Deadbeat Blogger

- - Tried to post this yesterday but my laptop  battery died unexpectedly - - 

     I do not deny the charge. 

     Well, as of yesterday at 12:00pm I finished my last exam. This year's round of exams was surely the easiest I've experienced. In my experience, the academic work I did this past week was equivalent to a mild week of work at Kenyon. I ate a lot of chocolate and honey.

      I write this message from the McDonalds around the corner from the apartment because the internet is temporarily not operating.

     This coming weekend I will attend the marriage of my eldest host sister being held near the family's vacation home in the North. That will be nice. I will spend the week there, including Christmas. I boiling over with excitement - a week away from Paris is just what I need. 

     Last weekend I achieved greatness - a soirée of nearly 12 continuous hours. This is me bragging. Fortunately, more than half of that time was spent with my friends from the Sorbonne. Which reminds me - I still owe a friend two euro for the coat check. They really nickel and dime you here, every service has its price. Ketchup packets are provided upon purchasing your fries here at the McDonalds, and I haven't had ketchup in ages. To be fair, I ought to add that it is very clean, orderly, and the interior decoration is better than any I have experienced in the States. 

     The holiday ambience has not yet descended on me. Perhaps I should go shopping. Perhaps not.

     According to the New York Times:

"A package of dynamite planted in a luxury Paris department store was found and removed by the police on Tuesday, rattling the nerves of Parisians at the height of the Christmas shopping season. The store, Printemps, on the elegant Boulevard Haussmann, was just beginning to fill up with shoppers at 11 a.m. on Tuesday when the police swooped in, acting on a tip from a French news agency. They discovered five sticks of dynamite bound together with a cord in a restroom on the third floor of the men's store. There was no detonator with the dynamite, French officials said."

     On a lighter note, here's a photo from a field trip in which I participated with my Ancien Régime class from the Sorbonne. We went to the National Archives. These are the remaining keys to the Bastille.

     As you may know, my ear hasn't strayed from American music. Oddly enough, it has led me back in time to The Carter Family, Woody Guthrie, and other classic American folk artists. The older the recording, the better. Here's one I like, though admittedly the lyrics are dismal.

http://www.sendspace.com/file/m3tpxr

     Perhaps I'll update once again before I leave Friday, at which time I will receive my Carte de Séjour. I'll be legal!

Shout-out

Thank you for keeping me well fed and for being easy to locate most places in Paris. I also thank you for being reasonably priced. I would be less satisfied from moment to moment without you. You keep me happy and healthy. I am fond your many different brands and flavors, but I am most fond of you. Here's to you, to our union, to our wonderful past, and to our bright future together.

Swift blogging, swift justice.

Don't text while you ride your bike - stop and do it safely. You just might witness some juggling at the traffic light.

Fill Your Ears

With the sounds of what it's like to be in Paris amid the gaggles of beautiful girls.



Promise a decent post soon.

Two points to the person who knows which Wes Anderson film this song belongs to.

Luke wishes you a Happy Thanksgiving!

Felicitations from Paris!

Take a look at this New York Times article, it complements the blog perfectly and it's seasonal.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/26/opinion/26davis.html?partner=rss&emc=rss&pagewanted=all

Don't quote me

Originally drafted November 16^th

I've had a lot on my mind lately, and I'm going to try to make sense of it for me and for you. Perhaps it’s too much for a single blog post, but I don’t know what else to do with it all. Having a public to which I can broadcast these thoughts makes it easier, I feel. It’s also an invitation for you to consider these thoughts and respond to them. 

            Last night at the soiree thrown by my host brother, Bruno, I found myself amid a conversation that roused the foundations of my patriotism and my perspective on this extended international field trip of mine.

            The topic of the conversation was at first naïve: recent films. Evidently, the French are much more critical of film than Americans, and thoughtful, I should add. Film is not entertainment to them, but art directly coupled with society, and so they are quite often opinionated. These discussions become animated, personal, and sometimes fiery. The French will acknowledge that their film industry is crap, and they talk almost exclusively about American film (television as well), with the occasional British film thrown in the mix. 

            Anyways, film led to the American election, a popular topic of discussion in France, where 80 percent of the population would have voted for Obama if given the chance. Up until then every French person detecting my accent had talked my ear off about the election, so I wasn’t thrilled to hear any more of the same constrained enthusiasm.

