epilogue . . .

(Je suis très désolé for disappearing without a proper au revoir. Between my re-entry into American civilization and my knee surgery, time has flown by too fast, but I wanted to send you a final farewell.)

I am home now. Well . . . let me rephrase, I am back in Boulder, renting a room from a friend long enough to figure out where “home” will be next. Leaving Paris was a bittersweet departure and the pull to make a home there is strong.

I am sorry I did not write as often in May as I did in March and April --- but there is a very simple explanation. Paris was becoming less of a vacation spot and becoming more of my “home” – and don’t you find life is always busier at home than at the beach house? I filled every minute of my last two week’s in Paris hanging out with my new friends. This is not to imply that I had forgotten my newly learned lessons of taking life more slowly, less seriously and taking time to immerse in the day and the beautiful surroundings . . . but somehow I managed to book every minute even seconds to spend with friends and soaking in every piece of Paris I could.

During those last two weeks a parallel feeling started to emerge – the excitement of returning to the States. Up until then, I was seriously wondering if I should stay in Paris and postpone my departure for months if not years. I could envision this city as my new residence. I was ready to embrace the language and adopt the culture, and I felt like the Parisians were starting to adopt me as well.

But as my departure date became real, the nervous excitement of returning to Boulder grew stronger until my trip home became all I could think about. Nearly having to forgo my first class seat, I was able to do a last minute ticket exchange and fly in one day earlier to surprise my friends.

I wasn’t even on home soil when the culture shock hit. On the 2nd leg of my flight, London to DC, I experienced everything wrong with the US in the first 5 minutes. Sitting in my first class seat (whew – turns out I did not have to sacrifice this one saving grace – and yes I am a snob when it comes to flying, but that’s my only fault, really!), I watched as the economy passengers arrived in their order of rank. First (because of their Premier entitlement) came the implosion of men dressed in full suits, somehow replying in full speed to emails on their Blackberry’s while carrying their briefcase in the same hand and their overnight garment bag in the other. Only having a garment bag on an international flight is a feat in and of itself – but the clicking of their 10 little fingers typing on Blackberry’s was so overwhelming I was too distracted to put any thought into how an appropriate international wardrobe fits into a small garment bag.

Next came the families – (the ones who need a “little” extra time getting settled - as the check-in agents describe them). They came in full force treading down the aisles, with their thick, loud American accents and international memorabilia. I come from a long line of Southern accents, so really I don’t mind them normally, honest --- but after three months of bonjours and s’il vous plaits, the “y’alls” and “all y’alls” at ear piercing decibels was too much.

And the fashion crisis! These were the folks that came to Paris in their baseball caps and now they are leaving with blinking Eiffel tower T-shirts. I accidentally had my foot partially in the aisle and before I could move it I was run over by Papa Tourist’s rolly bag, then Mama Tourist’s rolly bag and then three little Baby Tourists with their infant sized rollies in the shape of red and yellow teddy bears.

The last group to board the plane were the valley girls. You know the girls (and guys) that come over on Spring Break to soak in European culture (even though we know their parents just wanted them out of the house). Somehow I have a hard time believing they noticed much more than the opposite sex in their stoned and wasted moments. Even though they travel in packs and are standing two feet a part from each other --- they have to talk via their cell phones screaming in their like oh my god gag me with a spoon accents --- as I curled up into a little ball in my seat with a pillow over my head. I tried so hard to block out the sounds but the gum chewing noises passing by me put me over the edge. Everyone knows about my recurring nightmare of sitting in the Seahawks stadium, capacity of 60,000, with people chewing their gum and making mouth noises. I know – it’s a slightly neurotic phobia, but honestly chewing noises are unbearable.

The final straw came on the third leg from DC to Denver. It was the same cast of characters, but now that we were actually originating from the States, I noticed a strange phenomenon. Two-thirds of the passengers boarded with their own food and drink. And not just any drink. They had C.O.U.S’s. Cups of Unusual Size. As they waddled down the aisle I thought I saw the words Big Gulp, but as they got closer I realized it actually said “X-treme Gulp – Holds 52 ounces”. Not knowing how to react to a 52 ounce drink, I just sat in my seat, clicked my heels and said, there is no place like Paris, there is no place like Paris.

So there you have it – I was not even home and I had been culture shocked right back into to praying for 180 back to Paris.

But after 16 hours of travel, I walked in to Cathy’s house and walked back into the lives of my dearest friends. It was remarkable --- immediately seeing Tom and Tracie, having Baby Ruth (no longer a baby) cling to me in a bear hug for hours, having Mary jump and down ecstatically, Marcy with tears in her eyes, seeing Eric’s smile, hellos from Cathy, Parry, Freddy, Molly, Doug and so on and so on and so on. It was then I knew I have something so special here and it was worth every squashed toe, chewing gum nightmares and my new phobia of big gulps.

I look back at Paris now, and the friendships I have in Boulder were the types of friendships that were starting to form in those last few weeks of Paris. I long to see Stephanie (someone I wish I could have brought back in my suitcase), Gitte (no one can make me laugh harder), Alex (for his companionship) and Fabrice (for his coolness). Jon, Melanie, Sam and on and on .

So am I pulled between worlds? Not really. I miss Paris. I miss the metro. I miss the new friendships. I miss the language. Conversely, here in Boulder Freddy and Marcy have left. Tom, Tracie, Ruth (and now Maggie) are leaving. Mary (2nd highest MCAT scorer in the world) is off to med school. I still have some amazing friends here and make new ones everyday, but of course nothing stays the same.

I had my epiphany in Paris. Not the one I thought I would have – but a better one. Rather than figuring out what my next career path would be, I realized that I really need to let go – get rid of all of my “uptightness, anxiety, etc” and enjoy every moment and sacrifice nothing when it comes to exploring life.

I learned so much about world culture, politics, to stand for what you believe, a new found respectfulness and most importantly to Be Open (thank you Fabrice for explaining what open really means).

Now I just need to figure out where to apply those skills next. Paris and Boulder are neck and neck, but with the whole world to choose from I think this decision is going to take awhile. So for now I will say au revoir. Thank for you coming on my journey, for your support and kind words along the way.

I will miss you all and my blog. I invite you to look back at my perfect three months with my favorites memories in pictures. Until our next adventure, au revoir.

Paris Slideshow


Bisous (and more bisous) (and more bisous),
b.

the french kiss . . .

(This story is for Mary – who wanted me to get to the “good stuff”. And for my parents – this entry is rated PG-13 so please read at your own risk.)

I had my first French kiss tonight. Pas vraiment (Ok not really). My first French kiss was with Dixon Miller, age 14, Ellicott City, Maryland. Dixon was a sophomore, starting quarterback of our football team and absolutely gorgeous. We had been “going together” for a week or so when one day, as he was walking me home from school, he stopped a block from my house. (A cause de the prying eyes of my family.) As Dixon looked into my eyes, he bent his head down for the kiss, for which my mouth remained closed (not knowing any other way at age 14). However, he proceeded to pry my lips open and dump at least a gallon of saliva on me. My first French kiss only lasted a moment as I found it obligatory to immediately go home and remove the excess saliva from my face.

Needless to say the next day, Dixon decided to proclaim his young teenage love and thus that was the end of that. I think perhaps I was too practical to think you could fall in love in high school, so anyone who proceeds to say je t’aime at age 14 could not be taken seriously – (not to mention I could not stand the thought of having to kiss him again).

Of course there have been many kisses since then, much more delightful in fact, but perhaps none as memorable.

Other than the fact that I have had to witness many make-out sessions each day in the metro, I have yet to figure out why they call it French kissing. So last night, on my third date with Alex, I decided to see if there was a difference. But perhaps I should first start with a description of dating and the French men.

