I am a huge fan of making blanket statements of questionable truth. I know you all know this, but I want to go ahead and make that note before we begin today's post.
Johnny Diesel is an angry motherfucker. No, that's not right, he is an angry Finnish, tax evading, self proclaimed mother fucker. And he might be completely insane. We first happened on Johnny Diesel at a lovely little place on Rue de Clichy in Montemarte called O'Sullivans. Go ahead and make whatever joke you'd like me drinking at a place called O'Sullivans, I don't care. We wanted a pint and this was an awesome place the night before (It's where I met Tim and David, previous post) and Richard, the manager. Sure I could have found some other, more Parisian place to drink but then I never would have met Johnny Diesel. It's difficult to explain Johnny Diesel without giving you a vision of what I first saw of him. He stood, leather blazer slung jauntily over his left shoulder, tiny glass of red wine in his right hand, shouting at a 6'5 bouncer of rather imposing stature. He was being tossed from his chair for the sake of repositioning the patio for the late- night crowd. Now, we, too were asked to rearrange ourselves for the same reason but at least Kris and I had the good sense to accept this demand and make a note to get the hell out of Dodge before this guy came back and launched us off the patio in the giant slingshot he no doubt hid in his cavernous biceps. After we finished our $10 pints. Johnny Diesel did no such thing. "Thees ees sheet! I feenish my vine vhen I vant to, I leef vhen I vant to!" (This is a poor artist's rendering of a Finnish accent. The best I could do.) Somehow, Johnny Diesel found his way to us, I guess because he needed to further voice his frustration with the management. And every other authoritarian body known to man. He hates government. All of them. He hates paying taxes and in an effort to avoid paying them, he traipses around the world, working jobs in some complicated field of aerospace or nutrition or something, I can't remember, for no longer than 90 days at each post. He openly explained that he was there to meet some woman, who was not his wife, with the intention of engaging in extramarital relations with her. This guy was intense. And, like I said, probably a little insane. We saw him at another bar, later that night and he seemed to have calmed down very slightly but by this time, his teeth were the shade of eggplant and he was having difficulty with the concept of speaking and keeping his saliva in his mouth at the same time. And he was still wearing a leather blazer. Which, in my opinion, is the most ridiculous thing about him.
A few words on Notre Dame: Go. Shit. That is one word on Notre Dame. Okay, a few more: Go soon and with as much time to spare as you can. Get the audio tour for 5 Euro. You'll be glad you did. Light a candle, see the treasury and try to do it on a day when the crown of thorns is being displayed. We missed that, but it really would have been a nice touch. For me, it was enough knowing that I was in the same room as where the crown of thorns occasionally hangs out. But if I had been there on a day when it was out for the seeing, I don't think that that would have been enough.
So, side note real quick before I have to go, I'm going to praise myself again. Get ready. I had at least five people in France tell me that I had a perfect French accent. Granted, they were hearing me say one word, of the five that I actually know, at a time. And granted, I had to explain that despite extensive French training in school, I had retained the equivalent of no French at all, but still. Like, go me. Seriously, I am awesome.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Aaaaand... We're back. Here. In America. Our plane did not plummet into the icy depths of the Atlantic Ocean and I can't even really complain about the any part of the travel involved with this particular trip. Which means I can't be witty about it, so we'll move on now.
While I wish I could recount every detail of this trip in vivid, technicolor writing, that would be impossible. There are entirely too many weirdos and crazy people, too many paintings and massive sculptures, too many plants and an odd lack of actual animals. I can cover the highlights, though.
There are no squirrels in Paris. None. I mean that, I did not see a single bright eyed or bushy tailed vermin the entire time I was there. I saw a ton of dogs, all on leashes, none of them mauling innocent bystanders or the elderly. For the most part, I find that French dogs are considerably more refined than the average American congressperson. For instance, they don't shit. There is less evidence of dog bowel activity in Paris than there is human. We've covered the subject of Paris's unpleasant odor and I can personally assure you that not a single dog had anything to do with it.
