Day 27
Saturday June 11
Its sunny outside. Bleh. Shut up Paris. Rain for me, so its not so impossible to leave. Early morning wake up call, meet with a friend of Emilie's to check on the apartment and return the security deposit.
Then, I take my last trip on the 5 line from Oberkampf from Gare du Nord, take the RER to Charles De Gualle, stand in 12 different lines and pay $100 to check my bags, barely make my flight, miss my connection in Orlando, cry 8 times throughout the day, finally get to LAX at 10:30, then continue my moping over American wine and pass out (jetlag is less silly and more aggravating in Los Angeles).
Voila stupid day 27.
Now accepting donations to the "Send Corinne Back to Paris" Fund. Seriously.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Final Farewell
Day 26
Friday June 10
Wake up, mope because its my last day, cook my last egg/toast/camembert/mustard breakfast (this time with added bonus of chorizo), and shower. Then I had to assemble my portfolio, all the final edits of poems I've written and drafts and free-writes--it turned into a 22 page document. That's a lot of work for four weeks.
Since we're leaving bright and early in the morning, we had to clean our apartment, pack, and get our affairs in order before the big reading at Shakespeare and Company tonight. But I couldn't let my last day in Paris be full of boring obligatory housekeeping. So I met I friend for lunch at a traditional brasserie. We feasted on escargot, steak tar tar, four incredible cheeses that I cannot pronounce, some sort of dessert with rum and chantilly, and of course, a bottle of wine. It was so fun to be out amongst the Parisians in their natural habitat. Then we strolled through the galleries, streets of shops covered by two story high glass awnings, popped in on the auction house (watched a pair of bowls be sold for 18,000euro), and then it started to rain...I took that as my cue to go home and get ready for my reading, so we parted ways.
That night, we all gathered at 6:30 at Shakespeare and Company for our reading. All of our guest professors/poets were in attendance, Cecilia's friends, all of the friends we had accumulated throughout our trip, Christelle our ISA coordinator, and others packed the house. Standing room only. Ha. Touche, Cecilia. She started out by reading a poem of her own, then she introduced each of us individually with facts from our anti-bios (greattt), and we each had 5 minutes to read some of our work. I read a poem I'd written about a homeless man, and that sestina that gave me so much trouble.
Afterwards, we mingled and chatted with our adoring fans (ha), and then jumped on the train to Cecilia's for the after-party. There was dinner and wine and some sort of chocolate torte that I probably could have eaten all of, but would have been killed by the other party-goers. The poets were there, and all of our closest Parisian friends. It was bittersweet--very sweet. We said goodbye, to eachother, to Paris, and to our lives here, and headed on home.
Voila (crying inside) Day 26
Friday June 10
Wake up, mope because its my last day, cook my last egg/toast/camembert/mustard breakfast (this time with added bonus of chorizo), and shower. Then I had to assemble my portfolio, all the final edits of poems I've written and drafts and free-writes--it turned into a 22 page document. That's a lot of work for four weeks.
Since we're leaving bright and early in the morning, we had to clean our apartment, pack, and get our affairs in order before the big reading at Shakespeare and Company tonight. But I couldn't let my last day in Paris be full of boring obligatory housekeeping. So I met I friend for lunch at a traditional brasserie. We feasted on escargot, steak tar tar, four incredible cheeses that I cannot pronounce, some sort of dessert with rum and chantilly, and of course, a bottle of wine. It was so fun to be out amongst the Parisians in their natural habitat. Then we strolled through the galleries, streets of shops covered by two story high glass awnings, popped in on the auction house (watched a pair of bowls be sold for 18,000euro), and then it started to rain...I took that as my cue to go home and get ready for my reading, so we parted ways.
That night, we all gathered at 6:30 at Shakespeare and Company for our reading. All of our guest professors/poets were in attendance, Cecilia's friends, all of the friends we had accumulated throughout our trip, Christelle our ISA coordinator, and others packed the house. Standing room only. Ha. Touche, Cecilia. She started out by reading a poem of her own, then she introduced each of us individually with facts from our anti-bios (greattt), and we each had 5 minutes to read some of our work. I read a poem I'd written about a homeless man, and that sestina that gave me so much trouble.
Afterwards, we mingled and chatted with our adoring fans (ha), and then jumped on the train to Cecilia's for the after-party. There was dinner and wine and some sort of chocolate torte that I probably could have eaten all of, but would have been killed by the other party-goers. The poets were there, and all of our closest Parisian friends. It was bittersweet--very sweet. We said goodbye, to eachother, to Paris, and to our lives here, and headed on home.
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| The Adieu, Rodin |
Voila (crying inside) Day 26
The Thinker
Day 25
Thursday June 9
Well since today started last night, or last night began today, I'm a bit loopy. After our abbreviated nap, we had to wake up and write our anti-biographies for class. An anti-biography excludes all the boring facts like "she graduated from the University of Southern California with a B.A. in English Literature and a minor in Business Law" for more interesting details like "she was 5'3" in second grade (taller than the teacher) and has narcolepsy." Putting all my fun-facts on one page makes me seem just a little weird...oh well. Off to class in Monmartre for a bit, then together we all took the train to the Rodin Museum to meet Jeffery Greene, poet/professor at the American University in Paris. He gave a beautiful lecture/workshop in the gardens of the museum, then we were free to explore (fo free. woo.)
After that, Diana and I met Kelsey at home, then we went back to Monmartre to a reputable little fondue restaurant. While it was delish, the idiotic Americans that crowded the place were unsettling. Being in Paris surrounded by bratty med students from Indiana that love to cackle and one-up each other about how many shots they can take before they pass out (which, let me tell you, is unimpressive) makes me want to become an ex-pat...or at least say I'm from Britain.
Then, I met a friend for wine and foie gras and got into discussion number 173 about politics. The french know more about American politics, or at least world affairs, than I do. For shame. But since my tv has been stuck on CNN, I knew a little something about french politics, so we had a pretty good discussion going. The wine didn't hurt either.
I was still super fried from the night before, so it was an early night for me.
Voila, Day 25
Thursday June 9
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| Rodin Museum |
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| The Thinker |
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| The Kiss |
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| Inside the Rodin Museum, one of my favorite galleries |
Then, I met a friend for wine and foie gras and got into discussion number 173 about politics. The french know more about American politics, or at least world affairs, than I do. For shame. But since my tv has been stuck on CNN, I knew a little something about french politics, so we had a pretty good discussion going. The wine didn't hurt either.
I was still super fried from the night before, so it was an early night for me.
Voila, Day 25
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Louvre: check, Eiffel Tower: check, DEADMAU5: check
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| Who doesn't have this picture? |
Day 24
Wednesday June 8
Today, we decided we NEEDED to do two obligatory Paris-y things: the Louvre, and the Eiffel Tower. We'd been here for almost four weeks and hadn't made it over there yet. Its time. So we head on over to the Louvre, wait in a minimal line, and set to exploring.
