On the 68

Today I went down to the Student Cafeteria over by Port Royal, home of the best cafeteria pizza around town. After, I headed down to the SNCF Boutique to buy some train tickets to finish up my traveling around France - I leave for Normandy tomorow to stay with some neighbors at their place outside of Dieppe, then I'm coming back to Paris Saturday morning and leaving later that afternoon to spend a night in Nancy.

Why Nancy? Well, it turns out that Lyon's trains are all full on Sunday, as are Bordeaux's. So, luckily I was with my friend Emma, and she pulled out a map and was like, "Nancy!" and lo and behold, we're gonna be there for a night. I'm actually really excited, it's got amazing art nouveau architecture, and a few great museums and some solid, heartier food from Lorraine.

Anyways, so after I hopped on the 68 Bus for the tour across Paris - down Boulevard Raspail, up and across the Seine by the Louvre, then down to Opera, and finally Place de Clichy. I put on Steely Dan's "Pretzel Logic" - yeah, you know what I'm talking about - and grooved out for a while. Time here has been passing by so quickly lately it's been hard to get a handle on my rapidly diminishing time left - at this point I only have like 5 nights or so left in Paris proper.

Tomorrow I'm heading out to Normandy to explore some castles and, as my host dad, who's tagging along, reminded me, help the neighbor chop wood. So, I'll bring along the Chateaubriand and try to be as French as possible until I leave.

The Garden Party

Yesterday was an event Jacques had been reminding me about for the last two weeks, his sister's garden party out in the suburbs. Since I've been here, he's been unsuccessfully trying to convince me to bike around the Parisian streets on his rickety second bike, and I've refused up until now (factor in that he considers helmets "ugly" and never wears/owns them).

As we approached Sunday, he wouldn't stop talking about the beautiful bike path we were going to take, as I noticed his gradual increases in admitted distance into what was going to become a 28km round-trip bike ride. So, as Sunday came around, I woke up groggily after a long Saturday night to see Jacques impatiently waiting downstairs in a tie and blazer. Throwing on some khakis, a tie, a blazer, and some polka-dot socks because, hell, it's a garden party, we headed out. I don't know if I can adequately describe how ridiculous we looked. Two incredibly white guys biking through Pigalle and over towards Stalingrad, Jacques with a wicker basket on his bike with the host's present, large tortoiseshell 50's-era Ray-Bans, and I with my right polka-dot sock tucked into my khakis - both of us in our Sunday best.

We made good time at first, dodging the traffic in Pigalle, and enduring the stares of quite literally hundreds of people. Unfortunately, even the clearly-labeled bike path was more of an abstract, nebulous concept for the Parisian drivers, and I had to avoid getting nicked a few times, which would've been disastrous without a helmet. After going all the way West, we turned Northeast and went past Parc de la Villette, past the baby strollers, and up the canal for another solid 8-9 kilometers.

Getting there, I soon realized Jacques and I were definitely the most dressed up people there. It was more of a family barbeque, with all of the husband's secret service and secret society (think French Masons) there - I'm not kidding. But, these were liquored-up secret servicemen dancing to "YMCA" and "Dancing Queen" with their kids, all wearing designer t-shirts. The worst part was that I couldn't cut loose too much - more than a bit of wine and I'd have trouble on the 14km return trip... (not to mention all the laughs I got when I asked for water from the bartender).

The party turned out well, despite the fact there was really nobody within ten years of my age on either side of my 22 years. I made buddies with one of the older secret society guys, who was clearly important by the way he held court around a plastic table. He liked my Camper shoes though, so we got along well.

The return bike trip was another story. We got off on another good start, racing back into the city for a dinner party we had over at La Muette. Despite a small bit of shame for enduring jokes from passing racailles, we made it into the city in one piece, and headed down towards Place de Clichy. This is when the tempest hit. It was already windy, and we'd had some tough going on the canal, but we ran full into a storm 3 kilometers from home. We're talking one of those bone-drenching, sheets of water storms where you can't do anything but cower for shelter. Finally, I made it back, a much wetter version of myself than when I left, but still in one piece.

Flip-flops

So, before I go to bed tonight, I have to tell this little story, just because it's so incredibly French.

Earlier, I stopped out to meet Meredith and we went by Monoprix to pick up some food to cook for dinner. When she called me from outside, I was just wearing a pair of Havaianas flip-flops for lounging around the apartment. Being lazy, and finally sticking my middle finger at European fashion sense, I rolled out of my place still wearing my flip-flops.

