Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground

     This is the first week where it's truly felt like fall. The leaves are starting to pile up despite city workers constantly sweeping the sidewalks. The leaves seem to just turn brown on the trees and then fall off, or have stayed green. I'm missing the spectacular fall colors, apple orchards, corn mazes and hay rides in Minnesota. But this is France and they don't do any of that.

     I hate to say it, being a hardy Minnesotan who deals with snow almost year-round, but I'm cold. It's cold outside and almost to the point of needing gloves. I don't know why every year we act like we're just completely sideswiped by fall, but summer does always seem to be extinguished just a little too fast. I'm also realizing that my prediction of being able to sit on my terrace year-round is not going to come true. I'm shivering as I write this in my drafty little apartment, so I think I'll just have to admire the Eiffel Tower from my desk for the next several months instead. Enjoy the following photos from this week and expect some photos from Reims and Champagne after my day trip tomorrow.

Bon week-end à tous !

Rachel

Greece

For my history course, we were prompted to write a brief travel piece inspired by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's Italian Journey. We were to write about a time when we felt struck by our surroundings and it wasn't enough to simply read about a place- we had to experience it for ourselves. I thought I'd share about my visit to Santorini, Greece in 2012.

The seats in the Athens International Airport were not designed for eleven-hour layovers. We sat in the blue leather seats playing card games, building card castles and reading through the cheap guidebook we’d picked up in a tourist shop downstairs. We sunk farther into our seats as we watched the light fade from the brown, barren, foreign mountains through the airport’s giant windows and wondered silently what Athens was like. When all sunlight completely disappeared, lights from unknown buildings began to dot the blackness in the distance. We made every attempt to convince ourselves that our backpacks were pillows and that the constant instrumental music playing over the loudspeakers was a lullaby. It’s hard to sleep under the fluorescent lights of a Sbarro restaurant when your back is twisted into a ninety-degree angle. We did laps around the strongly-perfumed terminal in search of mental stimulation and found refuge in French magazines to read which made us feel sentimental for Paris. Every half an hour passed felt like a small victory and eventually the sunlight returned and it was time for our flight to Santorini.

            Out of our tiny, plastic, airplane window, light reflected off the water of the Aegean Sea; in combination with passing through clouds, it was like a great, blank expanse of whiteness. We watched as strange pieces of brown, uninhabited islands appeared within this whiteness: the Cyclades. Almost as soon as we reached our maximum ascent, we began to descend into the isolation of Santorini. We stepped down the stairs of the airplane and walked across the tarmac into the tiny white building of the Thíra Airport.

            We boarded the island’s only form of public transportation, a lonely coach bus that follows the island’s only highway and felt the bus sway as we climbed over the craggy landscape and through villages of small, white, stone houses. A grumpy, elderly man stalked the aisles, taking passengers’ coins and putting them into his money belt in exchange for an unmarked bus ticket. Our delirium from not having slept since the previous day in Rome coupled with ongoing heartburn from a slice of old train station pizza in Naples made us go in and out of consciousness as we passed through the rocky, sundrenched landscape. On the southwest end of the crescent-shaped island, we hauled ourselves and our bags off the bus. In one direction, there were brown mountains that looked close enough to reach out and touch, and in the other direction, the ocean stretched out before with no end in sight.

            After spending the past week in the cold and the rain of April in Italy, we found ourselves baking in the dry heat and peeled off our leather jackets as we started dragging our suitcases through the black sand of Perissa. We passed small wooden boardwalks with restaurants and bars where locals called out to us in English, all the while straining our necks in search of any type of sign to indicate if we were, in fact, in Perissa. The sand gave way to pavement and squat white houses and scattered trees. Dogs ran freely through the streets and scooters zipped by along the highway. We found our hostel in a quiet, forgotten area of town and knocked on the office door. The building looked like an old 1950s-style motel in the U.S. with the doors to the rooms accessible from the sidewalk. A woman with bright red hair answered the door and smiled before telling us that there were no available rooms despite our reservation. She made a few phone calls in Greek and all of a sudden we found ourselves in a cramped, blue car driven by an older man who spoke no English speeding down the highway to a lonely stone villa where there was an available room for eight euros a night. We dropped our bags onto the floor in the corner and spent our first few hours in Santorini asleep in real beds that put those blue leather seats to shame.