Dating a Frenchman is not easy. Or rather, they are not easy to catch. As an international student, you are primarily exposed to any nationality other than French. Of course there was the unrequited love of “the substitute” and now my desperate crush on my coiffeur (a story for another time), but generally you meet few true Parisians.

However, men lie in wait everywhere here. They surround the metro entrances, they prowl the streets and make advances on the train cars. Malheureusement (unfortunately), I attract them like magnets. Perhaps it is my American look --- the blond hair, the oversized chest. It is my grand annoyance with France, although I have heard of similar stories of Italy and I have experienced similar stories in Greece. The reputation of European men is well known – I was forewarned for sure. But these men are anything but romantic. A nuisance and an annoyance. I have a strong distaste for them and find the “ooh la la’s” and profanities disgusting. I will say they are typically harmless, but occasionally you come across some that appear more dangerous. Last week I was grabbed in front of my flat by such a person but managed to push him away and seek refuge inside the secured entryway without further incident. (Perhaps a result of living on my block which seems a bit more sketch than most.)

I have been asked out beaucoup de fois (many, many times) by men in cafes, bars, etc. Never had I considered saying yes. Until Alex.



I have been fortunate to have been invited to several French parties. This is rare for foreigners. Of course there are many parties of international students that I often go to, but culturally French rarely open their doors to outsiders. My take on this is that philosophically once they have chosen their long-time friends, they continue to maintain close tight-knit circles. It is not that they do not like foreigners, rather that they only have room for so many people in their circle so it is hard to find an entrance.

I met Alex at a party of predominately French. Time and time again, I find myself attracted to the shy, cute, quiet guy that speaks more through his facial expressions than with words. Talking to him several times in the night, I found that it was not easy. But my bubbling American personality persevered. Perhaps this is why I am so often paired with the quiet guy. After successfully asking for my number, we agreed to meet at a jazz show the following week.

It is true that Alex is perhaps a bit more introverted that most, but several of my close friends also date French men and here is my take. The true French Parisian man is extremely shy and timid. They prefer to flirt silently with their eyes. I have found them to be quiet intellectuals with beautiful smiles and of course twinkling eyes. If they find a woman where the spark is mutual, they transform into forward and romantic men. They treat you as if you were the sole woman and are kind, respectful and thoughtful. They are quite drol (funny) and witty as well, but again you have to wait for them to show their true selves --- and once they have exposed their true nature you feel as though you have captured a friend for life (I know incredibly “cliché” sounding – but honestly the only way I could get my point across.)

To my friends at home, who know about my categorization system for women, know that there are always three types. I have only described for you, two types of French men. I think perhaps there is a third type. A cross between the catcaller on the street and the quiet guy who talks with his eyes, but I guess I still need some work on meeting the third type.

To keep this at PG-13 I will reserve the remaining details of my time with Alex for the gals back home after we drink a Tecate and lime.

But as for the French kiss --- let’s just say a French kiss is just a French kiss. But a French kiss in Paris is the most romantic in the world!

Bisous (kisses) to you!

b.


Photos of Giverny (Monet's Garden)







Epilogue –

It has been several weeks since I have written this entry. My apologies for my delay in posting, but time is slipping away so quickly here. Since I wrote this, I have to confess, I was completely naïve to think I could classify the French men into three types. This culture is much more complex to grasp than I had originally imagined. While my time with Alex continues to amaze me, I have grown much closer to some other French men (and women). What I have found so fascinating is their tendency to frequently have intense discussions about politics, history, current affairs, versus light chit chat. It appears these discussions drive knowledge and education and do not divide the nation but rather draw them closer together. The French vote on issues that they respond to with their hearts and are never aligned solely with their political party. I think as an American, voting strictly on an issue is not always done with the outwardly confidence I feel here.

I am fascinated by the exposure of this additional type of men (and women) I have met. Even beyond the discussions, there is such intensity in their emotions. They crave constantly the feelings that their life experiences spark. Where I had always thought of the French as closed – I realize the exact contraire is true. In one word, I feel I can describe the French as “open”. Open in a way the Americans are closed. Where we are embarrassed, bashful, or put to much emphasis on mannerism and societal acceptance and thus act in a way that is perceived as judgment to others when really we are just trying to fit in.

Everything that is politically incorrect – discussing your religion, politics, sexuality or even small things like your age is acceptable here. The discussion spark respect and not repression which I find is increasing the political divide of my country.

Returning to dating and the French man – don’t be fooled by my entry. The French men are not the catcallers of the street and can not be stereotyped as the quiet intellect filled with romance. The French man has a complexity I have not fully grasped – for me it is critical to just have the ability to being “open” enough to want to be a part of his world – a world that now that I have experienced, I am not sure I will be able to live with out.

b.

the road to chambord . . . (is not this way!)

It is Spring Break! Rachael and I decide to take the opportunity of being out of school to go on an excursion outside of Paris. Not too mention, we were in desperate need of some real physical exercise! Comme d'habitude (like usual), my day of exploration turned into a bit of a mis-adventure.

07h45 Sound asleep, the phone rings. It is Rachael. "Do you want to take the 09h15 train to get an early start? I will meet you at 08h45." I hang up the phone and rest my eyes for a few more minutes.

08h15 I wake up in a panic. What day is it? Where am I? Then I remember. I must leave in 15 minutes to meet Rachael. I pop in the shower, barely rinse off, throw on some jeans and a sweater and rush out sans dry hair and make-up.

08h45 Transferring from line 8, I meet Rachael on the Bastille platform of line 5. Together, we take line 5 to Gare d'Austerlitz in the south of Paris.

09h05 We wait in line to buy a ticket for the 09h15 train departing in 10 minutes.

09h11 We are finally at the front of the line buying our ticket. Plenty of time, the clerk says. You have 4 minutes. Typical French response - relaxed and never concerned for time. Sure we have time for the train, but no time for un petit café. Now that I am fully addicted to my morning espresso, I can not bare the thought of a 90 minute train ride without one. But alas, no time for a café. (Peut-etre it is time I succomb to the Parisian smoking addiction instead - at least it is a portable habit.)

09h14 We board the train and search for two seats together as the train leaves the station. The 90 minute train ride gives us plenty of time to plan for our day. We are taking the train to a town called Blois, which is considered the gateway to the Loire Valley. From there, we will rent bikes and ride to Chambord (about a 1 hour by velo) to see France's largest chateau. It was actually built to be a hunting lodge (with 200+ rooms) and was only lived in for 45 days after it was complete. After our historical journey, we will bike back back to Blois, have a leisurely dinner and take the last train to Paris that departs at 21h00 (9 p.m.)

10h45 We pull into Blois. We had been carefully listening for the conductor to announce the station, as there are no clear signs at each stop and one could easily miss the station if they do not know how to understand French as well as Rachael and I do (please note the sarcasm). I remember when I was une jeune femme, my dad would pretend that my sister and I were French cooks. One of us was called "Chef Blah Blah" that he would pronounce in his best French accent and we turned our gourmet meal of mac and cheese into les noodles avec formage. It turns out that Blah Blah is truly a French word - as that is exactly how the town of Blois is pronounced. "Blah = Blois" So if you are not careful, it is easy to think the conductor has just announced, nous arrivons (we have arrived) a blah, blah, blah . . . but really he means la ville Blois.

10h46 Although eager to start our day, there is tension. Not because we do not enjoy each other's company, but because we had been awake for 3 hours now and I was without my café and her without her tea. Grumpy mood and all, through a prior mis-adventure, Rachael knew to stop and check what time the ticket office closes in Blois. Even though we knew our train left at 21H00, the ticket window closes at 20H20. With that pertinent knowledge in hand we left the station and started into town desperate for caffeine.