            Now let me just say that the conversation was in French, and though I understand it very well, that is not say that I understand every nuance and turn of the conversation. I find myself in this situation often, and though being unable to understand fully and respond with confidence can be uncomfortable, I am rewarded with a revelation.

            So - I'm not French, and this is where it gets blurry. I sensed that the man dominating the conversation, a nice, bright fellow, was holding his tongue a bit in front of me, the American. What is sure is that he was bitter about losing his job in New York, though he still held the country in high regard. One of his observations of America really stunned me, and I exited the conversation at the next opportunity. He said that America's culture is seen through its television networks, but that the real way to understand a foreign culture is through international exchanges (like mine).

            This got me thinking about a number of things: America my homeland, my charge here as an American, and America's lack of any real culture outside its unstoppable entertainment industry. I had only just begun to toy with the idea of considering myself an attaché from the USA. As one the dozen or so proficient French speakers in my program of 90 students, I’m beginning to realize that I am one of the American "elite", though I do not say it out of snobbism. From the start I have been well raised and exceptionally educated, by American standards, so really, it’s up to those of us who have been so privileged to put these talents to work. Still, the idea of being ambassador of American culture hadn't occurred to me.

            With the help of my few French contacts, I have begun to evaluate the American world presence, and by that I mean dominance, in the world. Paris is easily one of the most Americanized capitals of any nation on Earth. Any English speaking American idiot can come to Paris, get by, get around, and see the sights without breaking a sweat. Now I'm beginning to sound bitter! English is everywhere in Paris, I hardly go a day without hearing it spoken in the streets, the metro, or seeing it on billboards. 

            Last night's conversation isn't my only reference. Friday night I attended my first real French party; a friend from the Sorbonne invited me. I have made several acquaintances at the Sorbonne, but none quite so welcoming, accommodating, or genuine as Pauline. As it was a house party, I found the whole affair very 'high school', only the venue was an exquisite flat decked out with beautifully framed photographs and paintings. My français familier, or slang French, is pretty good, and I found I could hold my own among youth of my age at the party. I served as a kind of attraction, the foreign infiltrator; the guests were quite interested to meet me and talk to me. For a moment I felt like Prince William or Harry, with all the pretty girls taking interest! 

            When it came time for dancing, I was shocked to hear SO much American music played. After three or four songs, I assumed they were humoring me, that it was all a joke. They played the Rolling Stones, Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley, The Strokes; it was bizarre. When I asked Pauline about it, she smiled and said that American music had invaded France, at which I took some offense. The American music industry easily dwarfs any other in the world, so it is only natural that American music should make up the majority of any contemporary playlist.

            And yet it’s all for profit. As the Frenchman suggested last night, American culture of the 21^st century has been largely channeled in media; its television, its music, its film, its art, its fashion, all of which we have directly exported. I am partially sympathetic to this concept. Ours is a history steeped in capitalism and immersed in commercialism - a society in which everything is directed towards profits. Tobacco farming in Virginia and cod fishing in New England are origins I am proud of. However, I am experiencing the soulless wave of American influence on the rest of the world.

 

I feel lost in my nations liquid culture, a culture converted to capital. It’s a cycle in which every morsel of creative development is maturely picked from its source, processed, labeled, blindingly advertised, and sold back to us. While the same thing is happening in other countries, France included, the concept is an American contrivance, and frankly, we do it best. I distinctly remember the summer of 2007, my first real exposure to New York City and living independently in a metropolitan center, where for a time I suffered a, ‘cool crisis’. I found myself with no idol or role model in the middle of the world’s leading source of innovation. What I saw on the streets was the reflection of shop windows filled with kitsch. Virtually everything in that city is a short metro ride from its source. It frightened me to see how fleeting originality had become. So why even try? For this reason, my generation has had its wings clipped and can no longer fly, contrary to the nature of youth. Youth movement is no longer part of the vocabulary of young America. We sport keffiyehs, originally worn to show solidarity with the Palestinians, not because they’re a charged symbol, but because it’s cool to be politically active and motivated. We eat Chipotle excessively because they did it first on The Real World. I browse websites and see links to the ‘Culture Store’. The wealthy seek to mimic the lives of the working class, riding the same fixed gear track bikes as savvy bike messengers. What is there to rebel against that hasn’t already been parodied? If a culture exists in my generation, then it is terribly misguided and confused. And it’s currently for sale to the highest bidder.