            I had often wondered what it would be like to see the island’s most famous and picturesque village, Oía, with my own eyes instead of through the lens of someone else’s camera. When we drove our rental car up the one-lane, two-direction highway past the cliffs and the surrounding houses, it was as if were entering a painting. To stand atop the sprawling cluster of white buildings with their deep blue doors and to be able to see the entire island—everything that is living and breathing for as far as can be seen—within one slight turn of the head is a rare experience. I had never before been able to turn completely around and see only quiet, dark blue water in every direction. We watched as the sun sunk in the sky, turning it bright orange before fading to black behind the silhouette of the volcano Nea Kameni. I have never seen a landscape so beautiful and unique since.

When September Ends

Check out my video collage of September, most of which is shaky iPhone footage. YAY.

     I don't think it really hits you how fast time goes by until you routinely scan your Navigo métro card in the morning over the reader on the turnstile and it unexpectedly flashes a red 'X' with a loud blaring sound. It means another month has gone by and you need to shell out the €65 to pay for a new monthly pass. It's October, y'all.

     I realize I don't ever write about school, which is funny because didn't I come here for that? My daily routine involves me waking up, extremely tired to the point of absolute dread of getting out of my bed, wasting time around my apartment and realizing that I haven't left early enough for my thirty-five minute commute to school. I rush out the door, never completely satisfied with my outfit (Everyone's more stylish than me) or my homework (Everyone's more studious than me) and just hoping that I didn't forget anything up in my room because going back up my stairs is just not in the cards. Once I walk down the boulevard Saint-Michel to the Luxembourg station, I take the crowded, stinking RER B train one stop to Saint-Michel, where I catch the RER C train for three peaceful stops to Pont de l'Alma.

     I'm always late for class. Always. My "campus" (Which doesn't exist in the American sense) is a group of buildings relatively spread out throughout the seventh, and I spend the whole time walking to each one formulating excuses as to why I'm late. I always blame the RER for having issues if I'm asked.

     Then I have classes and work (In the writing lab as a tutor) until about 5 or 6 PM each day, with the exception of Wednesdays, when I have class until 8. During any and all breaks, I'm usually curating my Google Calendar and email, eating croissants, madeleines and sandwichs jambon-fromage and drinking vending machine coffee.

     When I'm done with everything for the day, I always feel like Wow, I live in Paris. I can go do anything I want to! and then pull out my map to go somewhere, but I usually just end up heading home. I tell myself I'll go running in the Jardin du Luxembourg, too, but then I go buy a baguette and a bottle of wine and forget about it.

     As for my actual classes, they're all pretty fantastic, but hard. I can't tell you how nice it is to be taking classes you want to take instead of generals in college. For the most part, I take too many notes, which is weird. It's weird to like what you're studying because you spend so much of your education complaining about it all. I'm realizing that translation isn't really just looking up words and writing them down. It's actually a really tedious and grueling process. Today, I met with Anne-Marie, my official directed study advisor, to go over my first translation of Philippe d'Iribarne's sociological article La force des cultures. I thought I did a pretty good job on the first few pages and that translating was coming so naturally and quickly for me. No. Everything was wrong.

