had already spent a ridiculous amount of money on gifts for folks at home by the time we reached the museum, to find a line out into the street and a price that was not reduced for students. It was too nice a day anyway. We opted for a cheap canal tour, and got to see all the important canals and former ports of the city, as well as endless rows of houseboats lined up along the canals, the inhabitants of which I envied immensely.

We walked back to the Avanti to check in at four, and after the protracted process of getting the exact change for the balance on our room (the woman, besides just being exhausted from work, had a distinct, slow way of speaking that indicated a rather profound absentmindedness, probably a long-term effect of living in Amsterdam...), we got to see our cabin. And by cabin, I mean cabin. There was barely room for Lucie and I to stand between the door and our bunk bed, which was set right into the wall of the ship. We did have a little sink and a closet, though, and the dining room--to which we had free, unlimited access--was really lovely, especially since it provided free coffee and tea at absolutely all hours.

That evening, we decided to keep it low-key, and after a marvelous (and surprisingly cheap) dinner of soup and bread with aioli (which, we found, one must pay for in Holland--this is most certainly NOT Paris.), we lingered in a quiet coffeeshop for a few hours, where we watched very strange music videos and ran into four other students who were staying in the Avanti, then stopped into a bar so I could try absinthe (for only 3 Euro! Cheaper than a coke in Paris!) before heading back to the ship. At just about the exact moment we decided to leave the bar, it began to rain. Then, as we got about a third of the way back to Oosterdock, it started to pour. I cannot properly express just how inviting (after being exhausted, then soaked, and having had a sore throat all day that just wouldn't quit bothering me) the warm, dimly lit dining room of the Avanti was, especially its free tea. Our beds were gloriously comfortable. We were asleep by midnight.

On Saturday, I had a whole itinerary of museums mapped out on the free museum guide that the Avanti provided, and it looked like rain, so we headed towards the Van Gogh Museum. Or at least, I meant to head there. But we found ourselves much closer to the museum Ons' Lieve Heer op Solder, or "Our Lord in the Attic," a lovely little museum that is actually a well-preserved 17th-Century house with a full Catholic church hidden in the attic. It was built when the city government had officially banned Catholic masses, and had been saved from demolition by a group of junior historians. We each took little pamphlets that indicated the route through the house and followed little purple arrows on the wall through a family room overlooking the canal with an adorable little box-bed set right into the wall; a parlor decorated in the symmetrical Dutch Classicist style; the miraculous secret church, complete with an organ set into a cabinet and a baroque pulpit; a little chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary with a closet-sized confessional (the privacy screen of which might as well not have been there at all); and two antique kitchens, one from the seventeenth century and one from the nineteenth century (which was built with historical materials, so it actually looked much older). A worthwhile adventure off the beaten path!

By the time we came out of the museum, the sun had emerged, so, after some lunch near the market, we decided to check out the botanical garden. We found it down this adorable little street, verdant with trees and vines and little gardens practically spilling out onto the sidewalk. In the garden, we first followed the "Evolution Route" from trilobites to cycads and palms, into the rainforest and all the way to modern plant life, then we wandered a bit on our own, through the desert of South Africa, the jungles of South America, and a little butterfly greenhouse that absolutely perfected our visit. Also, there happened to be a wedding going on, so there was a brightly-dressed, chanting procession (following a very young-looking couple) for everyone to marvel at. I have never seen so much glorious life all in one place! If you're in Amsterdam, you simply must see it.

We made our way back to the Avanti, expecting to change before going out but then discovering that we were just to comfortable and deciding to go out just as we were. We found more cheap soup at a Mexican restaurant, La Guadaloupe, then went to Durty Nelly's Irish Pub to join the "Red-Light District Pub Tour," free to the first ten girls. In lieu of describing the night (full of other American tourists just like us), I will just say how surreal it is to see, behind glass, under glowing lights, a half-naked woman who, provided you have the money, you can buy (or rather, rent). Seeing women lined up in windows like so much merchandise was really quite strange. I could only think "humans for sale." And yet, isn't that how it really works anyway? It's just a bit more aboveboard in Amsterdam.

Sadly, the next morning our adventure was over. We left the Avanti (saying farewell to the woman, who, though absentminded, was incredibly sweet and even had her boyfriend make us a map of where to go out on Saturday night) a little after nine in the morning, and by eleven we were on a bus back to Paris. The return trip took about eight hours, and was really quite uncomfortable. I had intended to finish my reading for history, and although I had the time I lacked the energy and the attention. I just couldn't stop thinking about how lovely Amsterdam had been, with its quiet streets (everyone rides bikes), picturesque canals, friendly inhabitants, and cheap food. I was not excited to return to Paris. However, when I did finally get to my familiar metro, for which I had only to swipe my Navigo Pass before entering, and then onto my familiar 164 bus back to Boulevard Bineau (just in time for dinner with the Bijassons), I had a feeling of coming home, of being somewhere familiar, and of no longer having to hold on to my bag so tightly, that was not altogether unpleasant. So from my first excursion outside Paris, I gained a rather sad sense of disenchantment and a rather nice sense of familiarity. In any case, if you ever have the chance, GO TO AMSTERDAM!

The weekend before that: La Nuit Blanche

All-night outdoor art exhibitions throughout Paris. We only got to a few: a weirdly lumpy soccer field set up by a Spanish artist, on which both children and adults were playing through the wee hours of the morning; a rather disappointing indoor swimming pool, which, despite flashing lightning-bolts in the windows, had neither music or much else to see, and the lights were on, which greatly reduced the effectiveness of the lightning-bolts; and La Butte Charmante, a lovely park that was not as crowded as those in the Marais and was really quite charmante. Picture a field covered with open red umbrellas, a man-made pond outfitted with blue and red lights flashing underwater, a little river whose banks were lined with hundreds of desk-lamps, and a cupola atop man-made cliffs, spilling over with reveling Parisians. All this under the most glorious, yellowish full-moon light, at 3am. Really a glorious night. Or morning, I should say. I didn't get home until 2:15 the following afternoon!

Also, earlier that day, I visited Paris's Museum of Modern Art, in the Pompidou Centre, and it really is a marvelous museum to which I simply must return. We saw a special exhibition on female expressionists from the '60s, a room dedicated to COBRA, the group of abstract expressionists from the Netherlands, the work of one artist who both experimented with folding his canvas and splattering the exposed areas with paint to create a completely nonrepresentational piece and spent YEARS copying religious and philosophical passages onto a canvas until the entire thing was covered with multiple layers. There was even some work by Jackson Pollock! Also, vastly less crowded than the Orsay. Vastly.

This upcoming weekend: Halloween in Dublin!

I have loads of plans for my five-day stretch in what is reputedly the birthplace of Halloween, where they speak ENGLISH and my last name will (I hope) finally yield some advantages.

Quel Week-End!

2009-09-20T14:34:00.000-04:00

My, it has been quite a full weekend! On Friday, I went to the Musee d'Orsay to find a piece to write about for my "Writing Arts Review" class, and I wandered around the impressionist floor for about three hours, discovered that I don't really like neo-impressionism, and was absolutely floored to be near paintings that Monet himself physically created. I was in a newly donated collection, looking at Bonnards and Cezannes, and I came upon a large painting that looked like a colorful rainstorm. I just about had my nose to the glass (yes, I know you're supposed to look at impressionist paintings from a distance, but I like to see them close up, too) when I realized it was a Monet. Suddenly, the roughness of the strokes, the little mounds of oil paint (my art professor liked to call them "paint-bunnies"), and the places on the canvas where the paint didn't go down smooth all took on this amazing significance. There I was, inches from something that Monet touched, something that he worked on alone in his studio, something that he put time into. I think it hit home even more since it wasn't one of his famous pieces, and I felt almost as if, for just a moment, I was as near to him as I could possibly be, despite the fact that he's long gone.

I wandered the galleries, fixating on Caillebotte's "Raboteurs" and Bonnard's "Nu" for my art reviewing assignment, and taking a million pictures of all those famous Monets and Degas and Van Goghs that I've always wanted to see--the blue lilies and the water garden, the blue dancers, the self-portrait and "la chambre de Van Gogh"--while EVERYONE ELSE in the gallery tried to do the same! I had to wait my turn, but it was still wonderful to see them all, and even more wonderful since I can come back anytime I please. I love being a student in Paris!

After my afternoon in the museum, I walked through the Tuileries Gardens to get to the metro, or at least that's where I was going when I was stopped by a Frenchman (half Moroccan, I found out later) asked me out for coffee. Now, this fellow was about my Dad's age, and seemed rather nice, and I really was in the mood for a cafe... So I went! He took me to a little cafe on the street just a little ways from the garden, we had espressos, and he told me about how his brother is an artist and how if I really want to find inspiration for my writing I should go to Spain, but then he began alluding to how often, in French society, young women will go out with older men--"they marry young ones," he said "but to experiment..." Needless to say I was rather glad that he had to meet his brother somewhere soon. But, he still seemed rather a nice fellow, and it's a story to tell. That night, I felt a bit under the weather and opted not to go out, but Saturday was an entirely different story.

