Ow

I burned my index finger in my second attempt to make an omelette this morning (which, by the way, was also unsuccessful, though I think I at least have a better idea now of what I'm doing wrong).

I need that finger! It's the most useful one I have! Grr. Hopefully my trip downtown doesn't go so poorly. I can't afford the loss of many more of these things.

Jour de la Mort, Band, class, director

So, Sunday we made the Day of Death and headed out to Montparnasse to see the catacombs. They were fucking amazing. Beforehand, we got nutella crepes and ate them in this little park, which was quite lovely. We then headed into the catacombs, which, at 3.50 euro, are definitely the best deal in town. To get into them, we had to descend a long, narrow spiral staircase, which was definitely atmospheric and quite creepy. I took a video of our descent, but it's kind of dark, so I just filed it away in my archives. Same with the several videos I took of us walking down corridors to get to the catacombs proper. Anyway, to make a long story short, they were fucking awesome. The design is utterly gorgeous, with the bones stacked in high rows that are decorated along the front with waves of skulls. Various sections are labeled to show the origin of the bones, and there are placards everywhere that say bizarre, ridiculous, poetic, etc., etc., things. I would post some of these sign photos, but blogger is being a bitch at the moment and won't let me upload photos, so I'll give that a shot in the near future. Anyway, it's really quite difficult to put into words how amazing, eerie, and perversely beautiful the whole thing is, so go over to facebook and look at the pictures I put up instead (I have decided to make standard practice to put photos up on facebook and videos up here, through youtube).

The catacombs. And, for what it's worth, the one youtube video that is actually semi-visible in the low light, a pan around a super-cool cavernous room:



Following that, we climbed the stairs and exited. There was a sad little skull sitting on this table right by the top of the inglorious exit, and I couldn't help but wonder what twist of fate left him to sit lonelyly up there. Outside, we walked around a bit, then stopped at a little cafe and had chocolate. C'etait genial.

Afterward, the group fractured, and a couple girls and I went to the Montparnasse cemetery, which was also fucking brilliant. I love French cemeteries so much--they're all eerily beautiful and exceedingly calm. It's nice to just stroll their walkways looking at all the elaborate graves, or, if one's feeling particularly industrious, to go celebrity hunting. The girls and I found both the Sartre-Beauvoir grave and that of Durkheim, both of which were nice to see, as I like all of those people. Mostly, though, we just strolled about, looking at things, and again, as usual, I took lots and lots of pictures. (Did I mention I took lots of them?)

Following that, Vivian and I headed back, though we stopped on the Rue Rivoli right across from the Louvre to buy some postcards, since she knew a place that sold 13 for one euro, as opposed to the usual euro-a-piece pricing structure that seems so prevalent in this country. Anyway, now I'm stocked up on postcards, though I still haven't written any out yet. Send me your college addresses nonetheless, and spread the word on that.

***

Tuesday night pretty much everyone headed out to this little bar called Motel in the area of the Bastille to see our dorm liaison (or whatever), DJ, and our ridiculously amazing program coordinator, Arnaud Hedin, play in their band, 1972 (photos in that same album as the end of the cemetery pictures). The place was a little hole-in-the-wall, but I liked it a lot. There was a small front room for mingling and performance, which led into a back room that would have been more sizable but for the large oval bar in its middle. I got a beer and settled into a seat in the front room, waiting for the band.

I was delighted to find they were actually quite good once they'd gotten onstage, since I really wasn't sure what to expect. (Arnaud said he'd only been singing with them for three weeks.) Someone described it as "kinda emo," which seemed fairly accurate, but generally it was quite nice, and I enjoyed myself. After their seven-or-so song set, though, one of the members stayed up there noodling around and trying out other things, which kind of led to a prolonged death rather than an end on a high note. Nevertheless, it was a nice experience and something fun to do on a weekday night. Returning home, I decided I would not do my reading, and instead finished my novella (though it requires a few thematic edits and rewrites, still). All in all, a nice evening, though I did become kinda paranoid toward the end that everyone hated me. I wonder if someone had been smoking up in the club and I got a contact high or something. It was very odd...

***

Anyway, this week has been the start of our next "quarter," so we have new teachers and new content. This quarter's professors are Andre Pessel and Francine Markovitz. So far, we've only had Andre, as the two are splitting the quarter evenly (6 days each, which certainly does not seem like a lot). Anyway, he's really nice - this adorable old French guy who kind of slowly and cutely waddles everywhere he goes. He also has "old French guy voice," which originally was a little hard to understand, though I've gotten used to it by now. The remaining problem with "old French guy voice," though, is that it's soft and steady and very soothing and, coupled with the either intense heat or intense cold of the room (which varies day-to-day, but only 'twixt extremes), constantly lulls me into a somnambulant state. I feel terrible, sitting there, struggling to keep my eyes open, since the stuff he's talking about is genuinely interesting and I do want to hear it and I like him and respect him and want to illustrate that by actually remaining cognizant throughout his course, but so far, it's been no use. I'm kind of embarrassed to show my face, though he doesn't seem to notice - or at least be bothered - at all.

Something that will surely delight the masses is this related anecdote of last Thursday's class. Again I was nodding off, though I was still half-listening to and -understanding what he was saying. Anyway, he asked something about the reading which amounted to "were there any questions?," but which I heard as "did you understand?" or something like that. There was one of those long, awkward silences, and so, to make him think that I was a good student and cared about his course and was doing the reading, I sleepily yelped "Oui." "Oh, you have a question?" he asked, and with a jolt I was wide awake, every sense blazing as my fuckup hit me like a ton of bricks. Everyone's eyes were on me, and I felt like a total doofus for yelping. Anyway, I then launched into one of those awkward rambles that one gives when one has said something in class in front of everyone that one then wishes to retract, and so I blathered incoherently for a little bit about having misunderstood his question and that I was instead reponding that I had understood. After what seemed like forever, he smiled gently and nodded, and things went on as usual, and within ten minutes I was nodding off again. Typical. I guess it couldn't have been as bad as it seemed to me, though, as no one commented on it during break and they seemed, indeed, to have just forgotten it. Maybe it seemed smoother than it felt. But whatever the case, I at least felt like an asshole. Yay.

On the subject of reading, however, I should also note that that mistaken "oui" was also an unrepentant lie, as I had neither done the reading nor would I have understood it if I had. Nevertheless, I was pretty sure that if I had been awake during the class I would have understood what he had been saying, which was the intention behind the "oui," so I did at least consider it ideologically, if not truthfully, valid. Anyway, this quarter, while ostensibly still a Civ. class, is utterly and inextricably rooted in philosophy - we have yet to speak of history once. Anyway, this is working much better for me, as it's not agonizing, rote history nor grating, aristotelian philosophy where people try to make rules for what makes a good drama and shit. Instead, it's very Soc.-like (Hobbes and whatnot), and that suits me just fine, as I could debate the origin and purpose of "society" all day.

