Le Jardin du Luxembourg

The other day Molly, Leetal and I spent some time in the lovely Luxembourg Gardens, which are beginning to get pretty now that spring is (ever so slooowly) creeping up on Paris.

Did you know hyacinths are my favorite flowers?

Leetal by the fountain.

Paris has a monopoly on cool trees.

Lovely :)

The Senate and the gardens.

Beeeeootiful.

C'est Molly.

And then the next day it rained for hours. Such is Paris.

It's pronounced No-trah Domm.

Today was a lovely day, so I moseyed on down to Notre Dame for some quality lunch-n-literature time.

The other day Molly, Leetal and I discovered this tiny falafel shop off Boulevard St. Michel, so I decided a return trip was necessary. As the following photo proves, it was a good life choice.

I had never had a falafel before coming to Paris and oh boy, have I been missing out.

When we went to Notre Dame for Paul's Paris by Site class, I was sadly without camera. Here's what you missed:

The two towers were supposed to be higher and probably peaked, but they were never completed.

The gargoyles are hilarious and I love them, but sadly they're not medieval at all. They were added when the church was renovated in the 1800s and reflect the Victorians' imagination of medieval architectural motifs.

I brought my copy of Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame, thinking it would be interesting/nerdy to read it at Notre Dame itself. I sat on a bench in the garden behind the church and read until the weather became menacing.

The view from my reading bench.

I went inside seeking refuge from the cold, but Notre Dame's interior is so dim and packed with camera-happy tourists that it's not really an ideal reading locale, either.

Then by accident I stayed long enough that a vespers mass started. An usher handed me a sheet of hymns and I spent the next half-hour solemnly singing along (off key, of course) with the cantor. It's interesting that church in a different language is not as thoroughly confusing as you might think, simply because the intonation and rhythm (in Catholic masses at least) seems to be the same the world over.

Altar close-up. This isn't the altar that's actually used during mass-- that one is farther forward and inexplicably modern in style.

As usual I don't know how to wrap this up, so we will end with this totally unrelated picture of me eating a tiny chicken at an open-air market yesterday.

Molly laughed at me for buying the little chicken and then eating it off my lap sans utensils, but it was SO GOOD that I don't care.

An afternoon at Pere-Lachaise

Somewhat delayed, but here it is: the recap of our day at the famous Parisian cemetery of Père-Lachaise!

The older plots in Père-Lachaise grew up around one another in delightfully eclectic patterns. As mom would say, "They're packed like sardines in there!"

The grave of the famous composer Frederic Chopin, which adoring fans have covered with flowers. Paul told us that on All Saints' Day Parisians turn out in droves to place flowers on the graves of relatives and personal heroes in the cemetery.

No visit to Père-Lachaise would be complete without the pilgrimage to Jim Morrison's grave. The sad part is that people have graffitied the side of the tomb next to his with song lyrics and inspired messages like "Luv U Jim!!!". I hope its ghost haunts them all.

A winding cemetery lane on the top of the hill.

Père-Lachaise opened for business in 1804 during the same week as Napoleon's coronation as Emperor. This is the cemetery's oldest tomb.

The newer area of the cemetery is very rigidly organized on a grid-like pattern that differs greatly from the meandering paths of the older part.

Oscar Wilde's grave. It's covered in lipstick because apparently it is a tradition that gay men come to the site to kiss it. You may also notice that the flying sphinx-angel has no genitals-- they were originally thought to be too obscene for public viewing and were hacked off for use as a paperweight in the cemetery office!

Despite the fact that this man has no connection to fertility whatsoever, legend has it that if women come to his grave and touch his lips, package, and toe, then put a flower in his top hat, they will either get married or become pregnant within the year. I laughingly convinced Elizabeth to perform the ritual with a nearby dandelion, which she did. It was only after she had finished that Paul told us the story of his sister, who after several failed fertility treatments finally became pregnant within two months of her visit to the grave!

Now time for the blast from the past. Consider this picture, circa 1997, taken during a family vacation to Père-Lachaise.

My awful, puffy blue coat? Check. Kevin with hands on hips? Check. Julia looking sullen? Check.

Well, while we were wandering around with Paul, we came across...

