Lazy Weekend

We had a nice quiet weekend.  Went on some long walks close to home, up on Montmatre, saw the best view in the city (not the Eiffel Tower, in case you're wondering), ate some delicious food, crepes, curry, steak and all together too much crusty bread; I would have given a lot for some serious pain killers last night for the jaw.

Interesting tidbits for all, with delightfully cryptic, earmarks for those who I know will enjoy them particularly:

For the Tam-Flam:  Nick and I stumbled upon a cafe called the Pink Flamingo Cafe; didn't have a camera but may go back just for you.  Also, ordered a g&t yesterday and it came with gin in one glass and tonic, ice, and lemon in a separate small carafe.  Mix your own, to your tastes.  Genius!  I've seen this a few times. Tanqueray also seems to be the favorite here, silly Frenchpersons.

For my dearest illusion:  You are not allowed to come to Paris/France.  At least not without a giant bottle of ibuprofen and an ice pack for each side of your face.  That said, I found an art supply store the other day.  Ooh la la!  It was beautiful.  I really wanted to pick up some pastels, because I managed to come to Paris with the only medium that I find consistently disagreeable...but at 1.5 to 2.5 euro for a stick, I decided to hold off, though it saddened me greatly.

Brotha Z:  I saw someone who could have been your twin in Jardin du Luxembourg the other day.  Leastwise, if you had a twin with rather blondish hair.  The way he was sitting in the sun with his head tipped up, it looked like it could have just been the light and made me do a double take.  I do this all the time with different people.  It's like my subconscious is looking really hard for someone I know.

D Ele:  I found our hotel from sophomore year in high school.  Not a bad location, definitely missed out on some good night life.  Unfortunately, I rarely have the energy for night life here...by the time the French deem it appropriately late to begin living, I'm pretty much ready to go to sleep.  On the upside, I get to watch the city wake up all the time and that's pretty awesome.

For Z Lace Lady and others:  Here are pics from our trip out to Chantilly last weekend.  It's a quaint little town with a chateau formerly belonging to some member of French nobility and a racetrack, reachable by commuter train from Paris.  The weather was drizzly bordering on rainy, blustery and miserable with some deceiving moments of sun (most of these were while we were deciding whether or not to take an umbrella, of course).  

Chateau de Chantilly

Stables, but a likely looking chateau to the uninitiated

Turns out that what we thought was the chateau, was actually just the stables/horse museum.  The man loved his horses.  The chateau itself, after having been destroyed during the Revolution, was rebuilt and now houses a very nice art gallery and museum.

The man himself, Henri d'Orleans

  The surrounding area is filled with gardens, parks and lots of little byways on which to amble about; originally we went mostly to walk about in the quiet, but the weather put the kibosh on that.

 The museum in the chateau was also home to a very few examples of Chantilly lace, a handmade lace that is created using bobbins and a pillow, set up like this.  Through some miracle of time and patience that I will never truly understand, you get things that look like this:

This, is not bobbin lace.  But I wouldn't mind if it came home with me.

 

I'm not dead yet!

But I did greatly enjoy our adventure to a French cemetery last week.  One afternoon, I was getting antsy and in need of some peace and quiet, so Nick dragged me down to the metro and we went to find the only place in the city that we were pretty sure would actually be quiet:  a cemetery.  I don't recall the name, suffice to say it was not the more famous one (wherein reside Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, Eugene Delacroix, among others) but it was a wonderful bit of history, culture and was largely calm aside from the crunching of rocks under our feet and those of other wanderers.

I was intrigued at what seemed to be a moderately purposeful separation of Jewish graves from Christian graves.  It seemed to include both old burials and new and got fuzzy around the edges, but there was definitely some sort of delineation.  We didn't have time to check out the entire cemetery and I haven't learned any more about it.

Many of the small mausoleums had the most beautiful stained glass in the walls and above the altars.  Some were very well kept with happy, living flowers inside, some were broken, dusty and grown over.

A long row of old mausoleums.

This was one of the most beautiful little mausoleums.  Unfortunately, it was
tucked up closely to its neighbors, so a full picture was impossible.

Ugh.  Blogger's layout is being temperamental with layout again...I will have to learn to more skillfully manipulate.  Later.

Agh! The typos in this are embarrassing...