So there’s the responsibility I bear representing these United States of America. The three statues of George Washington I’ve located in the city prove to be comforting in this regard. Could they have been installed to remind Americans like me of our pure founding vision? The great role played by America in history ever since the Second World War of leading every other developed nation shaped the modern world we know. Before then it was the same story, only less pronounced, time marked by innovations such as the discovery of electricity, the inventions of the telegraph machine and later the first gasoline powered automobile, America’s crucial role in the Great War, the construction of the Empire State Building, and the birth of Jazz.

Since the terrorist attacks of September 11^th, 2001, America’s superiority has been undermined, becoming even more obscured with the Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the disaster of Hurricane Katrina, and most recently, the financial crisis and its ripple effect on the economies of the world. To put it simply, the balance in world powers has been tipped. We have arrived at a crucial moment in the 21^st century where the world powers of the future will be soon decided. For these and other reasons, I have been hesitant to wear my nationality on my sleeve. I feel no need to attract more attention to a nation that is already the chief focus of the world.

Arriving at this point, I am heartened to report on France’s support of Barack Obama in the presidential election. The morning of November 5^th, when the election results were released, the 18^th arrondissement, one of the city’s ethnic melting pots, erupted in celebration. That same morning I saw my French classmates openly wearing Obama t-shirts, defying their stylistic mores for the sake of their political support of America’s electorate. Though they may be hesitant, the French of my generation have sided with the new Obama administration, and they are looking to America to resume leadership of the world. Though I’m not home in the US to take part in this new sensation, I feel its effects resounding across the Atlantic in the European continent. This event has struck France more than any chart-topping song of the past decade, the next great feat to mark the evolution of the world, with America at the wheel.

 

Cultural attaché from the US I am not, but I realize the image I embody of America is real. It’s not what I came here to do, but it is my charge. I came to immerse myself in French culture, while other Americans in my program have chosen to play the part of tourists. Perhaps I'm approaching the matter too seriously. Still, it’s my responsibility to make the experience an exchange, a give and take with benefits for both parties. After more than two months with the Vandames, it’s quite evident that they are a family with strong roots in French soil and even stronger morals as a Catholic family.

            It would have been much easier to spend my junior year in Gambier, Ohio. I might be hitting the books harder, but every aspect of my life would be the same as the two years prior. My raison d’être is clearer, though it is more convoluted and personal than I had originally expected. I’m in good hands with the French, though I always know where home is.            

 

Why not.

Here's a short article I wrote for some pamphlet my study abroad program is finalizing. I don't know whether it will be edited, but this is the version I submitted. Thought you might like to read it. 

  After an especially active summer, I was not looking forward to the changes that would soon be made to my active lifestyle upon arriving in Paris. Swimming laps in the Seine was certainly out of the question, and I don’t possess the equipment to scale the Eiffel Tower without the use its stairs. All of us in the Sweet Briar France Fall 2008 group have managed to adapt our active lives to our new urban home, not at all like our sprawling American colleges and universities, and each in our own way.

As Paris evolves it grows less and less tolerant of automobile traffic and more and more comprehensive in its public transportation system. More accurately, it’s a dynamic, in which walking is considered a chief means of transit. Then there is the Vélib’ public bicycle system, available to just about anyone, and in my opinion, one of the most agreeable ways to get around and see the city. These unwieldy masses of steel bear the same chic quality as the Pompidou Center: the love it or hate it curse. If city bike riding intimidates you, know that if the French can do it in impeccable style, Americans can probably manage without risking their lives. The Paris Métro to the savvy and quick-footed urbanite soon becomes the replacement for both umbrellas and rain jackets. In this sense, it can at times be a great comfort, while other times it is nothing more than a series of rattling, high-speed sardine tins, sometimes with a similar odor. The RER is like the Métro, but with more class, higher speed, and less odor. I only consider taking the bus between the hours of 1 and 6 am when the subway is closed, but then again, why not take advantage of the empty streets; surely a Vélib’ stand can’t be far. Taxis are for the unadventurous.