11h10 We find ourselves walking from the station to the center of Blois and stop at a park. Time and time again, I find myself wandering in France only to come upon a beautiful park or monument. Is this the same in the States? Perhaps I never noticed before. My memories are clouded by strip malls.


(Beautiful park in Blois)

11h20 First things first, we stop for an early lunch and coffee in a square outside of the Blois chateau and the house where Harry Houdini had lived. About halfway through lunch we hear chimes and out of the corner of our eye see a dragon tentatively poking one of its heads through a window in Houdini's house. Surprised, we glance harder and sure enough each of the 8 windows had either a dragon's head, tail or claw doing a little dance to the chimes of the clock. Bizarre.



12h30 Finishing up my gallette (un crepe sans sucre), we trekked to the office of tourism and inquired about bike rentals. Although we inquired in French, directions were provided in English (a very frustrating problem here in France - as much as I attempt French, replies are often given in English if I am suspected to be a "foreigner" as if the blond hair isn't a dead giveaway).

12h40 The path to the bike shop led us on a beautiful stroll along the Loire river.

13h30 After 2km and many photos later, we arrived at the bike rental shop which was really a small outbuilding housing bikes in someone's backyard. A sign instructed us to return to the front of the house and ring the doorbell.

13h32 A man, wearing slacks and a sweater poked his head out and said "j'arrive, j'arrive".

13h37 Minutes later, the man appeared clad in mechanic's coveralls and outfitted us with two old school "townie" bikes. His only words to us were explaining that we must cross the river, but not over the bridge directly outside of his house. That bridge was reserved for motorists only (and very dangerous), so we must backtrack and take the scenic "pont" that led to a path for bikes and would take us to Chambord. If we stuck to the bike paths, we should arrive in Chambord in less than 90 minutes.



14h58 Traveling through the Paris countryside is a bit similar to traveling through Costa Rica. Ok - I know an odd comparison. But I remember one day while visiting my good friends Liz and Rob, we were in a taxi and I asked Liz what was the address to give to the driver. She replied that they did not have addresses in Costa Rica, only landmarks. For example, the address to their house was something like "turn right at the supermarket, 300 m past the hydrant, 2nd driveway after the yellow rose bush". (Liz/Rob, please confirm - this not an exaggeration!)

15h35 Alas, traveling to Chambord was not easy. Our map had only a few major routes and of those routes, only half were labeled. Of course the streets in the towns had signs about half of the time - and a different half than the half labeled on our map. And the road, which we think was a bike path (although we ran into an occasional car) was not on the map at all.

15h38 The day grew warm. Rachael was always in front - with me frantically pedaling to keep up. Countryside bugs flew into our mouths one after another such that we finally had to stop talking and breath only through our noses.


(The only sign to Chambord we saw that day.)

16h05 Hours went by and we have not reached our "90 minute" destination. Only then, did it begin to dawn on us that we were completely lost.

16h44 We came across a small village. We were not in Paris anymore. Instead a magical, quaint country village appeared, with children running in the streets. I have expected them to start singing the Munchkinland song from Wizard of the Oz. Maybe if they had, I could have clicked my heels and wished Rachael and I to Chambord (or home)!

16h55 We stopped for a quick snack of crackers, chocolate and water and referred to the map. After asking an embarrassing question of "ou sommes-nous?" to the shop clerk, we found our approximate location on the map and realized that we went over 25 km south instead of directly east to Chambord! Argh!!! We knew we would have to hustle to make it to Chambord before it closed at 18h00.

17h06 The word "hustle" did not bode well with me. I could not bare the thought of getting back on the bike. No proper seats, no shocks, no bike shorts - but wait - bike shorts, they are just padding right? Across the street we saw a pharmacy. A lightbulb went off in our heads. Just a little padding - that was all we needed. Do you see the picture below? Yah that's right, we bought extra long, super thick maxi "pads" to make some pseudo bike shorts. We each stuffed three in our jeans and headed onward.


(Extra Longue)

17h22 Rachael started to pick up the pace. If you remember earlier in the story, I was always falling behind, but now I am trailing by a couple of kms - but with every pedal my butt hurt a little more, my legs ached and I grew tired of swallowing bugs. Minutes are now hours. Pedaling faster and faster we went through a short-cut in the Chambord forest (a short-cut reminiscent of the "short-cut" Erin and I took the summer of Eaglesmere, nearly ending in tragedy).

17h45 I felt a bit like Hansel and Gretel trying to make our way through the forest following breadcrumbs which to us appeared as cryptic signs pointing toward Chambord that were few and far between. And then, out of nowhere, a clearing in the distance and a fairytale castle appeared. It was like magic - if you do not believe me - just check out this photo! It was the grandest sight I have ever seen!



17h48 We were there!!! Of course at that moment I could barely appreciate it because all I could think about was the painful bike ride home. But Rachael thought perhaps we would make it in time to take the last bus back.

17h51 Approaching the ticket window, we see that it is closed and the last ticket for entry was sold at 17h45, just 6 minutes prior. Our hearts sank.

17h52 We realized the bus we had heard about was not a reality and we only had a little over 2 hours to reach the train station back in Blois. Our hearts sunk further.

18h07 Frantically, we took as many pictures of the castle's exterior as we could in the 15 minutes we allowed ourselves to stand in awe before heading back on the road. Luckily, we knew if we chose the right route home we could get back in 90 minutes.



18h20 Back on our bikes, waving good-bye to the destination that we came so far for but barely saw, we came upon our first round about. We could either return via the bike bath or follow the main road home. If we were to take the bike path, it was not clear that we could make it back on time - as the bike path is how we got lost in the first place. The road seemed tame enough. A country road, infrequently used with a wide shoulder.

18h31 We make a quick stop on the side of the road to stuff the last 3 maxi's in my jeans. I was now at six extra long super maxis - enough that I could have been used as a flotation device in a swimming pool - or at least enough such that I could have soaked up all of the water in the swimming pool.

19h00 All of the sudden our country road disappeared and turned into a treacherous highway, reminiscent of I-5 (or the Autobon) but with only two lanes and no shoulder! We had a choice to make. Either we could turn back to try and find the bike path which would guarantee missing our train, or we could attempt the highway. The highway was elevated with no shoulder and a grassy cliff on either side. It would be physically impossible to fit two cars and a bike across the width of the road.

19h05 Unfortunately with many km to go, we had no choice. Entering onto the road was a bit like a game of Frogger. (Remember the Seinfeld episode?) The pleasant soundtrack that usually plays in my head turned into soundbites of the retro videogame. For each pace that I advanced I heard a beep, crossing my fingers I would not hear the sound equivalent to a splat.

19h12 Even though I was the Frogger champion in junior high, I will reluctantly admit that if it was not for Christopher Pinkerton (the runt of the 7th grade) I would have been the last to be picked for any sort of team game in gym class (e.g. the ever popular dodgeball). I have often been the last to finish a race and the last to come off the mountain on my Sunday rides with Mary and Chris. But on this day, even the toughest of my Boulder friends would have been proud. As the adrenaline pumped full throttle through my veins, I have never pedaled harder in my life. Forgetting everything, sweat tripping, tears forming, I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled racing like there was no tomorrow. So fast that Rachael whom I could not keep up with the entire day lost sight of me.

19h19 Glancing to my right, I saw a trail had formed next to the river that we had been following. I broke right and got off the highway at last able to catch my breath. Unfortunately the dirt trail shortly turned into sand. For those of you who ride, you know it is impossible to ride for a long distance in sand. For a bike sand is more like quicksand - the bike slowly sinking until you are pedaling in place.

