It seems like more than a week since I've last updated -- I feel like it's been a long time but not that much has really happened. I'm currently caught in the throes of the January blues. I hate, I repeat, I hate this time of the year. I'm convinced that January is the longest month of the year, and just when you think it's over, the same day repeats 28 times. Not to mention it's just kind of gray and cold all the time. Paris allowed me a glance of sunshine Sunday and it just made me miss the sun more.
I've been feeling kind of stuck lately anyway, for no particular reason. I had a fight with the voices in my head on Monday (should I have admitted that?) because the one in particular was not being sympathetic to my plight. Let's just call it the voice of my conscience, shall we? In any case, I was complaining about not going anywhere, and it was like, no, you aren't, the subway is stopped right now. Not helpful, thanks very much dude. However, he has a point -- I'm not really going anywhere right now. My work is to be here, right now. It's not that easy, but I'm working on it.
I actually think I'm not dancing enough -- though it occurred to me today that no matter how much I dance, it's not enough. I had 7 straight hours on Monday and though I was exhausted afterwards, I was ready to go again Tuesday. Of course it comes down to a question of money -- something a little iffy at the present moment, for various reasons. It has to do with transfers.
I will get to the title in a minute, but for a second I'd like to tell a little anecdote. In my ballet class on Monday, my teacher was explaining something and getting on everyone for muscling through everyone. That's not dancing according to him, because anyone can make their body do something with enough training. But anyway, he was talking about wanting to dance, and he said, for me it was never a choice. Everyone says you always have a choice, and of course some people in the class just take it for leisure and work other jobs, but he said, for me I never had the choice, I had to dance.
When he said, I thought, yes. I understood completely. I've been saying for awhile, and I completed identified with him. I don't have a choice. If I had a choice, I'd probably do something different -- the dancer's life is difficult, often uncertain, and taxing. I don't have the years of technique some do. I'm behind on my training. But I mean it when I say I don't have a choice. I can't do anything different. So the only thing I have left is to make it work, somehow.
Cut to Friday night. I was at the Elysée Montmartre, a nightclub in Montmartre, one of the old cabarets. These days it's just a giant room, with two bars surrounded by people shoving for their drinks, and two coat checks that are even more insane. On the night I was there, it was a special "We are the 90's" soirée -- only 90's music! - and was absolutely packed.
Oh great, I thought. I hate clubs like that -- you can't move, it's too hot, the floor sticks, and all you can do is just kind of bop around a bit. Until 5 in the morning? Mmm, not so sure about that.
Then my friend decided to make it her mission in life to get on the stage at one end of the room, where the DJ was and a few VIPs who were bumping and grinding to the delight of the onlookers. So off we went, and she flirted shamelessly with a few people and got us on for about twenty seconds before we were kicked off.
"Come back at four," the guard told us.
4:05, we were back. By this time we were pretty good friends with the dude, and so he went off and talked to someone, and up we went.
Hey, look, room to dance. I don't remember if I had the idea first or if my body just did it -- both are possible, but I decided, hey. I'm a better dancer than anyone up here. I'm classically trained, but I can work it. I learned a bit about showboating from someone this summer and added it into my repertory. So I thought, fine. Let's see what I can do.
Give me about twenty minutes, during which I got warmed up and starting attracting attention -- my friend decided it was too hot and headed off, but I stayed -- and let me put it this way: by the time I was two, probably earlier, I already loved being the center of attention. That's just who I am. Performing. I tell you, I don't have a choice.
The point is, I got myself center stage. I had fans. At one point, I had everyone on the stage around me in a semi-circle clapping. I had people filming me with their cell phones. I had the attention, that is to say, of pretty much the entire club.
I can't tell you how amazing it felt. I've been busy spending my last semester questioning my ability to be a dancer, to join a company, technically, etc. I spend all my time wondering, and I had a hint on Friday night. Not to mention the last time I was on a stage at a nightclub, I was being upstaged by the guy I was with at the time, and while I was happy to let him have the attention at the time, this time there was nobody upstaging me. The stage was mine, and I can tell you, the vindication was pretty sweet.
The view from up there? It was a whole lot of flashing lights, heat and sweat, heads, faces and smiles, hands and arms. The beat, just the beat, the music, and sometimes the strobes blocked my view, so all there was was the music, pounding in my soul, making me move, the kind of deep, fierce joy that makes me smile like a "folle".
