Friday, 25 March
I didn't go to class this morning -- well, that is the classes I'm supposed to be teaching. I didn't go because I had a hunch that my students wouldn't show up. I was right, by the way.
But either way I had been planning to sleep in, but was wide awake by nine thirty -- an aftereffect, I suppose, of being up at that time pretty much every day of the week. Yes, I know, it's not early, but I was hoping to sleep in more. Ah well; when it became clear that I wasn't going back to sleep, I got up.
Another sunny day -- they are becoming more and more common and I couldn't be happier. Someone told me that Paris is a different city in the spring and I don't doubt it. Already now, with the buds coming out and the sun, the world just seems to be breathing a giant sigh of relief, finally having gotten out of the prison of the imposing grey. Warm, too -- 17 degrees Celsius. While I have no idea what that translates to in farenheit, it means warm, it means I don't have to put on a jacket.
I took my time getting ready -- bringing my computer into the bathroom while I showered so I could listen to music, as I like to do whenever I have time to take my time. A nice breakfast, with a little extra coffee - I made it a bit too strong this morning, but drank it anyway, I don't really care that much.
In all I dawdled so much that I was ready to go about 11h30, which was when I wanted to leave anyway. I didn't have class until 14h10 (at the high school), but wanted to eat lunch. While it isn't always the greatest, it's free and I get to hang out with my friends. After lunch, I had an hour to prepare for my class -- "prepare" -- and used it to work on my research project, slogging through a book about the origins of dance in hopes of finding something useful for my work on duets.
NOTE:
In the time between when the above was written and now, on the following Tuesday, I became incredibly distracted by life, and was barely at home during the weekend -- and when I was, it was in a dehydrated mess on saturday night. I slept for the afternoon/evening, excepting a brief stint awake to watch the Bourne Identity and munch on cereal.
With that said I no longer have any clue what I was talking about or where I was planning to go with the post above. I believe it was going to be another day in the life, which works better when you remember everything about the day. But I will attempt to reconstruct it, just for kicks and giggles.
==
When I got to class, the students having rather surprisingly decided to show up today, we first went into the little room that I usually use and started in the normal fashion, having them introduce themselves to me and I to them, seeing as I rarely have the same group twice.
I was going to have them do this little language game that I usually do, where they create little creative scenarios based on prompts -- but right away I just felt this wall of negative energy and resistance. They didn't like the scenarios, they didn't like the idea, they were bored, and I was generally wasting their time.
Screw this, I thought. I don't want to be miserable for an hour. "Am I allowed to take you guys outside?" Immediately, I had their attention. Yes, they said. "Seriously?" Yep, seriously. "Then let's go."
With that, we left. We went to a little park nearby and settled down on the grass. Screw the scenarios, I thought, even I'm bored with them. So I started asking questions; what series did they watch, what kind of music did they like, what did they think was the stereotypical american. We sat in the sun and chatted for awhile. Simple. I don't know if they were convinced but it was a hell of a lot better than it could have been.
After that I stayed at the high school and worked for a couple hours -- I would have gone home normally, but one of the teachers had invited me to a little apéro at his apartment and we took the bus together at the end of the day. The apartment was tiny, 30 square meters-- not sure how that translates but very small in other words. There was 6 of us for the apéro, though for the first few hours it was only 4.
Oh yes, did I mention? Un apéro is technically a before dinner drink. This one started at 6pm. I left around 11h30. Oh we certainly ate enough -- cherry tomatoes with homemade mayo, toasts with some sort of spread that was really good but I never figured out what it was, open faced sandwiches with salmon or some kind of charcuterie, more sandwiches, and finally a tarte framboise -- raspberry tart. And in between -- kirs (cherry alcohol and white wine), a homemade cocktail with special Chilean alcohol, and plain old red wine. And cigarettes.
I swear my days are not always this exciting. Take saturday -- I stumbled out of bed, took the metro in the wrong direction on my transfer, and got to rehearsal late (it started,in theory, at 10, though when I got there everyone was having breakfast and coffee. Apparently I wasn't the only one exhausted). 5 hours of dance, an absolutely disgusting salad I bought from the supermarket -- never again -- and then I was home, nauseous, exhausted, etc. Dehydrated. A 5 hour nap, a movie break, and back to bed.
Well anyway. Columbia housing sent me an e-mail and my first thought was that they wrote the date backward. Oh dear.
I have my show in a week and am therefore in rehearsal a LOT, plus various other projects, including my research, which needs to have an outline by thursday. Eep. Busy and busy and it's the end of March already and what?!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Six months and ?? days: Looking back and looking forward
This post is going to be somewhat introspective -- I apologize in advance if that bores you.
As the title suggests, I've now been in Paris over six months. If I actually stop to think and calculate -- it's been six months and twelve days, or in other words, exactly 195 days. That's not forever, nor is it a short time. In a lifetime, it's nothing, of course, but I consider it a good lifetime anyway.
While I don't do it very often, I have adopted the Parisian habit of having a cigarette and contemplating life -- sometimes just stepping out on the balcony just before the sun goes down and watching the sky change while the cigarette burns away -- it's a very zen moment, shall we say. Well, today I was taking a smoke break; I should have been working, but was instead waiting for my computer to load the latest Glee episode, and was out on the balcony --- and had a moment.
It struck me suddenly how far away Paris used to be to me. I remembered this summer, thinking about how far and exotic Paris was and would be. How stressful the visa process was, and how I used to freak out -- quietly or otherwise -- whenever I thought about how soon I was leaving, and for how long. It just seemed strange to me, in that moment, now so deeply entrenched in the Parisian life -- how far away it used to be.
Sometimes I remember conversations I had before I left and I have to remind myself that they were in English. Yes, it's strange, and I notice it -- I think, no wait, that was in English. That was before I spoke French daily and the vast majority of my conversations were in my natural tongue -- and somehow, that seems really strange to me now. Sometimes even here I have to remind myself that the people talking French to each other are actually talking in their natural language. Invariably, I think about when I'll have to do that, and it always seems strange.