19h20 Hopping off our bikes we raced back up the hill and merged back onto the road.

19h23 Back on the road, hoping my naturally high cholesterol level has not had a lasting impact on the condition of my heart, as I needed every beat to keep me going and could not afford to have a heart attack at this moment. I rode on faster than ever. Even Lance would have not stood a chance racing against me that day.

19h27 Voila! Another trail down below - but I could not find an entrance. With a car in front and a truck directly behind me, I knew I had to exit fast. I made a quick break to the right and found myself heading down the cliff at almost a 90 degree angle. Behind me I heard Rachael scream. Expecting the worst I turned around to see Rachael off her bike, skidding down the hill through a patch of stinging nettles. Quickly assessing her hands and ankles filled with poisonous stingers, but determining it was not life threatening, we continued down the trail. 500m later we hit a DEAD END! Merde! (French for Sh*t!)

19h30 Merde! Merde! Merde! We had to back track, climb up the cliff, through the nettles and back on to the highway. This was suicide!

19h34 Bravely merging onto the highway for the last time, we knew we just had to push through and take our chances on the roadway that posed strong possibilities of ending our life. Thinking only with the adrenaline running through me --- if I suspected two cars were going to pass next to me, I gauged whether it was critical to slow down or speed up just enough such that I would not be next to them as they went by. Being inline with two cars at once would mean sudden death. We were without helmets, but I have little doubt that it would have mattered should we been at 100 km/hr.

19h51 The city of Blois appeared on the horizon as the sun was setting on the Loire river. The bike shop was just on the other side of the motor bridge. (The one we were advised not to take, but we knew we had to risk it as time advances faster in Blois than in Paris.)

19h58 Ringing the bell for the second time that day, we waited anxiously for the proprietor to put on his coverall over his day clothes and open the shop. We handed in our bikes with the hard metal seats and exited back to the rue along the Loire River.

20h06 The ticket window closed in less than 20 minutes and we were 3 km from the station. My first few steps off the bike were shaky. My legs were cramping and my knee swollen. At first frozen, and then nearly falling to the ground my eyes met Rachael's. We knew what we had to do, it was our only chance. At first we walked quickly, then jogged, breaking into a run and ending in a final sprint to the gare!

20h20 Just as Gare de Blois was in sight, we saw the gates going down!

20h21 Noooooooooooo! And then I was standing alone. In the flash of lightening Rachael sprinted toward the ticket office. The lightening changed to slow motion and I saw her running like the bionic woman in a moment of eternity. Ferme! As I caught up to her time resumed at its normal pace and I heard Rachael begging for two tickets at the closed window.

20h23 Taking pity on us, the clerk produced the last two tickets of that evening. For not the window in the way I could have kissed her!

20h25 Sitting down for a minute to catch our breath, (only appropriate for a 75km bike ride followed by a 3km running sprint) I realized I was famished! Besides the crackers and chocolate we had not had a proper meal since 11h30! Our dreams of a leisurely dinner had vanished and we settled for a day old baguette sandwich in the train bar. But I had the coldest, most delicious beer that I had perhaps ever had in my entire life. Basked in complete exhaustion, Rachael and I sat quietly, reflecting on our day too tired for conversation.

20h56 Comme d'habitude, not paying attention to time, we nearly panicked as we realized the bar had cleared out. We scrambled to the platform as the last train to Paris was ready for departure.

20h59 We climbed aboard and found a 2nd class compartment to ourselves, closed the curtains and each laid across the four seats on either side. We heard someone peek in our compartment to see if we had some extra room, but anyone glancing at Rachael's facial expression would quickly realize that they were not welcome in our space. We were too fatigued to be polite.

21h10 I happily backed Rachael's need for seclusion. We turned off the lights and prepared to nap for the two hour train ride home. And then the giggles started. As we slowly recounted our day, our giggles turned into an uncontrollable laughter until tears filled our eyes. It was not the day we had planned, but we knew it would be day we would never forget and one in which a friendships was forever forged.

23h16 We pulled into the Paris station - exchanged kisses and boarded our respective metro lines anxious to complete the final stretch home.

23h51 Just minutes from midnight as I was walking into my flat, calling for the lift (the six flights of stairs incomprehensible) my phone buzzed with a new SMS (text message). It was Gitte (my good Danish friend).

u want 2 meet @ bastille 4 cocktail? i am just on my way out 2 meet friends. c u! bisous xoxo.

00h01 Not even a Chambord martini could entice me. And for the first time during my stay in the city that doesn't sleep, I replied,

staying in 2nite. bisous.

Bisous & bon nuit to you all. Until next time . . .

b.

the "rebel" of l'atelier 9 . . .

I am afraid I have made a grave mistake. Please take note that my description of Eric was a bit off as I meant to describe him as a "James Dean" character - but I mistakenly put "Marlon Brando". But come on - I'm young! All of those brooding male actors of the 50's (or was it 60's) are the same to me! But really, Eric is an absolutely cutey - much more James Dean. To your comment Eric - I am not sure what "fais gagne" means - but I think it's something like "you will pay" and since I am already paying to go to your school, I think perhaps you mean I will pay in the form of some other horrific punishment. So my great aplogies to Eric - the "rebel" of L'Atelier 9.

the long way home . . .

It’s 7:58 a.m. and I have just returned home from a night of “clubbing” and am wide awake. Charles (a Parisian in the group tonight) has told me that when they were kids living in the Paris suburbs, they would ride the metro in, have dinner until midnight, have a drink at a bar until 2, move onto the nightclub until 6 at which point they would go out for a café and breakfast. Then the metro starts up again at 7 a.m. and they would return home avoiding the expense of the short taxi ride. On this particular night, we started with 10 and ended with 3 – myself and two Scots. Around 6, when Charles would normally go out for a café and breakfast, alternatively, Stewart, Duncan and I stopped by Duncan’s flat, grabbed a blanket to sit on, a bottle of wine to drink and left for a park to watch the sun rise over the Eiffel tower. Granted I missed the actual sunrise as I just "happened" to rest my eyes at the same time the sun came out - but the night as a whole seemed everlasting, refreshing and magical. It is just now after returning from this night that I realize I must send you an entry that I was about to toss. It is an entry that strays from my normal mishaps and misfortunes --- but is more descriptive and I think important for you to experience as well. So here is the story that almost did not make it to you.

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I thought today I would immerse you further into the Parisian culture. I will try to include a funny story or two, but mostly I want to describe what it is like to live within one of the most beautiful cities in the world. A city where at every corner you are stunned by a building, statue or monument towering over you. A city in which people live amongst history ancient and precious . . . and a city that does not require you to travel 5,000 miles to try and capture the magic in seven short days in a hot summer week.

To best describe the feeling of this city, I will tell you about last Wednesday, when I took the long way home.

To be honest with you, I went into my first museum only yesterday. I know, it seems crazy but when I was here 15 years ago, I think I crammed 10 museums in 3 days. This time around, I am trying to experience Paris through the eyes of someone really living here and not just en vacances. Sure I will return to Le Louvre or explore the Cluny – and the musee de Picasso I saw yesterday was marvelous (not only his life’s work, but the building that housed them), but for today, this is my story of a day in the life.

The good thing about living in a place the size of an American bathroom is that you do not ever want to be in it, so I spend little time at home. Usually I am outside wandering around, getting lost and loving it. On a typical day I leave my flat about 8:30 a.m. I cross the street to the Montgallet metro and ride the 10 stops to my school. After departing from the Grand Boulevard station, I take a couple of winding turns and step into my favorite boulangerie. My favorite order is une viennoise. It is similar to a baguette filled with miniature chocolate chips, yet the bread is dense and hearty – and often still warm from the oven. It is very normal to see Parisians everywhere walking with their tarte au fromage, baguette or pain au chocolat in the morning slowly peeling back the delicate tissue wrapping, taking small bites as they walk rapidly to work. A Parisian block is not long, maybe 5 buildings per block, but I promise, rather guarantee, that on each block you will find at least one café, brasserie and boulangerie. On every other block you will find a charcuterie, a fruit and vegetable marché, and perhaps a wine or chocolate shop.

