La Vie en Rose

Animal Style

2011-08-24T17:51:00.000-07:00

My two roommates have enthusiastically taken up the challenge of introducing me to Claremont and initiating me into SoCal life at large, efforts for which I am enormously grateful and have enjoyed at every turn. Today's assignment: conquer Animal Style #2 at In-n-Out Burger. What's "animal style"? I still don't know, but whatever it is tastes delicious and makes for a great lunchtime treat.

From my inaugural In-n-Out experience, I gathered that this esteemed burger joint is a crowd pleaser for all walks of life. The cramped inside ordering space was congested with a motley crew of Californians-- an elderly woman, an overworked construction worker (with mullet), giggly teenage girls, strapping firefighters, a hungover He-Man sort of fellow searching for whatever elixir of life could stop the room from spinning, and yours truly, an East Coast transplant. I intended to take a picture of the burger and french fry ensemble before digging in, but I was distracted and seduced by the scent and sight of the greasy burger overloaded with lettuce, sauce, onions, et cetera. To be sure, In-n-Out Burger and I will rendez-vous again.

First impression of the venerable institution

Come one, come all

Drew and Mike feasting

California Dreamin'

2011-08-19T20:44:00.000-07:00

Since I'm a six hour plane ride away from home (again, but this time in the opposite direction), I'll update this blog somewhat regularly with new adventures and observations for all of you back on the East Coast and beyond.

I settling into Claremont, a small city about 30 miles east of LA. Claremont sits at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, has a blue sky backdrop, warm weather with a soft breeze, and gorgeous, tall trees flanking the streets. My apartment is situated in an area called The Village, a super cute area with restaurants, shops, cafes, and bars. My classes and weekend activities alike are all within comfortable walking distance. I'll be sure to include pictures of my new 'hood in the coming posts.

Au revoir, Paris

2009-12-20T19:47:00.000-08:00

I will end this adventure the same way I started it: sitting in an airport, writing a blog entry. Snow is falling outside, blanketing the runways and the wings of the planes. When I first sat down to write this, I found myself gazing out the windows, following the snowflakes with my eyes as they lazily drifted to the ground. And then I looked at the departure board only to see the word “Delayed” blinking next to my flight to Frankfurt. Needless to say, those snowflakes, whose beauty I was so recently admiring, not longer inspire feelings of serenity, but instead represent tiny pangs of anxiety as I think about the time required to make my flight transfer in Frankfurt to Boston.

At any rate, the delay will provide me with the leisure to reflect further on my time in Paris. I will miss many things about the City of Lights: eating lunch outside at a sidewalk café in December, the Juliet balconies lining the walls of the brick buildings, ducking into a world-class museum to avoid a passing shower only to find myself still in the museum long after the rain had passed, standing on the Champs Elysees with the glittering of the Christmas lights surrounding me, seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up from the train, the musicians on the metro who play and sing for pocket change filling an otherwise mundane space and moment with music, and of course Anne and Lou and the friends I made with whom I shared so many adventures.
On a less sentimental note, I will not miss the following things: the strikes, the exchange rate, the pressure of needing to catch the last metro of the night (or else be forced to pay an outrageous taxi fare or wait until 5:30 AM when the metro opens up again-- I’ve done both and don’t recommend either). Oh, did I mention the strikes and exchange rate?

I have had a three month romance with a city, and will, I’m certain, look back on this time with warmth and the deepest gratitude in my heart.

A la prochaine, Paris.

American Patriotism or Hegemony?

