baguettes no more!

After a morning walk in 1898, an anonymous flaneur of the 19th century was rather astounded by the number of “housemaids who were hurrying homewards with long sticks of bread, a yard or two in length, carried under their arms”. The French began to eat baguettes long before this, and have yet to tire of them. I, on the other hand, have only been consistently eating these long flutes of bread for the past 68 days. Though deliciously intoxicating to all senses, sometimes one just needs a break. Sometimes one needs to escape the wonder that is French cuisine.

Yes, croque-monsieurs are fantastic, and croque-madames even better, but after a while, one just needs some Pad Thai, a quesadilla, or a Grey Dog’s number seven. There really is only so much rich sauce, crispy bread, and melted cheese one can take. I know this sounds ludicrous, but you, my friend, have not been in France for the past two months.

If there is one thing I have learned about the French, it is that though they are widely engrossed by American culture, they have more pride for their own than anything I have ever seen. They are ecstatic to come in contact with an American, but have no problem in making a quick departure back to their mother’s kitchens, back to the comfort of home. Interestingly, they seem to have a fear of accepting foreign cultures for commercial use. Everything breathes French; the essence of all products reeks of cheese.

Living in New York, one has access to absolutely everything. China town. Little Italy. Indian Row. It is all just steps away. A willingness to embrace the other is instilled in us from the beginning—it is completely necessary. Thus, as one who welcomes, and even prefers, variations in cuisine, Paris is a difficult city to conquer. Of the 40,000 restaurants in Paris, roughly 20 percent are French cafes—this does not include upscale French restaurants and bistros. We are talking sidewalk cafes. It is nearly impossible to find anything the least bit exotic, and at the same time the least bit decent. Sushi, something that has become so trendy in the States, is actually laughable in this part of the globe.

It really is ironic; it really is hypocritical. Please, restaurateurs of Paris, do not broadcast your obsession with American culture, yet reject our culinary habits! It is not appreciated by the 200 American students at NYU Paris.

So it looks like I have two options: starve, or accept the fact that French cuisine has caused me to gain ten pounds in the last ten weeks and go buy another croissant. Looks like it is option two for me—but can we make it a pain au chocolat aux amandes? I mean, why not just go all out?  

(a great scene from Twin Peaks- ironically involving the French Baguette)

the ghost who walks/she's on the prowl

It’s Halloween in Paris and I am completely indifferent to celebration. Not that I am against the whole masquerade, I just could not care less. I am perfectly happy sitting in my candyless apartment waiting for trick-or-treaters that are certain to never come.

Last year, I was excited to dress up and embody someone else for a single night. Today, I am fed up with masquerading. I shall pass the hours contemplating reading the Roland Barthes article tucked away in my bag, or possibly starting my response to Jean Rhys’ Good Morning, Midnight. I will leave my hypothetical costume hanging in the closet.

Halloween, along with Valentine’s Day and New Years Eve, is a recipe with disappointment. And this year, disappointed I shall not be. Indifference is not conducive to disappointment.

Rewind ten years and I am dressed as Frankenstein, eager for sunset and the subsequent menagerie of candies. Isn’t it funny how time changes everything? Happy Halloween.

a night train/midnight/bags gathered round my feet

Over the past few weeks, the weather patterns in Paris have been so haphazard that it has been nearly impossible to decipher just what season we are in. Last week I could not wear the lightest of cardigans without breaking a sweat the moment the unguarded sun touched my skin, yet two weeks ago there was nothing but tempestuous rain. I thought it was only in Atlanta that the expression, “don’t like the weather, wait twenty minutes” was applicable. I guess not.  

And then there was last night: the first night that held the tiniest hint of winter. It was the first night when breath was visible, completely molecular in the air. Outside of a bar at 2:00 AM, I took a breath, and then I exhaled, and with this exhale I saw the release of particles—oxygen, hydrogen—into the Parisian atmosphere. It was such a weird sensation. It was so unexpected. When did it become winter?

Winter, no. A particularly frigid fall night, yes. But still, there was something so serene about this image that even my friends seemed to acknowledge. It was as if we were taking part in this great natural shift; we were witnessing something that had always gone unnoticed. And yet this morning, waking up and drinking coffee with Julia, you could feel the change. You could feel the shift.

All day I have been sitting in my currently heatless apartment, scarf wrapped around my neck, listening to Bonobo and making my way through Jane Eyre, and honestly, I could not feel more cozy. I mean, after last night, the first night of visible condensation—how romantic when put scientifically—I feel like we are allowed to use the word “cozy”. Cozy: such a wintry word, so suited for my current state of being. It doesn’t really fit any other season.

