Saturday, June 29, 2013

Ciao Bologna!

See what I did there? The last word of the previous title was "Bisous" and the first word of this one is "Ciao." I know, very clever, right? Especially since I feel the need to explain it. 

Anyway, this morning I took the RER to Charles de Gaulle airport, caught a flight to Bologna, and now I'm in Italy. If I weren't so forgiving, I'd probably spend a good portion of this post complaining about the incompetent woman who works for my mom at the travel agency. She booked the flight (because I thought it would be the responsible thing not to do it myself, given I'm not a travel agent!) and when I asked her about the baggage allotment, she told me I had the right to one checked bag. Apparently not, and I technically wasn't allowed to pay for one at the airport. The lady was pretty sympathetic given I spoke French and was clearly quite annoyed with American incompetence. I think she really understood, because she let me pay to check my bag. But it was too heavy. 

I am currently sitting in my beautiful hotel room in Bologna, listening to the sounds of a gigantic concert/party that is going on outside. When I got here, I decided to spend today wandering around without any sort of touristy agenda (I can do that tomorrow). I got here kind of late, and I was exhausted, so actually visiting churches, shopping, and following an itinerary seemed cumbersome. Well, good thing I didn't have plans, because they would have been ruined. I turned onto one of the main streets to find a giant parade! A gay pride parade—colors, cross dressing, it was basically Kinky Boots the musical but not $140 and I didn't find it insulting to my intelligence! A little farther down the road, I saw 3 groups giving simultaneous concerts. And a bit farther still, by what I can only assume is a famous statue, there was a gigantic outdoor movie theater that had been set up for the cinema festival! 

Bologna is a bit of a mystery to me. All I know is that they have the oldest European university, that there are two famous towers (Le due torri, one of which is pendente or leaning), and that one of my professors is from there and is extremely proud. Also, there's a kind of spaghetti that comes from here. Bolognese, ovviamente. Despite my lack of knowledge of Bologna's history and current status in Italy, being in Italy again after a month in Paris is a bit of a culture shock. In Paris, I feel quite comfortable. I really know the city, can navigate in and out of the métro, can wander around areas I don't know without getting lost, and I've been to every tourist site and know the literature, history, culture, and museums probably better than most Parisians do. But, Bologna, and any Italian city for that matter, are still new to me. Fortunately, my Italian is at that level which will allow me to figure things out. The taxi driver who brought me to the hotel from the airport couldn't believe my Italian—he said it sounded absolutely perfect, no accent, except that I talked a bit too precisely as though I were reading from a book. I told him part of what I did to learn was read tons of Calvino, so I guess that makes sense. 

Anyway, I also got a delicious dinner tonight—pumpkin ravioli in a balsamic sauce with salty bacon bits (that was my primo piatto, because pasta isn't a main course in Italy) and then breaded and fried veal alla bolognese (with a slice of prosciutto and cheese on top, that was my secondo). Then, an espresso. Instead of getting dessert there, I got gelato, and it might have been good enough to make me forget for a second that, were I in Paris today, I would have gotten Berthillon. Just kidding, it was delicious. Salted toffee! 

Oh, and my hotel room has a balcony and you can see the torri from it! Admittedly not the greatest view, but a view nonetheless! 

Au revoir Paris ! Bisous !

French people put spaces before exclamation points and question marks. Don't ask me why. I don't make the rules, I just follow them.

My last day in Paris consisted mostly in laundry, cleaning, and making sure I left Justine's apartment the way I found it. The only annoying part was that this morning, my jeans still weren't dry. They apparently take longer to line dry than everything else. Packing at 8am this morning, I had to wrap them in garbage bags and put them in my carryon, since I was sure wet jeans would really put me over my weight allotment for my checked baggage. If only that had been my only problem...but I'll get to that in a bit. 

I met the theater director at Princeton yesterday for a coffee, a nice promenade through the Opéra neighborhood, and a macaron. His name is Florent Masse, and the work he does with undergraduate students learning French at Princeton is so astounding that this year, I actually told him to sign me up too! That's right: next year, I will be in a French play. According to our conversation, that play will be Phèdre, what many consider to be the absolute perfection of the French language. Written by Jean Racine in the 17th century, Phèdre retells the ancient myth of Phædra, the daughter of Minos and Pasiphaë, cursed by the gods in a similar way that her mother was (Pasiphaë was cursed to fall in love with a bull, and actually gave birth to the Minotaur). Phèdre falls in love with her stepson, Hippolyte, but doesn't reveal her love until she is reasonably certain her husband, the king Thésée (Theseus), is dead. When she confesses her forbidden passion and learns it is unrequited (Hippolyte is in love with someone else), her husband conveniently returns. Then, all hell breaks loose. She tells her husband his son tried to seduce her, he invokes the wrath of Neptune to kill his own son, Phèdre's confidante Œnone drowns for no reason, and Phèdre poisons herself. It's a pretty standard plot for a tragedy. What's interesting is Racine's poetry. Written in French verses called "alexandrins" (12 syllables, rhyming couplets, with accents on beats 6 and 12, and certain rules governing where other less-important accents can lie, what words can end in vowels, what kind of rhymes can end each couplet), Phèdre's adherence to the rules of classical French drama (it also takes place in one day, one place, and only one action is accomplished—otherwise known as the rule of three unities) and French versification makes Shakespeare and his iambic pentameter seem a bit lazy. Back to my point, Florent told me one of the plays for this coming school year is Phèdre, and I immediately started reciting lines from it. It's one of my favorite French plays, and I even wrote part of one of my generals essays about it and a novel by Émile Zola (La Curée) which rewrites it in the 19th century amidst a changing city landscape. Florent, thrilled to hear that I'm already putting my memory to work on French theater (that was the reason he was so excited for me to be in one of his plays at all), said I'd make a great Œnone! So yay! I get to drown after giving very reasonable advice to a madwoman!! But don't worry—all characters die offstage. It's one of the rules. 

After meeting Florent, I met Mélanie and her Italian friend Andrea for drinks and a nice stroll around Les Halles (a happening night spot in Paris). Three nationalities, three languages, and we really confused the bartenders. Andrea didn't speak French, which is a bit unfortunate since he's here working, but we made do. I got home extremely late, and just knew I would be exhausted today. Except, for some reason I'm not. Maybe it's because Bologna is amazing! But that's another post for another time. In the meantime, here is a picture of my cocktail from last night. It's "à l'étage," which means it's layered. I had to mix it up before drinking it, but the picture is before I destroyed it's pretty rainbow structure!


Friday, June 28, 2013

Shopping with a "Parisienne"

I've never been one for style, but one of my goals for this trip to Paris was to buy one of those striped shirts they always wear. One day right when I had gotten here, Alix and I went to the Berthillon salon de thé, and I told her about that goal. She told me I was crazy, that it was just a stereotype, and that not EVERY French person has one of these shirts. Then we walked out of the building and three people on that street alone were wearing them. When Alice was here, I told her I wanted to buy one, and she actually gave me a very useful piece of information: these shirts have a name, and are called Marinières. So, armed with that fact, I went to a store that I had seen every day on the walk to my study abroad program. It's a store called Armor-Lux, and the sign is a Marinière. I figured it was a good place to start. 