On Saturday, I had planned to spend the day in the Jardin des Plantes, a lovely botanical garden with a zoo and a natural history museum and an aquarium, and took my textbook with me to do some reading for class. I wandered a bit, saw some wallabies (just what I needed to cheer me up, still feeling less-than-well), found a labyrinth (not a very good one at all--it was far too easy to find one's way in and out), took some photos of the lovely flowers, and then found a shaded bench facing the garden, a perfect place to sit down and read. I was there all of a half hour with my book when my friend Mea texted me. She was going to go and see the Senate building, since this weekend was the "Journees de Patriomoines," and all of the government buildings (usually closed to the public) and museums (usually expensive) were open to the public for free. I went to meet her at the Luxembourg Garden, and after a nonexistent wait we were in the Senate! We got to see all the offices of the officials, the conference rooms, the archives, the massive library, and all sorts of meeting rooms, as well as that big semi-circular room where they discuss legislature (I'm sure it has an official name... but oh well). By the end of the tour, we were absolutely exhausted, and wanted to get out of there post-haste, but the tour followed a set, roped off track and, as we discovered, once you start you cannot stop--especially given the column of people touring with us. Quelle monde!

But our adventure did not stop after the tour. Despite our already-tired feet, when we heard the thumping beat of a TECHNO PARADE, we just had to join in. I was kissed by a shirtless Frenchman, we were briefly attacked and surrounded by a group of fourteen-year-old boys, and Mea even climbed up on top of a bus-stop to dance. We, along with a crowd of joyful, drunk, raving Parisians, followed a truck pumping out (American!) dance music--they even played "Wonderwall" by Oasis!--to God-knows-where in the middle of Paris. At one point, though, two guys attached themselves to us, and although it was fun for a while, it became tiresome, and when they followed us up to the front of the crowd when we tried to lose them, we decided it might be a good time to exit the moving rave. Of course we would come back out, but keep in mind that I have been carrying my textbook in my purse this whole time, we've been tired since the Senate tour, and we've just danced halfway across Paris. My oh my!

After freshening up at home, we planned to go out for dinner or for drinks, but when the next metro to the bar where the group was meeting was going to take eight minutes, we decided to hoof it. In our search for the Skidmore Center area, we came upon a Ramadan festival, playing loud, live music in honor of the last night of Ramadan, but alas it was invitation only. After trying to get in, we were all turned around, and although we were pretty near the place we were trying to find, we saw the Eiffel Tower in the distance and decided spontaneously to go. Mea was under the (sadly incorrect) impression that for the weekend it was free to go up the tower, and so towards it we went. We walked down by the Seine, which turned out to be a bad idea, since the walkway ended and we had to go back up along the road, and it really seemed like the tower was getting farther and farther away... But eventually we did reach it, and although it was not free we did go up (and we even met some Londoners on the lift), only to the second level, and got a beautiful view of Paris at night, took some fun pictures, and finally reached our limit. My feet hurt so much! So we went to wait for the lift down. Another small adventure. We went one level down and a very tall man with a little boy got on, as well as a rather porcine woman, and the lift began to beep. The elevator-attendant (the poor girl! what a job!) futilely tried to get them to get off again, since the lift was overweight and two people needed to get off for it to descend. Mea and I (somewhat accidentally) volunteered to get off and wait for the next lift. Now this was rather funny, since we were just about the smallest people on the elevator and I could swear that one woman was about equal to the two of us together. But she was being belligerent, and we decided to be good samaritans. The wait was tiresome, but the attendant was grateful. C'est la vie!

On our way home, dinner was ice cream (chocolat pour Mea, vanille et fraise pour moi, which took quite a while to communicate to the ice cream vendor) and a Nutella-and-banana crepe (4,50 Euro! And the guy didn't even put on enough Nutella! ...It was delicious anyway.). Best dinner ever, though unwise on my part, with my still-complaining tummy. No matter. Back on the metro towards home. But, for the record, the four blocks from the metro to my apartment felt like the longest walk I have ever taken!

This afternoon, we took a trek to Moulin Rouge, which was open to the public for a free tour. Alas, by the time we got there it was full and since the dancers had a show later that evening, they couldn't very well have tourists wandering in while they were getting ready. A bit of a disappointment, but we were there. Change of plans: we went to see the National Assembly building. The wait was about an hour, and the tour itself was rather like standing in a moving line, but it had cooled down (it was HOT when we got to Moulin Rouge) and there was a pleasant breeze. The Assembly looked a bit like the Senate, with meeting rooms and special offices, a million chandeliers, and an even BIGGER library (glorious, glorious!), where I had Mea take a picture of me with some French officer. We met a group of girls from Brown in line and we all took pictures of one another at various points in the tour--I'm always so happy to find other people who speak English! The building was beautiful, and it's a once-in-a-lifetime (or, at least, once-in-a-year) opportunity to see inside it. Hooray for Patriotism! By which I mean "Vive la France!"

Well, it has been QUITE a weekend. When I got back to my apartment (after buying the most delicious Pink Lady apple I have ever had from the alimentation generale on my way home), I laid down to rest my feet before dinner and I fell asleep! I had no idea I was so tired! I am most certainly turning in early tonight. But here are some (Some? Not some. Many.) pictures from my adventures (none of the midst of the rave--those are all on Mea's camera):

C'est Cezanne!

This made me think of the beach:

Bonnard's "Nu":

The unexpected Monet:

A sweet interior by some German artist:

La Salle de Fete:

Nature Mort:

"Madeleine au Bois d'Amour"

The Portrait of the Artist:

La Chambre de Van Gogh a Arles:

And we all know this one...

And this one...

This reminds me of a painting my Grandparents kept on their living room wall:

Monet, by Renoir:

Le Dejeuner:

Les Danceuses Bleues:

Raboteurs de Parquets:

Alfred Sisley. Reminds me of that children's book, "A Snowy Day":

"Le Matin":

Some funky statue in the Tuileries:

A carousel I found in the Tuileries:

Need I caption this?

Apparently, these still roam the earth in Paris:

The botanical gardens and (I think) the natural history museum:

The flowers really were beautiful:

A life-sized faerie-hut!

Some sort of fruiting tree:

Les Menageries:

Wallabies!

A secret staircase:

Some modest graffiti at the top of the labyrinth:

My shady spot, plus a pigeon in a deep reverie:

Looking up into the trees:

What lovely morning-glories:

I just loved the wooly mammoth with a McDonald's in the background. Anachronism?

The lovely gardens behind the Senate building:

A table set for Senatorial tea!

So many chandeliers...

The office of the president of the Senate. We're allowed in here??

In front of the Jardin d'Hiver:

Outside the Senate:

So I have a thing for statues.

They had lions here too! On the grandest staircase I have ever seen:

Ultra-gilded:

The Luxembourg Gardens from inside the Senate--we could already hear the techno parade:

Out the window:

Napoleon's throne!

A nice picture in the garden before we ran off into the street:

Techno parade!

Raving Parisians:

Where are we?

The Seine at night:

Hmm... which building is this? ALMOST THERE:

Mea and me on the lift, courtesy of our new English friends:

Holding on while the lift went sideways:

On top of the city:

And down below once more:

This is what you find around the Moulin Rouge:

...And this:

Le Chat Noir!

Who wouldn't want to visit this museum?

The Moulin Rouge!

...is closed.

The National Assembly:

A lovely day to wait in line:

They had a nice little garden, too:

And a fountain:

And a whole lot of gilding:

And chandeliers. Mad chandeliers.

La Salle de Manger:

They even had a Laocoon!

Dank library:

Finally outside again:

I suppose there's always some sort of protest movement going on in Paris:

C'est fini. Je suis tres fatiguee. Alors, a la prochain.

Un Petit Post Pour des Petites Madeleines

2009-09-16T13:21:00.000-04:00

This morning, (Mercredi, le jour par semaine quand la boulangerie Chezy fais les petites madeleines), I went to the boulangerie on Rue de Chezy for freshly made madeleine cookies. My host-mom had recommended them highly, although she said that the bakery was a bit expensive. In any case, I arrived around 8:30 am and asked for the madeleines. They would not be ready until 9:30 (neuf heure et demi), so I wandered over to the charcuterie-trateur in search of some "terrine des legumes" for my French culture class. We had been given the task to find a pate or a terrine at a market, boucherie, or trateur (deli), buy it and try it. Well, as a vegetarian, there really is only one choice, so I asked the fellow behind the glass counter "aves-vous de terrine des legumes?" He had no idea what I was saying. I have terrible pronunciation. But when I repeated myself, he brought forth a loaf from the back of the shop, and I was actually able to ask him what the ingredients were (carrottes, haricots-verts, champignons, olives, et artichokes), but I had no idea how to buy the stuff. I asked how much "un piece" cost, and he told me that "une tranche" (a slice) was 3 Euro. The slice he cut me ended up costing a little bit more, but my mission was accomplished. I went back to my apartment to put the terrine in the fridge, and then walked back to Chezy for my madeleines.

The woman recognized me from earlier (and also from yesterday, when I came to ask when the cookies were made) and I butchered the phrase "je suis retournee" as she went in the back to get me five fresh madeleines. They were only 2,30 Euro and they were hot! The little wax-paper bag had "dark spots that indicate freshness" (thank you, Garrison Keillor), and the cookies smelled absolutely heavenly. Needless to say, I ate one warm while I was waiting for the bus, and then another on the metro to the Skidmore Center. And then another when I got there. And then the last two after lunch at Paul's (yes, I know, not authentic, but very tasty nevertheless, although not particularly cheap). They were absolutely amazing. I will never be able to have a Starbucks madeleine ever again! They were buttery and spongy, more like little cakes than cookies, really, and had that absolutely indescribable taste (some melding of butter and vanilla, perhaps?) that only madeleines have. And yes, I took pictures. Here they are:

Because I would only buy my namesakes from an award-winning boulangerie...