Yesterday I called the toll free number on student universe to officially change my plane ticket from May 31st to August 1st. I got a recording saying that due to the tsunami in Japan their phone services are limited. What Japan has to do with student universe is beyond me, and makes me quite apprehensive for when I actually DO get on the phone with a representative -- somebody, no doubt, in Japan -- but it's no big deal, I can wait. It just seemed like a big step -- official. By the time I leave, it will be eleven full months.
And now? Is Paris far away?
It's far in the sense that I have to calculate somewhere between 6-8 hours of time change if I want to talk to my family or friends. It's far in that it's now been a REALLY long time since I've seen these people, and while with Skype it's like they're just on the other side of the screen, hiding behind your computer -- it's not the same. I had a friend from Columbia in town this weekend and there is nothing like having them there, real and breathing and just taking up space, moving the air. In that way, yes, I suppose it's far.
But these days I can't imagine being anywhere else. It's like sometimes I think about where Paris is on the map and how I'm practically on the other side of the world from where I grew up -- but it doesn't matter anymore. The people I'm surrounded by have been here, for the most part, their whole lives, and so have I. It's like I can't conceptualize the distance between me and where home used to be, but all I know is I'm here and living here is as easy as breathing.
Thank god I wasn't ever tempted to go just for the semester.
One thing about having a time limit -- something I know far, far, far too well -- is that no matter what you're doing, it stays with you. Or at least, it tries to. It's like the more fun you have, you know the harder it will be to leave. And so I suppose I have the choice -- but for me it's not a choice. If I leave my soul behind in Paris, well, then so be it. But it's true that sometimes I have trouble not thinking about it -- about the fact that February absolutely vanished on me and now we're halfway through March and I'm now over half done with my time here. Booking my flight for August 1st means that on August 1st I'll be boarding a giant ass jet with two giant ass suitcases that can't possibly hold my life here. It means that life goes on.
Before I left, I sometimes had the strange thought that the people I know won't recognize me when I come back. Of course that's not true, but recently I've been thinking that, in some ways, it's true. The girl who I was when I left will never come back, because she doesn't exist anymore. The one who's coming back -- well, you'll see. She'll the same person you always knew, but she's nothing like her. It's hard to explain.
I think I've said this before, but sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to build a life somewhere and then finish it --- instead of leaving when the bloom is just on the rose, so to speak. But I guess that's not really fair -- because maybe on August 1st, I will have finished. I will have lived an entire life, and finished it. Or maybe I'll just leave it for a time and come back. How should I know?
In any case, spring is coming and my nose is thanking all the pollen. Construction has begun -- directly over my head -- and the sun is out a noticeable percentage of the time more than it used to be. The wind is doux, and you can feel the world starting to pick up it's winter-weary head and sniff the air. I was here for fall, for winter. Now for spring, and soon -- summer.
A nice full circle. A complete life.
I do seem to go through them.
As the title suggests, I've now been in Paris over six months. If I actually stop to think and calculate -- it's been six months and twelve days, or in other words, exactly 195 days. That's not forever, nor is it a short time. In a lifetime, it's nothing, of course, but I consider it a good lifetime anyway.
While I don't do it very often, I have adopted the Parisian habit of having a cigarette and contemplating life -- sometimes just stepping out on the balcony just before the sun goes down and watching the sky change while the cigarette burns away -- it's a very zen moment, shall we say. Well, today I was taking a smoke break; I should have been working, but was instead waiting for my computer to load the latest Glee episode, and was out on the balcony --- and had a moment.
It struck me suddenly how far away Paris used to be to me. I remembered this summer, thinking about how far and exotic Paris was and would be. How stressful the visa process was, and how I used to freak out -- quietly or otherwise -- whenever I thought about how soon I was leaving, and for how long. It just seemed strange to me, in that moment, now so deeply entrenched in the Parisian life -- how far away it used to be.
Sometimes I remember conversations I had before I left and I have to remind myself that they were in English. Yes, it's strange, and I notice it -- I think, no wait, that was in English. That was before I spoke French daily and the vast majority of my conversations were in my natural tongue -- and somehow, that seems really strange to me now. Sometimes even here I have to remind myself that the people talking French to each other are actually talking in their natural language. Invariably, I think about when I'll have to do that, and it always seems strange.
Yesterday I called the toll free number on student universe to officially change my plane ticket from May 31st to August 1st. I got a recording saying that due to the tsunami in Japan their phone services are limited. What Japan has to do with student universe is beyond me, and makes me quite apprehensive for when I actually DO get on the phone with a representative -- somebody, no doubt, in Japan -- but it's no big deal, I can wait. It just seemed like a big step -- official. By the time I leave, it will be eleven full months.
And now? Is Paris far away?
It's far in the sense that I have to calculate somewhere between 6-8 hours of time change if I want to talk to my family or friends. It's far in that it's now been a REALLY long time since I've seen these people, and while with Skype it's like they're just on the other side of the screen, hiding behind your computer -- it's not the same. I had a friend from Columbia in town this weekend and there is nothing like having them there, real and breathing and just taking up space, moving the air. In that way, yes, I suppose it's far.
But these days I can't imagine being anywhere else. It's like sometimes I think about where Paris is on the map and how I'm practically on the other side of the world from where I grew up -- but it doesn't matter anymore. The people I'm surrounded by have been here, for the most part, their whole lives, and so have I. It's like I can't conceptualize the distance between me and where home used to be, but all I know is I'm here and living here is as easy as breathing.
Thank god I wasn't ever tempted to go just for the semester.
One thing about having a time limit -- something I know far, far, far too well -- is that no matter what you're doing, it stays with you. Or at least, it tries to. It's like the more fun you have, you know the harder it will be to leave. And so I suppose I have the choice -- but for me it's not a choice. If I leave my soul behind in Paris, well, then so be it. But it's true that sometimes I have trouble not thinking about it -- about the fact that February absolutely vanished on me and now we're halfway through March and I'm now over half done with my time here. Booking my flight for August 1st means that on August 1st I'll be boarding a giant ass jet with two giant ass suitcases that can't possibly hold my life here. It means that life goes on.