No, I don't have a choice. I'm just more alive when I'm dancing. It can't be helped.
The view?
It was good.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Paris vs. New York: A layman's view
Hey, look at that, TWO posts in one day!! Let me put it this way: being just sick enough to stay at home and not quite too sick to be flat on your back (like yesterday) has its way of being impossible boring. And so since childish computer games can only hold their appeal for so long, I thought of this subject and thought I'd write a bit.
(Disclaimer: I have an Inner Poet. Thank you).
Paris and New York are particularly related to me -- two cities I have up and moved to for school, not knowing really anyone, the surrounding geography, or street names. It happens sometimes (surprisingly often in my life, actually). However, I'm not the only one. A lot of Parisians apparently love New York, and often go to live there. I did not know this, but you can speak only French and mostly get by in New York. Go figure. They say it's the most European city in the US -- I'm not exactly sure why, but I suppose it works.
The thing is, though, is that while they are linked psychologically, they are nothing alike. As far as their characters -- yes, they move a lot, yes they are big cities and thus have more in common than, say, Cheyenne Wyoming and Los Angeles might -- they are -- well. Nothing alike.
I knew that was the case from the beginning but could never quite put my finger on it, besides the obvious (HINT: it has to do with a thousand years or two of history, but I saw it the other day when Darcy and I went up the Tour Montparnasse and looked at Paris from way up high.
Here's something you need to know about New York: Seen from up high, especially at night, New York is impossibly beautiful. It makes sense from up there -- the grids, the lights, the sky scrapers jostling for a position in the skyline, the endless, twinkling lights lights lights, and you just can't hear the madness from up here. All the cars, or most of them, are yellow, and everything could be glamorous.
The truth is, bluntly, is that Paris just doesn't make sense from above. There is no rhyme or reason, and from above it just makes things confusing. The buildings, from the most part, look alike, and there is no street pattern -- they wind around each other in no particular order, spitting out onto the occasional grand boulevard. Here and there, the great monuments pop up, the space around them strangely and bizarrely empty, as though they have warning fences around them. Do Not Touch, it seems to say. Historically Important.
No, from above, the character of Paris is wiped out-- because it's here, on the streets, below the buildings. Only from here you can see the differences, the different types of balconies. Only from here can you see what's hiding under the eaves of the boutiques of the Rez-des-chaussées. The boulangeries, épiceries, patisseries, brasseries, cafés...you can't see it from above, but that's where Paris lives. On the streets, in the cafés. The conversations, the people, the cigarette butts scattered everywhere. The motorcycles taking never before seen traffic liberties.
Because the thing is, history is taken for granted here, even as people cling desperately to it. No monuments must be changed. If it's historical, it must be preserved. The boulangerie that you go to everyday has always been there and probably will be.
In many ways, Paris has become, I think, a museum city, sometimes cold and unchanging like the somber austerity of the Pantheon, which for being the home of the great men, feels numb to me. The city is filled with museums of course but the city itself is a museum.
In contrast, New York is new. It breathes. It changes. Of course, it lives through its street vendors and taxi drivers and the bum you always see on the corner, but the thing about New York is that all of things build up to this bigger entity, almost, that has no real faces but everyone knows what it looks like. From above, it makes sense. Paris is only made up of what it is.
Of course I couldn't tell you which one I prefer. I think I've mentioned that I fell into living in Paris as easily as breathing, while in New York, I just loved it. Two different characters for two different cities, and if I could tell you which one or either may find me in the years to come, I would be a rich psychic.
Bisous à tous.
(Disclaimer: I have an Inner Poet. Thank you).
Paris and New York are particularly related to me -- two cities I have up and moved to for school, not knowing really anyone, the surrounding geography, or street names. It happens sometimes (surprisingly often in my life, actually). However, I'm not the only one. A lot of Parisians apparently love New York, and often go to live there. I did not know this, but you can speak only French and mostly get by in New York. Go figure. They say it's the most European city in the US -- I'm not exactly sure why, but I suppose it works.
