I am tired of this country. I realize that seems an absurd thing to say, and I am having trouble reconciling with it myself, but it is the truth. I find myself constantly wishing for warm weather, for the sun's rays searing my skin, for fresh fruit in the morning, for flat land, for the ability to see storms approaching over the highway. I want to pet my dog and sleep in my bed and not have to look both ways before I cross the street because, really, who walks anywhere in Florida?
This is unusual for me. I am normally the type of person that can leave home, and not even think about looking back. I'll forget to call home because I'm so absorbed in the people and the culture of wherever I am. I'll go to bed in the wee hours of the morning only to wake up a few hours later ready for the next day. But that's not happening here. I'm missing my friends. I want to hear their voices, laugh at inside jokes. I'm tired of catching myself when I'm speaking. I want to say, "This is awk it's making me dep. Let's go do something cray...but not cray-cray." God damn it, I want solidarity! *compulsory bird flap*
I think the problem is that it is so easy to be isolated here. The French are not the most welcoming of people (yes, I know there are exceptions) and though I've heard a million and six explanations for why that doesn't make the fact any simpler to swallow. It's not just a matter of not speaking the language; it's a case of not speaking the social norms. I, even if I don't always want to be, am American, and as such when someone makes eye contact with me, I smile. Yeah, it's a little, strained-pea-soup sort of smile but I'm going to give it anyway. And I'm used to getting one back. But here, I can't even twitch the corners of my lips, I can't even make eye contact. Do you know what the floor of every subway car in Paris looks like? I'm fairly certain I do considering how much time I spend staring at them. It's downright frustrating, and more than that its depressing. I don't want to go through my day ignoring people; it feels cold and unnatural, like there's an ice cube stuck in my throat 24/7.
Look, I get it. According my friend's French friend the French are like coconuts: hard on the outside but soft on the inside; they want you to take your time getting through their shell. I get it, but I don't like it. And to them, Americans are like peaches, soft on the outside but with a large knot at their core, that just proves how fake we are. OK, some people are only pretending to be nice, but honestly, I'd rather have forced compassion and friendliness before mandatory condescension and disinterest. I don't see why we can't all be soft all the way through like a strawberry or something. This post is starting to make no sense, so I'm just going to stop.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Part Two: Roaming Paris
So here is Part Two as promised. It is now going to include last night's adventures as well since I didn't get around to this in quite the timely manner I had hoped. I didn't even finish the last post; there was more I wanted to say, I just couldn't find the words at the time.
What was really amazing about the Musee D'Orsay was the way it made me feel. Hemingway said that after he finished writing he felt empty, both sad and happy as if he had just made love. But I feel like just absorbing and seeing these work of arts you feel much of the same sentiments. To be around such beauty and genius is overwhelming and it actually made me physically exhausted. But maybe that's just me.
Anyway, on to France's social scene, or lack thereof. Perhaps, lack is too strong of a word. Undoubtedly, there are places for college students to go and things to do, but they are often difficult to find and difficult to enjoy simply because we are not French. This goes far beyond not speaking the language. Even if I spoke perfect French, it would still be a challenge to engage in Paris's social scene. The key to having a good time here is knowing Parisians.
I'll begin with Wednesday night. My friend Adela knew of this party along the river that from the description she was given, sounded as if it were on a docked boat--hence the name Floating Party. It took us ages to find the place because we couldn't exactly see a boat that looked like it would house a party, especially not one near the address we were given. We ended up just splitting bottles of wine along the edge of the river until we decided to explore some more. Completely by chance we ended up running into these small group of French guys--probably college students--as we were illegally jaywalking. Some of my French-speaking friends struck up a conversation with them, though we later found out they spoke English and Spanish, and discovered that we were all headed to the same place. They offered to take us there and we agreed.
After risking our lives crossing a small stretch of highway that was marked by a blind curve obstructing our view of oncoming cars (the French guys crossed this like it was a fashion runway; You know, no big deal, let me just whip my scarf around my neck as I stroll across No Man's Land) we take the stairs down to the edge of the river. Suddenly, there are hundreds of teenage Parisians, all dressed in their chic blazers and scarves, looking quite posh. Some of them were holding bottles of wine like us; nearly all of them were smoking.
Now at this point, I was definitely thinking, this is out of my league. I am not dressed to fit in with these people, nor do I have the extreme desire to kill myself of extended lung cancer and emphysema that they posses. I was ready to cross that killer highway once more, find a nice cafe and sit down and watch cute French boys meander by. But, no. I told myself I was here, and I was ready to experience a real Parisian night on the town.
French Guy (at this point his friends had disappeared so there was only one) in his, not broken, but limited (if being slightly arrogant and misogynistic counts as limited) English warned us multiple times that the French were very snobby and that if we wanted to get into this party we should go in with him. So he takes us through the mass of French kids, at which point I realize there is a sort of barrier created around this portion of the bank, and leads us through the gates. Our bags are checked for bottles of alcohol, because God Forbid we don't buy their alcohol--weed and pills? Fine. But pre-bought wine? Never!-- and then all of the sudden we are inside.
After a while French Guy disappears, though not after ensuring us that he and his friends are going to make love to all of us. Stranded in this mass of French of teens we decide the only logical thing to do is buy a drink. But that proves impossible because you can't just buy a drink with cash. No. You have to wait decades in a line, stumble over your awful French as the vendor glares at you, and then buy a ticket. At which point you have to trade in that ticket for a drink. Far too much effort, so we decide instead to dance.