Anyway, as to why I haven't done the reading, the thing is that Pessel is utterly and completely a French professor, so he just lectures for two hours. Which is fine by me, because it means several things: 1) I don't have to attempt to understand, or, more accurately, fake and understanding of, the reading, like I had to last quarter, in order to feel safe in class (not that I ever did), and, 2) I don't have to give a presentation or anything. Basically, we just sit there and get the shit explained to us in the context of Pessel's fascinating rambles about philosophy and various ephemera. So yeah, he's fascinating to listen to (when he hasn't entranced me) and patiently explains what in the reading is important anyway, so that, coupled with the return of the ridiculously-long-assignment format, has led me to the conclusion that doing the reading is quite unnecessary. The way I've justified that is also this: I can either stay up till 2 every night doing his reading, then fall asleep in class the next day trying to listen to him actually make it clear, or I could just not read it, start with a fresh slate, and then be wide awake for the explanation, which would have to increase comprehension, no? Never have slacking-off seemed like such a no-brainer.

Anyway, I've devoted an utterly inordinate amount of time to this rather insubstantial, circumstantial topic, so I shall cut things off here. One final note:

***

So I called Jean Rollin on Monday, and, after it taking about a half-minute for him to remember me, things went swimmingly. He said he was too tired to really be up to meeting this week (I assume that means he was just in for dialysis), but we arranged to meet Saturday evening of next week, which is almost the exact halfway point of my trip. Not that that matters. What is far more interesting is this: So, after some discussion, we set the date for Sat., Nov. 3rd, which seemed all well and good to me. Bored later, I googled his name, and one of the things to come up was a Wikipedia article on November 3rd, which, in listing him, served to remind me that Nov. 3rd is actually his birthday. So apparently he is devoting his birthday to me, which I'm not sure how to feel about. On one hand, it would be sad if no one were visiting him or throwing him a party or anything, though of course it is flattering that I rank so highly as to merit a birthday visit. Of course, I suppose after a certain age you would rather forget about your birthday more than anything else, so that could account for it. Or, in one of my typical flights of fancy, I decided that perhaps he was turning his party into a reverse surprise party, thinking I wouldn't know this detail, and that when I would get there to meet him I would find a room full of all his acquaintances. I think I would pretty much crap my pants if I got to meet Brigitte Lahaie, which I suppose would go rather fittingly with the urine that will already be soaking them from my encounter with Rollin. Despite the fact that, apparently (according to drunk John), everyone hates me, clearly my life is also the greatest to have ever been lived in the universe ever.

***

Anyway, let's take notes. Next time I need to discuss the play I went to see, and I also need to talk about our visit to Versailles. I would have done this now, but it involves the putting up of a lot more pictures and videos, which I need to transfer from my camera, and, since it's around 3:30 right now, I feel it's getting kind of late, so I will do that in the near future.

As for my weekend's projects, since this weekend is fairly open, I am not specifically sure. I have come to the realization that most of the other people on this trip, while I love them all, are either 1) far too independent or 2) far too blase (or both) for me to every goad them into doing touristy shit with me, since they all either want to do it alone or, having been here "many, many times," have grown contemptuous of it. So yes, I have decided that from now on I shall forge out on my own and conduct my own little adventures and expeditions. Tomorrow, I'm thinking I will either head out along the Seine to shop the little booksellers and enjoy myself in the heart of the city, or I could travel out to Montmartre and see the cafe from Amelie, the Moulin Rouge, and all the sex shops. We'll see where the day takes me, though know this: there will be pictures.

I will write again soon, I promise.

Day from Hell, Day from Purgatory

Friday was a bitch-slap rape-fest.

I had to get up a half-hour earlier a cause de la putain de greve ("because of the fucking strike") to make sure that we got to the place on time. Between the studying the night before and everything, this meant I wasn't running on that much sleep.

Anyway, most of the train lines were running again, though many at diminished capacity. Ours, I guess, wasn't doing too bad, though there were substantially more people waiting for it when it came in the morning. As the ride progressed down the line, things got successively more and more cramped until about halfway through we were utterly compacted into the car. Once again, it was awkward having a giant backpack bulging with school materials and probably taking up space a whole other person could have occupied. After my brush with attempted theft (I think) on a prior occasion, as well, it made me rather nervous, though I reassured myself with the fact that were was really nothing in the backpack that could be stolen without my knowing it (i.e. the computer) that was of any value.

Anyway, the second line was running fine, since it was automated, and, like I said, I thank god for mechanical outsourcing. We basically got to the center in the same amount of time, which meant we were like a half hour early, so we stopped and got some delicious pastries at the boulanger around the corner and ate and studied and freaked out.

The test itself didn't turn out to be so bad. Eight definitions that, thankfully, I basically all knew, and an essay the topic of which we had been given partial warning of and ended up perfectly anticipating. So I was well-prepared with examples and whatnot, though as usual, I second-guessed my formatting as I was writing it. I'm sure it will be fine, though. Things generally are.

Anyway, after that ordeal I treated myself to a lunch at the Boulanger Eric Kayser, whereat I had eaten my breakfast pastry earlier. Instead of the usual formule of sandwich, soft drink and pain au chocolate (chocolate croissant) that I eat first when I buy the formule on mid-class break, I got some sort of formule deluxe that consisted of a piece of quiche, a drink, and a selection of fancier desserts. I'm clearly moving up in the world. Finally, though, I had a chance to try one of those delicious-looking lemon meringue tarts that I'd been eyeing. They're really pretty. It was almost a shame to eat it.

Then I had a good four hours left to wait until my required corrector appointment, so I parked my ass and my laptop in the computer lab upstairs and did all the numerous, numerous corrections to my paper over the course of several hours. Then, still having several hours, I wrote a blog entry for Faits Precis that I will link to when it's up (here).

Now, my corrector. All right, I kind of hate this guy, as do the other people who have him, so I know it's not just me being...snippy. First off, his corrections on my paper were really lame, rarely offering suggestions for correction but rather just highlighting errors, which meant I had to ask other people for advice. So anyway, that made the correcting of the paper difficult. Anyway, when I got into the meeting with him, he justified this (and his being similarly unhelpful there) by saying that they had been instructed not to write things for us or alter our thoughts. All well and good, I agree, but I don't think they necessarily intended necessary grammar corrections to fall under the purview of that statement. I mean, the point of being here is to learn the language, and the only way we are going to learn these weird exceptions is to be told them and then to try committing them to memory. We are certainly not going to be able to guess them very efficiently, and that's all it is, guessing. So yes, that was annoying.

Other grievances. He's a little weird and kinda spastic, sputtering along on one train of thought for a while and then violently wrenching toward another. Also, as my fellow correctees have pointed out, he's kind of condescending. He'll explain a simple grammatical point and yet, oblivious to our nods and ouis of understanding, will then illustrate it with like seven pointless examples from the top of his head, while we are left to sit there nodding like morons and muttering "oui...oui...oui...," our glassy-eyed stares leading him to think that we still don't understand and provide further needless examples. Even a "je comprends" can't faze the bastard...he just keeps explaining and explaining! Several others have expressed a certain annoyance, as well, that he apparently has a kind of "why the fuck did you do this" attitude when he recognizes a mistake in one of the papers, despite the fact that...what can I say? It's a mistake. But I've found this to be less of a problem, I have to say. Nevertheless, when he does point something out that's fairly obvious, I generally under up sputtering on in a Ben Troutman-esque ramble of poorly-formed excuses. This trip has given me the horrible understanding of what it's like to be a C-student. (Except we're all C students! Also, the equivalent of ESL, which is also no fun.)

