back in the FR

One headline I never wanted to read:"Sarkozy is too virile, see why!"

But, you know, once you read that le président de la république is "trop viril," you have to find out, right? The article is actually disappointing-- apparently M. le Président's virility is more a matter of conjecture. So I won't translate it for y'all-- imagine for yourselves the secrets that Sarko keeps in the master bedroom of the Elysée...

EDIT: Okay, I lied about the lack of translation. The speech bubble says, roughly: "And yeah, my height means nothing!" Eeek.

EDIT II: The stupid text on that picture made me start thinking: why is there no French Perez Hilton? Not like I'm a huge Perez Hilton fan or anything-- I just think it would be amazing to see pictures like this:

News from Paris

Quick, since I have to go to bed, here are the two events that have been clashing for space on the front page of French newspapers today:

1. A strike of the main transport unions shut down the métro, RER, and trains all day long.

2. Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife Cécilia have filed for a divorce.

For those who don't read French, the New York Times tidily lumps these two stories into one, making them into a sort of personality tale about the head of state (which, I think, is a typically American way to frame things).

I don't really have an opinion about story number two (except: about time!), and haven't fully decided what I think about the first. I think that will depend on if I have to walk six kilometers to St. Lazare again...

PS. The answer, I think, is yes, I will.

PPS. My feet hurt.

an embarrassingly earnest post

It's autumn here and feels like it, too. Like I said last time (so long ago! I'm sorry, Mom!) everything now has the feeling of la vie quotidienne rather than some great Parisian adventure. I go to class, I go to work, I go to cafés. All of these things are great-- though classes could be a little more, um, comprehensible-- but as normal as they can get while happening in Paris. I feel like I barely notice anymore when I take public transportation, for instance. I just get on and don't think about my surroundings until somehow I get off 30 minutes and two changes later. I mean, I'll notice some things, like an obnoxious accordion player waving his collection cup around in my face or a couple embracing each other like the next metro stop means a year long seperation (which, unfortunately, it never does), but even then, my reaction is more "here we go again"-- nothing more passionate than a slightly exasperated sigh or eye-roll.

All of this means that when I see something that really strikes me, it's usually pretty special. I'm at the point where I don't have to catch my breath when I get an unexpected glimpse of the Eiffel Tower or fight the urge to get out my camera on every semi-scenic street. OK, I'm lying a bit. Certain things really amaze me still, even though it makes me feel like a tourist to admit it.

Still, I've started taking being in Paris for granted. Nonetheless, there are a lot of things lately that have made me stop and really appreciate where I am.

The first, and probably most spectacular was the city's Nuit Blanche, which happened this Saturday. A nuit blanche is literally "white night," and it's what the French call any night where you stay out until the morning. In this context, though, Nuit Blanche refers to a very specific sleepless night-- an annual arts festival which started here about six years ago and has since been picked up by cities around the world. On Nuit Blanche, one metro line runs all night (the whole system usually closes at 2 on Saturday nights), which provides access to all of the major museums, which stay open much later than usual. Even after they close, though, small museums and independent galleries stay open, and honestly, I think that smaller exhibits and performances are more what the night is about anyway. As far as I know, the Louvre, Orsay, Pompidou, etc, didn't have anything going on special, besides for a slightly more festive atmosphere-- they were just open late. Of course, this didn't stop people from filling up the Louvre plaza way past midnight (though perhaps this had less to do with art than the rugby game France had just won.)



I was going to meet up with some other Sciences Po students, so as I waited by a very large statue of Louis XIV, I took pictures and tried not to get run over by drunk rugby fans speeding around on vélibs.



After a while, I heard from one of the Sciences Po people that they weren't coming after all-- it had gotten pretty late. I knew it would be a waste just to catch the metro back without having done anything, so I decided to set off on my own. From the Louvre, I walked to the Jardin des Tuileries, which was lit by thousands of small fires. Small urns lined the walkways, laterns hung from trees, chairs were pushed around cylindrical fireplaces, and most spectacularly, large wire balls of small pots of fire were placed every so often in the middle of the path. This last thing is particularly hard to describe in writing, but you can get a better idea from the pictures:





These are the only two pictures I took in the jardin. Though the whole thing was amazingly beautiful, I held back-- there is no way I could capture it in a photo, and I've found that when I take a lot of photos, I tend to forget a good deal about the actual event I'm documenting. I was there for what must have been a long time, moving from fire to fire and savoring the difference between the cold night air and the oil-lit fires. At some point, some sort of French television crew came up and interviewed me, maybe since I was one of the only people there toute seule. After a few minutes of establishing shots that gave me time to piece together a semi-coherent French statement about nuit blanche, I told them that I actually didn't mind it, being there all alone. I think it was better, actually-- I got to look at everything closely, and anyway, it is hard to feel lonely when there are so many people in one place enjoying the same thing. "Je pense que, ici, les Français et les autres vraiment partagent un experience, et c'est très rare ici,"* is what I ungrammatically told the interviewer, and I think it's true. Most of the time in Paris, the French and the tourists inhabit totally different worlds-- the tourists in a totally romantic one that is somewhat inauthentic, and the French in one where many genuinely lovely things are just part of the background, very easily ignored. Tourists often unknowingly end up visiting a false Paris, spending all of their time in places that cater to visitors, so it is quite rare that Parisians and the rest of us end up in the same place, awestruck by the same thing. It sounds really silly to say, but the whole thing had sort of an otherworldly feeling, like I wasn't in the same physical Paris that would be around in the morning. I had the same feeling the rest of the night too, especially when I went to Eglise Ste. Madeline, which was pitch black save for a few spotlights which were focused on black-clad people standing on platforms and holding glowing blue tubes.



It took me a while to figure out what exactly was going on. I hadn't read the artist's statement at the door, so when I came in and saw that all of the ordinarily dressed people on the ground were holding their arms up in the air as in worship, I wondered if they were in on the performance, or just being strange. After watching the blue tubes rise and fall for a while, I realized something-- the people up on the platforms were whispering through the tubes to whoever was lucky enough to get their hands on one. After moving around on my tiptoes, right hand raised, one of the performers finally lowered a tube for me and I put it up to my ear. It was poetry, each stanza first in French, then Italian. I couldn't understand too much, just snippets here and there, but the rhythm was absolutely gorgeous, as were the bits I was able to catch. The idea of people, all sorts of people, entering a holy spot and waiting, arms raised, to hear whispered poetry stuck with me all night, even after I left and went back to the fire gardens, where I talked with French people until it was time to catch the metro home.

I planned to follow this up with other experiences that left me feeling the same way-- not myself and very much myself all at once-- but honestly, there's not much that could follow all that. To get back to my usual level I'll close with my most beautiful, or even profound daily experience. It never fails to move me, really:



Oh baby, oh baby. I don't understand how pain au chocolat has never, ever caught on in the US.



*"I think that, here, the French and the others truly are sharing an experience, and that is very rare in Paris." Profond!

not a tourist anymore?

When I took a break from my exposé (more on this hellish academic toil later) to check my email, I realized something: I arrived almost exactly a month ago. How did I spend my one month anniversary? From midnight on: being out with friends, catching a cab late, working in the morning (15€ feels pretty nice, and cancels out cab-related guilt), eating pain-au-chocolat, doing extra babysitting at night, and writing my very first exposé. Honestly, it was so very normal that I didn't even think about the date (though I've been anticipating it), which is exactly how I wanted my life here to be at this point.

Do I understand everything here yet? No, but I can do things in French that would've seemed impossible exactly a month ago, when I was walking back to my hotel room dizzily after a glass of wine and a falafel-- give (accurate) directions to native speakers, sympathize with my fellow commuters when an accordion-player sneaks on board the metro, get additional work taking care of kids who don't speak any English, make small talk with drunk security guards, and of course, write and deliver an oral exposé (which is pretty foundational at Sciences Po).

A month! If I had known, I would've eaten something a little bit fancier than my (usual) tomato soup.

Journées du Patrimoine

Today and tomorrow are the annual "Days of the Patrimony" here in France and presumably other places in Europe as well-- the weekend, during which museums are free and government buildings are open to the visiting public, was made official by the European Council in 1991. I don't know how it's celebrated elsewhere, but here, it seems to be a big deal-- the streets and métro platforms were packed with French tourists, and everywhere from the National Archives to L'Elysée (the presidential residence) were free for visitors all day long, with President Sarkozy actually greeting guests at the latter.