We should discuss the trash can situation though. It is altogether baffling to me that the Parisian government did not invest in a more decorative receptacle for the rubbish generated by the city's occupants and visitors. Everything I saw in France was elegant, detailed and well considered. Some of it ridiculously so. So it alarms me that the were not bothered to consider the rubbish receptacle. If I had to guess, there are 20 million trash depositories in Paris. They are all the same. These receptacles consist of one green pole, approximately three feet in height, with a green hoop, approximately 12 inches in diameter affixed in much the same manner as a basketball hoop would be to a backboard, with a clear green trash bag placed unceremoniously in said hoop and allowed to flow freely in the breeze until filled with empty packs of cigarettes, the napkins involved with the consumption of baguette and ice cream (Don't be fooled by all the hoopla, this all anyone eats in France.) and everything else that you can think of except for dog waste. Kris has surmised that they designed the bins this way so that one can see when the bin is full. But he is insane and I don't believe him. Plus, I don't think I ever saw anyone actually empty or change a rubbish bin. It is like Paris is the Great City of Disappearing Trash. Jolly well, I say. Can't complain about that.
I met a great many interesting people while in Paris. I had the honor of meeting a lovely Australian couple my first night there. Damien and Marisa were funny, light hearted and made the night a great success when the best I hope for was to hear three or four English words in a night. Thank God for them or I might not have gone out the second night and met my new friends Tim, David and Mattieu (I may or may not be spelling that right. But I presume this is French for Matthew and it is a hell of a lot more fun to say.). It happens that Tim and David, one of the absolute most adorable couples I have ever met, live right here in DC and we will be rendezvousing for spaghetti and meatballs when Mattieu visits next week. I guess that is one of the idiosyncrasies of travel, you sometimes meet people you have the pleasure of knowing again, if you're lucky.
And I was. My trip to France really changed my outlook on a lot of things. I had a hard second day there, but I am very very glad that I did what I did. And I'm even more glad that Kris was able to join me there. There is a line in Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer, which was a notation by Chris McCandless, that says "HAPPINESS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED." It's totally true. I could have spent that week in Paris alone. And I probably would have enjoyed it. But it wouldn't have been the same. It would have been as fun. I think the people I met in France and the person that joined me in France made the fact that I will someday again visit France a truth, rather than a wish.
So, thank you France. Thank you Damien and Marisa. Thank you Tim and David and Mattieu. And thanks, Kris, for following me to France.
I will continue to blog about my trip to Paris over the next couple of days but if you will excuse me, I have to go write a letter to the French government about the scent of the Metro and the lack of decorative trash receptacles. And then I have to cook something before I jump out of my own skin.
While I wish I could recount every detail of this trip in vivid, technicolor writing, that would be impossible. There are entirely too many weirdos and crazy people, too many paintings and massive sculptures, too many plants and an odd lack of actual animals. I can cover the highlights, though.
There are no squirrels in Paris. None. I mean that, I did not see a single bright eyed or bushy tailed vermin the entire time I was there. I saw a ton of dogs, all on leashes, none of them mauling innocent bystanders or the elderly. For the most part, I find that French dogs are considerably more refined than the average American congressperson. For instance, they don't shit. There is less evidence of dog bowel activity in Paris than there is human. We've covered the subject of Paris's unpleasant odor and I can personally assure you that not a single dog had anything to do with it.
We should discuss the trash can situation though. It is altogether baffling to me that the Parisian government did not invest in a more decorative receptacle for the rubbish generated by the city's occupants and visitors. Everything I saw in France was elegant, detailed and well considered. Some of it ridiculously so. So it alarms me that the were not bothered to consider the rubbish receptacle. If I had to guess, there are 20 million trash depositories in Paris. They are all the same. These receptacles consist of one green pole, approximately three feet in height, with a green hoop, approximately 12 inches in diameter affixed in much the same manner as a basketball hoop would be to a backboard, with a clear green trash bag placed unceremoniously in said hoop and allowed to flow freely in the breeze until filled with empty packs of cigarettes, the napkins involved with the consumption of baguette and ice cream (Don't be fooled by all the hoopla, this all anyone eats in France.) and everything else that you can think of except for dog waste. Kris has surmised that they designed the bins this way so that one can see when the bin is full. But he is insane and I don't believe him. Plus, I don't think I ever saw anyone actually empty or change a rubbish bin. It is like Paris is the Great City of Disappearing Trash. Jolly well, I say. Can't complain about that.