Inside the boulangerie (and if you look closely you can see the adorable little dog waiting for the woman inside):

My warm, fragrant package:

The cookies nestled in their bag, one already missing:

"A Madeleine in the hand..." is delicious.

The only other news I have is that I found some gorgeous leather boots in a boutique for only 135 Euro (I know, "only"...) and now I'll probably waffle for a few days and then buy them and then regret it and then be absolutely thrilled that I bought them. Such is my wont with big purchases. C'est la vie. Plus la prochain.

Plus d'Arts!

2009-09-15T13:33:00.000-04:00

Yes, we did go to the Chateau de Versailles on Sunday, and we toured the gardens (which are IMMENSE!), and we saw the magnificent musical fountain display and had all the mythological significance of the gardens (as a mirror to the palace) and the fountains (as representations of the seasons and various warnings to the people about the power of the king and what will happen if one is not loyal to him), all centered around the sun-God Apollo, with whom Louis XIV insisted upon identifying himself--and of course no one was going to argue with him. It was a chilly and overcast day though, with a cold wind and a gray sky (though the sun broke through for a glorious few minutes during the fountain display, which made the fountains sparkle wonderfully), and I realized that, despite my particular interest in the countless Roman-style marble statues, many of the pictures I took would interest only me. I do include the picture I took of the Laocoon statue, only because I had to explain the story of Laocoon (as if I wasn't absolutely itching to do it...) to some very ignorant tourists who exclaimed "it's John the Baptist!" (a Jean-Baptiste was one of the artists). Also, I'll post a few snapshots of the palace, because it really is breathtakingly enormous, and the better pictures of the fountains (which, in retrospect, I realized all look very much the same). But Versailles is most certainly not the most interesting thing I have seen recently.

This morning--it would have been 9:30am, but for some reason (we found out later it was a museum meeting that ran over-time) there was an awful delay and we stood in line in the cold for about two hours--we went to the Musee d'Orsay and were given a guided tour by a woman who seemed absolutely obsessed by the topic of artistic scandals and took us from scandalous piece to scandalous piece, explaining exactly why they were scandalous and who was scandalized. It got a bit old. But we saw some lovely marble sculptures (sensual nudes, of course--we're talking scandal here...), some pre-impressionist paintings by Manet (who was apparently, according to our guide, not a very good painter at all) as well as some lovely Monets, and we did come away with some mildly interesting anecdotes. However, after the awful wait and the dull tour, we were too tired to trek up to the upper levels where the Impressionist galleries were (since we get in free we can always go back anyway) so we went for lunch. After a totally satisfying chevre, mozzarella, and tomato panini, I sat in a Japanese restaurant while the other girls got sushi (thank goodness I got the sandwich--this particular restaurant was not vegetarian-friendly in the least), then I went off on my own to the Galeries Lafayette to see the David Lynch exhibition that's running from September 8th to October 3rd and which I have been dying to see.

To make a long story short (and then I will probably make it long again), I will be returning to this exhibition. It was wonderful! It was horrible! It was horribly wonderful! In other words, it was David Lynch. The first part of the exhibition was the window-displays outside the Galeries. The theme was "Machines, Abstraction, and Women," and Lynch did a bang-up job. There was a window with the high-heeled foot and skirt of a woman looking down from a skyscraper onto city streets--we assume immediately before a suicidal dive--and a window with a woman's face projected in a small oval (like a moon), on which the facial elements--the nose, the two eyes, and the red lips--shifted constantly--how terrifically symbolic. Then there was a window which contained a woman's form in wire and metal, wearing a short yellow cocktail dress, standing on a warped stage behind a cartoonish microphone, with a woman's cartoon face projected through a hole in the back wall, with big red lips singing "baby, do me right." Yet another window had a huge spinning Twilight-Zone-esque spiral with little oval trap-doors all around it, through which objects of female desire--a purse, a scarf, a pair of shoes--would briefly appear. Another showed a kitchen scene, distorted as usual, with a dingy fridge, a sinkful of dirty dishes, and a sort of white, glowing oval rising out of the dishes, animated tears streaming down its front. The dark, stormy background outside the windows was reinforced by the sound of rain projected by speakers at the top of the window, with the added detail of a woman crying. Heavy, heavy. There was even a window with a red toy train whose track was set up to run through the eye and then the gaping mouth of a white ceramic woman's face, and one with some sort of life-sized arcade game around a woman's made-up, doll-like face. The one that caught my eye most, though, was the one in which a woman's white, nude body floats suspended over a bizarre sort of plane, broken up into four sections: a blackened, stunted forest that looks as if it's been burned, a brown plane with squiggly green shoots coming up, a green plane sprouting fruit and abstract objects reminiscent of fruit, and then a gray plane studded with cartoonish yellow and orange lightning bolts.

And that wasn't even the end of it! After looking at the window displays, I went inside to the Galerie des Galeries, through a little echoing, carpeted black tunnel, and into a gray gallery with Lynch's drawings (really a lot like ink-blots with line-drawing scattered throughout) hung up on the walls. They were characteristically disturbing and alarming, from "Jack Discovers Fire" to "Alice Thinks of Suicide" and "Man in a Room with a Knife," but some were simply strange--"Insect in a Chair," "Fire on Stage"--and others were even endearing and funny, in an odd sort of way, like "Family of Bugs," a sketch of a house with cute little names and lines drawn to each bug's room, "Smoking," an ironic skeletal face smoking a cigarette like a sort of tongue-in-cheek Public Service Ad (David Lynch says don't smoke!), and "Two Figures on a Bed," which was a bit sad and lonely but also a bit heartwarming.

And there was still more! After wandering in the gallery and taking pictures of literally every single sketch on the wall, I finally ducked into the pitch-dark little theatre in which a series of short films by David Lynch were being shown. I had been listening to the disturbing sounds and strange music the whole time I'd been inside the gallery, and I finally saw the images that went along with them. I was ushered into the experience by an uncharacteristically funny short, "The Cowboy and the Frenchman," in which a cowboy, Slim (who is nearly stone cold deaf on account of a .36 going off too close to his ear when he was thirteen and a half), sees an odd character stumbling down the mountain on his ranch with a large suitcase. "What the hell is that?!" he exclaims, and repeats a few times for good measure, and once his two lackeys have lassoed and bound the Frenchman (complete with thin mustache, black suit, and beret), he declares that he "might be some kind of Alien spy" and decides to go through his suitcase before killin' him. The lackeys pull out countless stereotypical French items--bottles of wine, whole baguettes, a book of poetry, French cheese, full plates of French food, a plate of snails--before finding a plate of French Fries and finally realizing that they have a Frenchman. Of course, there is a heart-warming cultural exchange, in which the cowboys drink wine and say "Ooh la la" and the Frenchman (Pierre, of course) drinks Budweiser and says "Yippie Kai-ai-yay" (no, I don't know how to spell that, and refuse to look it up), and they each woo one another's women in a night of guitar-playing, "home on the range" and general revelry. The next morning, over a pan of eggs and flap-jacks, Slim finds a snail in his pocket. C'est finis. And the end caption "The French, as seen by David Lynch." If you ever have a chance to see this short film, do so immediately. You will not regret it.

The cowboy short was followed be the requisite Lynchian squirm-inducing bizarre shorts of a pasty-faced girl doing various, somehow infinitely disturbing, mundane things, as well as awful wet sounds and weird music. Also, there was a short called "HollyShorts," which featured an adorable little man onstage who said things like "keep your eyes on donut, not on hole" and "be happy in work," and then some girls who came out and danced with paper cutouts of ducks. Then there was "The Grandmother," about a boy with truly horrid parents who plants a whistling seed, and grows an awful slimy-looking tree, from which emerges--or rather, the boy pulls, with much sucking and loud wet sounds--an old affectionate woman, with whom some eroticism is hinted at (this is David Lynch, after all), and who whistles to call him upstairs after his drunken parents abuse him horribly. The grandmother dies, of course, after waking up unable to breathe and whistling frantically for the boy, and the parents only laugh grotesquely when the boy asks for their help. Why is it that I enjoy this? Well, I am a lover of David Lynch and his appeal to the most instinctual of the sensations. Although some of his films make me squirm, I love that he can do that, just like Tarantino can make me laugh at and revel in gratuitous violence. Any filmmaker who can successfully manipulate the emotions and visceral feelings of his audience is an excellent filmmaker in my book, and David Lynch is just too marvelous for words. So I suppose I shall just stop using words at this point.

Enough grandeur for you?

A really cool modern art sculpture at Versailles (they do one every year) symbolizing the past moving into the future:

The veritable "Golden Gate":

The palace that we did not go inside:

The gardens were just enormous:

Enormous.
Awww...

The palace from the garden:

Laocoon:

Castor and Pollux! I couldn't stop thinking of my high school Latin teacher:

The gardens were beautiful, even in cloudy weather:

The fountain of Latona, the mother of Apollo and Diana:

The fountains starting to flow:

Fountain symbolizing summer:

Fountain of Apollo before the deluge:

The fountain display continues, complete with opera music:

Some really nice arboreal architecture:

The Spring fountain, I think:

Versailles!

Van Gogh's Self-Portrait outside the Orsay Museum:

The elephant outside the Orsay Museum:

This was super-scandalous when it came out, for various reasons outlined by our scandal-obsessed guide:

Is this not, like, the same statue?