So here is to the months ahead—to Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas and everything else that the first frigid night alludes to.

Oh, and postscript: Happy Birthday, Mimi. I love you. 

defeat? hell no

The French have a long history of succumbing to surrender. Starting with the surrender of Gaul to the Romans in 52 B.C, and followed by the surrender to the British at the Battle of Crécy during the Hundred Years War, it seems as though when things get rough, the French flee. Even Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor and commander of the Imperial French Army, surrendered and abdicated during the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. What ever happened to going down with the ship? When did it become acceptable to take the easy way out, to wave the white flag when we find ourselves treading water?

That look of defeat doesn't
flatter anyone!

For the past few weeks, it seems as though I have spent most of my time in search of a white flag, in search of a way out from all the struggle that France has imposed upon me. But when I take a step back, what struggles am I speaking of, and can they even be defined as such? What do I think this country is inflicting on my everyday life? Nothing, well at least nothing uniquely directed towards me. Everyone else in my situation is experiencing the same thing. Call it “mal du pays” if you want, but I think it is more a state of discomfort. I am out of the downtown New York bubble, and out of my comfort zone. How ludicrous would it be to surrender to discomfort? Entirely.

So my mission for here on out is to try my hardest to forget about my life in New York—not my friends, my life. My life is in France. My potential inspiration is in France. People have been mentioning my lack of writing recently, and I attribute this to the fact that I have found nothing to write about. But the truth is, I wasn’t looking for anything to write about. I had given up on the ability of Paris to induce creativity in my own mind. Tragically, I even considered surrendering this very blog.

No! One shall not wave a white flag! One’s residence in France does not require one to take on the precedent of surrender! I am the exception. I will induce the flow creativity, despite Napoleon’s soft whisper in my left ear. I must take influence from the Joan of Arcs of France instead. In them, I will find my subjects. In them, I will find my comfort.

Would you call me pathetic for calling my mother last night at 1:00 AM and requesting a care package of sour-patch kids and Reeses cups? Judge if you want, but I have a feeling that with these little pick-me-ups in my bag, my eyes will be opened just a centimeter wider, and that Napoleon will be forced to find someone else to taunt. In the words of Dido, a musical favorite from way back in seventh grade, “I will go down the ship. I wont put my hands up and surrender.” 

watching a rescue from above

Maybe it just has something to do with being in a big city, or maybe it is just all in my head, but I have noticed that in Paris it seems as though no one acknowledges their neighbors. Granted living in an apartment building makes it particularly tough, it would be nice to have some interaction every once in a while with someone from the same quartier. I would like the 9arrondissement, or at least the Place de Clichy, to give me some sign that she is aware of my temporary existence—most likely she does not really care.

The best picture I could get from my balcony,
it didn't feel appropriate to disturb him

There is one resident, however, that everyone seems to know. On the Rue de Clichy, just down from the newly renovated Place de Clichy, there is a homeless man who has created a kind of abode out of blankets, clothes, and paper. He spends his days sleeping under a tarp and his nights wandering around, reading the day old papers littered on the sidewalks. Over the past few weeks, I have often seen baguettes neatly placed next to his mat by the local Boulanger, and leftovers on paper plates taken down by tenants in the surrounding buildings. He has, in a way, been adopted by the people of my quartier.

When I first looked over my balcony and saw his dirty pile of fabric—his home—I was a bit suspicious. What this strange man? What my neighborhood, a neighborhood notorious for drug deals and whores? A few days ago, I found out just why he calls this place home.

From my bedroom window, I saw a man around twenty pull up on a motorcycle, park next to the mat, and start tearing it apart. In the homeless man’s absence, the man on the bike began to pull the tarp off and spread the clothes, food and blankets out onto the sidewalk. It was truly a horrific act of human behavior.

Upon seeing this, a woman, who must have been about sixty, ran out from across the street and took to the absent street dweller’s defense. She pushed the lowlife aside and started places her unnamed friend’s belongings back on his mat. She was protecting a man most people would look down upon. She did not care that the man was homeless; she was doing what she knew was right.

After an exchange of inaudible words, the man remounted his bike and drove away. A crowd had formed and several people began to help the older woman reassemble man’s only version of a home. At this moment, I knew why the man chose to stay on the Rue de Clichy, and my in humanity slightly increased. Though I knew nothing of these neighbors, I felt comforted in the possibility that if they were willing to help him, maybe they would be willing to help me too. Maybe people were actually inherently good?