I met a great many interesting people while in Paris. I had the honor of meeting a lovely Australian couple my first night there. Damien and Marisa were funny, light hearted and made the night a great success when the best I hope for was to hear three or four English words in a night. Thank God for them or I might not have gone out the second night and met my new friends Tim, David and Mattieu (I may or may not be spelling that right. But I presume this is French for Matthew and it is a hell of a lot more fun to say.). It happens that Tim and David, one of the absolute most adorable couples I have ever met, live right here in DC and we will be rendezvousing for spaghetti and meatballs when Mattieu visits next week. I guess that is one of the idiosyncrasies of travel, you sometimes meet people you have the pleasure of knowing again, if you're lucky.
And I was. My trip to France really changed my outlook on a lot of things. I had a hard second day there, but I am very very glad that I did what I did. And I'm even more glad that Kris was able to join me there. There is a line in Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer, which was a notation by Chris McCandless, that says "HAPPINESS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED." It's totally true. I could have spent that week in Paris alone. And I probably would have enjoyed it. But it wouldn't have been the same. It would have been as fun. I think the people I met in France and the person that joined me in France made the fact that I will someday again visit France a truth, rather than a wish.
So, thank you France. Thank you Damien and Marisa. Thank you Tim and David and Mattieu. And thanks, Kris, for following me to France.
I will continue to blog about my trip to Paris over the next couple of days but if you will excuse me, I have to go write a letter to the French government about the scent of the Metro and the lack of decorative trash receptacles. And then I have to cook something before I jump out of my own skin.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The World is My Toilette
Note: My spellcheck is broken and the highest grade I completed was third. Don't judge me, please. Or actually, go ahead. Like I care.
The French have the most ineffcient toilets I have ever seen in my life. Okay, so there is approximately a coffee cup worth of water in each vessel(the vessel being slightly smaller than your usual American toilet, which contains all of the necessary water immediately at your disposal.). You are expected to expel all of you waste into said vessel, often creating a backlog of, um, stuff, in said vessel. Upon my arrival I assumed that this was a matter of water conservation, or, in the very least, economics. Then I flushed a toilet.
I did not have the courage to use a toilet for it's ultimate purpose immediately as all are controlled by a duo of buttons, neither of which are marked by reference to their use. When I entered my hotel room and discovered the abundance of flushing options, I gingerly pressed the left button, allowing it time to spray me in the face with fresh toilet water if that is what happened to be the intention of the left button's position.
I then quickly pressed the right option and jumped behind the door of my bathroom, just in case that particular button meant "drown American tourist with torrent of water, alllowing room for European tourist who happens to understand the mechanics of the double bathroom button and is willing to pay 10 more Euro a night". I donned a pair of goggles especially for this purpose. I did not drown.
Both seemed to illicit the same reaction from the toilet: Niagra falls in tiny toilet relief. It was actually quite spectacular if you happen to be impressed by wasting water. Like I said, I initially assumed that one option was utilized for the purpose of drowning innocent people. The other, I figured, was for urine. I was wrong on both counts. The toilet, and it is always a double button option on every single toilet you use here in Paris, (maybe France, maybe Europe) is also probably the same in space. If I had to guess how they pee in space. Either way, it always smells; pressing the button always results in an overwhelming sense that the apocolypse will immediately issue forth from your current, observing (for you must always check to make sure that all of your pee has gone away for any person that might follow after you into the toilet) position and that maybe, just maybe, the toilet will actually leave the proper amount of water in your basin for the next necesarry act. It never does. Just going number one generally results in both a possible religious experience and the inverse response that one would experience when hoping to see the world's most important relic and actually finding a crappy, overcooked, inedible French fry in it's place.
I have barely touched on the issue of how much water actually rushes forth in the event of a flush. I recognize that it does essentially the same job at home but I also support the idea of a cleaner- smelling Earth. This will never happen with the inexpliccable toilets in France. It may overwhelm the septic system (and, in certain Metro stations, it really, really, really smells like it must) but I find that this is preferred by the Parisian decision makers over the other option: Febreeze.
I don't mean to complain but, well, I am an American and that is what I do. It is clear to me that that smell is going directly into the olefacory systems of innocent people who do not deserve to experience the scent of a dead body in a vent when what they really paid for was to smell a giant Parisienne rose. That is, after all, what all other subway systems in the world smell like. Right?
In essence, it appears that a city that is situated around a river that houses the largest boats I have ever personally seen in my life does not wish to properly flush a toilet for the sake of keeping a couple of ducks disease free. At least, that is the best I can figure. Just a word, Paris; Don't take this personally, but most of your city does not smell great, despite it's wonderful appearance. Go ahead and empty these overburdended toilets somewhere besides the public transportation points and you might find that you're on to something. I know of a great landfill: it's called the sewer.
