Lazy Parisian days are better

Day 13
Friday, May 28

My favorite Apollinaire poem (caligram):

"Mon coeur pareil à une flamme renversée"

Our favorite shoes. Alas, they are $400

It means "my heart is like a flame upside down." Beautiful, no? Today we decided to do nothing in particular (for the first time since being here). I got up and grabbed an espresso with a friend, then I meandered through the farmer's market that sets up below our apartment every Tuesday and Friday. I bought myself a Chorizo, Oueff, and Fromage crepe and found Diana, and then we both went upstairs, turned on CNN (the only channel we get in English) and dozed in the natural light from our open window. (Sigh). Then, before our Soiree with poet/actress/photographer Margo Berdeshevsky, Diana and I wandered over to Rue de Rivoli and window shopped and found a boulangerie for dinner. 

Paris threw us a curve ball by RAINING for the first time since we've been here. Apparently rain is pretty standard though, and we've just been abnormally lucky to be basking in the beautiful weather for the past two weeks. But it stopped five minutes later, so once again, Paris for the win. We found Margo's apartment right across from Musee Carnavalet (gorgeous neighborhood) and joined our classmates and Cecelia at her place upstairs. She has a lovely home, full of her photography and warm wood finishes. Margo herself is beautiful and earthy. She reads, no, rather she performs her poems with flair, engrossing all of us in her exploration of what it means to "witness." We sip kir royal and eat salty pitted olives and discuss using dreams as a spider-web map for writing poetry. Its all very chic and very abstract. We left with a vague idea of our writing assignment for the weekend, but we figured we would think about that later. 

Oh, herro

Some classmates and I stopped at Cafe Rivolux for a drink and a croque monsieur. Once again, I love lit nerds. Its awesome to talk for extended periods of time about literary things and to gossip about professors in the English department. Where were you people these past four years of school??

We talked about very important things and sipped cote du rhone and then met some interesting frenchmen at the end. They told us that Cafe Rivolux is actually a huge hot spot in Paris. Who knew? Perhaps we'll go back. We made our exit, and Diana and I ended up (again) at L'Embuscade. There we bonded with the bartender and met some musicians that looked like they stepped right out of Portland. The language barrier got the best of us though, so off to bed for us. Voila Day 13.    

Once again, french graffiti is beautiful

Hangin out with Van Gogh, Cezanne, Degas, Monet, Manet, and Renoir

Day 12
Thursday, May 26

My new elephant friend outside Musee d'Orsay

An illicitly taken photo of my favorite Degas

No class today, so we decided to get some culture and visit a museum. Since we got up at noon, we figured the Louvre would have to wait until we could devote a full ten hours to it, so we jumped on the train to Musee d'Orsay. Turns out there's really no "good" time to go to avoid the crowds--on weekends the line to get in extends around the block, but on week days you get all the field trips and tour groups. We waited for thirty minutes to get in, but this place is worth it. Musee d'Orsay is a converted train station, very open and flooded with natural light.

The Absinthe Drinker

I started snapping pictures right away until a fellow museum goer warned me that they'd confiscate my phone (which doubles as my camera) if they caught me. My solution was to be more sneaky about my photo-taking. I managed to get a few shots while dodging the docents. I loved Degas and Cezanne, but there's really no beating Van Gogh. His style is something I have tried to use in my own painting projects, but unfortunately my art professors asked me to adhere to a tighter articulation of my subjects. Maybe I did it badly, but I have to wonder at what point is art "sloppy" verses stylized. Now that I'm done with the studio art classes, I think I'll try again to paint/draw in a looser vein.

After spending the afternoon at Musee d'Orsay, Diana and I came home and made dinner, opened the vino, and got ready for a party in Buttes Cheauxmont, one of the most beautiful parks in Paris. Rose joined us for some more wine, and together we headed out to the party. We stopped in L'Embuscade for a quick drink, and there we found our poetry-loving Parisian friends from two nights before. They were very happy to see us, and one of them decided to come with us to Buttes Cheauxmont. It was nice to have him along because he repelled all the creepers on the metro while simultaneously charming us all the way to the park. Its also convenient that he speaks English beautifully--better than I do. Apparently when the French learn the English language, they learn to speak with a British accent; its considered more "proper" than American English. I agree. Maybe I'll bust out my British accent for the rest of the trip just to see if people react to me differently.