Anyway, the 75 minute ordeal (and I do mean "ordeal") consisted of re-reading the corrected draft of my paper and finding still more questions and concerns. This was generally ok, except when he would get hung up on something utterly insubstantial, like "does Moyen Age [Middle Ages] have a hyphen," which he will then spend ten minutes trying to find examples of by looking through his copy of the course texts. (It doesn't, as did not my paper. My friend Lucas reported that he had been lectured for several minutes in his section as to how it did.) He also gave me a reaming over not putting accents on my capital letters, despite the fact that no French person does this, and he then proceeded to flip about through the course text, finding examples of where this was missing to apparently prove that, indeed, no one does this.

He also went off on a lengthy tangent about the UN which was only vaguely-related to anything. It escapes me as to how we got on it (it was some grammatical issue), but basically he told this anecdote about how like big UN treaty things are drafted in English and French concurrently, making each separate version equally correct and untranslated. Anyway, some committee was doing one that had something to do with Israel, and in the English version it said something to the effect of "withdrawal from territories" and in the French, by nature of the grammar, it specified "all territories." Anyway, since 11 of the 15 people on the committee or whatever apparently spoke English and only like 4 French, Israel, invasion-happy as it clearly is (0.o), forged ahead with the English-version meaning and happily invaded a few territories sans-sanction. The point of all this boiled down to how French was more precise (and, by extension, better) than English because it has so many annoying rules of concordance that you can't help but be sure what someone's saying. "But...But!" I wanted to say. "English contains something like five times the words your language does, and that's by conservative estimate! Its writing doesn't pride itself on being lengthy and strung-out. It expresses itself, generally, fairly clearly and concisely, and if they'd just been smart enough to include the word 'all' you would have nothing to be smarmy about." But what's the point? It's not worth it. But I will say that being in this country has, if nothing else, given me a much greater love of my mother tongue than I ever held before.

Anyway, it was a lengthy and rambling collection (much like its description here), wherein I scrambled to write down the correct things he inadvertently said before he would lecture me on how I should be thinking these things up for myself (despite the fact that I don't fucking know they're wrong). And then it was over and I left. Quickly.

And since no day is truly complete without tormenting me some more, I then had to go to the fucking movies for my conversation session of the week. (I believe I've bitched before about how I wanted to see a Joe Sarno retrospective at the Cinematheque Francaise and had to miss it.) Anyway, I headed out with a couple friends hoping to grab a quick dinner before making my way to the theater (which I had to get to, as I had been entrusted with the free-entry cards), but as we wandered around a while we quickly realized that nowhere was open because it was six and apparently people would rather have acid-dipped needles shoved in their eyeballs here than eat before seven. (They are also loathe to open their shops on Sundays and Mondays, which has caused me no end of habitual grief.) So I hungrily got on the Metro. And waited for my train. And waited. And waited. Apparently the line was only running around 30%, which was really a shame. There was a gigantic crowd of people waiting and amassing for a good ten or fifteen minutes (it felt like Chicago again, aside from the great crowd), and when the train finally pulled into the stop and revealed itself to be packed with people, there was a collective groan of anguish. The doors opened and people started flooding in before those inside had a chance to get themselves out, which really made things a bit of a hassle. Luckily, I was standing in the front of the crowd somehow, and so got swept into the train, conveniently.

Inside it was litterally packed as full as it possibly could have been. People entered the train and their force kept pushing me further and further in, until it was shoved up against some poor woman and some other poor asshole was shoved up against me, and still they kept pushing, even as the doors closed, and it felt like the most subdued disaster film I had ever seen, as the doors shut, locking out half the crowd that couldn't be accommodated. And the little lifeboat made its away away from the Titanic.

I rode the relatively small distance to the end of the line and then got on another train that was starting its line. When this, too, was packed to the brim, it took off, and I eventually found the stop with the theater. Unfortunately, it was at something like a six- or eight-way intersection, and where to go was not at all clear, as there was a vast number of crosswalks heading in all directions and I could see a theater nowhere. After walking around for a while, feeling quite frustrated, I finally saw bright neon lights past some sort of beautiful park and old building (I will have to go back sometime and see it and find out its name when I'm not so stressed), and walked toward them and they revealed themselves to belong to an MK2, which is a big cinema chain in France. I walked along the waterfront and looked in front of the theater but saw no one, despite the fact that it was supposed to be rendezvous-time.

The theater, though, was marvelously constructed in order to foster the chances of missing your date, however, since it was actually split in two, with six theaters on the side of the river I was on and six on the other side. To get to the other side, you had to walk all the way back down the waterfront, cross and a bridge, and then walk all the way back again. Apparently during the day they have ferries across the water, which sounds cute. But at night it's a fucking nuisance.

There was no one on the other side, either, and so I walked back to check by the metro stops. No one there, either. After taking the wrong way around the crosswalks at the massive intersection and finding that they basically dead-ended into a bridge-bottom in the other direction, I went back the entire way and to the same side of the theater that I had gone to secondly. My group was still not there, and by this point I was extremely frustrated and constructing all manner of scenarios about them calling it off because of the metro and me not getting the message because I have an American phone and no one has my number and consequently no one could call me. Then finally I saw another conversation group and asked, tiredly and in English, if they knew what was going on and they said they had seen my people over on the other side, so with an irritatedly-muttered "Thank Fuck," I headed back across the bridge again and finally found my people. Thank God we'd arranged our meeting time for a half hour before the movie.

The film was in a rather wee little theater, and I think my favorite part was the previews. They were mostly subtitled previews for American movies, like The Kingdom, American Gangster and so on and so forth. The most enjoyable was definitely the preview of Superbad, as we few Americans sat there guffawing at the thing while the French audience around us regarded it stoically, like something that had fallen from the sky. It was a delightful little "American moment."

The film itself, Un Secret, (don't read this if you plan on seeing the movie if it comes to America) was a frustrating and pointlessly-elliptical drama about a Jewish kid who finds out that he had a brother and first-wife to his father who were killed in the Holocaust. And that's about it. It's mostly about his family, though he narrates it, though the he that is narrating it from the present (in black-and-white) is so woefully under-developed that we have no idea why any of this matters to him. It should have just been cut out and it would have worked a lot better. Anyway, it's a kind of blah romance-drama that desperately wants to be somber and elegant yet just kind of wears the trappings without really telling and interesting story. It also is way too stylish for its own good, and consequentially sends myriad mixed signals, or at least I found it did. The creators clearly loved filming Cecile de France in her bathing suit, and the opening shots of her at the pool, ostensibly seen through the eyes of her son but actually through the vision of the director or cameraman, are so leering that I originally thought the thing was going to be about the young boy's incestuous love for his mother. Then, but a few scenes later, the introduction of some mystery into the background of the family's health-care assistance and masseuse is so blunt and overdramatized, featuring her whispering to him in German during the young boy's full-body massage while the camera zooms in grimly on her face, that I then thought it was going to be some sort of Nazi molestation film. All in all, the first ten or fifteen minutes left me fairly confident that this really was going to be un putain d'un secret (basically, just put putain in front of everything and it means "fuck"--word to the wise), so when it turned out to just be about some dead relatives in the Holocaust, I was rather disappointed. I've got to say, the nazi-molestation-incestuous-ten-year-old plot definitely would have been more entertaining.