Before I left, I sometimes had the strange thought that the people I know won't recognize me when I come back. Of course that's not true, but recently I've been thinking that, in some ways, it's true. The girl who I was when I left will never come back, because she doesn't exist anymore. The one who's coming back -- well, you'll see. She'll the same person you always knew, but she's nothing like her. It's hard to explain.
I think I've said this before, but sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to build a life somewhere and then finish it --- instead of leaving when the bloom is just on the rose, so to speak. But I guess that's not really fair -- because maybe on August 1st, I will have finished. I will have lived an entire life, and finished it. Or maybe I'll just leave it for a time and come back. How should I know?
In any case, spring is coming and my nose is thanking all the pollen. Construction has begun -- directly over my head -- and the sun is out a noticeable percentage of the time more than it used to be. The wind is doux, and you can feel the world starting to pick up it's winter-weary head and sniff the air. I was here for fall, for winter. Now for spring, and soon -- summer.
A nice full circle. A complete life.
I do seem to go through them.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A Week in Avignon, just for variety's sake
The pictures are up on my photobucket if you care to check them out. The sun was out and it looks warm in the pictures, but it wasn't, because the Mistral blows in from the North and cuts into your bones. It funnels through the ancient, one-car streets with tiny sidewalks if at all, and the old walls. Everything feels like it's been preserved since the Middle Ages, the Palais des papes still as majestic as it might have been, the churches, even the houses, especially the streets. The sun bleaches everything white and colors, the blue sky contrasting sharply with the lines of the buildings. It's beautiful -- I shouldn't have to say that.
What can I tell you about what I was doing there?
In theory: dancing. Well, not just in theory -- I had a class every day for 3 hours. In the evenings, I saw a show and went out for drinks or ate with friends. In the mornings I went exploring, slept in, or had meetings about my research project.
That's the simple version, at least. I found my demons there and had a bit of an incident involving them, then spent the rest of the time finding my way away from them. I went down, then up. I met people, and talked. I went looking for my center, and for dance that means something. The time went so quickly and yet I felt like I was gone for ages. I shared a two bedroom apartment with seven others. I didn't see a lot of dance in the shows I liked. I wondered what the hell I was doing there, and I figured it out. I went out dancing with my friends and my teachers and spent the night listening to swing music in a bar run, from what I gathered, by the Russian mafia, or at least had some connection to Russians and the mafia. I went to a bar where they bring you fries and hot dogs all night. I sat and ate lunch in the Jardin des doms and watched pigeons chase each other around. I was sick all week, though I'm now convinced it was allergies.
My god, it's already the ninth of March. We just started March, right? Or February? Time has entered warp speed. It's almost spring, right? I can't say I'll be sorry to say goodbye to winter. Gray skies-- I've had enough. Bring on the sun, the warmth, the gold bathing the streets. In five weeks it'll be spring break. I've been here six months and a couple weeks.
One of these days I'll learn how to build lives and then stay in them, instead of leaving them while they're still pulsing and creating.
Or maybe I'll just keep on creating new ones, passing from one to another, keeping what I can from the old -- but that's the tricky part, of course.
I'm sorry for the randomness of this post -- my head is a little everywhere right now. The sky outside my window is looking dangerously like rain and it's not been the best of days. I'm not en forme, as they'd say in French. Hey, it happens. I've been exhausted ever since I got home from Avignon -- I didn't sleep a ton when I was there, and neither over the weekend. Since the high school was on academic holiday for two weeks before I left, it was essentially three weeks of vacation --- and now it all restarts, with interest. Rehearsals on saturdays for my show in April, a research project, another project with my sister, various odds and ends. It looks like more than it is, I'm sure.
...Yeah that's all I have for now. I will attempt to update when I know where my own head is.
What can I tell you about what I was doing there?
In theory: dancing. Well, not just in theory -- I had a class every day for 3 hours. In the evenings, I saw a show and went out for drinks or ate with friends. In the mornings I went exploring, slept in, or had meetings about my research project.
That's the simple version, at least. I found my demons there and had a bit of an incident involving them, then spent the rest of the time finding my way away from them. I went down, then up. I met people, and talked. I went looking for my center, and for dance that means something. The time went so quickly and yet I felt like I was gone for ages. I shared a two bedroom apartment with seven others. I didn't see a lot of dance in the shows I liked. I wondered what the hell I was doing there, and I figured it out. I went out dancing with my friends and my teachers and spent the night listening to swing music in a bar run, from what I gathered, by the Russian mafia, or at least had some connection to Russians and the mafia. I went to a bar where they bring you fries and hot dogs all night. I sat and ate lunch in the Jardin des doms and watched pigeons chase each other around. I was sick all week, though I'm now convinced it was allergies.
My god, it's already the ninth of March. We just started March, right? Or February? Time has entered warp speed. It's almost spring, right? I can't say I'll be sorry to say goodbye to winter. Gray skies-- I've had enough. Bring on the sun, the warmth, the gold bathing the streets. In five weeks it'll be spring break. I've been here six months and a couple weeks.
One of these days I'll learn how to build lives and then stay in them, instead of leaving them while they're still pulsing and creating.
Or maybe I'll just keep on creating new ones, passing from one to another, keeping what I can from the old -- but that's the tricky part, of course.
I'm sorry for the randomness of this post -- my head is a little everywhere right now. The sky outside my window is looking dangerously like rain and it's not been the best of days. I'm not en forme, as they'd say in French. Hey, it happens. I've been exhausted ever since I got home from Avignon -- I didn't sleep a ton when I was there, and neither over the weekend. Since the high school was on academic holiday for two weeks before I left, it was essentially three weeks of vacation --- and now it all restarts, with interest. Rehearsals on saturdays for my show in April, a research project, another project with my sister, various odds and ends. It looks like more than it is, I'm sure.
...Yeah that's all I have for now. I will attempt to update when I know where my own head is.
Friday, February 25, 2011
A Day in the Life, Thursday 24 Fèvrier
Wednesday hadn't been a good day. It had started with a couple of gypsy girls ambushing me at the ATM, pressing buttons, changing the amount I was requesting, and generally trying to distract me long enough to get the cash and my card and run. I yowled and thankfully there was a guy nearby who came over to chase them away -- they had demanded 300 euros, which surprisingly enough I don't have in my account at the moment, so finally in peace I got my 30 euros and went on my way, somewhat upset and shocked. The rest of the day wasn't bad, so to speak, just not great, and a few personal demons decided to show up and grab me around the throat...
