Fully Equipped Marais

I live above a teddy bear shop.  A teddy bear shop, and Paule Ka.  Welcome to the Marais, where nothing makes since, and everything clashes beautifully.  I have now moved into my new home here in the 4eme arrondissement of Paris, and though I love the neighborhood, the apartment itself is, how shall I put this nicely, a fixer-upper.  There is nothing on the walls besides a full-length mirror turned sideways, the lightbulb covers are-- wait for it-- DaVinci's Vitruvian Man (c'est de la classe, ca, non?), and I am pretty convinced that if I step on several of the floorboards I will fall right through to the ground floor. Oh, and the toilet is electric, but I won't go into that except to say that, as a friend so kindly pointed out, if the electricity goes out, I can't use the bathroom.  BUT, the apartment is about the size of a hotel room, and is on the 1ere etage (2nd american floor), which is a huge improvement from my place two years ago (9m2, anyone? 7th floor no elevator?).  So, I am taking it on as a project.  Really, I have nothing better to do for the next few weeks.  But I would first like to make a short inventory of what came with this lovely, fully equipped apartment:

1 set of shelves

1 full-length mirror (turned sideways, which sort of defeats the purpose)

2 pots

1 very small pan

2 forks

1 knife 

5 spoons

8 plates

1 bowl 

6 towels

1 tiny marble table that barely fits my laptop

2 chairs (though the table can't actually fit 2 people)

1 tv almost at ceiling level

1 working shutter

1 broken shutter

1 bed

So, as you can see, there's beaucoup de work to be done.  Thus far I have bought a night stand, moved the shelves, re-positioned the mirror, put up some wall-hangings, thoroughly washed EVERYTHING, and at some point I will find a few more bowls, and a complete set of silverware.  Prospects look good.  One thing I can't change, unfortunately, is the 6am  trash truck.  On the dot. Every morning.  And evidently, it takes a full 10-15 minutes to empty the trash cans on my corner.  Interesting.

However, I should not like to be labeled an ingrate, or be accused of taking for granted the fact that I'm living in Paris, so I shall now talk about the good things.  For example, this fabulous neighborhood.  And It's fabulous.  The kind of fabulous where you flick your wrist, shrug your shoulders forward, and roll your eyes upward.  Dah-ling.  Everyone is beautiful.  Everyone is hip.  History: The Marais is the oldest part of Paris.  It was home to dukes, lords, and kings, and fortunately a lot of that old architecture, along with several ex-royal residences, is still intact.  The word "marais", however, means "marsh," so it's no surprise that, after a while, the rich kids moved out.  In the early 20th century, it became the Jewish quarter, but then WWII and Hitler came along, and it was empty once again.  In the past few decades, it has been revived by the stylish, the up-and-coming designers, and (thus), the gays.  The Jewish influence and community still makes its home here, however, so in a typical neighborhood stroll, one sees trendy, expensive boutiques, the best falafel in the city, lots of gay nightclubs, and lots of Jewish bakeries.  Hunched old men in black suits, hats, and earlocks walk next to young, hip, flamboyantly gay men holding hands.  I love it.

Welcome to the Marais.

Umbrella-ella-ella

I bought a new umbrella last week.  It wasn't in the market for one or anything, but I found myself in Den Bourse with R’s mom on a very rainy Monday, sans waterproofment.  So I ducked into a HEMA, which is sort of like a smaller, crappier version of Monoprix or Wal-Mart, and headed for the accessories section.  There were a few styles to choose from, but, my eye went directly to the black and white polka-dotted one with the ruffle along the edge (and obviously, the most expensive one).  I don’t know why I was so drawn to it—I’m definitely not a frilly person—but I just knew it was mine.  The plain, compact umbrellas just would not suffice.

I’ve always carried the ubiquitous black, compactable umbrella.   Not because I’m boring or unimaginative, but because the majority of my umbrella usage has been in Paris, where I do my darndest every day not to stand out or in any way scream LOOK-AT-ME-I’M-AN-AMERICAN!  And I always figured a brightly colored or patterned umbrella would be an immediate give-away.  But lately I’ve been drifting more and more toward the idea of an umbrella as a fashion accessory.  Seasonal, of course.  There is also the most lovely umbrella and parasol shop on the Boulevard St. Michele.  Now, normally I avoid the Boul’ Mich like the plague, but sometimes I just find myself there, amidst the hordes of pushy tourists, in front of this shop, drooling.  If I had one of their umbrellas I’d hang it prominently (yet nonchalantly, bien sur) in my front hallway.  If I could afford a parasol I’d find every excuse on earth for a picnic, and other times just lie under its shade, on the grass, and read a book.  Oscar Wilde, if I were feeling particularly cliché.