So, I walked in and started looking. Unsure of the sizes, I picked up a 5, because that seemed reasonable. A woman came over and asked if I needed help, and then she started laughing when I showed her what I had picked. Apparently I'm a 3 at the absolute most, that a 5 is for fat people! I almost said that I was American so she would reconsider that sentence, but I was so thrilled she seemed to think that I was only a totally inept French person. She didn't attempt to speak English even once. Anyway, I tried on a 3 and a 2, and actually bought both because I really like them. This is not me being a francophile! I used to wear shirts like this all the time in middle/high school, but with a basic color and white stripes. The difference with the Marinière is that it's a white shirt with thin stripes of another color. I got blue and a maroon. One short sleeved and one 3/4 length. I will wear one today!! The 3/4 length sleeve one most likely, given this might be my last chance to wear that without sweating bullets this summer. I have a feeling it will be unbearably hot in Italy. 

After that, I went to Longchamp to buy purses for Americans. This was an ordeal!! Really. I didn't mention with the Marinières, but a few days ago, the "soldes" began. In Paris, possibly all of France even (they were in Avignon at the same time as well), there are two giant sales a year. And not just at certain stores, but EVERYWHERE. I got my mom a 300€ purse for 200€ if you want an example. Normal Longchamps weren't discounted. In any case, the store was a madhouse. There were tourists of every nationality being helped by salespeople speaking their own languages. It was so impressive. I saw a French saleswoman speaking Japanese. And a French salesman speaking Spanish. And of course they were all speaking English. 

Finally, last night I went shopping with Andréa after she got off from work. In case you don't know about Andréa, she is half French and half Portuguese, so totally bilingual with those two languages. Besides those, she speaks Spanish, Italian, and English. I don't think she'd say she speaks them perfectly, but I've chatted with her in English and Italian and I can vouch for them. I guess it's true that once you learn a fourth language, additional ones become easier. I really need to learn a new language next year! Well, we met at her favorite store, Mango. It's Spanish, like Zara. She was late (which I expected, being half French and all), so I already had a few things in my hands by the time she arrived. And after examining my findings, she told me I had good tastes!!

To explain how much of a compliment that is, think about your mental image of a Parisian woman, or a Parisienne as we'd call them here. Please, take the beret off. That is the only part of the stereotype that is wrong. Other than that, you should be picturing a tall, thin, dark-haired, stylish woman, with a scarf, nice dress, nice shoes, possibly the Marinière if she's dressing down that day, a cigarette, red wine. Well, this is a stereotype, can't be completely accurate. Andréa doesn't particularly like scarves. Sure, she has a bunch and wears them, but she tends to go without more often than most Parisiennes. She prefers white wine too. What can you do? Her tastes in clothes is otherwise impeccable, and I have NEVER seen her dressed anything less than exceptionally. So, when she told me my choices were good, I squealed for joy internally. 

Mango was even crazier than Longchamp. There was just mass chaos, and so many of the good things in the good sizes were already gone. The line for the dressing room was longer than the Berthillon line was yesterday to put things in perspective. Actually, there was no Berthillon line yesterday, also they recognized me and said: "Hey, weren't you just here yesterday? And the day before? Are you coming tomorrow??" Just in time for me to leave! Well, I ended up buying a really classy-looking navy blue dress with a belt to go with it, and a pink/orange shirt all for about 80€! I love the "soldes"! Especially since, to my American native English-speaking brain, it sounds like everything is already sold! 

After shopping, we headed over to Opéra to go to a fancy French café for a glass of wine. She said that way, we'd be really parisiennes. I should have taken a picture of this café, but I'm sure that real parisiennes aren't tourists. So I restrained myself. Eventually Jérôme met us and the spell was broken...we went to Indiana and got dinner. Clearly, he's not parisien. 

 

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Spoiled

I've had a few posts about Princeton students in Paris, but yesterday, I was forced to acknowledge how spoiled we are. Yes, this seems like an irrelevant blog post, but nothing particularly exciting happened yesterday, besides the fact that I got Berthillon ice cream and took a lot of buses and métros. I went to the French/Italian conversation table, and they were still talking about how I brought my flute last week! But, before any of that, I woke up and headed to a "milk café," otherwise known as an Internet café. Why they call it "milk" is beyond me, but the basic premise is this: they nickel and dime you to do everything that you can do for free if you are a Princeton student on campus. 

My bill:
3€ for 1/4 hour of Internet access. I figured that would be sufficient, but it wasn't. 
1€ for a Kinder candy bar
1,50€ for an Oasis tropical juice (my favorite!)
0,30€ per page for my printing...so
0,30€ x 118 pages (all that I could get the computer to print before my 3€ of time ran out) = 29,50€
5,90€ TVA

Total: 40,90€ ($52.76) to print my readings for the first 2.5 weeks of the Urbino program. Yes, that is insane. The craziest part is that I had asked the professor to send me the readings before June if possible, so I could print them in the US. He said he would try. We got them last week. I might just read the rest on my iPad, because I don't feel particularly inclined to spend another $50 or more to print the rest. 

At least my friend Alex back in Princeton gave me a wonderful idea for a snack here—apparently, there is butter you can buy with salt crystals in it, and he said the most delicious thing in the world is putting that on a freshly made baguette with a bit of jambon or saucisson if I feel so inclined. So, once I'm done with this post, that is my goal for the morning! I have laundry in the washer now, so I can't stray too far from the apartment anyway. 

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Three French Literature students from Princeton do Paris even better!

The reason I haven't written blog entries the past few days was because my friend Charlotte was visiting. She arrived on Sunday at around 4:00pm, and just left this afternoon. A bit of background: 

Charlotte was born in Lausanne (Switzerland), but moved to the US when she was young. So, French is her first language, but she switched to speaking English when she was pretty young. She's bilingual, though, no doubt about that. Her father still lives in Lausanne with her half-sisters, and her mom lives in Boston, so Charlotte spends her life traveling a triangle of Boston to Princeton to Lausanne. This summer, Princeton is paying for her to do a month-long German course in Zurich (she is dying to have a Swiss-german accent), which is in July. She came for June to spend time with her dad, and also took a side-trip to London for a few days. 

This trip was only about 48 hours long, but jam packed with stereotypically French behavior, aka we spent a lot of time in cafés having literary discussions over very small coffees. Espresso, I should say. In any case, before Charlotte got here, I had lunch with my friend Alice. Alice, for some background, was the daughter of one of the professors of the Avignon program I did last summer (not one of my professors—he taught an economics course, which I obviously steered clear of). She's 19 and just finished her first year of prépa, the preparatory classes the smartest French students do after high school to prepare them for direct admission into Grandes Écoles. Her goal is to go to the ENS here in Paris, which I wholeheartedly support because if she succeeds, she and I will be there at the same time (the year after next)! Anyway, she studies literature, so she is doing a prépa called the "hypokhâgne." Since she passed this year, next year will be called the "khâgne." It's a very strange, yet fancy way to say she is only studying "lettres"—literature, languages, philosophy, history. It's a background I am definitely envious of, considering it's absolutely necessary to study literature well; but the prépa itself sounds like a nightmare. During our lunch and subsequent Berthillon ice cream, she recounted stories that were reminiscent of certain parts of my study abroad courses, but worse. Professors who just try to shame students, extremely competitive classmates who write down all of the students' grades (since the mean profs read them all out loud, of course), and an impossible amount of reading and examinations that results in two years of stress with absolutely no extracurricular activities. 

