Painting the town green

With a week left on the calendar before BACK TO THE REAL WORLD is written in red ink, I'm right in the midst of an incredible love affair with this city. Although I feel myself yearning for the home that I've made in NYC and a taste of the simplicity of life in my original old KY home, I have a feeling that my relationship with Paris will not cease with my departure.
Sunday I went to the Lee Miller exhibit at the Jeu de Paume; I find myself completely fascinated with the women of the early 20th century like Lee. I read the biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay right before coming here, and felt a similar affinity. I have to wonder whether or not their paths crossed in Paris having both been residents in the early 30's. Both women were extraordinarily independent, intelligent, unconventional, and uninhibited talents, and yet both share this haunted, beautiful delicateness bordering on fragility. I found myself staring at her hands in the photographs. They made me want to hum...or dance...or fall in love.
Before heading off for a truly awesome get away in Berlin the weekend before last, I went with a crew of friends to a crazy illegal party in the catacombs underneath this great city. We walked over 20 minutes through an abandoned train tunnel and after crawling underground through this rabbit hole of an entrance, we waded through knee-deep muddy water and walked another 20 minutes through winding cave-like, low-clearance tunnels to end up at a party where we drank and sang and danced our little hearts out. A new friend took the shot above (which I can't wait to print and frame) on the way out.
Berlin was a fantastic blur of great food, interesting history lessons, cool flea markets, and frozen toes. I definitely recommend going, and it was super cheap (although with Paris as a barometer, it's hard to tell). I got new glasses at the flea market, had the best Turkish wrap I've ever tasted, and felt as German as ever with delicious hearty soups, bratwurst and sauerkraut, schnitzel and strudel, goulash and potatoes, and beer and mulled wine. I think I gained 5 lbs.
Last week, I was lucky enough to have 2 very different, but equally awesome dinners to be especially thankful for. Monday, my girl Krystle invited me to join her in being the only 2 Americans for a delicious Thanksgiving meal at her friends place where I had to pry myself away from the singing and dancing after midnight to make the last metro. Thanksgiving night, Ludmilla hosted a beautiful gathering of students and friends for a bountiful meal/raucous party that I also found myself not at all wanting to leave.
This past weekend included acing my final at the Sorbonne (no big feat, really, as I was in the lowest level French courses), a wine fair, a party at an artists' squat, a lovely motorcycle ride around Paris at night (in all of it's Christmastime glory, the city of lights became an understatement), and an inspiring art exposition.
I don't know if in the last week I'll find the time to write again, but for all of those who have said, "Oh, I'm so jealous of you!" These past couple of weeks have been for you. If I were you, I'd be jealous, too:-)

