Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Not Quite Tech Savvy

I'll spare you the details (or at least those I even understand), but my most recent post posted BEHIND the one before it. Scroll down for Apartment Life.

Also, pictures are slowly going up on facebook! The public link is here, or if we are friends (sorry mom and dad), you can obs just hit up my profile.

You can type in http://bit.ly/JessieEurope to get there.

J

Monday, June 28, 2010

Technical Difficulties

Friends!

I write to APOLOGIZE for my lack of putting anything on this website. It turns out that "blogging on the go" is a lot harder when you lack a computer and/or consistent access to wi-fi, both of which have been the case for me.

I marched down to the UChicago Center in Paris today, my former digs when I studied abroad, ready to type up all my exciting blog posts I've hand-written, and upload my many snazzy pictures. Upon arriving I realized that I forgot a) my notebook containing all my blog posts, and b) my camera uploading cord. Guys, I swear I'm responsible enough to be trekking across Europe for 7 weeks.

Anywho, the plan is to return tomorrow (I need to say hey to Sylvie anyway!), and proceed then. Until then, I realized I never posted my full trajectory on here, and now might be as good a time as any to get that done. To be fair, this itinerary wasn't really finalized until today, anyway, and Italy is still a work-in-progress.

And so:

Paris (with Kate Schnak, then solo, then with Nathan and his high school friend, Bridget)
June 16 - 30

Brussels and Bruges (with Nathan and Bridget)
June 30 - July 1

Amsterdam (with Nathan and Bridget)
July 1 - 6

Rome (solo, then with Kate Dries and Amulya)
July 9 - 12

Florence/Firenze (Kate + Amulya)
July 12-13

Venice (Kate + Amulya)
July 13-14

Naples/Pompeii (Kate + Amulya)
July 15-16

Berlin (with Kate)
July 16-19

Prague (Kate + Amulya)
July 19-23

Budapest (Kate + Amulya)
July 23-27

Istanbul (Kate + Amulya)
July 27 - August 2

aaaand because it wouldn't be Jessie if I didn't make at least one hilariously heinous error, BACK to...

Budapest. To fly home on August 3. Presumably after this trip, I will never confuse Budapest, Hungary or Istanbul, Turkey ever again. To my dear 8th grade geography teacher, Mrs. Fisher: I am so sorry.

J

Apartment Life

If Paris has a "Top Ten Things it's Known For" list, I would venture that "super hilar tiny apartments" would be on it. I've been very fortunate to spend 12 of my 13 nights in Paris so far in three separate apartments, and it's been many things I expected... and many others I did not.
Nathan is le triste over the absurd smallness of our "entry way."

And so I present to you, Some Things I Have Learned.

In Parisian apartments:

1) You get intimate with your neighbors.

The stereotypical wooden spiral staircase that you may associate with Europe in general has most certainly been true for the apartments I've stayed in. The wood is often old (by which, of course, I mean, "It has character"), and marching up it is both a toil, and a noisy one. Walls tend to be super thin, so the arrival of morning is often announced not by sun peaking in through windows or the pleasant chirping of song birds, but the THOMPING of neighbors up and down the stairs.

It wouldn't really be an authentic European (or metropolitan, in general) living experience if you didn't get to know your neighbors well in some way or other. When I stayed in a friend-of-a-friend's apartment by myself for five nights, I got to know the neighbors by means of a different excuse... the leaking of my toilet into each of their apartments. I actually began to fear the sound of their ascent up the steps, having done all I could to minimize this burden on them (picture trashcans and plastic bags, artfully arranged to capture each erratic pattern of drips). It turns out, of course, that these neighbors could not have been more pleasant. They just wanted a concerned sounding board for their woes, and I gladly took tours of each of their apartments and, specifically, their water damage ("Ohhhh regarde-ca!", *tsk tsk tsk*, "C'est terrible! Pas acceptable.", shaking my head and the like). The highlight was probably the Roman-god-worthy construction fellow from the apartment below, who came to inquire why the water had stopped leaking as much as it had been before. I admit, I was pretty distracted by his manly presence so my French was not as spot-on during this particular encounter, but I proudly showed him my McGyver-worthy drip collection station, in secret hopes that it would help me curry some favor. I'm pretty certain he laughed me off (lovingly, I'm sure) in every way before heading back downstairs.
A view from that apartment.
These are the neighbors, I suppose, who don't hate my guts.