He starts reading the day old paper

Later that night, as I stood on my balcony once more with a glass of Bordeaux and a Gauloise, I watched as the man walked back and saw for the first time the remnants of what has taken place earlier that day. I watched as he stopped, looked, and without any expression whatsoever, started to carefully rearrange everything he had come to collect. He did not even acknowledge anything had happened. After this, he sat down and read a dirty newspaper. As I watched him, all I could think of was how much I wished the boulangerie was still open so that I could go and buy him a sandwich. 

different names for the same thing

the port of Cassis

Spending this past weekend in Cassis, a small resort town forty-five minutes from Marseille where I took part in an exchange program five years ago, served as a much needed break from the chaos of Paris. Though I have only been in Paris for four weeks, I have begun to feel the effects of the city, and must admit that last week, I was beginning to become a bit homesick. I was longing for the feeling of family, of being in a home rooted in love. 

the lovely Laffitte home

Since my return from this short weekend vacation, I can honestly say that I feel as if I am a part of two distinct families—my own family back in Atlanta, and the Laffitte family, who are lucky enough to call Cassis their home. Five years ago, they opened their doors to a fourteen-year-old American boy from Atlanta. Now, after experiencing the tragic loss of the father who treated me like his own, they welcomed me back with many a bisous. Time had passed, life had changed, but their love for me remained strong. 

After the death of a beloved father and husband, Brigitte, Antoine, and Victoire Laffitte have formed a bond so strong it is visible to the human eye. In the presence of these wonderful people, I found proof that there is such a thing as life, and even love, after tragedy. Following a farewell dinner on the shores of Mediterranean, Antoine and Victoire shared with me their favorite pictures of the late Jacques, and the strength in their eyes while doing so was more than moving—it brought me to tears.

my french mother, Brigitte 

At this moment, I knew I was witnessing an act of genuine human love, an act so rare that when it occurs, one is speechless. In my case, there truly were no words to express the honor I felt during these precious moments. All I could do was sit, and watch, and listen.

Here I was in this small house on the hills of this tiny French town on the vast and beautiful Mediterranean, and I was entirely and fully surrounded by love. Despite our different languages, despite our different cultures and backgrounds, the four of us, the three Laffittes and I, were connected by something so much bigger. We were intertwined by something that transcends borders and barriers. We were neither American nor French. We were human beings opening our hearts to one another and that was all that mattered.

No matter the language, no matter the place, there really is no difference in genuine love being two people. L’amour, love: it’s all the same. And this past weekend, the Laffittes showed me that love, no matter where you go, truly is all around.

the beautiful Victoire

my dear friend, Antoine, and I 

le mystère du papillon

While my morning coffee began to wear off during the second hour of today’s French workshop, I found myself entering the typical student mindset: uninterested, unaware, and entirely unenthused. As my hand moved further up my cheek and my head fell closer to my chin, I was stirred by something that can only be described as completely surreal. 

In front of my glazed eyes was a flickering butterfly, just floating in mid-air as if waiting for some form of acknowledgement. Before I was able to fully comprehend this rather peculiar phenomenon, the entire class seemed to be on its feet, sending the poor butterfly into a panic. After an unsuccessful search around the room’s exterior for an exit, the butterfly flew to my desk, where it sat on my paper, seemingly asking me for guidance. At this point, I scooped him up into my hands, took him over to the window, and set him free.

My teacher, having the heart of a French woman, encouraged me to think of this as an omen for some sort of romantic exploit. I, being, well, me, couldn’t help but take her advice. I left class feeling as though my romantic visions of France were about to be fulfilled, and as though I was soon to experience my own version of a fairy tale.

I took one step out of the NYU building and found myself to be standing in a massive, and quite fresh, pile of dog shit. My visions of romance dissipated immediately; my hope was shattered. 

At this moment, I could not help but notice, and even laugh at, this complete juxtaposition of sentiments. I had just been in the realm of total surrealism, captivated by the beauty and romance of my butterfly friend, only to be ripped out of it by something so foul. Was this some kind of sign that the surrealism of romance and I just aren’t meant to coexist? Were the heavens trying to tell me to plan my life accordingly? I was completely dumbfounded.

People say that romance is dead, something of past generations, and that perhaps we, ourselves, have killed it. If so, why does it seem as though everywhere I look, it is staring at me, laughing at my inability to take part. Couples on vespas. Lovers on the banks of the Seine. Jeff, the lone one. What do I get when I have the slightest bit of faith in my future romantic endeavors? Dog shit.

Being the person that I am, I in no means want to believe this. And deep down, I know that romance is alive. It is just much more of a phenomenon than we like to think. One just has to realize that love, like the fluttering butterfly, is much more of a mystery than the world makes it out to be.