La Sainte Chappelle

I am currently using this blog as a study break between writing sections of my commentaire composé on a sonnet from the 16th century. So this post is mostly pictures.

Back in January, my friend Frank and I braved the ever-enormous line snaking down the sidewalk in front of the Palais de Justice on Ile de la Cité to go inside La Sainte Chappelle. Mon beau-père recommended the Gothic chapel many times before I left (and in our Skype conversations since then), saying that it had some of the prettiest stained glass windows he had ever seen. Also, Frank had a list of stuff he wanted to do before he left, and I had already bailed on ice skating at Hotel de Ville, since undoubtedly I would have run over a small child or some "racaille" would backflip right into me -- either way, smushed was going to happen --, so we put on our hats and mittens and coats (actually at that point I hadn't taken mine of in exactly 49 days, smelled fabulous) and got in line.

Here is what we saw:
Downstairs was beautiful, but much of the opulent artwork was hidden in shadows. There was some stained glass, but it was hardly something to shout (or Skype) about. I was confused about the rave reviews until we went upstairs. Absolutely stunning.

Ready, Sète, Go!

Fishing boats in the canal

I was terrible about posting in February - no excuse - but good things happened! One of which was heading down to Montpellier to see le Jumeau for the weekend. We went out and got crazy because that's what we do best in life, besides writing. We also hung out with crazy British kids. On Thursday, after a quick kebab and a disco nap, we headed to a rather dull gay bar and then Cargo, one of his favorite clubs in downtown Montpellier. Good music, decent drinks, enough space. We ended the night at a private bar run by a very pretty transvestite. A good time was had by all.

Crazy Brits (and a Moroccan) on the bus to the beach.

Us swarthy Americans

After getting in at an absurd hour we woke up at 11 a.m. on Friday and got on a train headed to Sète, a little town with a beautiful beach (I almost typed beautiful little beach town, but no.) just a few minutes away from Monty-P. From the train station we got on a bus (the 2, I believe) and headed for the beach! I put on a swimsuit under my jeans and shirt, and brought a light jacket along, just because, and boy, was I lucky! It was a beautiful day but the wind was relentless and arctic. Maybe because it was February, you say? Hey, I don't know about the Brits and le Jumeau, but after winter here in Paris, I was ready to sunbathe on top of a glacier so long as the sky above was clear blue.

And blue it was!

After a quick Baywatch-parody run to the water, permanently damaging the nerves in my toes, I sprinted back up the beach and hopped into my jeans faster than you can say "trop froid". Cold cold cold, but proof that spring is at hand!

Versailles

The chateau: A casual history (paraphrased from our tour guide)

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 had finished puberty was deemed ready to reign, he packed up the court, sent some invitations to his dear, sweet nobles, which if read between the lines, said "Get over here and keep your hands where I can see 'em" (kind of gives a new perspective on the Hall of Mirrors, no?) And that's how everybody who was anybody relocated to Versailles, where they would live out their days fighting over who got to watch him get dressed in the morning.

Louis' great-grandson, Louis XV was very handsome, but kind of shy, and though he was the bien-aimé when he came to power, by the end of his reign he was hated. It didn't help the Bourbons' case that his successor, Louis XVI, was the royal equivalent of that awkward kid who's really smart but can't make eye contact with people and spends all his free time on antisocial hobbies. (In his case, watchmaking and locks, since this was before Magic cards and WoW). 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.

During the Revolution, villagers (Versailles is also the name of the surrounding town) defended the palace. Afterward, the various Republican regimes sold off the furniture to foreigners, and all indications of the Bourbons (i.e. suns with Louis' face in them) were removed. Various suggestions were raised for what to do with the gigantic symbol of monarchical decadence and abuse of power. These included turning into a military hospital or a factory. It was Charles X (I think) who saved it by deciding to turn the space into a museum. He only got to renovate a small part of the compound before the regime changed once again.

The French government now spends the majority of it's historical monument budget maintaining Versailles and the Louvre (la tradition = 1, le républicanisme = O). The chateau remains sparsely furnished, and many of the ornate picture frames are filled with black and white photocopies of the paintings that used to hang in them, but pieces are slowly making their way back in, and many of the frescoes (like in the chapel) and moldings have been restored perfectly.
Highlights included Louis XIV's desk, which was absolutely stunning and filled with secret drawers; the queen's bed, special occasion tableware, and a library where every inch of wallspace is covered in books and French literary geniuses look down on you while you study.

This is a door.

It took about ten years of Baroque architects, sculptors, and artists working on the chateau before Louis XIV deemed it fit for a king, and everywhere you look, inside and out, is beautiful. My camera seems to get overwhelmed in the presence of stained glass and goldleaf, so I haven't done the building justice here, but it is truly breathtaking. It's definitely the most important daytrip from Paris.