L'Embuscade, the bar beneath our apartment.
The name translates to "The Ambush" (ha).

Anyway, the rest of the night was very fun, party-ish things and beautiful people, too much wine and mingling with the locals. and Day 12, voilaa.

Punch drunk poets probably need a nap

Day 11
Wednesday May 25

I would just like to say that today, Day 11, of my time here in Paris, I am only just now caught up with this blog...take that as you will.

Class today focused on workshopping the sonnets... well not everyone wrote a sonnet... it focused on the fourteen lines we were each asked to write. However, at this time in our class, we have already written six poems in seven days of class, with PARIS and all its trappings looming over us. Its quite the brain drain. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the prospect of coming up with something creatively important to say; I think I've hit my limit. Judging by my classmates' angst and tweaky-ness today, I am not the only one. The vibe of the room was that of a two year old who gets wild because he's ready for his nap.

The critiques went well though, and at 1:30 we were released into the world to find food before returning for the second round of workshop at 3:15. I found myself a chorizo baguette and joined some friends on the steps of Sacre Couere to eat and blab. Blab, blab, blab. We needed to run our mouths today. I think we were getting it out of our systems, because we all knew that Ellen Hinsey would be there to run the second workshop. Ellen Hinsey is a poet who was given the privilege of poetic witness at the international tribunals at the Hague for war crimes committed during the Serbian genocide. Her book, Update on the Descent, reads like an ancient philosophical text, wise and beautiful and horrifically violent. We had all read it the night before, so we knew what was in store for us this afternoon.

When 3:15 rolled around, Cecelia put out petit cupcakes for us, and we made some coffee, then Ellen came. She's lovely, very personable and smart. I wished I could see into her head, poke around and find out what exists in a human brain that gives them the ability to write so beautifully. She asked each of us which social issue in the world today concerned us the most. Then she asked us to take our response and free write a poem involving that issue. None of us had poetically fleshed them out before. Then she worked with us individually, helping us find what to develop in our work. Learning how to approach writing a poem that deals with social issues was important for me. I think we all have the tendency to write about abstractions, or ex-boyfriends, or Paris, but there are other things to care about. Social issues have always seemed a little too unattainable in poetry. I'm excited to practice with the genre. Then she read a few of her poems. As we predicted, they wedged into our guts and stayed. When the workshop ended at 6:30, well all went home to our respective apartments and took the night to unwind.

We've been thinking at a hundred miles an hour since being here, and I am exhausted.

I am incredibly happy, but my brain is twisty right now.

I didn't even take any pictures today.

I don't have an alarm set for tomorrow, and we have nothing to write until Monday.

Exhale anddd voila. day 11.

Macaron and Mazes

Klutz

Day 10

Tuesday,  May 24

Art gallery in the air on our walk to the boulangerie
in Monmartre

Class (intensive workshopping), boulangerie for lunch, then we tried again at the Musee de la Vie Romantique. Success this time! We saw the paintings and artifacts from the romantic period in France, and I added a few artistic dopplegangers to my collection. Then we sipped espresso in the garden and read for class (I know, I know). The lives we're living now do not exist anywhere except for hollywood period pieces, and I am happily playing the role of the ideal Parisian. Suddenly the garden is booming...with older ladies...this must be quite the hotspot for the 60+ crowd. We took that as our que to move along. Ha. 

