A Chalet and Rain: Something's Wrong There

One would think, or at least hope, that if one spent time in a chalet in the mountains next to a ski resort, it would snow.

There was certainly plenty OF snow -- being everywhere -- but I am not kidding when I say it rained almost constantly Monday and Tuesday, the days during which I was there. Being out in the snow while it is raining is not the most pleasant experience in the world. Nevertheless, Monday afternoon, I decided it was necessary.

The reason it was necessary was this: I was at the chalet with a new French friend, who extremely kindly invited me to join her family there for a few days. The thing is, she has a younger brother and a younger sister, plus in the group was a little cousin, and the three of them would NOT stop arguing. More than that, the little cousin somehow managed to get chicken pox and would not stop crying. In a very small chalet, with no real room to escape, I can assure you that the noise, along with the sniping, was getting on my nerves -- I was always polite about it, I'll have you know, and so I suggested to my friend, Margaux, that we disappear.

So we went for a walk, that took us up and around, down into the snow to make angels, here and there, to a lake but not on it, as the ice was a little mushy from the rain, a random tiny church that is only open on tuesdays in July and August -- go figure -- and then finally back to the chalet. We were completely soaked by that time, but at least it was nice to get out for awhile. We needed it for that night, I can tell you that.

The next day was better, because mostly we weren't in the chalet. The morning we made snowmen and I endeavored to make the perfect snowman and then decorated it with only natural things, like sticks and pine branches etc. Of course it started raining less than an hour afterwards, so there you go. It's probably all gone now. In the afternoon we went sledding, which was great fun, if not extremely wet, because it was raining quite hard by then and didn't stop all afternoon.

The little cousin was getting better and the kids had all decided I was the cat's pajamas, so I somehow ended up entertaining all of them before dinner. I think the easiest way to get them to stop fighting -- though they tried often to restart -- is to just tell them it's not that serious. They kept sniping over the paper airplanes I'd made, and I just said, it's just an airplane, forget it. I never took anyone's side, so naturally they all assumed I was on their side. Works like a charm.

One thing always good, though, was the food. I ate for about four straight days -- breakfast of bread and crepes, full lunches, three course dinners, a hell of a lot of chocolate, cheese, some roasted chestnuts, you name it we had it. It was wonderful.

Wednesday we headed to Strasbourg, which was great fun. In the morning we actually made a stop to the pasta production factory where Margaux's dad works and took a tour -- got to see the whole process from start to finish, which was actually really, really cool. Then on to Strasbourg, which is a beautiful little city. Old, especially Petit France. I get the sense that it sleeps all year long and comes alive for the holidays, especially at night.

As it gets dark, the lights turn on -- and there are lights everywhere. Windows, streets, the little huts selling trinkets, ornaments, food, whatever it is. There is vin chaud and hot chocolate everywhere, gingerbread and bretzels, people -- essentially, Christmas. The town lives for this time of year, and I get the feeling that they're proud of it.

The cathedral, by the way, is utterly spectacular. Huge, gothic, built with the reddish stone of the countryside, it's extremely impressing. Inside tapestries are hung everywhere, there is a huge astrological clock, and of course a nativity scene. It was fairly dark, but still beautiful.

All in all, it was a great change of pace for me, and I'm very happy I went, even with all the sniping and crying ( which, to be fair, got better after Monday). I'm back in Paris now for the holidays and spent about four hours today at the coiffeur getting my hair done -- it was expensive, but I'm happy to report that after years of wanting it, I am now platinum blonde. Yahoo.

Bisous à tous.

Come on, Siegfried, emote! : An afternoon at the ballet

A lesson in false advertising: "Premier rang" being at the same level as the "first balcony", "en face de la scène" (in front of the stage). Actually, not: premier rang tickets, 10 euros but bought for 50, are at the very top level and on the side. False advertising, I tell you. I suppose it's my karma check for having essentially bought black market scalper tickets to Swan Lake at the Paris Opera, but I have no regrets -- there were NO tickets at the last minute, not one. Scalper or nothin'.

Thankfully, however, there were some random French people on the stage yakking about something - whatever it was, I'm sure it was important - and the girl checking tickets got bored and left her post -- just long enough for my friend and I to bust ass around and sneak into the only empty seats in the section. We checked later -- 55 euros the place. Muhahaha.

So this was the Rudolph Nuryev version of Swan Lake, danced by the best ballet dancers in Paris. It was beautiful. Sometimes actually moving -- but those moments were rare.

Ballets -- original ones, that is -- never cease to amaze me at their fluffiness. The entire first act is composed of a bunch of people onstage in fancy outfits cavorting about. The premise is that they're invited to the birthday party of Prince Siegfried. And that's it. They're just there, saying hello. The girls are trying to interest Siegfried, who is either really sleepy, really bored, or just really limpid. At least, he was in my production. He liked to wander around with his hand on his chest deferring to people.

And then there's a random trio with a few solos, for no other apparent reason than to showcase a few dancers. All the ladies disappear to change into swans, and the guys have some dude time, as long as you can call dude time prancing about in pinwheels on stage. And we wonder where the stereotypes come from?! My god.

I have to admit, the swan corps was pretty impressive, a hell of a lot of pretty female dancers who do exactly the same thing at the same time. The dancer who did Odette/Odile was really good, though she could have been more evil. Siegfried immediately promises to marry her, le sigh, but hey, you gotta move the story on.

The guy who danced Rothbart, the evil sorcerer, was extraordinary. He had a finish to his movements that was just incredible, a sort of presence and energy on the stage that pretty much everyone else was lacking. The only time that I was interested by what Siegfried was doing onstage was when Rothbart tells him he just promised himself to Odile, not Odette, and you see Odette flapping away in agony.

Siegfried actually brought himself to care about something, and stumbled about on the stage in appropriate agony, which I actually understood. However, once the swans came back and it came time to say goodbye to Odette, he was back to his fluff self -- though she did a pretty good of being agonized.

Okay, there are certain steps you have to do, I understand that. But I thought it would have been entirely possible to endow the exact same movements with a little more...story, a little more emotion. So, here my thought process during the ending scene, when Rothbart drags Odette away:

Man, if I were directing this, this would be so much better. Oh, come on, Siegfried, he's dragging away your girlfriend! Aren't you upset? Why are you still being so polite to let him dance with your girl? Come on, be angry, damn it! Now Rothbart is dancing with you, doesn't that make you angry? You probably want to kill him! That's right, try to kill him! Go ahead, Siegfried, just try to emote!!

Or something like that.

I did, I'll have you know, enjoy myself thoroughly. We got out fairly late and I had a request for a RDV not too long afterwards -- say an hour -- and I REALLY wanted to change clothes. All you have to know is, I was barely 8 minutes late, and I went from the Bastille to Alèsia to the Marais in an hour, including a full change of clothes. That's hard to do, by the way.

My secret?

Running in heels.

I thought as I was doing so, Wow, I have become a true Parisian woman. 

Back to the fun stuff: The soirées in Paris

That's right, I am stepping off my soapbox and getting back to what you really want to read about, which is life in Paris and not my pontifications about learning. So I am obliging.

A small anecdote before we begin: In other words, I complain and mutter. This morning I dragged my ass out of bed at 6 in the morning after my alarm clock went off at 4. It has this terribly chivalrous habit of, if I set it earlier than the previous morning, going off two hours before it's set. i.e., four when I wanted six. I lay there, as I always do, waiting until I can keep my eyes open for five full seconds before I get out of bed, and then thought to check the time. Yep, that's what I thought. I muttered a bit and went back to sleep. Then this morning I had to venture out into the minus four degree weather, although I am, thankfully, speaking in terms of celsius. Either way, not particularly amusing. Then I get to the high school and my students never show up. I could still be in bed. Argh.

In any case. There is a difference, so far as I can tell, between a 'soirée' and just a regular old 'rendez-vous pour prendre une verre' (to meet up for a glass, literally). When somebody says 'soirée', they mean business.

Such as the one I was very kindly invited to on saturday night by my new french friends. It took place on a péniche, in other words a boat, au bord de la Seine, just along the Seine. There are a lot of them, docked just on the side but still on the water. They have restaurants, bars, dance floors, whatever you want. Two or three floors, one being a terrace, though even with their small heaters, there wasn't much going on up there saturday night. Just too damn cold.

Soirées also start very late - 22h30 or after, and most people arrive late. I was on time because I had no idea how long it would take me to get there, but was one of the few. The reason it starts so late is because people have dinner beforehand, and French meals last a long time. When I got there they were just thinking about bringing out the cheese course.

After dinner was finally over, the tables were removed and the band came on. Not rock, really, but dance kind of music. They only sang in English. I have no idea why. I recognized a lot of songs. In any case, with everyone arriving and heading for the bar - champagne, alcool fort (hard liquor), wine, whatever you wanted it was there.

I can't say too much else fascinating about except that you must have to picture this: Notre-Dame is right behind you, the lights of Paris reflecting on the Seine. You dance and drink all night long, and when the boat closes at five a.m. you stumble off for breakfast and then head home, collapsing into bed at seven with the world still spinning madly.

Yeah, it was fun.