Once again, a disaster. The DJ is playing only techno music, and while almost everyone is on the makeshift dance- floor facing the DJ, no one is actually dancing. There is some head bobbing and shoulder shaking, the occasional guy putting his hands in the air, but for the most part everyone is just standing around, talking and smoking. And it isn't easy to talk in there due to the music and the sheer number of people, I promise you. It was the strangest thing I have ever experienced. Talk about culture shock. I found it especially surprising that in a place where the guys will whistle at you and call out to you on the streets they won't even come close to you while you are dancing. Everyone has their own bubble and space and it is never invaded. thus, it is impossible to get to know anyone besides the people you came to the party with. Unlike the United States, where you go to a bar to meet new people, in Paris you go with a group of friends and you very much stay with those people. you ignore everyone else, which left us, alone and confused, not understanding anything that was happening.
And as far as I have experienced this happens everywhere I go in Paris. We went to a bar afterwards and it was the exact same thing. Even though they were playing American music, no one danced together. Last night I went to another bar (this one was mainly white people, the other bar was mainly black) and once again no touching. In fact, only a few people were even up and dancing; everyone else was just sitting down watching them with this bored look on their face.
I guess what I don't understand of this is the appeal. If I wanted to just sit around and talk and drink I would get a bottle of wine and go to the river (which hundreds of kids do) or frequent a cafe. But to go to a place of music where it is loud and crowded and then not dance or rage is an action beyond my comprehension. Maybe my Americanism, my desire to go out and dance and not care if I make a fool of myself is out of place here. I got the sense that people cared a bit more about appearances, and looking chic and hip. Dancing makes you sweat, it makes you look spastic, and when caught in a photo it can make you look downright crazy. But it's fun. And standing around in a dark crowded room just isn't.
One thing I would recommend going to though is a Polyglot Party. I'm not sure what street it was on, though I do think it was at a club called Wagg. What you do is you wear a nametag that has what languages you speak and what languages you would like to learn written on it, and then you can go around talking to people practicing those languages. When we got there it was mainly older people, from their late 20s anywhere up to like 60s. But it was interesting. I met this Italian guy who had been living in Paris for 12 years. He also spoke Spanish and English, and while he continuously invaded my personal space and I could smell the cigarettes on his breath he was sort-of interesting to talk to. Ok, actually he was kind of boring, but he was the first person my friend and I started talking to, so we went with it. I later found two French guys who spoke Spanish and English and were trying to learn Portuguese because they wanted to work in Brazil in the future. They had just moved back from Panama where they were working before and they loved it there. They invited us to go out with them later, but then we lost track of them and they disappeared. The last guy I talked to was this really sweet old man who gave me his card and asked if I would call him to practice English over the phone. After 11 pm the club turns into a dance party, but my friend and I didn't stay for that part.
So the nightlife is very much miss on the hit-or-miss scale thus far, but I'm hoping that will change. As it is though I am having more fun during the day just exploring the city. I've found some cute little shopping streets, and I have to put in a plug for the Latin Quarter. Cheap food, cheap clothes, and a quaint little atmosphere, it's my favorite part of the city so far. I'll post some pics of the places I've been.
What was really amazing about the Musee D'Orsay was the way it made me feel. Hemingway said that after he finished writing he felt empty, both sad and happy as if he had just made love. But I feel like just absorbing and seeing these work of arts you feel much of the same sentiments. To be around such beauty and genius is overwhelming and it actually made me physically exhausted. But maybe that's just me.
Anyway, on to France's social scene, or lack thereof. Perhaps, lack is too strong of a word. Undoubtedly, there are places for college students to go and things to do, but they are often difficult to find and difficult to enjoy simply because we are not French. This goes far beyond not speaking the language. Even if I spoke perfect French, it would still be a challenge to engage in Paris's social scene. The key to having a good time here is knowing Parisians.
I'll begin with Wednesday night. My friend Adela knew of this party along the river that from the description she was given, sounded as if it were on a docked boat--hence the name Floating Party. It took us ages to find the place because we couldn't exactly see a boat that looked like it would house a party, especially not one near the address we were given. We ended up just splitting bottles of wine along the edge of the river until we decided to explore some more. Completely by chance we ended up running into these small group of French guys--probably college students--as we were illegally jaywalking. Some of my French-speaking friends struck up a conversation with them, though we later found out they spoke English and Spanish, and discovered that we were all headed to the same place. They offered to take us there and we agreed.
After risking our lives crossing a small stretch of highway that was marked by a blind curve obstructing our view of oncoming cars (the French guys crossed this like it was a fashion runway; You know, no big deal, let me just whip my scarf around my neck as I stroll across No Man's Land) we take the stairs down to the edge of the river. Suddenly, there are hundreds of teenage Parisians, all dressed in their chic blazers and scarves, looking quite posh. Some of them were holding bottles of wine like us; nearly all of them were smoking.
Now at this point, I was definitely thinking, this is out of my league. I am not dressed to fit in with these people, nor do I have the extreme desire to kill myself of extended lung cancer and emphysema that they posses. I was ready to cross that killer highway once more, find a nice cafe and sit down and watch cute French boys meander by. But, no. I told myself I was here, and I was ready to experience a real Parisian night on the town.
French Guy (at this point his friends had disappeared so there was only one) in his, not broken, but limited (if being slightly arrogant and misogynistic counts as limited) English warned us multiple times that the French were very snobby and that if we wanted to get into this party we should go in with him. So he takes us through the mass of French kids, at which point I realize there is a sort of barrier created around this portion of the bank, and leads us through the gates. Our bags are checked for bottles of alcohol, because God Forbid we don't buy their alcohol--weed and pills? Fine. But pre-bought wine? Never!-- and then all of the sudden we are inside.
After a while French Guy disappears, though not after ensuring us that he and his friends are going to make love to all of us. Stranded in this mass of French of teens we decide the only logical thing to do is buy a drink. But that proves impossible because you can't just buy a drink with cash. No. You have to wait decades in a line, stumble over your awful French as the vendor glares at you, and then buy a ticket. At which point you have to trade in that ticket for a drink. Far too much effort, so we decide instead to dance.