2009-11-09T04:28:00.000-08:00

One recent afternoon Lou and I visited the Palais de la Découverte to take the day’s English lesson to a more lively location. (The closet equivalent I can think of back home is the Children’s Science Museum). The Palais de la Découverte featured exhibits on bugs, rats, and outer space-- the three essentials of any museum? Ha. Given the options, I elected to spend my time in the outer space exhibit. I felt a special pride when I saw a model spaceship with an American flag on the body recognizing and celebrating the progress that America has made in space exploration. The moment of pride was similar to the feeling I have whenever I walk by the “Franklin D. Roosevelt” metro stop or see a NY Yankees hat, for example. (hehe-- Kidding!!) When I encounter (positive) things associated with America abroad, I smile and think to myself, “Those are my people!”.. a silly reaction, perhaps- but true. Well, my pride soared to new heights in the outer space exhibit at the Palais de la Découverte. Seeing the spaceship and associating it with America’s greatness was a logical connection to make in my mind. When I saw a huge model of the Earth though, I had the same reaction: “America’s planet.. Those are my people!” Yep, I took American hegemony to a new level-- associating the entire planet Earth with my country. Of course, my “empire state of mind” quickly dissolved, and I began laughing to myself when I realized the absurdity of my immediate train of thought.

Frenglish or Franglais - it's all Greek!

2009-11-07T04:37:00.000-08:00

After a longer delay than I anticipated, I’m back to the blog! The last couple of weeks were exceptionally busy.

Two weeks ago I enrolled in a week long intensive French course. The course was a little expensive and definitely well outside of my budget, but I think was a solid investment. Should I find the resources to take another course in the series, I would jump at the chance. The classroom instruction was thorough, and the interaction with my classmates was encouraging. When speaking slowly with a patient audience, the French dialogue begins to flow. Outside of the classroom, though, spoken French is extremely difficult to understand. Not only is French grammar more difficult than English (according to native French and English speakers alike), but the habits and execution are very different: Because of the intonation in spoken French evERy SOUnd gOeS UP aNd dOWN, and the use of liaisons makes everythingbecomeoneword… LeAVINgSenteNCEStoSOunDALIttleLIkeThiS. You follow? Exactly. Whereas spoken English, at least properly spoken English, is slower and more deliberate in its delivery, with appropriately spaced words and sentences, and a more subdued use of intonation. Plus, if one’s pronunciation is slightly off when speaking English, people are still able to follow and comprehend one’s intended sentence(s). The same is not true in French; pronunciation is everything.

Another noteworthy observation from class is the number of people who were already “multilingual”. Out of 12 students in the class, 11 were learning their third, fourth, or fifth language. Who was the sorry soul learning her second language? C’est moi! Everyone else already spoke English fluently, were advanced in French, and/ or Russian, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Estonian, Finnish, etc. Being a native English speaker is both a help and a hindrance: one can survive in the world speaking only English, and as a result, learning another language(s) is generally a leisurely activity that one elects to do. Being a non-native English speaker, though, means that one is encouraged from a young age to learn not only English, but perhaps another language in order to have more mobility in the world outside of one’s native country.

Thankfully I met a charming young lady from Germany at the French school. She is in Paris for the next few months to perfect her French. Together we practice our French without fear of being embarrassed or intimidated-- and have fun while doing it, laughing at our mistakes and sharing our vocabulary.

Jardin du Luxembourg, NFL in Paris

2009-10-17T14:03:00.000-07:00

I thought the Jardin du Tuileries was enchanting, and then I visited the Jardin du Luxembourg. Unbelievable. Luxembourg has a smaller, more intimate feel than Tuileries. The plant life also offers more by way of aesthetics -- brighter colors, proportionately more grassy areas. Since I have only visited each place a handful of times, I’ll try to avoid declarative sentences, but I will say this much: The main difference between the two that strikes me is this-- Tuileries offers a glimpse into a historical time foreign to us today, and gives us the opportunity to picture the people of that past time promenading through a pristinely manicured garden, carriages rolling by on the wide dusty roads, and other elements associated with royalty generally speaking. Luxembourg, on the other hand, sits as an oasis in the middle of the city with rich and vibrant plants, trees, and flowers, dotted with small coffee and candy stands here and there, children playing with their sail boats in the fountain, and plenty of chairs to allow one to people watch, read, or bask in the sun, providing an escape from the cacophony of busy streets just outside the gates. Pictures soon to follow… once I take them...