But equally as fun is another option, which doesn't last all night, but maybe just a couple hours. This one is much more simple. Find a café after dinner - make sure it's a café and not a restaurant - and sit down with a couple friends (small groups only). Order some cocktails. Smoke, if you care to, puff if you want, mostly it's about the ambience. Either way, the point is to sit down and not go anywhere for about two hours. A couple rounds is plenty to be pleasantly tipsy.

I was out Monday night - yes, I know, monday, but it worked for all of us - with my best friends in the program. we're all americans, but speak in a combination of french and english. We spent over two hours, starting with wine for them and a margarita for me, then cointreaupolitans all around for the next round. This wasn't intellectual. We weren't discussing the secrets of the universe. We were just goofing around, being, for awhile, young. I can tell you that I don't do that very often, and certainly not enough.

So there you go. Cafés, boats, the wonderful thing is that I'm in Paris with great people, and for those moments I don't have to be going anywhere or accomplishing anything. I just have to be where I am, right then.

And, like before, I don't do that often and not nearly enough.

When did we forget how to learn? A Pontification

Yes, I know, the title is a bit pretentious, but I wanted to write about this in light of a thought I had yesterday upon receiving the grade for the midterm in my Paris in Context class. It was a commentaire du texte, and after we got them back, the professor went over the text to talk about what we should have looked at and etc.

What the article was about is kind of unimportant, but for your information it was about the Panthéon and the funeral procession of Voltaire, which was essentially a revolutionary party. Again; the subject is not the important bit but just for the context. In any case, something very interesting happened during our discussion - the class staged a silent mutiny.

Here's how it went down: The professor, in the course of the discussion, mentioned some things that we really should have known, like the fact that the monarchy was still in place in 1791 so therefore obviously place Louis XV wasn't yet place de la république; Voltaire was a playwrite as well (something I did't actually know) and so obviously the procession stopped at the Opéra and théâtre de l'Odéon; the 'Franklin' alluded to was obviously Benjamin Franklin and thus every American should know that he was extremely influential to the French revolution.

I admit: it is frustrating to hear someone tell you that any fool could have guessed these things that you honestly didn't know and thus couldn't write about at the time. However, I heard, very clearly though it was not spoken out loud, everyone in the room thinking, well, I did't know I was supposed to do that, well, I didn't know that, how could I have known, how could you dare expect me to know that. Suddenly, everyone in the room was completely on the defense, and had completely discounted everything else the professor was saying. I couldn't have known. You didn't tell me that.

Now: I am not saying this isn't valid. Yes, it's frustrating. However, what struck me the most was that suddenly the point had absolutely nothing to do with learning. The only thing that was important was getting it right, and upon not doing so, there was a mutiny. You didn't tell us how to get it right. Therefore, I have every reason to be upset, and to tune you out.

This all struck me as I was walking home. Does anyone really care about learning anymore? or do they just care about getting it right? It occured to me that this doesn't just happen in schools: take a look at Congress, for example. As far as I can tell, absolutely nobody gives a shit about learning. All they care about is being right, and if the other side doesn't agree, well that's their problem because being right is the only option.

Hang on a second. Just as I said last week, I think we can do better than that. No, I did not know that the monarchy was still technically in place in 1791. No, I did not realize that I had to specifically acknowledge the inclusion of Franklin. But now I do. If I wrote the paper again, I would do those things. Next text I may mook more specifically. I'm not trying to be condescending or put myself on a ladder. I felt just as stupid as everyone else. But I just think the point is not to be right. It's to learn. Isn't that what school is about?

At what point did it become okay to not learn, and to only be right?

French teenagers talk about school

Well, at least, I try to make them talk about it - in English. My current job, as assistant English professor at a high school just outside of Paris. I work with all years - keeping in mind that there are only three years of high school here, so my kids are sophomores through seniors. That is actually where I am currently writing this; I'm in between classes. I'm also, I'll have you know, writing this on aEuropean keyboard, which is just similar enough to be comprehensible and just different enough to be maddening. I forget constantly that you have to press shift to get a period, the W and the Z are switched, there's a Q where the A should be, and M is god knows where. Also, it took me about five minutes of staring at it before I found the apostrophe.

Mais voilà. Moving on. I'm tired today, so my thoughts are all over the place, but I wanted to write something about the discussions - or lack thereof - with my students. 

I have small groups, anywhere from 4 to 12 kids, most commonly 8. My job is to make them talk - a worthy goal, but often very difficult! For whatever reason - shyness, level, uncertainty - they are all very reluctant to participate for the most part. I'm trying to figure out how to convince them to try, because I don't believe that students don't have opinions. They just, for the most part, don't share them. It gets frustrating for me when everyone in the class is staring at me when I know they have opinions. The teachers say there are kids who just don't talk, and seem to just think that you can't change that. Of course, I am not an educated teacher, nor am I a psychologist, but it seems to me that there are certain conditions in which kids will participate and certains conditions in which they won't, and it's my job to create a space where the conditions fit the latter. These days I'm just doing it by trial and error.

When they do at last choose to share them, however, they have some interesting ideas. Across the board, they think school is 'pretty bad'. They all think there's too much work and not enough free time, a sentiment I understand. This is a private school so it is much more strict and intensive than usual, but even the public schools here pack in full days of work. 8am to 5 or 6 pm seems to be the norm, and the kids are just worn out. But of course, no teenager in their right mind really 'enjoys' school, do they? However true it may be, I think it's pretty sad.

But one thing they all keep saying, and something that I think should be listened to much more than it is, is that school is boring. I keep asking what would make it better - not because I want them to think they have no choice but because I'm actually curious. If school is boring - and I think these kids are not alone at all - then what can be done to change it? I know from experience that learning can actually be cool - but it seems to be an accepted thought and a foregone conclusion that school will be boring.

We could go to more museums and exhibitions, a few of them suggested. Good point - the opportunity to see what's out there, learn in a practical setting. Have class in different rooms, be able to choose classes so they're with their friends. Almost everyone wants to be able to choose what subjects they study - of course that's not always possible, but maybe it would be possible to create a schedule which includes the basics but also lets them study what they love.

One student said something that I thought was absolutely fascinating. Teachers should be more passionate, they said. I was intrigued. Teachers should be more passionate? Are they not? They make boring classes because they don't like the subject? I doubt that's true, but maybe it is true that we lose the passion in the act of trying to "teach". If you have to Teach, with a capital T, then maybe you worry more about if the students are Learning. But it seems to me that people respond to passion - and perhaps we should leave behind the idea of Teaching, and think about sharing - just sharing. Just like saying, hey, I think this is really cool. Let me tell you why.

Hey, it's worth a shot, right? Especially because at least 60% of every class thinks school is 'pretty bad'. As for me? I think we can do better than that. 

The Daily Life: getting used to life in Paris

Yes, I owe you all an apology. I haven't really updated the blog. To be honest, I just haven't known what to write. I've been on a couple trips, but I think you can get a good sense of them by going to my photobucket and checking out the pictures. They can be found here.

In the meantime, I just didn't know what to say. My brain has been working overtime, but most of the details would, I'm sure, bore you to death and besides you'd rather hear about Paris.

But what can I tell you about Paris? I don't know how many weeks I've been here - a little over two months, I do know that. But what that means -- I'm not sure I could say. Some days I feel like I only arrived yesterday -- most days, in fact. I really find it difficult to keep track of the day, the date, the weeks even. They go by very quickly.

I can tell you, I suppose, that occasionally I notice that life here has become habitual. I drink coffee in the morning with my host mom if we're up at the same time. Whoever's up first makes the coffee, whoever finishes it washes out the machine. I walk to classes, or more often take the metro. I buy paninis for lunch, or I bring cheese and buy a baguette.

I take it for granted that I can get a baguette at any time during the day from really anywhere, and that it will be really good. I feel shafted when, as the case has been the last two days, the boulangerie is out of them. I try to keep myself to one pastry a week but usually fail, because they are just. so. darn. good.

The first floor is not the ground level and when someone says "4th floor," I understand that means I go up 4 flights of stairs, instead of 3 in the US system. I get annoyed when the Metro magazine or the Direct Matin or the Direct Soir isn't around in the metro stations, and when they are there, I pick them up. The American TV series are dubbed into French and it surprises me whenever I hear someone on the TV speaking English.

I have finally mastered the 24 hour clock and can roughly understand what it means when it's 8 degrees celsius (cold). I have picked up several typical French speaking habits, like inserting "en fait," "fin," and "bah" in my everyday conversation, including my favorite, that something is "n'importe quoi", meaning it's nothing, rubbish, ridiculous. I don't think about answering people in French, and upon learning where I'm from, I'm very often complimented on my speaking ability. I notice American accents and am starting to hear the British accent.

What else can I tell you? I don't look at metro maps anymore. I know which lines to take in which direction and am working on remember where in the station to get on and off the cars to maximize my efficiency.

It has been two months and that seems like such an incredibly short time to me. There is yet so,so much time left here. I've been here long enough that I'm finally starting to miss certain places, and especially people. It's still a really long time until I see most of my family and friends, and that bothers me often.