The thing is, though, is that while they are linked psychologically, they are nothing alike. As far as their characters -- yes, they move a lot, yes they are big cities and thus have more in common than, say, Cheyenne Wyoming and Los Angeles might -- they are -- well. Nothing alike.
I knew that was the case from the beginning but could never quite put my finger on it, besides the obvious (HINT: it has to do with a thousand years or two of history, but I saw it the other day when Darcy and I went up the Tour Montparnasse and looked at Paris from way up high.
Here's something you need to know about New York: Seen from up high, especially at night, New York is impossibly beautiful. It makes sense from up there -- the grids, the lights, the sky scrapers jostling for a position in the skyline, the endless, twinkling lights lights lights, and you just can't hear the madness from up here. All the cars, or most of them, are yellow, and everything could be glamorous.
The truth is, bluntly, is that Paris just doesn't make sense from above. There is no rhyme or reason, and from above it just makes things confusing. The buildings, from the most part, look alike, and there is no street pattern -- they wind around each other in no particular order, spitting out onto the occasional grand boulevard. Here and there, the great monuments pop up, the space around them strangely and bizarrely empty, as though they have warning fences around them. Do Not Touch, it seems to say. Historically Important.
No, from above, the character of Paris is wiped out-- because it's here, on the streets, below the buildings. Only from here you can see the differences, the different types of balconies. Only from here can you see what's hiding under the eaves of the boutiques of the Rez-des-chaussées. The boulangeries, épiceries, patisseries, brasseries, cafés...you can't see it from above, but that's where Paris lives. On the streets, in the cafés. The conversations, the people, the cigarette butts scattered everywhere. The motorcycles taking never before seen traffic liberties.
Because the thing is, history is taken for granted here, even as people cling desperately to it. No monuments must be changed. If it's historical, it must be preserved. The boulangerie that you go to everyday has always been there and probably will be.
In many ways, Paris has become, I think, a museum city, sometimes cold and unchanging like the somber austerity of the Pantheon, which for being the home of the great men, feels numb to me. The city is filled with museums of course but the city itself is a museum.
In contrast, New York is new. It breathes. It changes. Of course, it lives through its street vendors and taxi drivers and the bum you always see on the corner, but the thing about New York is that all of things build up to this bigger entity, almost, that has no real faces but everyone knows what it looks like. From above, it makes sense. Paris is only made up of what it is.
Of course I couldn't tell you which one I prefer. I think I've mentioned that I fell into living in Paris as easily as breathing, while in New York, I just loved it. Two different characters for two different cities, and if I could tell you which one or either may find me in the years to come, I would be a rich psychic.
Bisous à tous.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Confessions of a mid-January Slump
When it comes down to it, I don't really have anything against January, it's actually February that I have an active dislike of, but either my normal February shit is coming early or February itself will be worse than usual.
Okay, yes, I'm whining probably too much for the situation. My only real main beef with the life at the moment refers to a vicious cold that has laid me out flat for the last, oh, 48 hours or so. I don't usually get this sick, and while Colette astutely pointed out that it's just a cold and it's not that "grave", normally my colds just get in my way without actively attacking me. Either way, after spending the ENTIRE day yesterday in bed, I decided to pretend I was a human being today and take a shower, get dressed. I still refuse to leave the house, but I'm making progress.
Another problem is that I'm bored as heck. This has something to do with the fact that I refuse to go out in public in the state I've been in for the past couple days, and there is only so much I futzing I can do on the internet, especially in a half-brained haze. But let's put it realistically: I don't have a lot to do these days, and I have never been particularly good at chilling out. I talk about it often enough -- man, I do too much, I need a vacation, what have you -- and then whenever I get more than a day or two to do nothing, I get bored.
This semester, I have the feeling, has the possibility to leave me with a fair amount of free time. I don't expect to have a lot of homework, and I'm still working on finding some new dance classes, because I don't think I'm dancing enough. I imagine things will pick up once my directed research gets going, and rehearsals for the big she-bang in April, but either way.
I need to be better than ever at living in the moment. Whether it be going out to wander around Paris, going to soirées, seeing friends -- I don't have a LOT of time left here, as much as that dismays me, and I need to profit as much as possible for the second half of my time here. (Wow).
I'll keep you updated!!