In other news, I found a group of people who rendez-vous every Sunday evening to watch football! And so there is no misunderstanding, when I say “football”, I am referring to *real* football, not soccer. Anyway, the group is small and I imagine varies slightly from week to week, and they meet at an ex-pat pub that broadcasts the NFL games of the day. Simple formula, really-- but what a treat! The group was a mix of mostly Americans who live and work in Paris and a few who are visiting for a few months. I was struck by the instant camaraderie I felt with the other Americans in attendance. Love of country and love of football are galvanizing forces evidently. Not only did I enjoy myself, but I was able to pick up a few tips for my time in France, the most important of which is if one wants to practice French, but the French people start talking in English, continue talking in your broken French anyway. Eventually, most decent people will switch back to speaking in French. Since last Sunday I have tried this, and for the most part it has worked. So, I might improve my French after all! (Sadly, the Patriots game was not playing in the pub last Sunday, but from all accounts I guess I didn’t miss much).

Paris at night

2009-10-13T13:45:00.000-07:00

Paris is wonderful. Paris at night, however, is simply magical. The way small lights play on the buildings adds to the already majestic stature of the walls and steeples. Slow moving boats tenderly part the placid surface of the Seine, leaving a glittering surface in their wake. The souvenir stalls are packed up for the evening, and street side cafes showcase good friends, lovers, and families dining and sipping wine or espresso at their respective tables.

From La Vie en Rose

English in Paris, and things I miss from home

2009-10-06T15:28:00.000-07:00

Before coming to Paris, many well-traveled people warned me to perfect my French in advance of my trip- as opposed to once in France- because Parisians have a history of being “rude” and/or “impatient” with Americans who don’t “speak the language”. Here is a promising observation: I’ve been in Paris for a few weeks now, and I don’t recall being on the receiving end of any hostility or impatience as a result of my broken French. I suppose, like most things in life, how one is treated is dictated largely by one’s own attitude and self-presentation. However, I’d like to highlight two variables existing outside of the individual English-speaking visitor that I think are contributing to a positive shift in the Parisian attitude toward English-speakers. (And for the sake of honesty, the observations below are not entirely my own, but grew out of two conversations I had recently with a bilingual Parisian mother and an insightful grad student studying abroad in Paris).

The first external variable is the improvement in the French education system with regard to teaching English in its schools. Roughly fifteen years ago, I’ve been told, not many Parisians spoke English. Now with English being taught in schools with more frequency and focus, the Parisian population is saturated with native bi-lingual residents. Not surprisingly, because people are learning English, they want to use their new skills. One of the reasons I think my progress in French here is retarded is because 85% of the time I try to speak in French, and the individual with whom I speaking realizes that I speak English, s/he speaks *exclusively* in English, and then looks at me with a child-like smile, as if s/he were to say, “So, how’d I do??!?! Could you understand me?!?!!?” Their reaction is endearing, and I don’t mind being of assistance to someone trying to learn or master a new language, I am an English tutor after all. I will admit, though, when I’m on the streets being confronted by English hungry Parisians, I find myself being tempted to say, “If you want to learn English, come to America. I specifically came here to learn French, so stop making it impossible for me to find someone with whom I can converse in your native language”.

Thankfully, I have found at least one friend here who insists that I speak in French- and for that, I am enormously grateful.

The second external variable is the increased focus on globalism, multilateralism, and multiculturalism. This point grew out of a conversation with the graduate student I mentioned earlier. Generationally speaking, there has been a large shift in the Western world. (That last sentence might possibly be the broadest, most obtuse statement ever published in the wide world of blogs- whoa. Haha). As globalism becomes more pervasive, young people today are encouraged to look outside of themselves in a big way; not to simply look at one’s own community, but to consider the bigger issues of the day such as “climate change” (formerly known as “global warming” in case you didn’t get the memo), world hunger, genocide, natural disasters at home and abroad, and international relations, etc. As a result, students/ people today find themselves presented with a myriad of new options and opportunities to explore the world for the sake of learning about themselves, about others, gaining different perspectives, and addressing some of the key challenges of our time, challenges that transcend national borders. With this in mind, Parisians are not only less hostile to English-speaking visitors, but are largely welcoming.