     On a different note, Paris is really expensive. Like really expensive. I reluctantly spent a bit of time at Franprix and Monoprix today and was astounded when I started really looking at prices of random things, like €13 for nail polish and €18 for a basic towel.  A pint of Guinness at a bar runs at upwards of €9. It's painful. And remember, you need to multiply by at least 1.3 to get dollars. Everyone seems to manage just fine because they're all out at cafés and brasseries all day long, while I drink my instant coffee and one-euro wine with a side of baguette. I don't even know how people can afford their cigarettes, but they sure do somehow because Paris is essentially just one really big, beautiful ashtray. I, on the other hand, feel like I'm about one Navigo away from pulling up a chunk of sidewalk next to a homeless man with an Amsterdam beer in one hand and a J'ai faim SVP cardboard sign in the other (Which isn't really all that different than what the bouquinistes do, if you think about it.). I guess Paris is not really designed for the American dollar or young adult.

On to October!

Rachel

Montparnasse-Bienvenüe station

Home

Meeting up with Amelia, another Central alum, at Le Pure Café near Charonne in the 11th

Shakespeare & Company

Canadian expat bookstore, The Abbey Bookshop, in the Latin Quarter. It's a hot mess, but that's how I like my bookstores.

Musée du Louvre

Versailles 

Versailles

Versailles

Tartelette aux fraises at the Eiffel Tower in between classes

Two of my favorite things: boulangeries and cats

The Layover- Paris

"My plan is, I'm gonna eat some f***ing cheese and I'm gonna get drunk. You're almost guaranteed to have a really good time." Anthony Bourdain understands Paris perfectly.

Bonjour Mademoiselle !

Click here for a rambling video update.

Before Sunset

"Can I learn to look at things with clear, fresh eyes? How much can I take in at a single glance? Can the grooves of old mental habits be effaced? This is what I'm trying to discover. The fact that I have to look after myself keeps me mentally alert all the time and I find that I am developing a new elasticity of mind. I have become accustomed to only having to think, will, give orders and dictate, but now I have to occupy myself with the rate of exchange, changing money, paying bills, taking notes and writing with my own hand." 

-Goethe, 11 September 1786

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     When I leave a week in-between posts, it feels like there's too much to say. In Minnesota, I can go weeks without anything notable happening, but even a day in Paris is so saturated that when my head hits the pillow I can't even remember waking up that morning. I can't commit to anything with anyone without first consulting my Google Calendar. I feel scattered.

     I know I'm definitely learning how to be independent much more this time than last time, even though last time really kicked my ass (in a good way). I've had to get my whole life set up (phone, bank account, rent, internet, etc.) without anyone helping me and usually not in English, either. This is the first time I've ever lived completely alone before. It's no longer, "Hey, whose turn is it to buy toilet paper?" but instead, "Okay, how am I going to tell my landlord that my pipe burst in the kitchen?"(Luckily for me, water started leaking through my landlord's ceiling, so she knew about it and thus I didn't have to figure that one out.)

     Maybe I've been so busy because the weather's so nice and I don't want to spend any time inside. Last week, I was convinced that summer was over and we were already doomed for a seven-month stretch of cold, continuous rain. But then the sun came out and the scarves came off. Well, off anyone non-French, anyway. In my observations, I've come to the conclusion that Parisians only experience one season: cold. It can be seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit and they still refuse to remove their wool scarves and fur-lined coats. I've been wearing jeans just to be polite, but I'd be much more comfortable in shorts like any reasonable Minnesotan would. When I don't wear a jacket, they look at me like funny. Same goes for when I smile in public. Anyway, it's so beautiful that I was struck by how gorgeous the light was streaming through the windows at McDonald's on boulevard St-Michel at sunset today. And then I felt stupid because it was McDonald's. 

     One night last week, I sat in the empty square in front of Saint-Sulpice, my favorite Parisian church, staring at its golden façade and I realized I want to start doing sketches again. It makes me so happy to just sit and observe and listen to the fountains. It's nice to not be in a constant state of mild anger over things like people who think it's okay to flâner in the métro or cough in your face and instead do something that doesn't require any thinking.

