Parc Troussau

UPDATE: Pictures, huzzah. 6/29

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.

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

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

And two!

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