The same grave!! That's me, Kristen, and Suzy attempting to recreate the decade-old photo. As you can see we didn't get it quite right, even though I tried to make a dissatisfied face and stand at a weird slant as per the original, but apparently reversed the angle. The funniest thing about this picture may be Suzy, who has actually done a comically good impression of Kevin's pose, what with the jaunty elbows and mischievous grin. But the symmetry of the scene puzzles me. If you look at the creepy shrouded figure and the surrounding graves, you'll notice they're in exactly opposite positions vis-a-vis the original picture. Did our camera take some kind of weird mirror-image photo?

The final thing to note about that picture is the engraving on the tomb, which says "Famille Raspail." In what can only be described as an incredible and eerie coincidence, ten years ago I unknowingly posed next to the tomb of the family that would once again greet me when I finally returned to Paris-- I now live at the corner of Rue de Rennes and Boulevard Raspail. Paul said it must have been fate.

It was a (sadly fleeting) sunny and beautiful day, so after the cemetery we went wandering.

And found GIANT GELATO!

And then we ate it.

The end!

Sewers, and the return of the Worm Man

Today I saw something terrifying in the Louvre.

And now that I've hooked you with that, I'm going to delay my explanation until after this brief tour of the Paris sewers.

Today was sewer day, the long-awaited field trip that would allow us to imitate our favorite literary escape artist, Les Miserables convict-on-the-run Jean Valjean.

This very nice sewer man gave us a tour of the tunnels in French, which was kind of hard for me to understand since he used a lot of technical terms about water and waste management. Luckily there were signs in English that I could read and pretend I had understood just from listening. Behind him is a dummy of a sewer employee demonstrating some maintenance work, and if you look closer you will realize...

That he is HARRY POTTER.

I love dioramas. These rats live in the sewer, but the tour guide told us that the workers don't kill them because they actually eat enough garbage to be a help rather than a hindrance.

Don't fall in.

It didn't actually smell as bad as I thought it would. Unfortunately you can no longer do boat rides through the tunnels, as was the fashion in the Victorian era.

Elizabeth kept that scarf over her nose for most of the visit.

We're standing on top of the sewer! As Molly pointed out, it pretty much looks like the Seine. I didn't even see any chunks, which was disappointing. Elizabeth said she saw a turd float by but the rest of us were doubtful.

After the sewer visit I went to the Louvre to find a painting to use as the topic of my final presentation next week in Susan's Painting Women in France class. On the way I saw some interesting things.

Like this skull eating a ferret.

And The Last Supper! Which for some reason has had a giant turquoise ball placed right in front of it, which is as distracting as the worm man in the Marie de Medici cycle room.

Speaking of our friend the worm man, I walked through that gallery on my way out, and as I got closer I noticed something new and horrifying about him-- he was ALIVE.

Ok so not really alive, but he was breathing. And panting, and gasping. And then to my horror he actually started TALKING in the most gravelly and menacing voice I've ever heard. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared in amazement and repulsion. And then I realized that the new camera I bought yesterday can take videos, so now you can see for yourself!

I have no idea what he's saying, but I'm pretty sure it's nothing uplifting.

Je voudrais le Sony Cybershot

It's Tuesday, so it must be time for another Awkward French Encounter.

Today I finally bit the metaphorical bullet and went to Darty, the French Best Buy, to obtain a replacement camera. After a few minutes spent helplessly gazing over the wide selection of appareils photo, a salesperson sauntered over to offer assistance. With a sinking heart I realized he was young and attractive-- an excellent candidate for my ongoing and unintentional bid to embarrass myself thoroughly.

"Vuadserjloui'eauxfedsa'qujole'csieu?" said the Darty guy, presumably asking whether or not he could help me.

"Uhh... I have a question... what's the difference between a stablisateur optique and a stablisateur numerique?"

"Lelecsi'edse'rjlouauxfedsaloui anticipates the motion of the subject, maesisfluisoveusrtr."

"Oh. Okay."

