French friends? or...

Today’s topics: pick up lines accompanied with a casual Louvre visit and a wise Aunt’s advice, perhaps not in that order and perhaps not that cut and dry. All of us study-abroaders really want local friends. To truly live in your place (Paris for me) it would mean to have some kind of network in the city. In the past I have been put in situations in which everyone is searching for a friend in the place that they are in, therefore it’s simple. College, they throw you into a small room with a stranger; track, they throw you up cement hills with crazy coaches yelling—everyone needs the solstice of the others around. Here, the Parisians appear to be in their particular groove. Without me, they will go on in that chic groove. Kate G. told me that you lose a part of personality when you arrive abroad, because broken phrases transfer into broken personality. She is spot on. However, Aunt Linda says that it’s your energy and broken phrases are not always equivalent to a void in personality. So…game plan is to lose the insecurity energy pulsing through me, I’ll let you know how that goes. The convo with Aunt Linda was abruptly stopped by my rendezvous with Annie and Sarah at the Louvre. On Friday nights after 6pm people under 26 get into the Louvre for free. It was quite empty. It’s amazing how free you feel when you can waltz into rooms full of history, grandeur and art. While the Louvre is incredible, some might not think it is proper Friday night material, which is why it was followed up by rue de Princess, a popular street of pubs. As I waited, alone for a friend, I realized the comforts of home were MIA; no familiar faces, no ability to pop on the phone with Ali to have her keep me company, just the rue et moi et beaucoup de garcons. Up to this point, the encounters with unknown men in Paris had been interesting, but this night added an entertaining new chapter. Before, there were a few “tu es tres belle”s and some “mademoiselle…”s, oh there was also the guy who came up and asked me if I had heard of some band, after I responded with a no, he was like well you should check in out myspace and come to a concert. At the chance of maybe having a French friend I was somewhat interested and asked for the band name again, that’s when I led him to the place he wanted; he answered and told me that if I forgot the band name he could give me his number and I could give him a call. Uh huh. I told him I would remember. I think it’s Gachettes something… Anyway, that leads me back to last night, back on the street, alone in front of a few pubs. An older Italian man approached, “Ca va?” “Oui, ca va,” after introductions he told me to come with him for a drink. When I told him I was waiting for a friend, he goes, “Well, you have a mobile phone, yes? So, you call your friend and tell your friend you are having a drink with me.” No thanks. After that episode my friend Trevor arrived and we entered the pub, The Little Temple, a packed Irish-style pub. The music definitely gave it a fun character, swinging strangely from Jay-Z and Kanye to Motown and then a little Irish jig music. After chatting it up with Trevor for a while, the first move was made by a guy in the bar—a paper plate was thrown in my direction. Minutes later a new paper plate was accompanied by a French man who said he had been sent over by his friends and that it was imperative that he get an answer to a certain question, that question being, “what is your father’s name?” After receiving his answer he returned to his table chuckling. When I returned to my conversation with Trevor, not much was said before I got my big shock. A pinch of my toosh—the culprit a French guy at the paper-plate-throwing table. Now, this table was not super close, one must know that this was a reach and then pinch. When I approached he assured me it was an accident. Oh Paris, paper-plates and ass grabbing, no need to go to the Louvre, I’ve found the charm I’ve been looking for.

Food and Tights-under-jeans Cold

Today, an excursion to Dijon. Yes, it is a place, a place de moutard if you will. Except we ate everything but moutard. First there was a wait in a cold train station…never done that before. Then a ride on the TGV, which is great. Once we arrived in Dijon we went to a restaurant in which we witnessed a little cooking demonstration. The French chef made these wonderful cheese scone-ish delights consisting of butter, water, flour, eggs, a pinch of salt and cheese. Watching the chef make them was probably the highlight of the whole day. After the demonstration(read in a French accent) we sat down to a 200 course meal; some plates and drinks included: hardboiled egg soaked in something on bread, shredded carrots, beef and green beans, crème a cassis, red wine, cheese, bread, white wine, poached pear and cassis ice cream. Even listing it is tedious—imagine the meal. Apres dejeuner we headed out to the streets of Dijon for a detailed tour of the town, which potentially could have been interesting. However, snow and weather below 20 degrees greeted us as we walked for almost 2 hours outside. Everyone was miserable. When that was finally done we all went our separate ways for café crème or chocolate chaud and then some of us braved walking outside the cafes for a little shopping. Somehow after returning to Paris a group of 6 of us had enough room in our stomachs for more food, and we actually went to a great sushi restaurant that was quite reasonable. Tomorrow we shall see qu’est-ce qu’il passe, but I can probably guarantee more cold and more eating.

Oscillations

Paris, je suis ici! After bringing in the New Year in the States, I began my journey over to Paris. Shuffling through and evening out my overstuffed suitcases was my first task, then waiting to check them, then waiting in the security line; while tedious, all this still went quite smoothly. Even the 10 hour plane ride and then transfer in Amsterdam was unexciting, in a good way. Amsterdam greeted me with light snowflakes and what appeared to be a full moon, I felt as if I was arriving in an 18th century industrial town during Christmas, and this wasn’t even my final destination. After lining up to board the plane to Paris, a French man asked me, in French, if I was in line for the flight to Paris, I answered with a quick “Oui” and felt giddy that I appeared French enough for someone to ask me, out of all the people in line. An on-the-plane croissant au chocolate and a taxi ride later, I was at my host family’s apartment in the 6eme arrondissement of Paris. Michel, my host dad who, after 2 days, seems like he will be an out of the picture dad, helped me with my suitcase, showed me my room and left me there. Eventually, Christiane, my talkative, sweet host mom arrived and showed me around the apartment and let me know a bit about what life would be like there this upcoming semester. The apartment is very French. Some quirks include the mazish hall that leads to the kitchen, the contrast between the high ceiling in my room to the 6 foot ceiling in the other American girl’s (Leah) room, and the two toilets (one for “petites choses” and the other for everything else). Now after a few days, some exploration of the surrounding area has taken place. Every building is absolutely beautiful. I have already walked to grand places such as the Louvre and the Jardin du Luxembourg, but I have also accompanied these sites with important but small ones, such as the Monoprix (the supermarket) and Orange (similar to AT&T). I am wildly overwhelmed and somewhat lonely, but so grateful to be in Paris.