On a fait les quatre cents coups ensemble

This past weekend was what one might call a doozy. Starting on Thursday with two amazing shows by my friend, the talented Ms. Krystle Warren...the first, a sold-out big deal at The Olympia complete with a backstage pass, whiskey, a smokey dressing room, and a pretty kick-ass catered dinner; the second, a low key "after show" at a club that I've been to a couple of times. I think it's called La Regine? It's kind of an after hours situation, so the times I've been there have been in the evening and well, after hours of drinking...so the name is admittedly hazy. I had such a great time, made some really cool new friends, and got to party like a rock star...or at least like a pretty damn successful singer/songwriter.
Friday night my dear friend from NYC came to town, and we had a blast hanging out with her brother and friends. Raniah's one of my favorites; born in Saudi Arabia, raised in London, and recent US citizen...we simply fell head over heals for each other riding the bus home from our rehearsals for Offending the Audience this time last year. She was lovely enough to bring me some supplies from home including the EmergenC I'm sippin on right now. Until she departed on Sat, we had tea and biscuits, and wine and salads, and beer and beer, and coffee and butter...interrupted briefly by a few hours of sleep. We went sexy stocking shopping and on a beautiful afternoon promenade around Le Cemetaire de Monmartre near her bro's place. After losing track of the time, we ran through the streets and the metro and Gare de Lyon, "pardon"ing ourselves all the way for trampling poor Parisians in our path. We got her safely on the TGV to Switzerland just as the whistle blew and the doors closed behind her. It was absolutely exhausting!
And yet! I mustered the energy after a nice long nap to meet my friends at a party last night. Well, I met Lauren on the train...and we finally made it to the party after an hour of searching because our friends Nicolas and Andrew were apparently too intoxicated to give us proper directions. Andrew's a lovely late addition to the program I'm in, and we get along like gangbusters. He's a sensitive soul, and a hopeless corner-cutting optimist, and he cracks me up. His boyfriend Nicolas is gracious and kind and patient with my French. They've got a cozy little place and play great hosts (such as brunch today...bloodymarys+grilled cheese+Tina Turner+ hot fudge sundaes=perfect Sunday).
Lauren is a complete doll. The moment I met her on Halloween, I asked her to be in my short film. She's beautiful and totally has that New Wave/Anna Karina-look going on...she's also a talented actress to boot. Although we were frustrated getting there and had to run screaming from a guy masterbating in the street (my first incident of this kind that I wish NEVER to have to experience again), the party was pretty fun.
Right after we arrived, Andrew was like, "let me introduce you to this hot guy."
Hot guy asked where I was from and when I said KY, he says, "Oh, my best friend married a girl from KY and lives in Cincinnati."
"Really? One of my best friends from KY married a French guy and lives in Cincinnati."
"Etienne?"
"Patricia?"
In unison, "Holy shit, this is CRAZY!" And so on and so forth. It was pretty hilarious. This tiny little planet. C'est comme ça. Later, Hot Guy introduced me to his girlfriend. This tiny little planet full of couples. C'est la vie.
I then took the night bus home for the first time, and saw some pretty interesting characters. It took forever, but is a safe, cheap alternative to cabs since the metro closes at a laughable 1:40am here. I'm sure it won't be the last time I use it.
My house mother's driving me crazy, but has redeemed herself this evening with a delicious soup for dinner. I feel like stuff keeps getting lost in the laundry she won't allow me to do, she asks me repeatedly to do things I'm already doing (nothing serious, just returning the phone to the cradle, cleaning out the coffee maker and such), and she continues to eat any desserts I have in my freezer. I seriously don't mind sharing food (I actually prefer it), but she's constantly commenting on her "problem" with food, and makes comments about how it's unfair how thin I am. I want to be like, "You're 60 and look great...give it a flippin rest already!"
This week is full of classes and film editing and such, but I can't wait for a party in the Catacombs and BERLIN this weekend! I'm gonna miss all these characters when I go, but I'm excited to go home soon, too. It's hard to believe I'll be back in NYC in less than a month. So much to see, so much to do...but first on the list: sleep. Goodnight small world.

Il fait mauvais

I'm curled up in bed on a Saturday night with a bottle of tasty wine (1€70 at my local grocer), a good French flick, and blankets piled high. Outside, it's cold and windy and rainy, and I don't think I could be dragged out of this house for anything ce soir. Over the easy jazz music my house mother seems to be blaring downstairs, there's the steady sound of rain on the skylight outside my bedroom door.
It wasn't so bad this afternoon. I sat near the lake in the park a block from my house and wrote a few pages of crap. I've been feeling kind of stuck. Or lazy, I suppose, for the last week or so. My head is swimming with French words and facts about writers and artists and philosophers whose names I will inevitably forget. I feel frozen in the shadow of these great thinkers. As it's been said, it's all been done.
Like millions of Americans, I felt inspired by the election of Barack Obama this week. I watched on a big screen at a bar in Paris with 2 young Tunisian friends (one of whom is convinced I am his future wife/mother of his 6 children...HA!) while a band sang ridiculously wrong lyrics to classic American rock. I woke up the next morning still buzzing. Perhaps from lack of sleep as I'm 6 hours ahead; perhaps from excitement. I watched his acceptance speech (this time with the sound on), and got goosebumps. If you didn't, I think it's time to throw in the towel on the whole being human thing, because there's obviously something wrong with your heart. It wasn't until I saw a friend's post on Facebook, that I learned the disgusting news about Proposition 8.
This situation makes me incredibly nauseous. The propaganda I saw for prop8 was so ridiculous, I had a hard time imagining anyone taking it seriously. They used kids in these ads, saying that allowing gay marriage is bad for children. It will confuse them because marriage is an institution for procreation. Public schools will be obligated to teach children about gay marriage, therefore undermining any religious beliefs of some parents. And the sanctity of marriage will be desecrated.
- Did I miss the day of school that we had the "marriage" lesson? And are we not giving children enough credit? Is it really so difficult to describe it as a legal bond between two people who want to share their lives together?
- If this choice of adults that allegedly affects children in a negative way is banned, we will now have to make divorce (you know the way over 60% of marriages end) illegal as well, right? That's not even alleged! We know how badly that affects children.
- Hmmm, 40% of births are out of wedlock in the US, and a lot of married couples don't ever have children. You don't think the definition of marriage as an "institution for procreation" will confuse children?
- Am I having deja vu? Didn't we already have this fight about teaching evolution?
- If you truly believe in the religious beliefs this country was "founded on," not only should divorce be illegal, but we should reinstate slavery, women should not vote (and should also be burned at the stake for reading or other witch-like behavior) and don't even get me started on the whole manifest destiny bullshit that pretty much wiped out the very first Americans.
What our country was founded on was life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Our basic, constitutional rights as Americans. If we look really close and are honest, we can determine this whole proposition is completely blind, intolerant bigotry. The same kind that would not have allowed Obama's parents to marry in some states at that time.
For those of you that support this ban, could you please tell me why so much time and energy (that could be used for so many great works of compassion) was spent to prevent happiness for others? Really. I know not everyone who reads this shares my views, and I want to know what you think.
Anyway, I don't want to sound preachy...I'm just confused, and sickened, and saddened. Ah well, nothing like French existentialism and red wine to turn it all around;-) Ha! Bonne nuit, mes amis.