Moving along, I also intended to include in this post a mention of the things I miss about home (besides the people). The impetus for this post idea came to me on Sunday, when I was missing yet another Patriot’s game. However, I am thrilled to report that I have discovered an ex-pat group in Paris whose main objective is to organize gatherings at a pub on Sunday evenings to watch whatever NFL games are slated for the day! Awesome. New England fall foliage was the only other thing on my list. Oh, and Sunday morning political talk shows.

Finally, here is a picture from Versailles,...

...and two more pictures from the iPhone, so the quality isn't the best. The friend that I mentioned above who forces me to speak in French, yep, also encouraged me to sample some rather exotic cuisine. (See picture). They tasted good, but I couldn't bear to see the eyes, so I dipped the heads of my fishy friends in a sauce before eating them. Haha.

Tuileries, Musée d’Orsay, and a French Cell Phone

2009-09-26T17:56:00.000-07:00

The city of Paris has enjoyed the most beautiful weather during my stay so far. Of course, after the summer we experienced in New England, twenty minutes of sunshine would feel like a day hand delivered from Heaven. I’m told the pleasant Parisian weather will not last forever, though. In an attempt to take advantage of the sun, gentle breezes, and the occasional decorative cloud, I spend my days promenading through parks and ambling down streets, saving the museums for cooler weather on the horizon.

I allocated an afternoon recently to the Jardins des Tuileries. My pictures fall drastically short of relaying the beauty of the garden, and do nothing for capturing the sweet scent of the rainbow of flowers. The garden enjoyed a collection of visitors: sightseers on bicycle tours, businessmen and women taking the scenic route in between meetings, young children on field trips, couples sharing quiet moments in the grass under the watchful eyes of the various statues, and faction of photographers attempting to manipulate the manner in which the light hits the reflecting pool and bounces onto the hair of a passing Parisian woman. The garden is spacious, offering shade, sun, water, statues, perfectly trimmed hedges, a view of the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, and Eiffel Tower (at some distance), and is flanked by an assortment of lovely buildings. One is seemingly forbidden from experiencing a sense of urgency while in the midst of the garden, and the pace of living slows to a comfortable stroll.

From the Tuileries, one can see the Musée d’Orsay across the Seine River. The building that houses the museum was originally a train station, built for the occasion of the World Trade Fair in 1900. For only 11€ I was able to purchase a year-long membership to the museum. Being less than 26 years old in Paris continues to be financially advantageous. Thank goodness, because being a “volunteer” is not at all financially advantageous. Ha. Anyway, the museum was wonderful, and I am very much looking forward to my next visit. While I delight in viewing and thinking about art, I must admit that I do not “know” much, so I’ll spare you my faux art history lecture. I will say this much, though: having the opportunity to stand directly in front of Van Gogh’s “La Nuit Étoilée” (“Starry Night”), to gaze at the textured brush strokes, to imagine the initially blank canvas underneath, is to begin to understand how and why the piece is venerated, iconic, and timeless.

One of my only complaints so far is the issue of local transportation in the evening hours. The trains and metro operate until roughly 1:00 AM, but the buses immediately surrounding my neighborhood stop running at the ridiculous hour of 8:00 PM. French people don’t sit down to dinner much before 8:00 PM, let alone retire for the evening, so I just don’t understand the logic in this decision. Doubting my ability to persuade the mayor of St Cloud (my suburb) to operate the buses until a more reasonable hour, like 11:00 PM, I am forced to consider the alternatives. I can walk home from the train station. My house is roughly one mile from the train station, and the walk is through a safe neighborhood with relatively well lit streets. However, as the temperature drops in the coming months, the prospect of walking alone in the cold evening hours becomes less attractive. After discussing the matter with Anne, she suggested I consider taking a cab home from the train station. So, upon returning to St Cloud and arriving at the train station around 11:30 PM, I decided to wait for and signal a cab. Oh my, let me tell you about this. First of all, the taxi was not a beat up, putrid yellow Ford Taurus, leaking oil or some other nondescript fluid like the cabs in Worcester. Instead, the cab that pulled up to the curb was a Mercedes- a silver, sparkling, clean Mercedes. Behind the wheel sat not a road-ragged intoxicated man yelling at you to close the door before going from zero to 60 MPH in less than four seconds like in San Francisco (remember that one, Annie?), but instead I was welcomed into the cab by a salt-and-pepper haired, broad shouldered man who spoke with a polite tone of voice. As if that wasn’t enough, he was playing classical music. How civilized and utterly delightful. So, the next Saturday night that I can’t find plans, I may call Bruno (of Bruno’s Taxi), and treat myself to a cab ride through town.