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| drool |
We spent a solid six hours there, with a little break to find the most delish artisan boulangerie. I had this pizza-ish pastry, with olive oil, butter, lemon, smoked salmon, and some sort of creamy cheese and herbs. Carb heaven. I ate the whole thing. I am not sorry.
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| The standard Eiffel Tower pic |
Got home at 6, prettied up and left at 6:30, got to the venue THE MOULIN ROUGE at 7, were told by the ticket lady that the tickets go on sale at 11 (contrary to the 8oclock report we got on the phone). So faced with 4 hours of standing outside in a yet-to-be-formed line, we found our wine (the wine of choice for homeless people), and posted up in the park across the street in direct view of the front door. We were ready to pounce if we saw any activity by the ticket line. Parisian men are very forward with their intentions, so after fending off many hopefuls, when the ambling homeless man approached we were ready. He didn't speak any english, but his intentions were clear---he was offering us money. For a homeless man in Paris to offer us a euro, we must have looked pretty...something...I choose not to think about it...
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| DEADMAU5 |
Around 9pm, we were too antsy, so we crossed the street and started the line. First in line for Deadmau5--do electo DJs have groupies? Then another group of Americans gets behind us. Then a German, and a couple Parisians. Within minutes, the line is a mile long, but WE DON'T CARE BECAUSE WE'RE FIRST. ha. So bottle number two is popped, and we wait and get more and more excited. 11:11pm, tickets in hand, we take a moment to freak out, and let the party commence. Deadmau5 went on at 1:30, and he played until 4:30. It was an awesome set--so much fun. We were two feet in front of the stage, and its pretty hard to describe how incredible that is. He took off his signature mouse head for most of the set (probably because it was so hot). Ah. After he was done, we listened to the closing DJ for an hour while we waited for the metros to start up again for the day, got on the first train at 5:30, home by 6am, little cat nap til class, then we started our Thursday.
Voila Day 24
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| Deadmau5 without the mouse head :) |
Feel it in my bones (inset Tiesto reference here)
Day 23
Tuesday June 7
Today we took our second stab at the Catacombs. Since we were going home on Saturday, I was suddenly feeling a lot of pressure to maximize every second I had left in Paris. (which is why I couldn't find the time to blog until now...back in Los Angeles) So we make the trek out to La Defense, which is at the very end of the train line, and we saw some people outside the tres subtle entrance to the Catacombs. We approached and found that little cluster we saw from afar was actually a GIANT TWO BLOCK LONG line up close. So we make the five-minute walk to the end of the line, and it started to rain. Blah. Over the next hour, we make about 20 feet of progress. Awesome. So to make the time pass, we sent Diana on a wine run. She comes back with an uber convenient twist off pinot grigio, and we get to work. The next hour passes much faster, and before we know it we're being ushered in. Now. I had never been carded a single time in Paris--all the clubs, bars, markets, museums, etc...no problem. So, four weeks in, I finally stop carrying around my passport (its not very safe to have it on your person for fear of pick pockets). But now, at the Catacombs, the uberjerk woman behind the ticket counter refused to give me the reduced price for people aged 14-30 without picture ID. How old do you think I am, lady? Apparently two university IDs aren't enough to prove my youth either, or the advocacy of my similarly young friends, who happened to have their passports. Thus begins my downhill slide into old age and wrinkles. I knew 22 was a bad age.
Ten euros and a huffy descent down hundreds of stairs later, I found myself ducking to avoid hitting my head on the damp rock roof of the too-claustrophobic tunnels beneath Paris. As we walked through the dark and dank labyrinth (its probably my greatest fear to get lost and stuck down there), bones started appearing on either side of the tunnels. The bones of 6 million Parisians past. Gross. Yes I touched one. Yes I debated smuggling one out in my bag, but its a good thing I didn't because we were searched on our way out. Apparently disappearing skulls has been a problem for the good people at the Catacombs before. While they were cool, I was excited to emerge from the slimy, dark, creepy tunnels.
At this point, we were desperately hungry. I LOVE fancy cheese and baguette and butter as much as the next Parsienne, but something fresh was starting to sound realllly good. Sushi. Done and done. We feasted at a little place off Saint Germain with old Brittney movies on tv. Then we found yet another little bookstore that Diana's guide book recommended (Abbey), but since it was raining, the place was packed! Too crowded for us, so Rose and I wandered around and window shopped and tasted artisan sweets and olive oil, and we stumbled upon Cafe La Perle. We sat with a glass of wine, then headed home to meet a friend for dinner. Allison is a lovely french girl we met on our adventures, and after dinner at Cafe L'Industrie, she came back to our place and hung out with us before heading out for the evening. We drank our usual wine, but since she is from Bourdeaux, she couldn't handle our cheap taste. Ha. Again, our wine offends the French. She told us that one of the bottles we had on hand is the stuff the homeless people drink.
Anyway, we headed out to Andy Walhoo's a trendy little bar in the Mairie that has the most delish mojitos. We danced etc, then hoofed it home for some late night baguette and sleep.
Voila, Day 23
Tuesday June 7
Ten euros and a huffy descent down hundreds of stairs later, I found myself ducking to avoid hitting my head on the damp rock roof of the too-claustrophobic tunnels beneath Paris. As we walked through the dark and dank labyrinth (its probably my greatest fear to get lost and stuck down there), bones started appearing on either side of the tunnels. The bones of 6 million Parisians past. Gross. Yes I touched one. Yes I debated smuggling one out in my bag, but its a good thing I didn't because we were searched on our way out. Apparently disappearing skulls has been a problem for the good people at the Catacombs before. While they were cool, I was excited to emerge from the slimy, dark, creepy tunnels.
Anyway, we headed out to Andy Walhoo's a trendy little bar in the Mairie that has the most delish mojitos. We danced etc, then hoofed it home for some late night baguette and sleep.
Voila, Day 23
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
The Two Windmills and Tumbleweed
Day 22
Monday June 6
Class today--we workshopped the last of the Normandy poems, and then guest lecturer Christophe Lamiot came to talk to us about translation. We ended up learning a lot about having dual nationality in France and the States, and how even if you have two PhDs you can end up eating nothing but pasta at an ex's place in Belgium for a year. I wish I spoke French. I must say, though, 90% of the time I can understand what people are saying to me in French--but only about 5% of the time can I string together a sentence of my own...aren't poets supposed to have a way with words? Oh well.
After class, a group of us headed through Monmartre and found Cafe le Deux Moulins (two windmills) from the movie Amelie. Our waiter was the penultimate frenchman, "pfft-ing" between words, rolling his eyes at our english, and sending the flirty barman over to try his hand at charming us. Ha. All in good fun. I ordered oeuff au saumon, a creamy egg dish with smoked salmon and chives, served with baguette (naturally) and fresh salad. It occurs to me that this salad was the first serving of vegetables I've had in forever--it was delish. Normally if I eat nothing but calorific treats for three weeks, I feel like hell, but all my cheesy, carby, chocolaty, etc food feels just right. We feasted, then headed down the hill to the metro to go to shop-hopping.