Momma Said There'd Be Days Like This...

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.

Danke Schoen, Darling

Earlier this month I left chère Paris for Berlin to visit Hélène, my step-sister. Coincidentally there is no good way to say step-sister in Parisian French; I was taught belle-sœur but that usually refers to a sister-in-law, soeur d'alliance is perhaps the most literal translation, but is awkward to say in conversation. I call her my demi-sœur even though it means half-sister because it's the least likely to require an explanation. Anyway, my something-sister was staying with her authentic German boyfriend, Johannes, and his roommate over the holidays and they were kind enough to welcome me into their very authentic German apartment for a few days.


Voilà the happy couple

The first thing we did after I got in on Friday night was ride the very clean and prompt German metro for a long time (Easyjet only flies to Berlin-Schoenfeld from Paris) then we sat around eating delicious potato soup made by the authentic German boyfriend and talking about the Cold War and Seinfeld. Hélène and I exchanged gifts - macarons from Dominique Saibron (who will get his own post in the near future) for her and chocolate dipped gingerbread for me. Before I tear apart Germanic cooking, I have to say that these people do an amazing job dipping things in chocolate. The green beer isn't bad either.

Hélène took me out for a Berliner Weisse, basically the product of a torrid affair between Heineken and gummy bears. I am a fan.
Day two brought us to Museumsinsel. The Germans, ever the masters of practicality, have concentrated five of the country's top museums on one little island near the center of town. We bought student day passes with a time slot for the Neues Museum, which are actually a pretty good deal.

We stopped by three of the five. The Pergamonmuseum, which houses Ancient Greek artifacts, was the most impressive. When the Germans pillaged, they didn't just make off with statues and vases, they took the whole temple! Really. Walking throught this museum, with ancient building façades towering over you (visibly held together by bungy cords, no less) and beautifully preserved mosaics on the ground will give you a new appreciation for the technical prowess of Socrates' buddies. The Alte Nationalgalerie (Old National Gallery) was a pretty standard art museum with a heavy emphasis on German and French painters from the 19th century. The Neues Museum, which is super popular, was like the best elementary school field trip ever. Its main draw is a bust of Nefertiti (again with the pillaging thing) but there are tons of sarcophagi (opened so you can see the mummy!) and ancient weapons and armor and jewelry and...yeah, Egypt's cool.

After a long day of museum walking me and my snail-like metabolism would have been happy with a glass of water and nap. Not so for my companions, who actually digest whole meals in one day, so we stopped for currywurst. Apparently, this is basically the Berlin version of crêpes. That is to say cheap, filling, and ubiquitous. Unfortunately, currywurst is actually a hotdog covered in special ketchup. Scrumptious.

That night we went out to a very chic Austrian restaurant which had great wine, great ambiance, and, by all accounts, great food. My appetizer was great, but I ordered Weiner Schnitzel for my main. Afterall, it's one of Maria's "Favorite Things" in The Sound of Music...Well, suffice it to say it is not one of mine. It is a piece of meat hammered thin and then deep-fried. I had an apple juice detox when we got back to the apartment.

The next day we hit up some major tourist sights including the Brandenburger Tor, Checkpoint Charlie and the Holocaust Memorial.

All were very impressive. I didn't quite know how to interpret the Holocaust Memorial, which struck me as very blank, empty even, but also kind of reminded me of cemeteries back in New Orleans. The graffiti'd pieces of the Berlin Wall on display were great, and the Brandenburg Gate is certainly a marvel. One thing I really got a kick out of was seeing the Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts in what was once East Berlin -- right in front of the Russian embassy.

The best part of the day was when Johannes took us to Another Country, an English language bookstore run by a Scottish transvestite. The setup is shelves of books in what seems to be someone's (the transvestite's?) home. There are drinks in the fridge, and you have to navigate around furniture in the dining room, living room, and study to get to some of the books. The place was chalereux, as we say back here in the land of impractical shoes and more varied diets.

Pôtiche

So, when I'm not busy getting hit on, I'm busy getting rejected. After a particularly mal élevé Frenchman did not call me back one Saturday in December, Host Mom (who gets more awesome everyday, really) invited me to the movies. We decided to go see Catherine Deneuve and Gérard Depardieu's latest film, Pôtiche. In French, pôtiche means vase, but can also designate someone who is merely decorative, like a puppet politician or, as in the film, a trophy wife.


Deneuve plays one such wife, who has to take over the family umbrella company when her cheating, egocentric husband (Fabrice Luchini who was also in Paris, an amazing film) falls ill during a workers' strike. Gerard Dépardieu plays the Communist organizer she must turn to for help. All this is set against a background of technicolor 1970's sets and wardrobe, with a "free to be you and me" message and a musical finale. Indochine, it ain't.