Above all I prefer commuting to class on my bike, an old road bike I purchased in the city; never did such a junker feel like such a high-performance machine. It’s the best replacement to a cup of coffee I’ve ever been willing to try, though at the same time I would advise drinking one any time you think of getting on a bike in the city. I weave through traffic like a madman, leaving most two wheeled vehicles behind to gawk as I navigate spaces just wide enough for my shoulders to pass. As Salvador Dali once said, “There is only one difference between myself and a madman. I am not mad.” There is a real and present danger that keeps your instincts alert, but it’s a risk with real rewards.

Riding my bike in Paris has given me a sense of ownership of the streets. It is a city I traverse in full confidence and in all conditions. For those of you still reluctant to hop on a Vélib’, there are still the seven flights of stairs to climb up to the Sweet Briar Office at the Alliance Française.

 

Good Tidings!

Hey Guys,

Good news from France! I'm doing quite well, the coming winter months don't seem so daunting with this great family unit I have installed here. You've heard all about them, so I have only to make updates as our stories progress. There's  been a fair amount of chaos in the house this past week as Bruno staged is move out of the house and the rest of us here filled in the space he occupied. Saturday seven of us moved Bruno and his affairs from rue Saulnier to rue de Dunkerque, a 15 minute walk North, still in the 9th arrondissement. The move was simple, and with our squad assembled, it was completed in two hours and a single trip with the family's van and a baker friend's Smart. Here are some photos. 

Oh wow, what might! The squad.


Ombeline remarked that Bruno has a certain catwalk effect in this picture.

Bruno is now a resident of rue de Dunkerque.


You wouldn't think of using a Smart for you next move, would you? Well, that's what we did here.


We did it! From the left: Ombeline, Vianney's friend Alexandre, Tony the baker, and of course Bruno.

Tomorrow night Bruno's throwing a party to celebrate his Baker's degree, which he just received from some Parisian Baker's Association, a pretty big deal in the Boulanger-Patissier world. The fellow in the white t-shirt (above standing before the Smart) is going to introduce me to his girlfriend, who he claims is a model. He's very proud of her.

Oh! And for those of you wondering, last Friday night's Discotheque soiree was a succes: good music, good company, fun dancing, and a great ride back on Velib' bikes. I would have to kill you if I said anything more. JK. Expect more soon, I have a photo of Clignancout!

PS TONIGHT I'M GOING TO MY FIRST FRENCH PARTY, THE INVITATION TO WHICH I SECURED BY MY OWN CONTACTS AND MERITS!

What a slow and boring blog, you must be thinking.

Well, I'm not a liar, and this isn't a blog for storytelling. 

The past week has been a little dull, beginning with last Friday night, which included no Halloween celebration, to my dismay. 20 years I've seen and this is the first time I've missed dressing up, eating candy, and having an uproarious good time. My American friends were busy being grandmothers at home. 

I've had a lot of time to break in my new bike, which has again been struck with a flat tire. I'm finding it to be as fast or faster than the metro in some cases, and it's always a real thrill and joy. I arrive at my destination with flushed cheeks, alert reflexes, and majestically windswept hair. Ha. As of now, I have ridden la Place de Charles de Gaule, where the Arc de Triomphe can be found, and descended the Champs Elysees en velo, just like in the final stage of the Tour de France. Actually, that time I was gently 'doored', meaning I had a slight accident in which I crashed into the opening door of a parked car. To my credit, I had plenty of time to brake and didn't even fall off the bike, I only abruptly hit the corner of the car door with my chest. Needless to say, the poor girl getting  out of the car was speechless, and I was surprised to hear myself respond in French to her and the driver of the car. "What are you doing!?" Was what came out. Don't worry, I'm ok, no marks or scars. No close call has caught me totally off guard or scared me yet. 

Sunday night I visited the la famille de Planta, the French family that hosted my sister Madeline last fall during her semester abroad. They're quite nice and were glad to have me over a second time, as the year before they invited my family to dinner at their home not far from the Arc de Triomphe and infamous Place de Charles de Gaule. Dinner was good, ate me some meat! By that I mean fish. 