My momma's for Obama

Monday morning I have a history class about communism in France, and Tuesday night I will be attending the Americans Abroad election coverage over-night party here in Paris. I'm growing tired of waiting, but I also feel excited and inspired and confident. My dad's still voting Republican, which is beyond me. It is to him and to others who share his opinions that I would like to sing a song:
Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'
Come writers and critics
Who prophesies with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won't come again
And don't speak too soon
For the wheel's still in spin
And there's no tellin' who that it's namin'
'Cause the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'
Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorways
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he that has stalled
The battle outside ragin'
Will soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'
Come mothers and fathers
All over the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin'
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'
The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
And the present now
Will later be past
The order is rapidly fadin'
The first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'
For the times they are a-changin'
-Bob Dylan

Oui, oui, oui all the way home.

Last week, I brought Ariane some English nursery rhyme books and a couple of cattails to get me back in her good graces. I think she likes me and all, but it's hard to stay popular when each time you show up, mommy and daddy leave. She really enjoyed them, but now I'm suffering with various ones stuck in my head as I try to finish this screenplay and write a reaction to Une Femme est Une Femme.
Her favorite is: Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old. Some like it hot, some like it cold, some like it in the pot nine days old.
"Encore, encore," she says, like a little French teletubby. Or an opera audience.
Ludmilla (her mother, my teacher) believes it's because there's one similar to this that she already knows in Hungarian. She also then noted, that there aren't many French nursery rhymes because the language doesn't have that type of musicality to it. Which would explain why good French music, as I've noticed, is somewhat hard to come by.
Really frustrated with the language at this point. I can comprehend quite a bit reading, and I've even started thinking in French sometimes, but when people speak to me, I'm pretty lost. It's quite humbling. I'm really going to push myself this last month and a half to step up to the plate, and get my money's worth out of the program.
I had a long lunch with Tweedle Dee the other day, and he's really disappointed with the program we're in. He's pretty high maintenance and hard to please in any given situation. He asked me for advice, so I tried explaining to him some of the basic Buddhist philosophies that helped me through some rough patches this past year. It was great to try and teach what little I know about enlightenment and happiness, because it helps me remember things, too.
Before I left town, and told people in NYC that I would be staying with a host family, some people's reactions were really funny. "Oh no, what if they're crazy?" I would laugh, and think of how silly it was to worry about that. Situations are what you make them, right?
My house mother has turned out to be quite neurotic. She's been through 4 maids since I moved in, and I had the opportunity to speak with one on her way out. The maid said the lady of the house was absolutely crazy and would never be happy. She said she would deliberately make huge messes (I have noticed erratic messiness) and then would insist that the maid finish an impossible list of chores in less than 3 hours. She won't let me do my own laundry, and she insist on cleaning my shower almost daily (even if I haven't showered). They told me I could use a small refrigerator in the basement, and she rearranges my food in there.
And yet, she is very kind and generous. She leaves me soup, and chocolate bars, and cough syrup. She may be strange and it may be driving me absolutely bonkers, but she's obviously suffering in some way to act the way she does. She's a retired woman with a little too much time on her hands is all. Although, I'd rather live on my own, there's nothing I can do about it. Except have compassion and patience for my wayward hostess.
I also often wonder if I got ripped off with this program. Tweedle Dee was very focused on this subject. Where exactly is all of our money (or credit, in my case) going? Well, I guess we could sit around feeling cheated, but what in the hell is that going to do? It is in the past. Tuition is paid in full. All we can do is squeeze every little great experience there is to be had in the short time we have left. In Paris, I mean. But I guess that's true in the bigger picture as well.
Telling someone else these things did my spirit a lot of good. And I realized that I would like to teach yoga when I get home. It has given me a lot of perspective, and I think it would be a great gift to give to others. Not to mention the fact that teaching something is the best way to learn it.
I've also made some other decisions about my life through this experience. Unfortunately, I've created an equal amount of unanswered questions. If that makes any sense. All I know is that for the next 6 weeks, to each and every opportunity this city has to offer I will say, oui. Oui. Oui.