Alice is doing her prépa in Lyon. Being from Avignon, she would have loved to explore it, but she said she really didn't have the time. Too much work. She knows the way from her apartment to the school and back, and she said she did have time to catch one or two movies this year! Since her name is Alice Alcaras, however they do the alphabetical order (by first or last name), her grades are read out loud first, which is a bit nerve-wracking. Plus, she is apparently in a bit of a bind, since the rest of her family are professors in economics, or students in things like sociology. Fortunately for her, studying literature or philosophy in France is prestigious, and if she succeeds, everyone will be very proud of her. But, it's also extremely difficult, and since the rest of her family did different prépas, she essentially has to adapt on her own. The biggest difference I noticed about her on Sunday was that she is talking MUCH more slowly. It's funny—when I met her, I noticed she talked extremely fast, but it didn't bother me because, let's face it, so do I! But, she's slowed down considerably since her professors criticize how fast she talks. The same thing has happened to me at Princeton. So, I guess higher education, no matter how different from country to country, has some common aspects. 

Back to Charlotte, who I met after Berthillon with Alice, she was staying with me, and besides, Macs had a prior engagement for his Sunday night (he had to bring ice cream to a bar tender—sounds like he had quite the night!). When she arrived, we headed back to the apartment where she admired Justine's tastes for a while. According to Charlotte, this is the PERFECT apartment, the one she would want if she lived in Paris, right down to the balcony and the books on the shelves. We wanted to buy breakfast stuff from a supermarket, but they were all closed (yes, on a Sunday at 5, because no one needs to buy food then!), so instead we headed to the Latin Quarter to get dinner. We went to one of Charlotte's favorite cafés from when she studied abroad here and had two very large croque-monsieurs (actually, her's was a croque-madame, so it had an egg on top) and some fries. A baby at the table next to us stole a lot of the fries, but we wouldn't have been able to finish them anyway. 

Our dinner. Oh, and I got a cocktail too! It was great until Charlotte kind of spilled it...

The fry baby is behind me in this picture. Cute, but will one day be a shoplifter. 

Monday, Charlotte and I met Macs in his neighborhood of Montparnasse, where we got coffee at a café. We got crêpes for lunch, since that's the best part of Montparnasse, at a crêperie that was literally right next door to where Mélanie and I went for dinner a few weeks ago! Then, we took a bus to Opéra because Charlotte wanted to see the ceiling of her favorite shopping mall, the Galéries Lafayette. 

Pas mal...not bad...

Then, Macs wanted to force Charlotte to take a tour of the Opéra Garnier, but it happened to be closed that day. He was very upset. So we sat at another café right across the street and had the most expensive espressos of our lives. 

Aren't Charlotte and Macs adorable in this photo? I'm the official department photographer—I take the BEST pictures of everyone! And we need one, since we're one of the best-looking departments at Princeton! Seriously though, professors in our department are constantly rated best-dressed and most attractive by the undergrads. And yes, people apparently care about that. I was once asked if we have a dress code. I said no, we just pride ourselves in our appearances. 

Charlotte and I had dinner at a restaurant Macs suggested since he had to eat with his host mother. This place was amazing, but hardly seemed French. The service was impersonal and fast, and they gave second helpings of food. They also barely spoke 3 sentences to us, but that's the way the whole restaurant experience is designed. All they serve is steak. You sit down, and they ask you how well you want it cooked. There are essentially three options: saignante (bloody), à point (perfectly), or bien cuite (well done). If you choose the third option, I can only imagine they scowl at you. Anyway, then they ask you if you want wine and if so, what kind. Then, they bring you a salad. Followed by your meat (with a side of fries). Then, once you finish, they bring you seconds. Then, if you want dessert, you can answer that question. If not, check. Fast, efficient, and delicious. A bit pricey, but for Paris, not really. 

Then, Macs found us at the restaurant and we headed to the Marais, to sit in cafés and drink wine since it was an appropriate hour to switch from coffee to wine. Ultimately, it was a very pleasant day. And what a refreshing turn of events to have a visitor in Paris who actually doesn't want to do the touristy stuff! Being a hostess has never been so easy!

Today, Charlotte and I met Macs for coffee in the morning, then he had to go write a paper and Charlotte and I went to Saint-Michel and got dessert crêpes. Then, we got more coffee at yet another café, and then she left around 4. So really, she was here almost EXACTLY 48 hours. And what a 48 hours they were! 





La machine du Moulin Rouge

Everyone has heard of the Moulin Rouge, one of the corniest tourist attractions in Paris that I usually avoid at all costs. But, on Saturday night, Mélanie and I went to a HUGE party in the basement of that building, called "la machine du Moulin Rouge" apparently. This was the party of the year, jam packed, you had to book your tickets in advance, and there was no scantily clad crazy lady with a riding crop denying people access even if they had registered. So, we got right in!

The party started very late, at 11:30, and it already felt like another day for me, given how off my schedule was. I had, if you remember, woken up extremely late that morning due to the fête de la musique from the night before, and seen a play with Macs at the Comédie Française. Mélanie and I met at the métro stop Blanche, right next to it in Montmartre, an overly touristy section of Paris prone to pickpocketing (three students in my tour of Montmartre when I studied abroad here were pickpocketed during the tour). But, at night, it becomes a burlesque party house, with lots of surrounding bars. People of all types show up, and this was apparently the biggest party of them all.

The entrance has a giant firetruck. Not sure why, but we took pictures with it!

Check out Mélanie's sorority pose (fun fact: when she studied abroad at Johns Hopkins, she joined a sorority!) 

The party had so many different rooms and levels, the bottom of which was "la machine," where there would be live music much, much later. Other levels were bars, lounges, dance floors, etc. At first, it was pretty comfortable—not a TON of people—but it soon became extremely crowded. 

The words are upside down, but you can tell it says "La Machine," right?

After quite a while, we noticed some strange music going on from the Machine room, and when we headed over there, we noticed there was a pretty complicated concert going on. The theme of the party was "Route 66" and I guess for French people that means quite simply: American music. The performers dressed up as a long line of the least-talented but most well-known celebrities—Lady Gaga, Katy Perry (I have no idea if I'm spelling that right), etc. Honestly, I was a bit insulted after a while, but the crowd seemed to enjoy it. Anyway, here are more pictures:





Saturday, June 22, 2013

Two French Literature PhD students from Princeton do Paris right!

After our disappointing fête de la musique experiences, Macs and I met up today and savored being in Paris in a much more classy and academic way. By that, I mean we caught a matinée performance of Molière's L'école des femmes, a 17th century comedy that the French theater director at Princeton actually put on last October. Both reasonably familiar with it (I believe it was on his generals lists too), we couldn't wait to see it performed by the Comédie Française and not by a bunch of American college students (though, to be fair, they put on an INCREDIBLE production). 

Well, after arriving an hour early to get our cheap student tickets (center orchestra—no big deal...), we headed across the street to get a coffee before the show. As we were discussing our disappointment in today's American ex-pats, we heard what I had expected to hear yesterday: a small string ensemble had assembled in the plaza in front of us and were playing Pachelbel and Beethoven. As we admired this amateur group, we noticed that they had an interesting audience member: a member of the Comédie Française. He was standing on the balcony of the building, watching him, and when he noticed we were watching him, he waved! 

Turns out, it was Thierry Hancisse, the actor playing Arnolphe, the main character in the play we were about to see! Little did we know, we were about to get a much better look at him during the play, because we would be sitting in row H! 