Macaron at Cafe Lauduree

We jumped on the metro to the Champs d'Elysees and had macaron at Cafe Lauduree, which is uber glamourous and lovely and delicious. If I had 8euro to spend on cookies every day, I would. Thats how good it is. Even though these snooty french waiters take their time with us because we speak english. We really haven't had any problems with the language barrier or french people being "rude" like the stereotype--as far as I can tell, if you make an effort to be polite and say "madame" and "monsieur" then they'll try to figure out what you're saying. We poked around a bit in the shops, then moseyed on down toward Concorde taking a little break in the Jardin du Tuilerie. Then it got cold, and I was wearing a dress so we moved on, walking down the same street until we found ourselves outside the Louvre. We checked out the grounds and stumbled upon a fashion photo shoot, and a red carpet event, and a conspicuous pair of pants in the hedge labyrinth. With that, we figured it was about time for some wine. So after a quick stop at a supermarche, we head across the Seine to Pont Neuf (a little outcropping island park) to sit with the locals and watch the boats and ducks as the sun goes down. I love hanging out with fellow english nerds because the conversation is good, and these particular nerds aren't the pretentious literary snoot types. Intelligent without taking it too seriously. Nice. 

From the Jardin du Tuileries, you can see all
the way to the Arc du Triomphe behind the
Concorde down the Champs d' Elysees

The sun went down, and Diana and I headed home to grab our laptops and post up in the bar/cafe in our building. The French do not care if you have homework, though, so we didn't get too much done between all the chatting. At least they like to talk about Apollinaire (a personal favorite of mine), and they like the opera, and they speak Italian too. Its not your typical bar chat, but I can't even be surprised at this point. We had to convince them to let us leave though, because when you have a sonnet due at 10am, being out at 2am is, perhaps, a bad idea.

...It is impossible to fit the Louvre in one camera frame.

Aaaand Day 9. Voila.  

Cemeteries and Slam Poets

Day 9

Monday, May 23

Back to class this morning, but Diana and I went through a whole bag of coffee in a week. When you go through a whole bag of coffee in a week, it means two things: 1) that you need coffee to function properly and 2) because you need coffee to function properly, without coffee already in your system, it is unlikely that you would make it to the supermarche in the morning to buy more. Long story longer, we have no coffee, so we are slugs today. But we have workshop with Marilyn Hacker, and this is a big deal. Marilyn Hacker is important in the literary field, but, as she said, "who gives a fuck if someone's won a Guggenheim. I would want to know if they have three Saint Bernards." That is why she's the famous poet. We got to discuss her newest book, Desesperanto, with her, and she gave us tips on writing in form (sonnet, sestina, villanelle, etc.) After class, a few of us trudged up a thousand vertical stairs through Monmartre towards Musee de la Vie Romantique (Museum of Romantic Life). But. We have forgotten that most museums are closed on Mondays, including this one.

The crew at Coupe du Monde

So we reverted to our old favorite plan: pick up some wine from the market. We took our loot to the cemetery in Monmartre...I realize this is the second cemetery we've sought out, but its not bizarre to go there in Paris. They're parks, and there are famous people to visit. We wanted to see Degas's grave, and Balzac's and Damas's. And we thought we'd be hauntingly inspired for our impending sonnets. So, wine in hand, we found a monumental back corner grave and borrowed its steps and surrounding patio for our purposes.  

Our class was due to meet again at an Open Mic night at an art bar off Rue Villette, so we took the train to the 11th arrondisment and found a park to sit and write in. Instead of writing, we found some new friends, and we started to realize our public writing endeavors have thus far not been so productive. But, although we love our apartment, we don't want to miss a minute of life in this city by being cooped up inside. Reconciling class work with PARIS has been a struggle, but I do not care. 

Yes, its okay to write in a bar here

We found our reading, and snagged a spot. The place filled up! I'd say I was surprised, but once again--Paris is just like that. It can pack a house full of chic bohemians from all over the world to read their writing or play their music. The event ran smoothly because each performer was allotted five minutes on stage; any longer and the guy (who was wearing a top hat and converse) would pinch you with his long claw-on-a-stick toy I remember having in my toy box once upon a time. Half our class got up there and read, but I'll be on the docket next week...the MCs loved us so much that he asked us to come back and perform again and contribute to their website. 

By the time we left it was 11pm and we'd been moving around all day. My bed was very welcome when I finally climbed into it. 

I love the street art

Day 9. Voila. 

Everything is closed on Sundays in Paris...