The French have the most ineffcient toilets I have ever seen in my life. Okay, so there is approximately a coffee cup worth of water in each vessel(the vessel being slightly smaller than your usual American toilet, which contains all of the necessary water immediately at your disposal.). You are expected to expel all of you waste into said vessel, often creating a backlog of, um, stuff, in said vessel. Upon my arrival I assumed that this was a matter of water conservation, or, in the very least, economics. Then I flushed a toilet.
I did not have the courage to use a toilet for it's ultimate purpose immediately as all are controlled by a duo of buttons, neither of which are marked by reference to their use. When I entered my hotel room and discovered the abundance of flushing options, I gingerly pressed the left button, allowing it time to spray me in the face with fresh toilet water if that is what happened to be the intention of the left button's position.
I then quickly pressed the right option and jumped behind the door of my bathroom, just in case that particular button meant "drown American tourist with torrent of water, alllowing room for European tourist who happens to understand the mechanics of the double bathroom button and is willing to pay 10 more Euro a night". I donned a pair of goggles especially for this purpose. I did not drown.
Both seemed to illicit the same reaction from the toilet: Niagra falls in tiny toilet relief. It was actually quite spectacular if you happen to be impressed by wasting water. Like I said, I initially assumed that one option was utilized for the purpose of drowning innocent people. The other, I figured, was for urine. I was wrong on both counts. The toilet, and it is always a double button option on every single toilet you use here in Paris, (maybe France, maybe Europe) is also probably the same in space. If I had to guess how they pee in space. Either way, it always smells; pressing the button always results in an overwhelming sense that the apocolypse will immediately issue forth from your current, observing (for you must always check to make sure that all of your pee has gone away for any person that might follow after you into the toilet) position and that maybe, just maybe, the toilet will actually leave the proper amount of water in your basin for the next necesarry act. It never does. Just going number one generally results in both a possible religious experience and the inverse response that one would experience when hoping to see the world's most important relic and actually finding a crappy, overcooked, inedible French fry in it's place.
I have barely touched on the issue of how much water actually rushes forth in the event of a flush. I recognize that it does essentially the same job at home but I also support the idea of a cleaner- smelling Earth. This will never happen with the inexpliccable toilets in France. It may overwhelm the septic system (and, in certain Metro stations, it really, really, really smells like it must) but I find that this is preferred by the Parisian decision makers over the other option: Febreeze.
I don't mean to complain but, well, I am an American and that is what I do. It is clear to me that that smell is going directly into the olefacory systems of innocent people who do not deserve to experience the scent of a dead body in a vent when what they really paid for was to smell a giant Parisienne rose. That is, after all, what all other subway systems in the world smell like. Right?
In essence, it appears that a city that is situated around a river that houses the largest boats I have ever personally seen in my life does not wish to properly flush a toilet for the sake of keeping a couple of ducks disease free. At least, that is the best I can figure. Just a word, Paris; Don't take this personally, but most of your city does not smell great, despite it's wonderful appearance. Go ahead and empty these overburdended toilets somewhere besides the public transportation points and you might find that you're on to something. I know of a great landfill: it's called the sewer.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Johnny Diesel and the Mystery of the Disappearing Fortune
Sorry for the lack of recent bloggery, not that I think anyone actually cares, but the lack of last call here in Paris has dampered my ability to successfully navigate a keyboard. I'm tired tonight, too, so tonight's post will be short but do remind me to tell you about these things:
-Johnny Diesel (The Angry Finnish Tax Evader)
-Notre Dame Cathedral (Sounds boring but it's not)
-My brain's new inclination towards French pronunciation
-The Adventure of the Disappearing Money and Our Hours in France as Destitute Americans (Or, U.S.S.A.ans, in the words of Johnny Diesel.)
-How the best see the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower
I love Paris. The food is getting better due to my new- found refusal to eat anywhere near my hotel and I am considering a life as an expatriate. I have no idea of any recent news in America. This is either good or incredibly dangerous but I never bothered to check the news about France when I was back home.
When in Rome... Take the line 6 train to the line 2 train and get off at Blanche (That's a little joke I just made that I will explain if it is important to anyone else.).
Good night, and wish me good luck.