      On Saturday, I spent time sitting in one of the green metal chairs in the Jardin du Luxembourg watching, listening and sketching with my watercolor markers. A French girl approached me, asking "Qu'est-ce que vous faites ? Est-ce que je peux regarder ?" She told me she came to draw, too, and that my drawing of the palais was beautiful. She left and I sat there for a long time with the sun warming my face and I thought if I had to live in the Jardin du Luxembourg for the rest of my life, I could be happy. I'm not sure why that would ever be a legitimate situation, though. (Sidenote: I can make watercolor postcards. If you want me to make you one, send me your address.)

Jardin du Luxembourg

Jardin du Luxembourg

Jardin du Luxembourg

The Medici Fountain, Jardin du Luxembourg

     One of my favorite leisure activities is to browse the bouquinistes, which almost always takes me to the Pont des Arts. Even though Romantic Paris is starting to really annoy me, I still like reading the locks to see where they came from. On late Saturday afternoon just before sunset, there was a brother duo playing a set of their own music and a few American covers (Watch it here) and you wouldn't have guessed from a distance that they were actually good since a swarming group of girls usually doesn't hint at greatness. They mentioned an upcoming show of theirs, but I could only hear "October" and "frères." I actually Googled "Octobre concert Paris frères musique" but that didn't direct me to anything. I still have one of their songs in my head.

Pont des Arts

Pont des Arts

Pont des Arts

     I covered most of the sixth on foot, which I never would've done last year since I was such a métro enthusiast. I really couldn't see the forest for the trees. I had no concept of how the city is connected. For example, I had no idea that the Montparnasse Cemetery is right next to Raspail or how close I used to live to avenue du Maine. None. On Sunday, I went down to the fourteenth to find a Monoprix or Franprix that would be open in the morning and I ended up walking all over my old stomping grounds. Simply put, the fourteenth is my jam. For real. I literally walked down the street with a huge smile on my face before realizing I was in Paris and shouldn't do that. I love how real it feels when I'm there and I feel like I fit in. My new neighborhood in the sixth is mainly upper-class and the traffic on the boulevard St-Michel is a constant roar in the background. In the fourteenth, I can actually hear my feet hit the ground and it's beautiful.

     

One of my goals this year is to find someone to take me for a ride.

Cour du Commerce Saint-André

Institut Hongrois on rue Bonaparte

Jardin du Luxembourg

Jardin du Luxembourg

View of the Tour Montparnasse near home

      I went with my new friend Rebecca to a French-English "meet-up" at Café du Châtelet in the first, where a big group of French speakers and English speakers hang out, have a beer and do trivia. Each time it was a new round we had to speak only in one language. It's really, really strange and absurd to hear French people struggle to speak in English to each other. My team was three Parisians, a grad student from UW-Madison, an Indian man who lives in Spain (and spoke no English or French) and a Swedish man. We ended up winning the whole game and got free shots. We stayed long after it was over, analyzing life to death as they do in Paris. This is part of why I came here; where would I be able to meet so many different people at home? It puts your life into perspective when you realize the world is so much bigger than the United States. That's the cross-cultural studies degree talking.This wasn't the only time, either: On Friday, Rebecca and I hung out with people from Israel, Mexico, Switzerland, Spain and France (And their eighteen-year-old tabby cat and I fell in love), and last night I talked about my favorite books at Shakespeare and Company with a guy my age from Luxembourg and an older, seriously snobby man from Boston who was quoting entire passages of Gatsby to me just because he could and acting like he personally knew Henry James and James Joyce.

     Here are more pictures of the past week. I realize I almost never talk about school, which is why I'm here in the first place, I guess. Another time.

Rachel

RER at Port-Royal

Picnicking on my balcony/terrace

Musée de l'Orangerie

Braved the lines for their famed hot chocolate, which outshined their terrible service.

I finally got down to the quai to drink wine. There is really not much better than that.

The staircase in an art studio we wandered into in the first. Some of the craziest stuff I've ever seen.

Pub Quiz Night at the Highlander and trying to reform a winning team.