Our new apartment (see ...adorable pictures below) is fully functioning, which is a plus. It does, however, lack direct sunlight, and our window instead opens up onto a very miniature courtyard whose only purpose can possibly be to give us all an excuse for a window. As the weather has gotten warmer the past few days, all have taken to throwing open said windows at all times, and neighborhoodly relations have gotten, well, more intimate. This morning, it was not chirping birds, sunlight, nor stair thomping neighbors that brought me into a state of consciousness. No, it was a truly delightful Epic Temper Tantrum. I call it delightful for several reasons. One, it gradually woke me up--as it increased in severity, I slowly put the pieces together as to what in the world was going on (Was I dreaming? Was Nathan completely inappropriately upset about something?), which just felt charming. Two, even more charming, it was of course in French, and as you can probably imagine ANYTHING said by toddlers in a foreign language you sort of understand is almost too cute to bear. Three, finally, it followed the classic trajectory--the Platonic ideal, even--of The Temper Tantrum.

Step one was initial protestation: Statement of desire, followed by an attempt at its underlying reasoning. You could say this stage is still completely reasonable, logical, and perhaps even cool-headed.

Je n' veux pas, Maman! C'est pas l'heure!

I don't want to, Mom! It's not time yet!

Internal-Dialogue-Me: Buhhhh French toddler-ness SO CUTE and clearly worth waking up forrrrr.

Step two, brought on merely by lack of desired outcome, is really only a change in tone and emphasis, i.e. it is the steadily increasing desperation of the child. This step is often accompanied by, as you can bet it was this morning, by the child beginning to pace, then run, around the apartment. Mind you, this is all brought to me by sound alone, wafting through the "courtyard" window.

Je n' veux PAS, Mamaaan! C'est PAS! L'HEURE!

I don't WANT to, Moooom! It's NOT! TIME YET!

Step three is breakdown into complete emotion/irrationality, and, from afar, totally the most hilarious step. This child has, I can only imagine, dropped to the ground, become completely nonverbal, and is pounding his feet upon the floor in violent, outraged protest. Life is seriously NOT FAIR.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh Maaammmmmaaaaaaaaannnnnnn!

[Translation not necessary]

To sum it up, the most amusing part of this story for me, is that the issue was probably over taking his morning bath or something. Anywho, apartment is life is all about getting to know your fellow city dwellers as well as (and well beyond that) you could ever hope to.

A chaotic but faithful view of the window. Nathan sleeps on the floor below it.
Super classy, I know, but I also have no idea how he slept through this affair entirely.


2) In Parisian apartments: You get intimate... with yourself.

No, no, not like that, ew gross. No, since Parisian apartments are completely and often impossibly small, you find yourself with the most condensed version of "personal space" you've ever considered appropriate (see Nathan, top), and this has surprising effects on your psyche over time. This effect is only exaggerated when you insert roommates into the mix.

Exhibit A: Tiny kitchen, Kavita's apartment, by Place D'Italie.
But look at it, it's SO ADORABLE I can't even be mad at its complete lack of legitimate anything!!

When your kitchen is one square meter, and your bathroom is half that, you become surprisingly aware of your limbs. Before, you could waltz about your personal space, swinging those limbs to and fro--"Shall I grab the potato over here, or the shampoo over there? la dee daaaa"--you can reach as you please. It's all very easy and carefree, and certainly not necessitating conscious thought or effort. Now that your available space lends itself to using "postage stamps" as a legitimate frame of reference for describing measurements (the fridge is 8 across, the table is 12, etc.), such a cavalier swinging of the arm could result in disasterous consequences--usually ones that involve your possessions tumbling to the floor multiple times a day.