All was fine until I was heading back to the apartment with my groceries when I looked onto the street and saw my friend Mario, who lives in the building, coming towards the apartment. He looked at me, and laughed - "coming from the beach?" He laughed a bit, and I introduced him to Meredith, etc. I made a joke about how I always wear them in the States. He couldn't really get over it, "but we're in Paris" he said, clearly not understanding. He laughed a bit more, repeatedly looking down at my meager footwear. We BS'ed a bit as we walked up the stairs, and as he left, he said "make sure to wash your feet off."

Anyways, just one of those little cultural moments. I've honestly avoided wearing flip-flops up until now because I know it's not too French or anything, and I guess first time out, I reap the consequences. Oh, and for those of you wondering about a French guy named Mario, he's actually half Portuguese.

Sights Roundup

Well, even though the British are here, that hasn't really interrupted getting around Paris, I wasn't expecting a crowd of jersey-clad fans at the Musee de la Vie Romantique today...

I checked out the Catacombs yesterday, which are basically a series of underground tunnels you enter over by Place Denfert Rochereau (look for the green door). It's about 1.6 km long, and houses the remains of thousands upon thousands of people - whose bones were put under Paris due to the constant overcrowding of Paris cemetaries throughout the centuries. Literally, it's a lot of bones, stacked high on both sides of the tunnel. There's a few little eerie stopoff points with tombs or inscriptions as well. Not bad, but not something I'd reccomend if you're only in Paris for a few days - it was mostly American college tourists.

Also, I forgot to mention I turned 22 years young on Monday. Celebrated with food over by St. Germain - was a good time but I was a little bummed out because most of my American friends left this weekend for the States, so there's only a few of them around now.

Today, I spent the morning at the Musee de la Vie Romantique and I also finally went inside the Opéra Garnier. The Musee de la Vie Romantique is the museum of the life of George Sand, the nom de plume of the Baroness Dudevant. She spent her life writing and engaging in some of the great romances of the day with men such as Chopin and Delacroix. Although not exceptionally pretty (as you can see on her portrait at Wikipedia), she was fiercely intelligent and an early proponent of women's rights. The museum, on Rue Chaptal right off Rue Blanche, is a two-story house containing portraits and personal artifacts, and a great garden/tea area. The permanent collection is free access, so it's a great place to go and get away from some of the crazier parts of Paris. Also, the museum has a large collection of Sand's personal effects, jewelry, etc, which are very beautiful. The museum also has a temporary exhibition space that costs a few euors if you don't have an art history card. Right now there's a Picasso exhibit that chronicles his work with the engraver Piero Cromelynck (I found an English obituary here). There's a number of plates and prints, plus a series of erotic prints made by Picasso and also a room of presents - paintings/drawings Picasso did for Piero of his daughter and himself. It's cool to see "for Piero" with Picasso's signature on the bottom of lots of the drawings. Also, I'd reccomend reading more into the life of George Sand, everything from her royal heritage - she descends from the Saxes, who ruled Poland, and was also related to numerous French kings - to her liasons and her wonderful books are worth the time spent.

As for the Opera. I've passed by it so many times on the 68 Bus, but I've never gone inside until now. There's not much to say about it besides that it's gorgeous, obviously. Beautiful architecture, paintings, etc. Make sure to go when you can see inside the amphitheatre, because it's great to see all the red velvet chairs lined up and the stage. On the ceiling of the amphitheatre is a gigantic Chagall ceiling, which replaced the original, end of the 17th century one. I had a conversation with my host dad, and he explained it was there because of the changing fashion in Paris at the time, which I think is really too bad. As cool as the Chagall mural is, it's out of place with all of the baroque furnishings and decor.

Oh, and how can I forget the Star Wars: L'Expo. The Cite des Sciences is holding an Expo on all things Star Wars, and I went there yesterday with some buddies to geek it out for a while. Mission accomplished. I'm sure it's not high on many people's lists unless you're a fan like me, but it is worth a bit of time to see various movie props, concept sketches, etc, although there's nothing earth-shattering there.

The Da Vinci Code opens in Paris tonight. It goes without saying I have to see it here before I leave. The reviews I read out of Cannes sound mixed, but I'm still down.