-Johnny Diesel (The Angry Finnish Tax Evader)
-Notre Dame Cathedral (Sounds boring but it's not)
-My brain's new inclination towards French pronunciation
-The Adventure of the Disappearing Money and Our Hours in France as Destitute Americans (Or, U.S.S.A.ans, in the words of Johnny Diesel.)
-How the best see the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower
I love Paris. The food is getting better due to my new- found refusal to eat anywhere near my hotel and I am considering a life as an expatriate. I have no idea of any recent news in America. This is either good or incredibly dangerous but I never bothered to check the news about France when I was back home.
When in Rome... Take the line 6 train to the line 2 train and get off at Blanche (That's a little joke I just made that I will explain if it is important to anyone else.).
Good night, and wish me good luck.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Today's post will not be a funny one. Sorry guys, but I have spent a great deal of energy on feeling the things that I have seen. I think that it is important to understand the culture in which you choose to immerse yourself. I have done my best and a great deal of time has gone into visiting cathedrals and basilicas. It is not just the stained glass, nor is it the concept behind these incredible works of art. It is the execution of design and the honest consideration that went into these buildings. I have been moved. I have been changed. I am a different person because of these works. I am a different person because of their purpose. I have found that my purpose in Paris is to see these fine examples of God's work here on Earth
I keep it no secret that I am a Christian. I love my God, my Savior and my religion. I understand those that do not. I understand that there are a great many questions that God refuses to answer. I understand why human beings, despite their upbringing, willingly choose to forsake a diety that opts for the inane, the inexplicable, the awful. We are wrought with a desire to consider our surrondings, our lives, our paths... our purpose. We are human, and by default, we wonder.
I no longer wonder. Paris has explained the inexplicable. I might have found the answers at home, but I found them here instead. And for that, I am grateful.
Wonder, I think, is what brought me to Paris. Wonder is why I exist. It must be. I am a person alert to the unbearable. I am a person familiar with the idea of wrought emotion. I will be honest, I wish for nothing more than the desolation that sociopaths enjoy. If I could be, I would be inconsiderate. But I have felt an overwhelming inclination to light a candle at each cathedral I visit. This candle is lit for my brother's soul.
Do I believe in Heaven? Do I believe in Hell? I do not know. I believe in Mercy, in Justice, in Peace and in Love. I believe in God. I even believe in a God that stole away my brother and with him, my very core, my very soul. I did not know it at the time of his departure, but I believed in Safety. And now, I believe that is where, if I looked, if I was brave enough to look, I would find my brother. In Safety. In Peace. And in Love. And in Justice. I believe, after today, that it is my brother who is guiding me through Paris. I believe that he has and he will be with me because I know that I took this trip for him, with him and because of him. He is with me and he always will be. It was he that broke me and it will be him that heals me.
I Love You, Cody. And I miss you. Thank you for your guidance and your typical infalibility. You are my map and my compass.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
How Do You Say "My Feet Are Going Going To Stop Working" in French?
Fucking Hannah Montana. That bitch is everywhere. If I may be honest, I did not come to France to eat French food and experience French culture and see French stuff. I came to France to get the hell away from Hannah fucking Montana. Of course, I did not know that this is why I came to France when I left America. I only noticed that this was my intention when I kept seeing that fake blonde hair with the fake (I'm certain of it.) white teeth and the weird, slightly inbred looking face of hers everywhere. I hate Hannah Montana. Make no mistake about it, if I got the chance I would throw her in the deep end of a pool with the hope that no one ever bothered to teach her to swim.
So, I've nearly been murdered twice today. And three times yesterday. I don't know what the French laws are regarding bicylclular homicide but I'm pretty sure if I had the right information about the people that nearly killed me, I would be able to get a couple of people convicted of attempted murder. I know what you're thinking. "Pay attention, Tiffany. You're in a foreign city. You must be careful." But I am being careful. I am paying attention. I am so completely aware of my surroundings that if someone were to ask me to describe the guy who sat behind me while I had coffee today, I could tell you every detail down to whether or not his pants had a hem and pleats (Hem. No pleats.) These people are just riding around in a murderous rage, targeting innocent people. They don't even ring the bells provided on every French bicycle I've seen. They aim and hope for the worst. When people insinuated that Paris was dangerous, I had no idea they were speaking of the people on two wheels. I don't want to die. Someone has to do something about this.