"Olymphia," a very controversial Manet painting:

Emile Zola!

A beautiful snowy landscape by Monet:

And some more elephants:

David Lynch in Paris!

The singer:

The crying dishwasher:

The shifting woman's face:

Galeries Lafayette + my reflection:

Isn't this terrifying?

The toy train display:

The floating woman:

La Galerie des Galeries:

The inside exhibition:

Man in the Rain:

Two Figures in Bed:

Family of Bugs in a House (I thought it was wicked cute):

Man in a Room with a Knife. Eek.

A series of abstract plates:

David Lynch says: Don't Smoke!!! This is what will happen to you:

Two Figures:

Like no Beatles song I've ever heard...

Insect on Chair. Of course.

Goodness that was a massive post. Well, in any case, that's all for now. But when I go back to Orsay to see the Impressionists... well I daresay there will be more photos. Au revoir!

Beaucoup de Surrealisme!

2009-09-12T18:06:00.001-04:00

Well, first thing's first: a correction on my last post. Um, that was the Arc de Triomphe. Oops. I guess I didn't realize where I was...

And now for today's adventures. After getting up to do my laundry and doing a spot of reading, I packed a sandwich and took a bus to the Luxembourg Garden. The bus ride was just under an hour and was actually really nice--I had my textbook to read, the sun was shining, and we went right by the Eiffel Tower, which is still just as impressive, if not as sparkling, during the day. The garden is right at the bus stop, and in I went. Just for your information, the place is huge! Enormous! Immense! I had not accounted for how much there was to see, how many places there would be to sit and read or write, or how many lovely things there would be to take pictures of--although pictures couldn't really capture it properly. I didn't have much time to wander (since I was actually planning to study there, and I also had something I wanted to do later in the afternoon), so I went right into the center and walked around taking pictures and enjoying the warm afternoon sun. Then I walked around the upper level--right around the center of the garden--where there were loads of shaded benches and paths lined by autumnal trees. The breeze was actually a bit chilly, but I picked a bench in the sun to have lunch and dive back into my reading. Apparently, all the Parisian students do there homework here, so I felt very un-tourist-y, despite the obvious signs (everyone taking as many pictures, if not more, than I was, expensive food and toilettes that cost ,40 euro) that it was a tourist attraction. Oh well, it was beautiful regardless.

Also, some French/Japanese guy sat down to talk to me (much more attractive than the creepy one from yesterday), and I deemed him worthy of my e-mail address (maybe next time I'll be brave enough to give out a phone number? I'm just a cautious person, I guess...), although he had nothing to say about literature. He did tell me I looked like an artist, though, and that one gets me every time.

At about 2:30, I had to be on my way. I wanted to see an exposition of collages by Max Ernst at the Musee d'Orsay, and the exposition only runs through the 13th. I got there easily by RER and was met with an ENORMOUS looking line--I guess everyone else didn't want to miss the Ernst exposition?--that moved surprisingly fast but was still a bit bothersome. I took out my ID indicating that my age is between 18 and 25 (which means a reduced ticket fee if you're from a non-EU country) as well as my ID indicating that I was studying at the Skidmore Center in Paris. Can you say FREE TICKET? Yep. Even a semester here makes me eligible for free admission to the museums. Awesome. I went right up to the Ernst exhibition, which was a series of rooms with solid-colored walls housing sets of collages from different books by Ernst (I wasn't sure if he'd written the novels or just illustrated them or whether they were just picture-novels...), from "Une semaine de bonte," and each room and each book corresponded to a day of the week (although the last book and the last room contained three days). The first day, Sunday, was housed in a purple room, associated with the element Mud, and was represented by the story of "The Lion of Belfort," which followed a character, the Lion of Belfort, I presume, with a man's body (dressed in tattered clothes and splitting shoes) with the head of a lion, as he engaged in all sorts of activities, from the mundane to the bizarre to the utterly disturbing. I got the sense that the images had something to do with the French Revolution (or really any period of French history, as my textbook tells me, which has simply been rife with revolution and struggle between the lower and upper classes, the workers and the bourgeoisie, the left and the right), since the Lion was wearing a badge inscribed with "Republique Francaise" and he was clearly a pauper. Also, there were quite a few images at the end of the series that depicted regal lions, pointing right and left, a left hand, and various other foods and symbols that smacked of class warfare, in my opinion. The series was intriguing, and I couldn't resist writing in my little black notebook--over 14 pages, I realized when I looked them over!--about the images that drew me in. In particular, plate 9 was fascinating, depicting the lion as a garbage-man, picking up rubbish off the cobblestones with a hook, and with an immense wicker trash-basket on his back. The really interesting elements were the nude, headless female torso, the entrails of which were being pulled out through her neck by the lion's hook, as if she were a discarded doll or a piece of street-trash, and the girl behind the lion, her back turned to the viewer, looking back over her shoulder, her bare chest pressed against the stone wall on which she leaned. Her dress--though it looked elegant--was pulled down to hip-level, and it was impossible to tell from her expression whether she'd just been ravished and left there or whether she was making eyes at the lion. The lion seems not to notice her at all. The image immediately following it was a complete turnaround: the lion (looking much more like a hound of some sort), strolls with a lady on his arm--leaning on his shoulder, no less--on a pleasant country road, holding a white rose that popped out from the image (the wonders of collage!) So I wrote furiously about the entire series, and then realized that it was 4:30 already and the galleries close at 5:30. Luckily, the Lion of Belfort remained my favorite of the series, although "Water" spoke clearly about Ernst's sentiments about women (incredibly dangerous, may result in drowning), "In the Court of the Dragon" had some striking scenes, "Oedipus" was full of delightfully surreal images scattered with birds, bird-men, and lampreys, and "The Rooster's Laugh" was horrifyingly entertaining. I finished touring the exhibition just in time, and managed to take a few photos outside the gallery before I went on my way.

I briefly stopped at home before going out to dinner, which was supposed to be sushi but, when the sushi place didn't have enough other choices besides sushi, we stopped at a reasonable-looking pizzeria, La Comedia. And I had my first--and what I hope will be my last!--negative food experience here in Paris. Not only were we seated on the lower level of the restaurant, which meant VERY slow (if polite) service, but I ordered a Pizza Vegetariana, and although it looked absolutely beautiful when it arrived, it was undercooked (practically raw dough in the middle), over-cheesed, greasy, and charred around the edges. It was topped with some tasty vegetables, but it was certainly not worth the 12 euro I paid. Everyone who got pasta said it was fine, but I tried some of a friend's spaghetti prima vera and it really was nothing to write home about. And I thought all the restaurants here would be good! I'll have to be more careful the next time we go out for dinner. Also, we finished eating a little after 9, and we did not get offered dessert menus until after 10. When we decided, what with all the waiting, not to get dessert, it took until after 11 to get our check. Not somewhere I will be returning to, needless to say.

Well I suppose a visit to the Luxembourg garden necessitates some photos, but I warn you they are nowhere near all-encompassing. I really have to go back... Anyway, here's what I have so far:

The entrance to the garden:

Paris en automne:

They had palm trees!

...And marble statues!

And the lions looked much happier:

These flowers made me think of my Mom:

Un Petit Napoleon? Adorable.

An attempt to capture the garden:

Oh, naked babies...

Another section of the garden:

And another...

And everyone has to have a David somewhere or other...

The garden from one more perspective:

Max Ernts at Musee d'Orsay:

Not quite the Lion of Belfort:

So I couldn't take any pictures of the collages...

Right this way:

Time to be rousted from your galleries:

A smile-inducing little piece of wall art in the Latin Quarter:

... And another:

And I just thought this was a really funny sign to see in Paris:

And tomorrow, Versailles!

Une Journee Pleine!

2009-09-11T14:53:00.000-04:00

I had quite a day today! In the morning, I got up to go to the pharmacy for some band-aids and antibiotic ointment--my feet are really in poor shape, what with the new shoes and all the walking I've been doing. I planned to check the Monoprix first, but I found the Pharmacy before I found the Monoprix, and ended up spending 10 Euro on what would have cost me about $4 in the states. Seriously, 48 band-aids for 4,50? Also, when I went to the counter to ask for an antibiotic, I asked for an ointment like, say Neosporin, for preventing infection. Apparently, you need a prescription in France for antibiotic ointment (either that or the pharmacist's English was really bad), so all I could get was some unfamiliar cream with probably a minute amount of antibiotic agents in it. I also desperately needed cellphone minutes, so I stopped at a Tabac to get 15 Euros worth of minutes to put on my cellphone (which was a bit difficult to actually do, even with Geraldine helping me--you have to call a number and then punch in a series of numbers followed by the pound key, and then punch in the code on the receipt from the tabac, and it's rather hard to follow oral instructions over a bad connection IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE). Then I noticed that the open market was on again, and I decided to stroll around and maybe get some fruit. I decided that I could definitely go for a pear, and started to look around for the ripest and the best priced. I passed a pretty serious butcher's shop, with lapins entiers (whole rabbits, sans skin of course), whole birds, some of which I did not recognize, and the largest sausages I have ever seen. This time there were a lot more clothes at the market, as well as some ethnic stands--Middle-Eastern food, what looked like Japanese food, and some Italian specialties. Still looking for pears, I had seen some ripe ones somewhere at the end of a fruit table, but was entirely unable to locate them again. The market is actually rather confusing, I found, or at least maze-like, and since one fruit stand looks much like another I had to try to navigate based on the poissoneries (there were two, I think...) and the fromagers (there were more than last time). The bakery was also different, and while I considered buying some Madeleines (though I did not, since Geraldine told me that there was a very good bakery on Rue de Chezy that made Madeleines fresh one day a week, and I plan to go on that day and get a marvelous fresh Madeleine, which will be my first in Paris) the woman behind the case of bread passed me a sample of some delicious Pain de Citron (like a lemon pound-cake--it tasted very Italian, or at least like something that reminded me of my Grandmother... anyway it was wonderful). Back to my search for pears, I ended up at a fruit table where an attractive Frenchman behind the table handed me a Mirabelle plum to try. It was perfect, of course, but I was looking for pears. So I asked him if he had any pears ("poire" is the word for pear in French, but I'm pretty sure I was pronouncing it terribly), and he grabs one and cuts off a slice for me to try. It was a bit grainy and I actually didn't like it that much--either it isn't pear season yet or it was a type of pear I don't like--and I asked him if he had any Anjou pears. He didn't seem to know what I was talking about. But aren't Anjou pears from France? Up to this point, I thought they were, and "d'Anjou" is not that hard to pronounce, so I'm sure I was saying it properly... Oh well, he had only "Williams" pears, and I certainly did not want one. So I figured I might buy an apple. I asked him if he had any and, AGAIN, he whips out the knife and offers me a slice. Unfortunately, the apples weren't that great either (the season really hasn't started and they were green apples anyway), so I awkwardly walked away. He didn't seem to mind, though, so I guess free sampled are common here, too.