Suddenly, I became aware that a week, one quarter, twenty five percent, of my trip had passed. I was not pleased. After two pots of coffee and shaving my legs, Diana and I wandered out into the city to find something to do with ourselves. We headed to our corner boulangerie where she ordered a baguette with salami and pickle, and I had baguette with thon (tuna) and crudite (veggies and an egg). We sat outside to eat them, and I locked eyes with a clocharde, a homeless man, sitting on a blanket on the Rue de Republique. His eyes were very sad, and he was very dirty, and there was the hot yeast smell of baguette in the air. He looked away, speaking only to the men who pass by, saying "Bonjour monsieur," but he didn't ask the women for anything. In fact he didn't ask for anything at all--he wishes the men good day. I was struck by the chivalry. It broke my heart. Everyone ignored him. As we sat there munching our sandwiches I couldn't really enjoy mine anymore. I tried to make myself feel better by pulling a euro coin out of my wallet half way through eating it, telling myself I'd give it to him when I was done. But I kept eating, and let me tell you, I've never had a harder time getting through such a delicious meal. By the time I finished, I had upped it to 2euro, and I gave it to him as we got up to leave. I wish I had given him more.

We walked down Republique, and saw a sign for the Victor Hugo exhibit they've been advertising all around the city. Pounce. We found the square where it supposedly was, but we didn't immediately see a museum. Instead we got distracted by ice cream, and by ice cream, I mean heaven in a waffle cone. I got lait amande and Diana got chocolat and we walked around and window shopped quite happily. The square abuts Rue de Francais Bourgeoise, a nice little shopping district that I'd equate to Larchmont in LA or 23rd street in Portland. I got myself some lipstick, bright red called "Cockney," and now I fit in with the french. Diana bought some black, victorian looking earrings with purple stones, and then we saw the shoes. They're purple heels with satin ribbons that tie up the foot and around the ankle, and they are the most beautiful things we've ever seen. Both of us. Combined. Unfortunately we don't have a spare 150euro ($300) to drop on those at this particular moment, so we plan on visiting them again in the store window next week.

On our walk, we found a little park, a grass square, studded with lights in the ground. Because it was daytime, they weren't on, but we added it to our Parisian bucket list to go back in the nighttime just to see them all lit up. We sat in the square, though, and did some poetry homework until our feet fell asleep a few times over.

On our way out, the lone accordion-playing street performer that had been there all day had grown into a bluesy swing band with a guitarist and a trumpet and a string bass. There was a couple that was walking by and spontaneously started dancing to the music. They were crazy-talented, and while we were watching them, I couldn't stop laughing because Paris is such a big fat wonderful cliche of a city where things like this just happen.

Swing dancing on the street

We went to meet our professor for a movie, but it was sold out. So we joined her and her friend for drinks at a cute little bar on the canal. The bar is the kind with tons of throw pillows and board games and three dollar beers and a big, worn, stuffed animal snake with a felt tongue. The DJ spun Janis Joplin records and music from the punk days of Gramercy Park. Cecelia tried to help me figure out how to make a career out of literature, but I'm afraid I'm still at a loss. Oh well. Today I'll think of Paris, and I'll let the universe figure itself out some other time.

I like french graffiti

Day 8. Week 1. Voila...

Sacre Couere

Day 7
Saturday, May 20

Sacre Couere from the front

We had another leisurely morning this morning, then headed back to the Monmarte area to visit Sacre Couere. Tourist central...am I still lumped in that group? Sacre Couere (Sacred Heart) is a massive white church on a hill, actually just a five minute walk up the hill from Cecelia's apartment. We climbed a million stairs through thousands of people (probably should have gone on a weekday to avoid the crowds), but the whole scene is truly spectacular. You can see the whole city from the top, and people sit and eat and mingle on the steps. There was a guitarist with a microphone singing "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Over the Rainbow" and street performers ranging from acrobats to puppeteers. We joined the line to enter the church, but I was disappointed with the interior. Not the architecture--the stone walls and floors and gilded fixtures are beautiful. There's a sapphire blue painting of angels and the trinity, and the dome outside makes for massive vaulted ice-cream scoop vaulted ceiling within. The crowd is guided by velvet ropes around the perimeter of the sanctuary, walking past (at first) alcoves of dozens of lit candles, then past a sign asking for donations, then past one of those machines that presses coins into collectible medallions, then past another sign asking for donations, then finally to a gift shop. And you have to pay to go to the upper levels. I was distracted from the truly magnificent basilica by the constant focus on tourism and money. The sense of awe and tranquility I was expecting to feel was conspicuously clouded by the commercialism. There were people praying in the pews as gawking crowds filed past, and I got the sense that they were there for show--the token pray-ers that every good church needs. It was disheartening. A man in front of me raised his camera to get a picture of the painting on the ceiling (ala Sistine Chapel), and a security guard immediately pounced, "Monsieur, please no pictures! Respect is very important!" I wonder what he thinks of the gift shop that abuts the confessional, or the votive candles that cost 10euro to light.