Diana and I wanted to go to a bookstore called Torn Pages and Tattered Leaves, an english bookstore with a tea room. When we got there, we were greeted by a ginger cat with a giant feather-duster tail. He hung out with me while I posted up with an Anais Nin biography for a bit. Then Kelsey wanted to go to Le Bon Marche, Paris's first department store, whose name translates roughly into "cheap," which it is not. Bon Marche is like a Barney's--everything is beautiful and upwards of 500euros, which is about $750. Unfortunately, that is just a tad out of our price range, so we headed to a different bookstore in retreat. The store is called The Red Wheelbarrow, and there I found the Fernando Pessoa book that has been on my list of things to buy called The Book of Our Disquiet.
On the next street over, we found a little store that specializes in high quality wooden puzzles and brain teasers. Awesome--just up my alley. Here's the kicker: its called Tumbleweed! Woo. I talked to the lady who runs the store (she's originally from Philadelphia), and she knew all about this blog's namesake (the tumbleweeds at Shakespeare & Co), and she put me to work on a puzzle---the puzzle is four pieces of wood, and the idea is to shape these four pieces into an uppercase letter T. I swear it could not be done. Diana and Kelsey bummed around the stores and bought gifts and trinkets, and an hour later I still hadn't figured out this stupid T. I had to buy it. I refused to lose to this thing.
So we took our loot home, and I continued to play with that (insert profanity here) "T" while I talked to Mom (hi Mom!) on the phone until I figured it out (tres gratifying).
Then Kelsey, Diana, and I decided to go to a night club we'd been hearing about since before we got here. It's called "Queen" and it was once a gay club (which we like going to), but now its only a gay club on certain nights. We got all cute and drank our wine, and we took the metro all the way to Champs D'Elysees, but Queen was terrible. It was empty and pretty dull (only studded with the random group of girls that could have passed for us in a heartbeat), so we decided to take advantage of the fact that the metros were still running (until 1am) and head on home.
Voila, Day 22 (we're finally getting this down)
Monday June 6
Class today--we workshopped the last of the Normandy poems, and then guest lecturer Christophe Lamiot came to talk to us about translation. We ended up learning a lot about having dual nationality in France and the States, and how even if you have two PhDs you can end up eating nothing but pasta at an ex's place in Belgium for a year. I wish I spoke French. I must say, though, 90% of the time I can understand what people are saying to me in French--but only about 5% of the time can I string together a sentence of my own...aren't poets supposed to have a way with words? Oh well.
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| A book I found... I have an Uncle named Dutch, but my uncle has only one ear so I'm not sure this is him... |
Diana and I wanted to go to a bookstore called Torn Pages and Tattered Leaves, an english bookstore with a tea room. When we got there, we were greeted by a ginger cat with a giant feather-duster tail. He hung out with me while I posted up with an Anais Nin biography for a bit. Then Kelsey wanted to go to Le Bon Marche, Paris's first department store, whose name translates roughly into "cheap," which it is not. Bon Marche is like a Barney's--everything is beautiful and upwards of 500euros, which is about $750. Unfortunately, that is just a tad out of our price range, so we headed to a different bookstore in retreat. The store is called The Red Wheelbarrow, and there I found the Fernando Pessoa book that has been on my list of things to buy called The Book of Our Disquiet.
On the next street over, we found a little store that specializes in high quality wooden puzzles and brain teasers. Awesome--just up my alley. Here's the kicker: its called Tumbleweed! Woo. I talked to the lady who runs the store (she's originally from Philadelphia), and she knew all about this blog's namesake (the tumbleweeds at Shakespeare & Co), and she put me to work on a puzzle---the puzzle is four pieces of wood, and the idea is to shape these four pieces into an uppercase letter T. I swear it could not be done. Diana and Kelsey bummed around the stores and bought gifts and trinkets, and an hour later I still hadn't figured out this stupid T. I had to buy it. I refused to lose to this thing.
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| word |
Then Kelsey, Diana, and I decided to go to a night club we'd been hearing about since before we got here. It's called "Queen" and it was once a gay club (which we like going to), but now its only a gay club on certain nights. We got all cute and drank our wine, and we took the metro all the way to Champs D'Elysees, but Queen was terrible. It was empty and pretty dull (only studded with the random group of girls that could have passed for us in a heartbeat), so we decided to take advantage of the fact that the metros were still running (until 1am) and head on home.
Voila, Day 22 (we're finally getting this down)
Monday, June 6, 2011
Museums are free on the first Sunday of the month
Day 21
Sunday June 5
Today we decided to check out the world's largest flea market at Porte de Clignancourt (which is translated to...guess..."flea market"). We were warned that the market's perimeter, no matter which direction from which we approached, would literally be flea ridden. They weren't kidding. We were greeted by a thousand aggressive street peddlers with arm loads of gucci knock offs. After dodging them for about ten minutes, we made our way through tents with polyester clothes and cheap bling. Nearly ready to give up (again it was ridiculously hot outside and it smelled bad), we wandered down one last-ditch effort street, where we found a table of interesting costume jewelry. The adjoining street had a collection of vintage purses. The street after that had an antique bottle opener with Napoleon's face on it. The street after that was brimming with flapper dresses and beautiful clothing from the roaring twenties. Then we found the old vinyl. Then the furniture and antique framed mirrors and musical instruments. Needless to say, we started to enjoy ourselves. I found a little store that was overflowing with vintage Jean Paul Gautier, Chanel, Hermes, and a thousand other beautiful dresses, feathery hats, bejeweled gloves, studded heels, and furs. Basically I would like everything I ever own for the rest of my life to be from this store. Alas, the prices were all in the 500euro range. I have decided to scrap this whole poetry thing and become a bandit, specializing in stealing pretty clothes.
Moving on: we spent a solid four hours perusing the good stuff, then realizing we were a tad fiesty due to low blood sugar and high temperatures, we hopped on the metro back towards our area and grabbed lunch (quiche au fromage et jambon for me) and a massive Evian and posted up at a park off Rue du Rivoli. And whatdya know, the park turns out to be the grounds for the Modern Art museum. Furthermore, on the first Sunday of every month, every museum in Paris has free admission. In we went. (duh).
The first thing I saw was an Andy Warhol. Then a Chuck Close portrait (shout out to Mrs. Fleenor's art class). Then a Salvador Dali. Then upstairs, MATISSE and PICASSO and KANDINSKY galore! I was geeking pretty hard. I was a kid in a candy store, bouncing around from one gallery to the next as if the paintings would vanish if I didn't get there fast enough. This museum was decidedly more "edgy" than any of the others we've seen thus far (Louvre on Wednesday though...stay tuned). I lingered as long as I could without being obnoxious (poor Diana and Kelsey), then we went up the outdoor escalators on the side of the building and got a panoramic view of the city from the Eiffel Tower to Sacre Couere.