Overall, this afternoon more than made up for the disappointments of the fête de la musique, and I think Macs and I proved that Americans in Paris can be quite Parisian when we try. Though, we still feel obligated to apologize for our country from time to time. 


La fête de la musique

Apparently, the reason I was disappointed by the fête de la musique last summer in Avignon was not because I was in Avignon and not Paris, but rather because the fête de la musique is just disappointing in general. In fact, it was a lot better in Avignon, mostly because the weather was nicer and there were actually musicians playing on the street. Here in Paris, it was dark, cloudy, and ominously looked as though it were about to rain even though it never did. I walked from the BnF (not the fancy castle one) all the way to the Marais, and only saw one concert. That was at the Institut du monde arabe, and it wasn't anything amateur. It was incredible—a bunch of instruments I had never seen before, and the interplay between those traditional instruments and the guitars was really something special. But in the end, I didn't see much. I started to think that in Paris, the fête de la musique just meant that Parisians put giant speakers in their windows and played music for the street. I spent about 20 minutes standing across the street from a gelateria in the Marais listening to Italian music before finally deciding to head home. 

On my way, I heard someone say: "Natalie?" It took a second, but I finally realized it was addressed at me! It was Alix's middle brother, Jimmy, who also lives and studies in Paris, at Paris 7—Denis Diderot. That university is one of the better public French ones, located right down the street from the BnF. I'm surprised I ran into him there and not in the 13th! Anyway, he informed me that their friend Ali (who has been studying in England all year, but who was in Paris for a few years, where I had met her two summers ago) was visiting for the weekend and that I should come with him to their party in a friend's apartment. Well, the party was apparently a "power hour" with beer, which I don't like at all. But, I at least got to catch up with Alix's brother. Their family has a pretty epic story: they are the children of a navy veteran and a Japanese woman, all have Italian passports (because of their father's Italian roots), and live in Paris studying in French universities since with EU citizenship you don't need a visa. Alix came here in high school, and through such an intense immersion experience now speaks French with absolutely no accent at all. After finishing her lycée and baccalauréat, she just decided to stay in France and go to La Sorbonne instead of returning to the US. Given the incredible price difference between French universities and American ones, her parents probably didn't mind much paying for a Parisian apartment and airfare. In all honesty, it probably all cancels out. 

Anyway, so the rest of my fête de la musique was spent with this group of American ex-pats in Paris. Honestly, the majority of them are pretty disappointing. None of them seem to be writing the next great American novel, most don't speak French very well despite spending a lot more time in Paris than I ever have, and they sit around telling stories of the parties they've been to. When some of them asked what I was doing here and I gave my spiel about reading Victor Hugo's love letters, they were a bit confused what I was doing there with all of them. Good thing Alix's friend Yasmine was there—she's in her fifth year of med school, speaks four languages fluently, and generally makes me feel like an underachiever. The rest, the drunker they got, made fools of themselves, but it's okay, because I doubt anyone remembered exactly what happened this morning. Thankfully, otherwise they might have been embarrassed by all the German jokes they made to the German girl, the Irish jokes they made to the Irish guy, and other strange and insulting conversations they had throughout the night. 

The quai de la Seine by Notre-Dame was crowded beyond belief, the métro ran all night, and there were a few concerts around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. Macs had a similar experience, though he was all the way across the city in Montmartre. Wanting to go to an actual indoor concert, his American friend and her other ex-pat friends who were with them had other plans. He ended up spending the night talking to a girl who said the three sentences that most efficiently make him want to kill someone: 1) Why would you want to live in Paris? 2) Honestly, if someone handed me a free plane ticket back to Paris after I was back in the US, I'd turn it down. and finally 3) It must suck that you have to starve yourself to study French literature (which is just not true—Princeton pays us quite well!). 

Partying on the Seine? Eh...

Good thing I got Berthillon in the afternoon and ate it in a park by a castle. Otherwise, it would have been a wasted day...

Yeah, that's the stuff! 

Concert at the Institut du monde arabe ! Not very well attended, but it was still pretty early...



Friday, June 21, 2013

...et l'infini !

Yesterday's OuLiPo meeting was entitled "... et l'infini !" (...and the infinite!) It was a reference to last month's meeting, which was all about "Zéro." (you don't need a translation for that one, right?) For Michèle Audin (one of the oulipians who is actually a renowned mathematician!), zero and infinity are just two sides of the same coin. Since you can establish an equivalence relation between them using x and y where x=1/y, they're not exactly extremes, but rather more akin to cousins. 

One of the Oulipians recited a "pantoum" (an oriental poem popularized by Baudelaire in his "Harmonie du soir"), partly out loud, partly in silence. He got a lot of laughs when the camera man (who projects the oulipian who is currently talking onto the back screen) mistakenly put him on the screen instead of the oulipian who was actually talking. One Oulipian demonstrated how you could have a BD (comic strip) that goes on forever, all in one page. It dealt with infinite series, something one learns toward the end of 11th grade math, if I remember correctly. Very clever. Michèle Audin recited excerpts from her abridged autobiographical dictionary. Why a dictionary? Well, for her, a dictionary is potentially infinite! Yes, it makes sense. Just think about it for a second. And OuLiPo cares about the potential. I mean, that is the Po. Her dictionary started with Aleph (the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, which coincidentally is the symbol chosen by Cantor to denote countably infinite sets) and ended with Zéro. Coincidence? I think not! By the way, did I mention there are levels of infinity? I learned about it in my abstract algebra and topological analysis classes back at Hopkins. Cool stuff. OuLiPo apparently knows all about it too—I shouldn't have been surprised. 

But, I should mention the most surprising part of my night last night. I decided to take a bus back (there's one that goes basically straight back to where I live), and while waiting at the bus stop, I saw this written in a window of a huge building across the street: 

In case it's hard for you to read (it was certainly hard for me to read, and take a picture of), that says "Who is John Galt?" It is the first sentence in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, basically the LAST book you would imagine finding a reference to here in Paris. She was so pro-capitalist that sometimes you just want to throw her book out the window because it's too preachy. She would have laughed at modern-day Americans, jumping up and down screaming "I told you so!" about everything that's happening to the economy now, and then shot herself. And as for Europe, well, this is why she left to go to America. The saddest part was that she truly believed that by writing Atlas Shrugged, she could change what she saw as the inevitable course of American history. No one listened. But hey, someone put it up on a building in Paris! I'm glad I'm not the only person in Paris who has read Ayn Rand and has a sense of humor! 


Thursday, June 20, 2013

More Carnival of Venice, and my actual research

Last night, I set off in search of Lebanese sandwiches, with my flute so I could play the Carnival of Venice at the French/Italian conversation thing. Well, it started raining a few minutes after I got off the bus, and so I rushed to my Lebanese sandwich since my umbrella is kind of pathetic...I need to buy a new one, and given the way the sky looks right now, I should buy one today. 

Anyway, it was pouring while I ate my Lebanese sandwich, and since it was still pretty early for dinner here in France (only about 6:30), it was just me and the owner and a guy who works there, all of whom know me since I've been going there for so long. Well, when they noticed I had my flute, they asked me to play something, so I played the piece I've been memorizing for the past few weeks! People walking down the street actually stopped to listen. In the rain. Yes, apparently I sounded that good, or it was just that strange that in a Lebanese restaurant an American girl was playing an Italian song on her flute. 