In less exciting news I managed to buy a French cell phone. The transaction was completed entirely in French, at the end of which the cashier handed me a number, prompting me to say excitedly, “Mon numéro?” (“My number?”), only to have him reply, “Non, c’est mon numéro!”… A sweet gesture, but no, I will not be calling him.

Mmm, the status of my French. Well, my ability to write and read French has improved dramatically, although has not yet attained the level at which I was performing in college. My French conversational skills.. (or lack thereof) are still disastrous, and would make Ms. Sweeney, my high school French teacher, blush. I am, however, fluent in something I like to call “Frenglish”, which will simply have to do for now.

Oh, just so you all are aware: I have given up officially on sending email. I can’t determine what is wrong with my computer, gmail, the internet connection-- or some combination of the three. So, I do apologize. I will keep blogging, continue to read email (just won’t respond), and would be thrilled to write and receive letters. In a pinch, you could always call my French cell phone, too: +33 6 78 48 27 90.

Eiffel Tower, Centre Pompidou, and observations after the first week

2009-09-24T13:22:00.000-07:00

Earlier in the week I visited the Eiffel Tower. I’ve heard that the ground level of the Eiffel Tower is typically swamped with tourists, school trips, and pushy souvenir salesmen. As has been the trend thus far during my French adventure, Paris seemed to conspire to give me the best experience possible, and as a result I enjoyed gorgeous weather, no line in which to wait, and little congestion during my ascent and descent from the tower. Added bonus: being under 26 years old, my admission was discounted like most cultural attractions in Paris.

The Eiffel Tower is an impressive structure, and I suspect I will remember the feeling I had when I stole my first glimpse of it peering through the trees. I took plenty of pictures from the ground, but unfortunately none of myself with the tower as I never really mastered the self-portrait technique of holding the camera away at an arm’s length. After some time walking around the base of the tower, I began the ascent up the stairs. (If you can climb the stairs by the library parking lot at WPI, then you can climb stairs anywhere). The first level offered a panoramic view of the city that was exciting and left me wanting to be able to send the images to all of you immediately so that you could share the experience. After circling the platform, I began the ascent to the second platform, but turned back about ¾ of the way up because I was becoming disinterested and hungry. I may be wrong, but I suspect that the first platform offers a view somewhat comparable to the second. Furthermore, I’ve seen aerial shots of cities before, so once the initial excitement had waned, I was left with a generic aerial view from far away where details cannot be appreciated. And Paris, for me at least, is all about the details: the quaint red flowers growing in every flower box, the narrow streets, and the beautiful buildings. A view of far away rooftops could not compete with my lunchtime hunger, fierce competition for anyone/thing. All this being said, I maintain that the Eiffel Tower is a must-see because it is iconic and synonymous with Paris, and because the park immediately surrounding the tower is charming.

Later in the week I visited the Centre Pompidou.

Well, “visited” is an inappropriate word choice as I did not enter the building, but observed its exterior, which is a visual feast. I hear the building houses a library and museum of sorts. The building in ultra modern and seems out of place in its location: the huge steel piping of the Centre Pompidou is juxtaposed against an old, Gothic church. The architecture and stylistic details of Centre Pompidou are slightly outside my taste; however, I do plan to revisit the building for a closer look and to venture inside.