Okay, yes, I'm whining probably too much for the situation. My only real main beef with the life at the moment refers to a vicious cold that has laid me out flat for the last, oh, 48 hours or so. I don't usually get this sick, and while Colette astutely pointed out that it's just a cold and it's not that "grave", normally my colds just get in my way without actively attacking me. Either way, after spending the ENTIRE day yesterday in bed, I decided to pretend I was a human being today and take a shower, get dressed. I still refuse to leave the house, but I'm making progress.
Another problem is that I'm bored as heck. This has something to do with the fact that I refuse to go out in public in the state I've been in for the past couple days, and there is only so much I futzing I can do on the internet, especially in a half-brained haze. But let's put it realistically: I don't have a lot to do these days, and I have never been particularly good at chilling out. I talk about it often enough -- man, I do too much, I need a vacation, what have you -- and then whenever I get more than a day or two to do nothing, I get bored.
This semester, I have the feeling, has the possibility to leave me with a fair amount of free time. I don't expect to have a lot of homework, and I'm still working on finding some new dance classes, because I don't think I'm dancing enough. I imagine things will pick up once my directed research gets going, and rehearsals for the big she-bang in April, but either way.
I need to be better than ever at living in the moment. Whether it be going out to wander around Paris, going to soirées, seeing friends -- I don't have a LOT of time left here, as much as that dismays me, and I need to profit as much as possible for the second half of my time here. (Wow).
I'll keep you updated!!
Monday, January 3, 2011
No Such Thing as a Coffee To Go: Holidays in Paris
I present two situations of surreality:
December 24th: Christmas Eve. In a black dress, heels, in a huge, beautiful Parisian apartment in the 16th arrondissement, surrounded by fifteen excitable French people, for the most part all much older than me and dressed to the nines, talking loudly and quickly, as families do when they're together. Eating foie gras, oysters, shrimp, cuchon au lait, potatoes, bûches du noël, chocolate, and endless glasses of champagne. Everything decorated white, the tree, a huge mound of presents underneath . At the beginning of the evening, I knew exactly two people. By the end, everyone kissed me on the cheeks to say goodbye, said they hoped to see me soon.
This was my Christmas Eve, and it was surreal because it just seemed so far away from anything I've ever done before. The first Christmas away from home, in someone else's home, but not only that, in Paris. It struck me as somehow remarkably significant, to be celebrating like this.I stumbled home at 3 in the morning that night, drunk off champagne, and collapsed into bed -- only to wake up the next morning and, three hours later, restart the whole process with my host mom and her family.
The second moment of surreality:
December 31st, or really January 1st if you want to get technical. Another apartment in the 16th. Low lights. Young people this time, though equally unknown. My sister as well, by my side. We'd just noticed it was midnight.
"Bonne année!!" everyone yelled, turning to everyone else and kissing them on both cheeks, unless they were a couple and then on the mouth. Everyone hugging, music pounding in the background, to which we spent the next two hours dancing too. Wearing heels, of course, and something fashionable. Chatting with a new friend, who was trying to speak English for Darcy's benefit.
It was another moment, that I looked around and thought, wow, is this really my life? I thought, this is the first time I'm celebrating the New Year's in Paris. I thought, my year is starting in Paris. I loved thinking it, and had the strange feeling that though it was the first, it won't be the last.
For the past week, my sister has been in town, and it's been a ton of fun. We go out every day and see something new -- some things I've been to already, but also some new things. We went to the Musée d'Orsay, for example, which was really fun, and the displays at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, the Ferris Wheel at the Place de la Concorde. We went back to Montmartre today -- I love Montmartre. I wish it was closer to me. Went up the Tour Montparnasse because everyone and their brother was at the Eiffel Tower. We also went to the Musée de Quai Branly and found one of the best exhibits I have ever seen in any museum.
It was called "La Fabrique des Images" and was essentially using archeological objects - like masks, tribal statues -- and art -- paintings, sculptures -- to present four different world views of the interaction between man and nature, specifically animals. The world views themselves were incredibly interesting, but what I loved about the exhibit was that it forced you to think. We started going through it without really thinking -- we were both exhausted - but about halfway through I cottoned on to the fact that there was more to it besides the objects, and we restarted and paid attention this time. Most exhibits -- in fact, all of them -- present something and just require that you look at it and go, oh hey, cool. They show something. This one synthesized. It had a connection. It had relevance. It didn't just present something, it was an intellectual exercise. It was incredibly well put together, and if you are around and have time to go there, do.