Once again, a disaster. The DJ is playing only techno music, and while almost everyone is on the makeshift dance- floor facing the DJ, no one is actually dancing. There is some head bobbing and shoulder shaking, the occasional guy putting his hands in the air, but for the most part everyone is just standing around, talking and smoking. And it isn't easy to talk in there due to the music and the sheer number of people, I promise you. It was the strangest thing I have ever experienced. Talk about culture shock. I found it especially surprising that in a place where the guys will whistle at you and call out to you on the streets they won't even come close to you while you are dancing. Everyone has their own bubble and space and it is never invaded. thus, it is impossible to get to know anyone besides the people you came to the party with. Unlike the United States, where you go to a bar to meet new people, in Paris you go with a group of friends and you very much stay with those people. you ignore everyone else, which left us, alone and confused, not understanding anything that was happening.
And as far as I have experienced this happens everywhere I go in Paris. We went to a bar afterwards and it was the exact same thing. Even though they were playing American music, no one danced together. Last night I went to another bar (this one was mainly white people, the other bar was mainly black) and once again no touching. In fact, only a few people were even up and dancing; everyone else was just sitting down watching them with this bored look on their face.
I guess what I don't understand of this is the appeal. If I wanted to just sit around and talk and drink I would get a bottle of wine and go to the river (which hundreds of kids do) or frequent a cafe. But to go to a place of music where it is loud and crowded and then not dance or rage is an action beyond my comprehension. Maybe my Americanism, my desire to go out and dance and not care if I make a fool of myself is out of place here. I got the sense that people cared a bit more about appearances, and looking chic and hip. Dancing makes you sweat, it makes you look spastic, and when caught in a photo it can make you look downright crazy. But it's fun. And standing around in a dark crowded room just isn't.
One thing I would recommend going to though is a Polyglot Party. I'm not sure what street it was on, though I do think it was at a club called Wagg. What you do is you wear a nametag that has what languages you speak and what languages you would like to learn written on it, and then you can go around talking to people practicing those languages. When we got there it was mainly older people, from their late 20s anywhere up to like 60s. But it was interesting. I met this Italian guy who had been living in Paris for 12 years. He also spoke Spanish and English, and while he continuously invaded my personal space and I could smell the cigarettes on his breath he was sort-of interesting to talk to. Ok, actually he was kind of boring, but he was the first person my friend and I started talking to, so we went with it. I later found two French guys who spoke Spanish and English and were trying to learn Portuguese because they wanted to work in Brazil in the future. They had just moved back from Panama where they were working before and they loved it there. They invited us to go out with them later, but then we lost track of them and they disappeared. The last guy I talked to was this really sweet old man who gave me his card and asked if I would call him to practice English over the phone. After 11 pm the club turns into a dance party, but my friend and I didn't stay for that part.
So the nightlife is very much miss on the hit-or-miss scale thus far, but I'm hoping that will change. As it is though I am having more fun during the day just exploring the city. I've found some cute little shopping streets, and I have to put in a plug for the Latin Quarter. Cheap food, cheap clothes, and a quaint little atmosphere, it's my favorite part of the city so far. I'll post some pics of the places I've been.
Floral-shaped Ice Cream from Amorino's in the Latin Quarter (though the chain exists all over Paris)
Blowing a dandelion in the Tuileries Garden
Write your name on the locks, throw the key into the river, and your love will last forever!
Contemporary art exhibit in the Luxembourg Garden/Museum. Unfortunately, I don't remember the name of the artist or the artwork =(
The beauty (and fun) that is the Luxembourg Garden
Sunset view of the Island
View of the Eiffel Tower from a boat on the river
Random etching I saw on a tree in the Bois du Bologne
Friday, June 10, 2011
Part One: Musee D'Orsay
Hello Again!
Flight of the Nymphs: Henri-Edmond Cross
It's raining, raining, raining in this city again. But fear not; this flighty temptress I call weather has not kept me indoors. This is actually Part One of a Two Part Blog that will (hopefully) be posted today. Part One consists of Yesterday, and Part Two consists of Wednesday and Today. It's bit complicated, but that is how it will be.
Yesterday, my class and I visited the Musee D'Orsay, over by the river. It houses Impressionist and Post Impressionist paintings and sculptures, including Manet, Matisse, Monet, Renoir, Gauguin, Cezanne, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and many more I can not think of at this moment. Now, I am bit fearful of saying this because I know I will receive a tongue lashing from many art enthusiasts out there--especially Renaissance lovers-- but...*whispers*... I think the Musee D'Orsay is better than the Lourve.
First of all, how is that possible?! I've spent multiple posts raving about the historic museum. And it is fabulous and full of masterpieces; however, and I admit this is based completely on my own biases, I simply like the D'Orsay better because it has Impressionist and Post Impressionist artwork. I had never quite understood what someone meant when they said that a piece of art "spoke" to them until I came across Impressionist artwork. Their use of color and shapes to portray more than what is simply seen creates such an emotional response within me that it actually becomes a physical reaction. I could feel my stomach hollowing out from the beauty of the paintings. Perhaps it was only because I was surrounded by so many of the paintings I had always admired, but I don't think so. I was standing in front of individual paintings for fifteen minutes at a time with this crazed smile on my face, slightly gasping for breath. Tour groups were whizzing by and school children were pointing, laughing at, or just ignoring the contorted portraits and pointillist landscapes, but I just stood there. Sometimes I would turn around in slow circles multiple times over and over, trying to take it all in at once which of course is impossible. Even today in class, when students discussed the artwork that most intrigued them, I didn't know what paintings some of the were talking about, which surprised me because I thought I had paid very close attention to the entire museum.
Here, I'll most some photos of my favorite pieces (taken from the internet of course, since I couldn't take photos in the museum and didn't feel like breaking the rules.)
