Taylor's blog

Over the summer I had an internship in Miami and I although I was fully basking in the change in environment, typical me could not stop thinking of the future and what was to come.  I lived a couple blocks from a movie theater and when Midnight in Paris hit theaters in July it was the perfect opportunity for me to get myself even more amped for my year abroad.  Months later, I didn’t remember the details of the film and just had a few clips of images in my head from various scenes.  I mean, I knew going into it that it was a standard Owen Wilson performance and spent most of the film placing myself in the scenes and trying to imagine my life in Paris.  Recently I decided it would be fun to re-watch the film now that’d I been in Paris for a few months.

 I had completely forgotten about the two minute long opening montage of various locations in Paris played to some perfectly stereotypically French sound music.  I wish I remembered my initial reaction to the montage because it was most definitely not the same as my reaction this time.  This time around, the opening images were my favorite part of the whole movie.  I knew every place they showed! Okay maybe I could not name every single place, but pretty close.  And it felt really good.  I couldn’t believe it—they haad put together a two minute montage of the most beautiful and iconic places in the city of Paris and the images were so familiar to me this time.  I felt a sense of pride.

 A few days later I was hanging out at a friends apartment and when I walked in the door Big Daddy was on the TV.  I hadn’t watched that movie in years, such a classic Adam Sandler film.  I sat down on the couch and watched Adam Sandler with NYU’s own Disney twins hanging out in Washington Square Park. I realized I hadn’t watched Big Daddy since moving to New York and as I put together a mental map all the side streets around Washington Square Park and remembered having class around the fountain in the background I felt the same pride I’d felt watching Midnight in Paris.  I loved that I knew exactly where they were sitting and where it was in relation to the rest of the neighborhood and the rest of the city.

Having this feeling about Paris was an epiphany for me.  I’ve be so consumed in my own issues that I had no idea how much Paris had really become a home. I knew that when my parents had come to visit I loved being able to tell them about various monuments and buildings, mostly verbatim from my lectures, but it had felt so good to talk about Paris knowledgably and comfortably.  But despite this, I still found myself missing the U.S. and unsure that my feelings for Paris would ever align with me feelings for New York.  Midnight in Paris made me realize how much the image of place changes, not just when you can identify it, but when there are emotions associated with the place. 

           A month or so ago I was heading out to the 6th to meet up with friends on a Saturday afternoon and as I turned the corner I saw a girl probably in her mid 20s, looking down at her phone then peering back up around her, she was definitely lost.  Maybe she’s American, I thought.  She spotted me and immediately asked me for directions to a street nearby.  Nope, definitely French. Since I barely even caught what she was asking me and the response was more complicated than “take a left then a right”, I asked her if she spoke English.  She said she spoke a little and I asked her if she knew what the street was near.  She took a deep breath and looked back down at her phone and after a moment said, “I can not read my fucking map!”  We both laughed a little and I stepped forward to look over her shoulder at her phone to see where the map was telling her to turn.  I didn’t know the exact street she was looking for but she took the small advice I was able to offer.  And although when she said, “I cannot read my fucking map” I only laughed a little at the situation and then continued to try to help her out, inside I was cracking up from her hilariously surprising response.  It felt so good to hear someone expressing their frustration in such a stereotypically American way, and loudly to a total stranger!  Plus hearing it out of a French speaker’s mouth just added so much to her exclamation. 
            I loved this chick, she was French but she dropped an f-bomb and she took my advice on the directions. She said this was the only area she didn’t know at all and asked me if I lived around there.  I felt so cool telling her yes, I lived just down the road we were standing at the corner of (yet still embarrassed to not speak the language, however she really did not seem to care).  Everything about the encounter with this total stranger made me feel more like I could really survive in Paris.  First, it felt good to be recognized as someone who might know where they were going (at least I didn’t appear to be lost anymore, at least not all the time).  Secondly, the woman looking for directions was so American in the way that she approached me, a little bit loud and frazzled plus the fact that she even looked at a stranger at all!   It made me realize not everyone in Paris is the same.  And thirdly, I helped her with directions and there is nothing that makes anyone more of a local than being able to give directions, even if they weren’t the most exact.  Plus even though we barely spoke each other’s languages, this stranger was so immediately easy to talk to, it made language feel like less of an issue than it had seemed. And her trust in my opinion made me feel more apart of my neighborhood. 