We figured that the elusive falafel restaurant couldn't be closed two days in a row, so despite my minor grudge against it for smiting us the day before, we trekked back that way. Ouvert! (open). Yay. We sat and feasted and drank three carafes of water, then rollie pollied ourselves home.
For a split second I debated going out, but L'Embuscade seems to be closed on Sundays (lame), and I was suddenly feeling very boring. So we popped a bottle of wine, and began to wrestle with the DVD player...twenty minutes later after we got it working, we learned what a region code is. For those less-than-technically-aware people like myself, a region code prevents you from watching a dvd outside the specified region of the world encoded on the disk. It's a very mean little invention. In other words, we were foiled on our attempts to be mellow and domestic. Ironic. So we huddled around a laptop and drank our wine and watched Amelie.
By the time the movie was over, a new show started up outside. Lightning storm! Excellent. I love thunder and lightning. When the lightning cracked, the whole sky light up like broad daylight. I sat there with the window open with the rain coming in on my bed for an hour. Oh. And I found my glasses, so in putting them on and checking out the newly clear view from my window, I have discovered that I can see Notre Dame. Yeesh. Paris...
Day 21, voila
Sunday June 5
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| In case you ever wondered where you can get a dead armadillo... |
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| Matisse: one of many |
The first thing I saw was an Andy Warhol. Then a Chuck Close portrait (shout out to Mrs. Fleenor's art class). Then a Salvador Dali. Then upstairs, MATISSE and PICASSO and KANDINSKY galore! I was geeking pretty hard. I was a kid in a candy store, bouncing around from one gallery to the next as if the paintings would vanish if I didn't get there fast enough. This museum was decidedly more "edgy" than any of the others we've seen thus far (Louvre on Wednesday though...stay tuned). I lingered as long as I could without being obnoxious (poor Diana and Kelsey), then we went up the outdoor escalators on the side of the building and got a panoramic view of the city from the Eiffel Tower to Sacre Couere.
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| my morning face |
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| View from the top of the Modern Art museum note Sacre Couere in the distance |
By the time the movie was over, a new show started up outside. Lightning storm! Excellent. I love thunder and lightning. When the lightning cracked, the whole sky light up like broad daylight. I sat there with the window open with the rain coming in on my bed for an hour. Oh. And I found my glasses, so in putting them on and checking out the newly clear view from my window, I have discovered that I can see Notre Dame. Yeesh. Paris...
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| This isn't daylight... the view from our window as lightning strikes |
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| View from our window as lightning fades away |
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Foiled again
Day 20
Saturday June 4
Today, we got up early. We wanted to go to the Catacombs, hailed as Paris' most eerie attraction. I wonder at the morbidity of our choices--multiple cemeteries, Normandy, and now the Catacombs, an underground labyrinth brimming with bones and skulls of Parisians past. When they ran out of room in the city limits during the plague, they'd pile the bodies here. Now, the tunnels have been cleaned up a little, but they chose to leave all the skeletal remains of those that found their final resting place here.
Buuuut we didn't see it. We got there around 2:30, and the line was around the block. We trudged to the end and prepared ourselves for a scintillating eternity in line. Did I mention it was 98 degrees outside (insert boy band joke here). After a few minutes a docent informed us that the line would take 2 hours to get through, and the last admission for the Catacombs was at 4pm. In other words, we are late, and we should probably give up.
So we did. Diana consulted her trusty guidebook, and we discovered that the Montparnasse cemetery was just around the corner. Off we went! (again with the morbid decisions)...but Baudelaire is buried here, and Tzara, and Sarte/DeBeauvoir. Who can turn that down? Not us. Duh. It took a little maneuvering to find our people once inside, but we did it! Baudelaire is one of France's great poets, and he's the sexiest of the surrealists. He loved women and opiates and absinthe. We figured it was important to pay our respects. We found the grave covered with scraps of paper with handwritten verses from his work from his fans, anchored to the marble slab with rocks. I got there, and I had to wait my turn to approach his tomb. A wrinkly, smiley man was kneeling, prayer style, and writing a verse to leave for Baudelaire. When he finished, he saw me lurking in the background (I'm getting the hang of this cemetery thing), and he clasped his hands, smiled, and reverently whispered "Baudelaire" to me. I returned the gesture, a mutual respect and camaraderie passing between us for our friend.
Then we found Sartre and DeBeauvoir's grave--they're buried together. And while their philosophies may be a little peevish to me at times, I must admit--their shared grave is lovely. Its simple and clean, and there are only a few lipstick marks by their names.
Having had our fill of death for the time being, we headed to St. Michele (the center of the city next to Notre Dame) for gelato at Amarino's. Legendary for its ice cream, I didn't know quite what to expect, especially because we changed trains twice and wandered around windy streets to find the place. Let me tell you though: SO WORTH IT. I got ciaccolato and amarena. After my first bite, I could have died happy right then and there. Blah blah blah, best ice cream ever raving, but it must be done.
Silly and satisfied, we decided to trek around the area a little bit. There we happened across Cluny La Sorbonne, the French university. Side note: did you know its FREE to go to college here? ugh. jealous. Anyway, in our travels, we saw a massive dome on the horizon, so naturally we had to see what that was, right? Turns out its the Pantheon. Who knew? We discovered that we were surprisingly close to the Pub St. Hilarie that we went to a couple weeks ago, and we also oriented ourselves to the Seine and the falafel restaurant that we'd been to within three days of us being here. I swear this city is so small. I feel like every time I go somewhere new, I find that I'm ridiculously close to somewhere I've already been. Awesome. Anyway, once we figured out that the falafel place was close, naturally we decided we would have to go there. Maybe Johnny Depp would be there this time. So we started walking...an hour later we realized that, while we were close, we weren't so sure of how to get there, and perhaps we hadn't taken the most efficient route...kept walking...found it! but it was closed...womp womp.
We were very disappointed...then we saw a sign for Musee Carnavalet, and we realized that the falafel restaurant that we'd been to so long ago is only a few streets over from the places we'd discovered on our own countless times around the Bastille. Shut up, Paris! Okay so we figured we could make it home...wrong again. We were walking, and walking, and walking, and its a thousand degrees outside, and we're getting a little angsty because we're starving, and home just keeps not showing up. So we decide we need to pull a Pulp Fiction and get a royale with cheese--aka a McDonald's cheeseburger... I am a little ashamed, but this was an emergency. We'd been roaming around by foot for about 6 hours at this point, and we all know what happens to our blood sugar levels (and thus our friendliness levels) when that happens....
It helped. The rest is history.