Afterward, we went out for a drink at a bar and I got a burger, too, since I was fucking starving by this point. The burger was really good--tiny, but with some sort of exotic French cheese on it and a delicious spicy-mayo sauce, which was also delightful for dipping the fries.

Afterward, as our conversation girl puttered away on her little scooter (we snickered lovingly), we saw three or four cop cars go barrelling down the street right next to us and stop just a little way down, so we decided our Friday night definitely wouldn't have been complete without a trip to see what all the fuss was about. (Also, the first car stopped at the head of the street and two guys got out in the back and went barrelling down the street, running incredibly fast after...what?) The car then sped off after them. Why?

Anyway, when we got there, there were a bunch of people leaning over their balconies to see what all the fuss was about, and I originally figured it must have been some sort of party bust. There was also a crowd of people watching the fracas, and someone being frisked against the wall. We asked this woman what was going on and she said that a cop had seen some guy steal a girl's cell phone, and all this had to do with some sort of small racket of petty street thieves, and we were all like "That's what this was about? On a Friday night, the French police can allocate four cop cars speeding through intersections and nearly getting into high-speed collisions over a stolen cell phone?" What a let down. I was glad I knew, though, that flic means "cop."

Anyway, we headed home on the Metro, which, by this point (around midnight), wasn't that crowded anymore and was a much better experience, if still a bit of a wait. We met up with a guy from the other group, quite by chance, who was hanging out with their conversation guy since, I guess, the other three girls in the group were tired and left.

Anyway, we got back to the dorm and drank away the crappiness of the day, and I collapsed into bed content that I had all this fucking crap behind me, and entirely exhausted. How annoying.

***

So, as the title indicates, if yesterday was hell then today must have been purgatory, as it was pretty much utterly without emotion. I got up around 1:30, delighted to finally feel rested and refreshed (weekends are essential here). My quest to develop a delicious new brunchtime sensation turned out surprisingly well in my new concoction: Gnocci and scrambled eggs with pesto. Could have used a little more of it, though, but I ate and apple, too, and was generally satisfied.

Worked on correcting my paper all day. Originally, the papers has been due at noon today. Thank god they changed that, because I would have been in no fucking mood last night to put up with that bullshit after coming home at midnight. So after my generally lengthy preamble of eating, checking my email, blogs, forums, and DVD-company websites, I finally got to work at around 4:30. Generally it went pretty fast, as most of the corrections were fairly minor. It was the linking ones that took more effort, as it's always irritating trying to shoehorn in more links back to themes and the thesis and whatnot. (Well, not thesis, as French papers don't have them, but, you know, main idea of discussion.) I took a break around 7 to do some grocery (liquor) shopping. Purchases include and were limited to: one (1) bottle of wine (1.04 euro), one (1) bottle of champagne (0.80 euro), one (1) twelve (12)-pack of thirty-three (33) centiliter beers, one (1) carton of milk, twelve (12) rolls of toilet paper (pack), and two (2) two (2)-liter bottles of Coca-Lite. Yum.

Then I worked more on the paper. A terrible feeling that I wasn't going to be able to find anyone to do anything exciting with tonight subsided, quickly replaced by the sensation of doing nothing tonight. I still had more work on the paper to do. I read it aloud a couple of times and was finally satisfied with it. I sent it in. I wrote this blog. I'm making ramen noodles.

On the note of food, it should be mentioned that I kicked dinner out of the fucking ball-park this evening (yeah, I know I mixed that metaphor). Nothing too fancy, but it was just well-executed, if I do say so myself: spaghetti with sauteed vegetables in pasta sauce. Just delightfully put together. (And now my room stinks of fresh garlic.) I'll throw up a picture:

Anyway, hopefully tomorrow will keep up the trend and provide a nice "heaven" day to balance out this trilogy. We're going to the catacombs, so that should be right up my alley and hopefully provide a lot of cool pictures of creepy skeletons and shit. I think they have that down there...

Also, tomorrow's other mission: omelette.

Greve, Examen, Correcteur

So, if you haven't heard (which is quite possible, as I assume the entirety of my readership is American and so generally unconcerned with non-American happenings), the Paris metro system went on strike yesterday. We were, of course, aware of this ahead of time, so we were able to plan, but it's nevertheless posed at least a vague inconvenience.

Anyway, they're pissed because Sarkozy, the new president who's douchey and conservative, is going to cut, I believe, their retirement benefits, so they've gone on greve (strike) and kind of brought the city to its knees. Traffic was apparently a nightmare yesterday, unsurprisingly, and, of course, you were pretty much fucked if you didn't have a car. Some people continued working, but most lines, aside from the main couple automated ones, were only running around 1-in-10 of their average trains. It was decided amongst us students that this was a good argument for mechanical outsourcing, and I personally decreed that this was a catastrophe in that it vaguely inconvenienced me.

Anyway, since the line was disabled, our teacher came and taught in the common metting space at our dorm, so thankfully (!) we could still have class. Our last day of class. Good times.

Then we were free for the rest of the day, but with the Metro down, there wasn't all that much to do. Pretty much we just sat around the dorm, correcting our papers for corrector section the next day and studying for our first final the next day (end of first compressed quarter!) while kind of going cabin crazy. The whole thing was very Boccaccio, as we played about safely within our brightly colored walls as the world fell to pieces outside.

There was much speculation as to whether the next day would see a continuation of the greve and thus be a "snow day." Hope ran high. I made myself an open-faced mortadella ham sandwich and plopped a couple of fried eggs on the top. I felt like a gourmet. Decadence.

Anyway, we got an email late that night that said the test would be on the next morning (it would have been cancelled if the greve had continued), so I got to bed around 2 after some not-so-intense studying mixed with plenty of very intense horseplay.

I woke up at 730 this morning and it was fucking dark out. I was confused and frightened, but after checking both clocks and seeing that it really was 730, I soldiered on with my shower. We were all getting up early so that we wouldn't be taking chances with the metro. When we got there, though, it really wasn't as bad as all that. Supposedly it was running 1-in-3 trains on our line, but we must have caught it right, because it came quickly. There definitely seemed to be 3 times the regular people, though, and by halfway down the line, we were in full-on sardine mode. Nevertheless, things ran pretty smoothly, and we got at the center quite early, so we had little breakfast pasteries and waited and studied.

The test itself was pretty simple, though, like usual, I regretted various decisions I had made in the organization of my essay. Whatever, though. I at least had things to say and got it done. It can't be that bad, and now it's over, which is most of what I really want.

I got myself a quiche for lunch as a present for being a good student, and then sat around for three hours making corrections to my paper. It's an almost 5-hour wait until my corrector appointment, since I'm last in line and they're 75 minutes long this time. We'll see if we use all of that. It's going to be hell. I don't really like him. I can go on at length in the future, if anyone wants.