Sacre Couere from the back

I was happy to get back outside. While Diana climbed the stairs to the top of Sacre Couere, I walked around the back of it, and got a whole different view. There's a park that gets the shade of the church, and you can see the castle-like architecture close up, no noise or crowds in your face. I liked it much better back there. As I meandered back to our meeting place to wait for Diana, a portrait artist approached me and asked if I wanted my portrait done. I didn't, but we got to talking about art and literature (those were his majors in school thirty years ago) and we mutually moped about the lack of careers for artsy types like us. Behold my future.

Diana met me, and we headed to Place de Tertre, a bustling little square full of street artists and artists selling their work, surrounded by shops, cafes, and galleries. At this point, our stomachs are reallllly chatty, so we picked a place and sat down to eat. I ordered soup a l'ognion gratinee and Diana ordered a crepe with poulet, fromage, et champignon, and we split a nutella crepe for dessert. There were four girls from Illinois sitting next to us, and they had ordered everything from escargot and oysters, to duck and chocolate mousse. The only thing they would eat is the baguette, spaghetti, and ice cream. The french are insulted if you don't clean your plate. Their waiter was not amused. Wooooo America! We hoped we counterbalanced the impression they were making.

We then headed to the park behind Sacre Couere and sat down to do some writing. I popped a bottle of wine and wrote my assignment for Heather, a poem on L'Heure Verte, the green hour. Verte refers to absinthe ala Baudelaire and so many other writers, and while our professors condone neither absinthe nor alcoholism, she did ask us to write about an experience with a drink we have, be it luke warm bottled water or my deelish bottle of wine. I think the poem came out rather well. Its in the final stages now.

The culprits...pre-crap

But. I must say, my patience was tested by the pigeons. Birds of all varieties are usually high on my list of things to like; however, in my placid little spot under the shady tree, I got crapped on...twice...in thirty minutes. Pigeons, this is uncalled for. I have been your champion, defending you to all the haters who think you're dirty, ugly, rats with wings. And this is the thanks I get. That's just really nice.

ANYWAY. We decided to swing by the Moulin Rouge on the way home now that it was getting dark. Don't worry, Mom. We stayed outside. We had a train connection outside of it so we people watched (laughed) at the spectacle for a minute. No one under the age of 50 seemed to be going inside.

So we get home and get ready to head to our first french discotheque, Nouveau Casino. Its on Oberkampf, 5 minutes down the street from our apartment, and you get in free if you get there before 1am. We got in line at 12:50 and dodge attempts of random dudes to latch on to our group to accelerate their admittance. We got to the front of the line at 12:57 (winners) and head inside to the hottest (temperature-wise) dungeon of a room ever. But, the lights are wild and the music is good, and everyones speaking french, so I'm happy. We do clubby things for awhile, then two of my fingers got caught in the world's heaviest door (they turned all purple and fat...cute), and we head on home.

Day 7. Voila!