Put it this way, Thursday morning wasn't particularly welcome. My alarm went off at 9am, not very early, I know. But oh lovely, the nose is stuffed up and it's gray AGAIN, this is going to be good...
But no matter what my state of mind, there is one thing that will always get me out of bed and on the metro, which is a dance class. So I dragged myself up and headed out to have some breakfast. Colette was eating at the same time and we chatted for awhile over coffee, until I realized I needed to go and put the car in gear.
I was just feeling scattered -- my mind and body tend to be really connected and the mini-breakdown of the night before was scattering my energy all over the place. Gray again, I was tired, slightly sick, and muttered various French curses on my way down the stairs.
On the metro, there was a cheerful guy with an accordion, speaking french with a heavy Arab accent and smiling. He played several bouncy tunes. I gave him a euro. It seemed a small price to pay for making me smile.
I wish I could say that I had an amazing ballet class and everything was better afterward, because that would make a good story. Only it's not true: I was off my balance the whole class, still outside of my body, and it was only the last combination of an hour and a half long class that I finally felt like I was centered. Better late than never, I guess. I felt slightly better but still frustrated as I headed back to the metro. The bums on the sidewalk all call out, "belle madamoiselle, une cigarette?" They all want cigarettes...no, I'm not interested. I ignored them all. Just easier that way, even though bumming cigarettes seems to be a national pastime.
I dropped by Reid Hall briefly to print a few things out, had a fight with the printer, and then walked home. I had lunch with Colette - the avocado I'd bought earlier in the week was absolutely perfect, the Maroccan strawberries that had been on sale were juicy and red and beautiful and really good with yogurt. Plus a "tradition", which is if possible better than a baguette, and life started to look up. Colette made some coffee and I had it with a chocolate eclair.
After all this activity, I was exhausted, and lay down for a little cat nap, which I have perfected. I slept 30/40 minutes, then kibitzed about the internet until 18h45 (6:45PM in other words)...then back on the metro.
Line 4 to Chatelet, line 1 to Franklin D Roosevelt, line 9 to Alma Marceau, where I met a friend and headed off to the Palais de Tokyo. Her idea -- apparently it has really nothing to do with Tokyo and is instead for contemporary art. Go figure.
When we got there, there were a bunch of people standing around in the lobby, as though waiting for something. Heartily confused, my friend and I bought tickets (1 euro each, not bad!), then asked the lady what was going on.
She pointed to a black box plopped in the middle of the lobby, roughly 6' X 6' X 6'. She said that there was a metal band inside, and in about five minutes they were going to open the door and reveal them.
Oh really?! We went over to the box and put our ears against it. Yep, you could hear vague pounding, but that was it. Right about then, the sound exploded as the guard swung open the front door, and sure enough! There was a metal band squashed inside. Four of them: drums, a bass, guitar, and a vocalist screaming into a microphone. Strange.
After that we actually went to the exhibit, which was even stranger. It was in the basement, in this enormous warehouse space, bare industrial walls and no lights -- the light came from the huge video projections on the wall. It was an exhibit about Amos Gitai and his father -- the films were all creations of Amos, often about his father's story. The projections really were enormous, and the sound from them was all mixed together and jumbled until you were right in front and then the one you were looking at took precedence. It was interesting -- though bizarre.
Back on the metro after that -- 9 to the 1 to the B, though I suggested the 4. I would have been right because the B was delayed, but there you go. We got off at St Michel and met another friend. Elena and I were hungry and grabbed a bucket of fries from nearby, then we headed off to a nearby bar, called The Gentleman, which is really nice. It was busy -- there was a soccer match on. However, we found a little table and crowded around it with a pint.
At the end of the first pint, Elena's boyfriend and a friend joined us and so the second pint came around, plus two more chairs around the tiny table. Five of us now, we spent another hour chattering. Although they could tell immediately that I wasn't French -- my accent gives it away, even though I speak really well -- the new additions didn't have any problem talking extremely quickly, and with the noise of the bar I really had to concentrate. However, I understood almost everything, which I was really happy about. I'd say I'm doing well if I can understand rapid fire French in a busy bar. (My accent, by the way, gets better with a little alcohol. Or at least, I talk quicker. They say you lose the editor...it's true).
We headed out a little past 11 and I went home and went to bed fairly soon after, but much happier and much more together. That is a fairly typical day at the end of the week, though usually I'm teaching. I move a lot -- I'm out about in Paris often, often with friends, always on the metro...and I love it.
However, I would be much happier if the sun would come out. Just for a little.
Put it this way, Thursday morning wasn't particularly welcome. My alarm went off at 9am, not very early, I know. But oh lovely, the nose is stuffed up and it's gray AGAIN, this is going to be good...
But no matter what my state of mind, there is one thing that will always get me out of bed and on the metro, which is a dance class. So I dragged myself up and headed out to have some breakfast. Colette was eating at the same time and we chatted for awhile over coffee, until I realized I needed to go and put the car in gear.
I was just feeling scattered -- my mind and body tend to be really connected and the mini-breakdown of the night before was scattering my energy all over the place. Gray again, I was tired, slightly sick, and muttered various French curses on my way down the stairs.
On the metro, there was a cheerful guy with an accordion, speaking french with a heavy Arab accent and smiling. He played several bouncy tunes. I gave him a euro. It seemed a small price to pay for making me smile.
I wish I could say that I had an amazing ballet class and everything was better afterward, because that would make a good story. Only it's not true: I was off my balance the whole class, still outside of my body, and it was only the last combination of an hour and a half long class that I finally felt like I was centered. Better late than never, I guess. I felt slightly better but still frustrated as I headed back to the metro. The bums on the sidewalk all call out, "belle madamoiselle, une cigarette?" They all want cigarettes...no, I'm not interested. I ignored them all. Just easier that way, even though bumming cigarettes seems to be a national pastime.