Worse yet, with all those cabinets and walls creepin on your minimal floor space, when you do drop something (And you will. Avoid bringing home objects unnecessarily made of glass), you'll think to yourself, "Hey, I am so going to bend over and pick that up!" and instead you find yourself vertically trapped, without any bending room at all. This is particularly difficult in the bathroom. After hitting my head on the sink each morning when I've dropped the soap in the shower, this morning I was particularly sleepy and just forewent conditioning my hair entirely when I dropped the bottle. It just wasn't worth the further loss of brain cells.

Exhibit B: Tiny bathroom, rented apartment by Republique.

It's actually impossible to take a picture of the entire shower, it is so small and crammed.
Bridget has a photo, that I'll have to steal, of me using this toilet seat as our legitimate third seat in the apartment for when we all want to sit and socialize.

What's probably the most amusing is how USED to it you get. You move slower, more delicately, and what was at first tons of deliberate effort, really does become old habit. It's particularly impressive, I believe, when you and two other people in such a heinously small space begin to not only tailor your own movements but anticipate each others', as you flit about, bending around cabinets, tables and people to get to your target destination, which cannot be more than 2 meters away.

Exhibit C: the rest of the Republique apartment.

Mentally piece together this picture with the one of the window above, and that's actually all we are working with. The mirrors fold down to reveal a bed.

And so, I am naturally led to the third and clearly most impressive thing I've learned in Parisian apartments...

3) The number of tricks to efficiently use space are ENDLESS.

Tabletops are attached to the wall and fold down with the flick of a wrist. Washing machines are the size of a cat kennel and slip under countertops. Shelves appear just above the 5'8" mark or so, and extend upwards towards the ceilings. Pot & pan racks and drying racks are screwed into the wall tile. Stovetops are tucked into hard-to-reach corners American kitchens wouldn't even notice. Beds morph into walls and, it's true, even ceilings. Bizarrely impressive shelving, cabinets, and other items designed to affix to walls exist here that fit the most uniquely shaped spaces and corners. WHATEVER YOU ARE WORKING WITH, Europe's got you covered. Our joke of a studio still manages to have room for THREE french presses and a salad spinner--totally under- or (un-) used items I'm convinced the landlord threw into the kitchen just to prove that he COULD, along with the sink, cabinets, microwave, washing machine, fridge and electric stove top. It's really commendable stuff.



<-- Tiny kitchen, ur doin it rite.



Bungalow bed, in the CEILING -->





<-- Stovetop, ready for duty


A glam shot of Bridget and Nathan, whose actual purpose is to show how bad ass our keys are -->



Upcoming are Things I Remembered, Part II and Tales from Auvers St. Oise, as I slowly get my act together. We leave for Amsterdam tomorrow!!

Over and out,
Jessie

Monday, June 21, 2010

Parc Troussau


Lack of PC access has put me so behind! A retroactive post for now.

19 June 2010

Tis the wee hours of the morn (i.e. 9h50), and I find myself in an adorable park with impressively looming trees, not a km from the Bastille. I have just send Kate Schnak on her way to Charles de Gaulle Aeroport (CDG, for you world travelers), and I am meandering through this end of town in search of shelter. I have to admit, it feels sort of dramatic--me, this nomad with all my worldly possessions on my back (by which I mean non-glam things like toiletries and plastic bags), roaming around in search of a place to be un-homeless for a while.

As I sit here, this Saturday morning, watching a remarkably agile older lady perform what I can only assume to be yoga moves, I almost feel compelled to shed the backpack (well, I definitely feel compelled to do that), and hunker down in the cool, damp air and reflect on life--mediate, or something. I'm pretty sure most nomads were pagans, but Buddhists roam, right? Anyway, vagabondism and mediation seem compatible to me.



The roar of cars is steadily rising, and children arrive! What an adorable oasis--soccer balls (excusez-moi, "footballs") and 8 year old (French) trash-talk flies alongside an assembling though wholly unofficial group of old men. From what I can tell, they are puttering around complaining about politics, but that probably went without saying. I sat down here in the first place because I just received the phone number of a friend of Kate's who is apparently willing to lend me her apartment for a couple nights. It turns out I'll be heading to the nearby hostel (the original destination) today after all, but I am so pleased to have found this spot. Parc Trousseau, the sun is finally peaking through Paris's gray ceiling, so I'll be sure to snap a picture. My love to all! Bisous!