What you NEVER see is a Parisian walking with a latte. NEVER. While it is socially acceptable to eat your breakfast (as long as it was purchased from a fresh boulangerie and not the “Quick” or “McDonald’s”) it is not acceptable to carry a drink. To do this would not only instantly label you as a foreigner, but will expose you to many stares or shall I say glares and probably attract pickpockers, etc.

Instead, of the portable latté, you pop into your favorite café, stand at the bar and order your café or your café crème (should you require something milder since a café is really just one shot of espresso). You can also sit down, but that is for those with extra time and is a bit more expensive. The size of a café is only a few sips so most workers have time to pop in and have their morning fix before heading into the office. Perhaps because we have taken the shot of espresso and added 4 cups of steamed milk in our Venti cup that we find it necessary to drink the American latte on the go otherwise we would never arrive for the dreaded morning meeting on time. (By the way, conveniently, many of the morning cafés turn into the evening bars, thus it is not uncommon to visit them twice per day - once on the way to work and once on the way home for a biere.)

After my brief stop at the boulangerie or café, I walk the remaining blocks to school. Around 11 a.m. we stop for a quick “pose” or break. Often a few students and I pop out again to the boulangerie for a sandwich crudité. (Baguette filled with tomatoes, brie, eggs, cucumber and so forth . . .). Then back to school until 1:30.

Believe it or not we are always starved after school, but not for the boulangerie, rather for the afternoon meal or dejeuner. Between 2 and 4 we head off to a street side café. Excellent people watching and food. I had the most marvelous salad exotique on this particular day. It was comprised of fresh greens, thinly sliced chicken, fresh mango, cashews, hearts of palm, tomatoes and corn. It was lightly dressed with a mild mixture of oil and lemon. It was fabulous!

After a lovely lunch with my friend, Lill-Anne, I did not feel like stopping at home for my afternoon nap before dinner. Starting in the 9th arrondisement, I walked south toward the Seine and found myself in front of Notre Dame. I have walked by many chapels and cathedrals in Paris and none are more impressive than Notre Dame. Just on the other side of the Seine is the Latin Quarter, filled with Mediterranean food delights. But on this day, I continued east walking past the river side merchants vending freshly painted water colors and came upon Pont Neuf, one of the oldest bridges if not the oldest here in Paris. Captivated by Pont Neuf I chose to walk past it, taking the next Pont so that I could capture it on film for you.



I realize now on this warm Spring afternoon, that I have been wandering for hours and perhaps I should take the stairs on the next corner that descend into the Metro station. Paris is brilliant, although I carry a pocket map wherever I go, it is easy yet impossible to get lost. If you are lost you only need to pop into the closest Metro to navigate your way back to your home station. But this day, my knee was strong, the sun was shining and although I did not want to wear my iPod (because it was important to immerse myself in all of the senses), as usual I had the appropriate soundtrack playing in my head the whole way home.

Forgoing, the metro I continued forward on foot. After crossing the Pont I was again North of the Seine, now in the 4th arrondisemnet and peut-etre (perhaps) my favorite. This area is called Le Marais, a very old and quaint arrondisement and also Paris’ predominately gay neighborhood. The streets are more narrow and windy here and are full of the best boutiques of Paris as well as many outdoor cafes occupied by the “beautiful people” dressed to the nines and perfectly coiffed. I discovered the musee de Picasso in Le Marais among other treasures including Place des Vosages, an enclosed city park.

Before we continue on my journey, I must describe the many jardins tucked away, hidden deep in the city. Just when you think you have not seen a lawn, a tree, a flower or any sort of plant for days, you come across a gated park, plush, and perfectly manicured full of vegetation. (It is typical for the French to cut off the tops of their trees so they are perfectly groomed, but this sight is most disagreeable to me as I find something strange about trees with flat tops.) In these secret gardens, I love to sit with a hot crepe avec beurre and sucre - on the iron bench near the fountain and watch the children race their sailboats as I often do in the Jardin du Luxemborg. My favorite secret garden is Jardin des Palais Royal. It is less visited than the others, as I think perhaps it is hard to find. Rather than being enclosed by tall iron gates, you will find it hidden behind the four walls of the immense Palais Royal.

Michael, “the substitute” asked us to describe our favorite place in Paris without naming it, thus allowing the other students to guess the location. An excellent exercise for writing as well as diction. Alors, here is my paragraph – describing the Palais Royal.

Dehors il y a de grands immeubles et un batement. Aussi on y trouve beaucoup de magasins des bijoux dans une rue active. Mais dedans, on trouve que c’est très tranquil. Il y a une exposition temporaire d’art mordernne. Quelquefois il y a des enfants qui jouent mais comme d’habitude c’est un bon lieu pour lire et être tranquille. Avec des arbres il y a des lampadaires allumes et on y trouve des bancs en metals pour s’asseoir et réfléchir. Quand on le quitte, on revient a la realitie.

And now as I exit the park on this Wednesday and return to reality as described in my French entry, I moved onward toward home. I saw dusk rapidly approaching and realized if I wanted to avoid the metro I must continue forward briskly. After the Marais, I admittedly got turned around. Just as I was going to take out my pocket map (indispensable for both the tourist and the local), I turned the next corner only to see a tall skinny monument in the middle of a roundabout. Mais oui, c’est le Bastille! The Bastille was just the landmark I needed to orient myself to the proper direction for the last hour home. That is how Paris is designed - one minute you are admist the magnificent buildings influenced by M. Haussmann and the next minute you stumble across the Eiffel Tower, Le Louvre, Hotel De Ville, Le Bastille, the Pantheon or Les Invalides. It is impossible to cross more than two streets without seeing a structure that makes you awestruck time and time again.

On y va! (Let us go on!) Next I have turned onto a busy boulevard full of fruit and vegetable stands, wine shops, lots of “fake/discount” shoe shops – oh and the occasional homeless person. (Side note – I actually just moved from the 12th to the 10th so now I am lucky enough to be in the ghetto and get to pass by the prostitutes as well. C’est la vie.) Just un more kilometer and I am home. Glancing at the clock on my cellphone (as I am no longer wear my watch – partly because I am trying to stray from the habit of monitoring time and partly because I lost it on my first day in Paris), I see that it is now 7:30 p.m. Wow – 6 hours had passed since I had left school. It is exhilarating to walk like this – and I do it every day – ok – not the marathon everyday, but on average I probably walk 3 hours a day in total if not much more.

As I close into home, I pick up some fruit, a baguette and a bottle of wine from the many markets in my neighborhood. Mark my word, upon my return to the States, I will purchase one of the rolling carts that is essential to every Parisian’s life, used to cart groceries and goods from the many varieties of markets. Of course at home, I will fill it with purchases from Target and Whole Foods – although I have a feeling, American security will not like me filling the bag prior to purchasing the goods as they do here instead of pushing around an enormous shopping cart. Oh well.

As I arrived home, I only just removed my shoes when I received an SMS (text message) informing me that the usual suspects were meeting on Rue de Lappe – a lively pedestrian street full of bars and cafes. Ok – this time I took the metro.