I dropped by Reid Hall briefly to print a few things out, had a fight with the printer, and then walked home. I had lunch with Colette - the avocado I'd bought earlier in the week was absolutely perfect, the Maroccan strawberries that had been on sale were juicy and red and beautiful and really good with yogurt. Plus a "tradition", which is if possible better than a baguette, and life started to look up. Colette made some coffee and I had it with a chocolate eclair.
After all this activity, I was exhausted, and lay down for a little cat nap, which I have perfected. I slept 30/40 minutes, then kibitzed about the internet until 18h45 (6:45PM in other words)...then back on the metro.
Line 4 to Chatelet, line 1 to Franklin D Roosevelt, line 9 to Alma Marceau, where I met a friend and headed off to the Palais de Tokyo. Her idea -- apparently it has really nothing to do with Tokyo and is instead for contemporary art. Go figure.
When we got there, there were a bunch of people standing around in the lobby, as though waiting for something. Heartily confused, my friend and I bought tickets (1 euro each, not bad!), then asked the lady what was going on.
She pointed to a black box plopped in the middle of the lobby, roughly 6' X 6' X 6'. She said that there was a metal band inside, and in about five minutes they were going to open the door and reveal them.
Oh really?! We went over to the box and put our ears against it. Yep, you could hear vague pounding, but that was it. Right about then, the sound exploded as the guard swung open the front door, and sure enough! There was a metal band squashed inside. Four of them: drums, a bass, guitar, and a vocalist screaming into a microphone. Strange.
After that we actually went to the exhibit, which was even stranger. It was in the basement, in this enormous warehouse space, bare industrial walls and no lights -- the light came from the huge video projections on the wall. It was an exhibit about Amos Gitai and his father -- the films were all creations of Amos, often about his father's story. The projections really were enormous, and the sound from them was all mixed together and jumbled until you were right in front and then the one you were looking at took precedence. It was interesting -- though bizarre.
Back on the metro after that -- 9 to the 1 to the B, though I suggested the 4. I would have been right because the B was delayed, but there you go. We got off at St Michel and met another friend. Elena and I were hungry and grabbed a bucket of fries from nearby, then we headed off to a nearby bar, called The Gentleman, which is really nice. It was busy -- there was a soccer match on. However, we found a little table and crowded around it with a pint.
At the end of the first pint, Elena's boyfriend and a friend joined us and so the second pint came around, plus two more chairs around the tiny table. Five of us now, we spent another hour chattering. Although they could tell immediately that I wasn't French -- my accent gives it away, even though I speak really well -- the new additions didn't have any problem talking extremely quickly, and with the noise of the bar I really had to concentrate. However, I understood almost everything, which I was really happy about. I'd say I'm doing well if I can understand rapid fire French in a busy bar. (My accent, by the way, gets better with a little alcohol. Or at least, I talk quicker. They say you lose the editor...it's true).
We headed out a little past 11 and I went home and went to bed fairly soon after, but much happier and much more together. That is a fairly typical day at the end of the week, though usually I'm teaching. I move a lot -- I'm out about in Paris often, often with friends, always on the metro...and I love it.
However, I would be much happier if the sun would come out. Just for a little.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Not Staying Inside: Free time in Paris
I would like to tell you what I've done for the past two weeks. That's kind of why I made the blog in the first place.
Here are my excuses for not updating:
1) The weather sucks. What exactly this has to do with my lack of writing, I'm not sure, but I'm sure it's related. It's gray and cold and occasionally, whenever I don't have my umbrella, it spits rain. When I don't, it's just kind of gray. Once in awhile the sun comes out for a morning, just to tease me. I disagree.
2) J'ai trop la flemme, and if I spelled that right I will be shocked. Either way, I've just had NO ambition to do anything that involves writing. Today, thanks to the weather, I had to force myself to go to ballet. But dance I can handle. But stuff like sending e-mails I keep forgetting to, you know that fun stuff, j'ai aucune envie, I just don't want to. I know, whine whine.
3) I keep going out. That is, I've been out almost too much if possible, especially this weekend. For various reasons I didn't sleep in my own bed very much this weekend, was either too far from home or out with girlfriends and it's often easier to just sleep over. I have a lot of free time right now because my students are all on vacation and off somewhere in the Alps skiing (screw them) for the February vaca that happens in French high/middle schools, so I've been taking care to keep myself occupied. Whether that's walking, drinking coffee with friends, meeting friends for lunch (sushi), taking extra dance classes, seeing movies (Les femmes au sixième étage, Black Swan), seeing exhibits (Paris: Avant Après 1860-2011, Louvre: Les appartements de Napoléon III, le code d'Hammurabi) during the day, and then at night having dinner with friends (une raclette, house warming party), out at a concert (Pont Ephémere), meeting someone for a drink, etc, it makes for a busy schedule and not a lot of sleep. It's way too much fun, actually.
Well, yeah, so the third reason is what I've been up to. In a nutshell. All over the place, now that I think about it.
Obvious piece of news: The Louvre is HUGE. They say you can walk around for two straight years and not see everything. This seems unbelievable to me, but it is still giant.
Cool thing that happened: On Tuesday, I was in a café with my friend Julia when the skies opened and then the sun came out,making an incredibly bright rainbow practically just outside the window.
I don't know why I'm telling you this piece of news: I met a French guy. Well, yes, I've met several, but I think you know what I mean. We've only seen each other twice, mais que j'ai craqué pour lui ("de craquer pour" somebody means that you get one of those giddy twirling kind of crushes on them. Voilà.)
La vie est belle, what else can I say? I'll try and update more.
Here are my excuses for not updating:
1) The weather sucks. What exactly this has to do with my lack of writing, I'm not sure, but I'm sure it's related. It's gray and cold and occasionally, whenever I don't have my umbrella, it spits rain. When I don't, it's just kind of gray. Once in awhile the sun comes out for a morning, just to tease me. I disagree.
2) J'ai trop la flemme, and if I spelled that right I will be shocked. Either way, I've just had NO ambition to do anything that involves writing. Today, thanks to the weather, I had to force myself to go to ballet. But dance I can handle. But stuff like sending e-mails I keep forgetting to, you know that fun stuff, j'ai aucune envie, I just don't want to. I know, whine whine.