Au contraire, mon frère

Many will be happy to know that my brother's visit was extremely enjoyable. My cousin Jolene joined us for his week-long European vacation, and we had quite the time indeed. The highlight was definitely a laid back 3 days in the great city of Amsterdam where we had a ball strolling and rolling through the canopy of fall colors around the canals and shops of the Dutch wonderland.
Paris was actually more accessible than I originally thought...almost all the buses are accessible with ramps and with 2 of the most laid back, indifferent tourists ever, I had a blast just riding around checking out the sights at leisure. We had crepes and red wine and hot chocolate, my brother participated in a protest concerning the rights of French immigrants, and we spent enough time in the Louvre to become fully saturated with fine art.
This morning (my brother's birthday, no less) was a bit of a nightmare trying to get to the airport by public transportation. The ease of the week somehow made us forget the fact that shit happens. And the obstacles presented to those in wheelchairs can be quite time consuming. I guess the laid back indifference has its drawbacks.
I'm notorious for getting to the airport late. It's really only thanks to some twisted miraculous luck that I've never missed a flight. The time when I would have most definitely missed one, the plane was delayed 3 hours. Just a couple of months ago, I arrived at LaGuardia just in time to be scurried through international lines and escorted directly to the plane by a ticket agent for my flight here.
I will now note that Gary and Jolene (a.k.a. Rupert and Winkie) were aware of this reputation. I say this only because of my extreme guilt for what happened this morning. I was late meeting them (I was to help them with the luggage), and waiting for me probably cost them a precious 20 minutes. 20 minutes, however, was nothing compared to the hour and a half we spent looking for the elevator to the RER at Chatelet (the closest Parisian equivalent to Grand Central Station) and arguing with the extraordinarily rude bus drivers for the CDG bus-shuttle thingy. To top it off, the bus-driver told them to get off at the wrong terminal, so I don't know if the 20 minutes would have saved the day...but it certainly hasn't stopped the tears today.
Luckily, the great people at Delta were able to get them on another flight and waved the charge. It was, however, with a layover and just thinking of the miserable birthday he must be having has left me irreparably blue.
My brother is an enigma, and undoubtedly the most amazing individual I know. I've often said he has the epitome of confidence without an ounce of pride. For those of you who don't know him, he was in a car accident in 2002 that completely severed his spinal cord. He's a paraplegic. But he's more of an MBA student/full-time computer engineer, homeowner who drives and is completely self-reliant, who just happens to get around on wheels.
I discovered this week, he is also the least opinionated, most argumentative person I know. He is a Libra afterall, and although I don't put too much stock in Astrology (hey, it's probably more stable than most things on the market today), I can't help but note the fact. He argues every side to every issue, and although he certainly has opinions (I am the worst driver ever, for example), he is slow in deliberate in deciding what those opinions are. Always weighing the each side. I envy his endurance.
My brother also loves money. Always has. At a very young age, his penchant for making a buck was blatantly obvious. He's a steadfast saver, a wise investor and a hard worker. But for someone who's all about the Benjamins, he is extraordinarily generous (almost to a fault). A couple of Christmas's ago, this man gave me Monopoly and replaced the fake money with real dough. I mean, come on. He also doesn't have a materialistic bone in his skinny body. He'd wear the same clothes everyday, eat spaghetti for dinner every night, and really only seems to buy the necessities (keystone light and Wi games excluded).
We got into a conversation the other night about fate. He thinks it's bullshit. There is no rhyme or reason, and the world is left to chance. He hasn't ruled out the idea of a creator, but he/she's not an active God. There is no hand. There is no control. But he believes in luck, he says with a grin. And believes he has it.
Au contraire, mon frère. It is anyone who knows you that is lucky. Anyone you've smiled at or argued with or loved or hated. Anyone who's opened a door for you or helped you on a bus. Anyone who got your "pardon" song or gracious "merci." And me. Your fuck-up of a big sis that didn't get you to the airport on time. I'm sorry and I love you. Bon anniversaire.