I wish I could tell you more, be more specific, but my life is not specific these days -- it's just life. And that is, I suppose, the best indication that Paris is becoming home to me. I don't need to think about every day so much. It just is -- it is there, and I live it. So simple.

I'll try and be more creative -- and quicker -- with my next post.

Bisous à tous.

The Countryside Remembering: At the D-Day beaches

Samedi 30 octobre: We were supposed to take the buses -- bus verts, ligne 70. Leaves Bayeux at 12h15. Goes past the American Cemetery, Colleville-sur-mer, Vierville-sur-mer, etc. Supposedly returns from American Cemetery to Bayeux at 17h00.

But of course, upon getting on the bus and asking the bus driver (Thank GOD we asked!!), we were told that the 17h00 bus stopped running at the end of September and that we would have to take the 14h17 bus instead, giving us about one hour total to see everything.

"Sinon, vous pouvez prendre un taxi," the driver suggested.

"Combien?"

"Vingt cinq."

It wasn't 25€, it was about 38€, but it turned out to be a very good thing we took a taxi instead, because I called the company past 17h00. We had been through the American Cemetery, walked along Omaha Beach, had lunch, and checked out the Musée Memorial d'Omaha Beach.

It was a stunning fall day; not too chilly, sunny. The water looked particularly blue. It made the green of the hillsides even more brilliant. Because this country, you see, has grown in. Cows roam along the bluffs -- very surprisingly steep. The Germans, I realized, had the high ground. Their barracks, strongholds, are still there in concrete, nestled into the hillside. They are empty these days, while the green ivy and grass creeps down, above, around. The gun holes are filled with green. A butterfly sat primly in one. A rather ironic, or maybe just beautiful, image I thought.

The cemetery, on the contrary, is perfectly cultivated, in relation to the wild hillsides. Perfectly tended and trimmed grass paying tribute to the endless white crosses, a handful star of David's thrown in. There are over 9000 graves here. Walking among them, you notice how many of them died between June and August 1944. Some of them have no name. The cross says instead, "Here rests in honoured glory a comrade-in-arms. Known but to God."

I found one grave. 6 Juin 1944. Div 1. He was in the first division and died on the first day. I think, he must have been one of the first to set foot on the beaches. The first to walk directly into German machine gun fire.

As we hiked down the bluffs, I found myself wondering if it had been this beautiful that morning, if the sun had risen bright or if it was dark, gray, cloudy -- more appropriate for the bloody work that had been done. I looked at the beach and wondered what it must have been like, to board the ships leaving the channel, to watch the beach approach and then to have enough courage to get off the boat and walk forward.

The American troops landed at Omaha at 6:30 in the morning. By 8am they had the first pocket of defensible land. One and a half hours is nothing in the scheme of things, but at the time it must have felt like centuries. At the Musée there are photos and videos from the invasion, and I found myself thinking how different war is in the movies -- there, fast, sudden. These films -- it is slow, dogging, dragging stumbling. The soldiers run or walk across endless countryside, they drag their wounded back to the ships, they exist somehow in the middle of the ruckus.

The witnesses of the veterans have several things in common -- they mention it was 'tense', a strange and remarkable frankness about the battles, how they were all frightened, how the beaches were littered with bodies.

500 men died in the first few minutes. That was the price of that first pocket of defensible land. They started an impromptu cemetery but had to move it, so the incoming waves wouldn't see that 500 graves were already there. 500 in the first wave. They called it Bloody Omaha for a reason.

Throughout the whole day I couldn't help but try and imagine it, imagine the stumbling landing, the way it must have looked, the weather, the impossible courage of those men.

The thing is about these beaches, this countryside, is that it remembers. The blood has long since been washed away and the shells of mussels now litter the beach instead of bodies, but this land is where it happened. A man with a gun used to be standing where the butterfly is right now. War has never been fought on American soil -- but these people here remember, or have family who remember. They can't forget -- even though life goes on these days, the little houses quietly tucked into the hillside, the countryside vibrates with a kind of deep, somber remembering. It's not sad, really. Not broken either. Just like in its stomach, deep in the soul of this place -- it remembers. Quietly. Calmly. Letting the sun bathe the sand and the water and the grass and beating -- like this, boom, boom.

How to have a French dinner party

(All ideas are stolen from my host mother and the absolutely lovely soirée she had last saturday night with a few members of her family.)

The beginning: Champagne. I advise you to choose a champagne "brute", as opposed to "sec"  or "demi-sec". This is heartily confusing because "sec" in French means dry, but a champagne sec is much sweeter than a champagne brute. Go figure. In any case, buy a good bottle of champagne, pour everyone a flute, and do a "cliquer", a toast, to whatever you would like to toast. If you can't think of anything, "santé!" is always a good choice. To health.

Appetizers: NO guacamole please. In fact, it is very important that your appetizers be extremely light and small. A small pan of bite size cocktail treats and a glass of thin breadsticks should do the trick.

First course: Soup. Make enough so that everyone gets two nice spoonfuls, but not enough to fill them up. A nice creamy soup is a good choice, like a squash soup or something similar. Serve with a sliced baguette -- if you want to be really authentic, break it with your hands. To drink, red wine. (Make sure you've put it in a decanter beforehand so it's nice and smooth).

Main course: Everyone should be absolutely finished with the soup before you bring out the main dish. The dish I'm suggesting comes from the South of France and is a very traditional meal. It is comprised of three things: cooked apples, a fresh eggy pasta, and a duck confit (fairly rare in the middle, more well done on the edges). The duck is eaten with a kind of creamy sauce -- if I had to guess I would say it somehow involves dijon mustard. The three are mixed or not, according to your preference. The wine glasses are kept half full (generally speaking they are never filled entirely).Another basket of bread is usually appreciated.

Cheese course: No French meal is complete with a cheese course. You don't want to buy too many different types of cheese, so go for a nice good camembert (President brand is usually good) and a chevre (goat cheese). Pair it with a somewhat more firm bread, sliced this time.

Dessert: Before you bring out dessert, ask if anyone wants coffee, "un petit café". This is usually served AFTER the dessert. For this, why not a "fruits rouges" crumble -- literally means "red fruits", but usually refers to berries. Blackberries, rhubarb, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries -- you can buy them frozen. They are probably cooked with some sort of gelatin and a lot of sugar, and then sprinkled with a crumble and baked until the crumble is crunchy and slightly brown, and the fruits are warm.

Coffee: By which I mean ESPRESSO. The French do NOT drink regular coffee after dinner. They don't usually have decaf, either, but fortunately the caffeine of the café is counteracted by the wine. Drink slowly.

The evening is finished off by finishing the wine and having a bit of mineral water. Of course I shouldn't have to mention that conversation is the key to any dinner party. Don't have too many guests -- 7 is a good number -- so everyone can feel included and participate in the conversation. In a cross culture setting, you can easily talk about the culture differences and gently poke fun at the others.

(As you can see, it was a wonderful evening. I apologize for my lack of posting. I would bore you with the details, but suffice to say, I just don't have a lot of free time and this epidemic is about to get worse in the coming weeks. Apologies in advance. I'll do my best)>

Life on the Swiss Train

Paris Gare de Lyon à Genève Cornavin: 15h04-18h35 Jeudi 14 Octobre: TGV directe. I wasn't supposed to be on this train, but due to la grève, the strike, in Paris these days, the circulation of the trans-region trains were all messed up and the two trains I was supposed to take were not running. Some stress, running around, and several harried conversations with SNCF officials, and I was on board TGV 6577, apparently sold out. I waited until we were about to leave, then quietly snagged a seat by the window, curled up, and pulled out some homework. No one told me to move. I stayed there until I arrived in Genève.

(I know I am skipping Friday -- It was not spent on the train, but on foot, exploring Geneva, including the United Nations and the old town on the most perfect fall day. A story for another day, but suffice to say Geneva is incredibly charming and I fell quite in love with it)

Genève Cornavin à Locarno: 7h42 - 12h11 Samedi 16 Octobre: 1 transfer in Domodossola. Armed with an accompaniment pass to a Swiss train pass (30 swiss francs, 22 euros), good for the entire day, me and my incredibly good looking gay Swiss German friend headed off to the Southern part of Switzerland, assuming (wrongly) that it would be sunny there. Four and a half hours on the train through the Swiss Alps, passing right through the northern part of Italy. At some point the announcements change from French to Italian. We spent the first train asleep, for the most part, and then transferred to a local train that was possibly the slowest train in existence. Its saving grace? It wound and climbed its way up the mountains, and we paid an extra 1,50 euros due to the fact it was a "panoramic train". It was incredibly slow -- but the views were incredibly, incredibly beautiful.

Locarno à Bellinzona: Samedi sometime in the afternoon, probably around 13h30. After a stop for lunch in Locarno, where it was, unfortunately, raining, we decided to move on. Another gorgeous fifteen minutes on the train, and we were in the capital of the Italian part of Switzerland.

Bellinzona à Lugano, 15 minutes after arriving in Bellinzona: We took long enough to buy a cappuccino before heading back to the train station and heading to Lugano. My friend fell asleep, and I gawked. Forty minutes later, we were in Lugano, which would be breathtaking in the sunshine and even in the rain was stunning. All of these towns are built around a central lake. Lugano is incredibly colorful, and from the train station you take a little shuttle tram down an incredibly steep hill to the lake, with the mountains clambering straight into the sky all around...still raining, we huddled under his umbrella and bought gelato (ordering in Italian, piccolo copetta, stracciatella y fondente extra...)