           Walking through Place de l’Opera at any point during the day would most definitely cause anyone to stop in their tracks in order absorb the majestic building in front of them. In 1860 Napoleon III ordered the construction of a new opera house and announced there would a competition for interested architects.   The Opera was finished by French architect, Charles Garnier, in time to be revealed at the 1867 World’s Fair, a very appropriate launch for a building embodying so much of what Paris was hoping to express to other nations at the time and still today.
            The Opera was built as a temple of the arts—Every detail of the building’s design pays homage to Paris as a center of culture and sophistication.  The design for the Opera combines religion and power in such a way as to name the arts the new religion.  The building itself is the same height as Notre Dame and the décor is nostalgic of Versailles (the center of power) while the names of the composers on the exterior of the building are symbolic of ‘saints’ to the arts. The gold Apollo a the top of the building not only represents the arts in a historical definition, but Apollo represents sun and light and as the sun sets in Paris, the statue of Apollo is illuminated in the sky above the temple of arts.
                                      
            Once inside the Opera, the staircase is designed in a way to allow the subconscious mind to float along the stairs.  I felt as if I needed to be wearing a gown with a long trail and elbow length gloves and possibly a mask or a fan in my hand.  Or rather I wanted to be wearing all that, but the starircase and the architecture surrounding it automatically makes one feel glamorous and royal.  The entrance is so glamorous it is impossible to not be swept away.  Garnier’s design is very much in synch with Napoleon and Haussemann’s urban planning, which was taking place during the same time period. The glamorous, 'floating' staircase reminds me of the plans to make the streets of Paris curved in order to give people relief from the straight lines of everyday life.  Both the streets of Paris and the staircase of Opera are attuned with French living—wandering and floating through time all while appearing effortlessly glamorous.

                           

            Everything about the Opera’s design and the artwork within it left me in awe until I went into the auditorium to check out the iconic chandelier.  The chandelier, weighing in at 6 tons, was perfectly fitting to the rest of the Opera’s glamour and bewitchment, but my jaw closed when I was taken aback by Marc Chagall’s painting on the ceiling behind the chandelier. The painting was commissioned in 1963 and like so much of the architecture and design left over from the 60s and 70s, it has nothing to do with anything else around it.  The painting looks like it belongs on the side of an elementary school building, not the backdrop to the centerpiece of the French Opera. I am sure there are ‘good’ reasons for the choice of artwork, perhaps to allure younger generations to the Opera. However, it seems to me the aim should be to young adults, not les enfants in the schoolyard.  What is so disheartening about Chagall’s painting is its stark contrast to the Parisian atmosphere created in such detail by Garnier.  The painting takes away dramatically from the Opera’s enchantment, which as whole embodies all the magic that is Paris.  But with one painting, Chagall brought my mind back to the dreary days of chalk boards and fluorescent light bulbs. 

            For me, Paris’s genius loci is Place des Vosges. Just down the street and around the corner from my apartment, Place des Vosges embodies all that is Paris.  The history of Place des Vosges goes back to 1604 when King Henry IV commissioned a royal pavilion at the southern end of the square, the construction of the 35 buildings that followed the pavilion made the Place des Vosges an early example of urban planning.  And even though the architecture and the historical context behind it all is actually really very interesting, it’s not this that makes Place des Vosges Paris’s genius loci. However, it is the architecture that frames so perfectly what is going on inside the square that makes it so fully Parisian.

                                               

            To enter the square, I stroll down a short side street off Rivoli with the entrance to the square at the dead end the road, which, to me, makes the square feel even more of a nook within the city.  When walking straight down Rivoli, just a glance down this side street and I feel like I’m peering into an oversized secret garden.  Is that an oxymoron?  Either way, that is what it seems like.  Once I walk off the street and cross under an arcade and into the square, everyone is sprawled out in the grass and on top of blankets, smoking cigarettes, eating baguettes, reading novels, but mostly socializing with friends and taking it easy to say the least. Under the planted trees by the edge of the grass, parents sit on benches watching their children play on the seesaws. Here, it’s easy to do as the Parisians do—just sit down, relax and watch.

