Sometimes I get pouty, and then I remember I live here^^
Today started out nicely, even if it is freezing again - blue sky out the window, nice note and
pain d’épices (gingerbread) from Host Mom. The concierge stopped by to drop off the ironing, and for once I was not still in my pajamas with crumbs on my sweater and yesterday's makeup hanging on for dear life. But then I missed the bus to school. The next one was in 11 minutes. Okay, at that point I had two options: wait around at the bus stop (Oh, what's that? Snow?) and be at least 11 minutes late, or give up on the cinema class I was trying to get to once and for all. Now, 11 minutes is hardly terrible, but I've already had some issues trying to go to this class, plus it's in an amphitheater in which the doors are at the front of the room. This means that you have to walk in directly under the flared nostrils of the professor, who might even send you right back out. Since I have already had the displeasure of being unable to open the door in one of these lovely horrors of modernist architecture, I was not prepared to risk getting kicked out. So, good, now I no longer have to choose between History of Aesthetics of Cinema and How to Read Poetry. Nine A.M poetry class, here I come.
After a stop by my exchange program office to pick up some paperwork, I was starting to get hungry for lunch. What would normally have necessitated a quick stop at my friendly neighborhood
boulangerie was complicated by this weekend's unfortunate discovery that my back-up debit card has expired. (Who currently owes an attractive German man 3 euros for her school book? This kid.) With $11 remaining of what was once a sizable savings, I am officially poor, but only for 3 more days, until my allowance check clears. (THANK YOU SO MUCH GRANDMOTHER!!) At this point, I would like to share a quote that I never thought I'd relate to:
8 Hunger Was Good Discipline
You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food. When you had given up journalism and were writing nothing that anyone in America would buy, explaining at home that you were lunching out with someone, the best place to go was the Luxembourg Gardens, where you saw and smelled nothing to eat all the way from the Place de l'Observatoire to the rue de Vaugirard. There you could always go into the Luxembourg Museum and all the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cezanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry. I used to wonder if he were hungry, too, when he painted; but I thought possibly it was only that he had forgotten to eat. It was one of those unsound but illuminating thoughts you have when you have been sleepless or hungry. later I thought Cezanne was probably hungry in a different way.
- from A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
Okay, so I'm not disciplined and I borrowed 2 euros from a friend and bought a loaf of bread. No illuminating thoughts for me, thank you. But I did share it with the
chomeur sitting outside the bakery. I think most of us have walked past beggars and either pretended not to hear them or straight up lied and said we didn't have any money, sometimes maybe we don't have any cash, more often we don't have any small change.
In Paris, it is simply not feasible to help all the beggars you see. They line the metro walls (where they sleep), they queue for public bathrooms, they flank ATM's. Then there are questions of merit -- Give to the old ones? The young girls? The people holding children? The ones with puppies? Soon, you start to recognize them. The girl pale girl who sits by the metro entrance at my stop; the tall, schizophrenic black guy who takes his shoes off and puts his feet up on line 4; the man who wears sunglasses at St. Germain-des-Près. Earlier this winter, I decided to "adopt" the old man who stands outside the Monoprix on my block. What does that mean? I buy him a bag of bread about once a month. Okay, it's not great, but it's something. Except this week, for the first time in my life, when he held out his little cup, I could choose between him having dinner or me.
(Before my mother has a heart-attack, I should clarify: I get breakfast every morning at my homestay, and Host Mom is always happy to share her food with me, even though she is only required to give me dinner three times a week. I also have some pasta and soup left. I am a far cry from starving.)
At any rate, I spend a lot of time contemplating the homeless people of Paris, and I know some of them lie about their situations, and many of them have substance abuse problems. But since I'm not above going out for a drink myself, I do try to give when I can for the simple reason that people ask. Something I remember hearing in church when I was younger: It is not for us to judge...
Anyway, me and half of my baguette made it to the university cafeteria, where I plopped down to read
Andromaque by Racine before my Théâtre et Théâtralités class. That's when the call came. Le Jumeau is in trouble. A combination of noise disturbances and not enough studying has put his housing situation, and thus his stay in Montpellier, in jeopardy. Needless to say, he was freaked, and so was I. I've known Le Jumeau since we were eight years old. On this continent, where I sometimes feel that everyone I know is an acquaintance and communicating even the most basic ideas is still something of a struggle, he knows that I am not actually retarded, and he's going through the same struggles, too. Plus, sometimes, when Paris with it's beggars and expensive food and kind though somewhat inscrutable host mothers becomes too much, Montpellier exists in my mind as an escape where I can go and be dorky and maybe hug someone without having to kiss their cheeks. If he goes, I lose that safety net.
After that call I went back to reading my play until a few of my friends sat down and we started gabbing. Because I seem to have lost all sense of
pudeur (discretion) somewhere around my junior year of high school, I started talking about the German who came to visit me this weekend, which lead to a discussion of dating in France, etc. I also gave what has to have been the most disgustingly bastardized summary of the greatest classical French tragedy in a rather loud tone of voice. But the conversation kept coming back to dating. After about 30 minutes I looked to my right, and there was D., smirking. D. is a charming Frenchman with a devilish smile who appeared in this blog briefly right when I got to France. Well, suffice it to say that he is an adult and I am ridiculous and our brief friendship went down in small, awkward flames. Is he still gorgeous? Definitely. Did he hear me give a five minute treatise on dating in Paris that included a reference to "this guy I met the first week we were here?" You betcha. I bolted.
I may have smoked a cigarette. Eventually I decided to be a big girl and say hello and then rejoin my friends. I forgot that I am painfully awkward when I made this decision. Besides, I had no face left to save. To recap, it was now 4 p.m. and I was cold, poor, almost friendless, and face to face with best looking guy to ever reject me.
Then I had a test.
After the test my Theater class went to
la Comedie Française to watch
Andromaque, which was really really good and had great costumes and sets. I wasn't really feeling very sympathetic to Andromaque and Hermione as they rejected their lovers over the course of five acts (blah blah duty blah blah) but their dresses were awesome.
Tomorrow I have scary translation classes, but hey, it's a new day.
Et voilà les nouvelles.
Louis XIV hated Paris. This was probably because of the angry mob that attacked the Louvre when he was a child. And who can blame him? Angry Parisians are pretty freaking scary one on one. De plus, in what sounds like the plot of the latest Keira Knightley movie, nobles (even members of his own family!) were spending the long, electricity-less hours in their far-flung chateaux plotting to overthrow first his dad and then Cardinal Mazalan, Louis' regent after he was crowned at the ripe old age of five. So once Louis
He was married to Marie Antoinette, who was a little too social. They were also like 18 when they came to power. If their coronation happened today, he would pick at his acne nervously and she would text the whole time. We all know how that story ends.