So, I will finally get out of here at fucking six. Then, I have to quickly find something to eat and then brave the Metro system again to get to Conversation session tonight. We're supposed to all go out and see movies in our groups, so our group is going to see something called Un Secret that looks like a rather dour drama and I'm not sure how I feel about yet. I guess I'm kind of prejudiced against it, since there's a one-night-only double-feature of two of Joe Sarno's Swedish sex films at the Cinematheque Francaise that I would rather be seeing. Oh well, tant pis pour moi.

At least the weekend should be relatively free, since we're between classes and thus I should only have stylistics exercises (and finishing the paper). If the Metro gets back in order again (it's currently at 50%, I hear), then there seems to be the possibility for fun to occur. With any luck.

Update

I'm not really sure what to cover, but I will go for a bit. Let's see. I don't know if I've mentioned it, but we confronted the teachers and demanded a reduction in homework, which we subsequently received. Now the workload is suddenly more than manageable, which is delighting me to no end.

After getting the paper in on Sunday night, I was relieved to find I was probably in the best situation of most anyone. Despite the fact that I had nearly driven myself insane Sunday morning, I was done by around 7 Sunday night, about when everyone else was finally just really getting down to it. I did the reading and was in bed by two, whereas a lot of people either stayed up ridiculously late or pulled an all-nighter, and most of them didn't even hand in completed papers, or, if that, papers of the requested length. And I really don't know why I was so freaked out, as no one else was surely worrying about all the grammar shit they taught us when they were writing at 4 am. I guess I'm just a student dedicated to fulfilling expectations. Perhaps dangerously so...

Anyway, the subsequent days have had this beautiful, liberated feeling to them, and I'm coasting easily, at least until now. Last night, to celebrate the reduction in readings and the finishing of the paper, a couple guys--Nick and Lucas--and I went out for drinks at a bar. In Paris, most everything is closed on Sundays and Mondays and, while most of the bars (though not all by far) are still open, people just don't really seem to be in a partying mood here on Mondays. (Funny, since it's such an obstacle for Americans to surmount.) Basically, we had the place to ourselves, and it was pretty nice. We just sat and told ridiculous stories of our acquaintances and whatnot. I also tried something called a Black Russian, which was kaluah and vodka. It was quite good, for a strong drink, though I already had a beer in me, so that probably helped it go down smoother.

We headed back around midnight, since the metro closes at 1 and we didn't want to miss it (though we had plenty of time). On the ride back, I became typically drunk-hungry and when we got back, I was forced to take a repast at MacDo, where I got a cheeseburger (un cheeseburger) and small fries (un petit frites). It bears noting that the cheese on my cheeseburger constituted almost half its cost, but really, after I tasted it, I was sure that it had been essential.

Nevertheless, when I got back to the dorm, I decided I was still hungry (it's one of those tiny McDonald's cheeseburgers, after all), so I made some pasta, which I then proceeded to douse with a dangerous amount of garlic powder (in addition to salt, pepper and butter). Lord, if I had not been drunk, it would have been terrible. But I ate it, and I woke up the next morning with the taste of garlic still in my mouth. Abominable. I had to buy a pain-au-chocolate to vanquish it. Even the thorough toothbrushing I administered was not strong enough.

(It also bears noting that the previous evening I went to a little hole-in-the-wall and saw the French cut of Death Proof, which is the equivalent of the recently-released extended cut. I have to say (and I am shocked), while I could tell it was longer, it didn't feel 22 minutes or whatever longer, and surprisingly, the scene extensions largely didn't annoy me. That's really an issue for the other blog, though, so I'll probably try to take it up there...)

Anyway, today was also fairly lax, though our teacher's habit of running class over is spinning dangerously out of control. We ran from 25 to 30 minutes over today. I hate to think we'd have to have another talk with him, though... Oh well, I guess there are only two more days left anyway...

Tonight I stayed in, did the reading, and did this. I'm hoping to call it a day earlier, since the drinking last night (which forced a late bedding time) kind of tired me out. There's more to say, but it references the future, so I will save it for a time when it is more topical.

Also, spread the blog around to other people I know, since I'm too stupid to figure out who would be interested. And if there are things you want to see (pictures of my room, a tour of my neighborhood, less shitty videos, whatever) just leave a comment telling me and I will try to fulfill any and all reasonable requests. And if not that, just leave a comment to let me know I'm not writing into the wind.

Videos!

Below are two videos I took once I finally got downtown. They in now way capture the awesomeness of actually being there, or how delighted I was to finally see the "real" Paris (which is to say the glamourous Paris). It was truly beautiful, not that these videos do it any justice. But perhaps they give you an idea.

The first is my attempt at being Godard in Weekend, with a long pan down a street along the Seine. The second is of us crossing the Seine. Both are very random and just meant to give you a taste of the atmosphere.

Done!

The paper has been completed. I'm sure it'll be ripped to shreds, and I still need to go back and add the accents (fun) and proofread it once to make sure it's not utter shit (not fun), but at least it's DONE and I have something to work on fixing rather than work on writing.

Yesterday's progress was arduous, as you may have been able to tell from the last entry. Basically I browsed the web for around 12 hours and intermittently wrote sentences. I had about a half page from the night before, to which I added I think one or two pages yesterday. The rest I wrote this afternoon. Though I think I had a better idea of where it was going as it went along, so that could explain to some extent why it got easier. But more self-regulation was definitely also part of things today. God, I've just never not wanted to write so much. I guess now I know how non-English people feel, or ESL kids, or whatever. It's just painful if you're 1) not interested (though I have delt with this before) or 2) unable to express your ideas (this has not been a problem so much). Whatever the case, I'm glad to be done with the draft, which was 90% of the task, in my eyes. Now I'm already dreading the next one. Though that shouldn't come for a couple more weeks...

Fuck Laundry

Holy shit, it is not my day. I went downstairs to do laundry, stuffed all my shit into the washer, put in the money, and was about to set things rolling when this guy comes in and says, in French, "it's broken." I'm like...what? And then I see some stupid little post-it that's fallen to the floor, which I pick up and which has the appropriate message, in French. There had been two available washers when I entered, but by now some other bitch had moved in and taken the other one, so I was left to haul my stuff back upstairs, having wasted a good 3.5 euros for nothing. (Yes, it's 3.5 to do landry. That equates to about $5 a lode.)

Anyway, then later I came back down and saw that it was empty, so I went back to my room, got my clothes again, and found another 50 centimes to complete another 3.50 euro lode. Back downstairs, some girl had now moved in and was taking up both the available washers. Being a pushover, I beat a hasty retreat.

As of now, I've just gone down again and met the same girl. She was taking her stuff out of the dryer, and there was more stuff in the washers, but she assured me it was not hers. Goddamn it, I fucking give up. I guess the French fucking want me to stink.

As for myself, I am fighting with my paper, which is coming out ungodly slowly. I think the fact that I am writing it 1.5 spaced, instead of the usual 2, is contributing, but that's the way the teacher wants it, even though it should be 2 for our correctors, so I need to do it that way to make sure it's long enough. I'm miffed, though, that what I thought would be a six page paper is really more like a 8-9 page paper in normal terms. Stupid French.

