Here we are on day 18 of the new year and things are going swell.
The Irishman and the doge just get more lovable by the day. I'm enjoying my new job as Personal Assistant to a Head of Division who knows a thing or two about leadership. Since my big New Year's resolution post, I'm down 1.6 kg. And even though winter has finally arrived, Paris can be quite cozy -- chocolat chaud at Cafe de Flore, anyone?
I'll do an honest-to-goodness cleanse before January wraps up, but in the meantime I thought I'd share this four-ingredient (six if you count the garnishes) soup that's as delicious as it is warm.
Butternut Bliss Soup
If the soup doesn't warm you up, there's always Armagnac.
Ingredients:
1 large butternut squash, peeled and cut into cubes
2 medium white or yellow onions, chopped
2 tablespoons butter
2-3 cups broth (chicken or vegetable)
chives and creme fraiche to season
Heat the butter in a large pot and add the chopped onions. Sauté until translucent
Add the squash then the broth. Cover and boil over medium heat for about 10 minutes until the squash is tender. Really, you should be able to cut it with a spoon.
Using a slotted spoon, transfer the squash and onion from the pot to a food processor or blender. Blend until smooth.
Stir your puréed veggies back into the broth. Serve with a dollop of creme fraiche and a sprinkle of chives.
Okay, I get it. Resolutions to lose 10 lbs or start a new healthy eating plan or write that novel in the upcoming year are pretty much doomed from the get go, which also makes making them kind of, well, pathetic. I know this -- hell, I've comforted my unresolved self with all the articles about the resolution-initial effort-failure feedback loop every December for at least 5 years running. I know that most of us well-intentioned ninnies will fall off the wagon by February (where I come from we call that Mardi Gras). And yet.
This year, I'ma do it anyway. I'm going to try putting myself out there in an Amy Schumer flailing among the Knicks Girls at the end of Trainwreck kind of way.
Multifunctionality at the Instituutti: cafe by day, performance space by night. Photo credits: CUT architectures
As mille et un hipster apologists have extolled and more and more start-ups are commodifying, there is a certain current of back-to-basics nostalgia and existential longing for innovative simplicity (zen) among millenials. Virgin landscapes, perhaps especially those of the far north, call to us even, or especially, as they warm -- glaciers at once receding into themselves and insodoing, falling heavily into the same psychological dark spot we reserve for the realisation that we may never be able to afford a mortgage, that we might always work in admin.
It was fitting then, trendy even, that the raucously talented young musicians of the Sinfonietta Paris Chamber Orchestra should perform Finnish composer Jean Sibelius's still unpublished Piano Quintet in G Minor on what would have been his 150th birthday this past Friday at the Institut Finlandais.
The institute's performance space conforms to all of the precepts that have made Scandinavian aesthetics so universally comfortable - clean lines, natural materials, light. The lobby outfront unapologetically presents minimalist pottery by Finnish designers and hand-knitted linens at prices one can only assume guarantee the artisans a standard of living befitting citizenship of a country with famously low income-inequality.
The orchestra director and the directrice of the Institute both made short remarks before the concert that struck charming notes of cheer and practicality, like an Ikea bedspread. The concert began with "Svartsjukans Nätter" (Nights of Jealousy), a melodrama composed of strings, piano, soprano and oratory. Since I "get" classical music about as much as I do, well, someone speaking in Finnish, I can only speak to how deftly the piece navigated an emotional range between violins that sounded like refreshing summer rain and poetry reading like Loki dying of heartbreak.
Unsurprising in this era of grappling, of split priorities, of alternately recasting and romanticizing the past and of cynicism confronting pugnacious optimism in the present, the Sinfonietta is struggling to stay alive. Afterall, what could be more supercilious than a chamber orchestra? What could be more vital than preserving cultural masterpieces, of adequately rewarding hard work and immense talent? Donate here.
While it might have come out on 30 July over in the New World, Tom Cruise's newest beat-the-baddies installment "Mission : Impossible 5 - Rogue Nation" doesn't open 'til Wednesday here in France. (I'm not sure why the delay, but then again I'm sitting in Starboock listening to Shaggy's "Angel," so perhaps the French aren't so bothered about sitting at the front of the mainstream pop culture bandwagon.)