J

Note: Lack of PC also means lack of picture uploading!! I did indeed capture the yoga lady, and one remaining puttering old man on film... so stay tuned.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Day Three!

Just a chronicling post today. As planned, but sadly nonetheless, three days in, my hostess Kate is making preparations to depart this town she's called home for the last 10 months. We spent the day fitting in those last minute beaurocratic to-do's (and believe us, in Paris, as an immigrant, no less, there are plenty of those) as well as the touristy ones. After making three (count them, 3) trips to the bank, a trip to the post office, and a trip to a fax machine, Kate succeeded in closing her flipping bank account, canceling her renters' insurance, terminating her lease, and ending her poor-persons' living stipend (HELLO Socialism.). We consumed crepes and espresso along the way, and considered it a pretty okay day.

Yesterday was the touristy day--I took Kate to the Pantheon, the national mausoleum of the Great Men of France. Kate being a semi-legit Parisian resident was all "I've been past it dozens of times, but never inside," so I rectified that. We paid homage to the tombs of Voltaire, Hugo, and the Curies (Fun Fact: Pierre, her husband, was honorably interred in the Pantheon upon his death, but she was not until 1995), among many other acclaimed French figures. Our 10-minute torrential-downpour rowboat ride (see previous post) was certainly another highlight. Out in the sketch woods/park on the outskirts of Paris (a call-girl hot spot at night, I am told), our fears of getting lost/kidnapped/disemboweled/etc were pretty immediately nullified. Oh! And. I bought the necessary cable for my camera at FNAC (after bringing it home and threw a tantrum about how the bastard French sold it to me without the necessary cord, before Kate patiently held the cord up in front of my face), so these posts will soon become more visual. Promise.

Out to Bastille for the evening--Kate and her friend Julia's last in Paris, so it should be a ... time.

A bientot!

P.S. A quote from Kate as I hit "Publish Post," as she lackadaisically examined various body parts out of boredom: "My foot... it just looks like a telephone." Wise words, wise lady. Paris will miss her.

Easing back in

My first several days back in Par-ee consist of remembering. Familiar sights, fuzzy metro connection memories, excavated idiosyncrasies about the French language.

At least twice a day I am struck--I usually begin laughing when it happens. There are lots of French "fun facts" I have forgotten.

1) [A freebie] The French make out ALL THE TIME. I know this one's a give-away, too obvious to make the list, probably, but seriously, it catches me by surprise every time. No age, location, nor situation is off limits. My hotess charmante, Ms. Schnakenberg, took me to the man-made lake in the woods to the west of Paris (Bois de Boulougne), and rowed me around, a page out of a true Parisian romance. In that vein, the real Parisians did not disappoint: it started to rain (Me: "Kate, someday we'll tell our grandchildren all about how we fell in love in the rain, in a rowboat by Bois du Boulougne!"), and we see to our right two adults taking shelter under a very tall bush, Francois Le-Frenchy-Pants et Francine "I'm 40 but maybe this outfit will trick you into thinking otherwise" Le Peu. They are clinging to each other to stay out of the rain, how cute!, I think. Au contraire, they are clinging to each other, probably oblivious to the fact that a torrential downpour has commenced, and they are SUCKING FACE. Not cutesy, lovey dovey smooching but hard core This-Rain-Could-Be-The-End-So-Let's-Go-Out-With-A-Bang (pun maybe intended).

It's not just old folks in natural settings, oh no; on the escalator, en ligne at a cafe, in the middle of the tourist flock at St. Michel, it's like these French people who (on the surface) detest the tourists that bombard their city each summer are determined to give us what we really came for--a first hand glance at what the City of Love is all about. I'm not intending to sound bitter, here, I just... forgot. And was really wholly unprepared. These scenarios turn you, against your will, into some kind of awful voyeur and you just can't look away, and for a moment you feel like it's YOUR fault for being such a creep! But it's not, you guys. Paris is all about the exhibitionism. That's why you came.

