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.