Anyhow, I am most pleased with my new umbrella.  It might not be one of the couture ones from the Paris shop, but for now it makes me smile, and makes walking in the rain just a little more bearable.

Tea or Coffee?

Facebook has reminded me that it is back-to-school season.  Summer is drawing to a close (unless you're in TX, in which case you have a good 3 months left), and the season of lunch boxes and alarm clocks looms before us.  I have noticed this because about half of my facebook friends are teachers, and have "kiddos coming soon!" or "decorating the classroom!" or "preparing for the first day of school" as their current status.  It's cute.  Ah, the first day of school.  What will I wear? Who will I have lunch with? Will the teachers/professors mispronounce my name yet again?  It's such a defining day.  So judgmental.  It starts in elementary school,  with the cool vs. uncool lunchboxes.  Soon it's onto to fashionable scrunchies and the number of slap-bracelets you can fit on your wrists.  Next, it's what uniform you're wearing: band? cheerleader? soccer? drama? church?  We like to think it stops in college, but really it has just evolved into where one sits in the classroom.  Back of the class: slacker, or quiet straight-A observer? Front of the class: teachers' pet, easily distracted, or near-sighted?  Middle: shy and blending in, or debating with the whole room?  I myself am a second-row gal.  I like to be in the action, but not too close.  You sit in that first row and you're bound to be used as an example, called on randomly, etc.  I use the first row as a buffer.  In grad school, however, there are no uniforms, people go to cafes for lunch, and the classrooms are set up round-table-style (at mine, at least).  So the question is, 3 weeks from now, as I walk into my first first day of school in 3 years, how will I define myself?  

I was telling R about this last night, in yet another effort to force American cultural insights on him, when the discussion moved to Dutch schools vs. American schools.  Now, usually I win this one, as I had a relatively good experience, and R a relatively bad one, but this time he got me.  Mid-discussion, he nonchalantly mentioned that, during "long" final exams (and by long he means 2 hours. huh.), the students are served coffee or tea.  Served.  WHAT??!!  Apparently there is a little sign on each desk that says "coffee" on one side and "tea" on the other, and you turn it to your preference so that halfway through, someone can walk by and pour you fresh hot coffee or tea.  Now, I understand that in American university finals we are permitted to (usually) bring along a venti-double-shot-with-whip-sugar-free-carmel-non-fat-sprinkles-extra-hot machiato, or some sort of respectable coffee (Blue Bottle? My San Franciscans...) that probably tastes loads better than the coffee these schools probably serve, but it's the principle of the thing.  The principle being why don't we do that??  It's a brilliant idea, and why aren't we adopting it?  In high school a few teachers would give out those little red-and-white peppermints before a test because supposedly they stimulate the brain, which is lovely, and I'm certainly not one to turn down candy, but wouldn't a mid-exam caffeine boost be much more effective?  

Now, I tend to be rather smug about the American university system.  Not because I think our universities are necessarily "better" academically (often they aren't), but because I believe it's important to take classes in a range of subjects before choosing a major, and in neither France nor The Netherlands can a student do that.  Nor can a pre-med major take a literature class, a business major take a music class, etc.  At a mere 15 or 16 years old, without knowing what they actually like or who they are, each student must choose his or her path in life, and once chosen, it's next to impossible to switch.  I find this absolutely horrifying.  Perhaps it's because I myself changed majors twice, but I still think I'm right on this one.  

Anyway, my smugness was somewhat shot off its chair with this coffee/tea discovery.  And I am sad.

Monsters in the Basement

There are monsters in the basement.  Well, maybe not monsters, but there is definitely a resident of some kind.  There is a long hall of numbered storage rooms under our building that correspond to the apartments above, and every time I walk down that hall to get my bike out of ours, I hear music or voices or some big ruckus.  I can't quite pinpoint behind which door the mystery tenant lies, and I doubt I'll ever find out, (since I'll be moving out in just a few days) but that doesn't stop me from walking quietly and straining both my ears and my imagination.  Might it be the estranged son or daughter of a tenant?  Or a homeless person who found an unlocked window and a radio?  I like to think it's a monster, or the boogeyman, but perhaps that's just because I never really went through that monster-under-the-bed phase of childhood.

But speaking of bikes, I feel I should give a progress report.  I am improving!  Not only am I feeling much more comfortable getting on and off my bike, but excepting a rather embarrassing mid-intersection wipeout with R's mom the other day, I have managed to go to gym (ha!), the train station, R's parents' house, and the town centre (yes I know I'm not british, but in the case of town centre/er, "re" just looks better), without falling or in any way humiliating myself.  I am quite proud.  