While we're on the subject, I would like to note that French people are not rude. I don't know who the hell put this idea out there that they are all snooty and stuck up and unwilling to help (Well, except the people who ride bicycles. They're all assholes. But that is true in America and probably everywhere else in the universe.). I just want to clear this up. French people are nice. They are helpful. And they are, for the most part, infuriatingly well dressed. Which, I suppose is why I cannot find a single pair of comfortable shoes.
I'm very seriously considering amputating my own feet. Or at least my toes. I know what you're thinking. "You should have brought comfortable shoes, Tiffany. You're in a foreign country. Don't be an idiot." But I did bring comfortable shoes. It's just, they aren't comfortable anymore. I don't even know why God bothered putting feet on a person like me. He must have known all I was going to do was complain about them.
This morning, I went to Sacre Couer. I think that means Holy Cross. It is conveniently perched atop the most astonishingly steep hill I have ever had the displeasure of traversing in my life. Now, listen, I'm not complaining. I'm just saying. There was a tram I could have taken to make my way conveniently up the hill in one sixteenth of the time but I didn't want to do that for a couple of reasons. One, there were about 500 people wearing Birkenstocks and black socks waiting in line for the tram tickets. I did not want to deal with them and it would have been absolutely absurd for me to wait for them to thin out so I could buy own ticket. That is something a crazy person would do. Also, I did not want to miss anything. So I took the Hell Steps. These are so called (by me) because this is what they place in the seventh circle of Hell. You have to walk up these steps while all of the German people on the tram point and laugh at you. The people who receive this punishment are those that kill their own mothers or purchase impractical shoes. If you ask me, the punishment is a little severe for my taste but you live and learn, ya know? Anyway. I made it up the hill and into the basilica. And it was worth it. You can't take pictures inside because, you know, the flash would offend God and the French and I know there were some Japanese tourists in there freaking out. But I understand. Flashes are a little, um, flashy for church. And besides, it's really something you must see. Put it on your bucket list. The beauty of it literally made me cry. The other thing you're supposed to do is shut the hell up once you're inside. This is a concept most did not grasp. But it was beautiful. Beautiful and hot and loud. But worth it.
Later, I stumbled upon an even larger, more beautiful cathedral. This one was completely empty but for six or seven very quiet, very reverent people. And it was cool. I couldn't figure out why there weren't more people there and then I realized, it's not on top of an inconvenient hill. Who wants to visit a cool, quiet, elderly sanctuary of bliss if it is not a huge pain in the ass to get to? Well, besides me. Sainte Germaine, I think it's called. They have an 11:30 mass on Sunday. I am so there. That may very well be the highlight of my trip. I wish I had balls enough to take pictures of it. But I'm quite terrified of offending God. Just in case He's French.
So, I've nearly been murdered twice today. And three times yesterday. I don't know what the French laws are regarding bicylclular homicide but I'm pretty sure if I had the right information about the people that nearly killed me, I would be able to get a couple of people convicted of attempted murder. I know what you're thinking. "Pay attention, Tiffany. You're in a foreign city. You must be careful." But I am being careful. I am paying attention. I am so completely aware of my surroundings that if someone were to ask me to describe the guy who sat behind me while I had coffee today, I could tell you every detail down to whether or not his pants had a hem and pleats (Hem. No pleats.) These people are just riding around in a murderous rage, targeting innocent people. They don't even ring the bells provided on every French bicycle I've seen. They aim and hope for the worst. When people insinuated that Paris was dangerous, I had no idea they were speaking of the people on two wheels. I don't want to die. Someone has to do something about this.
While we're on the subject, I would like to note that French people are not rude. I don't know who the hell put this idea out there that they are all snooty and stuck up and unwilling to help (Well, except the people who ride bicycles. They're all assholes. But that is true in America and probably everywhere else in the universe.). I just want to clear this up. French people are nice. They are helpful. And they are, for the most part, infuriatingly well dressed. Which, I suppose is why I cannot find a single pair of comfortable shoes.
I'm very seriously considering amputating my own feet. Or at least my toes. I know what you're thinking. "You should have brought comfortable shoes, Tiffany. You're in a foreign country. Don't be an idiot." But I did bring comfortable shoes. It's just, they aren't comfortable anymore. I don't even know why God bothered putting feet on a person like me. He must have known all I was going to do was complain about them.