I admit it--in the land of fancy cheese and foi gras and wine and baguette, I ate a cheeseburger. I would feel guilty, but it was really good, and they put ice in my drink (no one does that here). Plus, the french LOVE cheeseburgers. Whatever.
Voila, Day 19
Saturday June 4
Today, we got up early. We wanted to go to the Catacombs, hailed as Paris' most eerie attraction. I wonder at the morbidity of our choices--multiple cemeteries, Normandy, and now the Catacombs, an underground labyrinth brimming with bones and skulls of Parisians past. When they ran out of room in the city limits during the plague, they'd pile the bodies here. Now, the tunnels have been cleaned up a little, but they chose to leave all the skeletal remains of those that found their final resting place here.
Buuuut we didn't see it. We got there around 2:30, and the line was around the block. We trudged to the end and prepared ourselves for a scintillating eternity in line. Did I mention it was 98 degrees outside (insert boy band joke here). After a few minutes a docent informed us that the line would take 2 hours to get through, and the last admission for the Catacombs was at 4pm. In other words, we are late, and we should probably give up.
So we did. Diana consulted her trusty guidebook, and we discovered that the Montparnasse cemetery was just around the corner. Off we went! (again with the morbid decisions)...but Baudelaire is buried here, and Tzara, and Sarte/DeBeauvoir. Who can turn that down? Not us. Duh. It took a little maneuvering to find our people once inside, but we did it! Baudelaire is one of France's great poets, and he's the sexiest of the surrealists. He loved women and opiates and absinthe. We figured it was important to pay our respects. We found the grave covered with scraps of paper with handwritten verses from his work from his fans, anchored to the marble slab with rocks. I got there, and I had to wait my turn to approach his tomb. A wrinkly, smiley man was kneeling, prayer style, and writing a verse to leave for Baudelaire. When he finished, he saw me lurking in the background (I'm getting the hang of this cemetery thing), and he clasped his hands, smiled, and reverently whispered "Baudelaire" to me. I returned the gesture, a mutual respect and camaraderie passing between us for our friend.
Then we found Sartre and DeBeauvoir's grave--they're buried together. And while their philosophies may be a little peevish to me at times, I must admit--their shared grave is lovely. Its simple and clean, and there are only a few lipstick marks by their names.
Having had our fill of death for the time being, we headed to St. Michele (the center of the city next to Notre Dame) for gelato at Amarino's. Legendary for its ice cream, I didn't know quite what to expect, especially because we changed trains twice and wandered around windy streets to find the place. Let me tell you though: SO WORTH IT. I got ciaccolato and amarena. After my first bite, I could have died happy right then and there. Blah blah blah, best ice cream ever raving, but it must be done.
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| Baudelaire |
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| My contribution: see "Evivrez Vous" by Baudelaire |
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| Heaven |
It helped. The rest is history.
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| The (surprise) Pantheon |
Voila, Day 19
A day off?
Day 19
Friday June 3
We got up thinking we wouldn't have class because that has been the arrangement for Fridays here. But, it was important to recap our Normandy trip, so we had an impromptu class at 5pm. Before that, we went to a cafe. This is a big event for Parisians. I don't know how (apparently they do not work during they day), but they spend hours at a time sitting and shooting the breeze at cafes in the noon hours during weekdays. Fine. We could do that too. So we sat. I tried rillette, which is a sandwich made with duck served a little like a tuna melt. Yum. And cafe creme. So we lingered and sat, and then we faced the fact that we must write a poem before our class.
Commence turbo write. Its difficult to articulate in poetry an experience like Normandy (specifically relating ourselves to WWII), so we did our best, and hopped on the train to Cecelia's, where we workshopped and discussed our experiences.
Then she took us to a party hosted by her jazz musician friend. It was in the street, open to whomever happened to be walking by. Very bobo, "bourgeouis boheme," according to my French friend. Then I sat in another cafe and with some friends until the wee hours, ate the best brie of my life (and two other cheeses that were tres magnifique but I cannot pronounce them so I shall refrain from trying), and went to bed.
A necessary recovery Day 19, voila.
Friday June 3
We got up thinking we wouldn't have class because that has been the arrangement for Fridays here. But, it was important to recap our Normandy trip, so we had an impromptu class at 5pm. Before that, we went to a cafe. This is a big event for Parisians. I don't know how (apparently they do not work during they day), but they spend hours at a time sitting and shooting the breeze at cafes in the noon hours during weekdays. Fine. We could do that too. So we sat. I tried rillette, which is a sandwich made with duck served a little like a tuna melt. Yum. And cafe creme. So we lingered and sat, and then we faced the fact that we must write a poem before our class.
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| Cafe creme=poet fuel |
Commence turbo write. Its difficult to articulate in poetry an experience like Normandy (specifically relating ourselves to WWII), so we did our best, and hopped on the train to Cecelia's, where we workshopped and discussed our experiences.
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| This lil guy creepin on our workshop from the window |
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| Bobo jazz |
(Mont Saint) Michele, ma belle
Day 18
Thursday June, 2
We wake up in Normandy...too early...but we cannot miss the hotel's continental breakfast. We steal a lot of baguette and fruit. duh. Anyway, load up the bus, off to Mont Saint Michele, a giant abbey/castle/monument about an hour outside Normandy. Unfortunately, we chose to come to this national monument on a national holiday (Ascension), so the place was swimming with (mostly French) tourists. Also, its situated at the top of a very steep hill, so we must cool our jets as the devout elderly ladies make the long and treacherous trek through the crowds. It took awhile, but Mont St. Michele is incredible. We got to tour the grounds and the castle, where I took a thousand gorgeous pictures of various medieval looking arches and whatnot. Then we were set loose to explore on our own--we found the cemeteries, monks' quarters, chapels, and the most delish crepes (crispy with too much french butter, which of course is better than american butter).
After Mont St. Michele, Cecelia and our ISA coordinator surprised us again with a visit to a cookie factory. We descended upon them like locusts--crazed sampling and purchase of Madelines ensued. Clearly these people know the way to our hearts: first cider, now cookies. Yum. Our treats kept us busy on the long (yet beautiful) five hour trip home. Side note: we stopped at a truck stop for a break in the equivalent of the French boondocks. The truck stop smelled nice. There was no grime. The bathrooms are clean. AND you can get delicious hot soup from a vending machine. Again, France for the win.
Moving on. Upon our arrival back in Paris, Diana and I hurried home to meet Kelsey, a friend from USC that came to visit and will be staying with us until we leave next Saturday. Together, we celebrated her arrival and our return the Parisian way. No clarification needed (right?). We headed to Cafe La Perle, and while we generally prefer to meet french people, the assortment of Americans we met were a hoot. So we continued our night with them until it was time to go home.