                                                   

            Under the arcades that boarder the entire square there are a few cafés, but my go-to is Cafe Hugo.  The name alone echoes French culture—the famous French playwright, Victor Hugo, lived in house number 6 along the square. The café named for Hugo is the perfect spot to eat or drink outside, under the arcade.  Also, in the small downstairs of Café Hugo there are two big, warm leather couches in an old wine cellar that are perfect way to be lazy a November night.  This Café at the corner of the square allows for more aspects of Paris’s genius loci to appear; along with the socializing and relaxing, Café Hugo allows for further people watching but this time with a glass of wine and a plate of cheese in the shade of the arcade (although it is just as French to pass a bottle or two around with friends sitting in the grass).
            As simple as it all sounds (and is), this is Paris. A grassy square with a cozy café tucked away from the busier streets and the cars. I cannot think of better place to really soak in what it’s like to live as a Parisian. 

    While I’m in Paris, Sunday brunch at Café Orlin on Saint Marks has been replaced with St. Regis Café situated at a small, cobblestoned intersection of Ile Saint-Louis (the smaller island on the seine in the 4th arrondissement, just before Pont Saint-Louis), a perfect distance from each of the four of us who meet up every Sunday.
    I walk outside and the old wooden door of my apartment building clunks closed behind me slowly but loudly.  It’s Sunday, meaning Paris is at its quietest, so as I walk the block and a half to the Seine to meet my friend who has strolled over from the Bastille, the streets are still so quiet we feel as if we need to keep our voices down.   We walk along the river until reaching the first bridge.  Our start to the weekend gossip is put on hold for a moment as we cross the wide bridge and pause to look both ways down the river.  Even though we’ve slept through the morning mist, Paris is still picturesque to either side of us. 
            We’re greeted with hugs and bisous as we plop down at an outside table at St. Regis Café.  We order four café au lait while we try to decide what we’re in the mood to eat.  The menus come in both English and French (the red ones are in English and the black ones in French), we get two of each which has become a nice way to use Sunday brunch as a brush up on vocab before French class in the morning. Most times the waffles at the next table look too fluffy to resist so we order four.

                                      

            What accompanies Sunday brunch more than people watching?  As we chat about our next weekend getaway or reminisce about the one we’ve just returned from (this is a little hopeful, we’re probably and more likely stressing over an upcoming exam or the depleting funds in our bank accounts), we have a backdrop of Parisians and tourists alike beginning their days along the Seine.  I watch the people filtering through the narrow foot streets—actually for cars, but on Sunday afternoons this one road would be impossible to maneuver a car through, although a few do try and that is also fun to watch for. Likely the people are crossing the street to watch a street artist performing along Pont Saint-Louis or to listen to a violinist along their way to Notre Dame. But now that the weather is changing, it’s a good thing the inside of St. Regis cafe is just as inviting as the atmosphere on the street. 

                                                                

            The first thing that catches my eye is the black and white tiled floor.  The entire room—from the wooden booths and rustic bar to the mirrors and the magazine racks along the wall— creates an art nouveau scene of the 1920s.  Even the waiters, wearing long white aprons and black suspenders, feel typical of Parisian life, stereotyped in my mind as Paris in the 20s, but not forced to the point that it’s trying too hard to be retro.  Just like most else in Paris, St. Regis café is just the right amount of cool.
            Now that the weather is colder, our favorite spot for brunch doubles as the perfect spot to stop for a vin chaud, or an Irish coffee for me.