The Irishman is unabashedly a fan of Tom Cruise and the franchise -- he claims it's the stunts and the jokes, I think he also identifies with the character/actor's unfailing good-guy persona ;) -- so a quick search for screenings on AlloCine.fr led us to an avant première at Le Grand Rex, one of the oldest and swankest cinemas in Paris, which also does cine-concerts, live shows, film panels, and premiers.
Booking in advance is advisable. The tickets for the pre-screening were cheaper than for a normal Saturday night showing at 10 euros each - and we also added two drinks to our reservation to save time at the candy counter.
The movie was playing in La Grande Salle which, spoiler, looks like this:
Photo courtesy of tout-paris.org, because my iPhone 4 camera sucks
For the past three years, the Irishman has taken me to Le Georges restaurant on the roof of the Centre Pompidou to celebrate America's birthday with a view on the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame.
The food is summery, the waitresses slinky-chic, and the view unmatched. Don't miss the angle on Sacré Coeur on the way back down the outside escalator. Ask for a table outside for the best ambiance. Reservations encouraged.
Sorry blogosphere, the last six weeks have been a whirlwind. I started work and spent a lot of free time (fruitlessly) house-hunting. But let's focus on the fabulous!
Through my old university, I met one amazing woman in September! NT is a pilot, race car driver/navigator, helps the blind, and not least of all owns a hot air balloon! At the end of what seemed to be a rough week for everyone in Paris, she casually mentioned that she and some friends were heading down to the chateau where she keeps her montgolfière and invited the Irishman and I along.
The next day we found ourselves racing through the Gare de Montparnasse as fast as my chubby and high-heeled little legs could carry me. Safely aboard the train to Le Mans (with a full 2 minutes to spare!), we settled into our separate seats and I got to do the NYTimes crossword puzzle on the Irishman's iPad for a while until he found me and took it away to read BBC Sport.
Arriving in Le Mans, we were met by NT's dashing French husband and her American-naturalized-French friend who happens to look EXACTLY like Joan Cusack circa 1993. She must get a lot of people staring at her trying to figure out where they've seen that face before because she's got a great, aren't-you-cute-now-stop-staring wink. I've got to get on developing one.
The chateau was indeed a little French castle of a design comparable to Bagatelle, and when we arrived it's lovely owners, an American former supermodel and her aristocratic hubby, were serving up the red and a delicious lentil soup while a splendid fire roared away under a bust of one of the rois Henri.
The city's still a dream in sandy stone and wrought iron. This time there's a charming Irishman around to make everything more fun. In the evenings we cook and walk around the 16eme; on the weekends we vow we'll stay in and rest and then don't. Work doesn't start until October 1st so I have loads of time to roam around and search for an apartment of my own as well as play the femme au foyer in the teeny kitchen of the Irishman's flatshare.
One of the best parts of returning to the sprawl of sandcastles on the Seine has been revisiting a few old favorites. Now-Former Host Mom greeted me with a big hug and tizane in the same chic apartment, having just returned from my old nemesis, la piscine. Another highlight was finally bringing the Irishman and a friend to Le Temps des Cerises (31, rue de la Cerisaie, 4e) my favorite little bistro tucked away in the Marais. They've raised their prices (about 19 euros for a main, 8 for appetizers or dessert) and added a vegetarian option to the menu (yay!), with the same cozy ambiance and friendly staff.
The settling in process is a bit of a drag as I search for cheap, furnished accommodation. One problem I keep running into is the necessity of a French bank account to do just about anything. HSBC already rejected my request saying my salary as a teaching assistant will be trop juste to make me worth their while. Quels snobs! Trying again with Société Générale on Thursday. Any bank recommendations out there?
Apart from my continued mission to improve my French, I've now added 3 more goals:
Not deform any of the young minds that will be in my charge for 12 hours each week,
Get my cardiovascular fitness up to par with the Irishman so I don't have to stand and pant on the sidewalk while he jogs on all Rocky-like up the Champs Elysées.
Find gainful employment over here-- gainful meaning something that gets me above the French equivalent of the poverty line.
Yours truly got the good news last week: it's back to France in the fall, this time as an assistant étranger d'anglais at (a) primary school(s) in the Académie de Créteil!