Blazon

Here a couple good ones:

Dear Tiara
by Sean Thomas Dougherty
I dreamed I was a mannequin in the pawnshop window
     of your conjectures.
I dreamed I was a chant in the mouth of a monk, saffron-robed
     syllables in the religion of You.
I dreamed I was a lament to hear the deep sorrow places
     of your lungs.
I dreamed I was your bad instincts.
I dreamed I was a hummingbird sipping from the tulip of your ear.
I dreamed I was your ex-boyfriend stored in the basement
     with your old baggage.
I dreamed I was a jukebox where every song sang your name.
I dreamed I was in an elevator, rising in the air shaft
     of your misgivings.
I dreamed I was a library fine, I've checked you out
     too long so many times.
I dreamed you were a lake and I was a little fish leaping
     through the thin reeds of your throaty humming.
I must've dreamed I was a nail, because I woke beside you still
     hammered.
I dreamed I was a tooth to fill the absences of your old age.
I dreamed I was a Christmas cactus, blooming in the desert
     of my stupidity.
I dreamed I was a saint's hair-shirt, sewn with the thread
     of your saliva.
I dreamed I was an All Night Movie Theater, showing the
     flickering black reel of my nights before I met you.
I must've dreamed I was gravity, I've fallen for you so damn hard.

And, an anti-blazon:

Valentine
By Kiki Petrosini


Sorry, but I just don't love you
more than Darwinism.

More than: Farmers take their animals to feed
upon the alpine balds.

I don't love you more than this cheese slice
which tastes of Swiss feet.

I don't love you more than falling off the
button lift, or haul lines,

or deciding whether peanut M&M's are treats
or snacks.

I don't love you more than old darknesses
and sipping from thimbles.

I just don't love you.
I just don't love you more than pizza.

Or the final scenes of Clue.
Or colored chalk.
Or what Clive Owen's jaws are made out of.

I don't love you more than the social imagination.
Or more than NPR on Sunday.

Or my own face, glyphed
with tulip pollen.

I don't love you more than the word classic.
Or my afro.
Or this badass wrestling singlet.

No. But you're better off.
I'd only cause you grief, in time.

Abandon you for someone jazzy, more hirsute -
Probably.  I guess.

I mean, maybe if you stepped into the singlet right now.
Theoretically.  Just to see.

Wait - Wait -
(...)

Nope.

The Lizard King meets goat cheese chic

Day 6

Friday May 20

Our late-night escapades from the previous evening kept us in bed a little longer than usual, BUT there's no class today! We leisurely decided to head to Saint Germain, the trendy downtown-ish area Heather had shown us, to check out another bookstore and have a lazy cafe lunch. The bookstore, Village Voice, has an entirely different vibe than Shakespeare and Company. Village Voice feels more modern, more American. They do, in fact, have books by many American writers, including the 5 volumes of poetry that Cecelia has published. That was fun to see. 

Suddenly starving, we ventured down some side streets to find the less touristy (aka expensive) cafes, and we plopped down outside at a nice one on the corner off Rue Bonaparte. We ordered croque madame (toasted bread with ham, cheese, and a fried egg all melted together) and leffe (belgian beer). Then we head to Pere Lachaise Cimetiere to visit Jim Morrison's grave. Jim isn't buried there anymore--his family had his body moved back home to Washington--but his grave remains a draw for locals and tourists alike. 

Cemeteries in Paris are straight out of haunted hollywood nightmares--they're all above ground. They range from a sort of raised coffin shaped platform to full monuments big enough to fit three people in the built-in chapel. Navigating through these crypts was a little tricky. When we finally found Jim's spot we were a little underwhelmed. According to Diana's guide book, Pere Lachaise keeps surveillance on this grave because Jim Morrison fans have the propensity to do drugs and have sex on site. A strange homage. When we found it, all we found were flowers. Granted, they were the only flowers in this ancient cemetary...

Graffiti tree to the Lizard King at Pere Lachaise

We popped open a bottle of wine, sat down, and within 5 minutes a crowd of about thirty people had formed around the area. It was funny, but sad somehow. The people were from all over the world. We met a nice Hungarian named Barnabus who told us he was in Paris for Congress... we figured out later he meant he was here for a conference. Even while we were under the impression he was a congressman of some sort, we didn't have time to get drinks with him when the cemetery closed. 

We had another poetry reading to go to, but we didn't know where it was. Our plan was to get on the metro home to see if we could google it, but while we were on the train, Barnabus called and gave us directions! Poetic, right? Ha. Who makes friends in a cemetery? Poe, maybe. And us.

