flâneur's blog

Throughout the semester, I’ve thought a little bit about things I would’ve liked to have known before coming to Paris, and what I would tell a friend planning to come here. Since my initial housing assignment was quite unfortunate, I have a bit of advise on housing. Try to find your own apartment before coming to Paris, way before NYU asks about what type of housing you prefer, and if you can’t find an apartment (you probably won’t, because finding an apartment here is near impossible, but if there’s any way you think you could—through connections with a friend or relative, etc—then do it), then fill out the housing questionnaire in the following way: 1) studio 2) roommate (and you can request another NYU student here, if you’d like) 3) chambre de bonne 4) stay with a family. I wanted to live by myself, so I put studio first and chambre de bonne second, and ended up with a chambre de bonne, because NYU doesn’t really have studios available, and it was the smallest room (closet) I’ve ever seen, with no access to a shower or kitchen. Yet, I was paying the same rent as what I paid for my way bigger apartment in the East Village. I was also living on the border of Paris, forty- five minutes from the center; in a neighborhood that the landlord admitted was “just old retired rich people, and little kids.” All my friends with roommates have nice apartments that are less expensive than that chambre de bonne. So, I got moved to a great apartment in the Bastille with a French roommate after I refused to live in the first place; thankfully it worked out quite well.
Anyway, if you have any choice in neighborhood, I’d say the area around Monmartre, or Belleville, or the haut- Marais/ Republique, or the anywhere in the 11th. I personally love Belleville, it reminds me a bit of Greenpoint, if I were to compare it with anything. Quite chilled out, but a very diverse and happening artistic community, with old Parisian buildings, and it’s a relatively cheap area. Around Momartre is quite cute, with chic boutiques and a hip population; Monmartre itself is very touristy, but it’s pretty easy to avoid the worst areas. There’s a dodgy red light district around Pigalle but its interspersed with a lot of cool cafes and restaurants. What I like most about that area is how hilly it all is, and how narrow the streets are. I think it would probably be sort of similar to the East Village, maybe. The haut- Marais is perhaps comparable to the meat- packing district or Chelsea, but is not as touristy as the southern part of the Marais, around Saint Paul; it seems like an up-and-coming neighborhood. The 11th is where I live, and it was quite hip maybe a decade ago, but now has been overwhelmed and is sort of just outmoded, it’s comme ci comme ca. There’s still a lot to do, but most bars and cafes are already tres connu, so they are crowded and over priced. It is near to everything, which is the good thing, and Oberkampf sort of reminds me of MacDougal, so I’d say my area would be similar to Greenwich Village. The 14th also seems like a cool place to live, but I don’t know nearly enough about it.
It is way harder to divide Paris up into specific neighborhoods and to label them as happening or not happening, because everything is just more broken up than in New York. For example, there’s nothing equivalent to Williamsburg/ Bushwick here because “hipsters” (I hate using this word because of it's varied implications, but you know what I mean) live all over Paris, and outside of Paris. It is so hard to find an apartment, so most settle for whatever they can get—it’s hard to just pick an area to live in in Paris unless you’re quite rich and French. There’s no Upper East Side equivalent, because all parts of Paris are inhabited by the “bourgeois” – although, I’d say that places like the 16th and 17th are definitely rich areas.
Anyway, I am probably wrong about some of these conclusions and comparisons because I’ve only been here for so long, and therefore have only been to some neighborhoods a few times. I would’ve liked to have known all these things before I came, though, just to orient myself with Parisian neighborhoods. I tried to figure out what each neighborhood of Paris was like before arriving here, via the internet, but it was hard to find such information. I think you have to be told such things by someone who has lived here or by finding out through experience.
Also, if you’re coming to Paris, expect to spend quite a lot of money—most of it on food. At first I tried to resist spending so much on food, by buying groceries and cooking, but then I realized that most of my social interactions as well as cultural experiences here happen in the context of food—at restaurants and cafes. It is well worth it to spend so much money on food; one: because American families spend a smaller percentage of their budget on food than families of any other country, and two: because the food is so much better here and you won’t be able to taste most of these things upon your return to America.
In terms of excellent restaurants, cafes, etc, that I would recommend—I’d say walk around Monmartre, you’ll find a lot of cute places. Also, eat Lebanese at Chez Marianne on Rue des Hospitaliers Saint Gervais in the Marais, or great classic French at Chez Janou near Place des Voges, go to brunch at Rose Bakery, (if you’re into veg food) go to the Loving Hut off Chemin Vert (I know, the name is quite amusing) or Aquarius in the 14th. Those are just restaurants I’ve been to more than once here, they’re the ones I can think of off the top of my head. It’s pretty hard to have a bad meal here, in my experience. As for cool cafes, the one I am sitting in right now is pretty comfortable; it is on the corner or Rue des Hospitaliers Saint Gervais across from Muji. Merce and the Muse on Rue Dupuis is a very New Yorkaise coffee shop, if you’re ever missing Think Coffee or 9th Street Espresso, or whatever your NY coffee spot is. It’s actually owned by a NYU grad. Café de l’Industrie is pretty cool, and right around the corner is the only 24/7 place I’ve encountered in all of Paris: la Rotonde. There’s a whole lot of awesome places in Paris, and I don’t want to recommend too many, because the best ones I’ve encountered have been by wandering around and entering whatever place I’ve felt like going to—and I recommend anyone who visits Paris do the same.
As for everything else—I most certainly recommend Parc des Buttes Chaumont, it is the most incredible park in the world. There are a bunch of awesome venues and bars and cafes near la Bellevilloise in Belleville. My roommate played at Studio Ermitage off the Jourdain stop and I quite liked that place. Don’t go to Nouveau Casino or Café Charbonne unless you want to pay too much to be squished into a small place for the whole night. Check out Pop- In, off the Saint Sebastian Froissart stop on a week night to catch a cool show. Go to the Bottle Shop on Rue Trousseau if you miss Lower East Side bars (also better on week nights). I’ve never been to Le Tigre, but hear it’s similar to meat packing district clubs—so if, for some reason, you’re jonsing for such a scene, you can find a Parisian version of it there. Go to Shakespeare and Co, and maybe even sign up for their once a week creative writing workshop. Go to outdoor markets to buy your food, such as the one on Rue d’Aligre. Walk across the Bir-Hakim bridge, go to the Cinematheque near Bercy to catch a film cycle, check out Pere Lachaise at least for an hour, walk along the Seine as often as possible, sit in the deserted square that it Place Dauphine. Check out the Tuileries and Musee D’Orsay and definitely, definitely check out the Pompidou, several times. Gallery hop in the Marais. If you miss Bobst (I think you will!), go to the free library in the Pompidou, ascend the elevator to the 3rd floor and go to the music section to listen to John Cage or Satie while reading a book. Read Nadja and Good Morning Midnight and Giovanni’s Room and Tropic of Cancer.  Don’t worry too much about what to pack—I packed three hours before I had to leave and don’t miss anything. Just make sure you have an adaptor, of course, and bring your face wash if you’re loyal to some American brand. Walk around with a comprehensive map for the first month or so (but if you’re ever lost, its never hard to find your way: you just wander until you find a metro and take it to wherever you’d like to go). Be more productive during the day, and don’t expect to go out every night till 3 unless you want to spend hundred of euros on cab rides throughout the semester (and trust me, most cool places are closed by 2am, so its almost never worth it—the only time it’s been worth staying out late is when I am at a French apartment party or something). And, if you’re a girl, don’t stop when people ask you things on the street, 80% of the time, doing so just provokes an unfortunate situation. But do talk to strangers everyday—your neighbors in your apartment building, the neighboring table at a café, your local boulangerie saleswoman, your local bartender, people in metro cars, people in buses. It’s worth it—to improve your French and learn an insight into their way of life, and to feel as if you’re more than just a foreign American student temporarily living in Paris.