"What the heck is the Académie de Créteil?" you ask. Why, it's the totality of schools on the western half of Ile-de-France. Which could be awesome (life within the bounds of the Paris Métro ligne 8, s'il vous plaît) or awesome in a more rural, La Vie tranquille sort of way. Of course with the Irishman living somewhere between Palais Royal and the Champs next fall, I think you know which I'd prefer...
That's Créteil hugging the eastern side of Paris for dear life in this inset. (Depressingly, this is a graphic showing how many jobs were cut in 2011 by académie.)
Oh, and the best part: they're paying me to come over this time -- roughly 800 euros a month to speak English to French children for 12 hours a week. Mmmhmm.
As you might remember from the first part of this story, the thing to do if you want to extend your student visa is to START EARLY. Failing that, gather together as many of the requisite documents as you can, and then...lie. I can tell you to do that because an honest-to-God, real French fonctionnaire told me to.
I needed to keep my visa to be eligible to work in France. (Can we get the US an honorary membership in the EU, please?) Apparently prolonging it isn't even an option, which left me with renouvellement, renewal. So I showed up on July 4, the day my visa expired, with as many of the documents from the list as I could scrape together.
After waking up at 6:00 a.m. in order to be on time for my 8:00 a.m. appointment, I stood in line with some other exchange students and Parisians trying to get their drivers' licenses. When I finally reached the gate keeper fonctionnaire, he promptly sent me away for not having a photo copy of my host mom's Carte d'identité. Boo hiss. Failure. I left in shame and panic. Six hours, one afternoon wasted waiting for documents that weren't even in the mail yet, and 48 métro stops later, I'm back. Nevermind that I don't have the merest whisper of a translated birth certificate or proof of enrollment for the upcoming school year; picture of host mom's picture ID in hand, I got a number and - oh boy! - a seat.
When my number was called I got my first break of the day: my caseworker was a man! not only a man, but a youngish, non-grouchy man! I felt somewhat relieved, but the stress of the day and my still somewhat slim file must have showed on my face. He smiled, told me to take a seat, and not to look so scared. He gave me a form to start filling out.
Where was my birth certificate?
"Well, you know, I'm from la Nouvelle Orléans, and there was this hurricane, which really messed up--"
Doesn't matter. The embassy could write something up in that case. Next issue: enrollment for this year?
"Well, I'm still deciding whether I want to stay on as an exchange student or enroll directly..."
Questionable. Was I done filling out the form yet?
"...I think I spelled my name wrong."
And that is the story of how yours truly got a temporary extension, to be replaced by a renewal after a second meeting, currently set for October 3, by which point I'll "have all the documents together." I'm pretty sure my fonctionnaire saw through the little scheme, but he seemed to find me an appealing character, and I was more than ready to be sympatico with him.
And that seems to be how Paris works: in a town that knocks you down a thousand times a day, you have to give people a reason to smile at you, either by cutting them a break or being the prettiest girl they've seen all afternoon. Little bits of solidarity in the big, bad city; little glimmers of vulnerability showing through stony don't-fuck-with-me faces. One of the most appealing qualities of Paris is how human it is, despite all the masterpieces and elaborate grooming, it's still a place that's okay with nudity, emotional and physical, but show some restraint, doucement, doucement.
Ok, first of all, when I was nearly hysterical and pulling my hair out I couldn't find a satisfactory answer for this online, so I should say that there is probably a simpler way to do this, and if you do want to prolong your student visa, you should DEFINITELY start TWO MONTHS before it expires. (NB: If you have not yet applied for your visa, be sure to get the full year you are entitled. At the consulate, my interview was with some girl who thought it would be cute to set my visa expiration for Independence Day. Let me tell you, there were no fireworks for me on the 4th, just lots of métro rides and photocopying.)
So, if you are still outside the two final months of your visa, by all means, head for the Préfecture, and you'll probably have little or no trouble with the process I outlined last month. If you are already in that danger zone, hightail it up to Porte de Clignacourt with your passport (secure all of your valuables first) and get ready to stand in line. What you are going to do now is a little bit tricky. Luckily, I got a lady who was about to go on holiday and had just had a lovely chat with a cute indie gay couple whom she seemed to know pretty well (fonctionnaires' moods makes all the difference in these instances). I told her I needed to extend my visa to work for the summer. If my employer had been willing to give me an embauche d'emploi or contract, this all could have been over in 20 minutes, but no...