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If you recall, this story began with sunrise at the Eiffel tower. Recently, I stumbled quite literally onto the Eiffel tower at sunset just prior to meeting a friend at a nearby brasserie. I had not even realized I was in the same arrondisement - but there it was just as the sky was turning a deep rouge. Suddenly 10,000 lights began twinkling, illuminating the tower - and the moon was full, larger than I have ever seen. Still in awe, I met my friend and we walked back toward to her flat. A few blocks later we came upon a building with a breathtaking gold dome reflecting off the moonlight. Les Invalides – Napoleon’s tomb. I asked my friend who has been here for 7 years if she still noticed buildings like Les Invalides. She replied that she preferred the 1 hour walk home than the 15 minute metro ride metro for this very reason.

I think perhaps this is my longest entry – and I realize not my typical collection of mishaps, but it was important for me to share with you the spirit of daily life here in Paris as I believe the beauty and vitality of this city is the driving part of the core of every Parisian. It is the sound of the market vendors, the feel of wind tunnel as you go underground, the smell of a cafe, the taste of the croissant, and the sight of the grandest monuments in the world – it is this feeding off the city that feeds your personal vitality.

Although Paris has awakened my senses, at this stage in my life it has also separated me further from the typical American lifestyle. I admit I often have similar experiences on a sunny day walking down Pearl Street mall in Boulder or pedaling to the Holcomb’s for a home-cooked meal, but I have not allowed these experiences to encompass my entire life as they do here in Paris. How can they when 50 – 70 hours per week is expected in our jobs? When we are on call 24/7? When we are coerced into coming home, heating up dinner, passing out in front of the TV by 8 and in bed by 10 with exhaustion? When we are too tired for friends and too lazy for walking. I love my home, and I love Paris for allowing me to recognize how I should not only love my home, but enjoy my home. Next time I need to get from Baseline to Mapleton, or from Old Columbia Pike to Sea Change Lane, or from Madison Avenue to Queen Anne, I will take the long way home.

Bon nuit,

b.

(Stay tuned for next week’s entry as mon amie Rachel et moi traveled to Chambord the largest chateau in all of France – and trust me it was full of mishaps! How else would a 20 km bike ride turn into 75 km?)

the substitute . . .

They say it takes years to become truly fluent in French . . . perhaps as long as 10 (although people keep telling me it only takes 8 - a somewhat arbitrary number if you ask me). Perhaps I was a bit naïve to think I might come close in three months. Needless to say I have made tremendous strides in the past month. The first two weeks of school I was in over my head. I had only been in class for two hours when a nice woman from my class pulled me aside on the break and suggested that perhaps I would be more comfortable in the beginner class instead of intermediate.

I suppose she was being kind and wanting to prevent me from further embarrassment, but her "suggestion" made me feel bad all the same. Alors (A common segue meaning "so" which I described in an earlier entry - and if you learn French like me you needed reminding. But that's it! No more reminding, all entries from here on out may contain the word, "alors" with no further definition). Let me start again - Alors, I pulled aside my teacher, Stephanie, and asked her to confirm the opinion of my classmate. She said just to stick it out (of course not in those words, but in French - but after two hours of lessons under my belt, I decided to translate it as "just stick it out".) Looking back, Stephanie may have actually said, "go directly to beginner class, do not pass go" or some alternate witty French directive as Stephanie often gives.

Regardless I stayed in Stephanie's class and decided to wait patiently for the "a-ha" that everyone else had seemed to experience. Stephanie is my favorite teacher at L'Atelier 9. But in all honesty the entire L'Atelier 9 staff is fabulous. The brains behind the operation is Ignacio. A very business savvy man that could probably wheel and deal with the best of them. He has been extremely generous - assisting me with a flat, finding a doctor, not to mention how to make a pot of coffee. Then there is Eric, the other half of the operation, but whom I think of as more of the creative side. He has a Marlon Brando feel . . . so cool, and never without a cigarette. Never not being an exaggeration in the slightest. He teaches the beginner class, a man of few words outside of the classroom, but I bet if I understood French he would be funnier than hell. Sandra teaches the Advanced class, and I am afraid that since I will probably not reach that level, I perhaps will not get to know Sandra well.

But let us return to Stephanie. In addition to being a fabulous chanteuse, she has a theatrical background. This is a great advantage to us - as when we are dumbfounded by the meaning of a word, like vache or rougir . . . she will act them out for us. (Vache is cow and rougir is to blush - so you can only imagine the entertainment of watching charades a la Stephanie.) She is patient (almost always) and speaks the perfect pace for comprehension. From her I have learned all sorts of grammar terms that I mush have slept through in high school such as - imperfect, infinitive, passive, etc. Many of the students here teach English to earn money on the side, but as I struggle to differentiate futur proche from futur simple, I will probably need to seek out other ways to secure wine money.

One day, I was sitting in class - and it happened! (Keep reading, you need a little more background before I tell you what "it" is.) Stephanie and I were in a music mood and she accommodated by turning our daily lesson into a music lesson. We listened to all sorts of French music that day. My first introduction to French tunes (other than the alarm clock set to Radio France since I cannot find my crush, Bret Saunders on KBCO) was to Claude Francois singing "Comme d'Habitude" to the tune of "My Way" by Frank Sinatra. (By the way, Claude was the original before Frank.) Then onto some more tunes by Etienne Daho - I think he is the Madonna of France. (Ok - that was probably a bad comparison - but I can't think of a popular male singer in the States that has survived over time except for Michael Jackson and there are not too many similarities there. Besides I am not sure how much longer Michael Jackson's musical legacy will survive anyway.)

We spent a full day listening to music, intensely trying to interpret the lyrics. Listening to foreign music is a multi-step process.

1. Hit play, stop and rewind. (About 27 times until you recognize most of the words.)
2. Write down the words. (As you hear them. There are too many lyrics in a song to try and hold them all in your head.)
3. Begin translation. (When you find that you have written - "Ce bleu enfin bleu que je trouver dans tes oeuf" which means, "This blue finally blue that I to find in your egg" - you realize you are off a bit.)
4. Ask Stephanie. (Since you already listened to it 27 times my sense is that one more time probably would not help. The line really was "Ce bleu infiniment bleu que je trouvais dans tes yeux." which means, "It's blue everlasting blue that I find in your eyes." So much more sense!)
5. Finally - listen to it one more time. (And sing along! Because if you don't know it by now, then perhaps, learning French is not for you.)

By the way that was a line from the song, Le Grand Sommeil by Etienne Daho. Stephanie does an excellent cover of the song on her album as well. If I figure out how to add a sound byte I will add it to the blog. Needless to say this was my favorite class and I immediately went out and bought some French CDs. (L.R. - I meant to tell you that De Palmas is a super popular singer here! Way to hear about them first!)

That's when "it" happened. It was in this class where my first "a-ha" occurred. Perhaps being immersed in tunes was helpful for me. I am now less shy and talking much more. I even had a fellow student comment on how much confidence I had gained in the last week. Progress!! But then, Stephanie announced that she was going on vacation and we would have a substitute for a week! How could she do this to me - right after my first "a-ha"? She could not leave me! But she did anyway - went off to Greece in fact.

Next Monday morning in walked "the substitute". Ooh la la. Michael! He is quite the looker (in a very European way) and the charmer too. He speaks at twice the speed of Stephanie - actually probably nearer to the speed of sound. I am pretty sure I hear a sonic boom as he finishes each sentence - but that could be my head exploding too. He must be secretly laughing because I think he received nine blank stares from the students on his first day. I do not think one of us had a clue to what he was saying, but it did not really matter, I just ogled anyway and was under the spell of his French charm. I tried speaking some English to him on pose (which is what we call our breaks) thinking I could use some of my American flirtation skills, but he just gave me a blank stare explaining his English was not too good. Hmm that did not bode well for my clever comments and charming come-ons - guess we will just have to rely on the international language of love.