    I just flew from St. Paul to Chez Hannah in order to jot down these thoughts. I’m a bit sweaty now; you know how that always happens when you walk too fast, dodging through snail-like crowds, on a mission. You arrive glistening, and shrouded in winter clothing, at your destination.
    I’ve figured out the bus system in Paris; it only took me four months. It’s a lot simpler and often more efficient than the metro. Yesterday I took the 86 from my corner all the way to College de France to eat Ethiopian food with my hands at midnight, surrounded by six close friends in an intricately decorated shack with an impossibly small kitchen. The ride there only took nine minutes, on the metro it would’ve taken a half hour. Today I took the 76 from Faubourg Saint Antoine/ Ledru Rollin to Saint Paul. The stop is a two-minute walk away from my apartment, in front of SFR, my mobile provider here. Anyhow, I show up at the stop and it says fourteen minutes until the next bus. I have to do quite a bit of work for finals, so I don’t want to waste a minute—never mind fourteen—waiting idly at the stop. So I jog down Faubourg Saint Antoine towards Ledru Rollin looking for a café to grab an espresso at; no luck. I sprint into Monoprix (it is open on a Sunday! Again, something I realize only at the very end that would’ve been so great to know for these past four months) and slide back out, empty handed.
    I finally just speed walk to Charonne and Faubourg Saint Antoine, stomp up to a bar, and order un café. I think the bartender gets the gist that I am in a hurry and he magically produces an espresso in under thirty seconds. I blow on it as hard as I can, watching the foam disperse in the dim lighting, let the fire drop down my throat, ask how much, give him my 2 euro, grab my change, say bon soir, and leave. Walking back to the 76 stop, I see the bus approaching, and I start darting between pedestrians, which allows me to catch it just in time.
    The bus is deserted. Just the faded yellowed patterned chairs and I. I take a seat and catch my breath. Before the Bastille, a man suddenly appears and takes a seat in front of me, and says something—I only catch “faux.”
    “Comment?”
    “Ca, c’est fausse fourrure?” he asks, pointing to my fur coat.
    “Euh, ouais, ouais, c’est pas vrai, oui, c’est faux.”
    “Ah, c’est fausse fourrure [mutters something in comprehensible].” This is how most of my conversations go: I only understand half of what is said to me.
I have an instinct to move. Living in Paris has caused me to develop a habit of ignoring and avoiding any male stranger. I think ok, it's especially odd that he decided to sit directly in front of me, when the rest of the bus is free, I don't want trouble. Is it too much to ask for just a quiet bus ride? And I can smell him, despite my stuffy nose. The man’s eyes are highlighted by streaking street and car lights, and are surreally protruding—as if they are swimming inside a fish bowl. He is carrying a ragged shopping bag stuffed with unidentifiable things, which makes me think clochard. My legs begin kicking, jittering— physically manifesting my mind’s instinct to move. But he is giving off this tranquil air and is not overly adamant to make conversation, so I silence my body and allow my head to turn and watch each passing pedestrian for a fleeting moment. Faubourg Saint Antoine spits us out into the Bastille, and I tilt my head upwards in awe as we slide around the statue. An infinite millisecond passes before I tear my eyes off of the glowing centerpiece, in fear that he’d get the notion I am some sort of gazing tourist.
    He then asks me something else that I can just absolutely not comprehend, and I attempt to mimic his words and then add quoi at the end-- the solution I have for all misunderstandings. He registers I don’t speak French.
    “Tu es Française?”
    “Ah non, je viens aux etats unis,” I say, mispronouncing etats unis.
    “Où?”
    “Aux etats unis.”
    “Comment?”
    “New York.”
    “Ah! The big apple!”
    “Ouais.”
    “I went there, fifty years ago,” he says, and then turns his head and gazes out the window.
    “Ah, really?” I say, not knowing what else to respond.
We both sit in silence for just a little longer, until he asks if I’m here for vacation.
    I say, “Non, euh, j’etudie au universite ici pour un semestre.”
    Then he says, “Ok, so you’re here. You live here.”
    “Yeah,” I say, smiling, because often the response to my saying I study here consists of some sort of criticism about how a semester is not enough time to spend in Paris. “But unfortunately I am leaving in a week.”
    He seems not to hear the last part.
    “So you’ve just arrived, or—?”
    “No, I got here in August. But I am leaving very soon, unfortun— ” I trail off, because, again, he seems not to hear the last part. “How long have you lived in Paris?” I ask, staring into his bottled eyes.
    “Well, since forty years. But I am Italian. I come from Italy.”
    “Oh, cool,” I respond, unoriginally.
    “I came here for a week and then never left.”
    “Oh, wow, oh, that's--” I don’t know what to say. I am impressed and enthralled.
    “Yes,” he starts, “I was just going to stay here for a vacation, just for a week. But it has been forty years, now.” I look outside as the bus slows, we are pulling into Saint Paul; I wait for a break in his sentence to quickly tell him I must go.
    “Ok,” he says calmly, as I rise to my feet. I walk towards the back exit, “Well,” he turns his head toward me, “Have a Happy New Year!” I look at him in thanks, “And a—Merry Christmas!” I thank him several times over and wait for the bus to come to a full stop. The door won’t open.
    “You too,” I add. He informs me that I must press the red button. I thank him again and look back one last time, feeling guilty for making the assumption that he could be a clochard.
    I step off the bus and start walking towards Chez Hannah. These last few days, I have been wishing I were here next semester. Ever since the beginning of high school, the plan was to stay in Paris for a whole year. But then I got here and it felt like I was just escaping obligations and I felt as if I had to go back to New York, I felt as if Paris couldn’t ever be as real as New York. As the semester progressed, I realized more and more that I don’t have to do anything, that I could stay in Paris, that nothing was stopping me, really, except that everyone expects me back in the spring, despite the fact that all those people expecting me back are doing quite fine without my presence.
    A conversation this past weekend with a friend really cemented the realization that I have developed a strong connection to Paris. Maybe most of my reasons for wanting to stay here pertain to my being so removed from New York, and therefore I forget all that I used to love about it and consequently don’t have a strong impulse to return, but there’s something more than that. A few nights ago, I was discussing all this with a friend, and we watched this interview she had filmed of my friend who is a graduate of NYU and studied abroad here for a semester, and he was just going on about how, “if you’re going to study abroad, stay for the whole year or don’t go at all.”
    We were standing on a balcony with the pretense of watching a film shoot happening down the street, but I was mostly just looking directly down at the empty cream crosswalk below us, and the shadowed buildings. “You know what it is?” she exclaims, “It’s that—New York is—New York thinks that it is this superhuman, this perfect, absolute entity, and it's just pretension, all show. Then there is Paris, and Paris doesn’t pretend to be anything more than human. It is a hypocrite and it is scared of so much, and it doesn’t strive for the same things as New York does because everyone here realizes that so many things that matter in New York don’t really, actually matter. New York is obsessed with being the best, and Paris is just here, living.”
    I’ve often wondered if I can ever fully fall out of love once I fall in it. I realized in coming here that I’d probably miss Paris quite a lot upon leaving, but that it’d probably not surpass New York for me, and I really didn’t expect to actually want to move back here. I don’t think it would’ve been to hard to predict, if I had really thought about it before, but I just wasn’t expecting to fall for Paris so hard and so quickly. At a dinner the other night, someone said “I am afraid that when I return to New York, it’ll just feel temporary and I will subconsciously, the whole time, be expecting to return to Paris at any moment.” I know I am going to feel like that. It’s impossible for me to take my mind off something I love; I haven’t even left here yet and already I am imagining it being summer, I am imagining walking down sun beaten streets in Belleville to go picnicking in Buttes Chaumont.
    So, I think that the man on the bus was choosing not to hear me, when I said I was leaving here. Because he is wise enough to know I will never leave here. I think he realized it when he saw the way I looked at the Colonne de Juillet when we circled it in that neon blue bus. It doesn’t matter that in eight days, I will be lying in my childhood bed 3,500 miles away, my whole being will still be in Paris. As was the case with that old man on the bus, my stay here will be longer than expected.