Beyond that, it's a history paper, so I'm just not fucking interested, and I'm trying to get a grasp on this French style of writing, which involves little mini-parts and is frustratingly vague. You don't really prove anything, you just vaguely "discuss" it. Whatever the fuck that means. Beyond that, it's not particularly encouraging to write something knowing that it will be utterly eviscerated when I bring it in, because I'm sure I'm doing a million things in very informal ways, because that's all I know and I just need to get it written, since I can't get it right. But whatever, even though I'm sure it's going to happen to most of the other people in the program, too, it's annoying to know that whatever I'm putting all this time into is just going to get torn to shreds anyway. It, unsurprisingly, makes me not want to write it.

Anyway, this has really just been a rambling bitchfest and for that I apologize. Hopefully the future will find me in a better mood.

J'Ecris, J'Ecris...

I spent the day doing homework in an act of penitance, but I didn't get all that much done - the internet was proving very distracting today. Everyone got back at 730, and my teacher, Arnaud, even came in to find me and look at the outline for me. It was helpful, and he said I didn't need to do as elaborate a thing as my corrector was trying to do, which is good. Stupid corrector. I am kind of changing the second half of it, but that's not so bad, and it's much easier and more approachable than redoing the entire paper from scratch and trying to struggle to address shit that we don't have sufficient information for.

Apparently everyone tried desperately to wake me (and Tina) up this morning and were pounding on our doors and whatnot, but we slept through it all. I'm still not perfectly sure of how my alarm clocks got turned off without waking me up, though, especially the one on the other side of the room.

There were also rumblings from Evelyn that in addition to everyone pounding on the door in the morning, Arnaud had managed to secure the key from the front desk to come in and try to manually wake me up. I do not know if this is true or if perhaps she misunderstood or something. Nick also suggested it, though I'm not perfectly sure if it was under the influence of Evelyn's tale or not. No one else (of the like two other people I've mentioned it to) knew anything about it, though. Personally, I don't know what to make of it, but I hope it's not true, just on principle. I'd rather not have people feeling they can barge into my room whenever they fucking want to. Also, I woke to find I was sleeping naked. It would be awkward to think that my teacher has seen that. Anyway, if it did happen, I hope the cover was at least properly arranged.

With everyone back, I accompanied Evelyn and Vivien to the Champion, where what I thought was a minor shopping trip turned up into a fairly major supply run for me. Anyway, long story short, I now have various new things, including Coca-Light, some liquor, tape, and various other odds and ends.

I tried going to this party that committee on parties was throwing in the caffeteria, but it was pretty lame. There was no music or anything party-ish, just dull caffeteria lighting and a bunch of people standing around talking in french and drinking from little beer bottles. It was kind of like a middle school dance, except in France and with liquor. I and Sung, who had instigated the me going down, each had a beer (me to "get back on the wagon" after last night, so-to-speak, so I don't develop a liquor phobia or anything like that--though honestly I'm not too worried about that happening), and I then decided that it was time to fly the coop. Sung stayed and I went back upstairs to work on my paper.

And that's what I've been doing all night. Since it's a history paper, of course, I'm majestically uninspired. In the course of four hours, I've checked my email countless times and surfed basically every page I frequent, making sure to read everything. So yes, after four hours of work, I have a lovely (hopefully good) introduction. Yay. At least I'm primed for tomorrow, so I can get right down to work and hopefully pound this baby out before the nighttime comes around.

All right, it's around 3 am, so I think I will finally take my leave and head to sleep. Bon soir, tout le monde.

Merde

I awoke to find sun streaming in through my window this morning. That doesn't happen. With a start, I checked the clock - 1:30. Fuck. Clearly I was late to the rendezvous for the chateaux of Loire valley.

This has bummed me out seriously. In addition to missing what was (and actually still is, as they won't be back till like 7) surely a great trip seeing amazing sights with my friends in the program and eating an amazing lunch, I was also supposed to discuss my paper with my professor. I wrote him an email to see if I could just send him my outline to look at again, because that was all I really wanted anyway.

Conclusion: future consumption of alcohol will be better moderated, because I'm not quite sure how I got into my bed. Everything kind of fades out in Evelyn's room.

As usual in these situations, I'm more worried that I did or said terrible things that I don't remember and refuse to take responsibility for if I can't remember. I know I had a brief gmail chat with Steve that I had no idea of before he told me, and that it took place around 5:20. Was I seriously still up then? I had to get up at 6 to go to the chateaux, so now I'm constructing all these wild and terrible notions of like having walked down to the lobby totally plastered, thinking I could pull it off, and being like sent back to my room in disgrace, and then waking up and remembering none of it. But that probably didn't happen. I hope.

Much as on the few other occasions when this has happened, I feel violently uncomfortable and extremely cold and alone, and will continue to feel so until I can get in touch with someone who can fill in the gaps for me so I can assess the damage. As also always seems to happen during these situations, said person is impossible to reach at the moment, leaving me feeling, hence, alone, cold, and afraid.

Hopefully my teacher will be willing to look at my outline by email. Otherwise my paper will be surrounded by a lot of worry. At the moment, I'm going to get a start on the weekend's homework, in a flagalant act of penitance and so I don't feel like the day was a total waste. But really it was. What a schmuck.

Bonjour

Well, here in am in Paris, almost two weeks into my trip, and I finally get a free moment (albeit brief) to try to write. Thus, I will try to cover things as quickly as possible while still catching you up...

I left the 30th of September in moral terror. I was nervous about everything, as I had never traveled alone before, let alone to a foreign country, so I was worried I would somehow mess something up along the way. As I went through the security / scanner thing at the airport, I waved good-bye to the family, which obsessively waved back. Past the first security checkpoint, I received a call, which told me to look over my shoulder. I waved again. "Go USA!" my dad yelled. I blanched.

They do manage to at least shepheard you well at the airport, which I guess I knew, so I guess I didn't have that much of a reason to be worried. I was through the check quickly, and then it was off to wait for several hours. That was strangely calming. I read through all the trip papers and course packets to calm my nerves and tell me what to expect and make sure there wasn't any advice I had missed (though at this point at the airport, I don't know how much good most of it would have done anyway). Then I settled in and cracked open Bret Easton Ellis' new book, Lunar Park, which then (and so far) proved to be a corking good read. Part autobiography, part social satire (natch), part horror novel; fascinating.

This Indian guy sitting next to me was hacking up a lung, so I found something to do elsewhere for a bit and then took a different seat when I returned. Eventually we borded, and I was seated next to this French student who was vaguely dressed up. He kind of reminded me of Mazzone, but that was only because he was wearing a suit.

The flight was all right if uneventful. I read my pre-class reading for the first few hours, which was doable, but fairly uninteresting. (It was on the Gauls; come to find out it was written by Cesar.) Dinner was a weird boef burguinon thing, with which I took a little bottle of red wine, feeling like a classy bastard. The thing I've realized about airplanes is that they're quite good at tricking you into thinking you have a fair amout of food, since they give you miniscule portions but of many, many things. Water and wine and tea? Holy shit, I must be flying first class! Sure, they're in two-ounce cups, but...