It is easy to understand why these events are so popular here. For the French, the patrimoine is not just a set of monuments or institutions, but something to be discussed at length, and actively protected, whether that protection means keeping museums and monuments well-maintained, or trying to make every French student read certain famous patriotic texts, as Sarkozy wants to do with the famous letter of Guy Môquet (not-too-great English translation here)

I chose to celebrate my host country's culture not by (re)reading the letter of the killed resistance fighter, or even shaking Sarko's hand. Instead, I visited the Senate, which was less notable for all of its desk, tables, and microphones, than for its awful baroqueness. Awful is a strong word-- the whole building was magnificent, and quite lovely if you think that covering every possible surface with gilt and trompe-l'oeil marble painting is the height of taste.
I know, I know-- the only way to really judge a piece is in its cultural context. I appreciate the time and attention to detail it takes to ensure that every possible surface is painted, sculpted, and/or covered in gold, but on a personal level? I find this era of art kind of gross.

I haven't decided what to see tomorrow-- if I can get a group together, a picnic at Versailles would be really, really nice. I promise this time I'll bring my camera.

By the way

I will post more often from now on-- I have been writing entries (that always go unpublished) on paper and procrastinating in finishing them, but I think I will do more spontaneous things like the last post, as well as short posts on things like:

French slang
Odd things in advertisements/ Le Monde
Bizarre Metro performances
Sciences Po woes

Etcetera.

And of course, I will try to post some well thought out essay-like pieces, as well-- I have been trying to organize my thoughts, but it's been hard to find time.

À demain, je vous promets.

3 amis

What I've mainly been doing at night is going out with other Sciences Po students to Sciences Po-sponsored activities. During the day (i.e., during my class) (bien sûr), the Bureau des Elévès plans museum tours, guided visits of famous Parisian districts, and lunches in Belleville, but somewhat (ok, completely) unsurprisingly, the nighttime excursions are always bar nights and parties at clubs. So tonight my friends and I decided we would go see a movie. Our first choice, Paris je t'aime wasn't playing anywhere on the weekend, just during the week (France, come on), so instead we opted for a comedy we'd seen advertised: 3 amis .

It was really the only thing my 4 amis and I had seen advertised (absolutely everywhere). The taglines were pretty standard: What is this strange relation we call friendship? This story is of love without sleeping together. And of course, on the poster: A friend is priceless... but can cost a lot.

Surprisingly, that last line is not only a general, vague statement about l'amité, but perhaps a reference to the fact that one ami pawns his watch and steals from his job in order to pay a prostitute to date his recently divorced friend. Other than a few other touches like that that were strange enough to be unexpected, the whole thing was pretty predictable-- not terribly funny, but okay, and simple enough that even though I couldn't understand everything they were saying, I was able to follow the story without problems. Not bad for something watched on impulse, though maybe not quite worth 9 euro-- picking a theater on the Champs-Elysees was perhaps not the most cost-effective decision I've made since I've been here.

It was a fun place to meet up with my friends, though. It's definitely the most touristy place I've been in Paris so far-- everywhere there were tour buses, people wearing fakey berets (in the metro I saw about a dozen pepto-bismol colored ones on a group of Brits), and of course, hundreds and hundreds of cameras. I've never lived somewhere that attracts tourists before, so I'm still at the stage where my annoyance at them is mixed with amusement. On one hand, being surrounded by them is frustrating, and often causes delays-- they walk slowly, they stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures, and they uniformly ignore or are ignorant of the rule about escalators: if you want to stand still, keep to the right so that people who actually have somewhere to go can pass you. I can't blame people for not knowing these things, because I'm sure there are a lot of really impolite/ignorant things I do here, but it's still quite difficult not to sigh loudly or say some rude words.

Staying (seemingly) polite isn't too hard, though, as long as the tourists manage to make themselves hilarious, which pretty much happens without fail. The most common way is by photographing everything in sight. While I waited to meet a near the Arc de Triomphe, a bus pulled up, and every tourist who disembarked started taking pictures as soon as their feet hit the ground. Not of the Arc, mind you, or the Tour Eiffel glowing in the distance, but of metro signs, pigeons, and park benches. C'est comprehensible, mind you, but paired with shrieks of, "Omigod, take my picture by the Disney Store! A Disney Store in France!", c'est aussi pretty awful-- the only thing you can do is laugh.

Of course, this doesn't just happen on the Champs-Elysées-- anywhere where there are notable and interesting things to see, there will be tourists blocking the view and snapping pictures with their camera phones.


"There but for the grace of God..."