Je suis très fatigué

I have to go to sleep since I'm getting on a train in less than 6 hours to go to the south of France for the weekend. After Marseille, I'm headed to Amsterdam with the bro and cousin for 4 days. It should be loads of fun, but you're not gonna get a worthwhile blog for some time. Yes, it's hard to be me.
In all seriousness, I have had a hard week looking for an accessible hotel that didn't cost an arm and paralyzed leg. Obviously things of that nature are a little bit more dated on this side of the pond. It just so happened that the one excursion my school organized and is paying for fell on the weekend that my brother arrives. This has been the cause for beaucoup anxiety this week.
My French still sucks. It's becoming more apparent that I will only have scraped the surface in 4 months, and I'll just have to come back some day to really perfect it ;-)
Last weekend I had an amazing time at Nuit Blanche, which is this all-night art festival in Paris. I'm spearheading the NYC branch when I get back. Seriously. Well, hopefully.
Anyway, starting production on my first film soon (don't get too excited...just a student project written and directed by moi), heading to Berlin and Florence next month, and lamenting my limits (financial and time-wise).
Bonne nuit, mes amis.

Peut-être

I've been struggling this week to decide what to write about. It's getting harder and harder to whittle down this experience into a "weekly update," but on top of a full class load, writing a screen play, and experiencing the joie de vivre, I'm having a little trouble with my old foe time management.
Tonight at dinner, we had an interesting conversation about blogs. What makes them interesting, our favorites, etc. I realized that the more responses or acknowledgment I get from writing in this weird, new-age medium, the more hesitant I become in my expression. Basically, I felt a little guilty for railing against the American education system (I do not, indeed, think it is hopelessly flawed), and I wanted to make it perfectly clear how much I love my motherland that I'm a bit homesick for ce soir.
For instance, at the table I found myself starting a sentence with, "As an American..." with a comical amount of pride to rival Lee Greenwood. We were talking about the law in France banning "conspicuous" religious items (i.e. the crucifix, the yarmulka, or the hijab-the Muslim headscarf) in public arenas like school or in court. I was arguing against the law, even though I am far from supporting fundamentalists, because I think it's an important freedom to have to be able to express your beliefs in any way you'd like (when it comes to personal appearance, obviously).
It's also important to note that I've been experiencing this beautiful city to an entirely American sound track. I even heard a friend of mine on the radio the other morning. Not so crazy considering I worked in a music hall in NYC for a year and change before I got here, but still. From jazz to folk to bluegrass to pop to rock and roll, Americans are definitely ahead of the game when it comes to music. Sure, the Brits have been fair contributers, but the French are quick to say, "American muzeek eez zee best." And yes, they say it just like that. And with authority. And I believe them.
I've also been tossing around this idea of becoming a writer which makes even the task of writing this silly blog seem daunting. There's this fine line that I feel I'm walking as an "aspiring writer" between a completely inflated sense of self (listen up kids, I'm gonna tell ya a little somethin' 'bout this thing we call life) and a desperate plea for validation (why would people want to hear what I have to say about anything?). Although now that I say it, this fine line is something I think maybe everyone struggles with, and to think it's unique to writing is pretty foolish. And like my teacher said the other day, "Alors, zere are plenty of people who love to read, so I zink you should just write." Also with authority. And I believe that, too.
When one man, for whatever reason, has an opportunity to lead an extraordinary life, he has no right to keep it to himself. --Jacques Cousteau