After that they turned the lights out and it was time for the children to go to sleep. As predicted, I was unable, though I was surprisingly tired. I lay there for a little bit, then got tired of doing that and turned in the TV, wishing I could read to get that assignment done. I had tried watching Fracture, with Anthony Hopkins, during dinner, out of bizarre curiosity, but it was too hard to hear the dialogue through the crappy earphones. For that reason, and the fact that I would probably never see them again, I opted for the French movies this time. I tried something called Pur Weekend, which should literally be "Pure Weekend," but was translated as "Wicked Weekend," so it must be slang. It was a textbook foreign Hollywood rip-off -- nice production values; a by-the-numbers story (friends on camping trip don't realize their friend who is on weekend leave from prison has actually escaped) where everyone has a clear dilemma which will be solved over the course of One Wacky Weekend; and, like all good foreign Hollywood rip-offs, a soundtrack full of out-of-date American tunes. I was shocked to later find the film was from 2007, in fact, as it used so many Smashmouth songs (at least two, if not three) before I turned it off that I thought I had flashed back to my first plane ride to Paris in 2001. Anyway, as I stated, I turned this off about half an hour in, since it was doing absolutely nothing for me, and tried to sleep again.

Nope. Tried something called Le Prix a Payer ("The Price to Pay"), which concerned a rich guy and his chauffeur who decide that since their wives don't show them enough affection anymore, they should stop providing them with their earnings in exchange. Like most French-style French comdies of late, it starts out somewhat funny and quickly just turns depressing, what with its themes of coerced affection and spousal abuse and all. I couldn't help but wonder what French women think of this thing. Having looked it up later, I think it may have actually been directed by a woman, but I can't remember. Interesting. At least it was original enough to get all the way through.

Eventually I peaked out the window and saw the sunlight breaking over the crest of the world; it was rather eerily beautiful. We were served a light breakfast, and the two teenage idiots in front of me were begging the steward for whiskey. They'd been drinking the whole trip, and he was like, "I'm sorry; that's not allowed at this time," and they kept protesting and begging for whiskey. Dude, it's fucking breakfast. Have some coffee.

It was raining over Paris as we descended, leaving the view from the windows a sheet of white taht vaguely resembled a trip to purgatory. Finally, the clouds broke and Paris revealed itself, and we touched down int he drizzle. Hearded off the plane, a tram took us to the other side of the airport, where the signs told us where to retrieve our bags. It was all quite simple, though I was unhappy to find that my phone didn't seem to be getting service there when I attempted to call home. Now that I was here, alone, and off the plane and having to take care of myself, I was starting to feel that need for a familiar voice again.

Having retrieved my bags, I wandered around until eventually I found a currency exchange, where I got some Euros. I then went outside and found a cab. The guy wasn't sure quite where my thing was, but together we figured it out. It came out to around 40 euro, which is like $60, but it was nice to just fucking be at the place without having to fuck around with public transit, and besides, it was someone my parents' money, which they had wanted me to use as such.

Arriving at the residence, I made myself at home in my room and finally started feeling my fatigue. I took a video of my room with narration, but it turned out I didn't like it in retrospect. I hope to take another, better one, so you can see my digs, or perhaps I can be coerced into posting the original. Whatever the case, I will try to get a video up of it, because it's just easier than spending three days trying to describe it. Suffice it to say it's a little room with a desk, a bed, a bathroom and a little kitchenette thing. Make sure to demand the video, if you're reading, and I will do my best to get that up.

After that I wanted a nap, but I wanted an actual (read: non-airline) meal more, so I headed out into the neighboorhood. The place where I am is called Port-des-Lilas (Door-of-Lilas), which is apt, in that it is just on the inner border of Paris before the start of a suburb called, naturally, Lila. It's certainly not postcard Paris, but whatever. It certainly is diverse, with lots of kebob and middle-eastern places, in addition to some random chinese places and the various butchers, grocers and bakers of Paris. Not sure what to do and unable to find the ultra-French quiche I was craving, I settled on something called a "Greek sandwhich," which was basically gyros, vegetables and mayonnaise. And mayonnaise for the fries. They like mayonnaise.

I ate this and then collapsed into a stupor until 330, when I readied myself for the tour of the neighborhood. Our resident head guy, DJ, took us around and pointed out a few interesting and necessary things, and then we went to the metro to buy cartes oranges mensuelles ("monthly orange cards"), which are the metro passes. The great thing about their Metro, versus the CTA, is that while the CTA's "best deal" allows them to automatically keep taking money for you to pay for every ride so you get alienated from your money and don't think about how much you're fucking spending on CTA trips, the Metro's deal is actually a deal, wherein you buy the card for a set price (53 euro; for reference, fare is 1.50) and then receive unlimited rides. And what a transit system. It's not failing because people actually ride it, and people actually ride it because there are frequent trains (if you're waiting longer than five minutes, you have ceased to exist in our universe) and it's clean. Of course, there are frequent trains and it's clean because people actually ride it, so there is motivation, but I don't know. The monthly deal is encouraging. And civilized. Nice.

I can't for the life of me remember what I did for dinner that evening, but then we went out and bought a bottle of champagne, since it was the birthday of Nick, this guy in the program. Then we sat and drank the champagne and laughed and talked. And it was nice. And then I went to bed at 10.

The next day I rose bright and early for class. We were lead there on the metro by DJ and then shown around. The U of C campus is almost Cronenberganly clean and neat, though it was a cute little garden and stuff, so there's a bit of humanity to it. We had our first class, which was class, and then broke for lunch. I got a sandwich formule for lunch (they have these things called formule everywhere wherein you can get one of several sandwiches, drinks, and sometimes deserts or sides for a set price). I got a salami sandwich and a Coca-Lite. The sandwich was fucking delicious (I eventually determined that the secret ingredient was butter), though the Coca-Lite is disappointing in that, even though it replaces Diet Coke, it doesn't have that same delicious taste. Oh well. It's just getting me to drink less...

For there on, things require less exacting detail. We were given two giant sheafs of like 350-pages each, which are our readings for the first two three-week courses. It's been brutal; I had no idea it would be like this. Ever since the first night, I've been reading right until I go to bed (usually around 1 or 2, because I have to wake up at 8 to be able to get to the place on time by bus), which, clearly, has left me with no time for anything fun that isn't part of our already regimented schedule. We've been working out way in fits and starts through ancient and middle Europe, and will eventually finish in the 1600s, I think, at the end of this three-week first course. It's fairly brutal, I must say, as the readings can often be rather complicated and take a fair deal of effort to decipher and are often extremely, extremely boring. As is class. Because it's 2 hours and 15 minutes, which is far, far, far more history than I can stand (which is generally "any" not concerning movies or debauchery). Our teacher, Arnaud, is nice and tries his best, and he's clearly passionate (evidenced by his consistently keeping us 10 to 20 minutes late...), which is nice for him, but still. It definitely feels like I'm completing a requirement. It also feels like I'm being gang-raped.