            For this assignment I want to go back to a previous post I wrote after visiting Claude Monet’s home in Giverny. During the visit I had been bothered by the staged authenticity but did not yet have a term to describe what I disliked.  Of course, examples of staged authenticity surround me everywhere I go if I really look, but because I had had an idea in my mind of what to expect at Monet’s home, the extremely staged scenario caught me off guard.  The interior of Monet’s house has been made into a museum and this is to be expected, but what actually bothered me was that even the lily pond felt staged and inauthentic.
            I remember trying to take a photograph of the lily pads floating with Monet’s house on a hill in the background, but finding it extremely difficult to get a shot without a few busloads of tourists with visors and fanny packs in the background. It was in fact impossible to get a shot of the famous green bridge because of the continuous flow of people passing over it.  It was good I had my friends with me to keep the mood light because with each minute I grew more anxious with the snail passed move of the crowd and the man stepping on my heels behind me.  It’s a aggravating feeling—on the one hand I just wanted everyone but me and my friends to leave so we could finally sit in the grass and soak in our day in the life of Monet and on the other hand I really do understand that there must be some order to how visitors filter through the site.  But as childish and naïve as it sounds, I simply found myself sad that Monet’s house had to be a tourist destination and not just a place to come and relax. It seemed so un-French.
            Even though the day had looked different in my mind, once back on the train I did feel satisfied that I’d been to Monet’s home and had seen what was offered to tourists of Monet’s life, but it wasn’t authentic and I was very aware of that fact.  I had believed to be going passed Goffman’s front region by venturing out of Paris but knew too that I was fulfilling a tourist “must-do” of France. But the back region I hoped to enter had been made into a front region.  The large parking lot of tour buses is just next to the lily pond that is now decorated with signs and arrows leading me to various “landmarks” of Monet’s life and the museum now on Monet’s property has a gift shop nearly the same size as the gallery room.  What confuses me about visits like this is how it has become so difficult to have a truly authentic experience within a historical site. How do I visit a place like the home of Claude Monet and experience it as truly. I can’t because the authenticity has been tainted by the exploitation of the site for profit. To me, it is still worth it to visit similar places, however, it is hard to not feel a little sad that the genuine place is no longer there. 

        During my daily routine I often find myself missing the noise of New York.  I miss the honking and the sirens and even the construction.  When it's 10:00pm and I’m reminded that I haven't been grocery shopping all week there is no walking over to St Marks Market or browsing through Seamless Web—I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. And for me, knowing that these places are all closed and locked up for the night is enough to make me close my books and go to bed.  In New York, even when my energy levels get low, the city's are still going and eventually will feed into mine. This is no doubt helpful in the mornings when I roll out of bed and out the door.  I can't help but be alert in New York, so many people on the street have already been up for hours and there are cars racing all around me and the honking that never stopped.  But in Paris the quietness of the streets even when they are full of people is too calming on so many days, it's too easy to feel okay dragging my feet and dreaming of being back in bed because everyone else appears to be doing the same.
         Anytime I hear a car blasting ridiculously loud music I feel comforted…But this has only happened two or three times here in Paris. In New York I could get a sampling of the weeks top 20 on the radio just by walking to class without my iPod. Here in Paris I tell time in my apartment through the hourly and bi-hourly church bells I can hear clearly from the cathedral down the road.  The ancient wood beams in my apartment combined with those medieval bells and the chilly fall weather, I am half expecting Bette Midler to appear every time I light a candle (.. Hocus Pocus anyone?).   I can hear church bells in New York too but they are harmonized between delivery trucks, rows of honking taxis, and a wide variety of sirens (including the horrendous noise made by the Beth Isreal ambulances).
         In New York it's nearly impossible to ignore the energy of the city itself; everyone is doing something and the streets are so full of people going places you can't help but to be going some place too.  I feel as if in New York I never have to have a destination and the sidewalks are more like the moving sidewalks in the airport-- people who are walking to the side of the moving sidewalk are more reflective of a Parisian pace, stopping for a drink here, a pastry and a coffee there. Which is funny to say considering my professor recently explaining that Paris was designed in such an aesthetic way as to allow one's subconscious to guide it through the city.  She went on to add that Napoleon and Houssemann had decided that people needed relief from the straight lines ingrained in everyday life. So, the streets became curvy which gives Paris it's shape and the city’s parks were then shaped like the old streets-- long, straight lines. But Paris is a city for wandering and New York is a city for doing, hence we've got the easy-to-get-around grid system.  And as much as I love to wander, there are some days when I miss all that is going on in New York, even to just know that it's all going on and it's all an option. I'm sure so many amazing things are happening all around Paris at any given moment, but sometimes you'd never know from the silence in the streets. 

I recently took a day trip with a few friends to Monet's garden. It was a very quick decision and luckily the lovely trains out of Paris make spontaneity very easy over here! But given that it was a spontaneous outting and I was really just tagging along to already made plans, I didn't get a chance to do the usual Googling of what to expect. I imagined my friends an I spending a leisurley afternoon amongst trees and lilly pads, smoking a cigarette or two and chatting about our picturesque days in France. I could see us laying in the grass beneath some big tree providing just the right combination of sunshine and shade. Oh and of course there would be a baguette and brie.