Lugano à Zurich, 16h10 - 18hsometime: Deciding that, since it was raining everywhere, we may as well cover as much ground as possible, we headed off to my friend's hometown. Armed with incredibly good bread and brie, we ate a leisurely dinner and arrived in Zurich when it was mostly dark already. Still, it was incredibly well lit and even then still incredibly charming. We took the tram and walked all over, stopping briefly for a Starbucks, then checking out the university and the Red Light district, before blitzing back to the train station and arriving just barely in time...the last train ride of our day.

Zurich à Genève, 22h04-1h05: There were several drunk and loud people on the train, but we huddled down with his computer and watched Valentine's Day together, arriving in the dead of the night and making our way back home to crash after a long day.

Genève à Paris, 17h56-23h15: Including a 40 minute transfer in Lausanne, where I bought some new bread to go with the brie from the day before, along with a lot of Swiss chocolate and some pringles. I tried to sleep, but had trouble, and instead did some homework, arriving back in Paris, in the busy streets and making my way back home before a long week, busy as always...

And in the end, what did I think of Switzerland? I fell in love with it, all of it. The mountains, the towns, the old towns, the slow, ponderous trams. I loved the calm of it, the lakes, the countryside. I was tempted so often to just get off the train and not get back on, live there until the wind blew me on, taking the next train to the next station and wandering like that...I am already thinking of going back in the spring. We'll see. Go, go, go if you have the chance.

Pictures are here. A note: for the ones from Genève, I took pictures of everything, the construction, the cars -- I wanted you to understand all of it, not just the "pretty" tourist parts. I want you to see it the way I did, with all of that included.

Live blog Saumur/l'Abbaye de Fontevraud

(Note: I wrote this in my notebook at the times that are marked. Saumur is in the Loire Valley, and the Abbey of Fontevraud is a famous château/abbaye, home to the graves of Henry 11, King of England,  his wife Eleanor, and their son Richard the Lionheart. My sister is writing a historical novel about these personnages and encouraged me to check it out. As you'll see, it was a great idea.)

6:23 AM: Beginning. In Columbus Café,with cappuccino. Not the best cappuccino I've ever tasted, but it has caffeine.I didn't sleep much last night. In retrospect I probably could have chosen a later train. As it is, I will have 12 hours in Saumur/Fontevraud. Assez de temps pour entraper l'essence, l'âme? Probablement non. But I have to try anyway. I wonder how much coffee will be consumed today. I'm a little frightened to find out. In any case, the tickets are in hand after several mini snafus - I went to the wrong section, because the train I'm taking is apparently a grande ligne and now just suburban nancy-pancyness. Then the machine couldn't find my dossier, so I had to switch to English, and realized I was looking at the wrong thing. My card was rejected 3 times before I just typed in the reference number, and at last the tickets were found. I know there was a reason I woke up before my alarm-- at 5:18 exactly.

7:20 Am: le TGV. Train Grande Vitesse s'appelle ça pour une seule raison: it's fast. I can actually feel it in my ears, in my head. But so smooth - if not for the smallest rumblings, I wouldn't know we were moving. That, and the pressure in my ears. I have to transfer trains at St. Pierre des Corps. Saint Peter of the bodies? I don't want to know. Continuing my thought from earlier - it is so strange to be out before six o'clock on a saturday morning. The only people out are either traveling, like me, or stumbling home, still drunk as skunks, from the clubs, which don't close until 6 in the morning. It is certainly a lifestyle that I don't understand and never have, but quite popular apparently. I guess I just like my sleep too much...

8:20 AM: (st.pierre/TER train) This station is in the middle of nowhere. Approaching in the half dawn, milky murky gray and the dew laying itself out like a lover on the endless fields -- I thought, if there's a gare around here, it's disguising itself well. That was before we hit the endless lines of tracks and began what I thought must be the train equivalent of taxiing for what seemed like forever. The clouds began to tinge pink. I briefly wondered if the Abbaye would be open, and how pissed I'd be if not. This train is nothing like the TGV, large and silent and graceful. This is just clunky, loud, and clumsy, clattering along the tracks with no real glamour.

10:18 AM: (Château du Saumur) I am sitting in what must be the prettiest place in France. Much too early for the tourists, the panorama must be searched for: after climbing up to le château du Saumur, the crowning beauty of this quaint French town, you cross the drawbridge, descend the steps into what would be the moat. Turning right, you walk up an incredibly steep hill, and then wind your way up a small path, then leave the concrete to find this bench, overlooking la Loire on the most beautiful fall morning. I think, what if I was suddenly transported to the time when all of this was alive. They'd think me an apparition des fées. C'est bon pour moi - j'aimerais être la renne des fées - the queen of the fairy folk. I have two hours before the bus to the Abbey leaves, so after a bit I'll go check out the castle, puis chercher quelquechose à manger. But for now, I'm going to stay here, eating a clementine I bought au marché qui se déroule au centre ville du Saumur, along with 100 g of haricots verts. I couldn't resist.

11:31 AM: Petit café, centre ville. I ask for une carte, the waiter doesn't get it. I snatch a menu from another table. "I speak English if you want," he says. Insulted, I respond, "Je parle français aussi. Donne-moi une minute s'il vous plait?" He does. The sandwiches are pretty cheap here. I order un café espresso. Le deuxième, et probablement pas le dernier. If I have time, I'm thinking of taking myself out to a restaurant tonight. The waiter just interrupted to ask, "Tu fume? You smoking?" No, I'm not, and stop talking to me in English.

12:28 pm: (on the bus to the abbey) This is such beautiful country. Some crazy and louche old man decided to talk to me in the bus stop. He asked what I was doing tonight. I was deliberately vague. We talked about laughing at Americans. I don't know if he knew I am one, and I didn't enlighten him. We just passed the ruins of a castle, being eaten by the hillside. Oh my god, what a rich country, here you can see why the Kings liked it so much.

14:18PM: (cloisters, Abbey) Where is everybody? It is so quiet, but so lovely. I am determined to walk every inch of this place. If there is no sign of rope that says I can't, I will go explore. I found a half caved in spiral staircase on the grounds and the dungeons - this last was so awesome,but I left in a hurry - I was there alone and the spirits down there were not happy Casper the Friendly Ghosts, that's for darn sure. I am sitting in the cloisters for a brief "pose" avant de chercher les tombes dans l'eglise. I passed on the audio guide, but go in free because I'm under 26. I wish I could describe for you this country, here and on the drive here. Saturated in sun, the greet explodes against the white of the buildings -- and all of them are white. They are small and built from stone. The walls along the road must have been glorious in their time - now they all have hats of unruly ivy and play host to whatever creatures lives there now, a far cry from the nobility of their past. Maybe they welcome a few pigeons, cooing incessantly like those by the château de Saumur. There is a calm, a quiet serenity that never leaves this place, a kind of softening in the fabric of the world -- almost like the world grew mean and cynical but this place stayed behind and the only way you know it's the present is because the corridors are empty.

15:31 PM: In the gardens, probably my favorite place here, though it's all a toss up. The inside is bare and echoing - even in the Church, the only things left are the graves of Richard Coeur du Lion, Henry 11, and his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine. They lie perfectly still, the color of their effigies (is that even the right word?) fading and chipped, their bones long since turned to dust. If you believe in an afterlife -- I don't -- they're still gallivanting around somewhere but here there is no sense of a mortal life -- not even embers, only ashes. That reminds me, though, I was going to tell Richard something from my sister. I'll have to makea stop there on my way out. Nothing seems to be open for food, and thus I will have to explore Fontevraud in search of. But I have time  - 3 hours in fact. I think I may return to the cloisters and sit for a bit -- I have logged several miles (or so it feels) already today.

15:44 PM:  My audience with Richard is being thwarted by a guided visit of old people. The only saving grace is that the guide is incredibly good looking, but will not shut up. Come on, cute guide, hurry up and move your nursing home brigade out of the way so I can talk to Richard.

16:21 PM: In the cloisters, the afternoon sun could -- I could get inebriated on it very quickly. It is so mild. The tour groups come in every so often and I find their voices startling, as thought they pull me away from some pleasant dream -- but in that dream, I am so much more real, by myself in this corner, quietly existing alongside these walls, themselves masters at existing. Together we are silent, and are friends in our disdain for the noise.

17:48 PM: Le troisième et final tasse du café - un cappuccino, with a LOT of whipped cream and a croque monsieur, in a quaint little salon du thé. Fontevraud seems to have closed down for the fall -most places aren't open or are only serving half their menu. It's too bad, but there you have it. It's almost mid October now - quiet season. after eating a truly spectacular pasty called a "Bonaparte"I took a wander through the town, which is entirely built around the abbey. Still, I wandered into two small shops -- I found an awesome art gallery and even better, a little artisan tissuerie (?!) and spent at least fifteen minutes talking with the owner about the different types of fabric, what time they're from (time period), and the work he does restoring the furniture dans les châteaux. I held my own just fine and that makes two people now who have had to ask where I'm from - so while I am not yet "française" I am not clearly American. I consider this very much a success.