**NB: Americans can stay in France 90 days past the expiration of their visas. Your status automatically becomes that of a tourist. However, tourists can not work or attend school.**
Here's what we did: She gave me an appointment for July 4 (my own personal D-Day) and a list of documents I needed to renew my visa. Extension didn't seem to be an option. The list included:
Passport, titre de séjour/yellow OFII thing, visa
*Official* translation of birth certificate into French,
Proof of funds - a notarized letter from my parents saying they'd spot me 500 euros a month sufficed (ha! lucky the immigration officials don't know my parents)
Proof of housing for at least the next 3 months - My host mom wrote an attestation d'hebergement and gave me an electricity bill from within the past 6 months, and it turned out I needed a photocopy of her passport or carte d'identité, too.
Proof of enrollment and grades from the last school year,
Proof of enrollment for the upcoming school year.
With a wink she told me to say that I had not yet found the program qui me va for the next year. Stay tuned for how the appointment went down.
Most of you know by now that I found a job at the last minute. I currently make 8 euros an hour tapping Guiness and hawking haggis at a Scottish pub in the Marais. My coworkers are cool and the regulars are a mix of older Englishmen, Americans, and Frenchmen who speak perfect English. It's a good job with good people.
What I put off doing, because French bureaucracy is the stuff of nightmares, was extending my visa. The first hurdle to getting this over with was figuring out which of the multitudinous civil service offices I needed to visit. Return to OFII Office where they make you strip and then throw you against a wall for a chest x-ray? Try the exchange student office that is almost outside the city, on one of the biggest prostitution streets in Paris? How about the Préfecture de Police, the same place they take you in for questioning, drunkenness, and garde à vue? Any one of these also undoubtedly meant long waits and return visits, so perhaps you can understand my putting it off.
Yesterday I finally gathered up every possible piece of paper I could need and set off for OFII and see what was up, but the métro broke down (yay ligne 4!) on Ile de la Cité. An alarm was going off periodically and I was getting claustrophobic in the subterranean tuna can when it hit me - the Préfecture de Police is at Cité. Why not? So I hopped out and went into the vast complex to see what could be done for me.
In the Europe-Proche Orient-Amerique room I was given a piece of paper with a lot of very small print which the lady was kind enough to highlight for me, as well as mark things 1 and 2 and scrawl "ETR" and "EDF" on. Basically, I was supposed to start this process a month and a half ago. What I'm supposed to do is call a number, give them my numéro étranger (ETR) get an appointment at some offshoot of the Préfecture (bureaucracy = hydra), bring a letter from Joëlle and an electricity bill (EDF) to prove I'm not homeless and then...I don't know, pray? No, that would be a very American thing to do.
Now that classes are over, most JYA-ers are crossing the final items off their Paris bucket lists and packing up their souvenirs. One of the last stops for my friend Hazel was the Musée d'Art Moderne (11 avenue du Président Wilson, 16e).
The museum's permanent collection, which is free (woohoo!), includes numerous Cubist pieces by Braques and Picasso, Fauvist oeuvres by Matisse, and some rooms of Dada/Surrealist flights of fancy. Some videographic works by Asian artists are on show in the basement. My personal favorite was the Salle Dufy, where a huge mural (above) depicting great scientists and inventors (French and otherwise) covers the walls.
The Palais de Tokyo is a luminous if somewhat sterile structure that was built for the International Exhibition of Arts and Technology of 1937. The museum is situated in the eastern wing, while the western wing hosts an atelier for young artists in residence.
For a while the works on display were modern pieces that spilled over from the collection of the very full Petit Palais. But with the accumulation of many pieces during the 1937 exhibition, including this baller neo-classical-meets-art-deco sideboard, the museum was given the green light and inaugurated as a distinct musée de la ville de Paris.
Sorry for the little rant earlier, y'all, but I couldn't name my blog after fireworks if I didn't go off from time to time, now could I? Here's a kickass music video (I just learned how to embed videos, can you tell?) and a list of my favorite dancing establishments in the City of Light to make up for it.