French Mythbusters: Episode 1

Let's be frank.  Americans, and the rest of the world, have some strong preconceived notions about the French. As with stereotypes the world around, these are mostly nonsense, but periodically have a grain of truth to them (see again "stereotypes").  In order to help me order some of my thoughts and observations, here follows some common "beliefs" and my responses to them.  I realize most of the people reading this blog are level headed and worldly enough to know better than to take these stereotypes without a grain of salt.  However, we are all influenced, however subtly, by these things we have heard until we have a chance to change our perspectives first hand.  Here are some of my first hand experiences to tide you over til you get to yours.

1. The French are rude.  Well, fine maybe not everyone...the Parisians are terrible though!

My last trip to Paris made me a firm believer in this one.  Was I here long enough to have enough interactions for a decently rigorous sample size?  Of course not.  Also, I think I was probably 15, clearly the peak of worldly wisdom.  

A portrait of Nick that we stumbled upon.
(Not related to this post in any way.)

So far, the people here who have been helpful, kind, respectful and friendly far outnumber those who have not.  Admittedly, I speak a little more French than I did before and I have gotten better at faking it in any language.  The key is not to address people first in English or to have the first words from your mouth be, "Do you speak English?" even if you're saying it in French.  It's a pretty basic thing when you stop and think about it.  How would you feel if someone walked up to you and started speaking in a language you didn't understand while in your home country, automatically expecting you to comprehend what they're saying?  Or asks if you speak their language, without first even saying hello.  I'd be miffed too.

I've observed this a few times in comparing the interactions and reactions that Nick and I get from waiters.  Nick, at first, would frequently start out by asking in French if they spoke English.  When I'm in a foreign country, my English gets strange accents and I feel very odd talking in my native tongue.  When I did the talking to waiters, I prefaced with many apologies and began blundering my way through some French.  Though I'm sure they all understood Nick much better (most of them do speak English) there was a subtle shift in demeanor and a generally more pleased vibe when we would attempt some French first.

Here, I think is the more interesting bit that is really what leads to many tourists' misunderstanding of the French.  The expectations on what a waiter should be in France, Paris at least, is completely different from the perspective of most Americans.  Furthermore, most travelers encounter more waiters than they do any other representative of the culture they are experiencing.  Here there be problems.

Old church (Eglise St. Eustache), new mall (Forum des Halles)
expansion being built (also Les Halles)
(Still not related to this post.)

A French waiter should, ideally, see to all of your needs, while leaving you completely alone.  They should be respectful, efficient, knowledgeable and a largely unseen part of your dining experience.  This perky, "Hi, howya doin', I'm Shelly and I'll be your server for the evening, please ask me anything and feel free to tell me your life story," vibe that is sometimes taken too far (in my introverted, anti-social opinion) in the States, just doesn't compute for most French people.  French waiters aren't rude when they don't smile at you or talk much, in fact, you'll notice it's exactly how they treat everyone else.  They are working to serve you a meal, not to socialize. I for one, wholeheartedly love this particular French quirk.  Most of the waiters I have seen are the most hardworking individuals I've encountered here and they are completely courteous and helpful.  Because they approach their job so professionally, I never feel bad interrupting them if I need something.  It is their job and they take it as such, so you never get those subtle vibes that you are imposing on their social time.  

An added perk, all taxes are included into the price of the meal and there is no requirement to tip.  Meals look much more expensive here, but by the time you take that into account, it's pretty close to the same.  

Well, that got a bit off topic, but moral of the story is thus:  The French are about as rude as anybody else who lives in an enormous city where they put up with the noise, sights and smells of a gajillion* other people every day.  Of course, I'm making no claims to fully understand all the ins and outs of a culture that I've only spent two full weeks experiencing.  I'll probably need at least another week for that...

*again, this is a technical term

Bastille Day

Well.  I sat down to begin writing up a shiny new blog post on Monday, only to be interrupted by a skype call from my father.  No worries, blogging can wait (that word is too silly to represent any occupation that could be taken seriously, anyway).  Mere minutes into said phone call, just after he has gotten his microphone working so that I can actually hear him, the call is dropped.  Now, Skype has enabled me to freely (financially and easily) communicate with people anywhere from two feet to 5,000 miles away over the course of the last four years or so.  I consider it their right to drop a call now and again.  I told Nick to stop sucking up bandwidth and went on with my life.