I've spent the past two weeks pretty much eating straight through. We had a super good dinner on Thursday night, where for 33 euros you got an aperitif, entrée, plat, cheese, dessert, and a café. Oh yeah, and a half bottle of wine apiece. It was really good, too, and was made more amusing by the fact that the waiter and the two elderly gentlemen on either side of us were all flirting with me at some point in the evening. The waiter was at least quite charming about it -- he asked if all the girls in New York (he had previously asked me where I was from) were as pretty as me.
Tomorrow Darcy leaves at the crack of dawn and everything goes back to normal. I start teaching again, and my choreography workshop restarts. I'll probably start dancing again as well, so there you go. I need to start eating better and cheaper as well, because I have spent SO MUCH money on food this past week. It's been really nice to have Darcy here, though I can't deny I will enjoy having my room back to myself, and though it's kind of silly, I'm also looking forward to conducting all my daily business in French again. She doesn't speak French, so I've been mostly talking in English, and I miss my French!!
It's also just been really interesting to hear her questions -- she has never been to Paris before, and so she often asks things or make observations that I realize are normal for an American -- but it's been four months since I was in America, and they occasionally seem bizarre to me. I think today was the most telling -- we were in Montmartre. I had just gotten some cash from the ATM and was looking for a café. "Why don't we go up to that coffee to go place I saw up there?" she asked, and I looked at her like she had sprouted an extra head.
"What would be the point?"
She's remarked a couple times there doesn't seem to be the concept of coffee to go, and when she asked that, I realized that I have completely bought into that idea. In New York, all the time, I bought a coffee and walked off with it, going to the next place, the next class. And now -- I honestly do not see the point. It seems so random. If you are going to get a coffee, you have to sit down in a café and drink it. Coffee to go is utterly absurd. I mean, I know the point is to wake up, technically, but still.
She also pointed to the boulangerie and asked if they might sell coffee in there, and the idea seemed absurd again to me. No, I said, the boulangerie sells baked goods and pastries, and that's it. The idea of the "coffee shop" with pastries and coffee drinks just doesn't compute anymore. It is extremely interesting to note how I think about things these days!!!
And so life goes on. 2010 is over: it was probably one of the most intense years of growth I have ever had. I had everything to gain and I did --- then I had everything to lose, and I did. I got lost, found, and love more fiercely than I ever have. 2011 has begun, the first year of my life in which my only goal has been to not make plans. I can tell you what is most likely to happen, but I refuse to set anything in stone, or even think about it. My life has been reduced to a few basic truths: I love where I am. I dance. I live. As far as anything else, tomorrow, next week, next month, I have no idea.
Bisous à tous, bonne année à vous!!!
December 24th: Christmas Eve. In a black dress, heels, in a huge, beautiful Parisian apartment in the 16th arrondissement, surrounded by fifteen excitable French people, for the most part all much older than me and dressed to the nines, talking loudly and quickly, as families do when they're together. Eating foie gras, oysters, shrimp, cuchon au lait, potatoes, bûches du noël, chocolate, and endless glasses of champagne. Everything decorated white, the tree, a huge mound of presents underneath . At the beginning of the evening, I knew exactly two people. By the end, everyone kissed me on the cheeks to say goodbye, said they hoped to see me soon.
This was my Christmas Eve, and it was surreal because it just seemed so far away from anything I've ever done before. The first Christmas away from home, in someone else's home, but not only that, in Paris. It struck me as somehow remarkably significant, to be celebrating like this.I stumbled home at 3 in the morning that night, drunk off champagne, and collapsed into bed -- only to wake up the next morning and, three hours later, restart the whole process with my host mom and her family.
The second moment of surreality:
December 31st, or really January 1st if you want to get technical. Another apartment in the 16th. Low lights. Young people this time, though equally unknown. My sister as well, by my side. We'd just noticed it was midnight.
"Bonne année!!" everyone yelled, turning to everyone else and kissing them on both cheeks, unless they were a couple and then on the mouth. Everyone hugging, music pounding in the background, to which we spent the next two hours dancing too. Wearing heels, of course, and something fashionable. Chatting with a new friend, who was trying to speak English for Darcy's benefit.