3) I keep going out. That is, I've been out almost too much if possible, especially this weekend. For various reasons I didn't sleep in my own bed very much this weekend, was either too far from home or out with girlfriends and it's often easier to just sleep over. I have a lot of free time right now because my students are all on vacation and off somewhere in the Alps skiing (screw them) for the February vaca that happens in French high/middle schools, so I've been taking care to keep myself occupied. Whether that's walking, drinking coffee with friends, meeting friends for lunch (sushi), taking extra dance classes, seeing movies (Les femmes au sixième étage, Black Swan), seeing exhibits (Paris: Avant Après 1860-2011, Louvre: Les appartements de Napoléon III, le code d'Hammurabi) during the day, and then at night having dinner with friends (une raclette, house warming party), out at a concert (Pont Ephémere), meeting someone for a drink, etc, it makes for a busy schedule and not a lot of sleep. It's way too much fun, actually.
Well, yeah, so the third reason is what I've been up to. In a nutshell. All over the place, now that I think about it.
Obvious piece of news: The Louvre is HUGE. They say you can walk around for two straight years and not see everything. This seems unbelievable to me, but it is still giant.
Cool thing that happened: On Tuesday, I was in a café with my friend Julia when the skies opened and then the sun came out,making an incredibly bright rainbow practically just outside the window.
I don't know why I'm telling you this piece of news: I met a French guy. Well, yes, I've met several, but I think you know what I mean. We've only seen each other twice, mais que j'ai craqué pour lui ("de craquer pour" somebody means that you get one of those giddy twirling kind of crushes on them. Voilà.)
La vie est belle, what else can I say? I'll try and update more.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Complaining Suddenly Irrelevant: It's already February
So I spend all my time whining about how I don't like January and February, and then they do me the disservice of making me look like an idiot and whipping on by. At least the last couple weeks -- suddenly it's February 8th and the worst month of the year is 1/4 over.
I suppose it may be because I have been absolutely determined not to let the blues get me down -- I am in Paris, and thus do not consider it legitimate to mope about for two months. I've been pretty careful to keep my head in a good place and catch it whenever it gets off on one of its "I hate this time of year" rants.
It helps that the sun is coming out.
My host mom says that it's normal to have the first signs of Spring now, which, as a Colorado native growing up at 8200 feet above sea level and thus having spring sometime in late May, this is utterly bizarre to me. It seems far too early to even consider spring, but I sure hope she's right. Warmer weather and sunshine would be a-okay with me.
Of course, thanks to the temperature changes I have a lovely head cold and am somewhat in pain at the moment, but there you go. I'm still in Paris, and what's more....
I'm staying here until the end of July.
Yes you heard right. I asked a friend and got an offer to share an apartment for the summer, which means that my dream of celebrating my birthday in Paris and generally getting to see Paris in the summer is coming true. I'm going to work on finding a job, doing what I don't know yet, but we'll see. The point is, I'm here for the summer. I leave in August because there are people that I must see before I go back to New York in the fall, and I think I've gotten to the point where I know it will be the perfect time here and the perfect time to leave. Of course, I may always come back -- but that's too far away. As I've been learning to do this year -- sort of forced to learn -- I'm trying to live inside now.
One other big piece of news for the week is that this past saturday, thanks to Anne, I presented a solo - my own choreography - at a gala benefiting an association called 'Virades de l'espoir" and fights against a rare genetic respiratory disorder. It was a trip -- and I mean that in a couple different ways. The venue was in St Rèmy les Chevreuse, about an hour away on the RER train, so it's not really "à côté" as they say here, aka nearby. Also because my solo was about as different to the choreography of every other group there as Santa is to the Grinch BEFORE the Who's start singing. The other groups were all large in number, used music with a heavy dance electronic kind of beat, was just endless sharp movement, all performed facing the audience. There were a couple pieces that were the most formulaic pieces of dance I think I have ever seen.
To be fair, there was one piece that was really, really well done -- it was a mix of African and hip hop, and while I can't figure out what it was about it that made it so good, it had a emotional content, an intensity, and was just really well put together and staged.
However, I have to say that I felt pretty out of place -- my solo was really good, don't get me wrong, it's been worked on so much, but it's just a more subtle kind of dance that plays with energy and tension and suspension and release, and isn't the bang bang crowd pleasing kind of thing that was all over the place otherwise. I was pretty nervous -- it's been a LONG time since I danced a solo and it was my debut as a choreographer as well. It went well, I suppose, but there was just something kind of lacking...a kind of connection with the audience that is really important for me. It was just like, I danced, people clapped, and that was it -- but not the life-sparking, intoxicating connection that happened the other night at the Elysée Montmartre.
But there you have it, it was cool in any case.
So in general, what am I doing these days?
I'm teaching -- a lot. Three days a week I'm at the high school, one day I have private lessons. On the one day I'm not teaching English, I'm helping my dance prof at Paris 7 teach a class called "danse création". At the high school, I've ditched the idea of just bringing in a subject and talking about it -- that just doesn't work at all. Instead, we've been having debates, or, more popular, doing some roleplay. I write a scenario on a slip of paper and they imagine a conversation or sketch based on it. It's been remarkably popular, though some scenes work better than others.
As for my class at Paris 7, it's been remarkably helpful. It's sometimes incredibly overwhelming -- my teacher (also my mentor and coach) Anne often lets me lead exercises or parts of the class and will give me tips here and there. With the combination of watching the students closely, figuring out how to structure the class, and trying to give instructions and corrections in a language that still isn't perfectly familiar to me, it's exhausting!!
When I'm not teaching, I'm either on the metro or in dance class myself. I take three dance classes a week, two ballet and one contemporary. It's not enough, but it's what I can do right now. I'd have to pay for the next one myself and money's just a little tight at the moment, especially trying to plan ahead. I also still have my choreography workshop in addition. Soon I'll be adding on a directed research project, which rounds out the course list.