He left me alone to puzzle over the feature summaries propped up behind the cameras, which had enough English words in them ("zoom," "pixel," "détection") that I could at least understand the gist. I narrowed it down to two choices, the first being the same model as the one that I lost, which was a good camera overall minus the fact that it had a substandard zoom function and devoured batteries like bonbons. The other contender was substantially more expensive but it was also prettier and had a much longer summary of features-- which are, let's face it, pretty much my sole criteria in buying electronic equipment. Midway through my ponderings, I called Cute Darty Guy back over to clarify whether or not it was necessary to buy the battery and charger separately-- he looked askance and said "no... not at all... where did you read that?" At that point I realized that accessoires furnis probably meant "furnished with these accessories," figuring it out, as usual, minutes too late to preserve an intelligent facade.

The real confusion began at the register, though, when Darty Guy said something else in yet another rapid strain of French (can't he tell I'm a foreigner?? Have a little pity!) and I stared dumbly for a moment and had to admit I didn't understand. He repeated it again, and this time I discerned words like "not included normally" and "good for a year," and realized he was probably trying to offer me an extended warranty. Hoping that I understood correctly, I murmured that no, I was not in need of it. Further confusion arose after I failed to comprehend his inquiry about my preferred mode of payment-- the blank look on my face and credit card clutched in my hand were apparently enough of an answer. "Par carte?" he prompted, eyebrows raised. "Oui," I sighed, ashamed of my inability to answer yet another straightforward question. "Par carte."

Then he wanted my postal code ("Um, in the United States?" "Oh... no.") which necessitated the involvement of a supervisor to enter my nationality in the Darty computer and led to a humorous note on the printed receipt that claimed that I lived on "America Street." The final obstacle was the fact that my American credit cards are notoriously temperamental in France and refused to scan. I must've looked like a shopaholic bimbo by the time I handed over my third one and said, apologetically, "the last time usually works..."

Back at the apartment I found Diane online and told her the tale of my ineptitude.

"I don't think the cute Darty guy will be asking me out for a glass of wine anytime soon," I lamented.

"Of course not," said Diane. "Because you live on America Street, with the rest of the fools."

The moral of this story is that despite a general fear of electronics boutiques and a language barrier made maddeningly more pronounced by my innate aversion to technical jargon, I did manage to select and procure a camera using only my mediocre French and some well-placed moments of stunned silence. As I wished my poor salesman a "bonne soirée" and carried my overpriced purchase out of the store, I decided that another victory had been won. Go ahead and try to steal this one, camera thieves of Europe. I dare you.

Inaugural picture with the new camera!

Version Originale

This week has been long.

On Monday and Tuesday I worked tirelessly (ok, procrastinated a lot and then finally completed in one long shot) the take-home exam for Susan's Painting Women in France class. Considering the fact that I submitted it at 2am on the day it was due, it had surprisingly few typos when I reread it post-submission. Results on that front pending.

On Wednesday I presented my Powerpoint on Père-Lachaise cemetery and Les Misérables, which went well and reminded me that I miss not having any English classes this semester. Not to worry though, because in what was almost definitely a Poor Life Choice I somehow saved all my hardest English concentration requirements for my last semester of college. So this fall will be quite the literature overload.

Then on Thursday we took advantage of the uncharacteristically sunny day to visit Père-Lachaise itself, but I won't tell you about that yet because I'm waiting for Lena to upload the pictures I took with her camera. I tried to buy a new one the other day at Darty, the French equivalent of Best Buy, but the exorbitant prices scared me away before I could make a decision. Blast you, Swiss camera thief. Wherever you are.

On Thursday night Erin and I went to an amusing French movie entitled J'ai toujours rêvé d'être un gangster (I've always dreamed of being a gangster). It was one of those movies that follows a handful of individual subplots, all of which involved the humorous hijinks of inept criminals. We were pleased to discover that we understood the plot and most of the scene-to-scene dialog. And sometimes we even laughed at the right times. Also we learned the vocabulary for "Get out of here or I'll break your face," which will undoubtedly prove useful in future.

Then for a change of pace on Friday, I saw The Other Boleyn Girl (called Deux Soeurs Pour Un Roi in French-- Two Sisters for One King) with Erin, Lena, Ornella, Leetal, Molly, and Molly's French host brother Nicolas, who was apparently there to ogle Natalie Portman. We had a brief moment of fear before the movie started that it would be dubbed in French, since we had forgotten to verify that it was "V.O.", or version originale. We lucked out, though, and had a good time pointing out the translation inadequacies in the French subtitles. The movie itself was good, I thought, but Ornella and Molly said it didn't live up to the book. I was also disappointed that they didn't give Natalie Portman an extra finger, for authenticity's sake-- one of the main reasons Anne Boleyn was suspected of witchery was the presence of a sixth finger on her left hand. Why does that detail from my fourth-grade Tudor history class stay with me when nothing else will?