This morning, I went to Sacre Couer. I think that means Holy Cross. It is conveniently perched atop the most astonishingly steep hill I have ever had the displeasure of traversing in my life. Now, listen, I'm not complaining. I'm just saying. There was a tram I could have taken to make my way conveniently up the hill in one sixteenth of the time but I didn't want to do that for a couple of reasons. One, there were about 500 people wearing Birkenstocks and black socks waiting in line for the tram tickets. I did not want to deal with them and it would have been absolutely absurd for me to wait for them to thin out so I could buy own ticket. That is something a crazy person would do. Also, I did not want to miss anything. So I took the Hell Steps. These are so called (by me) because this is what they place in the seventh circle of Hell. You have to walk up these steps while all of the German people on the tram point and laugh at you. The people who receive this punishment are those that kill their own mothers or purchase impractical shoes. If you ask me, the punishment is a little severe for my taste but you live and learn, ya know? Anyway. I made it up the hill and into the basilica. And it was worth it. You can't take pictures inside because, you know, the flash would offend God and the French and I know there were some Japanese tourists in there freaking out. But I understand. Flashes are a little, um, flashy for church. And besides, it's really something you must see. Put it on your bucket list. The beauty of it literally made me cry. The other thing you're supposed to do is shut the hell up once you're inside. This is a concept most did not grasp. But it was beautiful. Beautiful and hot and loud. But worth it.
Later, I stumbled upon an even larger, more beautiful cathedral. This one was completely empty but for six or seven very quiet, very reverent people. And it was cool. I couldn't figure out why there weren't more people there and then I realized, it's not on top of an inconvenient hill. Who wants to visit a cool, quiet, elderly sanctuary of bliss if it is not a huge pain in the ass to get to? Well, besides me. Sainte Germaine, I think it's called. They have an 11:30 mass on Sunday. I am so there. That may very well be the highlight of my trip. I wish I had balls enough to take pictures of it. But I'm quite terrified of offending God. Just in case He's French.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Paris by Numbers
Against all odds and good judgement, I have made my way to Paris. I've been here for about twelve hours and I somehow managed to experience about the same number of adventures in as many hours. As I had decided to do things the "Parisian" way (It is now my understanding that a great many Parisians own vehicles, or at least bicycles, which are just as deadly. But more on that later.), my first task was to purchase my Metro ticket, which is good for five days and either cost me $50 or $1000 (I have yet to figure out the euro to dollar ratio. But more on that later.). I had been advised to pack light. So I did. Or so I thought I did. Evidently, "light" is a matter of circumstance and a concept to which I am completely unaccustomed. I had only one small suitcase, a laptop bag that weighed the same as what I imagine a baby whooly mammoth would weigh if they still existed and my adorable, not so French, Coach purse. I packed less for a trip to the fashion capital of the universe than I did for a week when I wound up wearing nothing but bikinis and sundresses (Jamaica. Food sucks. Go for the beach and eat nachos while you're there. Abanodon all hope of fine dining upon boarding your plane. Do this and you will enjoy the island.). I am a moron.
At any rate, I managed to locate and board the correct train and even remove myself from said train at the proper stop. This is where the ease ended. The directions provided to me by my very swank, incredibly tiny hotel, instructed that I would need to to "walk a little inside Gare du Nord" in order to locate my connecting Metro station, La Chapelle. What I think they meant to say was, "once you have lugged one hundred and thirty pounds of luggage up the most narrow and incredibly steep staircase in Paris, you will then find yourself lost. Turn around eight times, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, inquire "Parlez vous l'anglais" four times, to no avail, and eventually you will decide that you are hot, tired and want to lug your suitcase, a laptop you're not even sure you want anymore and yourself up another staircase just because you sense a breeze and can smell someone else smoking a cigarette somewhere nearby. Then you have reached La Chapelle Station." And that is how I found myself at La Chapelle, a mere four or six stops away from Blanche, my destination station. This is only after I found myself, my luggage and a tiny poodle (attached to a leash manned by an octogenarian) trapped in the teeth of a turnstile that was trying, and I mean this literally, to eat me. The wonderful woman understood, despite the language barrier, that I was, in fact, a moron and instructed me to give her "le sac" (my damn purse) in order to help free me from the grips of the monster that threatened my life. I escaped and the rest of the train journey went fairly well.