Une grande fille

Last week, I had quite the time with Arianne. She became very upset as we got her ready to take a bath, and it took me 15 minutes of hearing her screaming and crying to figure out that it was the removal of her chaussures that incited the riot. It was, of course, because I slipped them off without a thought...and she is 3. Une grande fille. Discovering this, I put her shoes back on. She then stomped into the bathroom and demanded that I "fermer la porte!" I shut the door, proud of my comprehension skills. After a good 3 minutes or so of patting myself on the back, I was jolted back into the reality of an unsupervised 3-year-old in a bathroom with a bathtub full of water, and swung open the door to find her still sniffling but completely undressed and ready to go. It was a pretty comical situation, but made me realize this whole babysitting with the language barrier may be a little harder than I initially thought.
I know how she feels. My love of independence can only be exceeded by my desire for more. This week has been one of great revelations. (The thought that this is the first month, and I have nearly three full months left makes my heart skip beats.) I have learned so many new words, read and heard loads of historical facts, and seen massive amounts of work by incredible artists. Just in the past 5 days I saw an amazing exhibit by Richard Avedon at the Jeu de Paume, explored the small space that is the Musée de l'Orangerie, and went through nearly the entire Centre Pompidou.
Last night after a history class in Bastille, I began to think about France and its people with their countless revolutions. Their protests. Their quests for independence. After class, I was having a drink with one of my teachers, and he said he thought the director of our program was too hard on Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. This woman has had more patience than me with the pair, but there's definitely a cultural divide. She is shocked by there lack of independence. I see this in my language classes as well. The divide in the educational systems that I was talking about. French educators are not going to hold your hand and show you how to get to the answer. They give you the questions and provide you with facts, and the rest is up to you.
I was embarrassed at how passionately I shot down his remark, but I truly felt what I said to be true. Basically, I believe America is in the state it is now because there are millions of people who have never been taught how to think for themselves. How wasted is the independence we claim to value so dearly? They have their prescriptions and their religious doctrines that they don't dare question, and then they need Fox News or some other group of greedy, manipulative assholes to take them by the hand and tell them exactly what to think. Or do. Don't stop shopping!
One thing that has also been completely eye-opening is how sustainable the French seem to be. I recently watched The Story of Stuff, which I highly recommend everyone see and show their children (www.thestoryofstuff.com--the narrator can seem a bit cheesy, but she's bearable), and I've become a great fan of this: frenchtoastfrance.blogspot.com.
But the real question has come with the role of creativity in all of this. It came up first as a question Zoe posed (at around 4am, après beaucoup de boissons) about synthesizing compassion and selling your work as an artist. How is it possible to sell yourself (your goods, your arts, your services) when you want to fight consumerism and be a compassionate, independent being? The very next day after she asked this type of question, I was assigned an article about Manet that you can read here: http://www.jstor.org/pss/3046078.
I then read (on Facebook of all places) that a friend of mine's mother said, "Education is what remains when all the facts are forgotten." So, I'm not entirely sure what I'll do next in this life, but I'm starting to get a clearer idea. And just because I'm not sure how I'll independently crawl out of this hole of debt doesn't mean it wasn't worth every penny.

My favorite teacher, le Pape, and the missing ice cream bars

Wednesday, my favorite teacher asked me if I could please stop singing. I wasn't actually in a class, but putting little Ms. Arianne to bed. She's the 3 year-old I'll be babysitting once or twice a week. She speaks French (obviously) and is also fluent in Hungarian, and although she understands most English, she really only knows a few words. So our communication is such that I speak in English (I'll often repeat whatever I'm saying in French as well if I know how), and she speaks in French. She's incredibly smart and generous and sweet. She's an absolute doll with blonde curly hair and brown eyes. I already feel extremely attached to this one even if she doesn't like my lullabies.
Speaking of lullabies, I'm pretty tired from another fun night about town with my new partner in crime, Zoe Nissman. Zoe hails from Topanga Canyon in LA and went to school in NYC with my girl, Ms. Lauren Kincheloe. They now live together in Lalaland, and Zoe will be here through the end of the month. We spent the day window shopping and moseying around Montmartre. I love that the French expression for window shopping is "faire du lèche-vitrines," which literally means licking the window. We drank a couple of bottles of wine with our hot new French friend Tristan (who looks like a male model, rides a motorbike, and speaks perfect English without an accent as he spent his first 10 years in Connecticut), and then met up with my friend Nicolas at a bar in Odéon for more drinking and French lessons. French lessons that I have completely forgotten. Seriously, this stuff needs to start sticking.
Note to self: USE the damn notebook and pen you've been toting around everywhere and WRITE THINGS DOWN.
I realized on the phone with my mom this morning that I am overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by my return to education. I'm definitely excited to be learning a new language, and the culture and history of France is especially interesting considering how in love I am with this city, but this is also the most challenging thing I've ever done. Which is kind of sad. I don't know that in my 16 years of school I was ever really challenged. I swept through a public high school and a state university, and rarely felt, if ever, truly challenged. As an artist, I've definitely had challenges. As a human I've faced (collectively with my family) more than my fair share of challenges. But academically...?
I love my country. I have read the statistics, and I knew the sorry state of affairs, but I guess witnessing first-hand how behind we really are has changed my perspective a bit. So, now the question remains: what exactly am I going to do about it?
Pope Benedict XVI was in Paris for the weekend. This meant 3x the amount of tourists to get in my way on my way home from school Friday. As a non-practicing, "confirmed" catholic, it really didn't mean much else. I didn't have much of a desire to see the pope-mobile or hear the man speak. I have nothing at all against him, but fighting the crowd did not seem at all desirable. I was, however, happy to learn some interesting facts about him. He was, for instance, the oldest man to ever be elected pope. And he started an organization that sells his writings to provide scholarships for students. Did you know he speaks 5 languages, and can read 7? Obviously, he didn't grow up in the US.
So I sit here avoiding studying like a true American with my chocolate ice-cream bar. Like a true French woman, my host-mother keeps eating my supply (she's now even eaten the ones she bought to replace the ones she ate before). I don't really mind since the situation's kind of comical, but the moon is waxing and chocolate is vital to my existence right now.
I miss my mom.
And Naked juices.
And big salads.
And veggie burgers.
And bagels.
Ah, well. Wish me luck.