The reality was something slightly different. We arrived in Giverny, an adorably French town just 45 minutes outside Paris's. But only a mere moment off of the train and I started to second guess the image in my mind. My friend and I spotted a few tourists, who had also been on our train from Paris, begin jogging to a bus a few yards ahead of us. We were heading to the same bus, but what was the rush? The bus was empty. It took one glance over my shoulder to realize there were 75 other tourists behind us with eyes on the same bus. I looked to my friend and we began to pick up our step. We plopped down in the seats directly behind the driver of this Peter Pan type bus that would take us the garden. The bus was too full and the line of those waiting for the next one was like that of an amusement park entrance. What had I gotten myself into on this 'leisurely' sunday afternoon?

As the bus pulled away from the train station my thoughts drifted back to my original image of the day. The town we drove through was old and historic, but with real life moving through it too. playgrounds and a post office, residents sharing the sunday afternoon on a grassy soccer field... I could totally settle down here. But my daydream was again interrupted by the huge parking lot filled with tour busses and campers-- was this IT!? Really? .... We got off the bus and followed the modern looking signs this way and that, getting lost in crowds of people with fanny packs and visors all doing the same until we found a street leading the museum. No one told me there was a museum. We could not even find the entrance through the masses of people which I could only compare to the Boston T before a Red Sox game. What was happening? Where was my empty field of flowers and baguettes? "okay" I thought, "Maybe this was just because of the museum, and maybe Monet's actual home would be more of my liking".

When we finally made our way to Monet's beautiful country house covered in vines with a front yard made up of pathways covered in flowers of every color and shade I was feeling better. It was quiet the challenge to get a photograph without some family posing for their Christmas card in the background, but we were up for the challenge... and had more than a few laughs while attempting. Inside Monet's house, the actual heat from the indian summer weather combined with the body heat made it tres difficile to even remember my original image of the day, however, it was still pretty cool to say the least. And his kitchen... c'est incroyable! Nancy Myers couldn't have dreamt up a cuter layout if she tried.

My friends and I eventually trekked through enough tourists to find a more peaceful place to eat lunch and sip some rosé. The outdoor eating area we found was bordered by old stone walls covered in ivory and looked out onto mountains of green and a little fall foliage. And we got our rosé and a much needed lunch at this point. It wasn't what I had imagined but it was a great day with friends and few moments of history, plus a lot of great scenery despite the people in front of it. We had scene what we came to see and now we got to enjoy a slow lunch, sipping our wine, laughing and gazing off into the distance before boarding our train back to Parriii. Oh so French.

Despite having many events in my life surpass any my wildest expectations, I've always believed that the best way to never be disappointed is to not have any expectations at all, but I am a complete dreamer. I love imagining the future and falling asleep as I put myself in ideal situations. This often leaves me wondering how I could have imaged something so perfect? What was I thinking? However, it is days like these one that remind me to go with the flow and as cheesy as it is, as long as I'm in good company and can keep a sense of humor, nothing can go truly wrong. And in my opinion it will always be worth going someplace and realizing it's different than what you'd imagined than not going at all. Different is not always bad and sometimes different is great!

Most people in Paris will pick up on the American accent straight away and will then continue on speaking to you in English. However, if you do happen to have to ask "parlez vous anglais" and they happen to respond with a short "Non", it usually comes out sounding a little bit rude. And their eyes usually say, "what a stupid question. Why would I, a Parisian, speak English?".  However, this attitude usually quickly drops as long as I continue to say what I can in French and keep a smile going. But like I said, most speak English and even more seem to actually be impressed by my horrific attempt at their language. They really do appreciate the effort! 