« Hurluberlu »
When I was taught this odd word in French class a few weeks ago, I almost laughed out loud—not because it’s a silly looking word but because of it’s meaning : a bizarre, inconsiderate person on the street. I was not surprised at all that the French have such a word—it is so fitting ! Since I’ve arrived in Paris, I’ve had many conversations with friends as well as French people about the way Americans and other foreigners are viewed here. The French stubbornly stick to their stereotypes about Americans, no matter how many times they’re proved wrong. A French guy asked me what I was studying in school the other day, and he cut me off after hearing the first discipline (the environment), saying “but, no, you are joking? I thought all Americans hate the environment.” Not every American!
    With every interaction I have, I learn more and more about the intricacies of the Parisian attitude towards foreigners. I can feel their eyes on me when I walk down the street, and know that they can tell I am American. Sure, it sounds as if I’m being paranoid, but it’s true—most people in my program feel the same way, and Parisians have before confirmed my suspicions. I’m still not sure what gives it away—perhaps we have a different gait, perhaps my clothes aren’t Parisian enough (there’s a definite prevalent Parisian aesthetic, just like there’s a New York prevalent New York aesthetic, which I never really noted until arriving here). Most days I don’t care if I look as if I’m straight out of Brooklyn or New York, being here has in some ways made me prouder of my American origins—but there are days I don’t feel like sticking out, and so I challenge myself to look as Parisian as possible. I wear the boots I bought in Marais, and my black scarf, and fitted dark jeans and a bulky sweater and simple make up—there’s no way my clothes can give me away as American when I go out on the street. Also, I’ve been asked before (in the US) if I’m of French origins, so I don’t think my features give anything away. When I step out on the street, I make a game out of it—I have this weird theory that French peoples lips are constantly pursed, because of the different vowels they have to pronounce— so I sort of purse my lips slightly. Then, I walk slower than normal and make sure not to look at the beautiful buildings and strange happenings that I pass on the street—and make absolutely sure not to crack a smile—but I’m convinced: they still know! How do they know!?
    I’ve started not to care that I can so easily be pinned as American anymore, after my friend Priya and I realized a few things about them—mainly that there’s no way we, alone, can influence their attitude towards Americans, no matter how many times we prove their stereotype wrong. We figured they probably refuse to let go of said stereotypes because they really dislike change—not because they inherently hate foreigners. The infiltration of foreign cultures confuses and, possibly, scares them more than it infuriates them.
The first thing you learn here is that the French do not, ever drink on the go and rarely eat on the go (the only exception being that when they’re carrying their baguettes home, they pull pieces from the bread as they’re walking and nibble on it, but I feel out of place when I attempt to eat fruit or anything else when walking around, because that’s bread is really all they eat on the go here)—and they never, ever, ever eat on the metro. I was finishing an apple one time and stepped into the train forgetting that I had the core in my hand, and was stared at for it. I awkwardly ran out at the next stop and threw it in the trash. There are of course reasons for their not eating on the go—they love to sit down and enjoy food and make an event out of eating (which we should do more often in America, in my opinion). They don’t understand why a person would eat on the go, because it is not at all enjoyable. Anyway, despite the fact that fast food, eating on the go, and acting anything like an American is a huge cultural no-no, they are obsessed with McDonalds (there is always a line outside the one near NYUParis’s campus) and they also have boulangeries and mini chain café stores in big metro stations! It’s as if they’re trying to adapt some sort of American cultural phenomena while rejecting it at the same time. Yet, I rarely see the French patron the stores that exist in the metro because they are so against the idea of buying and eating food in such a manner. They love McDonalds, but they wait for their food for a ten or fifteen minutes then sit in it for two hours—completely defeating the purpose of McDonalds in the first place. To me, they just seem amusingly confused—it’s as if they’re trying to adapt to the prevalence of fast-paced cultures while at the same time resisting such cultures by not fully giving into said cultural practices. They’re struggling to keep their French identity among the more and more prevalent presence of multiculturalism.
How much longer will the word hurluberlu be used here? In New York, “a strange person on the street” is not applicable to anyone, because everyone is strange—there may be groups or types of people that one can observe in New York, as well as in Paris, but there’s no strange person in New York. How much longer can the French continue to cling to their ideal of a pure Parisian while alienating any outsider, when Paris is continuously being inundated with people from other cultures? Their confusion over such dilemma is already evident—shallowly adapting to globalization by putting Chez Paul in every metro station is not really working. Sticking to such ideals is of course important, in order to conserve all that is inherently valuable in their identity. I do think that they should be guarded against the infiltration of a fast food, big- chain culture, against a fast paced culture, against an overworked culture—but can’t there be some sort of more fluid middle ground? Is this method they’ve developed of superficially adapting some foreign customs while sticking to their age-old stereotypes about said cultures the only way to achieve a middle ground?
The French, I believe, have it right, when it comes to work and food and general enjoyment of life. Paris is a city but it is not nearly as numbing as New York because Parisians put great value on living life simply. It is the very simple, small things that make life bearable for them, and they fear that changing one thing will disturb the balance. Perhaps when they sit a McDonalds for two hours, they’re, in their own way, resisting a change that they believe will push them further towards a way of life that they disagree with—despite the fact that McDonalds essentially represents that way of life that they disagree with. Their apparent confusion is maybe just a symptom of their resisting and accepting different cultures at the same time. As I said before, they seem afraid of change, but for good reason—if they were to attempt to be open minded and accepting in the way that New York is, it is likely that certain cultural nuances, which may seem illogical or unimportant to an outsider, would be trampled by the influx of foreign values. And though a fuller acceptance of foreign values and customs could possible change their culture for the better, there’d of course be unintended consequences. It seems that the French’s way of compromise is this phenomenon of having boulangeries in the metro. They feel as if they can hold onto those details they feel are deeply important if they are superficially flexible when it comes to incorporating technology, convenience, etc, into their culture. They may grab a café a emporter in the metro, but in doing so, they may make up for such a ‘betrayal’ of their French custom by stubbornly sticking to a different tradition. Therefore, they’re still partially resisting foreign influence, in order to protect those many little details that are oh-so-French… in order to protect those seemingly unimportant details that really do make their culture.
So, what are those details that make up their culture? In my eyes, it’s the following: the way Paris goes so quiet at night. The patience needed to live in an apartment where there’s no microwave or dishwasher or efficient elevator—where there are only a few mugs and plates because that’s all that is needed. How Parisians don’t move for others on the street, and get in your way because they feel like stopping or slowing down or looking in a window (I hate it so much, but have to admit that New Yorkers are a little too intense when it comes to sprinting from one place to another, as much as that suits my stride). How stores don’t open or close precisely when they say they will. The fact that I have to buy vegetables, toilet paper, cigarettes, wine, coffee, and bread all at separate stores, which are all open at different, odd hours of the day (I don’t think I’ll ever understand what type of stores are open when). Details like: the way I got stared at when I tried to buy more than a day’s supply of food at Monoprix. Apparently, the French plan ahead when it comes to large societal changes, but not when it comes to what they’re going to eat for breakfast all week. The way the metro breaks down weekly, during rush hour, and how such an inconvenience is accepted as a way of life— when it occurs, there is no annoyance or anger on the behalf of most commuters, or if there is, it’s imperceptible. The communal salt at restaurant tables that everyone puts their fingers in—and how it’s not considered unsanitary. The way everyone finishes all the food on their plates, every time. The way French people never fail to shut off the lights whenever they leave a room. The way you have to open the Metro doors by yourself, and can jump off while the train while it’s still moving (that’d be grounds for a law suit in New York—the minute someone tripped and harmed themselves getting off— I can already imagine the newspaper article). How everything is less standardized: almost every bathroom I’ve been in has a different way of turning on the sink or flushing the toilet; almost every restaurant has slightly different customs when it comes to seating yourself, when it comes to getting the check.
Minute, every-day interactions take just a tad more patience, just a tad more presence of mind here—but that extra time it takes to do little things here forces a real change in attitude. In New York, many practices revolve around convenience, around time-efficiency. Everyday interactions with objects, even with people, can be done without thought—it’s very easy to get around New York with your brain on autopilot. Wake up, leave your apartment, click the elevator button, get downstairs, walk outside, go to the nearest coffee shop, buy an Americano, pay with a card, catch a cab, recite your destination, multitask in the cab by surfing the web on your blackberry and drinking your coffee, arrive at your destination, pay with a card, get out, get through your day, make your way home. So, I don’t blame the French for being so afraid of change, and understand the confusion that stems out of their trying to adapt to other cultures. They’re trying to protect the essence of Paname. It’s hard to be on autopilot in Paris, and if the day arrives where la plus part des gens are capable of such a thing, it will no longer be the same city. It will no longer be Paris.



Notes/ translations, etc:
1) les plus part des gens: most people
2) Paname is the nickname Parisians give to their city; a term of endearment: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paname
3) the photo was taken by me, just a photo of the metro...

I had known since arriving here that les greves would be taking place often—NYU warned us that the metro may be effected by them. Having no TV, and not wanting to be tied down to my computer, and also because I’m using this semester as a sort of break from how much the world is falling apart (because I’ve been too caught up with that during these past few years)—I was completely ignorant to the situation surrounding les greves for the first few weeks I was here. I knew that they were striking because Sarkozy raised the retirement age from 60 to 62, but I didn’t know there were actual huge weekly protests! I just assumed it was more of a boycott, where workers didn’t show up to work and therefore everything in Paris ran a little less efficiently that day. Boy, was I wrong—I learned of how big the greves actually are about three weeks after arriving.
Often, they march from the Bastille to Nation then up to Republique. The road leading from the Bastille to Nation is Rue Faubourg Saint Antoine, which I live right off of. During the first month or so, I had been at school during the strikes, but  one day, in late September, I was at a café on Rue Fbg Saint Antoine during the start of a protest. I saw a huge crowd of people make their way down the street, with banners, balloons, flags, megaphones, everything. I got incredibly excited upon seeing them, as I am somewhat of an activist myself—I try to participate in protests when they happen in New York, love studying past revolutions, am slightly radical, etc. All of lunch, I was trying to figure out what the protest was about—until I realized that this was les greves! I was antsy the whole lunch, wanting to join the protest, but was convinced that it would be finished by the time that I had paid l’addition. Surprisingly, it wasn’t over when I had paid, nor was it over three hours later, when I ran into it again in Republique— the demonstration lasted all day, and such protests had been happening once a week since I had arrived in Paris. It’s rare to see such a huge, unrestricted demonstration in New York, never mind one that happens once a week.
    Fast forward to early October, when the strikes were getting bigger—high school kids began to join in—my friend who teaches in Boulogne Billancourt didn’t have to go to work because his students didn’t show up. My friend from Berlin was in town during one of the biggest day of strikes—and he, being a big activist and amateur photojournalist—decided to take part in the greves. The protesters apparently stormed the Bastille, cut off traffic and began graffiting the Colonne de Juillet. It was the end of the day, so there were only about 150 people there—mostly anarchists and students—and the cops outnumbered the protesters. I met him there at the end of the confrontation, and there were under-covers (agent provoceurs) everywhere, and battalions of cops decked out in riot gear. We left and walked to the Marais for dinner. The next day, my friend went across town to Montparnasse and stumbled upon student protesters blocking Rue de Rennes. He didn’t get involved, but was following them around and photographing the scene. Despite keeping his distance, he got searched and cuffed, because the cops were convinced he was the leader (I think it may’ve been his combat boots, leather jacket, and Mohawk)—they let him go only upon discovering his passport that supported his claims that he was merely an American tourist in town visiting a friend.
    What do these protests say about the Parisians? About the law enforcement here? I’m not positive, but I can conclude that they go the distance when it comes to defending a liberty they believe in. They spent months protesting and boycotting in order to save themselves two years of working. I’ve heard many criticisms about the protests—that it is silly to disrupt daily life; that it is silly to protest to lower the retirement age by a measly two years. Not to mention, many say, to be able to retire at 62 is still a way younger age than most countries. I often hate French stubbornness, but I believe that such a quality can be quite beneficial in situations like this. They think two more years of work at such an age is unfair, and they cannot be persuaded to believe otherwise. They are questioning the government and cannot easily be pacified, tranquillized. I honestly have a hard time criticizing any protests, any form of rebellion, when the reasoning behind such rebellion is even partially sensible. Often, I think the actual act of questioning can be more important that the cause, because government and authority seems to be questioned less and less nowadays, even though our society is becoming more and more insane. (I could go on justifying why I think our society has become exponentially insane in the past six or seven years, but I would never end this post.)
Sure, I agree, it seems a little whiny of them to be so outraged at having to work for two more years. Especially because the French are known for having such a lax work schedule in the first place—they take hour lunch breaks, go to work much later than Americans, and get out much earlier, then have a huge dinner and retire early (though this is a gross generalization, it is true of many work schedules here). On the other hand, the younger generation is getting worked harder (as is true in any country). My roommate is a jazz musician and works harder than many Americans I know— he’s often awake until 3am practicing piano, after having played all day. He takes Mandarin lessons because he will be doing a 40 show tour in China this spring (and already knows English and Spanish, at the age of 27), teaches piano lessons to several students, and just got signed to a label after years of effort. He has several shows every week (which are more than just jazz shows—many of them are huge performances, incorporating an orchestra, improv, etc), last week he did three four hour recording sessions day after day, and he also has several bands, a solo project and is constantly writing music. Anyway, I’ve gone off topic.
During the time that my friend from Berlin was in town, the high schoolers were being criticized for getting involved because the topic was almost irrelevant for them—they’re in high school, many argue—why should they care about retirement now? Well, if they don’t care now, at such an age, then when will they care? The French, I believe, have it right, when it comes to work and food and general enjoyment of life. Paris is a city, but it is not nearly as numbing as New York because Parisians put great value on living life simply. It is the very simple, small things that make life bearable for them, and they fear that changing one thing will disturb the balance. Adding on two years of work for them may seem insignificant, but it is symbolic—it’s one more step towards an American way of live where everyone is so overworked they can’t even sit down for seven minutes to drink a coffee. They’re essentially resisting a change that they believe will push them further towards a way of life that they disagree with. Their official “retraits” reasoning can be easily belittled and their actions can be distorted in the critical, public eye, but fortunately, they have enough perseverance and passion not to relent under such pressure. The French, truly, don’t “give a shit” about what other people think of their actions—and know that their motives are always slightly hidden and various, and therefore can’t be picked apart, simplified, and derided. I’ve learned that well enough since being here. Such an attitude can often be offensive and backward, but in this case, it’s necessary and productive.
The French are attempting to hold on to that spirit of revolution that was so prominent in the late sixties— and many of these protests are sure, on the surface, about the retirement age, but truly are more about a general dissatisfaction with the way things are in France, in the world. I think it’s a good thing I was taken so aback that day at lunch— that I was so confused as to what the protests were about. It was not obvious, when I was staring out the window, that the protests were about les retraits and “Sarko.” I saw the green party out there, hippies, working class people, college kids, communists, socialists, families, toddlers, old couples—it seemed like every French citizen was represented in this march on Rue Fbg Saint Antoine. It was a physical manifestation of general dissatisfaction with the way society is headed —at least that was my first impression. If I had been told beforehand that it was about les retraits, the protests would’ve immediately been colored by this surface meaning, and wouldn’t have seemed as profound. But all the possible motives that were racing through my mind during that day at lunch were not so far off—les greves were about retirement, sure, but most of the people in these weekly protests are out there for more than that. I restrained myself from jumping up mid-meal and joining because I didn’t know what the march was about, and of course, was afraid of offending them with my American-ness (illogical on my part perhaps, but that’s how I felt) and with my ignorance to the situation. But I believe if I had joined, I would’ve fit in just as well as the average adult Parisian who will concretely be affected by the legislation—because I feel the same outrage and dissatisfaction and passion when it comes to the state of our world.