Paris is the first city in which I have extensively utilized the Public Transportation system, and what a system it is. The Metro stations are clean, and run on time and frequently. I can get into the heart of the city in ten minutes, and once inside can go anywhere in the city with ease. Essentially, I take a look at the map and play a game of “connect the dots” to determine my path. Perhaps this is how all public transit systems work, but I’ve always avoided them in the past because the maps, schedules, etc have not been user friendly enough. Because the metro stops are plentiful, getting lost on the street is not a problem. If I don’t recognize my surroundings, I simply keep walking to find new surroundings that I do recognize or the nearest Metro stop- whatever happens first. Piece of cake.

And now, a few miscellaneous observations to share with you:
Converse sneakers are cool again. In Paris, at least. I expected to see Parisian women gallivanting around it sky-high stilettos, and men marching the streets in chic penny loafers (or whatever fashionable French men wear for shoes). Well, some Parisian women and men have proved my initial estimation to be accurate. However, Converse sneakers are everywhere- men, women, children, teenagers. Reasonably dressed people all across Paris are opting for Converse sneakers. Who would have guessed??

Sunglasses are another everyday oddity here. Does anyone wear them? Those of you who spend any time with me know well that I insist on wearing oversized, dark sunglasses from sun rise to sun set, if not longer, and sometimes wear them inside, too. Here, though, I’ve seen very few people wearing sunglasses - and we’ve had sunny weather (thankfully). Bizarre.

Another societal difference that I discovered within the past few days is that French schools are not in session on Wednesdays. I have no idea why the French have opted for this schedule structure, but it does complicate the work week for people with school-aged children. The solution? “Mother Wednesdays”, of course! I’m told that many women do not work on Wednesdays since their children are not in school, and by granting them the day off, the mothers can tend to and spend time with the children. There was no mention in the conversation of “Father Wednesdays”, although I’m sure some fathers have the day off from work as well. I am unsure of how the concept of “Mother Wednesdays” plays out in more aggressive and competitive work environments, but I was led to believe, on the whole, that companies and mothers are in agreement, and that the mothers appreciate and enjoy this benefit. (I will also note here that the French work a 35 hour work week, and have five weeks of paid holiday. I suppose those advantages help to offset the 70% the government takes from your paycheck for taxes each month, but I digress).

On an unrelated, technical note, I have experienced complications with both my internet connection and laptop, so please pardon the delay in blog updates and email responses. I am still alive and well, and enjoy and appreciate your emails, but if I am slow to respond, the reason is technical in nature, and as a result, often out of my hands. Also, I have loved seeing that the blog has new “followers”-- I was wondering if anyone/ who has been reading along. I don’t know what “following” a blog entails exactly, but it made me smile nonetheless. So, keep on following!

Versailles, the emotional roller coaster known as "learning French", Burqas, Maison Europeenne de la Photographie, and Horse Ball

2009-09-22T02:59:00.000-07:00

Oh, where to begin? Let's start with Versailles.

Finding myself in desperate need of walking shoes, I decided to visit Versailles on Saturday afternoon to blend a trip of utility with aesthetics. I did not visit the Palace of Versailles (yet). The town of Versailles, though, is not to be overlooked; it is a town truly fit for a king. Today, the wide streets, absence of traffic lights, and gorgeous buildings all conspire to allow one's imagination to conjure visions of yesteryear's carriages, noblemen, and peasants navigating their lives alongside the magnificence of the Palace. Thankfully, I not only had lovely scenery for my shoe hunt, I also had the biggest outside bazaar I've ever seen. (In English we'd call this a "flea market", but I can't bring myself to use that phrase and "Versailles" in the same paragraph. Just can't do it!) The quest for shoes was easy once I found the bazaar. In fact, I even managed to negotiate the price of the (two pairs of) shoes in French no less! Feeling high from my bargaining and French speaking abilities, I felt compelled to celebrate such a historic feat-- and spent a portion of the saved money on ice cream! Homemade, delicious ice cream on a hot Saturday afternoon in the middle of the town of Versailles. With two new pairs of shoes. Tres bien.