After deciding I didn't want to buy anything at the market, I had to find my way OUT of the market, which was actually a bit of a task given how similar the fruit tables looked. I eventually got out at the proper side with the help of a poissonerie (hooray for raw fish!), and headed back towards Inkermann, the street I'd taken to get there, and when I located it (I realized why I'd missed it last time--the name changes do Rue d'Orleans about two-thirds of the way to Rue Charles de Gaulle... no wonder) I decided to go past to keep looking for the Monoprix, which I hadn't been able to find before and which, according to Geraldine, made its bread fresh and had a good fromager. I found it at the far end of Rue de Chezy (although somehow on my way back I ended up on Inkermann and didn't get to see the Chezy boulangerie), went down to the bakery to buy a mini-croissant and a mini raisin pastry for ,40 Euro each (the raisin pastry was better than the croissant, but neither of them were warm, which means I probably will not buy them there again), then found the large cheese department. I had already bought my cheese for class, but there were a few more I wanted to look at, and although I didn't really plan to buy anything, when I asked the fellow working there whether or not they had Robechon (I might be spelling that wrong), he asked me if I wanted to sample it. Well, of course I did. It wasn't good enough to buy, so I browsed a bit more and saw Morbier, an AOC (government protected) cheese I'd read about with a telltale line of (tasteless) ash running through the middle. I tried that as well, but still didn't feel like buying it. Then I wandered to la sectionne de chevre and picked out Neufchatel Fermier (a farmer's goat cheese made with raw goat's milk and molded into a heart--I mean, it was heart-shaped, how could I resist?), a small piece of Pelardon (a raw goat's-milk cheese), and a small piece of Saint-Marcellin (fromage du lait cru--a raw cow's milk cheese). All of these are AOC cheeses, and I plan to try as many as I can before I leave here. Bring on the cholesterol. Did I say cholesterol? I meant delicious. And the cheese-fellow even threw in an adorable tiny little pot of confiture des figues (fig jam) to have with the cheese. It's all about the free stuff today, I suppose.

So after this big adventure in the morning, I did a bit of reading for my French culture class, and then decided to visit the Jardins de Tiuleries. I took my usual walk to Pont de Neuilly (it's already a common thing for me, which is bizarre, since I'm in Paris and it's only been a week, but I like that I'm becoming comfortable with my surroundings), got off the 1 at Concorde, which goes out to the breathtaking Place de Concorde, a massive square with French government buildings, museums, the Eiffel tower in the distance, and the Egyptian obelisk that Napoleon absolutely did not steal--it was given as a gift, our Awesome Guide from La Musee de Carnavalet assured us. From there it's just a short walk to the main entrance to the Tuileries Gardens, but the main entrance was rather a lot to take. It was uncomfortably warm (the sun had come out very strongly since the more overcast morning), crawling with tourists (as if I'm not a tourist myself...), painfully bright (the main entranceway is this vast paved area covered with light-colored sand and lined with white decorative Urns and Pedestals, all reflecting the sunglight), and tainted by some American rap music that a vendor was playing too loudly. I almost regretted coming, to be honest, but I turned off to the right, away from the crowd, and found an interesting abstract sculpture by some stairs. I took some pictures, then saw a man in a suit go up the stairs, so I knew it wasn't blocked up, so I decided to follow him. Up the stairs, there was a paved and sanded sidewalk shaded by a line of trees--turning a lovely golden color--on either side, and at the edge of the walkway, which was up above ground-level, I could see the street below and, just beyond it, the Seine. There was also a very distressed-looking lion statue that caught my attention--I might have expected to see a tin man somewhere nearby...

In any case, I followed the walkway around the gardens all the way to the entrance across from the Musee d'Orsay and went in that way, walking around the center in the outskirts of the garden, encountering Parisians on their lunch-breaks, Parisians taking naps, Parisians reading Agatha Christie novels (really, I saw a guy reading an Agatha Christie novel--I can only hope he was American!), and an interesting jungle-like area, the focal point of which seemed to be an artificial fallen tree. Tres bizarre! I found a place to sit by a little pond, and saw a Parisian duck taking a nap (public napping seems widely accepted here in Paris... they arrest you for that in the US... unless of course you're a duck.), then moved on to a pool with a fountain-spout in the center, where I sat down to write. I had rather a lot to say about the scenery and about Paris, and I lost myself for a bit in my little black notebook. Then I just sat back trying to soak in as much as Paris in September as I possible could--it really is incredibly beautiful. The gardens have everything from marble statues to manicured grass (the workers I found at the edges of the garden were quite a contrast to the Parisians and tourists at their leisure) and beautiful flowers. The ground was littered with crinkly brown leaves that scuttled around in the breeze, which was welcome in the hot sun but less welcome in the shade by the pool, where the wind carried some of the fountain-splash over in my direction. When I finally got up to look around in the center of the gardens, I was briefly accosted by a man who clearly knew I was not French but insisted that I looked French, said that he liked my style, and also said he was "interested in attractive girls who look French but are not" because "French girls are boring." Oh? This is news to me. Also, he explained to me the concept of Proust's Madeleine (the Madeleine cookie as a symbol of youth and the past and of pleasant days gone by) and attempted to get my cellphone number (which I pretended I did not have) or my "hotmail." He said that although it was "very scary," one must take risks while in Paris. I thought not. I told him that if he found me again while I was here I would maybe give him my e-mail address. I think that if he actually found me again I would call the police. But hey, he didn't persist, so I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Also, he taught me something about Proust. For me, that's major brownie points.

After this encounter, I did some more wandering, took a zillion pictures of the Greco-Roman-style statues around the center of the gardens, and sat down at an identical pool on the opposite side of the garden. In this pool, there were little toy sailboats, and two little boys playing with them, pushing the boats away from the edges of the pool with sticks. They were so involved in their play that they didn't notice my taking pictures, and then one of them left and came back to take some pictures of his own, snapping digital photos of his sailboat with a camera much better than my own! In my subsequent wanderings, I somehow ended up all the way at the Jardins de Carrousel, where a lot of young men and women were lounging on the grass (the grass wasn't roped off like in the Tuileries gardens), and where I found an enormous arch at the entrance, an immense statue of either Victory of Justice, some old Frenchmen playing bocce, and a little maze of bushes with statues sprinkled among the footpaths. Mind you, this is the extreme other end of the garden rather far from the metro station. At this point, my feet were not happy with me. But I found my way to the metro and got off and Pont de Neuilly, by which time I was absolutely ravenous. I had resisted buying an overpriced piece of bread from Paul, the chain boulangerie (not a real boulangerie, really) that had a stand in the park, and had also resisted the ridiculously overpriced restaurant in the gardens (8 Euro for a bowl of ice cream? I think not.), so I stopped for some lovely-looking tomatoes at the little grocery on Rue de Chateau (there are fresh fruit and vegetables sold absolutely everywherearound here), a demi-baguette at the correct boulangerie (the one Geraldine recommended--half a baguette is ,45 euro!)--some of which I ate on the walk home, in the way of the eating-while-walking Parisians, and made a lovely tomato and mozzarella sandwich with fresh basil from the Bijassons basil plant. Tres Deliceuse! Also, the Bijassons went out for dinner tonight, so I was on my own about dinner--une petite salad mixte avec chevre, followed by a tasting of my new cheeses, accompanied by grapes and a white peach. My feet and I have had quite a day, and I'm almost glad to stay in and do my reading for class.

And of course, here are some pictures from my travels:

So, I noticed that I can see an American flag from my breakfast table chez Bijassons...

Plus de fromage...

Place de Concorde:

The interesting statue:

The unhappy lion:

The mysterious fallen tree:

A walkway in the gardens (oh, l'automne...):

The sleeping duck:

The Jardins de Tuileries:

A lovely flowering tree, with what I assume to be an important building in the background:

One of the countless, lovely rows of flowers:

The oddly-manicured trees:

The Rape of Europa:

Julius Caesar:

...I have no idea.