Flight of the Nymphs: Henri-Edmond CrossThe photo can't do this painting even a grain of justice. Each of these little squares of color is almost the exact same size. here, you can't se the way the paint actually pops up from the canvas, the way the colors scream out at you. The nymphs are so beautifully created in the painting and that male arm in the background isn't nearly as predominant.
Plage a Heist: Georges Lemmen
This painting appeared to me like it was made of sand. Remember those toys from when we were kids that you could fill funky colored vases with colorful sand and make a design? Well, it reminds me of that, but more beautiful, and much more genius.
Abel Mort: Vincent Feugere Fort
He doesn't look dead to me. He looks asleep. He looks like a fifteen year old boy that fell asleep in the woods while he was fishing. Not as if his brother killed him. He looks like a fifteen year old boy, that if a fifteen year old girl found him, would awake to her caressing his body with her eyes and sheepishly smiling at him when he awoke to her trying to steal a kiss from him in his slumber. he looks like a fifteen year old boy who is about to lift his eyelids, run a hand through the curls stumbling down the back of his head, and get up and walk home. But he is dead.
La falaise d'Etretat apres l'orage: Gustave Courbet
I want to live in this little house on the edge of the ocean. It doesn't look nearly as peaceful and mysterious as it does in real life, but I promise you, if you stood in front of this painting for ten minutes, you would want to live there too.
Woman Bitten by a Snake: Auguste Clesinger
It's a bit erotic, yeah? But she is also dead. Or perhaps she is writhing in pain--she has just been bitten after all. That could explain the arched back, the chest pushed forward. But I doubt it. So it is an unusual position to paint someone in death. It could be that rigor mortis set in, but I likt to think of her as this erotic beauty who has lost her life and died in a final pose the way she wanted to be remembered. Not as some object who belonged to a man, but someone who had desires and joys and emotions as well.
Edgar Degas: Dance Class
What can I say about Degas, except that he is brilliant? I am fascinated by his dancers paintings. There were others in the museum, including some of his blue dancers. The way he can express the characteristics of each girl through her body language and color, without ever providing a direct or precise glimpse of her face, is amazing. I leran more about the figures he paints than anyone of the figures in the Realist portraits I have seen.
My point is: Visit the Musee D'Orsay if you are in Paris. It is absolutely worth the money. I am going back to gain entrance into the Manet exhibit, and I am sure it will be just as fabulous as the rest of the museum.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Rain, Rain Don't Go Away
Listen to Priscilla Ahn's Rain while you read this.
It's been raining in Paris. The skies are a solid sheet of gray and the temperature has dropped several degrees demanding jackets and pants and scarves. It's one of those days that requires you to stay indoors even though I at least, want to go outside and experience the chill and the slippery pavement and the water dripping from all of the stores' overhangs. Unfortunately, I have a paper to write. I've been succeeding at avoiding it for some time now, but I'm going to be forced to face it soon. As it is, I'm listening to Beethoven's playlist on YouTube and feeling the metro rumble below me. A few days ago, when I was lying on the table in the library, I didn't know that the metro ran directly underneath this side of the building and I was terrified when the table started to tremble. My friend had to reassure me several times that the dorm was NOT about to collapse and that there was not going to be another traumatizing earthquake this year. Or maybe that's how I just imagine that conversation. He probably just said, "relax" and let me go on lying in fear on the table.
I did go out today though. For the first time I went to a cafe alone, sat down and ordered and whiled away forty-five minutes in the Parisien style of simply eating, watching people, and writing. That makes me sound much more successful than I actually was. I got to the cafe and immediately went into Paranoid Mode. I have certain habits when I go into P.M. as I call it.* I start muttering to myself, trying to convince myself that everything is going to be ok even though I don't speak the language or know the customs or have any clue if they are even serving food, let alone what type of food they serve. If you were to watch me (which I'm fairly certain the other patrons of the bar were) you would see a girl sitting down at a little table outside, her lips moving at a staccato pace without any words actually being made, throwing glances between her table the bar and the one waitress who hasn't even finished setting the tables for lunchtime yet. I must have half gotten out of my chair two or three times before finally deciding to go up to the bar and ask for a menu. Then I took the menu back to my seat, made a random selection based on the fact that something had tuna (I had no idea what any of the menu said. It ended up being an omelette) then debated for another five minutes about whether I should wait for the waitress or just go order at the bar. I ended up doing the latter, and after that it was pretty smooth sailing, though I did get quite a few random looks from passers-by who probably thought I should have been in school
The cafe itself is quite cute. It's called Cafe Madame and it's at the intersection of Rue Madame and Rue du Vaugirard in the 6th arrondissement. I've walked by it almost everyday on my way to the Luxembourg Garden. The bartender and the waitress were very kind, especially considering I didn't speak any French and was completely lost in every sense of the word--except perhaps the literal one. It was a nice place to write. I'll definitely go back there. Though probably without the notebook. While it's lovely to sit outside and write I realize one of the best aspects of Paris is that it is perfectly normal to just for hours at a cafe watching people walk by. In the United States this would be considered a bit stalkerish, which is why I am so hesitant to do so. Yet, observing people is really what writers should be doing. If we don't watch people, take in everything that is happening around us, all that we have to work with is ourselves. While that can be fascinating, it can turn boring quite quickly. And to be so introspective, well, it can become a burden I've realized. It is overwhelming to think only of yourself, and it is a welcome relief to get lost in another person. I don't think I allow myself to do that often enough, to engage myself completely in another person. I don't even mean to have a conversation with a person (though I am terrible at listening. That is something I need to work on.) I'm talking about just allowing myself to imagine the way someone else is thinking. (Dear God, I just realized the last three sentences started with "I". What a failure on my part.) Writing in a sense is gaining experience voyeuristically, and simply knowing other people through observation is a way to enhance that.