Yeah, I spend an incredible amount of time on the metro. While it's really cool -- it sure repeatedly ejects me from my bubble -- it does get tiring sometimes. Ah well -- can I really complain?
As the title of this post suggests, no. I can't.
In the time in between all that, I go out for drinks, for dinner. I meet friends, see films, have bitter espressos and amazing French food, eat bread. I go to soirées, I dance some more.
La vie est toujours belle.
I suppose it may be because I have been absolutely determined not to let the blues get me down -- I am in Paris, and thus do not consider it legitimate to mope about for two months. I've been pretty careful to keep my head in a good place and catch it whenever it gets off on one of its "I hate this time of year" rants.
It helps that the sun is coming out.
My host mom says that it's normal to have the first signs of Spring now, which, as a Colorado native growing up at 8200 feet above sea level and thus having spring sometime in late May, this is utterly bizarre to me. It seems far too early to even consider spring, but I sure hope she's right. Warmer weather and sunshine would be a-okay with me.
Of course, thanks to the temperature changes I have a lovely head cold and am somewhat in pain at the moment, but there you go. I'm still in Paris, and what's more....
I'm staying here until the end of July.
Yes you heard right. I asked a friend and got an offer to share an apartment for the summer, which means that my dream of celebrating my birthday in Paris and generally getting to see Paris in the summer is coming true. I'm going to work on finding a job, doing what I don't know yet, but we'll see. The point is, I'm here for the summer. I leave in August because there are people that I must see before I go back to New York in the fall, and I think I've gotten to the point where I know it will be the perfect time here and the perfect time to leave. Of course, I may always come back -- but that's too far away. As I've been learning to do this year -- sort of forced to learn -- I'm trying to live inside now.
One other big piece of news for the week is that this past saturday, thanks to Anne, I presented a solo - my own choreography - at a gala benefiting an association called 'Virades de l'espoir" and fights against a rare genetic respiratory disorder. It was a trip -- and I mean that in a couple different ways. The venue was in St Rèmy les Chevreuse, about an hour away on the RER train, so it's not really "à côté" as they say here, aka nearby. Also because my solo was about as different to the choreography of every other group there as Santa is to the Grinch BEFORE the Who's start singing. The other groups were all large in number, used music with a heavy dance electronic kind of beat, was just endless sharp movement, all performed facing the audience. There were a couple pieces that were the most formulaic pieces of dance I think I have ever seen.
To be fair, there was one piece that was really, really well done -- it was a mix of African and hip hop, and while I can't figure out what it was about it that made it so good, it had a emotional content, an intensity, and was just really well put together and staged.
However, I have to say that I felt pretty out of place -- my solo was really good, don't get me wrong, it's been worked on so much, but it's just a more subtle kind of dance that plays with energy and tension and suspension and release, and isn't the bang bang crowd pleasing kind of thing that was all over the place otherwise. I was pretty nervous -- it's been a LONG time since I danced a solo and it was my debut as a choreographer as well. It went well, I suppose, but there was just something kind of lacking...a kind of connection with the audience that is really important for me. It was just like, I danced, people clapped, and that was it -- but not the life-sparking, intoxicating connection that happened the other night at the Elysée Montmartre.
But there you have it, it was cool in any case.
So in general, what am I doing these days?
I'm teaching -- a lot. Three days a week I'm at the high school, one day I have private lessons. On the one day I'm not teaching English, I'm helping my dance prof at Paris 7 teach a class called "danse création". At the high school, I've ditched the idea of just bringing in a subject and talking about it -- that just doesn't work at all. Instead, we've been having debates, or, more popular, doing some roleplay. I write a scenario on a slip of paper and they imagine a conversation or sketch based on it. It's been remarkably popular, though some scenes work better than others.
As for my class at Paris 7, it's been remarkably helpful. It's sometimes incredibly overwhelming -- my teacher (also my mentor and coach) Anne often lets me lead exercises or parts of the class and will give me tips here and there. With the combination of watching the students closely, figuring out how to structure the class, and trying to give instructions and corrections in a language that still isn't perfectly familiar to me, it's exhausting!!
When I'm not teaching, I'm either on the metro or in dance class myself. I take three dance classes a week, two ballet and one contemporary. It's not enough, but it's what I can do right now. I'd have to pay for the next one myself and money's just a little tight at the moment, especially trying to plan ahead. I also still have my choreography workshop in addition. Soon I'll be adding on a directed research project, which rounds out the course list.
Yeah, I spend an incredible amount of time on the metro. While it's really cool -- it sure repeatedly ejects me from my bubble -- it does get tiring sometimes. Ah well -- can I really complain?
As the title of this post suggests, no. I can't.
In the time in between all that, I go out for drinks, for dinner. I meet friends, see films, have bitter espressos and amazing French food, eat bread. I go to soirées, I dance some more.
La vie est toujours belle.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Wanted, Sunshine: Waiting for January to be over
To my knowledge, I have never liked January.
It is a little known fact that January is the longest month of the year. And once it is finally finished, the same day repeats 28 times. Of this I am firmly convinced and will not hear otherwise -- no matter what the days look like, February is the same day. Just repeated.
Also to my knowledge, these two particular months, especially February, are not kind to me. There is always some miniature disaster, but mostly just the little things bug the crap out of me.
And yes, I do believe these two phenomenon are related; clearly, in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I expect the first two months of the year to be shitty and thus pick out everything that is, leading myself further into the belief that they are shitty. A vicious cycle, you might say.
Well, hey, this year I am in Paris, and I can't afford to mope away two whole months, despite my inherent mistrust of them. It's just that the days
d
r
a
g
.
And it's gray, ugly, spitting rain and cold, and did I mention gray gray gray and uhhhggggglieee.*
*like the way I just wrote ugly.
What hey. I want the sunshine. I was born and bred in Colorado and the western sun good and soaked into my DNA and everywhere I go, I miss it. New York, now Paris. I don't know if I will end up living in Colorado but wherever I am I take the endless blue skies of the west with me and I firmly believe that I'm just more alive when the sun is shining.
That said, it doesn't do so very much in Paris.
Au contraire.