Two days and one new modem later, we have internet again as well as a working phone line.  If you tried to contact me and couldn't, that would be why.

Anyway, adventures of late have included  Bastille day, Chantilly Chateau and racetrack, Musee D'Orsay and generally bumming around Paris, eating food and drinking wine (it's cheaper than mineral water).  The weather has been positively dreary and, by all accounts, no different than Seattle or the rest of western Washington.  Ranging from 70-80 degrees fahrenheit with a humidity you can basically taste, it's been surprisingly close to Costa Rica.

Bastille Day did dawn bright and sunny (according to Wikipedia this is always the case).  Nick didn't feel well, so I went down to see the military parade along the Champs Elysee by myself.  I saw a bit of the hustle and bustle, but soon realized that I would have had to get up a lot earlier to see much more than the backs of the people in front of me.  I decided to cut my losses and run, with the thought that most Parisians watch the parade on tv from the comfort of their own couches anyway.  Here are some photos that I snapped while trailing down the empty streets behind the other crazy people as we wound our way up to some sort of view.

People queuing.  I'm not sure what they call it in France.

Empty streets

People, behind people, watching people watch other people in snazzy uniforms.

Rockin' some shakos.  

A mostly empty street; a rare sight in Paris.

"Mon dieu, is Francois still in the honey bucket?"

After my brief foray out, allergies or bug hit me pretty hard.  Unfortunately, Nick and I both spent most of the day inspecting the insides of our eyelids, rather than taking part in national festivities.  By all sounds through the windows, it was quite a party by evening and early morning.

Also, blogger is getting right, left and center confused, so hopefully the pics look alright.

An unfortunate truth.

French baguettes and TMJ really don't mix well.  So much jaw pain...

He has no idea what he's in for.

Linguistic Escapades: In which there are few pictures, many words and a very happy language nerd

Yesterday, I spent wandering through the malls, metros and midways of Paris intent on several missions. (Today, my feet look upon me as no less than a gulag jailer and have been begging for reprieve.  They didn't get it.)  I needed to get a new power supply for my laptop.  Nick and I have been making do with one between us for many moons now, little did I know that he planned to take his laptop to work every day for the duration of our stay.

We live within about a ten minute walk of Les Halles.  Formerly the central market place for Paris, it is now a multi-level, underground, labyrinthine commercial center (ie mall) which exists on top of an even more confusing, sprawling and enormous metro station.  I'm fairly certain that somewhere buried deep in the deepest, darkest corner of the whole thing, the Minotaur is still hanging around and cursing that France doesn't have Netflix.  Picking up a power supply was fairly painless though.  I'd seen the place I was going before and got in and out pretty quickly, if not particularly cheaply.  I did experience my first linguistic snobbery for this trip while checking out.

When I walked up to the cashier he asked me something that I didn't understand.  My go to response is, "Je parle un petit francais," or "I speak a little french," (don't judge me for my spelling) because I can frequently understand people, it's just producing language that is hard.  Regardless, the gentleman didn't give me the time of day.  He rolled his eyes, bagged my purchase and generally sent me on my way feeling inadequate and burdensome.  Joy.  It was not how I had hoped to start my day.

Luckily, later while on a mission for the "tourist" market, Rue Mouffetard, I stopped for lunch and had a much better experience.  I was able to let my waiter know that I spoke little French, to understand the French he spoke to me and had a delicious meal of chicken tikka massala.  I cannot thank that waiter enough for his patience, especially given that he was extremely busy and did not have a lot of time to be helping foreigners.  I got my bill during a quiet moment and was even able to inquire, in French, how to request the check.  Another gentleman stepped in and exuberantly explained it to me for which I thanked him and then walked off down the street with my brain flooding with the endorphins of a successful multilingual interaction.

This has nothing to do with the post.  I'm just trying to break up all the words a bit.  Brains like visuals.

I have no idea if this happens to other people, but when I get the opportunity to communicate with someone while speaking another language, no matter how broken or stilted it may be on either side, I walk away with my head and heart lit up like hot air balloons in the dark.  It is perhaps the most amazing natural high that I know.