A couple of over-eager dudes on our street corner decided to follow us home, however...Here's the thing with the French: what we would consider creepy or "over the line" is pretty standard romantique behavior here. I think they mean well...now DON'T WORRY. Living in south central Los Angeles has taught me a thing or two about stranger danger, so I do not automatically assume all the people on the street are safe. It is reassuring though that, unlike LA, no one here is armed--guns do not exist in Paris (nice). Just to clarify--I WILL NOT TRUST RANDOM STRANGERS THAT FOLLOW ME IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT. I'm just sayin--I haven't felt truly sketched out yet. Whatever the case, we shut our very heavy door very tightly (and quickly) and headed up to bed.
Voila, (a very long) Day 18
Thursday June, 2
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| The pilgrimage up to Mont St. Michele |
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| from the bottom... |
Moving on. Upon our arrival back in Paris, Diana and I hurried home to meet Kelsey, a friend from USC that came to visit and will be staying with us until we leave next Saturday. Together, we celebrated her arrival and our return the Parisian way. No clarification needed (right?). We headed to Cafe La Perle, and while we generally prefer to meet french people, the assortment of Americans we met were a hoot. So we continued our night with them until it was time to go home.
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| one of the many gorgeous pics I took inside |
A couple of over-eager dudes on our street corner decided to follow us home, however...Here's the thing with the French: what we would consider creepy or "over the line" is pretty standard romantique behavior here. I think they mean well...now DON'T WORRY. Living in south central Los Angeles has taught me a thing or two about stranger danger, so I do not automatically assume all the people on the street are safe. It is reassuring though that, unlike LA, no one here is armed--guns do not exist in Paris (nice). Just to clarify--I WILL NOT TRUST RANDOM STRANGERS THAT FOLLOW ME IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT. I'm just sayin--I haven't felt truly sketched out yet. Whatever the case, we shut our very heavy door very tightly (and quickly) and headed up to bed.
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Normandy
Day 17
Wednesday June 1
Cockadoodle doo waaaaayyy too early this morning. We met as a class outside the main entrance of Gare du Nord, one of the bigger train stations in Paris. Its tricky to find the front because generally when we go through there, we stay under ground...plus at 7:30am everything is just a little fuzzy. Long story short we took a few laps around the place (which spans like four city blocks) before finding our group. Then, off to the bus! A quick 3 hour drive through the countryside later, we were dropped off at the Normandy memorial museum.
It was harrowing to say the least. The museum begins with the history of WWI, and how the fragile peace it established fell apart. Then it gets increasingly frightening--a soundtrack of Hitler's voice and marching boots played as we saw pictures of Nazi soldiers and Holocaust victims. The museum traced the escalation of the Nazi power, including important battles, the French resistance and occupation, and how the war became a "total war." I was particularly struck by photos of Nazi soldiers, blonde boys that looked to be about 12 years old. I cannot describe the photos in the Holocaust exhibit...
Then we piled back on the bus and drove another hour to the American cemetery at Omaha beach. I've never been to Arlington, but I imagine it would be something like that. We walked along the edge of the identical white marble crosses, but they extended beyond the horizon for longer than we could gage. There were countless crosses that read "Here lies in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God." Apparently they're still finding bodies.
After some time in the cemetery, we walked down to the beach to unwind for a minute, but I couldn't get the image of soldiers running from the water across the beach out of my brain. I saw a picture in the museum of thousands of soldiers running, being gunned down from planes above. 10,000 died that day.
We drove to another beach, Pont du Hoc, where bits of machinery, bunkers, and torpedo explosion-sized holes still stud the beach. The whole experience was very surreal in that I had physical proof of the destruction in front of me, but the sun was shining and the ocean was pure blue. I imagine these days of destruction in black and white...
Then, back to the bus, where our ISA coordinator surprised us with a cider tasting. Thank God. After our day, we needed a little something to take the edge off, and Normandy is known for their hard apple cider. A sweet frenchman showed us around the cider farm/factory? and then gave us unlimited cookies, the best apple juice I've ever had, cider, paummeux, calvados, and creme de paummeux. YUM. You would think us angsty poets would have pounced on the opportunity to buy the 80proof calvados, but that apple juice was sooo delish that we couldn't resist.
We checked in to our hotel (which is gorgeous--so nice to have a normal shower for once), met for a quick workshop/freewrite, then had dinner with the Cecelia. I was so wiped out by the end of the day that I beelined for the bed--we turned on the TV in our hotel room, and guess what we found. BBC! Diana and I have been watching CNN everyday because its the only channel we get in english, so BBC was groundbreaking! Woo. Ten seconds later I fell asleep.
Voila, Day 17
Wednesday June 1
Cockadoodle doo waaaaayyy too early this morning. We met as a class outside the main entrance of Gare du Nord, one of the bigger train stations in Paris. Its tricky to find the front because generally when we go through there, we stay under ground...plus at 7:30am everything is just a little fuzzy. Long story short we took a few laps around the place (which spans like four city blocks) before finding our group. Then, off to the bus! A quick 3 hour drive through the countryside later, we were dropped off at the Normandy memorial museum.
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| American Cemetery at Normandy |
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| "Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God" |
After some time in the cemetery, we walked down to the beach to unwind for a minute, but I couldn't get the image of soldiers running from the water across the beach out of my brain. I saw a picture in the museum of thousands of soldiers running, being gunned down from planes above. 10,000 died that day.
We drove to another beach, Pont du Hoc, where bits of machinery, bunkers, and torpedo explosion-sized holes still stud the beach. The whole experience was very surreal in that I had physical proof of the destruction in front of me, but the sun was shining and the ocean was pure blue. I imagine these days of destruction in black and white...
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| One of the holes left in the earth from the torpedoes |
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| Normandy beach |
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| Cider barrels |
Voila, Day 17
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Creepin on our faves
Day 16
Tuesday May 31
Class and workshopping as per usual. Once again, this stupid sestina is kicking my ass, but I suppose I'm making progress. Diana, Rose, and I decided to go back to Pere Lachaise to visit the graves of Apollinaire, Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf (the french version of Billie Holiday), and our ole' bud Jim Morrison (again). Champagne in hand, we began our search for Apollinaire. Apollinaire is one of my favorite poets--he is one of the founding fathers of the surrealist movement, and he writes the most beautiful (without being sappy) verses and caligrams. It took us about an hour to find his grave, but when we did I was thrilled to find my favorite "my heart is like a flame upside down" (“Mon Cœur pareil à une flamme renversée”) poem inscribed on it. Ah it was meant to be, Apollinaire. We popped our bottle and toasted surrealism and Paris and Pere Lachaise, and had a little drink with our (my) favorite. Then, off to Oscar Wilde--his tomb is a giant white monument that is COVERED with red lipstick graffiti, messages from adoring female admires of the literary variety. For a split second, I debated leaving a lipstick kiss mark on the stone, but then it occurred to me that kissing a grave that has been kissed by a thousand other girls in recent history is a little disgusting. I refrained. So off we went to Edith Piaf's grave, which is more modern and covered in flowers (a rarity for this cemetery), but Pere Lachaise was about to close, and of course we had to see Jim, so we booked it to the other side of the park and found his spot. Again, it had a mixed-bag crowd of fans and groupies. We posted up with our bottle and The Doors playing on our iphones, but we only got through the chorus of "break on through to the other side" before being asked to leave. The park was closing...we didn't get "kicked out."