Deneuve, while she is no longer the heart-stopping beauty she once was, has aged gracefully. Dépardieu, on the other hand, is absolutely, stunningly fat. (Not pertinent? Perhaps. Did I spend most of the movie trying to figure out how he managed to get in and out of those little french cars? You betcha.) There were some chuckles from the (all middle-aged) crowd during the show, so clearly I missed a few jokes, but this film was clearly a vehicle for two aging, beloved French stars.

Monday in the Métro

Many men in France (and in other parts of Europe) love to draguer, to flirt, to try to pick up women. Anyone who looks culturally appropriate in a skirt in France encounters this. It's strange to me that in a city where saying "bonjour" to a stranger is unheard of, it's normal to try to seduce one on sight. At best it's funny and flattering, at worst it's menacing. Usually it's just annoying. In general I tell the unwanted male I'm Russian (nobody speaks Russian), but Monday night, being cold and running late around 7 p.m., I was not prepared as I entered the métro at Alésia. Actually, that was just as well, since not even my trusty alibi couldn't have gotten me out of this one gracefully. This is definitely the most extended incident I've had, and since an account of my time here wouldn't be complete without at least a mention of awkward sexual advances, here's how it went down:

I was standing on the voie, waiting for the train. Two youngish guys walk by behind me, laughing, and sit down on my right. Just when I am starting to wonder if they are laughing at me, a voice:

Random man: *indistinguishable French in my left ear*
Me: Blagh! *deer in the headlights face*
Random man: (in French) Oh, I surprised you...[something something]...getting pushed in front of the train.
Me: *starting to get terrified, polite nodding*
RM: Ah, you don't speak French.
Me: Not really
RM: Spanish?
Me: No.
RM: Italian?
Me: No.
RM: English, then? I don't really speak English...
Me: Yes. *ain't-that-a-shame-now-leave face*
RM: So you're English? American?
Me: American.
RM: So you're here on holiday?
Me: No I'm a student. (Doh!)
RM: Ah-ha! So you speak French then!
Me: Sometimes. (Where is the train?!?)
RM:What do you study? Law? Business?
Me: History (The train!)
RM: Where are you going?
Me: The, uh, library.
RM: Come dancing with my friends and I?
Me: No thanks.
RM: Are you sure?
Me: Yes.
RM: Really?
Me: Yes, it's impossible.
RM: *boarding the train* Ok, I'll leave you alone then. Happy New Year. Have a nice evening.
Me: Same to you.

-2 seconds later-

RM: *sitting down next to me* Actually, my friends are trying to figure out where we're going, I'll come sit with you!
Me: So you're not from Paris then.
RM: Me, yes, I've lived here for four years. They're trying to figure out how to get to the club.
Me: I see.
RM: So which library are you going to? Odéon?
Me: (not understanding) Cool.
RM. La Sorbonne? Montparnasse?
Me: Yes, er, no. (Oh look my stop!)
RM: *Also getting off the train* Oh! I think you like me!
Me: (Fantastic) *power-walking to next train*
RM and friends: *giggles* (Guess who's also taking Line 6 towards Nation.)

*As I approach the voie, the train pulls away. Next train, 7 minutes.* (Hooo, boy!)
Me: *Trying to blend into the crowd on the voie. Pointedly avoiding eye contact.*
RM: *Pointedly trying to make eye contact. *
Me: *Surpressing nervous laughter*
RM: It's destiny.
Me: Nope.
RM: Do you like Frenchmen?
Me: uhhh...
RM: American men, they aren't very tender, are they?
Me: I guess?
RM: So you've come to France to experience tenderness, affection, to fall in love with a Frenchman.
Me: Nope.
RM: No? You don't like men...you only like women now.
Me: Haha...I only like books.
RM: Ah, yes you're going to the library, that's very good.
Me: Yup.
RM: But you can't curl up against a book at night...
Me: (Says you) Oh well.
RM: What part of your studies are you in? What do you want to do afterward?
Me: I don't know.
RM: Ah well, that's very good, and I wish you luck and a happy New Year and a nice evening.
Me: Yes, to you as well, bye bye

-2 seconds later-
RM: Please, if I could just know your first name.
Me: No.
RM: Mine's Nicolai, I'm Russian.
Me: Cool, you speak very good French.
RM: I studied a lot. You won't tell me your name?
Me: No.
RM: Maybe in 10 years, after you finish your studies...
Me: I don't think so.
RM: Very well. I wish you a...Actually, I don't wish you anything. You have your studies, you're on a good path. Have a nice night.
Me: Ok. Byebye.


RM: You really won't tell me?
Me: No.