After lunch, I headed for Rue Mouffetard, which my guidebook says is where locals send tourists , while they send travelers to Rue Montorgueil.  The street that we live on turns into Rue Montorgueil in about two city blocks and it is the most beautiful, messy, wondrous market street.  It will get it's own blog post soon, but I needed vegetables and wanted to see the more "picturesque" market at Mouffetard, just for something different.

Perhaps it was because I did not get there until later in the afternoon, but even had I had my camera, I probably would not have taken many pictures.  Mouffetard was picturesque in a sterilized, clean, empty and particularly boring way.  While Montorgueil is constantly crawling with Parisians, Mouffetard was rather empty and felt like a diorama that had been set up for show.  I did stop at a stall and get some vegetables for dinner.  This time, my cashier was a kid, I'd guess 15 or 16.  He said something, I told him that I don't speak much French and then asked if he spoke Spanish or English.  To both he laughingly replied no and then, through gestures, the French I know and his providing words when I couldn't quite remember them, I managed to explain that I am here because my husband is working, I do have two bags with me and thank you very much for your help.  The lights went off in my head again as I wandered off.

Tomatoes and rosemary from the stand, fresh bread from a bakery and a can of beer that I plan to use in chicken tomorrow, again left by our Norwegian friends.

I've used Spanish a couple times when people didn't know English.  In truth, I would rather speak Spanish than English and will sometimes ask about that first.  I had one poor gentleman speaking both English and Spanish to me.  Apparently, in my faltering French, I had unwittingly slipped in some Spanish, but I think he could tell that part of my accent was English.

 Right now, my head is a complete unordered mess of words, accents and grammar bits, so if these posts are even remotely intelligible in any language at all, I'm counting it a net win.  We won't even talk about spelling.

La vie parisien

First things first, I decided that the blog needed an updated look to go with it's new locale.  I think I'm liking it.

Today, I'm taking it easy.  The creeping crud that I was battling on Sunday was greatly improved by the following morning, but it's clear that all the new bugs are having a field day with my immune system.  I also spent almost the entirety of yesterday out walking about and exploring, so between the two, today seems like a good day to spend getting caught up on some blog posts, writing some lesson plans and resting.

Being a die-hard traveler rather than tourist, I can be terrible about taking pictures.  I loathe being one of 25 people in the same place, taking the same, blatantly inartistic shot just to end up with a low quality photo of something I could have a better representation of on a 25 cent postcard (though granted, in Europe it would probably be at least 75 cents).  However, in the interests of those at home, I will be trying to take a few shots of the more interesting and less commonly photographed things.

Like our apartment for instance.   There is a narrow, dark, winding staircase which smells of mildew and old wood, leading up to our surprisingly spacious, two bedroom flat, on the 2nd floor (European style: ground floor, 1st floor, 2nd floor).

This is the entry way; it hasn't yet become become 

a foreboding passage to the other world.

The flat itself is, as I mentioned before, is quite comfortable, if a bit confused about its decorative purpose.  The dining room is dominated by this erm...interesting piece of art:

  

While generally maintaining a much more classic feel throughout the rest of the space.

 While poking around the other day, I made a $5.00 discovery.  In the bottom of this antique heating device (I feel woefully ignorant about what I should call it.  Fire place? Wall heater? Miscellaneous producer of radiant energy?) is hidden a secret stash of boozy items: what looks like sake, a raspberry liqueur and a bottle of plums, very drunk on brandy.  None of the items was in and of itself that exciting, but unless this is a common European storage place for the household liquor (and if so, why keep the other five bottles of alcohol in the kitchen?) it looked very much like someone was trying hard to hide it.

The rest of the flat is not particularly interesting, though I can say that a furnished apartment in Paris far outstrips renting a furnished apartment in Nicaragua.  The cookware is a dream!  All good, heavy bottomed pots and pans, nice sharp knives, tart tins, mixing bowls, ovenware and no scorpions randomly walking in to dine.  But at a price difference of $4,500 a month, some dinner guests with extra legs were probably par for the course in Nica.

More pictures:

The second bedroom

Living room, with fresh flowers and a Norwegian copy of Cosmo, courtesy of the previous tenants.

Our view looking toward Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle to the north.

You'll have to pardon some of the crummy photography.  My point-and-shoot has seen all the humidity, sand and salt that it can bear and I'm still learning Nick's camera.  Anyway, I'm going to divide up some of today's thoughts into a few different posts, so that will be all for this one.