Fine. So Diana and I went home and napped and wrote a little for class. Then a friend taught me how to make risotto and veal and all about fancy french cheese (they take it very seriously here). But we had a very early wake up call the next day (leaving for Normandy at 7:30am), so it we called it a night.
Se la vie. Viola, Day 16
Tuesday May 31
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| lover, Apollinaire |
Class and workshopping as per usual. Once again, this stupid sestina is kicking my ass, but I suppose I'm making progress. Diana, Rose, and I decided to go back to Pere Lachaise to visit the graves of Apollinaire, Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf (the french version of Billie Holiday), and our ole' bud Jim Morrison (again). Champagne in hand, we began our search for Apollinaire. Apollinaire is one of my favorite poets--he is one of the founding fathers of the surrealist movement, and he writes the most beautiful (without being sappy) verses and caligrams. It took us about an hour to find his grave, but when we did I was thrilled to find my favorite "my heart is like a flame upside down" (“Mon Cœur pareil à une flamme renversée”) poem inscribed on it. Ah it was meant to be, Apollinaire. We popped our bottle and toasted surrealism and Paris and Pere Lachaise, and had a little drink with our (my) favorite. Then, off to Oscar Wilde--his tomb is a giant white monument that is COVERED with red lipstick graffiti, messages from adoring female admires of the literary variety. For a split second, I debated leaving a lipstick kiss mark on the stone, but then it occurred to me that kissing a grave that has been kissed by a thousand other girls in recent history is a little disgusting. I refrained. So off we went to Edith Piaf's grave, which is more modern and covered in flowers (a rarity for this cemetery), but Pere Lachaise was about to close, and of course we had to see Jim, so we booked it to the other side of the park and found his spot. Again, it had a mixed-bag crowd of fans and groupies. We posted up with our bottle and The Doors playing on our iphones, but we only got through the chorus of "break on through to the other side" before being asked to leave. The park was closing...we didn't get "kicked out."
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| Ala Oscar, All Art is Quite Useless. word. |
Fine. So Diana and I went home and napped and wrote a little for class. Then a friend taught me how to make risotto and veal and all about fancy french cheese (they take it very seriously here). But we had a very early wake up call the next day (leaving for Normandy at 7:30am), so it we called it a night.
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| Oscar Wilde's grave with all of his lady lovers' lipstick |
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| This creeper is tryin to escape |
Friday, June 3, 2011
Sestina struggles
Day 16
Monday May 30
Class again today. We had been asked to write a poem about a social issue that concerns us most. A daunting task. I wasn't quite up to it. It was a struggle to articulate the full breadth of a huge thing (Hurricane Katrina, and how it was handled) contained in neat little lines. I wrote a sestina, but I'm not quite happy with it yet...
ANYWAY. We workshopped our poems as a group, then a group of us got some sandwiches, sat in a park, then in a cafe, and blabbed. Then Diana and I hoofed it back to our place. We both have NaviGo passes, which give us unlimited access to the metros, but we buy them by the week. We figured since we would be leaving town for a couple of days, and we both had a carnet (book of tickets) from when we didn't know what we were doing and hadn't bought the NaviGo yet, we wouldn't get our money's worth for the weekly pass and we could save a couple bucks by just using the tickets. The tickets are super limiting though...just getting to and from class is two tickets right there, but Diana and I are all over the place, and we probably take the train like 8 times a day. Poor planning on our part. ANYWAY we walked to try to conserve a ticket. It was a 45 minute walk--not so bad. We do those walks all the time, right? No. We learned we do not like Rue de Magenta--its dirty and crowded and a little too dodgy. Well now we know..
So we edited some poetry, then walked down Republique to get to our Open Mic night at Caberet Populaire. I read my poem Du Poisson, that I wrote while drinking a bottle of wine under the tree with the pigeon crap. It went well, but I do not like these things. I love poetry, but the poetry culture is not so much for me. It can get pretentious, or competitive, or boring very easily. I guess I have to reconcile the poem with the poetry world. Boo. Anyway. That took all night, so Diana and I were ready for bed when we got home. My stupid sestina still loomed over me though...
Voila, Day 16
Monday May 30
Class again today. We had been asked to write a poem about a social issue that concerns us most. A daunting task. I wasn't quite up to it. It was a struggle to articulate the full breadth of a huge thing (Hurricane Katrina, and how it was handled) contained in neat little lines. I wrote a sestina, but I'm not quite happy with it yet...
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| TFH? |
So we edited some poetry, then walked down Republique to get to our Open Mic night at Caberet Populaire. I read my poem Du Poisson, that I wrote while drinking a bottle of wine under the tree with the pigeon crap. It went well, but I do not like these things. I love poetry, but the poetry culture is not so much for me. It can get pretentious, or competitive, or boring very easily. I guess I have to reconcile the poem with the poetry world. Boo. Anyway. That took all night, so Diana and I were ready for bed when we got home. My stupid sestina still loomed over me though...
STUCK
Day 15
Sunday May 29
Soooo we had grand plans today--we were going to get up early, go to the world's largest flea market at Clignancourt, then mass at Notre Dame, then to the final day of the city wide jazz festival. We were up and showered and on our way out the door...then we broke it. Well not really-- this door is ancient, and the lock has been giving us hell since day one (it takes two of us to wrestle the lock into submission). But, this time, after eight attempts to get the lock to work (the screws had worked themselves out of the door), we tried putting the key in the inside keyhole to see if there was anything wrong. Seems fair, no? No. The key got miserably stuck in there. Not because it was jammed, or sticky, or anything--it just wouldn't move. So check we with locksmiths, which, naturally, do not make house calls on Sundays, did some googling (asked jeeves), and then we gave up and called Emilie, our landlady. She is currently in the south of France working on her latest film (she's a producer), and couldn't come help us. She was very sweet about it though, and she calls her friend Wilfred to come handle it.
I know, Mom, we shouldn't be having strange men up to our apartment, but what were we supposed to do? We couldn't leave. We took the whole lock out of the door! I let Wilfred in about thirty minutes later and he mentions that this is the third time he's had to fix this door. He also mentions he and Emilie have been friends since they were ten (we think that he's secretly madly in love with her). He takes one look at the thing and laughs. Then he takes another look and shakes his head. Then he takes another look and says "shit." After about twenty minutes of pacing around and poking at everything, he busts out the tools from this apartment's SECRET COMPARTMENT (we were excited to find it), and gets to work. Theres a lot of bumping around and grunting and filing, but he manages 1) to get the door to close and 2) to create a working lock! It was all very dramatic. So we gave him a glass of wine. He didn't like it. But thats okay--its not the first time we have been judged for our taste in wine, which really just requires that the bottle costs less than 2euro. The French do not approve.