This week I found myself faced with some of the first real schoolwork of this academic year. With it came a good dose of panic and procrastination, but in the end I was satisfied with the work I submitted. The assignment was a commentaire de texte on Savlien de Marseille's Eulogy to the Barbarian,  a text from the church addressing the sinful Barbarians invading the Occident and to the hedonistic Romans, whose sins were of greater consequence due to their understanding of the Christian faith. Tuesday I had a test on the balance of power in the European Union, and Wednesday I had a cumulative controle, more or less a quiz, in my 18th century French History course, which was murder. On a more positive note, I'm beginning to make some friends in my classes, meaning two, but I'll take what I can get. I was quite comforted yesterday to have one of my friends mention to me in class that no, she didn't understand what the professor was explaining, either. 

I've also had the chance to catch a few French films in the past week. I saw Bienvenue chez les Ch'tis, a hugely successful film about the North of France, which I highly recommend. When it released this March, one in three French citizens saw the film in theaters, setting a new record for box office sales in the nation. Still, it was no Titanic. Ha. Before that I saw Brice de Nice, a comedy about an idiotic, self-obsessed surfer on the Mediterranean, where there are no waves. This one was also good. 

I've been hitting French libraries, a surprisingly difficult, or at least tedious, task. Since there really is no central library for the Sorbonne, students are left with the national resources. There are a ton of libraries in Paris, but the ones I've visited are the Bibliotheque Nationale de France in the 13th arrondissement and the Bibliotheque St. Genevieve in the 5th just across from the Pantheon. I have really mixed feelings about my experiences in both libraries. I'll spend some time reflecting on them before I speak. 

Oh, and today for the first time I walked five minutes to a municipal pool, which was quite a laugh! I thought I had walked in on a pool party when I first entered, there were so many people in such a small pool! It's a 25 meter pool with five lanes, in which 25-30 people were swimming, by my guess. That's a lot of people in a small pool! Everyone was getting their sport on, wearing the obligatory swim cap. Describing French swimming is difficult: it was like social swimming, but without the social part. Everyone was swimming quite happily at a tranquil pace, as if they were taking a stroll, but swimming. 

Tonight I'm going to a discotheque with my host brother and a few of his friends. It's costing me 20 euros, so it had better be fun. We'll see whether Tektonik is accepted there or not. Here, have a laugh at the website, it's www.lebackup.com. I sure did. Sorry for the lack of media!

What a laugh!

Last night's topic of discussion at dinner was the military, and all of a sudden my host father starts singing this song.

And I, the American, didn't even know the song. Well, anyways, here it is.

Velo!

I GOT ONE!

After a fair amount of fussing with flat tires and cranky bike shop owners, she's in action! And fast as ever! I picked it up last Friday used for 80 euros, more money than I was comfortable handing over all at once, but WELL WORTH IT. Take yesterday evening for instance: I was winding down from a stressful morning and a stressful assignment I had just submitted, had a few hours to kill, so I went and played in traffic for an hour or two. I'm surprised by how comfortable I feel navigating the busiest intersections in the middle of rush hour, though I suppose you could say I've been working towards this moment for some time. So far I've tackled La Place de l'Opera and La Place de la Madeleine, and have passed through Place de la Concorde ever so briefly. My greatest triumph will be Place de Charles de Gaulle, or l'Arc de Triomphe, but I'm not ready yet. 

Don't worry, Mom, yesterday I picked up a mountable light for riding at night, as well as one of those funny reflective ankle bands to keep your pant leg out of the gears. Also, I wrapped the handlebars, which were bare steel before and quite uncomfortable in cold weather. Hopefully my friend Cody will get his own velo soon, and then I'll have a riding partner. Until then, no one is fast enough to catch me. Better not speak too soon, I'll surely be proved wrong. 

In Paris

So I'm back after a weekend in the countryside and seaside of the North where my host family has a vacation home. The town is called Le Touquet, situated just North of Berck and two hours from Lille. This week is the week of Toussaint, or All Saints Day, a national holiday in France celebrated for an entire week. As holidays go, it's quite different from the States, as the government staggers the vacation days to avoid overflowing the transit systems. A few members of the family have stayed at the vacation house all week, and after my weekend visit, I can say with confidence that I envy them.