That being said, I did watch some people for some amount of time. There are many more children in Paris than probably anywhere else in the world. I know that sounds silly, but it seems that everywhere I go there are small children running around, playing badminton with their parents, or rolling in the grass. I know it's probably because I frequent areas that just happen to have a lot of kids, like the Luxembourg Garden on the weekend, or the cafe that is right next to an elementary school. But really, children have never had such a visible presence in any other city I have been to. I think it is just another way in which Paris is accessible to people of all ages.
There was a crossing-guard at the intersection of my cafe (don't ask me how I have suddenly gained ownership of Cafe Madame. It is as Hemingway wrote, "You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me,") for the children. Keep in mind this was noon and children were on their way to school. It may have been a half-day only sort of school, but it is fascinating to think that education can occur during reasonable hours when our minds are actually functioning instead of lying curled up in our beds half-dreaming. Around this time the older students--at least I imagine it was the older students. They looked to be teenagers-- must have been out for lunch. Small crowds of students clustered around the sandwich vendors and the corner cafes, each with a few euros in hand looking for a quick meal (if such a thing even exists in France.) I wish that we could have been let out for lunch when I was in high school. It is such a relaxing thing to have in the middle of the day, a good meal to unwind your mind and your body. Especially a hot meal. Sylvia Beach once told Hemingway he should always eat his meals hot, and she really was right. Towards the end of my lunch I had becomes distracted with writing and my omelette had cooled down. The cheese separated from the tuna and hardened, and the omelette itself was cold and soggy instead of warm and crispy. It takes away from the entire experience. At home, there would have been no time during the school day to get a decent hot meal during lunch because the time it would have taken to prepare would have been all the time you'd have had to eat it. It seems that here though, teachers would excuse tardiness if it were on the basis of enjoying lunch. Perhaps, I am idealizing again. But it's pretty to think so.
I know I'm rambling throughout this post, but it's difficult to form coherent thoughts in this city. Sometimes it is impossible to form thoughts at all. I know I am thinking. I am walking down the streets, so comfortably now that I no longer have my stoic, angry face to ward off male flirts, smiling to myself and muttering anything that comes through my head, but I'm not remembering any of it. There will be moments when I think I'll have had a flash of brilliance, but it'll be gone in the next second replaced with another encounter of Paris. I regret these moments at times, wishing I could keep them all locked up in my head so I could write them down later, but then I think perhaps it is better to experience then to write or dream or reflect. It is the feeling that we get when something fantastic happens that stays with us, isn't it? Not the specific details, not the color of the street sign, not the name of the road, not the weather or the day or the time on the clock. We know what something meant because when we think of it we feel that drop in our stomach, or the tug on the side of our lips, or that undeniable urge to curl our toes as if pushing that feeling back inside of ourselves so we never have to think of it again. This is Paris. Paris is a constant parade of stomach-dropping, lip-tugging-toe-cringing glory. It's a bit like life itself in that way.
* I've decided to call it that as of now. It's not to be confused with PMS. DON'T CONFUSE IT.
It's been raining in Paris. The skies are a solid sheet of gray and the temperature has dropped several degrees demanding jackets and pants and scarves. It's one of those days that requires you to stay indoors even though I at least, want to go outside and experience the chill and the slippery pavement and the water dripping from all of the stores' overhangs. Unfortunately, I have a paper to write. I've been succeeding at avoiding it for some time now, but I'm going to be forced to face it soon. As it is, I'm listening to Beethoven's playlist on YouTube and feeling the metro rumble below me. A few days ago, when I was lying on the table in the library, I didn't know that the metro ran directly underneath this side of the building and I was terrified when the table started to tremble. My friend had to reassure me several times that the dorm was NOT about to collapse and that there was not going to be another traumatizing earthquake this year. Or maybe that's how I just imagine that conversation. He probably just said, "relax" and let me go on lying in fear on the table.
I did go out today though. For the first time I went to a cafe alone, sat down and ordered and whiled away forty-five minutes in the Parisien style of simply eating, watching people, and writing. That makes me sound much more successful than I actually was. I got to the cafe and immediately went into Paranoid Mode. I have certain habits when I go into P.M. as I call it.* I start muttering to myself, trying to convince myself that everything is going to be ok even though I don't speak the language or know the customs or have any clue if they are even serving food, let alone what type of food they serve. If you were to watch me (which I'm fairly certain the other patrons of the bar were) you would see a girl sitting down at a little table outside, her lips moving at a staccato pace without any words actually being made, throwing glances between her table the bar and the one waitress who hasn't even finished setting the tables for lunchtime yet. I must have half gotten out of my chair two or three times before finally deciding to go up to the bar and ask for a menu. Then I took the menu back to my seat, made a random selection based on the fact that something had tuna (I had no idea what any of the menu said. It ended up being an omelette) then debated for another five minutes about whether I should wait for the waitress or just go order at the bar. I ended up doing the latter, and after that it was pretty smooth sailing, though I did get quite a few random looks from passers-by who probably thought I should have been in school
The cafe itself is quite cute. It's called Cafe Madame and it's at the intersection of Rue Madame and Rue du Vaugirard in the 6th arrondissement. I've walked by it almost everyday on my way to the Luxembourg Garden. The bartender and the waitress were very kind, especially considering I didn't speak any French and was completely lost in every sense of the word--except perhaps the literal one. It was a nice place to write. I'll definitely go back there. Though probably without the notebook. While it's lovely to sit outside and write I realize one of the best aspects of Paris is that it is perfectly normal to just for hours at a cafe watching people walk by. In the United States this would be considered a bit stalkerish, which is why I am so hesitant to do so. Yet, observing people is really what writers should be doing. If we don't watch people, take in everything that is happening around us, all that we have to work with is ourselves. While that can be fascinating, it can turn boring quite quickly. And to be so introspective, well, it can become a burden I've realized. It is overwhelming to think only of yourself, and it is a welcome relief to get lost in another person. I don't think I allow myself to do that often enough, to engage myself completely in another person. I don't even mean to have a conversation with a person (though I am terrible at listening. That is something I need to work on.) I'm talking about just allowing myself to imagine the way someone else is thinking. (Dear God, I just realized the last three sentences started with "I". What a failure on my part.) Writing in a sense is gaining experience voyeuristically, and simply knowing other people through observation is a way to enhance that.