I've been missing it dearly this week, missing the sun. But I've been working hard not to get too complacent and whiny because my time in Paris is limited and I know it. I pay cher in euros but also in time.
(I've noticed these days that no matter how much I dance, it isn't enough. I always thought I should stop moving sometimes, but I realize that I'm just a restless person and I need to be moving, dancing walking, and so these days, especially these days, I try not to sit around too much. I need to do less of that, even still...)
This sunday was one of those patented January days. Not terribly cold at least, but spitting rain, windy. Turns your cheeks red and batters little drops of water against your face. But I couldn't stay inside, it would drive me crazy to sit and stare at the gray sky outside my window...
So I decided to take a walk. Not really knowing where I was going, I turned down a street I'd never been down before. Wandered along, looking at the shops, slowly. A pale, unhealthy sun was trying to poke through and in a few minutes of glory, succeeded, right about the time I found a random tiny little park, with tall green hedges and benches for one people, while a mother and her little girl kicked around a ball. I didn't stay long, but paused for a minute and smelled the green, this wonderful little oasis....
Then moved on. The street took me to another that I knew, the Avenue du Maine, wide and busy. I walked along, noticing my shadow walking alone on the sidewalk, the still pale, quickly vanishing sun. I was heading towards the Tour Montparnasse, I thought, and I knew where I was going.
Le Chien Qui Fume, a well known café run by the friends of my host mom, a place I now frequent. Cute, small, the regulars at the bar. People come in one and twos, meeting friends or reading books. They know me, say hello and a kiss on both cheeks.
I ordered a café express, and then was asked if I wanted a croissant or a pain au chocolat. I hadn't thought of it, but the waitress told me it was the best croissant in Paris, so I agreed finally.
She didn't lie. It was the best croissant I've ever had. With a half package of sugar the express is just bitter enough to make you awake, and I drank it slowly, reading some old bits of writing from the past year, things I keep in my "book of souls", which is not really a journal but acts like one sometimes. The colors of the café, though not garish, were bright enough to contrast sharply against the gray world outside, and the people outside bustled along with their heads down. I watched them, and ate my croissant.
I decided to walk home -- I could have easily taken the bus, but wanted to do something with my life and my energy.
But I didn't want to leave the café -- somehow it seemed like the only thing real. In my mind, I remember it being the only thing that wasn't black and white that day.
I think the moral of the story is that I need to spend my time in Oz these months -- stay away from the black and white of the outside, eat good food, drink coffee, and move. Without the sun, those are the things that keep me alive.
It is a little known fact that January is the longest month of the year. And once it is finally finished, the same day repeats 28 times. Of this I am firmly convinced and will not hear otherwise -- no matter what the days look like, February is the same day. Just repeated.
Also to my knowledge, these two particular months, especially February, are not kind to me. There is always some miniature disaster, but mostly just the little things bug the crap out of me.
And yes, I do believe these two phenomenon are related; clearly, in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I expect the first two months of the year to be shitty and thus pick out everything that is, leading myself further into the belief that they are shitty. A vicious cycle, you might say.
Well, hey, this year I am in Paris, and I can't afford to mope away two whole months, despite my inherent mistrust of them. It's just that the days
d
r
a
g
.
And it's gray, ugly, spitting rain and cold, and did I mention gray gray gray and uhhhggggglieee.*
*like the way I just wrote ugly.
What hey. I want the sunshine. I was born and bred in Colorado and the western sun good and soaked into my DNA and everywhere I go, I miss it. New York, now Paris. I don't know if I will end up living in Colorado but wherever I am I take the endless blue skies of the west with me and I firmly believe that I'm just more alive when the sun is shining.
That said, it doesn't do so very much in Paris.
Au contraire.
I've been missing it dearly this week, missing the sun. But I've been working hard not to get too complacent and whiny because my time in Paris is limited and I know it. I pay cher in euros but also in time.
(I've noticed these days that no matter how much I dance, it isn't enough. I always thought I should stop moving sometimes, but I realize that I'm just a restless person and I need to be moving, dancing walking, and so these days, especially these days, I try not to sit around too much. I need to do less of that, even still...)
This sunday was one of those patented January days. Not terribly cold at least, but spitting rain, windy. Turns your cheeks red and batters little drops of water against your face. But I couldn't stay inside, it would drive me crazy to sit and stare at the gray sky outside my window...
So I decided to take a walk. Not really knowing where I was going, I turned down a street I'd never been down before. Wandered along, looking at the shops, slowly. A pale, unhealthy sun was trying to poke through and in a few minutes of glory, succeeded, right about the time I found a random tiny little park, with tall green hedges and benches for one people, while a mother and her little girl kicked around a ball. I didn't stay long, but paused for a minute and smelled the green, this wonderful little oasis....
Then moved on. The street took me to another that I knew, the Avenue du Maine, wide and busy. I walked along, noticing my shadow walking alone on the sidewalk, the still pale, quickly vanishing sun. I was heading towards the Tour Montparnasse, I thought, and I knew where I was going.
Le Chien Qui Fume, a well known café run by the friends of my host mom, a place I now frequent. Cute, small, the regulars at the bar. People come in one and twos, meeting friends or reading books. They know me, say hello and a kiss on both cheeks.
I ordered a café express, and then was asked if I wanted a croissant or a pain au chocolat. I hadn't thought of it, but the waitress told me it was the best croissant in Paris, so I agreed finally.
She didn't lie. It was the best croissant I've ever had. With a half package of sugar the express is just bitter enough to make you awake, and I drank it slowly, reading some old bits of writing from the past year, things I keep in my "book of souls", which is not really a journal but acts like one sometimes. The colors of the café, though not garish, were bright enough to contrast sharply against the gray world outside, and the people outside bustled along with their heads down. I watched them, and ate my croissant.
I decided to walk home -- I could have easily taken the bus, but wanted to do something with my life and my energy.
But I didn't want to leave the café -- somehow it seemed like the only thing real. In my mind, I remember it being the only thing that wasn't black and white that day.
I think the moral of the story is that I need to spend my time in Oz these months -- stay away from the black and white of the outside, eat good food, drink coffee, and move. Without the sun, those are the things that keep me alive.
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