It was another moment, that I looked around and thought, wow, is this really my life? I thought, this is the first time I'm celebrating the New Year's in Paris. I thought, my year is starting in Paris. I loved thinking it, and had the strange feeling that though it was the first, it won't be the last.
For the past week, my sister has been in town, and it's been a ton of fun. We go out every day and see something new -- some things I've been to already, but also some new things. We went to the Musée d'Orsay, for example, which was really fun, and the displays at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, the Ferris Wheel at the Place de la Concorde. We went back to Montmartre today -- I love Montmartre. I wish it was closer to me. Went up the Tour Montparnasse because everyone and their brother was at the Eiffel Tower. We also went to the Musée de Quai Branly and found one of the best exhibits I have ever seen in any museum.
It was called "La Fabrique des Images" and was essentially using archeological objects - like masks, tribal statues -- and art -- paintings, sculptures -- to present four different world views of the interaction between man and nature, specifically animals. The world views themselves were incredibly interesting, but what I loved about the exhibit was that it forced you to think. We started going through it without really thinking -- we were both exhausted - but about halfway through I cottoned on to the fact that there was more to it besides the objects, and we restarted and paid attention this time. Most exhibits -- in fact, all of them -- present something and just require that you look at it and go, oh hey, cool. They show something. This one synthesized. It had a connection. It had relevance. It didn't just present something, it was an intellectual exercise. It was incredibly well put together, and if you are around and have time to go there, do.
I've spent the past two weeks pretty much eating straight through. We had a super good dinner on Thursday night, where for 33 euros you got an aperitif, entrée, plat, cheese, dessert, and a café. Oh yeah, and a half bottle of wine apiece. It was really good, too, and was made more amusing by the fact that the waiter and the two elderly gentlemen on either side of us were all flirting with me at some point in the evening. The waiter was at least quite charming about it -- he asked if all the girls in New York (he had previously asked me where I was from) were as pretty as me.
Tomorrow Darcy leaves at the crack of dawn and everything goes back to normal. I start teaching again, and my choreography workshop restarts. I'll probably start dancing again as well, so there you go. I need to start eating better and cheaper as well, because I have spent SO MUCH money on food this past week. It's been really nice to have Darcy here, though I can't deny I will enjoy having my room back to myself, and though it's kind of silly, I'm also looking forward to conducting all my daily business in French again. She doesn't speak French, so I've been mostly talking in English, and I miss my French!!
It's also just been really interesting to hear her questions -- she has never been to Paris before, and so she often asks things or make observations that I realize are normal for an American -- but it's been four months since I was in America, and they occasionally seem bizarre to me. I think today was the most telling -- we were in Montmartre. I had just gotten some cash from the ATM and was looking for a café. "Why don't we go up to that coffee to go place I saw up there?" she asked, and I looked at her like she had sprouted an extra head.
"What would be the point?"
She's remarked a couple times there doesn't seem to be the concept of coffee to go, and when she asked that, I realized that I have completely bought into that idea. In New York, all the time, I bought a coffee and walked off with it, going to the next place, the next class. And now -- I honestly do not see the point. It seems so random. If you are going to get a coffee, you have to sit down in a café and drink it. Coffee to go is utterly absurd. I mean, I know the point is to wake up, technically, but still.
She also pointed to the boulangerie and asked if they might sell coffee in there, and the idea seemed absurd again to me. No, I said, the boulangerie sells baked goods and pastries, and that's it. The idea of the "coffee shop" with pastries and coffee drinks just doesn't compute anymore. It is extremely interesting to note how I think about things these days!!!
And so life goes on. 2010 is over: it was probably one of the most intense years of growth I have ever had. I had everything to gain and I did --- then I had everything to lose, and I did. I got lost, found, and love more fiercely than I ever have. 2011 has begun, the first year of my life in which my only goal has been to not make plans. I can tell you what is most likely to happen, but I refuse to set anything in stone, or even think about it. My life has been reduced to a few basic truths: I love where I am. I dance. I live. As far as anything else, tomorrow, next week, next month, I have no idea.
Bisous à tous, bonne année à vous!!!
Friday, December 24, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
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.
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.
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