Still high from my Versailles excursion, I made the trip back to Saint Cloud in time to assist Anne with dinner, as she was hosting a sizable dinner party that evening. The evening was lovely, but any remaining pride I felt from my triumphant French bargaining was obliterated by my utter inability to follow any of the conversations at the dinner table that evening. I dined with nine 50 something’s (maybe 40 something’s), an experience not entirely foreign to me, but had no means with which to engage in any meaningful conversation. I would have felt ridiculously silly, but my dinner companions were kind and sympathetic, recounting stories of their days trying to learn English, and admitting that sitting at a table (whether for dinner, business meeting, etc) with six different conversations being conducted concurrently in a foreign language is one of the most maddening and frustrating experiences. (Maddening, sure.. but I was thinking more "depressing" and "hopeless").

Before the dinner party was in full swing, I did manage to have an enlightening conversation with one of Anne's guests (in English) who wanted to share with me one of the most striking differences between the French and Americans. The French man (whose name I did not catch) immigrated to France from Italy with his family when he was a boy. Even though his original background, native language, and features are Italian in nature, he considers himself fully French. To better illustrate his point, he referenced Italians who immigrate to America, stating that those people may maintain their mother tongue, uphold their native traditions, and settle in homogeneous communities, but that they consider themselves "Italian Americans", and usually talk about “Italian pride”-- whereas in France, an immigrant wouldn't consider him/herself "Italian French", but simply "French” with “French pride”. In France, he contended, immigrants are expected to assimilate entirely to their new country, and embody an authentically French persona- to adopt the history, the language, the secularism, and other cultural staples. I inquired as to whether this expectation of immigrants contributed to the tension between the French and the Muslim community residing in French-- and he explained that the Muslim community’s resistance to true assimilation in France is exactly what is causing the tension between the two parties. The easiest and most obvious example is the banning of the burqa in France: the man said that the French collectively accept the wearing of the burqa as it relates to the Muslim religion, but that something so unauthentically French needs to be restricted to the home and private affairs, and should not be present in public life, as it undermines and dilutes what it is to be French-- a major part of which is being secular.

Paris enjoyed beautiful weather on Sunday, and so I spent the entire day and evening walking along the Seine. I visited the Maison Européenne de la Photographie, which, like most museums here, has an incredible discount on admission for those younger than 26 years-old. The museum featured a few good exhibits - most notably the Ara Güler exhibit, but had too many environmentally charged exhibits for my taste. The environmentalist agenda appeals to some, but I find it particularly dull, especially when it intersects with art. Environmentalism in art strikes me as being hostile and angry, neither of which are attitudes I want to be bombarded with when strolling through a museum. If environmentalism is your cup of tea, then you would enjoy the exhibits currently featured at the MEP. Personally, I’d rather use public transit, plant a tree, and spend the rest of the day at the Louvre.

On Monday, Lou asked me to accompany her and Anne to Horse Ball practice. Lou learned how to ride horses at a young age, and has recently started playing a game called Horse Ball -- sort of a mix between basketball and flashball on horseback. At one point during the game, a group of small ponies from a neighboring pen escaped, sending a pack of seven year-old French kids into a frenzy, shrieking, and running at full speed to chase after the ponies. The seven year-olds, although the same size as the ponies, did not meet with much success. Thankfully the dogs managed to round up the runaway ponies. I had a good laugh at the whole ordeal.

Notre Dame

2009-09-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

I don't have much time to write at the moment as dinner is nearly ready, but I want to share with you a few of the pictures I snapped today while in the heart of the city. Anne has a friend staying for the weekend who offered to escort me to Paris proper with instructions on how to navigate the various trains, busses, and the metro. I was grateful for the guidance.

I visited Notre Dame this afternoon, but didn't have nearly enough time to meditate on the ornate details of every corner. Thankfully I'll be here for awhile, so I will most certainly return for a more intimate visit. I was disappointed to see the number of people who scurried through the Cathedral with cameras, zooming in on every other statue and/ or stained glass window, snapping the picture, and running to the next as if they were participating in a scavenger hunt. I understand that tourists have limited time, and Paris has more to offer than most countries, but if one has only limited time to allocate to a site like Notre Dame, then one should put the camera away, and appreciate the view not through a cheap camera lens, but with one's own eyes and heart. Pictures are nice to have, but remembering how something made you feel the first time you saw it is much deeper and lasting than mere images on Kodak paper. Plus, thanks to the internet and tourist postcards, one can find those images after the fact, and those images are 500% more attractive than the pictures taken by someone running through the Cathedral with a run of the mill camera. Just saying.