The British are Coming

The British have descended on Paris like a fat, drunken apocalypse. Right now, out of my window overlooking a seemingly peaceful Parisian terrace, I can hear the fight song of Arsenal FC being sung. Sorry, the verb to sing implies maybe a modicum of artistic merit. These are drunken (keep in mind it's 2:45pm as I'm writing this), out of tune, overweight British soccer fans yelling something that sounds like "get out of the way, get out of the way" ad nauseum. As of now, they've invaded most of the bars around Place de Clichy, or any place that serves 2-pint beer glasses in preparation for the Champions League final being held in Paris at the Stade de France against FC Barcelona.

Last night, I went over by the Bastille to have a glass of wine at Cafe de Bastille before having dinner at Le Petit Bofinger. I was hoping for a relaxing hour or so with Meredith to do some people watching when we soon realized they'd came. We'd seen them earlier on the metro in their jerseys, blocking the moving walkway at the Chatelet Metro Station, trying to unwrap sandwiches and pop open beers. These same English soccer fans had been drinking for several hours at Kilty's Irish Pub on the Place de Bastille. These guys were loaded. We're talking spilling out into the streets, blocking traffic, staring down buses (and almost getting run over by one of them) and hoisting mugs high while belting out the Arsenal fight song, which is still managing to pierce through the tranquility of the garden by the apartment as I'm writing this.

Anyways, after tonight, they'll probably head out, or maybe some meek FC Barcelona fans will get out on the town as well, we'll see. I'm just not really looking forward to an Arsenal win tonight, even though I'd love to see them pull through against Barcelona - Thierry Henry is my favorite player.

Jean-Luc Godard at the Centre Pompidou

Well, it's more like "kind of Jean-Luc Godard" at the Centre Pompidou. Jacques tossed me an invite to the opening (or "vernissage") of the expo for last wednesday. I showed up, date on arm, only to read the program after walking into the exhibition space a little mystified. The program reads "this is not an expo for Godard, but 'of' Godard." What the hell does that mean? Well, it turns out that the expo is largely a collection of video screens beaming a collection of movies not made by Godard over two different and large rooms. Take, for example, a scene from Ben Hur, Black Hawk Down, or even hardcore pornography (we're talking freaky here). Add in random collections of shrubbery, metal fencing, beds, and miniature rooms with video iPods cranking out, well, videos, and you've got yourself quite an exhibition.

For example, in one display, you see a doll that represents a Modigliani painting that just happened to appear briefly in a scene in Pierrot le Fou, one of his cooler films, thanks in a large part to the still-cool at the epoch Jean-Paul Belmondo. Anyways, that's about as clear of a reference as you're going to get. Also, nothing is titled. And the program's headings aren't exactly 100% obvious.

Searching for some explanations, I asked the host dad, who works one floor above where the project team for the Godard expo spent two years putting stuff together. He explained that originally, Godard was behind the idea of the exhibition, but spent literally two years not responding to phone calls and letters. He didn't respond. Not once. Much to the hair-tugging anguish of the director of the exhibition, who was kind of counting on some help from the director himself, who is, certifiably at this point in his life a little bit bonkers, even if he is a cinematic genius and one of the major founders of modern cinema...

St. Malo

So, it turns out I didn't go to Normandy after all this weekend, as I found out instantly from the wide-eyed stare of my host dad's mother when I told her how happy I was to be in Normandy. St. Malo, for those who care, is actually in Brittany (which is a big deal for the rather region-centric French - up until the Middle Ages Brittany, or Bretagne, had its own local language, Breton). While I was there, I spent my time at thouse of my host dad's mother. Jacques' Mother is one of those old wives of a french seaman who keeps a display of sabres and sailor gear in the dining room. She's going blind and likes to yell, and loved that I can eat more meat the average androgynous french young man.

There's a decent site on St. Malo over at Wikipedia to get a better feel for the town. The town functioned for a long time as an important guard against the English, which is easy to see when you're anywhere around the town. Numerous forts dot the islands aroung the town, some designed by the famous military architect Vauban. The fortifications, especially for a castle geek such as myself, provide plenty of a reason to visit. In fact, up until World War Two, the town was never taken, despite many Briths attempts to the contrary. One of their most famous involves turning an old warship into a powderkeg called the "Infernal Machine" and letting it loose against St. Malo. It was caught up in the rocks surrounding the city and never got close enough, exploding in a huge fireball which blew out many of the windows in St. Malo.

Also, thanks to host dad, who knows the curator of the Duchal Castle on one side of St. Malo, I got to go through a private tour of the off-limits ramparts of the castle. So damn cool. It really gives you a sense of how incredibly well-protected this city was.