Un peu plus tard: Ce matin j'ai pensé qui j'aurai six heures d'attraper l'âme de l'abbaye - 6 hours to capture the Abbey's soul. So, did I succeed? I doubt I could put it in words -- but I think I came close in those long minutes in the sunshine in the cloisters, wandering the gardens. The quiet of the train, its simplicity, the way history drags it from the, and now. Not waiting, really, but existing.

20:41 PM: I really wanted ice cream. I just wanted ice cream. Why does no one have ice cream? I went to a supermarché and bought 500 mL carton of Haagen-Daas midnight cookie ice cream, though I should have gotten vanilla. It was 5,90 E. Without a spoon, I headed out to find somewhere discreet, and ate half of it with a pen, looking out over the Loire and the lit château. Was it worth it? You'll have to ask the night, the lights, the river. I think I'll go without desserts four about a week, but I don't know. For the day? A day that held and amplified all of my various whims? It was probably worth it. But I really just wanted some ice cream. There was a couple sitting on the sidewalk outside the train station, already totally trashed. They were singing as I walked up, and the man called, loudly, "Madmoiselle, bon soir!" I suppose I should have stopped to talk just for the story, but it didn't seem like a good idea at the time. I kept walking. Paris seems a long way and a long time away.

21:44 PM: I had too much ice cream Ithink. I had a couple of my haricots verts to try and balance out the fat, but somehow I doubt that's going to work. Dommage...it's only saturday but I just caught myself thinking despairingly of Monday - mostly because I start yet another new dance class that involves waltzing into yet another new dance studio with yet another new teacher. It's good -- but so damn intimidating. Still, that's monday and I probably shouldn't be worry about it now. Not like I have much else to do. I'm suck here in St. Pierre of the bodies again until 22h22. A little over an hour on the Very Fast Train and I will have arrived in Paris -- only to take a subway and walk home. I'm guessing I'll arrive around midnight, and I don't know if I feel like going to bed right away...maybe I'll finally sleep well.

22:51 PM: En effet, le TGV is not smoother -- both trains are remarkably smooth and quiet - it's just that the TGV is better looking and faster, which the TER is the ugly, slow, but subtlety extremely graceful younger siblings. I have stopped noticing the speed in my ears, so either we are going slower or I was going crazy this morning. I'd say the latter is more likely. I tend to be more sensitive to those things in the mornings anyway. A kind of morning sickness I suppose..

A little later: This train is full of exhausted people trying desperately to find a comfortable way to sleep, like the woman across the aisle from me. It's actually kind of heartbreaking. Also, I can feel it my ears.

(To finish: I had a magnificent day.  A bit later I'll post my pictures on my photobucket - there are a LOT -- and post the link here. Hugs!)

Learning to be still

"Faire une nuit blanche": pull an all nighter.

Every year, Paris pulls a nuit blanche. Art exhibits are everywhere, music is everywhere, and crazy light shows are abundant. People stay out until 7am, after which it's time to quietly slip into bed.

I wasn't there, at least not past midnight or so. I can't decide if I should have, or could have, but the point is that I was exhausted and chose instead to return back home and go to bed. I had been planning on going to a ball thing sunday evening, today, with "the club internationale des jeunes à Paris", but sent an e-mail making my own excuses.

I will be the first to accept the fact that I am an old woman when it comes to going to bed early, but why didn't I just stay out? Live a little, be young? I could make all sorts of excuses, but I won't. I didn't, because I couldn't. I wanted to sleep, I wanted to disappear for the day and have absolutely nowhere to be, nothing to do.

I did stay out for a bit -- having a lovely dinner and then taking a long stroll to the Centre Pompidou, which as far as modern bullshit claiming to be art goes, is really up there at the top. I apologize for insulting anyone's artistic sensibilities, but I saw a lot of interesting things in there and not a lot I considered to be art -- but that's the point, I suppose, that everything and anything can be art so long as you call it that. But for me, the best part of the building was the escalator staircases on the outside of the building, pulling you irresistibly up into the Paris night, and at the top, surrounded by a glass bubble, you can look out into the night, watch the Eiffel Tower sparkling, see the Cathedrale de Sacre-Coeur on Montmartre. It's stunning.

But after we were done making fun of the pieces inside, we headed out  --- everyone headed for Trocadero, but I headed home, clambering into bed.

I didn't wake up until 11:30, staying in bed until I was good and ready to get up. I knew I wanted to go somewhere, but waited until a good idea came to me, and a little past one headed out. I stopped at a boulangerie to buy a goodie and a baguette, then turned my steps to the Cimetière de Montparnesse.

I had been there once before, and I like cemeteries usually. I went in the back way I guess, because there wasn't that many people -- the cemetery has a lot of famous people buried there and attracts a fair amount of tourists. But there wasn't many where I came in, and I walked slowly, listening to the wind rustling the leaves, just beginning to turn and fall. It was a very mild day and fairly sunny, and with the inherent calm that always comes in cemeteries, I found myself utterly at peace.

This is what I was looking for today, I thought -- this past week felt too much like home, rushing, stressing, thinking, --- doing. I am so tired of doing. I "do" very well. The other day at dinner, someone said to me, "you're doing so much -- trying to find a job and getting your dance classes and all that. I don't think I could do that."

I didn't know how to explain to her that "doing" is easy for me. I'm used to doing. It's natural.

But what I was looking for -- a lesson from the dead, who, I've heard, are quite good at this -- was how to stop -- how to not do -- how to rest. To stand in the face of the world, with all of its insanities and terror, to look at all of the black and white and grey and color color color -- and not do.

(Isn't that fatalistic?) The demons in my head are never satisfied with stillness. (To change the world, mustn't one do?) 

I let the dead answer for me. One can only do from a point of stillness, or the doing only blends into all the other 'things' we humans do. 

I sat on a bench for a long time and looked out at the graves, and quietly buried the stress, uncertainty, and various other things I've been carrying with me. Rest in peace, I thought. There are a lot of things I need to let go of -- some things I may find again, some things I may fight for again, but for right now, for these few short months I have for myself -- I buried them.

There are some things that are perfect.

Like that.

If you'd like to see pictures the day, click here.

À bientot.

Being the Queen of France, vicariously

The grounds of le château de Cheverny are lovely and the colors of the gardens distract me, deep beautiful red especially. Weeping willows, swans swimming calmly on a tiny lake, weeping willows. The castle itself is remarkably small, not being a lodging place for the royal court; they were obligated to prepare a room should the King ever decide to drop by, but it was unfortunately never used. A shame; it was decorated so nicely. They really wanted to be important, I guess. But it is one of the only castles still inhabited; in fact, the owners are of the same family that lived here when it was built. Many generations and many bitter inheritance battles, I would guess. It's quaint, but interesting nonetheless. We spent just long enough to explore the grounds and have a guided tour before moving on.

Le château de Blois, on the other hand, is what you might call a hodge-podge of architecture; what the tour guides call a fascinating look at all the architectural phases of the early 2nd millennium and what I would call a prime example of French Kings and their relatives following their whims. There are four architectural phases represented: gothic, flamboyant gothic, renaissance, and classical. The four buildings are stuck together in roughly a square. Apparently the dude who built the classical building -- I can't remember his name -- didn't like the renaissance building, because he chopped off one end, badly I might add, seeing as you can still see where he essentially sawed off the edge of the building. The renaissance building is squashed up against the gothic building, and only the flamboyant gothic one is normally built and placed. Despite all this, the château manages to be quite charming, although it remains one of the few to NOT have a garden.

The town of Blois is cute enough, a lot of narrow European streets and cobblestones, though clearly the main attraction is the castle -- which was, unlike, Cheverny, a lodging place for the royal court, and has the distinction of being the scene of a murder of an unscrupulous duke who was trying to overthrow the King. The castle rises impressively above les petites rues, the old stone covered in moss and ivy. It makes you feel very small, especially up in the castle, looking down at the streets far below, stairways connecting all of them because the terrain is so uneven.

When it comes to sheer castle-y glory, it's hard to beat Chenonceau. Having the distinction of being owned by both Catherine de Medicis (the queen when Henry II was king) and Diane de Potiers, the King's mistress. It was Diane's castle until the death of Henry, at which point Catherine took it back in return for a different castle. In other words -- there are two gardens and two particular bed chambers -- one for the Queen and one for the Mistress. Can you say awkward? At least they didn't live there at the same time.

Head on, Chenonceau is just normal, but turn the corner and walk a few paces, and the castle explodes into all of its specularness -- built actually on the rivers, grand wide arches over the water -- it is something to see, the sunlight glimmering on the water and the castle, white and perfect.