I had kind of a hard night after that. Everyone else decided to find a bar, but I took a Metro back to my apartment. For some reason during the movie I had fallen into one of my (fairly rare) "down" moods where I miss being home. Maybe it was just the result of seeing familiar actors in an American film. Maybe it was the tortured stories of romance on the screen that reminded me that everyone I love is thousands of miles away. And maybe it was the added annoyance of paying literally twice the price of a ticket at good ol' Quality 16 in Ann Arbor, since the Parisian theaters apparently revoke their student fares on Friday nights. When I got home I spent awhile sitting on the balcony outside my room, crying quietly so as not to wake my host family, and wishing for a moment that I wasn't so far from from the familiar.

Speaking of the familiar, though, it is coming to visit me next month! The parents in the family that I babysit for in Ann Arbor are going to be in Paris for work, and they emailed me this week to say that they're bringing the whole crew along. I'm really glad that someone from home will be able to see my new neighborhood, since none of my friends or family are planning to make the trip.

Now that this post has served its function as distraction from my homework on the French sewer system, I should wrap it up. Next time I'll show you the pictures from Père-Lachaise, which include a decidedly creepy blast from the past. More about that later.

We will end with this really attractive picture of me eating a ficelle de fromage, which is essentially a giant breadstick with cheese baked both inside it and on the top.

This picture was taken with my laptop webcam, now the only camera I have since my French cell phone doesn't have one built in. These ficelles de fromage are available at the bakery on my street, and I order them constantly because a) they are full of cheesy goodness (observe the excess that has oozed onto the pan during the baking process) and b) they only cost 1E50! Much to my chagrin, though, it's the same young and relatively attractive guy who works at the bakery every day, so he is beginning to recognize me every time I waltz in and ask for the giant breadstick smothered in melted cheese. Awkward.

Poisson d'Avril!

Happy April Fools' Day everyone-- or as we say here in France, "poisson d'avril!"

Poisson d'Avril is one of those ridiculous holiday traditions that I think must have been created especially for me. It literally means "April fish," and the classic French prank involves affixing a paper fish to your victim's back, which gives passersby the opportunity to follow them around and giggle for however long it takes the poor sap to figure it out. At that point you gleefully shriek "poisson d'avril!!!!", and may choose to make amends by exchanging chocolate fish (maybe the leftover ones from your Donald-Duck-on-a-moped Easter candy). April Fools' Day in America is downright cruel by comparison, what with people telling each other blatant lies and then laughing at the looks of horror and dismay on their loved ones' faces as they assure them they were "Just kidding! I DIDN'T run over your dog! Haha! April foooools!"

Needless to say I could not let April Fish Day pass uncelebrated. Before leaving for Susan's class at the Musee D'Orsay, I cut out four paper fish from the pages of my notebook and personalized them with googly eyes and scales. I then hid them in the notebook and ever-so-craftily removed them one at a time when our group had assembled at the museum, sticking them in turn on the unsuspecting backs of Lena, Evelyn, Erin, and Ornella. They didn't notice for a good twenty minutes at least, and the sheer glee I experienced when they confusedly peeled the taped fish off their clothes made me immediately understand why this tradition took off. "POISSON D'AVRIL!" I exploded in triumph, as nearby museum patrons looked on in surprise.

Apparently the other girls had not heard of the custom, though, so then I had to explain that it was a legitimate French prank and not some bizarre product of my imagination. Sadly no one had a camera, so I was not able to get pictures of my sneaky work. Later that night when my host dad called me into the kitchen for dinner, I was delighted to see that the main course was salmon. "Is this an April Fish?!" I said, smirking, and my host dad roared with laughter. "Yes, but at least it is real!" he said, plunking a portion of it onto my plate.

The moral of this story is: watch out next April 1st, because when I go back to the States I don't intend to leave the poissons behind me. They will be behind you. On your backs. POISSON D'AVRIIIIIIIL.