One of the lovely trees along with one of the urns that were absolutely everywhere:

God, this place is beautiful:

Even the pigeons wear black in Paris--and they're rude, too.

The little French boys with their sailboats:

A tigress seriously owning a crocodile:

Un petit bateau au voile:

Old Frenchmen playing bocce:

Again, no idea:

A statue I encountered in the almost-maze in the Carrousel Gardens:

Youth at its leisure:

The immense arch that I'm sure has important significance but is not the Arc de Triomphe:

Neuilly Centre--almost home:

C'est tout. A la prochain!

Je Suis Sortie en Vain!

2009-09-10T18:23:00.000-04:00

Bien, I just returned from an amusing little excursion into la nuit de Paris. I was going to the Latin Quarter to meet some of the other Skidmore students, and when I got to the station where I was supposed to find them, I realized I had entirely run out of cell-phone minutes. No calls, no text-messages, nothing could go through. So I asked a waiter (or more likely a chef--he was wearing an apron) on his smoking break "ou est le tabac?" to find a tobacconist where I could buy more minutes. He gestured down the street and said something in French (of course) that I couldn't quite understand, but I started walking in the direction he had indicated. I got all the way down to an intersection and, while trying my phone again, heard three girls about my age speaking English. It turned out that they were students from California who were studying in Germany but had come to visit Paris while they were abroad. I asked them if they had a cellphone I could use, but when I tried to call my friend, the number didn't work. So I turned back around to a little street-grocery owned by two Cubans... or maybe they were Moroccans--I wasn't sure. Anyway, I asked them if I could use their phone, and spent quite a while trying to explain what I wanted since neither of them spoke English. Meanwhile, a very tall, very drunk looking fellow tried to join the conversation, and telling me (I think) that I could use a phone for 2 Euro. Eventually, the Cubans (this is all assumption here--I also assumed that they were brothers, don't ask me why) told me that the tabac was closed, but one of them was kind enough to lend me his cellphone, by which I was again unable to reach my friend. Also, while I was trying to call, the very drunk fellow walked around the shelves to get his bottle of wine and surprised me with a loud "bonjour!" at my left shoulder--a bit unsettling. At this point, it was after 11pm and I figured I would just head back home. There will be other Thursday evenings! Also, tomorrow is Friday, and we will certainly be going out then.

Back on the metro, I took the 7 line (on which I saw a man who looked so strikingly like Barack Obama that I almost tripped on my way off of the train) to meet the 1 line at Chatelet Station, where, while I was walking towards the "Depart" of the 1 towards La Defence, I passed a pair of Parisian men locked in a passionate discussion of some sort. And I suppose the stereotype of the tres active Parisian conversation is true, because one of the men was gesturing so furiously that he accidentally smacked me in the collarbone as I walked by! He and his friend thought this was hilarious, as did I--it was not a very hard smack--and I could hear them laughing down the corridor all the way to the train. At that point, I decided that this night, however futile, simply had to be recorded.

I took the 1 back to Pont de Neuilly, spending part of my ride trying to guess which passengers were Parisian and which were not, and also musing on a group of Muslim women wearing head-scarves, which, if Sarkozy had his way, would be interdit (forbidden). I always wonder when I see Muslim women with the traditional head-covering whether they wish they could have their head bare like mine or whether they consider all the bare female heads around them to be vulgar... But really, Sarkozy, it's all about freedom of choice. Banning religious garments has the same ultimate effect as enforcing them! Ah, mais je digresse...

From Pont de Neuilly I took my regular stroll home, past the closed boulangeries and fromager and bon marche (like a convenience store), and to be honest I was not entirely disappointed with my evening. I didn't spend a single Euro on a drink in a bar or a club, I didn't get lost, and I didn't come home awfully late on a super-crowded, or worse, nearly-deserted metro, and I got a lot of people-watching in. I did feel a bit of a fool trying to talk to the Cubans, but I think I made a good decision in coming home rather than continuing to wander the Latin Quarter in search of a phone. C'est la vie! Plus, I can sleep in tonight, because there are no classes tomorrow! Alors, pour maintenant, bonne sioree!

Au Marche! Le Fromage! Les fruits! Le pain!

2009-09-09T14:30:00.000-04:00

This morning I got up early to walk to the open market on Rue Charles de Gaulle, and after a lovely walk over (the trees are beginning to change, the sun was warm, the apartments were elegant, and the breeze was marvelous) I arrived at an almost overwhelming display of fresh fruit, vegetables, cheese, fish, and meats. They were even selling suede boots, leather wallets, belts and all manner of random shoe-type things. The fruits were so lovely and brightly colored that I simply had to mark myself as an American and take pictures of everything. After wandering, amazed, through the aisles of tomatoes, bananas, strawberries, pears, apples, grapes, and pungent fish filets, I asked "ou est le fromagere?" and was directed to two places where I might buy an exciting new cheese for my assignment. The first place I looked had a ridiculously large selection of cheese, and business was going rather fast--rapid French, various measurements and numbers I could not identify, and enormous pieces of cheese being cut to particular weights--so I decided to try the less-lively fromagere (which turned out to be slightly more expensive, but still less than the one on Rue de Chateau), where, after much consideration, I chose a round of "Perail," a soft fromage de brebis (ewe's cheese, made from pasteurized sheep's milk), and a ball of "Galopin Fromage de chevre," a fromage de chevre cru (unpasteurized goat's cheese). Afterwards, I just had to buy some fruit to go with my cheese, and after considering some pears that looked lovely but were not quite ripe I decided on a small bunch of black seeded grapes. After a bit more browsing, I started on my walk home, and stopped at a boulangerie (not a real one, I found out later from Geraldine, but a chain... the bread was still delicious, however) for a fresh baguette, which was warm when it was handed to me and which I could not resist eating on the walk home, when it was still a bit warm to the touch. I ended up going around the long way, and by the time I got back to my apartment my poor little feet were killing me! Note to anyone reading this: never wear new shoes to the market, not to mention cheap high-heeled sandals. Ouch!

Here are some pictures from my walk to and from the market, the market itself, and the lovely foodie-loot I came home with:

Neuilly au septembre:

Le Boulevard Bineau:

A lovely intersection near the market:

Fresh fish! I'm sure you can imagine the smell...

The most beautiful vegetables I have ever seen:

J'adore des bananes!

Des belles fraises:

Beaucoup de fromage suisse!

Fresh figs:

This really is my kind of place.

Plus de fromage...

Madeleines!

Plus de fromage...

Some lovely pears that were simply not ready to accompany my cheese:

Are these not the most beautiful berries? C'est non?

Yes, I actually made this poor fruit-vendor pose for me:

Some lovely roses at a fleurer on my walk back from the market:

...Is that a baguette in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me? Oh, how Parisian I felt carrying a baguette on the street...

Le Fromager a la Rue de Chateau:

Plus de fromage...

Some gorgeous tarts at the boulangerie that Geraldine recommended:

Yes, I live here. :)

A perfect meal:

I swear, the baguette was much larger when I started walking...

Apparently, this particular cheese was a favorite of Napoleon:

After my adventure in the market, I had to get to French class at the Center, was nearly late because I missed the bus and had to wait for the next one, but arrived just in time. Another amusing class with Professor Heng, who spent an inordinate amount of time trying to explain a "Croque Monseur" to us, even to the extent of drawing a picture of the sandwich on the white-board. During our lunch break, we went to the cafe across the street from the center, ordered sandwiches and salads as well as a plate of mixed cheeses (unfortunately for the others who had not yet bought their cheese, none of which were new to us). At this point, I took out my half-baguette and apple and grapes and my two rounds of cheese and had a lovely lunch in addition to my salad. I felt a bit awkward doing this in a restaurant but, hey, it was an assignment. The chevre was lovely, creamy, and had a nice, mild bite to it, and went marvelously with the baguette and the grapes. The Perais was sweet, creamy-soft, almost gooey, and slightly--though not unpleasantly--on the salty side. It was lovely with slices of apple, as was the blue cheese that came on the mixed plate.

Then we had our afternoon class, our first day of "Travel Writing," during which we took a little stroll just down the street to a little urban park, "La Square Emile Chautemps," and wrote in our little journals for a bit. I always feel self-conscious writing in public, but soon I was so deeply involved in what I love the most--writing, of course, except perhaps for reading--that I returned to the classroom a bit late. I sat on a bench in front of the fountain in the square, next to a woman and her son, who got up immediately after I chose them as my writing subject, and near the children's playground, where I observed that all joyful play-shrieking sounds the same in Paris as it does anywhere in the US. If only we all could remain children...

After class, I went to buy my French textbook, and then my feet hurt so much that I really could walk no more. I headed home for a lovely dinner--fresh melon, followed by spinach ravioli with peas and fresh Parmesan sauce, followed by salade verte avec oeil d'olive, followed by more of that lovely cheese from this morning, this time enhanced by a glorious glass of red wine, and tiny sweet green plums--and now I still have some reading that I have neglected (I spent almost three hours last night perusing a guidebook of Paris and became so involved that I lost track of the time) as well as my damaged feet to attend to, so for the moment, au revoir!

La Classe! Le Shopping!