Wilfred left, and we (merrily) finished our bottle, and headed out, reveling in the simplicity of the new lock on the door. By this time, we had missed the flea market and missed mass, so we went straight to the jazz festival. It was a five hour show with three jazz groups, finalists in a competition. Admission was free, but consommation (consumption) was mandatory. The venue was an underground stage with brick walls and bare lightbulbs. very jazzy. The first group was awesome. The second group made me want to rip my ears off. By the time the third group came on, I couldn't take it anymore--I was too narcoleptic and too hot down there and getting very claustrophobic. So I went to the little park around the corner and Diana(s) (they were both there) came and found me after it was over. They said the second group had won.
While they were playing, I was scribbling in the little leather book that I cary around (ala poet). Here's some of my thoughts while these fools were on stage:
"Or Simon's right--you could just be a big piece of cheese on a greasy hamburger patty" (this came from a half dozing image that came to me upon lurching awake...I have absolutely no idea how it correlates)
"...someone making out with a pile of three-foot sticks, blowing so hard it sounds like church music, but in an anime movie. i haven't even seen an anime movie but I know its not jazz"
"weirdo chanting smackily with saliva into the microphone as the indonesian whatever quivers in the background"
(the guy was making noises into the mic that sounded like the "others" on LOST. shut up. and the other guy was playing some homemade instrument, which was basically a stick he found in Indonesia)
"yes, yes, terrified monkey--just what I love to hear, verbal reenactment of the extinction of your species on fastforward."
I suppose I do not need to reiterate that I really disliked these guys. Lord knows how they won--I suspect foul play. Blackmailing the judges maybe?
Whatever. I decided I had enough excitement for one day, and we headed home to shleep.
Sunday May 29
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| While trapped in our apartment, we discovered a ton of quirky gems that Emilie puts in here This little guy hugging the plant was a favorite. |
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| Entree GRATUITE, consommation obligatoire |
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| the set up |
Wilfred left, and we (merrily) finished our bottle, and headed out, reveling in the simplicity of the new lock on the door. By this time, we had missed the flea market and missed mass, so we went straight to the jazz festival. It was a five hour show with three jazz groups, finalists in a competition. Admission was free, but consommation (consumption) was mandatory. The venue was an underground stage with brick walls and bare lightbulbs. very jazzy. The first group was awesome. The second group made me want to rip my ears off. By the time the third group came on, I couldn't take it anymore--I was too narcoleptic and too hot down there and getting very claustrophobic. So I went to the little park around the corner and Diana(s) (they were both there) came and found me after it was over. They said the second group had won.
While they were playing, I was scribbling in the little leather book that I cary around (ala poet). Here's some of my thoughts while these fools were on stage:
 |
| Just a casual tower in the park I was hangin out in |
"Or Simon's right--you could just be a big piece of cheese on a greasy hamburger patty" (this came from a half dozing image that came to me upon lurching awake...I have absolutely no idea how it correlates)
"...someone making out with a pile of three-foot sticks, blowing so hard it sounds like church music, but in an anime movie. i haven't even seen an anime movie but I know its not jazz"
"weirdo chanting smackily with saliva into the microphone as the indonesian whatever quivers in the background"
(the guy was making noises into the mic that sounded like the "others" on LOST. shut up. and the other guy was playing some homemade instrument, which was basically a stick he found in Indonesia)
"yes, yes, terrified monkey--just what I love to hear, verbal reenactment of the extinction of your species on fastforward."
I suppose I do not need to reiterate that I really disliked these guys. Lord knows how they won--I suspect foul play. Blackmailing the judges maybe?
Whatever. I decided I had enough excitement for one day, and we headed home to shleep.
aaaand we're back
Day 14
Saturday, May 28
So shleepy today. Diana and I (well really just Diana) figured out how to use the washing machine in our apartment. It gets tricky when all the buttons are in french--FYI Google Translate is hilarious, but not so helpful. She put her clothes in, but we had to hang out here at the apartment until it finished so she could switch over the load...three hours later we start to get a little curious as to why the thing is still full of soapy water... apparently you can set the machine to run for NINE hours. Why anyone would want to wash their clothes for 9 hours is beyond me, but the French are silly.
While we waited, we went downstairs to the boulangerie to get baguette, but we ended up stopping at the little boutique by our metro stop. I made Diana buy a black dress. Then she made me buy one. Touche, friend. French sales ladies will tell you if you look fat in something, and this one seemed to approve, so hopefully we did okay ;) Then we found the BEST vintage store right by our place as we were walking home. Something new every day, I know. Its full of 70's and 80's gems and its all very chic and very punk at the same time. I want all the purses in there.
Having survived the laundry, we hopped on the train to Gare d'Austerlitz to go to the Botanical Gardens. It was beautiful, my favorite park thus far. Flowers, and frogs, and a labyrinth, and benches, and shade! We got a little writing done, then headed to the mairie to go to Le Marche de Poesie, something equivalent to the Festival of Books in LA, but just for poets. Our professor wasn't there yet though, so we explored for awhile, oriented ourselves (turns out we were right by Jardin du Luxembourg), got some food, then wandered back over to the festival. Cecelia was there with a few of her poet friends, and we poked around, but all the books were in French. Alas, I still do not speak this language. Oh well.
Afterwards, Diana and I took our friend (who is named Diana as well) back to our place for some wine, and then we made an appearance at L'Embuscade. The bartenders were, of course, happy to see us, and they filled our glasses very full. Talk, talk, talk at L'Embuscade, then Diana-as-well went home on the last train, and Diana and I went upstairs to sleep.
Voila, (mellow) Day 14
Saturday, May 28
So shleepy today. Diana and I (well really just Diana) figured out how to use the washing machine in our apartment. It gets tricky when all the buttons are in french--FYI Google Translate is hilarious, but not so helpful. She put her clothes in, but we had to hang out here at the apartment until it finished so she could switch over the load...three hours later we start to get a little curious as to why the thing is still full of soapy water... apparently you can set the machine to run for NINE hours. Why anyone would want to wash their clothes for 9 hours is beyond me, but the French are silly.
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| Se la vie at the Botanical Gardens |
While we waited, we went downstairs to the boulangerie to get baguette, but we ended up stopping at the little boutique by our metro stop. I made Diana buy a black dress. Then she made me buy one. Touche, friend. French sales ladies will tell you if you look fat in something, and this one seemed to approve, so hopefully we did okay ;) Then we found the BEST vintage store right by our place as we were walking home. Something new every day, I know. Its full of 70's and 80's gems and its all very chic and very punk at the same time. I want all the purses in there.
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| The chirpiest lil frog ever! |
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| La Marche de Poesie |
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| Sunset that greeted us as we got off the metro. |
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