I am also rather proud of my developing skills in domesticity.  Since moving into this apartment, I have cooked a number full, nutritious (and some not so nutritious) meals for two.  Nothing has burned (sauf some toast I forgot in the broiler), turkey jerky has not made an appearance (for those of you who know me well...), and I have not, I repeat, have not, resorted to pasta.  Victory!  Since I have next to nothing to do while R is at work all day, I often find myself looking at foodnetwork.com, as well as various food blogs.  Chocolate&Zucchini is one of my favorites.  Interesting recipes, Paris commentary, and measurements in grams and milliliters.  I have five more days here, and then it's off to an oven-less apartment in Paris, so I'm going to try and bake as much as possible before I leave.  Tonight, for example, I shall try the toffee crunch caramel cheesecake.

Popsicles Strictly Forbidden

Interesting place, Copenhagen.  This is the first time I’ve been here when it hasn’t been wintertime, which means basically that this is my first time to actually see the city (because you can really only see so much between the hours of 10 and 3).  So far I like it, but it keeps surprising me with odd little touches.  For example, I noticed on the bus ride home today that they have added something to the typical “no food or drink” pictures of a coke and a pizza slice with a slash through the middle:  a popsicle.  So, for those of you who find yourselves enjoying such a treat as the bus arrives, and think, “hm, well it’s not technically a food, and it’s not technically a drink,” you may not take your popsicle on the Copenhagen buses.

Yesterday my sister and I were enjoying a hot chocolate in a lively square, discussing how Danish culture had changed in the last 20 years, and how remarkable it was that European cultures, for being so close together, varied so widely, when the subject of the Dutch “soft ice” came up.  I explained what it was, and how I found it rather unappetizing, and she said that, in fact, the Danes had “soft ice” as well.  She said that, while she hadn’t had it in a quite a while, it sounded very similar to what I had described.  Worried that this trend was not simply a Dutch oddity but was in fact pan-European (or at least threatening to be), I decided to investigate.  So this afternoon, on my walk through tourist central (which has some unpronounceable name that looks like Fredericksburg) I tried it.  Good news!  First of all, you can have it completely dunked in either cocoa powder or little chocolate bits, which would, in my opinion, make even the Dutch soft ice bearable.  Second of all (and most importantly) it is not frozen whipped cream.  It’s not really soft serve either, so I’m not really sure what the heck it is, but it’s not bad.  Especially if you get it in the chocolate-dipped cone.  So tonight I will sleep, worry-free.

I’m trying to figure out what’s different about Copenhagen.  I’ve been to several European capitals and major cities, and for some reason this one strikes me as different… but I cannot for the life of me put my finger on why.  First I thought it was because I hadn’t seen any tourists.  But today I was in tourist central and something still felt different.  I thought perhaps it was quieter than other cities, but again, today nipped that theory in the bud.  People are outside, sitting at cafes, riding bikes, enduring the hordes of tourists, just like any other city.  Are the Danes just quieter, and I’m accustomed to louder cultures?  No, the French are pretty soft-spoken (in general, I mean).  But something sets Copenhagen apart, for me at least, and I have 3 days left to figure out what it is.

 

 

Dark Knight

The other day I convinced R to go see Dark Knight with me, and boy was I in for a cultural surprise.  Who would have thought that a cinema experience, so simple and so classic, could be so different (and at times awkward).  First of all, you make a reservation by phone, which I must admit is a good idea, but now that I think of it is just another version of buying a ticket online.  Second, tickets aren't general admission, you're assigned a row.  You are at full liberty, once inside the theater, to choose a little to the left, or a tad to the right, but really, you don't actually get to choose your seat.  R insists that this is a more efficient way to sell out a movie, because filling each row before moving to the next insures they can sell every ticket, sans i-can't-find-a-seat drama.  It's very orderly.  Very dutch.  I argue, however, that not only does such a strategy insure a sardine-like movie experience, but that it is entirely possible for a cinema to sell out a movie simply by knowing how many seats exist in the particular cinema room and selling that number.  Leave the seat battle to the movie-goers.  And besides, as an american not quite yet back into euro-mode, I like the right to my seat based on pure whim and fancy. 

Next, there is an intermission, or "pauze" about halfway through the movie.  Now, I hear that this used to be common practice in the US, as my mom likes to reminisce about seeing Gone With The Wind, and how the intermission was at that ultimate moment of drama when Rhett Butler leaves Scarlett O'Hara (or something like that; i haven't seen it in several years).  But I myself have never been to a movie with an intermission.  Use the restroom beforehand, don't drink too much coke, and stick it out.  Well here in dutchland the movie intermission is still going strong.  And it's an ingenious way for the cinema to make a whole lot of extra money, as everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY, returns with either a snack or a drink or both.  R and I declined, as we both resent the absurd price-gauging, but both regretted it when the movie started back up and the smell of chili chips wafted through the air.