See some of the most beautiful photos of the strikes here: http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/10/france_on_strike.html

The video below is a video of the protests at the intersection I live at.

“Place Dauphine is certainly one of the most profoundly secluded places I know of… I confess that this place frightens me,” Breton says of Place Dauphine, in his novel Nadja. (80, 83) In the same passage, he describes his muse’s—Nadja— reactions to the area, “She is certain that an underground tunnel passes under our feet... [and] is disturbed by the thought of what has already occurred in this square and will occur here in the future”—Nadja tells him of her disorienting experience in a window overlooking the square, and about how she “didn’t want to die, but felt so dizzy,” and that she would’ve fallen if she’d not been held back. (84) All his descriptions of Place Dauphine points to it as a sort of dangerous and secluded, but alluring vortex of sorts. The way in which he conveys the square is certainly colored by his unique disposition and mindset, but even with such distortion, he seemed to somehow capture an essence of Place Dauphine that continues to linger today. In visiting Place Dauphine myself, one Parisian night, I discovered the place still held a similar air to what Breton captured in Nadja. I spent a few minutes in the triangular park, jotting down my first impressions of the place:

So empty for being so close to the lights of la tour Eiffel, for being so close to l’ombre de Notre Dame. A girl intrudes from another era to walk her inobedient dog around the grainy sand, as two aged intellectuals pass— their fingers separating spent yellowed pages. The atmosphere must be more surreal at this hour, studded with all those wooden beams that tunnel through the high balconied windows. A solemn bicyclist dares to plunge into the triangle, amidst all the closing restaurants. The angled buildings frame the speckled sky in a makeshift heart; sandy footprints dissolve into the orange dripped light. I misread Le Bar du Caveau as Le Bar du Cerveau just as a lonely man floats by its’ canopy. Empowered by the colored blood flowers in his window box, a man hurls on his leather jacket, disturbing his sterile white apartment ceiling, and speeds out the building’s forest colored portal towards a non- isolated Paris. The girl draped in black still trails her dog; I avert her eyes—I avert my eyes. A spark from la tour Eiffel finds its way into the courtyard and prompts me to leave. I watch gridded glass doors knowingly open to allow a woman out of her imprisonment, and reach for my bag balanced on the unforgivingly rigid bench. I make my own temporary impressions in the grain dirt and decide to follow her. I leave through the open side of Place Dauphine— the base of the triangle— and swerve towards the left as the blue traffic sign commands. À bientôt, Dauphine, à bientôt. My new position allows me to gaze at the gold ridden ceiling that lines Palais de Justice on Rue de Harlay. I slowly gravitate back towards the blinding white light beneath Pont au Change. Levitating over the Seine, I realize I forgot to gaze at her watery legs below Place Dauphine. My mind pauses and considers a return, but my body does not hesitate and instead glimpses a sign at the end of Pont au Change that tells me ‘La paix est tombé ici.’

The unique triangular park is a sort of grass-less oasis, or perhaps a purgatory, in Paris. It is rarely penetrated by tourists, despite it’s location between Palais de Justice and Pont Neuf. It was originally laid out in 1609 by King Henry IV and is named after the son he had with Marie de Médicis, Dauphin. The park also has its place in Parisian literary history, having been mentioned in La Main enchantée by Gérard de Nerval, Les dieux ont soif by Anatole France, Kaputt by Curzio Malaparte, and of course, André Breton’s Nadja.

It is isolated on the tip of Ile-de-Cité where the Seine splinters in half at the ancient Pont Neuf. Breton describes it as a magical place, as mystical as the female is to most surrealists—often comparing the triangular space littered with trees to a female pubis, and sees that split in the Seine as her legs—Paris’ surreal, flowing legs. Place Dauphine seems to have the same effect on Breton as Nadja has. “Whenever I happen to be there, I feel the desire to go somewhere else gradually ebbing out of me, I have to struggle against myself to get free from a gentle, over-insistent, and, finally, crushing embrace.” (80) He observes Place Dauphine as such a constraining place immediately after Nadja tells him of his power over her—tells him that she is lost to him, and then attempts to please him by playing the role of a character he had previously created in a work of his: Poisson Soluble. Such desperation on Nadja’s part—such an attempt to connect with and please Breton— most likely provoked in Breton an instinctual repulsion, a need to escape from any threat of commitment or connection with her. In the novel, he appears to be pleased with Nadja—he’s impressed by her reenactments of his fictional characters and admits that her performance is precisely as he had imagined—yet his descriptions of Place Dauphine illuminate an obscured layer of disgust in Breton, illuminate his instinct to escape. His descriptions of Place Dauphine and of Nadja become a portal into his subconscious—they are colored by his temporal observations. These tinted descriptions allow the reader to more accurately gage his true thoughts and disposition, and also help to highlight something ineffable about the place.

In the same passage that Breton describes Place Dauphine, Nadja embodies his self-destructive side, by attempting to free herself from any trace of identity she is bound to, in order to chain herself to Breton. Therefore, he sees Place Dauphine as he sees Nadja in that moment—as a wasteland, as an isolated vortex, void of any specific personality— Place Dauphine becomes a mirror reflecting his deepest fears. Sitting in Place Dauphine, he feels the pull of the vortex of isolation—as in Nadja’s presence, he feels the pull of her mystery and destruction. He would like to free himself from Nadja, yet also wants to own her, and at the same time wants to decode her peculiarities in the belief that in doing so, he may discover something essential about himself. Place Dauphine literally becomes a sort of limbo, a sort of purgatory that he can choose so easily to either dissolve in or revolt from. The limbo that is Place Dauphine threatens Breton with fatal freedom and spiraling entrapment.
His observations of Place Dauphine also coincide with some of his writings in the Manifeste—Surrealism’s influence over Breton seems comparable to Nadja and Place Dauphine’s influence. “Surrealism does not allow those who devote themselves to it to forsake it whenever they like. There is every reason to believe that it acts on the mind very much as drugs do; like drugs, it creates a certain state of need and can push man to frightful revolts.” Place Dauphine elicits in Breton feelings of rebellion, yet he cannot forsake it (nor Nadja) completely, because it is partially composed of his own personal impressions. More importantly, as destructive as Nadja and Place Dauphine may appear to be, they exist as muses for him. Their isolation—and their threatening qualities— is a sort of inspiration for Breton, their seclusion intrigues him and he seems to want to break through their mysterious barriers as a man would with a muse. Still if he doesn’t struggle to escape from Place Dauphine’s “gentle, insistent, and crushing embrace,” he could so easily sink into a state of liquid —becoming a sort of poisson soluble, “born under the sign of Pisces… and soluble in his thought.”