Here are the few pictures I took..

(The quality of the images on blogspot isn't the best, but I don't have an alternative venue for pictures yet).

Le Premier Jour

2009-09-17T23:59:00.000-07:00

Today was my first full day in France. I spent the afternoon wandering through my neighborhood-- a suburb of Paris called Saint-Cloud. The houses are picturesque and incredibly charming with small gated driveways, mosaic details above the windows, and a tasteful yet creative combination of colors. The streets are narrow, the cars are small, and motorcycles are everywhere. [A note on the motorcycles: the moto drivers pay little to no deference to the rules of the road, and exhibit no reluctance when driving the wrong way on a congested one-way alleyway. In my walk around town I saw one motorcycle with three full grown adults riding down the main road, and another with a child who appeared no older than four years. The child, I must say, amused me, as s/he looked like a rag doll flopping around behind his/her father (I presume), not holding on to the father, showing no concern, and toting a backpack bigger than his/her own body]. Neighborhood pictures to follow in a later post.

I needed a few things at the market, including a voltage adapter for my laptop, so I ventured out of my neighborhood to Monoprix, a large "one-stop" store with groceries along the perimeter, and clothing and house wares in the middle. This type of store is far from ideal, but looking for electronic equipment for an American computer on day one in a foreign country is no easy task. On my way to the blessed Monoprix, I came upon the French version of the "Dollar Store", and was comforted to learn that I can buy cheaply made Chinese goods in France as well as in America. Ha. Due to the exchange rate, however, the dollar store here is more like "the five dollar store" for me. Oh well.

Well, now that I've soiled the picture I painted of my surroundings by introducing you to banal Monoprix, let me assure you that this is place is lovely. I treated myself to lunch at Les Tonnelles Creperie, an enchanting restaurant decorated just the way I imagined a French cafe to be furnished. After lunch I picked up Lou, my tutee, and began another sort of adventure: ESL.

It's midnight here, and I'm exhausted, but happy. I hope all is well back home.

Hugs,
Melissa

Boston to Frankfurt

2009-09-16T06:30:00.000-07:00

After a sweet, but unfortunately rushed goodbye with Mum and Dad on the front doorstep of Logan's international terminal, my journey to Europe began. My flight from Boston to Frankfurt was pleasant and uneventful, thankfully. If you have not flown with Lufthansa yet, you may be missing out. First, I was struck by the sheer size of the airplane (and the staircase inside), a mass so large that I wondered how the plane would lift off the ground, let alone fly across the Atlantic Ocean. (This phenomenon is not exclusive to Lufthansa, obviously, but I mention it for the sake of sharing initial impressions). The stewardesses graced up and down the aisles on at least nine separate occasions with a cornucopia of water, juice, wine, beer, coffee, tea, and of course the quintessential airplane pretzels- all of which were free and seemingly limitless. How delightful. Dinner on board left much to be desired by way of taste, but I was grateful for the gesture, and luckily breakfast was much better.

Presently I find myself sitting in an ultra-contemporary (maybe "post-modern" is a more appropriate word choice) coffee shop in the Frankfurt airport, waiting for my connecting flight to Paris. The coffee shop is playing the techno version of American pop and hip-hop music-- an odd choice for 6:34 AM local time.

Oh, right, the time difference. Air travel harbors the ability to make afternoons seem like eternities. Even though time back home is 12:30 AM, and the local German time is 6:30 AM, I don't feel particularly tired; I feel as if I'm in the middle of the longest day a human has ever endured. Not complaining one bit, though, I'd share my observations of the people, only I haven't encountered many due to the early hour.

I'm off to buy a latte and start my new book: The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. I'll write more later. I suspect I will need a few days to figure out my internet situation, so stay tuned!