So Barnabus' directions take us to Espace d' Typographie, an art gallery five minutes from our apartment. The gallery is beautiful, kind of rustic warehouse chic, with loose paintings of the view of Paris from the artist's window. The whole scene was urban and lovely, but I got the sense that this particular reading was a very "see and be seen" kind of event. Diana and I were the youngest people in the room, and we met a very glamours, name-dropping older woman. I believe she thought we were "cute."

Espace d' Typographie at the Alice Notley reading

After readings by Etel Adnan and a french poet that I couldn't understand (except for the words "Beverly Hills" and "cocaine"), Alice Notley stepped up to the microphone. She reads her poems very well, and the story she tells of "mean girls" who feed glass to the dog still makes me sad. 

We scooted from the reading right when it ended, not stopping to mingle with the posh types that make social events of poetry readings. Instead we picked up some goat cheese and leffe from the supermarche, and went home and feasted. 

We found a bar in the latin quarter, Pub Saint-Hilarie, where the students at Sorbonne hang out, and met some very nice physics Ph.D. students. Again, we missed the last train (bars here close at 4am and the trains stop at 2am on weekends), so we wanted to get a cab home. Unfortunately for us, if you speak to a cabbie in english, he wont take you anywhere. Luckily our new friends told him where to go, and we were home in 5 minutes. How convenient. Annnnd Day 6! Voila!

Baudelaire wants us to get drunk...

Oh, hello Napoleon

Day 5
Thursday May 19
Class did not start until 3 today, so Diana and I decided to go to the Picasso museum, which was only a 15 minute walk from our place. At this point, I start to realize how awesome our apartment is: its a bohemian poet haven, it has an elevator, there's a bar/cafe under our building, a thousand bars/cafes/museums/nightclubs within walking distance, the metro is thirty seconds away, its super safe and centrally located, AND it has THE BEST crepe stand right down the street. So we head to the next block and stumble upon a giant yellow mansion that turns out is the Picasso museum...under renovations until 2012. How do you say UGGHHH in French? Actually that sounds kinda throaty-angsty ala France. UGGGHH.
Fortunately walking dejectedly in the other direction for thirty seconds lands us in front of the Musee d' Carnavalet (Museum of Paris history). Okay, lets check that out. There were a few pieces in there that legitimately cracked me up. Example: a giant hanging black metal cat that looks like it put its tail in an electrical socket. Apparently its an icon around here: Chat Noir.
Another example: a bust of Napoleon that they put on a 5 foot pedestal, so the overall effect is Napoleon's face...taller than me. Ha.
Yet another example: I have decided to search for dopplegangers of my family and friends in Parisian art museums...I found a few good ones. Beware, my friends...you are not so cute in powdered wigs and puffy shirts. 


Then, baguette au saumon et crudite (yummm) and off to class. For homework, Cecelia had us write blazons, a type of poem (see "L'Union Libre (Free Union)" by Andre Breton). Heather came back to hang out with us and teach the workshop (yay!), and she taught us all about Baudelaire (scandalous dandy that I would want to be friends with) and absinthe (she does not recommend it) and about how to write a directive poem. Directive poems give the reader advice, and they can start with a phrase like "one should always (__insert advice here__)" Heather asked us to free-write a directive poem draft for 15 minutes in class, and she gave us permission to make them very bad. Excellent. Now there's a parameter I can work with. But when we read them out loud, they were very good and very Baudelaire, which in English nerd-speak is a very good thing. We are a talented bunch... we are also minor-ly irreverent. Baudelaire would be proud. Perhaps we would have thought to censor ourselves just a little more in front of a distinguished poet like Heather, but fortunately for us, she is tres cool. She laughed, applauded, and read us her free-write, "One should always conjugate." 
At the end of the day, we continued to honor Baudelaire by picking up middle eastern flatbread sandwiches, tall cans, and a couple bottles of wine, heading to a friends apartment to people watch and enjoy our aperitif. After it finally got dark around 10:30, we headed to a bar down the street to mingle with the locals. Unfortunately we got distracted and missed the last metro, and realizing we needed a little more training on using the bus system, we started walking...for forty five minutes...lesson learned. Day 5. Voila!