That being said, I did watch some people for some amount of time. There are many more children in Paris than probably anywhere else in the world. I know that sounds silly, but it seems that everywhere I go there are small children running around, playing badminton with their parents, or rolling in the grass. I know it's probably because I frequent areas that just happen to have a lot of kids, like the Luxembourg Garden on the weekend, or the cafe that is right next to an elementary school. But really, children have never had such a visible presence in any other city I have been to. I think it is just another way in which Paris is accessible to people of all ages.
There was a crossing-guard at the intersection of my cafe (don't ask me how I have suddenly gained ownership of Cafe Madame. It is as Hemingway wrote, "You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me,") for the children. Keep in mind this was noon and children were on their way to school. It may have been a half-day only sort of school, but it is fascinating to think that education can occur during reasonable hours when our minds are actually functioning instead of lying curled up in our beds half-dreaming. Around this time the older students--at least I imagine it was the older students. They looked to be teenagers-- must have been out for lunch. Small crowds of students clustered around the sandwich vendors and the corner cafes, each with a few euros in hand looking for a quick meal (if such a thing even exists in France.) I wish that we could have been let out for lunch when I was in high school. It is such a relaxing thing to have in the middle of the day, a good meal to unwind your mind and your body. Especially a hot meal. Sylvia Beach once told Hemingway he should always eat his meals hot, and she really was right. Towards the end of my lunch I had becomes distracted with writing and my omelette had cooled down. The cheese separated from the tuna and hardened, and the omelette itself was cold and soggy instead of warm and crispy. It takes away from the entire experience. At home, there would have been no time during the school day to get a decent hot meal during lunch because the time it would have taken to prepare would have been all the time you'd have had to eat it. It seems that here though, teachers would excuse tardiness if it were on the basis of enjoying lunch. Perhaps, I am idealizing again. But it's pretty to think so.
I know I'm rambling throughout this post, but it's difficult to form coherent thoughts in this city. Sometimes it is impossible to form thoughts at all. I know I am thinking. I am walking down the streets, so comfortably now that I no longer have my stoic, angry face to ward off male flirts, smiling to myself and muttering anything that comes through my head, but I'm not remembering any of it. There will be moments when I think I'll have had a flash of brilliance, but it'll be gone in the next second replaced with another encounter of Paris. I regret these moments at times, wishing I could keep them all locked up in my head so I could write them down later, but then I think perhaps it is better to experience then to write or dream or reflect. It is the feeling that we get when something fantastic happens that stays with us, isn't it? Not the specific details, not the color of the street sign, not the name of the road, not the weather or the day or the time on the clock. We know what something meant because when we think of it we feel that drop in our stomach, or the tug on the side of our lips, or that undeniable urge to curl our toes as if pushing that feeling back inside of ourselves so we never have to think of it again. This is Paris. Paris is a constant parade of stomach-dropping, lip-tugging-toe-cringing glory. It's a bit like life itself in that way.
* I've decided to call it that as of now. It's not to be confused with PMS. DON'T CONFUSE IT.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
I'm not sure exactly what to say...
So it's been a few days since I've posted. Don't worry, I'v been doing things; I haven't been sitting in my dorm like a total loser. The days are already starting to run together. This may have something to do with the fact that I've been to both the Eifel Tower and the Louvre 3 times. I promise you, no one needs to go to the Eiffel Tower three nights in a row--It is always gorgeous and it always sparkles for five minutes on the hour, and yes it is wonderful to see it from multiple angles, but in the end it is just a semi-tall mass of metal surrounded by Senegalese trying to sell you light-up miniatures and cheap bottes of wine for 15 euros and an unnecessary amount of tourists. The Louvre on the other hand is undoubtedly worth multiple trips. I still haven't seen the entire museum; I'm just taking a break because I am exhausted from walking miles in that building.
Last night, I must have walked all over Paris. I mean, I obviously rode the subway at various points, but I did go from far west Paris to very far east Paris. I'm talking the 12th arrondissement that makes you question if you are in Paris at all. Gone are the quaint little cafes and centuries old architecture. No longer are you swarmed by tourists and absurd prices. It is a much more urban area of Paris, perhaps a bit more dangerous area, though I felt relatively safe (really, anywhere is safe compared to New Haven.) Anyways, we found this fantastic bridge that had multiple levels. Like, you could be at the top of the bridge and then the bridge would sort of split into three strips, with the left and right strip dipping down and the middle strip rising up, so the entire bridge looked like a wave. I'll post a picture if I can, so you can understand what I mean.
We just chilled on the bridge for a while--because you can do that in France without seeming like a total creeper!--and watched some guy practice parkour. He was climbing all over the thing, hanging from the edges, dangling over the river, jumping from railing to railing. I thought it was pretty cool; my friends thought he was going to kill himself. I've jumped from further up into a body of water, so I was fairly certain he would be fine, though my stomach would have dropped for a second had he fallen.
We also met up with one of my friend's friend, Frank, who was taking a gap year and traveling the world. It's pretty amazing. He's on his sixth month I believe, and he just left Asia after spending ages there. He hiked part of Mount Everest, bungee jumped, hang glided, visited Thailand, Cambodia, Nepal, all these awesome places, and has met so many cool people. I wonder if I have the balls to do that one day.