After our arrival, we stopped at the house to turn on the heating, then jumped back in the car to have dinner with family friends. It was really good. They say that the salt air in the North stimulates the appetite. 

The next day I awoke, ate breakfast, and picked apples from the pommier in the back yard after Ombeline announced the opening of the (apple) hunting season. She outfitted us both with boots for the wet grass and I found a ladder in the shed. 

View of the house in the morning light.

It's not terribly big, but after Paris it felt enormous. After filling two big baskets, we put on our sneakers and went to the town market, absolutely overflowing with seafood. Before going home, we went for a short walk on the beach, which was beautiful, though I have no photos to prove it. We went home, I went for a run, got lost, came back, and we had lunch. The French serve their shrimp with the heads still attached, antennae, eyes and all. This is a video from the market Ombeline insisted I took.

They have quite a collection of bikes at the house, one for each child, and then one or two extra. The girls and I rode to the equestrian center to check out the horseys. I rode one of the most beautiful antique Peugot road bikes I have seen, painted a sort of bright, sparkly teal. Then we went home and watched a movie. Dinner was quiet.

The next morning Bruno and his fiance Evguenia arrived, and we all went to church. It was a grey day, and on the way out of the service I took this limited view of the Hotel de Ville, which is really nice.

We had company for drinks and lunch afterwards. I think there were nine of us. We talked about Russia, alcoholism, and the French. Then, in spite of the cold, rain, wind, and grey skies, we all hopped in the family van (7 children warrants ownership of a real van) and hit the beach for a promenade. It wasn't a long walk, but a fun one all the same. 

"Behold!"

Mme Vandame (in the orange pants) was the toughest of us all! Of course, she's originally from the North.

Everyone was soaked, so we went home, changed clothes, and sat by the fire drinking tea for the next hour. Then, sadly, M Vandame (above) and I took the train back to Paris.

As for this weekend, I'll be in Paris, as far as I know, riding my bike (refer to post above).

Marseille

South of France.
Marseille.
Port
Point of entry of the black plague.
Immigration.
Rats.
Water.

I'm back from Marseille. After only three nights in the city, I was read to go back to Paris. This should be not be taken as a discredit to Marseille, but instead a sign of my love for Paris. In Marseille I was shocked to find myself the ethnic minority in an abundance of African and Middle Eastern peoples. The French we heard spoken was quite different, I would say degraded from its pure origins. The notion of leaving the protective sphere of Paris, international in a Western sense, had not occurred to me. With the city's reputation as one of the oldest port cities of the Occident, I expected an immigrant population, but I could not have prepared for experiencing it. The shock I experienced reflects on my upbringing in the States and the distinct social and ethnic boundaries there.

I don't want to give the wrong impression, so let me say that my visit to Marseille was incredible. What made it incredible was not its citizens, its architecture, or its culture. What made it incredible was the sea and the strong sea breeze. My years in Annapolis have honed my penchant for salt air, and my nose perked up immediately when I stepped into the open space of the Vieux Port. It was refreshing.

Friday morning Abhinay and I reunited with a few friends from our study abroad program. I had my coiffure done and then we climbed to the Eglise de Notre-Dame de la Garde, a beautiful church overlooking everything. The clear sky granted us the greatest view. That afternoon, we warily experimented with the public transit and visited a nature preserve of some sort with access to 'Les Calanques'. The term is new to me, so I'll let the photos speak for themselves. 

Can you imagine how overjoyed I was to find myself standing before this inlet in weather just warm enough for a swim? Looking back, it was like a dream. Here's where I made my entry.

Proof.

To seal the lid on one of the best personal experiences of my life, I ended the day with a steak and a few glasses of wine. Then I slept a blissful sleep.

The next day, after a good run around the city and up to Notre-Dame de la Garde a second time, we visited a very old prison, the Chateau d'If. Then we embarked on a self-guided walking tour of the old quarter. Some refer to this as wandering.

Ended the night with moules frites, or mussels with french fries. Abhinay somehow convinced me to eat out two nights in a row. Then again, eight euro for dinner in Marseille doesn't seem so steep when tea in Paris is four.

