Le Marche aux Puces

Today Molly, Leetal, Ornella and I jovially boarded the number 4 line toward Clignancourt and emerged twenty minutes later in what can only be described as the ghetto of Paris.

Our objective had been to visit the legendary Marché aux Puces (literally, Market of Fleas), which has been operating in this section of Paris since the late 1600s and is considered the first flea market in the world. The term "flea market," incidentally, is a reference to the site's earliest offerings of cast-off clothing and bedding that was more often than not infested with vermin. Appealing! Unfortunately the modern-day version does not perpetuate this colorful legacy, but treasure-hunters can still find (overpriced) antiques and (dirt cheap) modern wares and clothing. As soon as we got off the Métro we encountered a KFC restaurant (inexplicably, there are KFC ads all over Paris) and then proceeded to endure numerous assaults from shady-looking guys who would dart out of nowhere to offer us "genuine" Louis Vuitton and Armani merchandise. Once inside the market we agreed to speak only in French so that the vendors wouldn't be tempted to rip us off, but I think our faltering verb conjugations and frequent mispronunciations may have nonetheless given away the fact that we were foreigners.

The vendors offered everything from glassware and furniture to antique dolls and art. Molly spent awhile picking through a box of postcards from the 19th and 20th centuries, many of which had the original correspondence and stamps on the back (she avoided those, though, because she thought it was too personal to buy something that was once private-- I must be heartless because I liked the used ones best). Ornella found a book entitled something like "Great Men of France" that was in remarkably good condition considering that the print date on the title page was from the 1850s. As for me, I practiced some unusually strong self-restraint and managed to walk away with only one item: a knee-length plaid wool skirt that I paid 6 Euros (approx $9) for. If I gain another ounce I won't be able to wear it though, since it's really old-school and the waist comes up to my ribcage.

At the conclusion of our shopping adventure we agreed that it was time to locate some grub, so we hopped back on the Métro and headed for Le Marais, the historic Paris neighborhood that Paul had taken us to a few days prior. We remembered that the area was the Jewish quarter of Paris, and the boulangeries sold everything from latkes to falafel, but when we got there we realized that it was Saturday and everything was closed. So much for our attempt at being culturally aware. We wandered for awhile and found a non-Semitic bakery; I tried my first Croque Monsieur, a calorie-laden monstrosity of a sandwich made from ham, eggs, and approximately five pounds of cheese. It was worth trying, but the guilt I felt after throwing half of it away will prevent me from ordering one again. After a little more walking we passed a creperie, and although my stomach was bulging with slowly-digesting gruyère, I succumbed to peer pressure and shared a nutella-coconut crepe with Molly while Leetal and Ornella each munched on banana-nutella versions. I have made it my mission to become something of a crepe connoisseur, and I think I can safely recommend the nutella and coconut combination as the best possible order. I am beginning to fear, though, that this newfound obsession means that I'm going to have to buy a crepe maker when I return to the U.S., which will in turn lead me to gain five hundred pounds as my diet devolves into nothing but carbs and hazelnut-chocolate spread, and then I would DEFINITELY no longer fit into the skirt from the Marché aux Puces. You win some, you lose some.

As for the rest of life here in Paree, it's going well. I had my first class of Paris Ciné yesterday, which is a required elective on the history of classic French cinema. It looks like it'll be interesting despite the fact that the audio has that canned effect typical of old movies, which makes the French hard to understand. I feel a little bit bad for the Asian students in my French classes, because so much of French is intuitive if you know that there is a similar English word-- like "générosité," which even the most uninformed simpleton could link to the English word "generosity." But how do you learn new French words when your first language is Japanese? Then again the other foreign students all seem to know English too, so maybe I'm pitying them more than is necessary. My English-speaking classes are also fun; Paris By Site involves Paul taking us on tours of famous landmarks, which I like because it makes me feel less touristy and more knowledgeable about the city I'm living in. Susan's art history classes are cool too, since they have so far involved us traipsing through the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay, looking at great works of art. It's like a perpetual vacation where we become cultured in between pit stops for croissants.

We are still having social misadventures with the natives, however. Erin had an interesting encounter with a bowl full of "fromage blanc," which turned out to be plain sour cream that her host mom was dishing up for dessert. Tasty! And Molly's mom served her veal the other night even though Molly had specifically informed her that she doesn't eat red meat. Molly and I had an awkward encounter with my host mom last night, in fact, when I made the apparently grave mistake of asking if she could stay for dinner. My mom's face took on a contorted expression of shock and malcontent, but she agreed to let my friend stay "just this exceptional time." I retreated into my room while she set a place for Molly and tried to puzzle out my offense. We decided that my mom had probably balked at the notion of preparing food for an extra guest when the program only requires her to feed me, but even that didn't seem right since my family elects to give me breakfast and dinner on the weekends even though they are only required to provide it Monday through Friday. And the late notice shouldn't have been a problem either, since the cooking hadn't begun yet and she still ended up preparing the same amount of food.

When the dinner was ready we were ushered into the kitchen and then left alone to ponder our ill-mannered ways over dishes of salad and tortellini. Midway through the meal my mom returned to encourage us to "finish the tortellini, it is good for you! good for the health!" Presumably she was referring to the spinach filling, and not the bath of heavy cream sauce that the pasta was languishing in. Good for the health, indeed. After dinner we did the dishes and I left a little note thanking my mom for her generosity and adding that Molly and I found the meal delicious. This seems to have been the correct course of action since Madame thanked me heartily today for my "petit mot," pronouncing it "very nice." Hopefully that will be adequate amends for the foible of inviting Molly to stay. The success of the thank-you note may also have been responsible for the dinner I was presented with tonight: a heaping plate of fresh salad and some unidentifiable but tasty root vegetable, served alongside duck paté, vinegar pickles, bakery bread and Roquefort, and two little fresh pastries that my mom told me were called gateaux americains, "but better than cakes from America." And there were no avocados or soft-boiled eggs in sight, so for that I suppose I should be grateful.