Last but not least, there is beer.  And I understand that this is normal for just about everybody but americans, but I still find it funny, and I also find it rather difficult to explain to europeans just why it would be frowned upon and illegal in my country.

Such was my first dutch movie experience.  Next time I will take snacks, and not spend my time in line debating where exactly I would like to sit.  And perhaps I shall even have a beer.

Oh, and the movie was fantastic.  Heath Ledger is superbly creepy as The Joker.

Why is my blog site in Dutch?

So this morning I went to my blog to write a long-overdue 2nd post, when, lo and behold, it's all in dutch!  Not my post, of course, but all the "sign out" and "create blog" and "view" and "flag" buttons/directions, etc.  And as I've only done this once, I don't automatically know where all the buttons-- most importantly the "new post" one-- are on the page.  So I just started clicking them, one by one, to see what happened.  Pretty sure I flagged it, too, which I think is what you do for kiddy-porn sights and i-want-to-murder-my-family sights... ah well.  Me and the crazies.  Anyway, I did eventually stumble upon the right button.

So here I am in the Netherlands.  I'm not going to lie, it was REALLY hard to leave Austin.  Even to come to Europe.  My hesitation was also not helped by the fact that every time I talked to R he said it was raining.  Leave sun and warm weather and outdoor living to sit around inside while it rained?  The flight was its usual hell, but eventually we landed in Amsterdam and I piled all 18000 lbs of luggage on my cart and rolled out of there.  Thankfully R met me at the airport, because I don't know how on earth I would have transported all that luggage around.  One interesting thing I noticed was that, waiting at my gate in Chicago, I heard NO dutch.  None.  They didn't even repeat loud-speaker boarding announcements in Dutch.  I mean, I know the Dutch all speak fluent english and everything, but I would think they'd do it at least as a courtesy.  

I've been here in Ede (R's town) for about a week and a half, and so far we've been to Arnhem (a sort of college town), Wageningen (the cute neighboring town with a gorgeous public garden for sunning and reading), a beach at The Hague (den Haag), and Amsterdam (always fascinating).  The Hague beach was super-crowded and sort of boardwalk-ish, with a whole line of kitschy souvenir shops, and then in front of that (right on the sand) a whole, uninterrupted line of beach cafes and lounges.  No toplessness or speedos, like on the Mediterranean (R says that only show-off muscle men and gay guys wear speedos here), but my secret hope of sipping a large frozen umbrella-infused drink while a man in a striped shirt and a foreign accent adjusted my large blue shade umbrella was pretty much killed.  *sigh*  I did, however, have a half-decent mojito and a pretty good capirinha (which is very hard to spell) at one of the lounge cafes.  

I should also mention that ice cream here is weird.  Some stands offer normal stuff, but most commonly seen is this white "soft ice" which I mistakenly assumed was like the american soft serve.  I kept seeing it everywhere, and it just looks so pretty and sophisticated, so I finally tried it.  It's basically, um, frozen whipped cream.  No flavors, just... frozen... whipped cream.  In a cone.  It's weird.

Bonjour, y'all!

Well here we go.  My first blog experience.  As I'm moving to Paris (yet again) I've decided to start a blog to keep my family and friends updated.  Give y'all a small taste of what I'm up to in the City of Lights/Gay Paree/Frogsville/whatever you may call it.  Now, I'm not a writer, so these entries won't be super-creative or "good" or anything.  Just a heads up.

I leave Austin in 3 days (holy crepe!), and though I like to tell everyone I'm running around packing, well, let's face it, I'm sitting around soaking up sun (I swear I'm not sunburned!... anymore) and warmth on my back porch, and taking tennis lessons.  Tennis, you ask?  Yes, I've decided to take up tennis.  I figure 1) it's generally a useful sport to know, 2) stupid knee still not letting me run very far, and 3) Paris is just about the tennis-craziest city in the world (ironic, since its rather anti-exercise), so I'll fit right in and hopefully make some (french!) friends.  I had my first lesson yesterday, and discovered that, though I suck, it is a most excellent stress-reliever.  Whacking that ball (when I don't whiff and spin around in a circle) is unbelievably satisfying.  So my plan is, after each and every attempt to aller chercher my carte de sejour (residence permit), open a bank account, or take on the french bureaucracy in any way shape or form, I shall take to the courts.  

Pre-Paris, however, (until September) I'll be in The Netherlands with Rick.  So if you read an entry and wonder why I keep talking about tulips, wooden shoes, windmills, etc., that's why.  Ha, just kidding, the Dutch always roll their eyes when any of those three are mentioned.