Well, besides the swashbuckling adventures of the town and it's various offspring such as Jacques Cartier, there's also the beach. Don't forget the beach. St. Malo is right on the channel, and I spent a lot of my time when I wasn't on a bicycle zooming between fortifications taking in some salty air and dipping my toes gingerly in the water (I don't take well to cold water).

Normandy for the Weekend

I'm off to join my host dad at his mother's place in St. Malo. He told me to bring along a swimsuit, so I'm looking forward to getting out of Paris for a bit and just relaxing, since finals just ended on Thursday. From now on, it's smooth sailing...

I'll update when I get back on the Jean-Luc Godard opening I went to at the Pompidou on Wednesday, and whatever else has been going on around here. Things have been hectic, lots of goodbyes as most people are leaving Paris right after the program ends (ie: most are heading out this weekend).

About.com French

This is a site I've been going to for the last year and a half or so to bone up on my french. It's updated almost every day and does a good job of keeping up with "argot" or slang, plus useful lessons and more - highly reccomended.

Palais de Tokyo

I know I mentioned in my last post that I went to the Palais de Tokyo, but I want to talk a bit more about it, since it's really about as modern as one can get for an art in Paris - everything on display is from artists ranging from my age to their sixties. It just opened up in January, 2002, and is facing the end of its first batch of curators, which are to be rotated every five years to keep what's happening fresh and different. So, for their last expo, the curators are showing what they feel will be the most important artists of the future - and it's an interesting mix.

What sometimes is odd for me about seeing super-contemporary art is that in many ways, it's incredibly nebulous. Art has basically succeeded in becoming absolutely anything. There's no more medieval craftsman's guilds or neoclassical rigidity or even the burden of having to paint what one sees. We've succeeded, through this gigantic series of reactions upon reactions, of basically reacting against everything rigid in art. What's difficult for me is that, after spending some time at my favorite place - the Musee Gustave Moreau, and then going to check out the Greek and Roman Antiquities at the Louvre today - is that these are things that are marvels. Be it red figure pottery or one of the fantastical designs of Moreau, a man that taught Matisse and many other important painters, you get a real palpable sense of a creation. In super-contemporary art, which is often incredibly esoteric to begin with, it's hard for me to stare at a watermelon on a stand in the Palais de Tokyo. I guess what I'm trying to say is that art is anything, everything. While I appreciate the possibility of expression opened up, it's also disheartening to walk into a museum and literally not even want to take a second look at half of the works.

That's not to say there aren't good things at the Tokyo, there are plenty, and I'd reccomend it as well because it's open until midnight, and there's no better way to get a sense of being hip and Parisian. Also, the boutique and bookstore are both incredibly cool - perfect place to buy a gift for someone who's kind of eclectic. Also, I saw a lot of kids there - some of the works are interactive and it's almost like being in a science museum - I'd reccomend it for that.

Wine on the Terrace

I just got back from a few delightful bottles of wine on the terrace with Jacques and his friend Francoise (note to self: stop writing blog entries while under the influence). Anyways, in between the chocolate and strawberries, and of course, wine, I began to have one of those awful realisations that I'm leaving this place. While Jacques was admonishing me for not yet reading Proust, I almost welled up with tears, knowing this would be one of the last times I'd face shock and disbelief for not being completely au courant with all manner of French culture. "Wait, you've never read Tocqueville? Quelle horreur." While Jacques and Francoise spent the next 30 minutes debating the merits of Proust and a litany of other important French authors, I proceeded to listen, and drink, and eat strawberries all along.

This proclivity for haughty cultural talk, which might be termed mental masturbation in the States, definitely plays an important role here. I'll never forget being in the toilet room of some good family friends (which also happens to contain a bookshelf), and looking straight on at Voltaire, Moliere, and all other manner of French masterworks, all in pocket editions, spines well-creased by repeated readings. I took the bait from Francoise tonight and she's going to make a list. A list I predict will be exceedingly long, covering all the essential "bases" of Frenc literature.

On another note, Paris has really sprung into its own, weather-wise. Spring is here, and hopefully to stay. Everything has become beautiful and green. Everything has also started to become hot as I've realized the sad truth of the matter - Paris is not air-conditioned. And it's not even summer yet. I went to Palais de Tokyo last night - the contemporary art museum (ie: artists my age to 60-something) - and devolved into a pool of sweat in their upper floor, which for some reason was literally over 90 degrees (and it's only been in the 70s outside).

80 Best Bistros in Paris

Here's a link to the article. There goes my wallet. I'll try to check out a few on the list before I head out of here.