Anyways, enough complaining. I believe I will be staying in Paris this weekend. My host family has invited me to their house in Le Touquet (dans le Norrrd, as my host father puts it, very menacing) and I really would like to go, especially with all the time I've spent away from them, but a weekend here would be nice. Still undecided. As for travels further abroad, my plans have been temporarily put on hold due to visa restrictions. With my incomplete French visa, I may not leave the country, that is, until my revised American birth certificate arrives. I find these details boring. Chances are you do, too. 

These photos are not serious. Insert your own captions.

Before I go

Last weekend was wild! Thursday night we celebrated the birthday of a friend in the Bastille, then Friday I visited the chateau Fontainebleau with Abhinay, my friend Lauren, and a friend of hers from USC. Saturday and Sunday I journeyed with 30 some American students to the French coast of Normandie and Bretagne. It was free! Though we only stayed one night, we packed the two days full of adventures, strung together by many bus rides. Here are some pictures.

Abhinay and Lauren standing on the cobblestone entryway to the chateau. Here in 1814, Napoleon Bonaparte made his final procession before being exiled.


Borrowed from facebook. That sure was a big canal (le grand canal)!


Modern art on exhibition. The French consensus (don't quote me) is a general distaste for this type of contrasting display. They want their chateaux traditionally furnished and adorned.


The Cathedrale Notre-Dame de Bayeux was nice.


Then we went to Normandy beach to see the memorial. Sam and Damla on the beach. None of us had a very emotional visit. It was my second time visiting, and I consciously chose not to visit the cemetery, wanting to keep my weekend as cheerful as possible. Instead, I found myself upset for not bringing my swimsuit, it was hot!


La Point du Hoc, a cliff at the midpoint of the beaches stormed during the D-day invasion and a key strategic location for German artillery emplacements which they considered impenetrable due to the sheer rock walls protecting it. It posed a great threat to the Allied forces invading on Omaha and Utah beaches, and was considered essential to the success of the invasion. After a heavy allied bombardment, a force of 225 Army Rangers scaled the cliffs with special climbing equipment and took the Germans by surprise, though suffering heavy casualties. By the time reinforcements arrived, only 90 remained. I couldn't help but marvel in its beauty.


The next day we visited Mont Saint-Michel. Been there done that. Actually, this is my freaking out pose.


I just had to get Guy de Maupassant's opinion on the matter of St. Michel and the devil.


Then we spent the afternoon at St. Malo. Supposedly the city is usually quite depressing, what with its grey stone ramparts surrounding the older arrondissements, but it was sunny and delightful the day we visited.



I have a few more pictures to add but not the time to do it. Late this afternoon I leave for Marseille and the Cote d'Azur, where I will be until Sunday afternoon. I'll be sure not to forget my swimsuit, though rain is predicted. A plus!

Filler I neglected to post last week

- Sorry, dug this one out of the archives. Due to an internal error and the fact that I keep falling asleep as I type, this post is going up a week late -

I have some media to present. Nothing phenomenal, just a few pictures to fill in the blank spaces in time.

The week I returned from Germany the the 'kids' were all alone in the apartment, their parents away on vacation in Venice until the end of the week. I was quite surprised by my host siblings' contributive efforts to the upkeep of the home. Fun was had, of course, but in the form of several crepe parties, playing music loudly, and entertaining friends. The place was a bit messy, but a vigorous evening of cleaning before the parents' return restored the place to order. That last night of independence a dinner party was thrown by my host brother, Bruno (23) and his lovely fiancee Evguenia. They met at the boulangerie where he works. When I came home that evening they were preparing dinner and wearing matching aprons.


Last Friday a treasure hunt was held at the Louvre by my study abroad program. It was alright, they arranged for French students interested in meeting Americans to be there. This fellow Valery here came toting a really nice bag and an umbrella, which he carried in the crook of his arm (not over the arm). The photo's deceiving, but he really carried the bag in the crook of his arm.


And his shoes squeaked.

I saw this in the toilettes of the Paris IV Championnet site. It's French for 'All Cops are Pigs', though it translates to 'All Cops are Oxen'. Written on the wall of a stall in the same bathroom was, 'Down with Democracy', complete with an arrow pointing to the toilet.