Anyway, I decided to head over to Berthillon once the rain stopped and I got pineapple/basil and banana, both delicious, and I headed off to Châtelet where the conversation is. This involved walking over the river onto the right bank, through the Marais, and towards the center of the city. It also meant I passed by the Italian bookstore, where the nice old owner was standing outside smoking. He saw I had my flute and asked if I could come in and play The Carnival of Venice! No joke—I guess he remembered that I had told him my big goal for when I'm in Italy is to play it in Venice. He was VERY impressed. So yay! An Italian liked the way I played the Carnival of Venice!

Then, I left and headed over to the conversation in the bar, where I learned the bar tender is actually American. He's also a friend of one of the actors from Sister Act! He texted him to let him know an American who really knows her musicals enjoyed the show two nights ago. Then, when the others arrived, we had our French/Italian conversation (mostly Italian until the very end) and then the person who's in charge begged me to play...you guessed it...The Carnival of Venice! So, I did that and they all decided I was just too talented for my own good. In my defense, it was NOT my best performance of the day. Plus, I did it sitting down, with the music, one page at a time, and kept having to change them. It was a bit silly. I also played Syrinx by Debussy, which I have memorized and play really well, so that was at least better. 

This morning, I would have written all this. But when I woke up, David Bellos (my advisor at Princeton) had emailed me with a lead for the song "Ma Zétulbé vient régner sur mon âme" (a song from the Convent section of Les Misérables, but he's currently trying to find musical scores for ALL the music mentioned in the book, a task which I volunteered to help him carry out). So, this morning I had to read some music of an opera, look through all the parts, find this one aria, and then play it on my flute and send him the file. Yes, who knew that devoting all those years to my flute playing would indeed be useful for my doctorate in French literature?

Anyway, here are some pictures, not of me playing my flute!
Sainte Geneviève on the Pont de la Tournelle, watching over Paris as the skies cleared up. 

The Tour Saint Jacques was absolutely beautiful last night, with the full moon right behind it. 


Wednesday, June 19, 2013

French and Musicals

The recent blockbuster smash movie, Les Misérables, is based on the equally popular Broadway musical, which came from London (where it has been on the West End for over 25 years now...must be 28 now, since when I studied abroad in Paris three years ago, I saw the 25th anniversary edition). But what most people don't know or perhaps just don't realize, is that this musical as we know it was originally written in French. It was written by two French men, as a stage play with music (not as the operetta we know from the English version), supposed to run for 8 weeks in Paris. Well, it ran for 16, which was the biggest success French people could have expected for that lower art form, the musical. They were very pleased, and that was that. Then, a few years later, a revamped, translated version appeared in London, and was so wildly popular that after a few years, the French began to wonder what was wrong with their version. As an experiment, they translated the English version back into French (and I could say a lot more about that, but I won't here), and put it in the Théâtre Mogador, in the 9th arrondissement of Paris, right by the lovely Opéra Garnier. This version lasted even less time than the original run, and one of the complaints was that it looked too British. 

The French don't seem to like musicals. They politely chuckle when I tell them of my obsession, as though all the good qualities they had just inferred from how well I speak French have just disappeared, since I clearly have horrible tastes. For them, reading Victor Hugo and watching a musical are almost incompatible, it seems, even if that musical is Les Misérables. Except that the Théâtre Mogador shows musicals, and is currently the only theater in Paris (that I know of) that is exclusively for translated versions of musicals that are popular elsewhere. 

The stage at Mogador. Good thing that fat man was posing front and center. 

It shouldn't be surprising to the French that Mogador and its shows have a British feel: the theater was created by a British man, Sir Alfred Butt, who wanted to reproduce the feel of a London music hall. While a French architect carried out his goals, he seems to have remained true to this British intent. The original name of Mogador was the Palace Théâtre (the Palace Theater), but was renamed Mogador when the street was (Mogador is the old name of the Moroccan city Essaouira), and inaugurated by FDR in 1919, before he was the president of the USA. 

With such a history, it's not surprising that Mogador wouldn't show exclusively French musicals. Yes, there are a few. If Les Misérables doesn't qualify, another Victor Hugo-inspired show might, Notre-Dame de Paris, based on The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. But at its outset, Mogador mostly put on Ballet russes (Russian ballets) and musical afternoons accompanied by tea (les Thés Mogador). That was in the 20's, and in the 30's, someone named Mistinguett was successful there with his show: "Ça, c'est parisien." (That is Parisian). Since then, Mogador has been the venue for operettas, revues, and musicals. Hello Dolly even played there in 1969, when the director, Hélène Martini, revived (according to the French) the entire genre! 

In 2005, a group called Stage Entertainment bought the entire building, and has since been reasonably successful with its Broadway imports. The most successful was Le Roi lion, The Lion King, which opened in 2007 and didn't close until after I left Paris in 2010. I saw it twice in Paris (the second time was NOT my fault), bringing my grand total to 10. In 2010, after Le Roi lion, Mamma Mia took the stage, and while not as long-running, I bore witness to the Parisian reaction to this Hostess snack of a musical (that's what Ben Brantley called it), and it was shocking!! They loved it! I never would have guessed that a city full of overly-philosophical people who prefer complaining about little problems than actually doing anything to fix them would like such a trite, silly story accompanied by the less-than-brilliant Swedish pop music of ABBA. But they clapped during every poorly-translated song, and gave the show the longest standing ovation I have ever seen (and my grand total for Mamma Mia is 13!). 

Sister Act is the new musical, and it is closing on June 30th. It opened on September 20th, so it hasn't been a horribly unsuccessful run. I was a bit surprised when it was announced, because no matter how famous Whoopie Goldberg is, who would have thought her musical was the same caliber as The Lion King or Mamma Mia? Well, after seeing it, I can say that it isn't, but the crowd didn't seem to mind. They loved every corny and uplifting second, and it was pretty fun for me too, to see a musical all about convents given I came to Paris this time to study the convents in Les Misérables. Something tells me that, in a weird way, Hugo would have liked this musical. Already in the 19th century, he thought convents were an anachronism regardless of how useful they were in the past. Now in the 21st, he would be appalled to know they still exist, especially in America. And I think that he would have approved of the makeover they get in Sister Act. But he probably wouldn't have admitted it. 

Anyway, I went with Alix. We got 20 euro student tickets in first category seats!! Row K, a little off to the side. 

Yes, that's me about to go in through the Orchestre doors. 

Us in our seats. 

A picture from the program: "Sacrifice, obedience, and modesty... YOUPI!" 

Overall, it was a pleasant night, and I'll see anything for 20 euros! Extremely talented cast, enthusiastic crowd, and I will no longer accept when French people look disgusted when I tell them I've memorized 40 musicals. The two people in front of Alix and me in the theater were dancing during the show. Yes, during the show. Clearly, there are Parisians who like musicals, and you don't need to look hard to find them—just go to Mogador!

PS: There is an excellent macaron that they make at Pierre Hermé (my favorite macaron place) called the Mogador—it is a passionfruit cookie with dark chocolate cream. Delicious! 




Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Opening a French bank account, Episode 7 of a never-ending series

Just a recap of what you may have missed in this lovely program that might as well be a funny American sitcom: 

Episode 1: Natalie decides to open a French bank account. She arbitrarily chooses BNP, because it is only due to Bank of America's agreement with them that she doesn't currently pay a foreign transaction fee when she takes money out of French ATM's. Her reasons for wanting a French bank account are largely superficial—mostly, she wants the little chip on her card (la puce, in French) that will allow her to use the grand majority of French machines which don't accept American credit or debit cards. For instance, upon arriving at Roissy (Charles de Gaulle airport), she had to wait in a 30 minute line to get a ticket to Paris, because the grand majority of the machines only take coins, and ATM's generally don't give people 12 euros as 6, 2 euro coins so they can buy a ticket to Paris using the machines. This minor inconvenience, on its own, wouldn't be an issue, but this sort of occurrence happens so often, Natalie has just decided it would make sense to have a French bank account. 

So, currently in Avignon (this episode takes place last July), she heads to the nearest BNP and schedules an appointment. She can't schedule one for that day, or even for that week, so she makes it for the following week, as early as possible since she'll only be in France for another 5 weeks. 

Episode 2: Natalie finally has a meeting at the BNP. The lady is very nice, extremely complimentary of Natalie's French-speaking abilities, and so Natalie is even more inclined to open the account. Natalie comes prepared with a letter from her summer program assuring them she is indeed living in the CROUS (horrible French student apartments) like she says, but the lady tells her this isn't a legitimate "attestation de logement" and that she needs a signed paper by someone at the CROUS. Natalie has never had any contact with anyone at the CROUS directly, the director's room is always empty (she appears to be on a perpetual vacation). It was her program that dealt with all of that. So, they take all her other information, and Natalie begs them to send anything they might need to send her to her program address and NOT to the CROUS, seeing as her mailbox at the CROUS refuses to lock and anyone can just wrench it open and take her mail. 

Natalie goes back to her program and asks them to ask whoever might be responsible for attestations at the CROUS to get on that. The program says it is no problem. 

Episode 3: BNP calls Natalie on her French cell phone, 3 weeks later, to let her know that she can come pick up her new "carte bancaire." Instead of being relieved or excited at the prospect of finally having the puce, Natalie is extremely annoyed, because she is leaving Avignon at the end of the week and NEVER coming back. She runs to the BNP to find it closed for lunch. Yes, while her classes end at noon, that is precisely the moment BNP decides to take a two hour lunch break. She goes home, takes a nap, and returns. 

Sitting down with the woman, her personal bank advisor whom she will NEVER see again because she is leaving Avignon forever, Natalie is handed a blue card with a chip. A bit happier than before, she asks if she needs to give them a secret 4-digit code like she has in the US. They say she should have already received that by mail. She informs them that her program gives out the mail every day, and she hasn't received anything. She's also been waiting on a postcard from Venice that should have arrived at least 6 weeks ago, which she suspects will just never get there. The woman checked her computer and said it was mailed to the CROUS. Natalie, a bit annoyed, said she had asked them NOT to send things to the CROUS because the mail there was extremely unreliable. The woman, bright red, apologizes profusely and tells Natalie that she will put in a new order and it should arrive in 8 days (which could mean either a week or 8 literal days—you never know with the French...also, probably business days and not actually just one week). Natalie tells her YET AGAIN that she is leaving Avignon on Saturday, that she is NEVER coming back, and that how on earth is she going to use this account if she doesn't have the code? The woman apologizes over and over, and says she'll see if she can expedite it and get it there in only 5 days. Natalie leaves, knowing that is not good enough. 

Episode 4: Natalie goes to her program and tells the woman in charge of the mail that a letter will arrive from BNP most likely next week. She will be in Paris, and she really needs the letter, but there is no point forwarding it to her since it will take forever and she will be in Berlin by the time it would arrive in Paris. What she wanted the woman to do was simple: when the letter arrived, please open it, call Natalie on her French cell phone, read the 4-digit secret code and any other information that might be useful, and then throw the letter away. The woman says no problem.

Natalie leaves Avignon, goes to Paris, and is sitting in a café with Alix, Mélanie, Mélanie's boyfriend David, and Mélanie's friend Anne-Claire. Suddenly, Natalie's old host brother, Pierre, is just walking by and notices Natalie sitting there, his former host sister who he didn't even know was back in Europe. What a coincidence! He sits down with her and her friends and they start talking of Pierre's plans to become a priest. He was very catholic. Then, Mélanie and David announce they're engaged. Then, Natalie gets a phone call from the woman from her Avignon program with the secret code at long last. Of the three surprises, the last one was the most surprising. It really worked—she had a French bank account! Leaving the café, she goes to a BNP ATM, withdraws 50 euros from her American account and deposits that money back into the ATM, but into her French account. Then, she pays for dinner and is actually able to use the fancy little machine at the restaurant that the waiter brings to the table. She is satisfied, until she tries to use the card in the subway in Berlin three days later only to find that the German machine doesn't recognize the French chip. 

Episode 5: Natalie arrives in Paris this summer, and decides to go to the BNP to ask why she never received a 6-digit code for managing her account on the website. They apologize, and said it should have arrived by mail. They say they will immediately send a new one. Natalie tells them she opened the account in Avignon, but that she will never be there again, and that address is therefore useless. She tells them it is far more likely she will be in Paris. She gives them the address of Justine's apartment, and tells them she cannot get an attestation this month, the only month she will be in Paris. They say she doesn't need another one. That was just to open the account. The woman Natalie is speaking with is very nice, transfers everything to Paris, and says she can make an appointment for the 18th so that Natalie can meet her new Parisian bank adviser. Natalie thanks her politely and leaves. 

Episode 6: Natalie receives a letter from BNP that says the account has been successfully transferred to Paris, but nowhere in the letter can she find a 6-digit code for the Internet. She tries to go back to the BNP, but it is a Monday and they are apparently closed on Monday's. Screaming into the sky where someone is clearly enjoying the comedy, she wonders how does anything get done in this country???? 

She returns to the BNP the following day, shows the lady at the door the letter and asks her to show her which of the many numbers were the 6 digits she needed to manage her account on the website. The woman says that none of them are, checks on her computer, and says a 6-digit secret code was mailed to an address in Avignon. Natalie, instead of crying like she should have, chuckles politely and asks if it would be at all possible to get a new code mailed to her address in Paris. The one to which they sent this letter she just showed to her. The woman says yes, that it should arrive in 8 to 10 days. Natalie assumes she means business days, and is no longer sure if that includes Monday's. A quick calculation indicates it should indeed work, so she says yes, telling herself that if it doesn't arrive before she leaves, she will just close the account and explain to them that they are indeed just as annoying as most Americans think all French people are. 

Episode 7 (that is today): Natalie goes to her appointment with her new Parisian bank advisor who politely compliments her French. The flattery doesn't work on her anymore. Natalie calmly explains to the woman what an ordeal having this bank account has been. She tells her how, every time she wants to use it, she has to withdraw money from one account on the street (since there don't seem to be tons of ATM's INSIDE these banks), then deposit that cash into the French account. She would do a money transfer online, she insists, but since she cannot check her account balance online given her lack of a 6-digit secret code, she would prefer not to transfer any large amounts of money into the account. The woman apologizes profusely, and insists that she should have the code either today or tomorrow. By the end of the week at the absolute latest. She says Natalie will start being charged for the account at the end of July, so it is really in everybody's best interests that Natalie be able to put money into the account. She explains to Natalie that it is unlikely there will be a Bank of America approved bank in the small town where she is going in Italy (a town no French people seem to have heard of), and that Natalie will be happy to have a European bank account there where she won't have to deal with foreign transaction fees. She apologizes for all the inconveniences and says she looks forward to seeing Natalie on a regular basis when she spends her year abroad in Paris. Natalie asks why she would be seeing her on a regular basis, and she said that's the way French banks operate—in person, and not on the internet. 