Last night, I must have walked all over Paris. I mean, I obviously rode the subway at various points, but I did go from far west Paris to very far east Paris. I'm talking the 12th arrondissement that makes you question if you are in Paris at all. Gone are the quaint little cafes and centuries old architecture. No longer are you swarmed by tourists and absurd prices. It is a much more urban area of Paris, perhaps a bit more dangerous area, though I felt relatively safe (really, anywhere is safe compared to New Haven.) Anyways, we found this fantastic bridge that had multiple levels. Like, you could be at the top of the bridge and then the bridge would sort of split into three strips, with the left and right strip dipping down and the middle strip rising up, so the entire bridge looked like a wave. I'll post a picture if I can, so you can understand what I mean.
We also met up with one of my friend's friend, Frank, who was taking a gap year and traveling the world. It's pretty amazing. He's on his sixth month I believe, and he just left Asia after spending ages there. He hiked part of Mount Everest, bungee jumped, hang glided, visited Thailand, Cambodia, Nepal, all these awesome places, and has met so many cool people. I wonder if I have the balls to do that one day.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Written at Midnight in Paris
On a whim tonight, some friends and I went to see Woody Allen's latests film, Midnight in Paris. We're in Paris, the film is in Paris. We're studying expatriate writers from the 20s, the film characterizes expatriate writers from the 20s. We are surrounded by beautiful surrealist, impressionist, and cubist artwork, the film portrays these artists. Really, this film could not have been released at a better time.
It was actually quite a metaphysical experience. At one point, there was a screen shot of the very theatre we were sitting in. The Parisians didn't seem as moved by this experience as we were--I assume they are accustomed to seeing their hometown on the silver screen regularly--but to us it was as if all the pieces of the puzzle were finally falling together.
Even though the film was about appreciating your life and the time you live in (because living in the past is a form of escapism that produces nothing) it still romanticized the city. Hemingway would say that it was not true and brave. But then again, Hemingway wasn't as straightforward as he claimed to be. Personally, I think it's fine to romanticize Paris, because the city is glorious. It is passionate, and you can feel it pulsing through you as you walk its streets. It's not the way you feel New York City. There, you see it, you hear it; your senses are overloaded and you are in the center of the collision of American culture. In Paris you smell it, you touch it, it becomes the study beat of your heart, the rise and fall of your breath, the light clip-clop of your heel on the cobblestones.
Maybe I am romanticizing it because that is what I have been trained to do by films and songs and stories. But I doubt that I could do so this strongly if there weren't some truth in it.
If we want the truth--rather, if you want the truth, because I know I want the truth, I just don't know if I can reach it-- I romanticize every foreign place I travel to. As an unknown land, it is full of possibilities. There is no reality to stop me. I can meet a handsome, kind, and funny stranger that will lead me through the city and teach me its secrets. I can become lost in the crevices of the map for hours, seeing things that only surrealists could surmise, before inexplicably encountering my residence. I could become entranced by a painting and stare at it for hours. I could become an artist's muse, live in a cafe, write a novel, learn to bake a croissant. To romanticize here is no different, except that I am not alone in doing so.
I, like Gil in the movie, want to share a kiss along the River Seine, or find someone to walk along with me at night in the rain. I want someone to stare at old paintings imagining quirky stories for the figures with me. I want someone to lie in the garden Tuilleries and share a bottle of wine with, as we watch the others pass by, lost in love or games or their thoughts.
Perhaps, what really makes Paris so romantic is that because so many people have this impression of the city they let their guards down, and then the magical, which they always deemed impossible, can slip out of the box we have labelled "For Dreams Only," and became the truth we desire.
It was actually quite a metaphysical experience. At one point, there was a screen shot of the very theatre we were sitting in. The Parisians didn't seem as moved by this experience as we were--I assume they are accustomed to seeing their hometown on the silver screen regularly--but to us it was as if all the pieces of the puzzle were finally falling together.
Even though the film was about appreciating your life and the time you live in (because living in the past is a form of escapism that produces nothing) it still romanticized the city. Hemingway would say that it was not true and brave. But then again, Hemingway wasn't as straightforward as he claimed to be. Personally, I think it's fine to romanticize Paris, because the city is glorious. It is passionate, and you can feel it pulsing through you as you walk its streets. It's not the way you feel New York City. There, you see it, you hear it; your senses are overloaded and you are in the center of the collision of American culture. In Paris you smell it, you touch it, it becomes the study beat of your heart, the rise and fall of your breath, the light clip-clop of your heel on the cobblestones.
Maybe I am romanticizing it because that is what I have been trained to do by films and songs and stories. But I doubt that I could do so this strongly if there weren't some truth in it.
If we want the truth--rather, if you want the truth, because I know I want the truth, I just don't know if I can reach it-- I romanticize every foreign place I travel to. As an unknown land, it is full of possibilities. There is no reality to stop me. I can meet a handsome, kind, and funny stranger that will lead me through the city and teach me its secrets. I can become lost in the crevices of the map for hours, seeing things that only surrealists could surmise, before inexplicably encountering my residence. I could become entranced by a painting and stare at it for hours. I could become an artist's muse, live in a cafe, write a novel, learn to bake a croissant. To romanticize here is no different, except that I am not alone in doing so.
I, like Gil in the movie, want to share a kiss along the River Seine, or find someone to walk along with me at night in the rain. I want someone to stare at old paintings imagining quirky stories for the figures with me. I want someone to lie in the garden Tuilleries and share a bottle of wine with, as we watch the others pass by, lost in love or games or their thoughts.
Perhaps, what really makes Paris so romantic is that because so many people have this impression of the city they let their guards down, and then the magical, which they always deemed impossible, can slip out of the box we have labelled "For Dreams Only," and became the truth we desire.