So, after I settled into my room, placed my clothing on the shelves that I assume are there for the same reason that, in any other place in the world, a bureau would be, and took a four hour "nap," I decided to explore my surroundings. And get a sandwich. I found a lovely little bistro at the corner of Rue Lepic and I don't know where and ordered a glass of chardonay and a Croque Monsuier. Which happened to be the size of my head(the sandwich, not the wine). At some point, about an hour into the sandwich and a glass and a half of wine later, a lovely elderly Frenchman and an adorable mutt that appeared to be a cross between a Corgi and something distantly related to Chewbaca approached me with the request that I share a cigarette. This gentleman happened to notice that I smoked some bizarre kind of cigarette that they don't have access to in France and wanted to give it a try. Aside from his insistance that white wine was deez-gust-eeng, he was a wealth of information and very friendly, besides. He informed me that he had no idea that I was not a Parisienne and that, if he had known, he might have asked me to his studio to paint me. Apparently, he's a painter. Apparently, French women melt at the insinuation of being painted. I don't believe any of this for a minute. Anyway, he gave me a peach. I'm not going to eat it because I think it might be like the apple that Snow White gets that turns her into a dwarf or whatever, but it's really lovely and it smells nice.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The Day Before the First Day of the Rest of My Life
Several months ago, I decided to quit my perfectly good job in one of the worst economic situations since before my birth to apply to culinary school. This is not an uncommon story... Girl hates job, girl knows she's bound for culinary greatness, girl quits job, girl hopes for best... What is uncommon about my situation is that it is about me. Me, the person who generally plans her weekends a month in advance and has selected an outfit at least three days beforehand. Me, the person with a steady paycheck and nice shoes to prove it. I guess that this also about the me that decided a week ago to go to France after one too many Belinis and the me that just popped a Xanax in order to prepare for tomorrow's seven hundred hour flight to Paris. It's just, I only recently discovered that version of me.
Let's get a few things straight... (1) I am uncomfortable with the idea of taking risks. It gives me the same feeling that one thousand brown recluse spiders and one copperhead snake would give you if you found them in your bed. (2) I don't like to fly. See above regarding feelings of snakes and spiders. (3) I'm a planner. I like to plan. Having no plan makes me feel similarly to above snake/spider situation. You get the idea. I'm boring. I do not like risk. I appreciate mutual funds because they're safe. I also don't like children. But that has nothing to do with what we're talking about here, so moving on...
So, this whole taking a solo trip to Paris on a week's notice is a bit out of character. However, considering I will be going to school that teaches the art of classic French cuisine, there is a grain of reason in it. Plus, I'll only be solo for four days. My boyfriend is going to joining me for the weekend. So yeah. I'd really like it if you'd join me for my adventure. First, we'll go to France for the next week. I'll eat a lot of great food that I will then describe in the most graphic detail that I can so that you will be so jealous that you want to be me. Then, I'll keep you updated on the progress of my dire student loan situation, culinary triumphs and let downs and once school starts, I'll tell you all about the egomanical, emotionally stunted people I imagine I will be in school with.
Check back this week to follow me on my little Parisian adventure. I will periodically update my blog, facebook and, if I remember, my twitter.
This oughta be good.
Let's get a few things straight... (1) I am uncomfortable with the idea of taking risks. It gives me the same feeling that one thousand brown recluse spiders and one copperhead snake would give you if you found them in your bed. (2) I don't like to fly. See above regarding feelings of snakes and spiders. (3) I'm a planner. I like to plan. Having no plan makes me feel similarly to above snake/spider situation. You get the idea. I'm boring. I do not like risk. I appreciate mutual funds because they're safe. I also don't like children. But that has nothing to do with what we're talking about here, so moving on...
So, this whole taking a solo trip to Paris on a week's notice is a bit out of character. However, considering I will be going to school that teaches the art of classic French cuisine, there is a grain of reason in it. Plus, I'll only be solo for four days. My boyfriend is going to joining me for the weekend. So yeah. I'd really like it if you'd join me for my adventure. First, we'll go to France for the next week. I'll eat a lot of great food that I will then describe in the most graphic detail that I can so that you will be so jealous that you want to be me. Then, I'll keep you updated on the progress of my dire student loan situation, culinary triumphs and let downs and once school starts, I'll tell you all about the egomanical, emotionally stunted people I imagine I will be in school with.
Check back this week to follow me on my little Parisian adventure. I will periodically update my blog, facebook and, if I remember, my twitter.
This oughta be good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