French people seem awfully suspicious of the Internet. I'm glad they prefer to put their trust in their postal service and their bureaucrats. Look how far it's gotten me so far! Seriously, though—this would make an excellent sitcom! 

Monday, June 17, 2013

An American (burger) in Paris

This isn't very interesting, but I might as well write it now instead of tomorrow morning (I have a meeting at the BNP, my French bank, tomorrow morning bright and early). We all met up at an American restaurant Alix knows (Schwartz), near Trocadéro (where there's the best view of the Eiffel Tower). They have ENORMOUS hamburgers. I got mine with caramelized onions. Do we do that in the US? I wouldn't know, since I never eat burgers...anyway, it was huge. Halfway through, I gave up eating it like an American and started eating it like a French person, aka with a fork and knife. Then, since I decided the bread was a bit redundant when you aren't eating it with your hands, I just ate the meat, cheese, and onions. I'm a very bad American. We even told the waiter. And, the best part: in one dinner, I got to speak French, English, and Italian! Fun times!! 

The view of La tour Eiffel from Trocadéro!
  

Guidenapping

In Raymond Queneau's wonderful novel Zazie dans le métro (Zazie in the Métro) which I bought in Paris when I studied abroad here with the unique goal of reading it in the métro. Well, I did, and loved it, particularly for its kookiness. At one point in the novel, Zazie's uncle is giving Zazie a little speech about the Eiffel Tower and a group of tourists think he's a tour guide, and he accidentally carries out a successful "guidenapping" according to Queneau. He kidnaps the tourists and takes them on a tour of Paris, in which he continues to do just as he was doing with Zazie, mixing up various tourist attractions. 

Well, yesterday, I was sitting in one of my favorite parks outside of the Musée de Cluny (the Middle Ages museum) and noticed some Italian tourists desperately in need of help. So, I asked them in Italian if they needed help, and they immediately began asking me millions of questions about all the churches in the Latin Quarter. I recommended the Église Saint-Étienne-du-mont, and they asked me if I would mind showing them the way. I told them it was right behind the Panthéon, but apparently that didn't help, and I ended up taking them there. They begged me to come in with them and show them where Sainte Geneviève was (it's not hard to find—that's the main attraction there), so I did, then they asked me to take them to Saint-Germain-des-Près. Well, it was on my way (I was going to Grom, because the Berthillon line was just unbearably long...), so I agreed. They ended up taking pictures with me and giving me their Skype information. They said I should come to Rome and they'll return the favor and give me a tour! 

And that takes me to this morning. Well, I woke up to the sound of extremely violent sounding rain. Thunder and lightning outside. Also very hot. Basically, this is NOT my kind of weather. I might just stay inside until dinner. Either that, or I'll wait until it slows down a bit, so I can go outside and buy a new (not broken) umbrella, and then try to brave it. Actually, it looks like it's calming down now, but I'm doing laundry, and since laundry in Paris is quite the affair for me (it involves converting Celsius to Fahrenheit, using a drying rack, and worrying about the strange sounds the machine is making and why it sporadically stops working), I might just stay home today and read a book.

That was the end of the Berthillon line—around the corner from the actual shop. Yes, the line was about 3 times as long as it looks in this picture, and strangely enough, I actually decided it wasn't worth it when there was other good ice cream in the city. So I got a Sicilian granita from Grom, strawberry! 

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Tourists at the Comédie Française

While I'm not really a tourist, apparently Mélanie and I looked like tourists last night at the Comédie Française. But first, let me tell you about the trip there:

There was a really long wait for the bus 21 to get me to the Palais Royal Musée du Louvre métro stop (it's right next to the Comédie Française), and while waiting, an old man asked if I'd like to sit down, and I said no, it was good, I'm young, I can stand. He was really old. Typically, young people are supposed to give old people the seats (it says so in all public transportation vehicles). An old lady showed up, one who had waited at this very stop with me just the day before, and the old man stood up and gave her the seat. She looked at me, and asked if I'd like to sit down as well, because there was enough room. I said no, again. At this point, the old man (who was an Orthodox Jew, I might mention, and he was there with a daughter or granddaughter or something) came over to me and said that he just had to tell me, even though he didn't know me and would likely never see me again, that he could tell by looking at me that I was going to succeed and have a very happy life. I didn't know how to respond, so I said "merci," and he told me not to thank him. No one knows the future, he said, but I should thank God because he made it very obvious that I was blessed. At this point, everyone was staring, and wondering why I wasn't running away. I think he meant well...but all this he can tell from me not accepting a seat? 

The bus was super crowded, but I did finally get to the Palais Royal, where I waited for Mélanie to get there (she was a little late...but hey, French people tend to be exactly 15 minutes late for everything). At the square in front of the museum, there was a festival of Spanish music and people were playing strange oboes, and other people were dancing! I'd post a video, but it took so long before, I'd prefer not to. Eventually, I met Mélanie and we went into the Comédie Française (a gorgeous building) an hour before the performance to see about their last second discounts. We got 16 euro tickets in the front first balcony! Excellent, excellent seats—better than what CUPA got us as a group three years ago (we were basically in the very back of the last balcony). 

Just one picture of how beautiful this building is—a bit like the Richelieu site for BnF, which is conveniently a five minute walk away. 

As Mélanie and I were walking out of the theater with our great tickets in hand, looking to get a dessert or coffee or something, an usher came over and asked us where we were from. Mélanie said we were from there. He said, no, I can tell. I said I was American, and he politely complimented my French, then turned to Mélanie and asked her where she was from. She got a bit annoyed, and said she was French. I mean, she is. She really is. She's not from Paris, she's from a little town in the north called Villers-Pol, but she is French, lives in Paris, and doesn't have any sort of accent that I can hear. She studies at one of France's most prestigious Grandes écoles (Sciences Po) and she works for their Assemblée Nationale. She is basically as French as it gets, and to top it off, she was dressed like a true Parisian—all in black, everything she had on was made in France! 

So, to spite him, we went outside and took lots of touristy pictures in the garden! 

In case you can't tell, this is my Matilda pose! They should have won best musical, so I'm bringing them to Paris, one touristy picture at a time!

This guy is Marivaux! He writes cute plays that I've always enjoyed reading, but have never seen...

Mélanie with Voltaire. They're both French! 

Just one room in this amazing building!

The play was very strange, and I'm not sure I really understood it. From what I gathered, it took place in some Middle Eastern country, where the people in power all frequented a brothel a lot, and one guy got arrested with a prostitute, and to get him out of jail, his wife switched places with the prostitute in the prison so people would think he was caught with his wife and not with a prostitute. But her condition for doing this switch was that her husband should send her away, deny her, or basically just denounce her. Then, she went to the brothel and asked the prostitute the husband was caught with to teach her to be a Courtisane as well, and then all hell broke loose. To me, the play was trying a bit too hard to be politically and socially relevant—it was clearly a modern thing written to serve as a vessel to embody all the issues happening now, like gay marriage, the Middle East, political corruption, etc. Anyway, it was well done I suppose. 