The furniture inside is extraordinarily well preserved and the walls are still covered in tapestries, all original. The chambers aren't connected and yet manage to seem more intimate than the others. The stairs are smack in the middle of the living quarters and yet it takes me at least twenty minutes to find them (though I didn't spend all of that time looking for them, you understand.) One of the coolest things is that the kitchens are open to visitors, down in the basement. Giant copper pots are strewn everywhere and there are at least five different chambers, a few chimneys you could roast a boar under, a large assortment of REALLY BIG KNIVES, and various other awesome things. I was imagining how it would smell down there when the King was having a dinner, how many cooks and rascal children hiding in the corners, hoping to snatch a scrap of the roast pig...

Although I think Chenonceau was my favorite as far as all over inside out (I apologize for my terrible grammar, I am in a linguistic soup), the grounds of Amboise and it's general picturesque setting is hard to beat. Amboise is sneaky; you can't see the castle at first. All you can see is a giant wall, dwarfing the tiny streets. We ate lunch in the shadow of the walls, a brisk and downright cold fall day. To get inside you walk up a long, fairly steep ramp. It's not hard to imagine the horses clopping up here.

I thought the walls were the castle, but no -- upon getting up beyond the walls, you see the château itself, but along with it a long expanse of gardens and lawns, a chapel, and a few watchtowers. All around the wonderful French roofs and the thousands of little chimneys reach for the skies and beyond the Seine is whitecapped from the wind. We look around the castle, but the main attraction is not inside (sparse and too modern for me). It's out here, in the gardens, on the turrets, the watchtowers, just to look look look, I could look until I go blind.

Pictures are here.

Enjoy!!

I PROMISE I'll post soon

I am so sorry everyone, I thought for some reason I had already posted my chateaux de la loire write up while in reality the draft is hanging out in my edit posts area. Oops. I'll finish that tonight when I get back from school.

In the mean time, amuse yourselves with pictures!! Click here!

Martha Stewart, French style

Photo blog for you today! In which I 'ranger ma chambre et avoir un diner très français.' Clean the room, have a french dinner.

I pulled my hair back for the occasion...

So to begin. Colette asked me to clean the room, which involved stripping/remaking the bed (she washes the sheets), and vacuuming the floor. I wish I had remembered to take a picture of the vacuum, as it was intensely complicated and had a hidden power cord. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Colette called from the living room, "Tu as besoin de conseil?" Do you need help? Slightly embarrassed, I called back, "Oui..."

She showed me where the power cord was to be found, plugged it in, and then suggested that I dust first and then vacuum up all the dust I would have just displaced. Good point, Colette. I went to get the duster. Once this was all finished, including the vacuuming, then it was time to wrestle with the bedding. We started like this:

Il faut commencer avec le drap blanc, puis le marron, puis mettre la tétine dedans le duvet. Start with the white sheet, then the brown, then put the comforter IN the duvet and button it up somehow, like so:

and put it all together in a somewhat attractive manner...voilà:

So arranged la chambre. Now for the french dinner. I had a bit of avocado earlier, but here are the main elements necessary for any french dinner:

(That's cheese, by the way. If I was really being French, it'd be Camembert, but I had this instead. I know, bad me). And of course, du pain (une baguette).

And of course...

So you add it all together, have a lot of bread and cheese, a bit of wine, and for dessert... nutella. Only problem was that I had to put it in a crêpe salée, also known as a galette, meaning a salty crêpe. You really should eat nutella with un crêpe sucrée. But I had to make do.

Voila les éléments pour le diner parfait -- ou le meilleur que je pourrais faire ce soir. The best I could do for the moment.

Bisous mes amis!!

Alone time in Notre Dame

I didn't want to go alone---I didn't want to go wander Paris by myself on a normal Thursday afternoon, but other plans didn't seem to be happening, so I pulled out my Paris par arrondissement, checked a few streets, and left.

I went to Notre Dame, which can be found technically in the fourth arrondissement, but it's really the Ile de Cité, right in the middle of everything. I bought a sandwich along the way and paused by the Seine to eat it. A tourist came up to me. "Is that Notre Dame?" she asked, pointing. "Oui," I responded automatically. "Yes?" she asked. I nodded. She left. Jeez, I thought. No wonder Parisiens are evil to tourists. They are rude, and they don't speak French. You are in Paris, I thought toward her as she walked off. Speak French, or at least make an effort.

I slowly wandered over to the cathedral itself, tried to take a picture, and realized that my memory card was still in the computer, back home. I put away the camera. Oh well, I thought. I'll be coming back.

As soon as I walked into the cathedral, I knew at once why I'd come alone, and why I'd left my memory card at home. Because I had to come here to listen to my own thoughts; tumbling and uncertain, half English and half French, questioning and wondering constantly. In many ways, I thought, I didn't want to come alone, but I didn't want to have to keep my own company.

The cathedral soared above me -- sometimes I think all of the cathedrals are the same, but that is part of the beauty, that they are all so old, and so beautiful, and each one a thousand hands spent a thousand hours creating it -- and how! I noticed a sign that priests would be on hand for confessions, every afternoon. For some reason, I thought, maybe I should go. But to say what?

"Je ne suis pas catholique, et je ne crois pas en Dieu."

I wondered how many hail marys I'd be assigned for that. How could I explain to a Priest that it's just that I can't stand the word "god", and the ins and outs of my various beliefs -- in French? And why, exactly, did that idea of confession pull so strongly?

I can't answer that, even now.

I wandered down the corridor, can I even call it that, with the ceilings at least ten times my height or more? Slowly, listening to the classical music broadcasting softly. Even with all the tourists shuffling along, there was a certain calm. The confession booths have been upgraded to offices, I noticed. No one was there. They weren't back from lunch yet.

The tourist visit is just a loop, but as the crowd shuffled back towards the door, I slipped to the side and took a seat in the sanctuary, looking towards the high altar, and with eyes wide open, asked, as I always do, for courage and strength. Unexpectedly, I found my eyes filled with tears, imagining a large hand covering my back.

"This will be the most difficult year of my life."

The voice was back,the same one that told me I was going to Paris to get lost. At least it added, "but also the most rewarding." Well, that's good, I guess?

I don't know how to be lost, I thought. You don't have to, came the response. You already are.

I left, quiet and introspective, and went wandering looking for a reasonably priced café, where I could sit for awhile and have an espresso with my thoughts.

Fast forward to today: a stunningly gorgeous sunny day, but legitimately cool and I should have worn a different outfit -- but never mind that. On the bus home to Paris from Reims, the golden afternoon sun warming my face, sleepy after an after deux verres du champagne (two glasses) nap. The French countryside -- what green country! -- rolls on by and I think how funny, we could be anywhere right now, anywhere at all in the countryside and it could look just like this, but we're not, we're in France, Europe, and when you look on a map it's so damn far away from Colorado, or even New York, or Asheville.

Oh, I thought, staring at this beautiful world going by, the blue sky above. This is what it's like to be lost; to have utterly no idea what's coming next, what it may look like, and to have no other place whatsoever to be except for exactly where you are. To have no real place to call "home" besides where you've left those you love, and to only be here, wherever the hell here is.

A plus, mes amis.

Ne pas paraitre americaine: an adventure

I'm sure you tire of hearing how much I'm trying to economize, if not from the blog, then from me talking about it all the time. How am I going to travel, how am I going do all that and get a metro pass, how am I going to pay for extra dance classes.

So when I say that yesterday I went shopping and spent almost exactly 50 euros, you may question my fortitude in saving money.

However: the two pieces that I bought were absolutely necessary in order to not let everyone in a 50 mile radius know that I'm American.

The first of these: A bag.

Why is this important? Because NOBODY has a backpack, at least none of the young women. They all have these large underarm bags, in which you can carry your life, but are très à la mode. I bought it from H&M for 20 euros, and it goes with everything.

The second: A little blazer/jacket, well fitted.

Why? Because everyone has one, again, une petite veste, that they wear all the time. Often a cardigan, but also blazers. I chose a navy blue military style inspired, for 30 euros. It was missing a couple buttons (that were later discovered in the pocket) that I sewed back on, and I got 10% off.

Also, I've started wearing heels, and though Parisiens quite like their ballet flats as well, there are all sorts of cool heels around. They are called "les talons" here. Voila my cute brown pair that I brought with me --

Then, you pair it all with charcoal slacks (yes, I know, I should have worn the gray heels) and a scarf, and voila: Gillian the Parisian:

Après une semaine

What can I tell you?

It's been a week. I'm not thinking in French (Unless I specifically work to do so, which I'm doing more often) but très souvent, very often like just then, the French word for something appears in my mind before the English one. A soup of language, a friend said. He's right.

Qu'est-ce que je peux te dire?

J'ai rêvé heir soir, pour la première fois. I dreamt last night for the first time.

I don't have free time, or maybe it's that I do have free time and just spend all of it. My god, what do I tell you?

That's why I hate blogging,by the way. There are a thousand moments I want to share with you, a thousand times I noticed where I was and looked around, thinking am I really here? and of course always, impossibly, the answer is yes. Yes: at this moment exactly I am really sitting in front of the Eiffel Tower at 22h00, drinking cheap wine out of water bottles and eating baguettes and fromage (cheese), and le Tour is really sparkling madly into the evening. (That did happen: it was stunning.)