Bienvenue a la Jungle

Welcome to the jungle, amen. Sorry for not posting since my return from Munich, honestly I needed a few days to catch up on sleep afterwards. Those efforts, however, were of little avail, as by the end of the week I was sick again, and had no choice but to spend my Saturday afternoon, evening, and night in bed. I'm back to full strength again, I think, though it's difficult to gauge with the odd weather we've been having in Paris. It's been colder than usual, though yesterday afternoon the temperature rose to 68 degrees fahrenheit.

And there's been a lot happening, too, though this sort of news is certainly not universally exciting. I've entered the hideous concrete jungle that is History at the Sorbonne. Wow, ugly and inefficient are just about the worst compliments possible.

So far I appreciate the French University system - the same way you appreciate a child's help in the kitchen. The effort is sweet, but in practice, much less efficient. And then there's the food, the goods, to worry about. Classes are just now underway (as of Sept. 29/Oct. 6), and though they're already under full steam, the unescapable administrative corrections have proven to be tedious. For example, this morning in the Travaux Dirige for my XVIII c. French history course, there were more than 40 students crammed in a classroom that would seat 20 comfortably. I still don't know whether I was the only one convinced they would die of asphyxiation or hyperthermia during one and a half hours of class.

Also, I had my first class at the Goethe Institute yesterday! There are five in my class, and I've never met a more grammatically demanding professor in my life! It's odd to feel relieved speaking French after class.

Anyways, my laptop is running low on batteries, so I'll conclude. Paris IV is hideous, this I will prove with photos in a future posting.

This weekend I'll be in Normandy, but I will make a strong effort to post before I depart.

Here's a picture of Paris III, which I toured today, surely prettier than Paris IV.

München

My train back to Paris arrived early Monday morning under a welcomed dawn. The Nachtzug (night train) was a long, fitful ride, almost ten hours from Munich to Paris. Traveling by train just isn't the same after you've ridden the French TGV (train de grande vitesse) line. We Parisians are the toughest to impress.

It was clear upon my arrival at the Hauptbahnhof that Oktoberfest was fully underway. Men in lederhosen and women in the German dirndl could easily be seen in every direction. It's the same as Americans dressing up in farming garb or ranch hand duds. German 'Trachten' or 'traditional clothing' celebrates the time before industrialization came to Germany when Bavaria was an agrarian region, before Germany was great. I find it ironic. Anyways, Germans dressed this way teemed through the station, along with American, French, Polish, and Russian people. Many of them were drunk, so an appropriately sized police force was present. As I waited for my friend Nell and her Middlebury chums, I saw this note taped to the wall.


I was eager to see as much as possible in the waning daylight. This is St. Paul's, marking the direction to and from Oktoberfest
from our apartment, which proved to be quite useful to some in our party.


Well, I had better not delay it any further. Here's a photo of the beer at the Hofbräu tent. At 10:15am.


Now imagine drinking this quantity in a single day. One of the guys in our group did just that. One alone left me reeling.

Nell had a beer of her own.


Having already had quite enough of Oktoberfest and being less sober than I would usually prefer before noon, I went off on my own tourism adventure. This is the Frauenkirche, a fine example of Gothic architecture constructed between the 15th and 16th centuries. It houses a funny bust of my good friend, Pope Benedict XVI, who originates from Bavaria.



Then I learned about mining at the Deutsches Museum, where I was nearly refused the student ticket price. Whatcha doin' there, bud?


And then, of course, there was Otto von Bismarck of the First German Empire.


I was heartened and still saddened to see empty Jägermeister flasks everywhere. In France we joke about 'Veloskills', our term for drunken bike riding. However in German the term would be something like, 'Fahrradfähigkeiten'.


Here is the Neue Rathaus, completed in 1910, at Marienplatz in the center of the Old City. The sun came out just in time for ...


The Chancellor of Germany, Angela Merkel! By chance, there was a CSU rally that Friday afternoon. Other speakers included President Minister of Bavaria Günther Beckstein and CSU Chairman Erwin Huber.


Again, the measures taken by Oktoberfest goers.


At the Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus und Kunstbau München, there were lots of great paintings to be seen, particularly from the pre WWI German expressionist group, The Blue Rider artists. Here Wassily Kandinsky teaches lesson of the day to the students of his 'Phalanx' school. Photo by Gabrielle Müller.


There I also bore witness to the worst exhibition space design of all time.


Oktoberfest, I will not miss you.