Saturday, June 15, 2013

Faire la queue...encore

"Faire la queue" is a French expression that is used all the time for some of my favorite things. For instance, when I describe the Victor Hugo reading from Thursday night in French, I say: "On a fait la queue pendant une heure !!" (we waited in line for an hour!!) The one thing French people know about Berthillon is that "il faut faire la queue" (you need to wait in line), which is a major deterrent for them. Waiting in line is for tourists, or students who want free tickets, or seeing new exhibitions at a museum. It's not for ice cream, for dinner, for things you could do elsewhere without waiting in line.

Well, last night, Mélanie found a free party at the Opéra Garnier (where The Phantom of the Opera takes place), and we all signed up on line and when we got there, we had to "faire la queue." Finally, we got to the front of the line, and one of Mélanie's friends realized she didn't have her ID. She had her Navigo card for the métro, but nothing else. When we presented the lady at the entrance with our pièces d'identité, she said: "Sorry, we're not in the métro." Mélanie asked very politely if there was anything we could do—that her friend was indeed 18 (the drinking age in France...indeed, her friend was 24), that we were on the list, because we had already signed up online. The lady then looked at Mélanie's shoes and informed her that she wasn't wearing heels. Ombelline (another of Mélanie's friends) and I bought said that we were wearing heels, but mine were wedges, and that's différent. Anyway, we could see that the lady was not going to let us in. Mélanie directed her attention to the man next to her, and asked him why we couldn't get in when we were on the list, and he said that this insane yet well-dressed woman with the riding crop made the decisions, and then they checked the list. 

Well, French people are nothing if not good complainers! Mélanie and her friends went crazy, started insulting the lady furiously as we walked away, saying some of my favorite French expressions, like "ça m'énerve !" or "elle est chiante !" (that really pisses me off, or she's so annoying!) I said it really wasn't that big of a deal, that this free party wasn't even in the Opéra, but as we had just seen, was on the terrace right next to it outside of the restaurant, that you get what you pay for. They asked how I could possibly still like France after this. I really didn't understand why they were so upset as we walked through some of the most beautiful sections of the city on the way to plan B—the Australian bar (Café Oz). 

I guess the French don't deal well with rejection or disappointment. Probably something they should get used to. Clearly none of them have ever opened a bank account in this country. Anyway, here is a lovely picture of the Opéra Garnier at sundown, which as far as I'm concerned, was worth the price of admission (aka nothing: it was a free party). 


Friday, June 14, 2013

A literature reading at the ENS

To attend a reading of excerpts from Victor Hugo's extremely large and varied corpus at the ENS, you have to get there early. The theater is small, and can't hold everyone who would want to go! You may think I'm joking, but far from it. Last night, I got to the ENS half an hour early for this, and the line was already longer than the line for the women's bathroom at the Book of Mormon. After another half hour, the line was twice as long, winding precariously up the very long staircase (the theater is in the basement, just a bit past K-fêt, their crappy graduate student bar). Then, they had technical difficulties and made everyone wait on the staircase while they tried to get something prepared (God knows what...since all that was on stage besides the people speaking was a red sofa, a podium, and a little portable recording device)...another half hour!! 

Picture this, if you will. A possible American equivalent of this event. Instead of an actor from La Comédie Française reading Victor Hugo, explicated by Guy Rosa, famous university professor who has studied Victor Hugo extensively; how about, [insert famous stage actor here...unfortunately, aside from Broadway stars, I'm not sure there are any "famous" stage actors, since Broadway plays seem to make money by having film stars come act in their plays...anyway, we'll just say Meryl Streep] reading Emily Dickinson [no, this is not a good enough equivalent...but I don't know that there is an American author who was as universally well-known and prolific as Hugo] explicated by some Ivy League professor who has written a lot of books on Emily Dickinson, published new critical editions of her most famous works, and whose name people might actually know [and yes, I know that is impossible in the US, but French people know Guy Rosa's name]. Can you picture that? Really, try. It would be lovely if you could, don't you think? Then, if you actually succeeded in picturing that, picture 200 Americans lined up on a long staircase with nothing to keep them busy (the event being in a basement, there was no 3G service) during the hour-long wait to get into the theater, knowing all the while that there is a chance they could be turned away. 

Did you picture it? I can't. Maybe for a Taylor Swift or Lady Gaga concert, but even then, I think the lack of cell phone reception would be a remarkable deterrent from the whole thing. In any case, the event was marvelous! Enchanting! At least for a PhD student in French literature who is currently working on Victor Hugo. But the rest of the audience seemed as entranced as I was. Guy Rosa's comments were like a director, situating various excerpts of Hugo's most famous works to be read by the actor. The underlying theme tying these excerpts together was Hugo's voice, and therefore, all throughout, Rosa told anecdotes about Hugo's actual voice, the way he wrote, the way he read his works out loud. For instance, at one point, he made the comment that Hugo, unlike Flaubert, only read his works out loud to an audience, only read finished products out loud, and only read his own works out loud. It was something I was surprised to realize I had never thought about—Hugo's texts have such a strong narrative voice (or rather voices...there is always a plurality of narrators), that you don't find yourself wondering what his own voice would have sounded like. It's actually quite sad, that his voice is lost forever, even if his ideas can still speak through his texts. 

The line when I got there—it stretched into that room quite a bit. Behind me, when I took the picture, there were already at least 50 people stretching up that staircase. 
  

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Random pleasures

Today was a pretty funny day because of little things. I'm not going to write much, because it's rather late, but here are some cute moments that only seem to happen in Paris. 

1) In the bus this morning, I heard two little French children (a boy and a girl) discussing Astérix (the French comic book). They were talking about that, then the boy decided to pretend he was asleep. The girl asked "c'est quoi dormir?" (what is it to sleep?). Deep, philosophical question, right? The boy responded: "c'est un verbe" (it's a verb). Excellent response. She then responded: "C'est quoi un verbe?" (what's a verb?) and he responded "c'est un truc grammatical" (it's a grammatical thing). This conversation went on for a while, and entertained me to no end! 

2) A girl actually said "bisous ciao" when finishing a phone conversation! I was pleased at my blog title. 

3) I got Berthillon, went to my favorite garden to check my emails with the free wifi, and had an email from my friend Liliane (who lives in Paris but is currently in Spain). In the email, she mentioned that she hopes I'm not eating too much Berthillon. I finished my cone with two scoops (sésame noir and noix de coco) and then emailed her back that it depends on her definition of "too much." If she thinks that eating Berthillon 5 times a week is "trop," then I guess I am eating "too much." 

4) Tonight, I went to an Italian/French polyglot party! It's a sort of conversation table, super fun, and you're not allowed to speak your native language! It's for enthusiasts who want to learn new languages. This particular one on Wednesday nights is for French people who are learning Italian and Italians who are learning French. And me. Fortunately for them, I've been well trained not to speak my native language when speaking to French people in Paris. No one understands me anyway. I wanted to speak Italian, and boy was this an ego boost. These people thought I was the most amazing person in the world!! It was essentially two hours of: wait, so you got a triple major, play the flute, do math, speak three languages, have only been studying Italian for under two years, are getting a doctorate at Princeton, are so young, know all these Italian pop songs, have memorized 40 musicals, etc. I don't know why they thought that was impressive. I mean, I think it's awesome that they live in Paris, but do I go on and on about it for two hours? No! Oh well, good practice for my Italian. One lady brought her guitar, and we all sang Italian pop songs! Good thing I took the class on Italian pop music the first semester this year! Simone Marchesi would have been proud (in fact, I should email him and let him know)!