You'll see on my photobucket several dozens of pictures of statues and you'll probably get tired of looking at them long before I tired of taking them. Mais laisse-moi expliquer: c'est le musée Rodin. If you don't know who that is -- he is, was, a sculptor (dead now). As a dancer-- I don't get a lot of art, and I feel bad, j'ai vraiment hônte, to say that. But old paintings, strange objects -- I don't understand.

Rodin, je comprend, I understand. His statues bougent -- they move. There is a tension in them, in their muscles. They are alive -- ils vivent. It's like as soon as you turn away they'll move. the pictures can't capture it, of course. But it was amazing. I am going back there, you be sure.

And then of course we went to a little café called Le Club des Poètes, where the owner, le patron, greets you at the door and shakes your hand -- he and his mother recite French poetry for you and bring you tea and gatêau chocolat, the grandmother's recipe. There are some things that are perfect. Like that.

Yesterday we went to Versailles, which is about 45 minutes away on the RER train, a double decker ghetto train that moves as quickly as it can drag its own bulk along. But that's not what I want to talk about: what i want to say about Versailles is that I have never seen so much gold. Gates made of solid gold, d'or dans les portes (in the doors), windows, n'importe où et partout (wherever and everywhere). Quelle richesse!!! And to think that, dans ces couloirs-ci, oui, les mêmes sous tes pieds -- il y avait des gens qui y ont marchés. Pas seulement les touristes, les douzaines et centimes de touristes qui viennent chaque jour -- mais il y a quartre cent ans des gens -- du roi, de la renne -- ils ont habité.

(to think that,in these corridors, yes the same as under your feet right now -- people walked here, not just the thousands of tourists who come every day, but real people who lived here 400 years ago -- the King, and the Queen).

It's absolutely fascinating, and stunning, and that's just the château. After, you must wander through the gardens, feet hurting terribly and a knee randomly being angry with you -- the hedges a dozen feet tall in mazes, fountains with gods of gold clawing their way from the center of the earth. Then you must go to the domain of Marie-Antoinette, the houses, the gardens, the hamlet with its gardens, where sheep are still raised and donkeys and little lakes, and its absolutely serene. I wondered how one goes about becoming la renne de France, to be able to live there.

We left after the entrances were all closed, and limped back to the RER station and took the train back into Paris, looking for a restaurant and couldn't find it, so nous avons cherché pour l'un le plus moins cher -- looking for the least expensive one nearby -- and then spent over two hours with a fantastic French meal -- poulet rôti avec les frites et une salade pour moi, and mousse au chocolat for dessert -- with a glass of wine to go with it. It was absolutely wonderful.

Today -- because we could -- we went to a restaurant called "breakfast in America" -- it's been a week and we're a long way from home -- and had French toast and coffee after a long wait in line -- yes, a line!! with French people! It's apparently very popular, and you can see why -- the food is not expensive and very good.

After a leisurely time we headed out for Montmartre, located in the 18e arrondissement. Located on a random, very steep hill, it is in the middle of a quartier très pauvre, avec beaucoup d'immigrès -- donc c'est un peu louche et il faut qu'on fasse attention à son porte-feuille. (It's in a poor, immigrant neighborhood, so it's a little sketchy and you have to pay attention to your wallet). When you enter the gates, a swarm of guys holding little bits of string try to stop you so they can make you a bracelet and charge you however many euros -- they grab your elbow as you walk by, and you have to be very firm about ignoring them and saying no. You walk up a hundred or so steps and the Cathedral de Sacre-Coeur se trouve là, is there. The steps are full of tourists and more people trying to sell you trash -- doesn't anyone realize it's trash? but the tourists still buy buy buy, why not if you can? -- and there are impromptu, and illegal, shows going on and the French police ignore everything, including the pickpockets.

But it's beautiful, and if you pay 5 euros, you can walk up 300 winding steps, dizzying and steep, to the dome, and there is Paris, laid out in front of you -- la défense, which is to the north of the city and where you find all the skyscrapers --- but the city itself, full and brimming and busy, white buildings and winding streets. My friend and I stood up there pendant longtemps, for a long time, talking about how to change the world. Again, there are some things that are perfect. Like that.

I encourage you to check out my pictures at my photobucket: grhodes7. ici. My photos of Montmartre, I am sorry to say, have been inexplicably deleted by a wrong key tap and now I can't find them. I have a lot of friends, however, who did take pictures, and as soon as I get my hands on them, I will make sure you are able to see them. Sorry about that.

Hugs to all, à bientot, bisous!!

Holy crap, I'm in France!

Alors, je vous promets que je vais écrire encore avec plus de detailes -- le voila. (I promised you I'd write with details.)

Vous duvons me pardonner si j'écris trop de français -- en fait maintenant c'est plus facile pour moi (You'll have to excuse me writing too much in french, it's actually easier for me at the moment). Mais - but - thinking of you, dear reader-who-doesn't-know-French -- ne vous inquietez pas, vous n'êtes pas seuls, don't worry you're not alone -- I will try to write more English.

Anyway enough of that. So I have some pictures -- for the ease of reading, which I know is kind of ironic because I write schizophrenically, but in any case I decided to upload them to my photobucket album, which I'll link to au fin de ce poste (at the end of this post, I swear I did not do that on purpose).

Ooh la la. I am so tired right now. It was a long day. HOWEVER. I think for the purpose of this post, I'm just going to describe a few important places that have been in my life the past couple days.

1: The France Telecom public phone; Baggage Claim 5; Charles De Gaulle airport: I was there at roughly 16h00 dans l'apres-midi samedi, saturday afternoon, after a long time traveling and not a lot of sleep, though I did crash out during the flight from London to Paris. I couldn't sleep on the flight from Denver to London, although I did try. I watched Shrek 4 and a French romantic comedy. In any case, at this exact phone, I was trying to call the shuttle service --- and actually managed to figure it out.

"Bonjour, yellowvan," the woman said, in very fast French. I made a decision.

"Bonjour," I said, "je m'apppelle Gillian Rhodes, j'ai une reservation?"

"Ah oui," she said, and directed me, in French, to get my bags and then go to Porte 10 pour rencontre le conduisant (to meet the driver).

2: 1, Villa Brune; Le 14e arrondissement: I was first there around 18h00 samedi, after two hours in the shuttle through a strange and busy city; a city that is a little more urban and a little bigger than I was expecting, where the street signs can be found on the corners of the buildings, the street lights are on either side, and the streets themselves follow absolutely no logical directions or patterns. The trees are already turning and the air is a little chill. The streets are narrow and there aren't that many cars, but they seem to take up a lot of space. Motorcycles are absolutely everywhere; on the sidewalk, on the street, parked wherever you please in nice little rows.

In any case, I was -- and currently am - on Villa Brune because that's where I'm living. Le petit appartement c'est sur le quatrieme etape, which is actually the fifth floor in american terms, because the French start with zero. It's small, but cute. The kitchen is almost smaller than my room, which isn't saying much; it can barely contain the desk, bed, and wardrobe in itself. But it's very nice, and colorful (and those who know me know what I think about color).

3: Reid Hall, 4 rue de Chevreuse, 6e arrondissement: A quaint building, surrounded un petit jardin, a little garden and courtyard, it's very cute inside, though nothing special on the outside. Rue de Chevreuse is a little side street off le boulevard de montparnesse, qui est tres plein de choses et des voitures (it's a busy street). It is where I will spend most of my time for the next four weeks -- after orientation, we a have a language practicum pour ameliorer notre francais (to make our French better) et ça durée trois semaines (it lasts three weeks). It is the Columbia campus in France and must be deceivingly large, because it seems very small but apparently a lot goes on there.

4: Le Tour Eiffel, 7e Arrondissement: I was there at roughly 18h00 aujourd'hui, today, after orientation. I met a few people from the program and we hit it off immediately because we all wanted to speak french, not english, and so decided that we would be friends for the semester (one of the girls is staying for the whole year, everyone else leaves in December). Probablement que nous allons voyager ensemble si c'est possible (we'll probably travel together if we can). In any case, we went for a long walk through the streets of Paris -- got lost several times, but managed to find le tour eiffel --- it's hard to miss, yes, but it disappears often behind other buildings. However -- it is somehow bigger and smaller than you'd think, at the same time. The details are incredible, and it just seems so much more artsy than the pictures might suggest. You walk through it and people hold out stupid little plastic statues, but if you say "Non merci" firmly, they leave you alone. If you speak English, they'll bother the crap out of you until you buy something. Which you don't want to do.

In any case on the other side there was a little carousel -- there seem to be a lot of little carousels all over the place, which I don't understand but I love -- I am for whatever reason absolutely fascinated by carousels and I want to ride them. It probably comes from Mary Poppins. Whatever. So we walked by and went up to this giant building on the other side of the tower, and I was told several times what it was and can't remember now. There were fountains, it was pretty, and looking up at the Eiffel Tower, you think, wow, I'm actually in France. It's very surreal, actually. But cool. Just surreal.

I took the metro most of the way home and then walked. It's not far, I'll probably walk most of the time to Reid Hall. I will most certainly tomorrow because, in true French fashion, there is une greve, a strike, and the metro will be running slow. Welcome to France, n'est-ce pas?