Breton’s impressions of Place Dauphine capture something essential about that secluded little area of Paris. It may be one of the lesser-known sites in Paris, but it certainly stands its ground among the surrounding tourists attractions because of its powerful, mysterious influence over many. The desolation of the triangle seems to affect all who lay their eyes on its barren surface, and the juxtaposition of Place Dauphine against its surrounding peopled areas only heightens its dream like atmosphere. To stumble upon Place Dauphine randomly must be quite disorienting– entering the triangle is comparable to dropping off into an unexpected, liminal, unstable universe. It's as if, at any second, Place Dauphine could either suck you into its hellish underground tunnels that Nadja described, or could catapult you into an abyss as bright and blinding as that light I saw below Pont au Change.




sources/ links/ translations:
1) the passage from Nadja.
2) wiki on Place Dauphine.
3) breton's surrealist manifesto.
4) Le Bar du Caveau as Le Bar du Cerveau -- caveau means cave, there are many cavern bars in Paris... but cerveau means brain.
5) "La paix est tombé ici." -- I think this can be translated as either "peace was here" or "peace fell here"-- but I misread this sign, when I was walking quickly past it, at night, and just wrote down what I thought I read.

"…he is unlike the other customers. They sense it too, and look at him with hard eyes, eyes like little metal studs pinned into the white faces of young men [...] In the hush his entrance creates, the excessive courtesy the weary woman behind the counter shows him amplifies his strangeness. He orders coffee quietly and studies the rim of the cup to steady the sliding in his stomach. He had thought, he had read, that from shore to shore all America was the same. He wonders, Is it just these people I’m outside or is it all America?" (John Updike-- Rabbit, Run)



The issue of communicating myself properly in Paris is a daily obstacle that I will most certainly not overcome before leaving in December. For the most part, I can understand everything someone is saying to me in a conversation—especially if I remind them to speak lentement, and they gesticulate—but I can rarely respond “naturally.” Of course I should expect to have such trouble speaking, even with my six years of studying French—my American friend who has lived here for almost a year and majored in French at NYU still has trouble communicating to French friends what he really means. Even if my brain doesn’t freeze before I respond, I have such limited proficiency in speaking that my responses sound as if a seven year old girl had said them (although, come to think of it, I think a seven year old Parisian could probably speak more eloquently than me). It’s quite frustrating, because I desperately want to convey my knowledge of subjects I am quite interested in—in order to converse with a French person to understand their perspectives on our shared interests—participating in engaging conversations is one of my favorite pastimes. Yet, when I attempt to speak about any subject more complicated than basic small talk, my years of knowledge become truncated to obtuse sentences: J’aime beaucoup l’environnment. I can just see their kneejerk internal reaction in the way they nod their head: You like the environment! No way! How intriguing, I’d love to learn more about you and your varied, unique interests. I am just a boring, dense American here. I think that’s what bothers me the most—that I can’t prove their American stereotype wrong because of my lack of language proficiency. It’s hard enough to communicate my thoughts into English, but at least I find a somewhat satisfactory way to do so most of the time. It’s a very rare occasion when I feel solidarity and understanding with a French person—and it’s frustrating because there’s nothing I can do to bridge the gap, especially during my present time here. And even if I lived here for years, I just know that there’d still be a thin layer that I could never bridge.

When I observe English conversations between friends, I realize a lot of our shared understanding is not only based on our shared language but also shared cultural background (I’ve had many miscommunications with people from the UK, even with the same language). I’ve realized that most of the things I find truly humorous are based on certain cultural phenomena or specific, shared past experiences. Which doesn’t mean I never find funny what the French find funny, or that I have never understood a French person—I often do share moments of mutual understanding, but such moments here dissolve as quickly as they appear. Once I open my mouth to say the next thing, I usually distance myself yet again by mispronouncing a word wrong and creating yet another awkward misunderstanding.

With this whole discussion of communication and understanding, I am quite tempted to jump into an overdramatic analysis of whether or not one person can ever truly understand another—it could be argued that, sure, I can’t really fully understand most French people, but do I ever truly understand most Americans—even my closest friends—anyway? I often feel unable to fully communicate to even the closest people in my life, so perhaps I subconsciously figured that in coming to France, my inability to communicate wouldn’t be that new of a phenomenon, since I am so convinced that I am perpetually isolated anyway. Yet, I think, in coming here, I realize that I’ve been lying to myself for quite a while. I feel more isolated and closed off than normal, which perhaps indicates that I had some degree of “true” connection and understanding and solidarity between my friends and I at home—or perhaps indicates that I have given up on bridging the gap between me and the French (at least for the time being). I may have also have had overly- high expectations, thinking that I’d understand the French even more— at least on a non-verbal level—I so idealized the French attitude previous to arriving here and felt so annoyed by the prevalent “American attitude” (even believing that the American culture somehow largely contributed to my feelings of disconnection). Oh man now I just sound like a whining Marxist. But I’ve always found isolation/ alienation a quite interesting subject—and have been convinced that I’m always isolated, never able to fully breach that which separates me from another person—but now realize that there exists not “full” understanding or “absolute” isolation, but rather a continuum between both poles. I now just wonder how close a human being can get to each end. Is their position on the continuum dependent on how much they truly want to (or believe they can) breach or exasperate their isolation?

(photo by me... ooooh how I love parisians and their velibs )

Since arriving in Paris, I’ve been introduced to many different groups of important artists, such as the Dadaists, Surrealists, Letterists, Situationists, Futurists, Decedents, Modernists, Symbolists, and more. I’ve never really taken any sort of art history class, so much of this was new to me, although I’d known a decent amount about the Situationists, Surrealists, Dadaists, Modernism, and Modernity before coming to Paris. I could write for five hours on just one of these movements, so I guess I’ll just begin by discussing one of the first pieces of art I saw upon arriving here. I’m taking a studio art class, and for the first class, our professor had us watch “Dada Cinema”—a collection of Dada and Surrealist films created artists such as Hans Richter, Man Ray, and Ferdinand Léger. The most memorable out of all of them, for me, was Léger’s film, made to accompany George Antheil’s score, Ballet Mécanique. I distinctly remember being slightly chilled and disturbed, yet fascinated by the 16 minute film.

What I remember from the film was a collection of machines, rather than ballerinas, dancing (if you will) to a harsh, percussive piano score—occasionally spliced with short, looped clips of human forms—such as a woman carrying a bag of flour up the stairs, a beautiful girl with Grecian braided hair swinging on a swing, Man Ray’s smiling lips coated with sharp, dark rouge lipstick (towards the end of the film we see his whole face, mirrored several times over, with his eyes opening and closing slowly, repeatedly), couples being hurled around in circles on a ride at an amusement park, and the severed legs of a mannequin. I was left with the impression of unsympathetic and violent machines, fragmented and fast-paced time—the impression that technology was overwhelming and alienating that which is “human.” Basically, I was getting Marxist vibes from it—the whole alienation of the worker thing—of a worker being viewed as a cog in a technological machine rather than as a human being… I often gravitate towards looking at things through such a lens, I don’t know why, I’ve probably read too much Marx, or have read too much about alienation.

Anyway, it turns out my first impressions of the film weren’t far off. The film is a Dadaist film, so Léger had no intentions, other than making art that contradicted all previous “rules” of art. He was not trying to convey any specific meaning—but because he contributed to the artistic movements that existed at the time (such as Dadaism, Cubism, Impressionism, and Surrealism), his film reflected aspects of said movements. He was influenced by Italian Futurism, so Futurist ideas manifest themselves in the film. Futurism is the “passionate loathing of everything old; the Futurists admired speed, technology, youth and violence, the car, the airplane and the industrial city, all that represented the technological triumph of humanity over nature.” [1] Such qualities are evident in Le Ballet Mechanique, and upon knowing Léger’s inspirations (as well as knowing that he later wrote that he saw the “human figure as plastic value, not as sentimental value”), it seems more evident that the sharp imagery and unforgiving score exist to evoke a blunt presentation of human beings as machinery rather than to invoke sympathy or to protest against such a phenomena.[2] Léger admired technology, admired speed, admired violence—as that which could be revolutionary. Antheil’s description of his score for the film coincides with such values: "scored for countless numbers of player pianos. All percussive. Like machines. All efficiency. No LOVE. Written without sympathy. Written cold as an army operates. Revolutionary as nothing has been revolutionary." [3]

Well, now that I have more of an understanding of the artists who made Le Ballet Mechanique, I realize that the film may stand out in my mind because I don’t completely understand it. When I see and read Surrealist art and literature, I sympathize with most of it—and the same with Dadaism, Modernism, Symbolism, and Situationism.  Although I respect Léger for his revolutionary sentiments and artistic accomplishments, Italian Futurists' aims confuse me. Why can art "only be violence, cruelty, injustice," why do they so value speed, cold machinery, and the relentlessness of modern urban life? [4] I believe I haven’t studied enough about Futurism to completely understand it, but I don’t understand how aggravating alienation and violence, and dismissing the past will lead to the evolution of the human race. I understand that many artists at that time felt as if they were constantly stuck in the past, even when things were seemingly progressing, but does Futurism believe that violence, technology, and speed can create a revolution that would sever them from the past and allow for evolution? Will "ruinous and incendiary violence" truly allow for them to erase all memories of  their ancestors-- ? [ibid]

"A Klee painting named 'Angelus Novus' shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. This storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress." [Walter Benjamin]

Is it possible for the angel to turn his face towards the future, and with enough speed and violence destory those piles of debris in order to "evolve" rather than "progress?" It seems as if the Futurists believe such a thing is possible-- "We are on the extreme promontory of the centuries! What is the use of looking behind at the moment when we must open the mysterious shutters of the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We are already living in the absolute, since we have already created eternal, omnipresent speed." [5] It seems as if they have the same feeling that many today have (and many generations have had before)-- that we're on the precipice, on the summit of all time... on the verge of the apocolypse, if you will-- and a grand revolution is around the corner, if only we can push hard enough to spark it.