The wonderful part of this story is that I did not lose the "a-ha" I had with Stephanie. In fact, Michael has challenged me in a new way. Oral comprehension. I asked him to speak more slowly once, he crinkled his face and said "Pourquoi? You must get used to the speed of the language." And he is absolutely right. After a week in class with him, I am now able to understand many more words on the rues (street), in the magasins (shops) and on the tele (television). I no longer have to stay up for the Clint Eastwood movies!

Alas the week with Michael is over and we are on Spring Break. I am so excited to welcome Stephanie back and continue down my path of learning, grammar and all. But now I know it is important to expose myself to different voices, speeds and styles. Oh - and for those of you wondering how the story ends with Michael --- well - if you look at L'Atelier 9's new website you can read his bio which explains all.

An excerpt -

Séducteur et pédagogue, son cours est suivi par une horde de jeunes
filles qui ne veulent plus le quitter !

Loosely translated -

Seducer and educator, his course is
followed by a horde of girls who never want to leave him!

So alas, I refuse to be just another broken heart under the spell of a charming French teacher, so I am now on my way out the door to meet a more eligible French man.

A semaine prochaine!

b.

[Disclaimer: I have dangerously given out this blog address to folks in France who may be a part of these stories. While these stories are truthful, I may have taken some liberties with how the story is woven. And for the teachers and students of L'Atelier 9 - these stories are dedicated to you for making these weeks some of my most memorable in a lifetime - and I truly hope you do not mind me sharing.]

P.S. L'Atelier 9 is undoubtedly the best language school in Paris!

P.P.S. (To Mom & Step-Doug - we played a round of French scrabble last week. The first team was able to make a seven-letter word on the opening hand. We drew 5 vowels and had a difficult time holding our own. But your wise instruction has served me well - we scored 30 points with 1 "s" making two words plural and our second highest score was adding the word "bruit" on a triple word tile while making two additional small words on the adjacent tiles thus maximing the score. I will expect my next match with you to be in French also!)

vin, vin, vin et plus de vin . . .

Salut,

I must immediately begin by saying I have found the perfect French junkfood! I think perhaps only my sister understands my fanatical love for Combos - as most people believe they resemble dog treats. So I am writing this first paragraph specifically to my sister. They have this snack - that looks just like a Combo - same size, concept and everything - except instead of a pretzel wrapped around processed American cheese - it is a crispy crepe shell wrapped around processed Gouda! Ah - the French do everything with such style! I promise to bring you some!!

And on to the subject of today's installment - the social life of an unemployed American in Paris. I must start by saying "Je suis beaucoup trop fatigué pour vous écrire aujourd'hui, mais je dois essayer dire ce qu'est une ville d'amusement." (Translation: "I am much too tired to write to you today, but I must try as to tell you what a fun city this is." Besides I have French Combos to refuel my energy - and my iPod set to The Killers.)

I am now in my second week and I have begun to wonder how I will last for three months. Between the endless verre de vin rouge (ou bierre) and my inability to adjust to the time change I cannot imagine how I will make it through the coming months.

First, the time change - on the nights that I am able to sleep at a reasonable hour, I always seem to wake up around 1 a.m. and am unable to fall asleep again until about 4 a.m. To my thrill, there is a little known secret about French television at 1 a.m. They play Clint Eastwood westerns in English at 1 a.m.! This makes me so happy! Clint is right here - speaking English to me. I am in heaven! He is the first person in over a week that I can understand.

The French watch a lot of American television (e.g. Law & Order, Les Experts - which is really CSI - and Days of our Lives always dubbed and never subtitled. Although I have to admit, even I can understand the French DOOL as the pace of a soap opera is much more manageable. In a soap, you have at least a month to interpret a story line before it changes). I heard there was a job opening in Italy for an Italian-dubbed Brad Pitt. I guess dubbing Brad Pitt is an extremely prestigious position in Europe. But here's the truth - no one hates westerns more than I (especially with Clint), but last night's "Hang-Em High" was the best two hours!

(A small reminder to assist me in my quest for sleep --- I never want to deter any phone calls from my favorite American friends and family, but I must remind you that 4 p.m. for you is midnight for me!) (But I still love you dad!)

Oh how I digress, my true reason for the fatigue is this - at 31 my ability to party has tremendously slowed down. Ah - but who am I kidding? Those that know me well, know that I was always the first to bed even in my college days - well heck - even in my high school days. Gosh mom - did I ever even come close to breaking curfew? Good thing it is "cool" (pronounced que-ell here) to be tardy, because I have not made it to class on time all week. So this installment of "the blakely diaries . . ." is a description of my first big party week (and the week is only half over) and what I am afraid will be similar to many weeks to come.

La première nuit -

When I last left you I was on my way to a bar to see my teacher perform in a band called "The Loved Ones" (www.thelovedones.net). I met up with Rachael, her Parisian boyfriend whose name has escaped me, plus Sam, Chris and Tina. What a great night - my first night out on the town. Of course I was decked out in my swankiest party clothes, to arrive at a bar similar to the Pearl Street Pub only 200 years older and with a smoke haze so thick my hot pink, 4-inch heeled, incredibly sexy boots could have looked like big cloldhopper hiking boots and no one would have been the wiser.

The proprietors are a husband and wife team, probably in their early seventies, dressed in après ski gear as if they were plucked directly from the Alps - and so adorable they were. Monsieur Proprietor served me my first Parisian beer - 1667 - or "Seize" for short. It is the French version of cheap Tecate (or PBR for you Miss M.A.) Let me say it could have used a lime.

My teacher, Stephanie is a fabulous chanteuse (singer). It turns out "Passionate Pop" is similar to Elvis Costello meets Bjork meets "grunge". (G.R. - Would make for an interesting collaboration.) I miss live music (!) - something I seemed to have lost with my departure from Seattle that I am happily rediscovering in Paris.

La deuxième nuit -

It was the birthday of Jesi, another gal from L'Atelier 9. She is just turning 25 and a very energetic girl. Her request was to see the Eiffel Tower on her birthday (Each year she makes a birthday stop at a different monument around the world. Not a bad tradition). Alas I made my first trip to the tower in 15 years - and I thought would be an excellent first picture to share with you like the good tourist that I am!

Alors (a frequently used word in French to segue - similar to "so"), Glenn, Jesi and I set out to see the Eiffel Tower at sunset. Sunset! Hmm - I want to know how they got the sunset on the Eiffel Tower postcards before Photoshop was invented. Ok, maybe it's only this time of year, but Paris goes from light gray to dark black - something to do with the extreme cloud cover. During the light gray hours, an overcoat, scarf and hat is needed. During the dark black hours, I would prefer to be wrapped like a burrito in a big fuzzy bear skinned rug.


(Glenn & Jesi in the Latin Quarter)

After staring upward at this magnificent steel structure for at least 10 seconds, we quickly found the metro for the Latin Quarter. (Quick digression - A story about the metro will be forthcoming I promise - as this is where the true experiences of the city life occur.) The easiest way for me to describe the Latin Quarter is to say that it is similar to La Platka in Athens. (Don't worry Aunt Jan - no search party for the American in the red dress was required this time.)

Ok one more digression - I must pause my entry for one minute as I just heard the W.C. (toilet) flush in the hallway and it startles me everytime. The hallway you ask? Yes, I was horrified when I first arrived to see this tiny (teeny) closet in the hallway with a toilet inside. But to my GREAT relief when I received the keys to my flat, I found that it has its own toilet. So why is there a toilet in the hallway? This I do not know. There are two other apartments on my floor and I guess one must not have a toilet.