 

After being here for nearly a month I flew up to Newcastle, England for my best friend's birthday.  Her and I had been talking for nearly a year about when I would finally be able to see where she goes to university and even more so recently that she'd planned a house party for her 21st.  In all this anticipation I never once thought of what it might be like to return to speaking English after being in Paris for a few weeks. There is most definitely something to be said for not having to plan out conversations with cashiers, neighbors, even refilling my phone minutes is quiet the task. We were heading out find Eliza a costume for her party when she realized she wasn't sure which way exactly the costume shop was. Without thinking, she turned to a man passing us on the busy street and asked the question. There was no mumbling or stumbling over words, no award exchange of hand gestures, just quick and easy. An hour later I told the barista at Starbucks "merci, bonne journée!" as she handed me my order... I turned red and looked away before catching her reaction. 

 

I didn't actually miss the ease which comes with being fluent in the local language until escaping to England for a couple days. I returned to Paris with more determination than ever. I must speak this language! I had forgotten just how good it feels to be able to communicate with strangers so freely. As much as Paris has begun to truly feel like a home away from home, it wasn't until returning from a weekend away that I realized for a place to truly be a home to me I need to be able to say what's on my mind without too much thought going into the translation of my thoughts from English.

 

Unlike most of New York City's streets that follow the grid system, Paris is made up of meandering rues that are fully fitting to the puddle shape the city takes on. The neighborhood in which I live is called Le Marais and more specifically Village Saint-Paul.   The streets are just as romantic as in the movies and the people watching is just about as French as it gets.  Early birds sitting outside cafés breaking into warm pastries while old men with wooden canes and Jay Gatsby caps are opening their book stands for the day along The Seine. 

 

When I got into the taxi at Charles De Gaulle I knew the street name to give the taxi driver and that was as far as my french went.  Lucky for me, the taxi driver was very understanding of my embarrassing attempt at his language and like the majority of Parisians and he spoke English pretty well (at least a lot better than my French). I felt anxious about getting to my apartment and what I would do first. I knew I needed to sleep, but would I wake up feeling even more disoriented?  I didn't know anyone here really. I could picture in my mind a rough estimate of where I was heading within Paris, remembering where I'd seen my address marked on the map in relation to Paris's big North and South marker, the Seine (I am just a couple blocks north of The Seine). Thanks to google street view I knew I lived either next to or across from The Red Wheelbarrow, which turns out to be a very handy english bookstore. 

 

Being that I am both directionaly challenged and notoriously late, I decided it would be wise to find my way to NYU in Paris before the first day of orientation. So, after resting up for a day and spending a solid 20 minutes trying to purchase a metro ticket, I successfully hopped on the metro heading west towards school.  I found the metro surprisingly idiot proof. And to us directionally challenged and notoriously late, this is a big deal. The ticket machines have an array of language options (I did not realize this on my first metro adventure) and the signs posting which train stops at which other stops are big, new and brightly colored and placed before each staircase. Good for groggy mornings sans iced coffee. And no express trains, simply this way or that way.  The only problem I have with the Paris metro is the passenger etiquette. First, it is the walk in the park all Parisians seem to be taking in the underground tunnels at 9am, and then it is the horrifying fear of making eye contact. 

 

Strangers in France do not look at each other unless they want to get it on. I thought this was a joke. It's not. Oh and don't attempt at a smile to escape the awkward glance in their direction, it'll be returned with a deer in headlights look that will leave you punching yourself for ignoring Dr. Rosenberg's orders to "wear your retainers every night". My solution has been to wear sunglasses and keep my eyes on my ipod.

 

My metro adventure from my apartment in the 4th arrondissement to NYU in Paris in the 16th took me about 25 minutes the first time, but as the days have gone on I have realized that it can take as long as 40 minutes on a bad day.  In order to pick up my morning coffee on the way, I leave a solid 45 minutes to arrive on time.  This seems to be a standard time estimate for getting from any point A to point B in Paris. But like I said, an idiot proof metro and a good reason to pop in the earbuds merely means a solid opportunity to space out. Day dreaming whilst sipping on a hot cappuccino is definitely not the worst way to start the day. 

Hello All! Joining the class a tad late, but here to fill you all in! 

I caught the travel bug the summer going into my junior year of high school.  I had traveled before, but never stayed for more than a school vacation's worth of days.  After a month in Florence studying photography and fashion design, I knew two things; I couldn't wait to do that again and I simply cannot draw.  I have always been an abnormal amount of eager to be independent. I was constantly begging the other preschoolers to ask their parents to allow them to have a sleepover. I was ready to be a big kid. And in my mind, I was born a big kid.