My apartment here is actually not that much of a change from my old one in the East Village—it’s newly renovated, so it’s (unfortunately) not a gorgeous, old Parisian apartment (like most of my friends have). It’s definitely comfortable, though—my room is a bit bigger than my old room in New York, it fits a full size bed, a desk, and a gorgeous old armoire. I have a cute window box with (dying) flowers and detailed trim on the edge of the ceiling (my Dad’s a builder and would tell me when I was little that detailed trim always indicates a building that probably won’t fall apart too quickly). I’m on the 4th (really 5th) floor, and there’s a tiny one/ two person elevator I can take if I don’t feel like walking up the stairs. The toilet and shower/ sink are separate, which is the standard for any French abode. It’s a bit awkward at first—the toilet is next to the kitchen and the sink is on the other side of the living room so you have to walk through it to wash your hands. I live with a French man from Marseille, who is 28 and has lived here for 7 years or so. He plays jazz Piano and is currently in Hong Kong to play a few shows (and just got signed to a label on the day of his birthday last week). He’s a really down to earth guy, and is quite a good cook (well, relative to what I’m used to seeing of guys I hang out with in New York) but keeps almost no food in the fridge, and is a bit unkempt—the paint in the bathroom is peeling and sort of looks moldy from the steam of past showers, I discovered maggots in an old glass jar of granola (I think it used to be granola?), and there’s often a week old pot of white rice hardening in the fridge. Ok, this is all true, but I think sounds a lot worse than it is. The apartment is nice—and I’m a huge fan of how environmentally friendly the buildings are here. He never leaves the lights on when not in a room (as with almost every other French person), the lights in the staircases of every building are timed (I could never see that happening in Manhattan—that’d be some sort of lawsuit waiting to happen or something), people rarely plastic bags to grocery shop or to store food in. Plastic is barely used here, just glass—which again, I really love—it just makes more sense, it’s less wasteful—and there’s no individual size bottled water to be spoken of. They’re just way less wasteful here, in the everyday details (I should’ve noted each thing when I came, because now odd little things I noticed in the first few weeks are just starting to seem normal).

I live an hour from class—but I actually like the distance. I’m probably in the coolest area of Paris—near the Bastille, in the 11th arr, where I’m a ten minute walk from Oberkampf, a good place to go out at night. I’m also right near Belleville, a very diverse neighborhood north of the 11th, where a lot of artists live. Everything around me is way cheaper than where most of my friends live, there’s every store I could ever want to go to within a five minute walk of me, and one of the best outdoor markets (marche d’aligre) in Paris across the street from me, which is open every morning, as well as a “Bio” store, where I can buy vegan food (i.e. fake butter or veggie burgers) if I want to. Anyhow, I take the metro to school—there’s probably a faster way to get there, but I’d have to transfer a lot, among the rush hour crowd, so I prefer to walk to the Charonne 9 metro stop and take it all the way to school—the La Muette 9 stop. I have a navigo, an unlimited metro pass (so I can take the metro just about everywhere, as often as I want). If I get on the metro before 8h15, I can usually grab a seat; then I listen to music and read the end of a Lit class reading on the way to school. If I don’t get a seat, it’s pretty awful, because I have to stand for 45 minutes, crushed by surrounding warm Parisian bodies on the violently jerking train. But I also only have class on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9h, so it’s really not that horrible (and then 16h on Wednesdays and that’s it; I have a great class schedule). I also know I would be late for class every day if I lived close by, because my morning, sleeping logic would tell me I could get dressed and to class in ten minutes, when in reality it’d probably take twice as long. I tend to “rely on smooth scenarios in which accidents or unforeseen problems never occur.” (Surowiecki; great article I read yesterday in the New Yorker on procrastination) At least now I know that if I don’t leave by 8h10, I will definitely be late to class—no guessing: 8h10 or I’ll be late.

My day at school typically involves me strolling into NYU’s gorgeous maison, with several cobblestoned courtyards, surrounded by old Parisian buildings clad with flower window boxes and vines. The pictures on the study abroad site do it no justice, I am going to have to take some photos before it turns to winter. The school is in the Passy neighborhood, the 16th arr, which is really a pretty boring neighborhood—Parisians reaction to when I tell them the neighborhood of my school is—“Passy? Oh god, that’s trop chère and only old, rich, retired people live there, and it’s just a horribly boring neighborhood in general, far from everything.” If there wasn’t a great fruit market and Italian restaurant across the street from school, I’d probably hate it too—but it’s ok, just very out of the way from everything in Paris, and yes, definitely expensive and boring. Anyway, NYU has a main building, where most classes are held—with a basement library (nothing compared to Bobst, of course… I surprisingly miss that place even though I used to have to not only go there to study but also for my student job), a lounge on the first floor with couches and round table, and an awkward coffee machine with powdered espresso (which I refuse to purchase on the principal that there’s a boulangerie across the street that—although more expensive—has way better espresso and I can interact with a French person rather than a machine while buying un café emporter) and soup. There’s also a wonderful petit maison where my French class is held, and it has beautifully vibrant green framed windows.

As for all my other everyday habits—I haven’t really slipped into a routine yet. In New York I never really have a routine anyway, because I am always sleep deprived and overworked, but here I am trying to feel it out first, and then will hopefully get into a practical routine (but not so predictable that I never see new places or people). After classes, I’ve tended to hang around NYU, hoping the internet will work (and it never does, despite my having dragged my macbook to Passy—the printers rarely work too… I’m not complaining, really, I just find it amusing that it’s just not really a concern or priority here), while sort of doing homework but also lingering with friends and deciding when to get my next coffee. I smoke a lot more here, unfortunately—which is what I find myself doing as afternoons turn into evenings here, if I am amoung friends. I really don’t smoke cigarettes in New York, and it doesn’t really appeal to me too much in New York, but here, there’s just something about sitting at a café and drinking espresso and smoking a cigarette—I know it may seem silly and even stupid, but I rarely indulge in anything so obviously frivolous, so here I’ve chosen this vice. Anyway, cigarettes are a lot less expensive here—usually four or five euro. Coffee is about the same price as in New York, but of better quality, and I actually drink less despite the fact that a lot of my day is spent sipping espresso at cafés (in New York I used to drink anywhere from four to six or seven shots of espresso a day—via Americanos, etc—here I just have two or so, one espresso per café visit… sorry, for the lengthy discussion, I really like my coffee). As for the cost of food—well I could go into depth about this, but because the French actually eat whole foods, as in not packaged or processed—and because most food can be grown in France or just south of France or on a French island—good, healthy food here is so, so much cheaper. I used to buy figs every morning (now they’re going out of season)— a whole box of them, with about eight or nine gorgeous figs, for 2 euro. Their fruit is unbelievable here, and way cheaper than the US. Packaged food is harder to find, and is really expensive (as it should be)—so prices for food are sort of flip-flopped (also due to US subsidies on corn and soy which is in almost all of our food except plain veggies and fruit). I could buy a weeks worth of groceries for 20 euro here, the equivalent of which would probably cost 70 dollars in the US, and the food here would be of way better quality. I literally have bought more than enough vegetables and fruit to last me almost two weeks, and it was less than 20 euro. So, you’d think it’d be less expensive for me to live here, but I can’t resist the temptation of restaurants here, so I actually spend a lot more on a weekly basis. Also, along with the food, the wine here is quite wonderful. The cheapest wine at the Franprix near me (equivalent to a NY bodega) is of better quality than 20 dollar wine in New York.

Other than eating and going to school, I spend more time here with friends than I do in New York. Usually I don’t see many people on week days in New York, I just go home and do homework by myself, but here I tend to study at my friends apartments and make big meals with them, and try to explore a new place in Paris every other day or so. I also wander around my area a lot, aimlessly, exploring. Weekends have tended to consist of a balance of sightseeing and going out to eat or to bars (which often aren’t at all worth going to). After a month here, I’ve finally made Parisian friends, and I went to my friend’s show (he plays bass in a band) the other night, which is more along the lines of what I do in New York on weekends—and it was really awesome to see a small band here play in contrast to small bands in Brooklyn. There is some sort of music scene here, but it’s more centered on jazz, and is not as “hip” as the Brooklyn music scene that I’m usually around, so the shows I’ve seen here are a lot less jaded and apathetic. People actually dance. Bands are super enthusiastic and pumped to be on stage, and are unabashedly sentimental. I’m not saying one is better than another, it’s just quite interesting to see the contrast and to theorize why each scene has evolved to the way they are in relation to the cities they are in.