sensitive (sensible)

One question...
How does one react to your house mother asking if you like the niggers in her living room?
Do you take the time, after you finished choking on the sip of water you just took, to explain to the dear the inappropriateness of the word in your country?
I didn't. Don't be ashamed. It was late.
Yes, I realize that's two questions.

Premièrement, tout d'abord

It has been suggested by more than a few that I keep a blog while gallivanting around Paris, and I was just able to get hooked up with the internet so here goes nothin...
It was over a year ago that I decided I should spend some time abroad. I thought for a while I would be spending time in Italy as an Italian beau had often regaled me with stories of his homeland, "EEn EEtaly..." He was quite the character, and although he was passionate about many things (cooking, tattoos, Vespas, hashish, et moi par exemple), one thing he kept saying was, "Bellina, butterfly, you must travel!" So was planted the seed.
The seed that is now blossoming à Paris. After speaking with many people about living in European cities, I kept hearing great things about Paris. I was told it was the safest. I was told it had the best Metro system. I was told it was beautiful. I took a year of French in highschool. Sold. I found this program called Lexia Study Abroad with a Film Studies Paris program that seemed right up my alley. I maxed out a couple of credit cards, saved the cash to pay the bills, et voilà.
The program thus far seems catered to me. I'm studying French at the Sorbonne, and then French Film one-on-one with an aspiring filmmaker, and French culture and history with the other Lexia students. The other students are two young guys aged 19 and 21 who seem to be having a little trouble adjusting. I will henceforth refer to them as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. You can derive what you'd like from that. The director of the program is this amazing French woman who's incredibly generous and knowledgeable about a variety of topics. And she speaks perfect English.
The city is beyond beautiful! It just doesn't stop. There's one thing after another to take your breath away. My host family is an older couple with 2 grown children (one my age). They are kind and generous, and very funny. I enjoy their company immensely. My room is bright and enormous, and I have my own shower. I really couldn't ask for more. J'aime bien ou j'habite...we live in this little town called Saint Mandé just outside the city limits to the east. It's absolutely dreamy with the classic architecture of Paris, beautiful old churches, and lush green parks. It's about three miles from the center of Paris...which I can reach by metro in about 20min. Which brings me to "what they do better" portion of my blog, where I hang my head and ask, "Why New York City Metro, oh why can't you have trains that come every 2 minutes?"
Also better: access to free bikes. All around the city. Yeah, c'est vrai. I wish to God I knew the city well enough to confidently use them.
And it's so damn clean, I've officially extended the 5 second rule to 10 full seconds!! Seriously, there must be street cleaning every morning or these people just don't litter as much as New Yorkers do.
Don't worry, New York still wins for prices (even not factoring in the exchange rate...ouch). And coffee...sure, sure they've mastered the tasty shot of espresso, but you're definitely SOL if you favor a delicious iced coffee to go. And people. Only 'cause I miss mine.
But you are still mine even though we're miles apart. And I'm still yours. Votre dame.