D'ailleurs, je vais vous laisser la -- je suis épuisé maintenant parce que je me suis reveillée pendant la nuit et je ne pouvais pas m'endormir pour trois heures. I will leave you there, I'm exhausted because I was awake for three hours in the middle of the night. I blame jet lag, le decalage horaire.

I'll write again sometime soon. I don't know when, but sooner rather than later.

Pour voir les photos, clickez-ici.

A bientot, mes chers.

Arrivée

Le titre dit tout -- je suis arrivée dans la ville de lumière. (The title says it all: I have arrived in the City of Light).

At some point after I've slept I will actually write something but in the mean time, I'm here, dizzy with exhaustion,and unpacked for the most part.

A bientot, mes chers.

The Debut: Getting to Paris

Bonjour et bievenue si vous n'avez déjà découvert mon blog. (Hello and welcome if you haven't already discovered my blog). Ne vous inquiétez pas ; Je vais blogger en anglais. (Don't worry; I will be blogging in English).

That is, everything you really need to understand will be in English, and though I will occasionally pop out the French (probably more than occasionally, come to think of it), I will always translate it for you. Unless it's so obvious that I don't need to.

In any case: welcome (bienvenue). This blog is to chronicle my year in Paris, my third year of college, an adventure that will begin this Friday, the 3rd, at 8:15, which is when my flight leaves from Denver. I will include as many pictures as I can, but I warn you right off the bat: my camera *sucks*. I'm not just saying that, it does. C'est absolutement ridicule. It also eats batteries. I'll update when I can or when I feel like it -- but please, feel free to send me e-mails with questions, comments, or requests. Also -- send me letters (M'envoyez des lettres -- s'il vous plait. Je vais vous adorer pour tout le temps si vous le faire --- I'll love you forever if you do.) I will happily give you my address if you want to send letters.

IF you want postcards -- I will do my best to accommodate all postcard requests, so if you want one, please e-mail me with your address. (My e-mail is gillian.g.rhodes@gmail.com). I'll even write something awesome and French on it for you.

One last piece of business: If you can, come visit me (Me rendez visite)!!! Seriously. Do it. I cannot guarantee that you can stay with me but I will find you a good, safe, clean, and cheap hostel. I will do all the talking for you. As a friend of mine says, I can speak frog pretty well and will only get better, seeing as I'll be surrounded by it.

So moving on: Qu'est-ce-que je vais faire à Paris pour neuf mois? (What am I doing in Paris for nine months?) There are a few answers to that. Technically, I'll be taking classes, mostly dance, from the city universities. I'll be living with an older single woman who has a grown daughter my age living in New York.

But that's just barely, barely scratching the surface. What I really mean to say is, je vais aller à Paris pour me perdre. I am going to Paris to get lost. I am quitting life for a year to vanish into French culture. I am going to be utterly selfish and do everything for myself, be viciously alive. I want to learn how to cook, shop at the markets, sit at bistros all day and watch the world go by, bike all over the place and have daring encounters with French drivers.

I have a tendency, for whatever reason, to carry things -- people (metaphorically), worry, whatever it may be. For the last several years, I've been doing it a lot, as my family has gone through a huge transition, with a lot of struggle and uncertainty, and, well, without details, I've just been carrying a lot. I also have a tendency to have a plan, an agenda for everything, always. So what I mean by 'quitting life' is that I'm not doing any of that -- I'm being unimaginably selfish in that I'm not carrying anyone or anything. I'm going to be myself. I have a quotable that says, "Risk more than others think is safe, Care more than others think is wise, dream more than others thinks is practical, expect more than others think is possible." Well, I do that all the time, and I'm stopping trying to be extraordinary now. I'll probably end up risking/caring/dreaming/expecting more than everyone thinks I should, because that's who I am, but I'm not working at anything.

At one point I thought I needed to have a violently passionate affair with a French man while I was at it, but I'm not even sure I want that anymore, if only because it's one other person to balance, and I'm starting to think I just want to be there by myself, for myself. Just to see what it's like.

I am going, exactly as I said, to be lost. C'est le seul chose que je peux faire (it's the only thing I can do). The journey begins on Friday, and I'm no longer anxious. I'm letting go of everything -- the past several years, the summer, whatever it may be. I'm letting it go and throwing myself into the arms of La Ville de Lumiere. I can't wait.

À bientôt, mes chers.

August 26th, 2010

Colorado: The sky is bluer and a hell of a lot bigger, the grass is browner, and the world sprawls out to the horizons. Downtown Denver is a mess of skyscrapers in a small area, dwarfed by the plains around it, one eye always fixed to the west, where the front range explodes from the horizon like God just got bored one day and poked the earth to see what would happen.

There are few things are stunning as the way the mountains look from the plane window when you land at Denver International Airport, which I did yesterday afternoon at about 4:34pm local time, after a three hour flight from Detroit, MI. I found myself there for an hour and forty five minutes, and while there, enjoyed a ham and swiss sandwich (with 67% of my daily sodium intake!) and a tall mocha frappuccino (no whip) from Starbucks and an incredible conversation with a friendly business consultant named Greg, who volunteered to be my first client when I start my dance therapy business for corporate execs. Unfortunately I didn't see him following that, so the ball is in his court to get in touch with me (he has my business card) but I am quite hoping he does. I live for those chance encounters -- conversations here and there, people you meet when all you wanted was an outlet to charge your computer. In any case, I was so distracted I nearly forgot to board the plane, but thankfully Greg was paying attention and he boarded before me, so I was actually on the flight when it touched down in Denver.

My parents do not live in the house I grew up in anymore; they live in a one bedroom apartment in Belmar, a cute, trendy, and struggling neighborhood in the suburbs of Denver. I had not seen the apartment before. Along the way home, we drove past the house we lived in when I was three -- I didn't remember it -- just to see how it looks now (very nice). And then we got to this new place. I looked around, and asked, why is all this stuff that used to belong to us doing in this strange apartment?

Disorienting. This is not the place I grew up in. This is not home, it's where my parents live. It doesn't belong to me anymore. I left, and life moved on.

This morning we spent some time running errands in the town I grew up in, Evergreen. There are some new buildings. Some shops have moved. But nothing has changed; time must stand still there, stuck. But that's exactly why I, and my parents, left -- because the people who live in Evergreen are kind and good people, but they don't want change. They want to know that the same stores will still be there in the morning, the same people, and the same way of life. It just exists, and that's why I can't live there.

I can't deny it was nice if only because I recognized it; something familiar in the craziness of figuring out this new life my parents have. But after I left, I don't remember feeling any regret. I saw a couple guys I used to know in high school in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. I slunk past and hoped they wouldn't notice me (they didn't -- they wouldn't. I am firmly convinced that there are very few people from that high school who would recognize me -- or care enough to say hello -- if I passed them on the street.)

It is now about a week until I leave the country, and I think I've stopped trying to deal with that fact. In a few days I'll put up the introductory post to the France section of the blog, because the format of things will change a bit and all that. But in the mean time, I said I would save my judgment of Asheville until I left, and although I'm sure it will change ---

Asheville, North Carolina is beautiful. I wish I could have seen the surrounding areas, but nestled among the hazy, blue mountains, it seems to be a product of the landscape instead of the master of it. There is a certain charm to it -- liberal, progressive -- and yet still remarkably 'southern.'

And I still don't think I could live there -- it's too small, too slow-paced, and too hippie for me. At the risk of sounding incredibly pompous, and that's not my intention -- I just prefer the more sophisticated -- that's not even the right word, but I think you know what I mean -- lifestyle. I love my tall buildings and busy streets in the middle of the night, the way the skyscrapers become their own stars. I'm sure I'm generalizing terribly, but it seemed to me that the ideal southern lifestyle involves calmly waiting for life to pass by and drinking beer. I am not good at waiting for things to happen, and I just don't think I could ever live that slowly.

But that's not what made this summer one of the best I've ever had -- nor was it the jobs I had, for those were basic, entry level jobs that I managed to have a lot of fun with because of my attitude -- no, the heart of the summer was the people. I met so many interesting people, people with and without dreams. I knew it before, but learned with shocking detail the incredible capacity of human beings to be impossibly nasty and impossibly kind at exactly the same time. I saw black and white all mixed up and was impressed upon every day that no one is ever all good or all bad, but both, and that both reside somehow peaceably in one body. I met cynical, angry people; happy people; people waiting for the world to turn; people waiting for permission to be happy again. I had dozens of wonderful conversations. Somewhat significantly, I fell in love for the first time. And when I left, I left a bit of myself behind, with everyone who smiled at me, hugged me, wished me luck, asked me to send postcards, asked to know what I was up to, where I'm going, and to remember them when I got there.

If you're reading, I can assure: I will remember you.

And so, I'm sure I'll be back in Asheville, not because I want to live in the city, but because I want to see you again. Maybe next summer, maybe not, but sometime, I'm sure my steps will find my way there, if only for a week or two, to give you a hug and tell you where I've been, and if you want to, let you live vicariously through my life -- which if I'm right, will be the sort of life you'd like to live vicariously through.

In any case -- there you have it. I had a great summer, and it hurt a bit to leave. That's the simplest way I can think of to put it, and so I'll just leave it that way.

Until next time -- and France is on the way.