Anyway, I often miss how easy it is to have a good night out in New York—because a lot of the nights here (not as much lately) have been disasters since we don’t know where to go and what to do and usually end up a place where there are mostly Americans (and sleazy French people) and therefore don’t meet cool Parisians (which is not so secretly everyone’s goal here) and end up spending too much money, and often end up without a way home (because the metro closes at 1h30-- also, I've been harassed almost every weekend night I've walked home, even if it's only midnight or so, that's also something I miss about New York, I am never bothered when walking around late at night. A few days ago, a man wouldn't stop following my friend and I, and literally grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let go when I told him to stop (in French and English). A lot of French seem to unquestionably believe stereotypes about American girls...) But of course, in any new place, an adjustment period to daily life should be expected. Hopefully the coming months will consist of my making more French friends (I’m being optimistic here)—I feel like that’s the easiest way to understand their culture and definitely the best way to improve my French.


(photo by me)

“A momentuous but until then overlooked fact was making itself apparent: I had inadvertently brought myself with me to the island.” (19)

De Botton’s first few chapters of the Art of Travel generally revolve around the vaguely existential, and thoroughly human theme of the self—and of wanting to get away from oneself. He explored loneliness, and one’s mindset in relation to different physical environments—and how places familiar and unfamiliar affect the mind or how we view ourselves, or our thoughts, and our moods. In reading these chapters, I identified with just about everything he discussed (so this response reflects only a fraction of what I’d like to say on this subject), and when he was giving personal examples of his trips and moments and memories abroad and at home, I was imagining similar parallels of experiences I’ve had here in Paris and at “home” in New York. His discussion of how places and instances seem more pure “in the remembered and … anticipated versions of them” really rung true with me. (22) I’m often conflicted and stuck on memories of past events, and have over-contemplated such memories—while reprimanding myself for doing so. I’m so often trying to “live in the present,” but can’t help shake the feeling that, often, my memories of past events seem more real, more “pure,” than when such events were occurring themselves. I find that a lot of my cherished memories begin growing their own realities. It’s partially these false realities that I find myself running away from when I voyage to a new place—I too subconsciously hope that I will not bring myself with me when I voyage to a new place. I want to wipe the slate clean in order to live in the present, and illogically fool myself into believing that a new place will do just that, will erase my memory so I can live in the eternal present in a wonderful, new, idealized place. What kind of hope is that, though? A hope that can never be fulfilled, and so I find myself continuously disappointed when I scrape against the boundaries and limits and realities of new situations, new places, new people.

“We learn that the state of the skies and the appearance of our dwellings can never on their own either underwrite our joy or condemn us to misery.” (25) So then, why, why, why are we all so stuck on this notion that a change of scenery will change our state of mind? De Botton admits that “the key ingredients of happiness could not be material or aesthetic but must always be stubbornly psychological.” (25) He explores the question of why we so often naively hope and believe that a new place will bring about a new self, when we truly know—or have experienced in the past—that a change in setting does not guarantee anything, that the most beautiful view in the world can look ugly if we are stuck in an ugly mood. What is our obsession trying to fool ourselves into thinking a new season will bring about a new start? So—sure, our mind determines our happiness, rather than our environment—we all know the story of Sisyphus. Then, why does spring in New York bring about an exodus of picnicking people in the parks, what is this effect that new places and seasons have on us? It’s our allowing ourselves to be happy—it’s our fooling ourselves into thinking a new place will bring about a new life—a new place is a catalyst for change if we allow it to be. It has nothing to do with the place itself, it just has to do with the our mind allowing the place to be it’s excuse for happiness, it’s excuse for letting go of those old, festering memories.

Paris, of course, was a catalyst for such a change in mindset for all who came here to study abroad. The first few weeks here consisted of my NYU friends and I going out to lunch and dinner in Paris together, throwing parties at our new Parisian apartments, going to new museums, to new bars—all with each other, all American outings, all spending more money than we’d ever spend in New York. After a week or so of this, it began to feel as if our indulgences in such things were to serve the purpose of distracting ourselves from the reality that although all the food and places were different and, in some ways, better than New York—it was still kind of the same. We’d go to each other’s apartments and lodge ourselves onto any available balcony in order to keep our eyes glued to the Parisian skyline while smoking too many cigarettes—it was as if we were looking for some sort of hidden rupture in the sky that would suck us back to New York City. Did our past follow us here? It sure feels like it, but there are no decaying, towering metal buildings here. Just faded ghost buildings, sprouted from our future memories, made of creamy stone and juxtaposed against that raw star filled sky. Why does everything look different, if we still feel the same as we did a month ago? we’d subconsciously wonder, while at the same time feigning conversations about how perfect and lovely Paris is.

Forgetting memories and our old selves and attitudes and habits always turns out to be a more difficult task than expected—a new place on its own only allows for a temporary forgetting. Eventually the veil falls away; one by one those habits and memories seep back, and we again find ourselves in that “fallen world,” in that self we’re fated to spend our lives in. “It was the fate of poets… to live in a fallen world while refusing to surrender their vision of an alternative, less compromised realm.” (32) That “fallen world”—seems to just be any world that is not our imagined world. We keep searching for ways to catapult ourselves into that alternative realm—and occasionally we feel as if we are living in it for brief moments—moments that we continue to revisit in our mind until we stumble upon the next temporary gateway to that realm. New places are gateways to such imagined realms—if we allow them to be—but once we’ve stepped through such a gateway, we fall back into another version of our old world without warning. Occasionally, we keep ourselves transfixed on our exotic balconies in order to distract ourselves from noticing that fall.

Today, I realized the weather is already too cold to do what I came to Paris to do: to just sit outside a café at a small table while drinking espresso, and allowing my mind to wander, and to write, to philosophize, to think. To watch Parisians sweep past me with their mysterious air, surreal language, and sense of purpose. I just want to sit outside and watch them, and fantasize about what wonderful lives they could be leading—I just want “inspiring glimpses into private domains” in order to continue focusing on the present, to keep from stagnation, to stay in some sort of transient world that allows for me to escape “the everyday” of my life through the marvelous “everyday” lives of others. (56) But today it was cold and raining and I was shivering, so I sat inside the café and attempted to stare at them through a tinted window smeared with fingerprints. I gazed at each passing stranger, and tried to let my mind wander—hoping “the tumultuous sea of human heads [would] fill me… with a delicious novelty of emotion”—but instead I slowly realized that almost every passing pedestrian was dressed in work attire because they were all headed to the metro across the street. (Poe) They all looked as if they were rushing to typical bourgeois- type jobs that Flaubert would find so terribly “monotonous, sensible, [and] stupid.” (73) Oh how mundane! So I paid for my double express, stumbled awkwardly out of the café, and joined the sea of heads. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll drift into a more strategically located café-- ah yes, I can already imagine it.

(photo by me of a cafe in the marais)

"We carry our homes within us which enables us to fly." (John Cage)

Upon arriving in Paris, the landscape was surreally familiar. I was a vagabond, but such a feeling was not new—I had spent my summer shipping back and forth between Boston and New York. Yet something in Paris launched me out of such familiarity, despite my summer long (unintentional) preparation for such homelessness.

New York this summer meant a weekly trek, a weekly dream— where I’d sweat along with all it’s surfaces, gliding back and forth from Penn to Brooklyn with a found black leather bag strapped to my aching back. It meant trudging west on N6th through that thick hell beating sun to relieve myself of my bag at my practice space on Metropolitan, wondering who I was going to burden with my presence that night. Voluntary part time homelessness is how I spent my summer—therefore, being awkwardly displaced with a giant suitcase and backpack upon my arrival in yet another city didn’t feel too new or shocking. My mind just snapped back to its steady vagabond mode of trusting my directional instincts and putting one foot after another as if I had a place to be. No loss or confusion, no worries about what direction I was going—just wandering. Just wandering within a bizarre type of limbo. That limbo manifested itself after I departed Charles de Gaulle—and it was the same sort of limbo feeling I would get after stepping off a five-hour bus ride from Boston to New York.
    
Hurling into such a limbo became a common happenstance all summer—I’d spend five hours absorbed in my thoughts, staring at the vast sameness of Connecticut. Then all of the sudden we’d be driving down Amsterdam and I’d sort of feel as if I were waking up at dawn and I’d target my eyes through the thick Megabus windows, towards shirtless pedestrians to survey the amount of sweat on their foreheads and chest in order to gauge the outside temperature. Each store we passed became a different paralyzed cell in my brain. We’d stop at 28th & 7th, they’d let us off, and I’d step even further into a surreal daydream. I’d completely forget I had a body during the course of the bus ride, so I’d spend the next few blocks composing new impressions of myself from passing glimpses of reflections in distorted city windowpanes.  I came back to this dream every week all summer, my excuse was that I had band practice on Thursdays and Fridays, but I believe it was also some sort of other unnamable attraction.
    
Paris, however, is a bit more charming than Brooklyn, and I am here for more than band practice. The sights—oh the sights, how cliché—but the sights propel me out of that limbo, out of that stable vagabond mode. They make my heart race and tranquilize it at the same time. They are too much for my eyes, but I keep gaping; they do more for me than a shower and coffee ever will. But it’s not just what I see here, of course, it’s the harmony of what I see and my reaction to it, "With our senses applied to the surrounding world we are reading our own physical and corresponding moral revolutions... the perception of beauty is a moral test.” A moral test, perhaps—or perhaps too, a reading of our optimism and wakefulness?
    