2009-09-08T15:28:00.000-04:00

Well, I am now truly studying abroad! Classes started yesterday (after a rather intimidating speech my a representative of the American Embassy--apparently we might all get raped, killed, or robbed during our stay in Paris, and we should avoid sitting on balconies, as Americans frequently fall off of them... Also, if we are arrested, we are missing a few key rights, and can be held for 24 hours for any reason whatsoever. Mon dieu!) with "Intensive French," taught by an Asian graduate student who did not seem to understand that some of us have never had so much as a single French class, and don't even know the alphabet, let alone the days of the week or the number system. Luckily, I have studied French for a year (albeit with some questionable instruction...) and was able to hold my own--we were told that the class will be split up tomorrow. After a rushed lunch of panini and salads at an Italian cafe (we skipped the Subway, just on principle), we returned to the Skidmore Center for our French Culture course, "France Past and Present," which looks like it will be very interesting but unfortunately requires three rather expensive textbooks. Alas! Our first assignment (in addition to presentations on a province) is to try a French cheese we've never had before, and to buy it in a proper Fromagere or an open market, not a supermarket. Needless to say, I'm thrilled--although I foresee a very difficult decision-making process--and I'm going to the market in the morning tomorrow to see what I can find. Je suis tres excitee! After class, we had a meeting with Gabriella and Linda to report on our host-family experiences, mine marvelous, of course, a few others not so perfect but all very pleasant overall. Then we did a sort of "culture-shock" activity with one of the professors at the center, a researcher on cultural differences. We split up into two groups and our group had to build a bridge out of paper, tape, and glue using scissors as our only other tool, then we had to present it to the other group, who was given bizarre cultural rules to follow, one of which was a traditional greeting where two people kissed one another's shoulders, another of which was that only the men could use any tools. There was squealing, shoulder-kissing, and some lovely arts-and-crafts (our group got very involved with the bridge-making project). Great fun, c'est non? After class, I headed home via line 4, line 1, and Pont-de-Neuilly station, from which I walked and, on the way, bought my first French croissant! I accidentally went to the less-friendly (according to Geraldine) boulangerie dans la rue, but the croissant was absolutely delicious. I was fully planning to take a picture of it to preserve my first French pastry, but that just did not happen. Can you forgive me? Also, I realized that I've only ever had croissants in Europe--Italy and now France--so I have no sub-par U.S. croissants to compare them to. In all honesty, I'd rather keep it that way. At dinner, there was a cucumber and tomato salad (all of the vegetables here are so fresh! It's a glorious place to be a vegetarian!), followed by roasted eggplant and zucchini and tomatoes and more cucumbers with couscous, served with more amazing wine (three glasses last night! My, did I enjoy myself!), and followed by cheese (a goat's cheese and a blue cheese slightly milder than Roquefort), and then Creme Caramel (similar to flan or vanilla pudding). My stomach must be expanding! After dinner, I considered looking over my homework, but I was just trop fatiguee, so off to bed until today's early class.

Today, we had "Writing Arts Review," our first English class with Professor Simon. We discussed our goals for the semester--mine included becoming more succinct, less precious with my own writing, and learning to effectively communicate sensory or artistic experience through writing--did a fun little exercise thinking of as many specific, non-cliche, reds and blues we might use to describe a work of art, and then we discussed the controversial and intriguing question: "What is art?" What, indeed. We brought up a lot of things, from personal expression to the relationship between the artist and the audience/viewer, to openness to interpretation. We also noted that, though a simple chair is just that in the context of a classroom, if put on a pedestal, in a museum, or suspended by string in an exhibition, it can become art. Because the term "art" has become so broad in modern times, it is difficult to draw a line between what is art and what is not, and it becomes necessary to differentiate between "high art" and "pop art" and "craft art," etc. I personally believe that one can see nearly anything as art, and the only important thing is the viewer's ability to explain and defend the artistic nature of the thing. I suppose that's why I'm taking this course--I want to be able to effectively explain a piece of art and translate it into words so that others can see it and understand it in the same way that I do.

After this deep pondering of the essential nature of art, we took a stroll to Les Printemps, a chic department store, bought sandwiches on the third floor, and picnicked on the terrace on the roof, from which one can see all around Paris. It was beautiful up there! It was a perfect day for a picnic, although a bit hot, even for me, and we lunched and then walked around the perimeter taking photographs of the city. Afterwards, most of the girls in the group decided to do some shopping, or, as it turned out, some tormented browsing. We went to the obscenely expensive designer department store, Les Galeries Lafayette, meandered though overpriced name-brand purses and handbags (which, though I was almost afraid to say it, I have never cared for in the least--I've always found most of them rather ugly), while everyone made moaning purse-noises and I wished desperately that I was not wearing the filthy flip-flops I've been wearing all summer. Then, we went to the shoe department. At this point, I joined in the wishful, tortured fun of desperately wanting a pair of lovely shoes and then seeing the immense price. Many of them cost more than my round-trip plane ticket here! Mon dieu...

Later, we did do some actual shopping at some cheap stores in Les Halles. We tried to find it walking, but ended up taking the metro, after wandering around for a bit and stopping at a fruit & vegetable market (they're absolutely everywhere in Paris), where Alexa got some bananas, Katie got some Mirabelles (little yellow plums), and I got ripe black plums and fresh figs. Did I mention that I love it here? We finally reached Les Halles, where I bought some lovely high-heeled sandals (gray, not white, of course...) and a marvelous pair of faux-leather slouch ankle boots. I shan't dwell on them though--I was just glad to have some socially acceptable footwear, and (relatively) on the cheap, at that. In more interesting news, while we were walking in Les Halles, a woman stopped us and asked Katie if she'd be willing to model for her on Sunday! She would be paid 220Euro and would have to let the woman cut her hair short, but I suppose it pays to be tall, skinny, and blonde in Paris! However, when I got home and told Geraldine about it, she seemed rather skeptical... Apparently, girls get picked up to model and not-so-nice things can happen to them. Perhaps we'll send someone with her when/if she goes... But still, it makes for a great story. After un petit aperitif (white wine) with the group, I headed home on the metro for dinner, which was mozzarella, tomato, and basil salad, fresh red and green pepper salad, salade verte avec oeil d'olive, potato puree, more red wine--though not much, given the aperitif--more cheese, and a fresh nectarine. Tres bon!

As far as my French language improvement goes, I translated my meusli box in the morning, and took a few little newspapers at the metro station, and was able to make some sense of the headlines. I have also been trying to use as much French as I can at home. Il est travaille difficile! But, speaking of hard work, I have some reading to attend to, so I shall end this post here. We visit Versailles on Sunday, though, so there will be much reporting to do here afterwards! Alors, a la prochain.

Des Photographs

2009-09-07T15:13:00.000-04:00

So basically, the Cathedral Notre Dame is crowded on Sundays:

The BEST ice cream cone I have ever had, period. :

Le Glacier Berthillon, the oldest ice-cream maker in Paris:

Some guy playing "Chicago Blues" on the street:

Le Creperie des Arts:

La Fontaine San Michel:

My new room:

The view from my window:

At the Dammann Freres tea shop:

A la Place de Vosges:

The gardens at Musee Carnavalet:

Our little "Awesome Guide":

Louis XIV (The Sun King):

The roses in the gardens near the Musee:

A real live French couple at the gardens (am I a creep or what?):

Even the shrubbery is beautiful in Paris:

The window in my room in my apartment in Neuilly-sur-Seine:

Yes, there are trees growing on the roof of the apartment across from me:

So far, Paris is absolutely beautiful. The leaves are almost beginning to turn and the smell of l'automne is in the air. I expect it to become more beautiful every day that I'm here. I'll have to start taking pictures of the food, too--I planned to capture my first French croissant this afternoon, but that did not happen... C'est la vie! More on the way...

Mon Premier Week-End a Paris!

2009-09-07T01:54:00.000-04:00

Mon Dieu! This has been a whirlwind of a weekend! En ce moment, I am watching the sun rise out of my window in my new apartment in Paris, owned by a lovely couple (the woman is Irish!) who have been kind enough to speak to me mostly in English up to this point (we start French classes today) and who have grown children, so I get a room and bathroom all to myself. I just finished an espresso and a strong cup of Irish tea, and I'm up a bit too early to leave for class yet, so I'll try to record all the stuff I've been up to while I'm here.