But the frightening part of this digression is to tell you there is not enough room to close the door to the toilet closet while someone is actually using the toilet. Therefore every time I hear the toilet flush - I think, thank god I was not exiting my apartment as I would not want my first meeting with my neighbor (male I presume - as the seat is always left in the up position) to be like this.

Ok back in the Latin Quarter, we head next to have a dinner, prix fixe - common format in France. I started with the mussels (specialty de belge) and next had the poulet avec pomme frites. But still NO vegetables. Even me, someone who detests vegetables almost gave in at the market yesterday and bought some, but then I wizened up as the reality of me actually cooking is too funny especially since I nearly broke down making grill cheesed sandwiches in Aspen - thank you T.H. and F.S. for pulling me through. Dinner was not bad - not so chic as mes amies et moi were paying attention to our “budgets” that evening. I am still in sticker shock of Paris prices (plus the 30% difference in exchange rates - not in our favor). (E.g. Let's say you order a $10 pizza from Jalino's. In Paris, a $10 Jalino's pizza would cost about 15 Euros. Now add the exchange rate and you are actually paying $20 for the same pizza. It's insanity!)

And for the grand finish to Jesi's birthday - we went to the famous pub - The Frog and the Princess. It was student night. You probably think this means it is the night where students receive a discount - and you are right - it is that night. But there is a dual meaning to student night. (Alors!!! The toilet flushes again! Twice in one story! My neighbor must be drinking too much vin rouge tonight.) Student night is also the night the French come by to flirt with the young American girls doing a semester abroad. (American Translation: "Meat Market") See the French man in between Jesi and I? Too close for comfort - a lot of "close talkers" in France. The advantage of the F & P is that everyone speaks English as it is a British pub, but this is also a disadvantage for us diligent French students.


(Me, "Close Talker", Jesi)

The other disadvantage to a British pub is the patron’s obsession with football (soccer). I guess there was some super big game between Chelsea and Barcelona. The crowds were wild - and to the chagrin of the French men, there were few American girls due to overwhelming display of Brits, drinking ale and rooting for the famous football guy (I am embarrassed I cannot remember his name - but he's supposed to be the best player in the league. - P.C. Can you help me out?) Alas the majority of my night was spent pushing through the sweat of the Londoners, trying to reach the bar for a beer.

Forgetting for a brief moment that I was in a British pub, I order my beer en Francais instead of en Anglais. "Une grande bierre blonde, s'il vous plait." The bartender understands me perfectly and goes to the tap. He pours three beers, must be for the rowdy Brits behind me, but NO! - he brings all three beers to me. I look at him, he looks at me, we both look at the three beers and realize there has been a miscommunication. "Pas de problemme", I say. I will just drink all three - and after a wink - he only charges me for the one. I love student night - three beers for 4 Euros. Thank goodness the last metro train leaves at 12:45 which puts me to bed no later than 1 - for with three beers a serving the night could have gone south fast had I stayed out any later. (C.L. - Sorry for my multiple drunk dials - just wanted to share the fun!)

La troisième nuit -

This brings me to my third night out so far this week - my favorite night thus far - a grand dinner at La Tournelle organized by my school. My school is très hip - everyone is young, cool (teachers included) and all know how to have a good time.


(L'Atelier 9 - Intermediate Class)

[Break for school picture - cast of characters from left moving clockwise - Lill-Anne (Norwegian), Jessica (Mexican) not to be confused with Jesi (American/Thai) from the beginner class, Sam (Iowa/California), Stephanie (the instructor), Chris' empty seat (he is taking the picture - from Ohio - and whose girlfriend Tina is in the advanced class), Cheri (California), Glenn (California) et moi! This picture was taken in our classroom - in a very funky/swanky Parisian flat that houses the school. We are in the intermediate room, taking a typical lesson and taking turns making sarcastic Bush jokes. No fans of Le Chef aux Etats-Unis here.]


(Example of Pot au Feu)

Back to the event - on this particular evening we were all having, Pot au Feu. (Unfortunately, this pic from the web does not do the presentation of La Tournelle justice.) "Pot au Feu" you say? Qu'est-ce que c'est? It began as a traditional French dish that was served when money was tight. The not so "choice" cuts of the cow are cooked in a bouillon anywhere from 3 to 5 hours causing de bouef (the meat) to become very tender - falling off the bones that are found in the soup as well. Whole vegetables are added, such as leeks, carrots and potatoes - and voila! Pot au Feu. But PLEASE do not imagine this like Dinty Moore beef stew. Oh contraire. It is a beautiful dish, the bouillon is très riche and as a treat there is a large bone placed in the middle of your bowl from which you extract the marrow to spread on your bread. Bone marrow is a delicacy that I will now forever adore. As Sam explains, the French respect every part of the animal - meaning they cook and eat it all. (I have a new respect for Riley - the newest addition to the Reeves family, who can fight for hours to get to the core of a good bone.)


(Dinner at La Tournelle)

But to really understand how special the evening was is to admire the way in which we dined. We were seated close to 10 p.m. As we were seated we were provided un apertif - Murat. This is similar to a thick, sweet wine meant to open your taste buds. After the Murat, the Pot au Feu was served with fresh bread, beurre et un bon vin rouge. Water is never served unless specifically requested, thus the wine is sipped slowly but continuously throughout the meal. It is a pleasant complement and not meant as a tool for drunkenness. After the dinner the desserts are served. I have never been a fan of cakes, tarts, pies, etc. so I chose a cup of coffee instead. A petit cup is served with a shot of espresso - much denser than the espresso in the States - even Vics on Broadway. The flavor is superb, the portion is perfect and served with a madeline. After everything is cleared a digestif is served. This is the opposite of the apertif - instead of opening your taste buds, this is meant to "casse du café" which is roughly translated as to push the coffee through your system. Meaning, since coffee was the last thing you drank, it helps push the coffee plus anything consumed prior to it all the way through your digestive track. Somewhat unappetizing to imagine (and to drink) - but helpful for a good night sleep after such a rich meal.

Although quite a bit of alcohol is served, the meal lasts for several hours - so not a night of drunken debauchery. (We did not leave the table until after half past 1 a.m.) Instead, you arrive home content, full, warm and very much ready for bed. The meal, the drink - packaged with the perfect company - for me is the meaning of life here in Paris and a tradition I hope to carry forward upon my return home. I cannot say enough about the delight I had in discovering the appreciation the French have for frequent evenings such as the one at La Tournelle.

Oh but how time runs away on nights like these. I completely forgot about the last train and had to take a taxi. Like everything else in Paris a taxi ride is very expensive. Next month I have decided to move closer in so on nights such as these I can hoof it home. But to my delight I had a fabulous taxi driver that was happy to practice French with me. Although I will admit he asked me if I had initially given him directions to my flat in French - which I had. Eventually I just wrote the address down for him. You trying saying rue de Reuilly in French. Between the "R" that is said in such a fashion that one might assume you are "hacking a big loogie" and the double "l's" which is pronounced as a long "e" - c'est est très difficle. But as soon as I got into the groove he understood me perfectly and we had an amiable conversation.

Please do not be too concerned for me - these parties are just another way that I must immerse myself into the French culture. Le vin, vin, vin et plus de vin is a burden I must endure. Let me more clearly explain - even at home the French drink mostly bottled water. A typical bottle of water is about 3 Euros 50 --- yet most bottles of wine are 1 or 2 Euros!!! This is incredible. Translation - It is cheaper for the French to drink wine that water and thus you can begin to understand the importance of my alcohol induced immersion to the French nightlife.

Alors, now it is time to switch the iPod over to a little Nick Drake and commence my afternoon nap - I am exhausted.

A semaine prochaine,

b.