2. The French drink (drip) coffee from bowls. Sure, we all know the Parisian coffee shop stereotype, lay down three one-Euro coins, receive a shot of espresso. (Worry not about being short-changed: the stuff will jolt you for hours.) But this particular coffee-consuming habit had completely left my memory. I first stumbled upon the custom when I visited Limoges (of porcelain fame) my sophomore year of high school. Sitting down to breakfast with my host family, I was delighted to see we were to consume giant chunks of steaming hot baguette and was utterly befuddled to see the bread dipped in large cereal-sized bowls. Bread in cereal? Soggy milky bread? What? No. It was a giant bowl of coffee, which was then and is typically consumed black. Kate's favorite cafe in Montmartre (the most Parisian p'tit dej' on the block) strays not from this tradition, and twice now we've jump started the day with bowls of cafe au lait. Parfait.



In the interest of time, this is to-be-continued, but for now...

3) The young people shorten EVERYTHING. I mean, oh wait, totes so do we. But still. Did you turn on the ordi? How's the coloc in the new apparte? It's usually not too hard to put back together (ordinateur-computer, colocataire-roommate, appartement, etc.), but sometimes you can get it wrong. Kate and I concluded that French people, yes, even Parisians, are super kind and forgiving as long as you legitimately try to speak passable French. Non-intentionally, they are even a little insulting when they can't hide their shock at your competence at speaking their language. I thought a vendor would fall out of his seat today when I asked him if his crappy touristy post-cards were indeed 15 centimes each (not too good to be true, as it turned out). Kate's French friend hosted a lovely apero yesterday, and shared with the group, much to Kate's chagrin, her most amusing faux-pas's. Her brother, Kate had been explaining, recently bought a little puppy, un "shee-oh" (chiot), but instead Kate told Olivia that her brother had effectively purchased a crapper ("shee-ot," chiotte) and her story pretty much ended there, to the chorus of riotous laughter.

All for now. <3
Jessie

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

L'arrivé!

Hello friends,

An absurdly long/epic journey will begin with a modest post. Before I get to that, I will sum it up. I begin a frivolous post-graduation summer in Europe with a two-week return to Paris. Three nights with an American friend who spent the year abroad, 5 nights in a hostel, visiting a few French friends, and 5 nights in a rented studio, with an American friend traveling abroad. With the latter, we blaze through Belgium to Amsterdam for several nights. We part ways, I fly to Rome, to be joined by Kate D. and Amulya, also just-graduates. We will tear apart Italy (Rome, Venice, Florence, and Naples, to be exact), fly to Berlin, train to Prague and Budapest, and finally fly to our final destination: Istanbul. Kate Berner's parents informed us that while we are there, on the very cusp of the European border, we simply must have dinner one night in Asia. I suspect that will be a satisfying end to a 7 week-journey.

And so! I flew O'Hare to Charlotte to Paris and arrived this morning. From my carnet:

Arrivée! Déjà. A bright, sun-lit morning--my first pre-Paris experience: a belaboring reminder that American credit cards ne marchent pas in the transit ticket vending machines. My first glimpse in the city, off the RER: a worn basketball court, framed in green leaves and a chain-link fence. Above the city on the ligne 2, the streets course with round, French cars and I catch myself surprised, having foolishly thought the city simply stopped when I left it two falls ago. I exit at Anvers, complicit (overjoyed) to flow again among les foules parisens. Kate Schnakenberg (there are a lot of Kate's in this narrative) really does live a block from the Sacre Coeur--the t-shirt shops and the half-block up the cobble-stoned hill confirm what has sounded to good to be true these past few months. I am beneath the church on the hill now, aside a carousel as I watch an impossibly small boy kicking at the air, alternating apparent targets between a soccer ball and city pigeons. I guess that sense of power derived from scattering resting birds spans all ages and countries. The sun beats down warmly and I am considering my first Parisian purchase: a crêpe, almost certainly.

[UPDATE: the view from Kate's room, to the right.]
[technical difficulties with the camera. a sick view of the sacre coeur from Kate S's bedroom, among other sites, to follow!]

J