Grapefruit Moon

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...

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...

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

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!