Corcoran's (23, Blvd Poissonière, 2e) is my mainstay. It's technically a "pub" which means it falls into a legal gray area between bar and nightclub. This devilish limbo means that it keeps Rihanna's entire catalogue pumping all night - yay first metro! - but never charges cover. It's a great warm up for Rex, or a nice place to have a beer and people-watch on weeknights. Depending on the night, there's usually a pretty good mix of students and young professionals loosening their ties.
Slightly more bling bling than Corcoran's, Le Rex Club (5, Blvd Poissonière, 2e) is attached to Le Grand Rex, an old, recently restored cinema just up the street from Corcoran's. Thursday is free, the rest of the time it's 10 - 15 euros. Save a bit by booking online. I've only been disappointed by their choice of dj once, but don't go if you don't like electro. Groovy light show. Don't even think about getting a drink unless you've recently won the lottery. Crowd ranges in age from Who let you in? to I think I have a class with your son.
I might have a skewed perspective on this place from the night the Youngunz played and we were served birthday cake from the stage. Generally killer djs, drinks are slightly less unreasonable than Rex, though coat/bag check is mandatory and covers are equally unkind (again, except on Thursday). Still, I love it here. Apparently the club has recently been redecorated. I don't know what it looked like before, but it's pretty chill atmosphere. Highly recommended. Le Social Club (142, rue Montmartre, 2e)
Ah, what to say about the Batofar (14, quai François Mauriac, 13e)? It's out of the way (far out in the east, in the Seine). It's big and red and rusty and not terribly well ventilated. Still, if you like straight up trance and house, this might be your best bet. You could consider not showering for a few days to fit in better with the regulars. Do I need to tell you that there are rarely any girls here? It's pretty safe but, uh, just say no to drugs.
While Batofar is drawing in all the counter culture for miles (kilometers?) around, MixClub (rue de l'Arrivée, 15e) is down by Montparnasse acting as Eurotrash Mecca. With a similar repertoire to Corcorans and an Erasmus (international students') night that brings in enough people to fill all three stories, it is a cultural wasteland where you can do the macarena without shame. They have a GLBT friendly evening, but my gay friends have been able to find dance partners even on more "mainstream" nights. Shots are a pretty good deal.
Okay, I got sucked into Showcase (Port des Champs Elysées, 8e) because 1) It's under the sumptuous Pont Alexandre III (a gift from the Russian tzar, yay gilded sculptures!) and 2) If you put your name on the website's guestlist and show up around 12:30, it's free. I adore free, but, truth is, the music is always the same undanceable sludge and most of the clientele are poseurs there to be seen. Go once (provided you remembered to put your name on the guestlist) to admire the architecture, and scope out the well-dressed 20-somethings getting botttle service, then catch the last metro home or to somewhere that isn't trying so hard.
La Miroiterie (88, rue de Ménilmontant, 20e) is performance space in a former (abandoned?) mirror factory. I'm not 100% clear on the legal standing of this establishment, but I know this much: the concerts are semi-impromptu, the music is loud, the beer is cheap and the patrons make the gutter punks outside the Batofar look like fairy princesses. After you pay the cover charge, be sure to ask what the symbol they draw on your hand means lest you wind up with a symbole anti flic on your wrist like my friend Kevin. Then mosh like you've got braincells to burn.
This former lesbian bar in Pigalle is a hipster's dream. The neighborhood is seedy and the teeny tiny bar is cramped, hot, and somewhat unknown. Go now so you can say you knew about it before it was "ruined by tourists." Sidenote: when I was there we ran into the rapper Teki. Shockingly expensive drinks for the amount of flannel in this cellar, but again, rad dj's. Chez Moune (54 rue Pigalle, 9e).
I will always have a soft spot for Nouveau Casino (109, rue Oberkampf, 11e) because of its location on rue Oberkampf, right across from where I stayed the first time I ever came to Paris. My memories of that fateful summer are punctuated with nights spent carousing at Charbon, the attached brasserie. The first time I ever made it inside the Casino was with le Chef and Pomegrenade. The latter promptly ditched us for a charming man. They're moving in together this summer. Where does the time go? Anyway, this is a nice club with fairly hip young crowd on a street of awesome bars and restaurants. Some pretty well-known acts swing by from time to time, too. What's not to love?