WAY back on Thursday, my parents and I left for the airport around 11:45 am, got there by 3pm (after having to drive around the airport twice to get into the proper parking area for my terminal, number 8), and I easily went through ticketing and bag-check (although I was nervous to say au revoir to my immense orange suitcase--I always get anxious about checking luggage), unfortunately found out that there was no place to eat lunch with my parents before the security check-in, so we got coffee and stood around with a few other students and parents from the group, until we had to say a somewhat awkward (for me) and a somewhat tearful (for the mothers) farewell, and then we were hurried through security and somehow ended up on the other side, at gate 35, waiting for our flight to Paris. The whole group was on the group flight but we didn't have seats together, so I spent my flight next to a blond woman who had the exact same copy of the New Yorker that I was reading. About seven very uncomfortable hours later (I was fine at first, of course, but after dinner I tried to sleep, which necessitated my curling up into the fetal position upright in the airplane seat, and when I was just about to drop off, they came around with coffee and breakfast.) we arrived at 7am at Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris. I exchanged $200 in traveler's cheques and received a pitiful 125 Euro, then we met Frederique, a mad French woman who works at the Skidmore Center, who informed us that we would be taken by shuttle to the Center. After lighting her cigarette (I am always prepared...), I waited around with the group (it was raining, which, in Paris, means awful traffic) for the shuttle, we loaded our piles and piles of luggage into the shuttle when it arrived, and we reached the Skidmore Center in one piece. The place is actually pretty cool, with windows in the classrooms looking out over the street with all sorts of foliage, and a computer room with funny French keyboards on all the computers (I felt like an idiot trying to type!). From there (where Frederique gave us quite a long talk about navigating the Paris subways and the various forms of transportation, while we all tried our hardest not to fall asleep--we had all been up for far too long!) we went with Frederique to a cafe and we each had two cups of coffee (un noisette et un cafe au lait pour moi) to try to wake up. Afterwards, we had a beautiful lunch with Frederique, Sandy (another lovely French woman who works at the Center), and Linda Simon, my advisor and the director of the program. Tomato and mozzarella salad, vegetables gratin, and chocolat fondant... I was entirely stuffed. Then we had a bit of orientation at the Center, an introduction to the program and a basic French class where we learned some phrases to say to our host-families. We had a bit of a break then, in which a few girls took a nap, and then we were off again. We went with Sandy to get transportation passes (metro cards that we can use in the subway, on buses, and on RER trains) and international cell phones and SIM cards (this took an absolute ETERNITY!). At last, we returned to the Center to meet our host families and go HOME to our new home-stays. I was so thrilled to see my apartment! It's all light-colored rugs, glass and stainless steel furniture, big windows, and modern art... SO beautiful. We had a lovely, simple dinner of tomato salad with basil (my host-mom buys only organic tomatoes and in-season produce... could I be in a more perfect family?), penne with tomato sauce, wonderful French bread (which I had been looking forward to), delicious wine (one glass did me in, I was so exhausted from the flight and the long day of orientation), and the traditional cheese and fruit after dinner (again, the cheese was even better than what I had hoped for! Real Roquefort, Gruyere, and something delicious that started with a c... amazing), after which I was simply exhausted, but ended up not getting into bed until after 11pm, which Frederique said was the best way to get over jet-lag: just stay up until it's a normal time to go to bed, and when you wake up you'll be fine.

On Saturday, by which time I was mostly awake but still not fully recovered, my host-mom (her name is Geraldine, by the way, and her husband is called Jean--they're both lovely people) drove me to the metro station, to which I will normally take the bus, and I was off to meet Frederique at the Center. I was there over a half-hour early (the metro took barely 20 minutes), and so had time to attempt to use the computers once more before everyone else arrived. We got our reduced lunch stipends (fees for insurance and textbooks were deducted), then headed off to the Marais to meet Linda and her husband for lunch at Chez Marianne, a Middle-Eastern restaurant with wonderful bread (think fresh pita, onion rolls, and fresh slices of rye) and plates of assorted Middle-Eastern appetizers to put on the bread--everything from liver pate to eggplant to tzatziki sauce. After lunch, we saw a lovely courtyard-garden where we waited to meet our "Awesome Guide," who would show us the Musee Carnavalet (a museum of French history). Our little guide arrived, and gave us an incredibly rapid tour of French history, bringing us all the way from the original tribe, the Parisi, to the French Revolution, Restoration, and modern France. We followed him out to a royal park, built for Louis XIII, he showed us the house of Victor Hugo, and then we parted ways. Linda took us to a lovely tea-shop where you can smell the tea before buying it, and then to a little cafe for some coffee. At this point, Linda and her husband left us, and our free time began. First, we had to find cell-phones for a few people who had brought phones from other countries and couldn't get them to work. We took care of this and by then it was time to head home for dinner. I took the metro easily, but didn't realize that, on the bus, one cannot exit through the door at the front, and ended up missing my stop and having to wait for another bus in the opposite direction! C'est la vie, I got home, and had a lovely dinner (Geraldine made Ratatouille with fresh, local, seasonal veggies) before heading out again to meet the group for our first night on the town.

We had planned to walk on the Champs Elysees, but while waiting for everyone to arrive we decided to stop into a cafe for drinks, and after a bottle of wine (the most cost-effective option, we found) and some individual drinks (outrageously overpriced), we decided to go to the Eiffel Tower instead. Mon dieu, the tower is breathtaking at night! It was all lit up with gold lights, and at 1am it sparkled like mad, with silver lights flashing all up and down the scaffolding. It's also ENORMOUS when you get close to it, and I just couldn't stop gawking up at it--what a tourist! Then, we decided it was time go home. And the adventure began. A few girls took a taxi immediately, but the rest of us (since the metro was closed by now) went to look for the "Noctilien" (the night bus line) about which Frederique had briefly told us. I had a Noctilien map, and we tried in vain to find a single bus stop with a Noctilien sign. We asked a zillion people, none of whom seemed to know anything about a night bus and one of whom was a waiter who gestured off to the left, where we found no Noctilien stop, and we ended up wandering in circles all over Paris, checking every bus stop and, finally, getting taxis when one French woman seemed concerned for our safety (it was, by this time, 2:30 am...). Liz and I took a taxi to the Pont de Neuilly, a metro stop from which I knew my way home, and after a relatively pleasant walk (it's a safe, well-lit neighborhood), I was at last home (well, actually, I went the wrong way down the street at first, and had to turn around when I realized that the address numbers were going down and not up...) and thanked the Gods that I remembered the code into the apartment, since I'd left the slip of paper with the code on it on my desk in my room. Finally, at 3:30 am, I got gratefully into bed, and fell right to sleep.

The next day, we didn't have to meet Linda until noon, although I ended up getting up around 9:30am anyway... I took the lovely walk to Pont de Neuilly station (much nicer in the morning than at 3am), took the metro and then the RER to St. Michel-Notre Dame station, from which I easily found the Fontaine San Michel, where we were to meet Linda and her husband. Once we had all arrived, we went to the Creperie des Arts (a lovely crepe cafe with Greco-Roman decor, rustic dishware, faux-stone alcoves for the tables, and ceramic busts placed randomly all over the place) where we got delicious crepes (mine with Chevre, Bleue, Emmental, Noix (walnuts), salad, and sliced tomatoes--the blue cheese was so strong it literally made me sweat. I love this city) and then headed off for dessert: ice cream at Glacier Berthillon, the oldest ice-cream maker in Paris. This was truly amazing ice cream. I got une grande corne avec frais et chocolat et creme de chantilly (whipped cream). The whipped cream was incredibly fresh, the strawberry tasted like pure strawberry, and the chocolate was super-intense--like frozen mousse. With our ice-cream cones, we walked to the Cathedral Notre Dame for a very crowded tour (it was Sunday, after all), before which I foolishly used the public toilettes, for which there was an obscenely huge line and a bathroom attendant who banged on the stall doors shouting "pee-pee express! pee-pee express!" (actually, that part was pretty amusing). The Cathedral was lovely (of course my camera batteries died at this point) but horribly hot and crowded, so I was glad to get out in the open air as we walked to the RER station to go to the boat-dock for our reservation on a "Bateau Mouche" (tour boat). The boat went up and down the Seine, past the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Parliament building, and various other sites that I missed since, with the lovely breeze over the river and the warm sun up above, I fell asleep on the tour! Alas... but it was quite a nice nap. After that, we were thinking of getting drinks, but after stopping in one overpriced cafe (we'd wandered into a very ritzy area) I was simply too exhausted to continue and headed back to my apartment on metro line 1, which dropped me off at Pont de Nieully again, from which I took a lovely early-evening stroll, smelling the early-fall air and stopping at the two boulangeries/patisseries on the way to check prices (I still have yet to buy a French croissant...), and then had just enough time to e-mail my parents before yet another wonderful dinner: gazpacho, omelettes (with some ratatouille left over from last night), fresh bread, marvelous wine, cheese, and a ripe nectarine. Ooh la la! Then I had a shower in my tiny French bathroom (really, the shower-stall is closet sized! I'm sure I'll get used to it soon though), and gratefully got into bed.

Well now it is Monday morning and we start classes today at 10am. I just had a nice little breakfast of yogurt and meusli with a banana (yes, they keep all of my favorite things in this household...), as well as a strong espresso with milk (in addition to the tea--I'm still a bit jet-lagged and require the caffeine). Soon I will have to get on the bus that takes me to Porte de Chatallet, the metro station from which I can take line 3 right to the Skidmore Center. I have loads of pictures already, which I will post when I get home, but I wouldn't want to be late for my first day of classes, so au revoir!

My Last Thursday in the United States

2009-08-27T12:54:00.001-04:00

Lordy, lordy. One week left. In 7 days I will be on my way to JFK International Airport, and off to Paris! I finally got a 2GB memory card for my camera (I decided against dropping $150-200 on a new camera... my little Pentax has served me just fine up 'till now) so I can take plenty of full-sized pictures to post here, and now I just have to buy an international electricity adapter (I say as if I fully understand what kind I need... in fact I really just hope the people at Home Depot know what to get) and PACK.

But now, of course, I'm getting all nostalgic, and making special breakfasts for my parents on an even more regular basis. On Tuesday it was strawberry-blueberry-banana-oatmeal pancakes, last week it was currant scones and blueberry-oatmeal pancakes, and this morning I went to buy eggs to make my Mom's favorite breakfast; eggs-in-a-basket. Simple, but lovely. Here's a picture of a recent breakfast, with the addition of kiwis. Fruit always makes a plate look better:

Oh man, I'm going to miss making breakfast for my parents. My French family will just have to get used to being fed in the morning. Even though they're not big on breakfast in France. I hope they don't mind. Also, I hope they have a dog.