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Louvre
It really is enormous, you know. I mean, you see it from the outside and realize how much space the building physically takes up, but from the exterior it's impossible to fathom how many paintings, sculptures, and artifacts can really be housed in that museum.
This is my third trip to Paris, and probably my fourth or fifth trip to the Louvre, and the place never becomes repetitive or boring. I could stare at the same painting for hours, even days on end, and not become tired of it. Every time I look at one of those masterpieces, especially the gargantuan ones that tower over my head and force me to stumble back to the opposite wall to view them clearly (and even then, in some cases, its impossible) I see something new.
There's a game I like to play when I'm in museums. I'll take a painting, preferably one of the complex ones filled with figures or faces, and make up stories between between the characters. My favourite today was the Death of Sardanapalus. If you look in the background there is a woman being restrained by a soldier, about to be killed. A closer look shows that she is looking down towards the right and if you follow her gaze you find a soldier, agony wrenched across his face. But he is not being tortured or prepared for death. No, he should be doing the killing. Yet, he is staring up at her with a face so horrified that there can be no other emotion but love driving him in this moment. He can do nothing. She will die at the hands of his comrades, and he will watch her blood flow. If this were Romeo and Juliet he would surely kill himself as well, so they could be reunited in the afterlife. But he is not Romeo and he will not die. He will go on living because that is the only thing one can do. And he will suffer and he will hurt in ways unknown to anyone but himself; but he will love again, because that is what living is. To live is to love. Otherwise, what is the point?
I've always wanted to play this game with someone else. I think it would be a wonderful way to gain insight into the way someone else thinks. And yes, I do have someone in mind with whom I would like to play it with. Nevertheless, I must admit that going to the Louvre alone was a refreshing experience. I was on of the few people I saw there alone. It was nice to go at my own pace, however; to stare at a painting as long as I liked and to avoid the galleries I was not fond of (ahem, Broze and Etruscan Age.) I took Art History the year after my second trip to Paris, so there were many paintings I saw in an entirely new light this time around (both figuratively and literally. They moved some of the artwork to new locations in my absence.) I'm thinking of the French paintings in particular. Delacroix's work, as well as David's.
I'm sure other's have mentioned this but the Mona Lisa really isn't much of a sight to see, especially the second or third time around. It's a tiny little thing, and to really appreciate da Vinci's use of sfumato you have to be up close and personal, which considering the large, untamed crowds that flock the segment of wall reserved specifically for this relic, is a challenging task indeed. They do place her in an out-of-the-way location however, perhaps in the hopes that the vistor will walk by carelessly and miss her.
I noticed that that was how many walked through the museum. Oblivious to the masterpieces that surrounded them. Those who had the headsets would stop and listen to the stories about the paintings. But the rest would clip through the Grand Gallerie at a disrespectful pace. I understand that certain types or eras of paintings may not be one's favourite, but the masses of people engaging in this act led me to believe that this was more a result of a general disease than a result of personal preference. Really now. These artists spent years on these paintings. The least we can do is honor them with a few minutes of our time.
This is my third trip to Paris, and probably my fourth or fifth trip to the Louvre, and the place never becomes repetitive or boring. I could stare at the same painting for hours, even days on end, and not become tired of it. Every time I look at one of those masterpieces, especially the gargantuan ones that tower over my head and force me to stumble back to the opposite wall to view them clearly (and even then, in some cases, its impossible) I see something new.
There's a game I like to play when I'm in museums. I'll take a painting, preferably one of the complex ones filled with figures or faces, and make up stories between between the characters. My favourite today was the Death of Sardanapalus. If you look in the background there is a woman being restrained by a soldier, about to be killed. A closer look shows that she is looking down towards the right and if you follow her gaze you find a soldier, agony wrenched across his face. But he is not being tortured or prepared for death. No, he should be doing the killing. Yet, he is staring up at her with a face so horrified that there can be no other emotion but love driving him in this moment. He can do nothing. She will die at the hands of his comrades, and he will watch her blood flow. If this were Romeo and Juliet he would surely kill himself as well, so they could be reunited in the afterlife. But he is not Romeo and he will not die. He will go on living because that is the only thing one can do. And he will suffer and he will hurt in ways unknown to anyone but himself; but he will love again, because that is what living is. To live is to love. Otherwise, what is the point?
I've always wanted to play this game with someone else. I think it would be a wonderful way to gain insight into the way someone else thinks. And yes, I do have someone in mind with whom I would like to play it with. Nevertheless, I must admit that going to the Louvre alone was a refreshing experience. I was on of the few people I saw there alone. It was nice to go at my own pace, however; to stare at a painting as long as I liked and to avoid the galleries I was not fond of (ahem, Broze and Etruscan Age.) I took Art History the year after my second trip to Paris, so there were many paintings I saw in an entirely new light this time around (both figuratively and literally. They moved some of the artwork to new locations in my absence.) I'm thinking of the French paintings in particular. Delacroix's work, as well as David's.
I'm sure other's have mentioned this but the Mona Lisa really isn't much of a sight to see, especially the second or third time around. It's a tiny little thing, and to really appreciate da Vinci's use of sfumato you have to be up close and personal, which considering the large, untamed crowds that flock the segment of wall reserved specifically for this relic, is a challenging task indeed. They do place her in an out-of-the-way location however, perhaps in the hopes that the vistor will walk by carelessly and miss her.
I noticed that that was how many walked through the museum. Oblivious to the masterpieces that surrounded them. Those who had the headsets would stop and listen to the stories about the paintings. But the rest would clip through the Grand Gallerie at a disrespectful pace. I understand that certain types or eras of paintings may not be one's favourite, but the masses of people engaging in this act led me to believe that this was more a result of a general disease than a result of personal preference. Really now. These artists spent years on these paintings. The least we can do is honor them with a few minutes of our time.
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