There are the historically loaded, shocking sights—le Sacre Coeur, le Bastille, Le Pont des Arts, la Tour Eiffel, Le Pont de Bir-Hakim—and then there are the simple street scenes that are just as shocking, but in perhaps a more subtle, intimate, changing way. Upon exiting the Voltaire stop after one of my first days of classes, and admittedly quite sleep deprived (not uncommon), I became a little lost on my way back to my new apartment. For a half hour I wandered around—snapping back into that limbo state, absorbing stranger’s glances and the energy from passing school children. After much floating, I finally stumbled upon my street with luck—Trousseau. I had never seen the simple intersection of Trousseau and Chardonne before. There’s a brightly colored café, and at an outside table, an isolated, haunting stranger was sitting, smoking, drinking espresso. Some sort of desperate hope seeped out of his movements, his broken eyes, his guitar, that lightly grasped cigarette—an empty, crusted espresso cup. I looked ownwards. That same beating sun I had felt crushed by all summer in Brooklyn was now energizing me. A pounding, oddly joyful headache blurred the shooting light. My shoes rooted like mushrooms through the concrete sidewalk, towards home. Out of the corner of my eye, foliage appeared—somehow I had never noticed the bright green garden on my street, diagonal to my building. My thoughts expanded away from my head and I stood in awe, gaping at the sign. I was suddenly transported back to the East Village in May—standing in La Plaza Cultural.
    
Exams over, new romance begun, a month ahead of me until my sublet was up—no responsibilities until June—I had stood in La Plaza Cultural with the same expanding sensation. Sipping iced coffee, noticing the sun, empty mind. The expanding feeling of possibility— a step above the average everyday mental condition—all fog had departed from my mind, and the plants were infinitely patterned.

After eons, two delicately aged women inside the Parisian community garden called out to me. “Montez – vous?” I racked my brain; I stepped out of my mesmerized state. “Ouais,” I began with my soft, accented French, timidly stepping inside, “Ça, c’est un jardin pour cette quatier? Ah, bon! Je viens à New York—oui, oui, il y en a beaucoup de jardins. Je aime cette jardin, c’est très charmant et rappelle moi de l'east village.” The shack in the corner of the garden held endless possibilities—filled with used garden tools and photos of past times and infinite particles of soil and decaying leaves and flowers and the carcasses of dried fruit. I delayed, waiting for the intensity of my previous state to return. It had completely faded. Upon exiting the garden, I recognized that my desire to return to that state would perhaps quickly be pushed to the back of my consciousness but would always linger. I knew I’d long for it again—not necessarily the same scene of stumbling upon the garden, just that mood: as if a screen had been lifted from my mind’s vision, a calm intensity. I strolled half a block towards my apartment feeling woozy from sleep deprivation and excess walking and my newfound solidarity with wide eyed school children—confident I’d experience similar instances in the next months as long as I continued to wander the Parisian streets dangerously, unknowingly, unpredictably, instinctually—and with absolute openness and lack of fear.

(photo taken by me)

Heya, so I’m never not awkward with this whole introduction thing. I’ve been doing a lot of this lately— it’s sort of necessary with this meeting new people thing that goes along with being in a new place amongst people who don’t know me very well. I guess such introductions have to happen at the start of classes every semester, but here I’ve dealt with far more introductions than usual—it’s making me feel like a freshman again—which I surprisingly don’t hate, despite my recent complaints about all these intro activities I’ve had to do in Paris (scavenger hunt, really? And how many times do they need to tell us that there is a counselor available for us when we need her and that we are on HTH insurance?? And why, oh why, did they put us in the FIAP for four days? Why couldn’t we just move into our apartments right away? But… at the same time… how many more times in my life am I going to be treated like a little, lost freshman again? This whole hand holding thing isn’t all so bad every once and a while). ANYWAY, I go off on tangents, and I believe tangents and stream of consciousness writing style are acceptable in the blogging world…? I hope? Because otherwise I think these entries would be a tad bit dry (that is—if I tried to filter my thoughts into a more formal style).

To get on with it—my name is Katie, I am in Paris maintenant, I’m taking classes that I thought looked interesting… a 2 credit art course at my professors studio in the 19eme arr. where we can work on projects of any medium. I’m thinking photography, songwriting, drawing? Maybe video art? It’s hard for me to narrow these things down. I’m also taking a 2 credit “French through song” class where we sing French songs to improve our articulation of French words. I’m taking a 2 credit prelim French course which just reminds me of every French class I’ve ever taken. I’m also taking a 4 credit conversation and composition French class. And finally a K20—Paris and French expats literature : “we will ask, what is the role of place in the imagining or invention of the self? How does the experience of a specific city, Paris, influence the formation of identity? How do these authors represent, or subvert, the notion of the ‘real’? Although the focus of this course is literary, we will also engage with major political, cultural, and artistic movements of the period, exploring the ways in which our writers negotiate history through their writings.” I think this will be a good course to relate to my spring philosophy course (Existentialism and Phenomenology), especially since we’re reading De Beauvoir and talking about “the notion of the real” and the “invention of the self.” SO excited. The authors that I am most pumped about are Simone De Beauvoir, Marguerite Duras, and André Breton.

Anyway, my concentration? I could keep it simple and call it, maybe, human ecology. But, it’s basically: “the sociological and philosophical implications of sustainable agriculture incorporating activism.” I love the environment (yes, I’m often accused of being a hippie) and sociology (and anthropology) and philosophy and think the food system in America is messed up, and because I am often too ambitious, I hope to learn more about why our system has evolved to what it is today and to think of ways to change it. Now, you may be wondering why I am in France? I guess it’s not totally related to my concentration, but I’ve been taking French for seven years and have always planned to study abroad in Paris in college, and really liked what little taste I had of French culture (I had a few foreign exchange students in high school and went to Paris and Cannes in 2008. As for what I like about their culture—that they just seemed more honest, seemed to be putting on less of an air than the ‘average American,’ I guess, and they aren’t wicked bubbly but are rather a bit cynical. And yet seem to really appreciate simple things at the same time and aren’t extravagant but seem, in a way, more fulfilled… I guess. Ok, I just reread this parenthesized phrase— I should just stop and mention now that I am an idealist). Other than liking France and the French, I also needed to escape New York and America in general for a while, and I also wanted to sort of do my own mental ethnography on French attitudes towards food, because they have a very different relationship to it here (which I noticed immediately upon arriving). I’m still observing and absorbing this Parisian attitude towards food, so I don’t want to really make any conclusions or assumptions right now, but perhaps I’ll write about it later on, if an assignment allows me to do so.

Well, I’ve written more than 827 words, so I guess I’ve finished the assignment? Yet, I’ve barely mentioned any basic facts about myself. I think what I’ve written will probably reveal more than my favorite bands and activities and books etc, but I’ll quickly mention them anyway. Music is a big part of my life—I love listening to it, attending events centered around it, making it, talking about it. I’m in a band and I am the singer and write the lyrics and will eventually play theremin and second guitar in it. Um, I really shouldn’t list my favorite bands because I can’t really narrow them down to a small list… but I guess I can copy and paste my facebook profile listed bands:
“The Velvet Underground, Beat Happening, Elephant 6, Can, The Vaselines, The Zombies, Bauhaus, Tom Waits, David Bowie, The Kinks, Amon Duul II, Os Mutantes, The Ventures, 13th Floor Elevators, Nick Drake, Nico, Jefferson Airplane, Sly & The Family Stone, CSNY, The Sonics, Iggy & The Stooges, The Jam, Wire, Joy Division, Delta 5, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cramps, The Delmonas, Alan Vega, Butthole Surfers, Sonic Youth, My Bloody Valentine, Cocteau Twins, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, Spacemen 3, Spiritualized, The Raincoats, The Breeders, Orange Juice, The Pastels, The Shins, Broadcast, Sparklehorse, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Brian Eno, Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti.”
Sorry, that was long but I can’t narrow it down more. Erm. I like Goethe and Edward Abbey and Henry Miller and David Foster Wallace and Nietzsche and Oscar Wilde and Slavoj Zizek and Sartre and Baudelaire, to name a few. Oh, I’m from Boston, but not really— I’m from Milton Mass, which is on the south border of the city of Boston. I like yoga and running. I barely ever sleep. I am a vegan. I am obsessed with hummus, and now that I’ve arrived in Paris, I am also obsessed with figs. I am fascinated by dreaming and have a dream journal to improve my dream recall and have been trying to lucid dream for four years but have only succeeded a few times and get sleep paralysis sometimes. Oh I like lots of films but I guess my favorites are James and the Giant Peach, The Cruise (with speed levitch), Koyaanisqatsi, every Charlie Kaufman film, the Room, The Holy Mountain, David Lynch’s stuff, Waking Life and Slacker and most Linklater films, Woody Allen of course, Mon oncle d'Amérique and some other Resnais films, Run Lola Run, Man on Wire, The Five Obstructions… Ok wow, I now feel very narcissistic, I’ve written 1266 words, mostly regarding myself (I wonder how autobiographers must feel?), so I’m done. Also, sorry this assignment is so late, I’ve barely had access to a computer and internet until now and have been super busy with lots of orientation activities every day.

A bientôt,
Katie