I was still really jetlagged for the rest of like the first week, and getting five or six hours of sleep a night certainly wasn't helping (I require a lot). I was grumpy and bitchy and whatnot, and I didn't have any food in my kitchen. I finally got into things when I went to a real Paris fruit stand and bought some bananas and apples and whatnot. That was just so wonderfully not America, with the little guy bagging everything by hand and weighing it and the total being so ridiculously low that I couldn't help but get in the spirit, and I immediately went out and bought a bagette, too, and made myself a sandwich.

Anyway, events that need addressing:

Wine and Cheese Tasting--Five wines, five cheeses, all with French names, so none of which I remember. They were generally good, though. I liked most of the cheeses (as I am wont to do) and the wines were generally good, though as they got stronger I got less happy. However, I also got more drunk (since no one was spitting out the wine), so by the went we were all kind of tipsy and having quite a good time. It was funny to watch decorum kind of break down during the course of the event, as people became more open and ridiculous.

Chatteau de Vincennes--Since posting pictures always gives me a terrible time, I will try to put these up as soon as I can in a separate post, so that I don't end up ruining everything that I've written here, formatting-wise. Besides, I'm on a roll and I don't want to stop. Anyway, Friday afternoon we took the metro to the Chatteau de Vincennes, which was rather interesting. We had a lovely tourguide who gave us a nice tour in patient, clear French (and who seemed kind of weirded out that we weren't being more active participants; I wonder if the French are ooing and aahing all the time at their chateau). We saw the various chambers of the king and whatnot in the tower, and as we were watching a boring video I got tired and started sleepily playing around with my camera and took a series of pictures of a friend, Timon, as he sat sleepily with his head in his hands. I'll post those, too. It also bears noting that de Sade was imprisoned in the chatteau, a fact which I think I knew but escaped me until the woman said it. I found that interesting, and wanted to ask if she could show me his cell, but I thought that would seem creepy.

Friday night--After leaving Vincennes, I tagged along with a bunch of people as they headed over into the Latin Quarter in the heart of Paris. It was hugely relieving to finally see all the cliched postcard and movie shit (especially movies). Walking along the Seine, we passed the sidewalk booksellers and saw all the historic monuments and all the buildings lining the waterway. I took a long, Godard-esque pan that I also hope to post soon of my walk along the Seine. Surely it won't capture any of what it was like to be there, but it can try. I also took pictures, which will make their own appearances.

In the Latin quarter, we got ice cream and then walked around a little longer before sitting down to dinner. I ate with the aforementioned Nick and a girl named Jane and partook of a Croque Madame, which is a Croque Monsieur (ham sandwich on big white bread slices with cheese on top melted) with an egg on top. Get it?

After this, we had more ice cream -- actually gelatto -- upon the recommendation of this one girl who raved about the nutella gelatto. It was pretty good, I will say, though nothing to freak out over. Nick had a conversation session to get to (I'll backtrack and get to mine later), so he left and Jane and I took the metro back. I then bumbled around for a little bit before meeting up with a bunch of friends and being dragged out for the evening to go drinking, despite the fact that I was massively tired and was considering just going to bed and trying to catch up on my sleep.

We took the metro to Belleville, I think, though honestly I was so tired I felt like I was already drunk and can't really remember it very well. We wandered around for a while but no one could decide on a bar or find one that could accomodate our eleven people, so eventually we split up, with the people that wanted to go dancing going one way and me and the rest going another, which took us somewhere with a long name that I can't remember (every place has a gigantic name here). We wandered around for a while more, but still couldn't find a bar that could accomodate like six people, so we split again, with Timon and thsi girl Avery going one way and myself, a girl named Tina from my old sex class, a girl named Shreya, and the aforementioned Jane, all going to another bar where we crammed ourselves in and ordered glasses of wine. Shit things are expensive here! It was 5 euro for the glass, which wasn't that big at all, and we eventually went through three rounds, with each of us buying. (It was learned that "another round," in French, is "un autre tournee.") I then had a beer and the girls cosmos and then we split and joined Timon and Avery, all of us cramming into another bar. I had another beer and everyone was quite drunk and having a deal of fun. I have various memories of explaining the history of porn to Tina and the role video plays in this, the two of us deciding that we should try to find a sex shop for fun, Shreya flirting with these mid-thirties French guys (sad) and whatnot and so on.

Since it was after one, the metro was closed when we left. We hailed a cab but couldn't all fit, so we sent three of the girls (minus Avery) and then Timon, Avery and I took the night bus (Noctambus) back, which I do not remember at all because, apparently, I fell asleep. Tina and I also sang ABBA while running through the streets of Paris.

Back at the dorm, we ended up congregating again in Timon's room, because we all got back around the same time, apparently, and we talked until like 4 or 430, at which point I went back to my room and slept until the same time the next afternoon.

Nuit Blanche--The next afternoon (or night), after just waking up, I was headed out to get some food at Champion, our local crappy supermarket, when I ran into someone else from our program, Bryan, who convinced me to come to the Latin Quarter with him, Jane, and a girl named Sung to have dinner and then try to watch the rugby game. I told him repeatedly that me and a rugby game wouldn't mix, but eventually he lured me in with the promise of dinner. We ate at this place in the Quartier Latin called Le Tango du Chat (yes, "The Cat's Tango"), and it was quite good. I got mussles, and learned how to eat them properly (apparently you scoop the others out by using the shell of the first one like pincers), some sort of meat for dinner that I no longer remember, and chocolate mousse for dessert. Following, we headed over to where a big screen had been set up at the end of the street to show the rugby game, since apparently it's like the finals or something and apparently people care about that here. There were lots of people and there was lots of screaming and there was lots of annoyance, and I told everyone I would call them after the game ended and walked off, but then I realized my phone was out of batteries and so felt like a douche and decided to come back. I found the three surprisingly easily and we ended up budding off into guys and girls, actually, because Bryan and I found a bar but only the two of us could fit in. It was cramped in the bar, with the handsome waiter constantly pushing past to deliver people their beers. I could only half see the screen for a while, which was fine, since it still made as much sense to me anyway; and instead I turned my focus to watching two mothers and their children, who had run off somewhere that the mothers had to extricate them from. Once they left, though, there was nothign to hold my interest, even though I was now able to move in a little and get a better view of the TV. The commercials, I will say, were interesting, and I did try to enjoy the game, but alas, I could not manage. This British guy kept moving in front of me in really awkward and cramping positions, too, and kept yelling and shit, and since I wasn't enjoying staring at the back of his balding head and feeling him grip me whenever someone did somethign to his liking, I again took my leave, this time for good.

Back in the Quartier Latin, I passed a theater and was shocked to find it was playing Koji Wakamatsu's The Embryo Hunts in Secret. Since the last show had already started, I decided I would return the next day and took the bus back to Lila. As I was entering, I ran into Tina and Shreya, who were heading out to go to the Centre Pompidou (the city's big modern art museum), and I ended up joining them.

It was Nuit Blanche that evening, which apparently is this cross-European thing in the cities where everyone stays open and people stay out all night partying, so Tiny and Shreya were going to the Centre since it would be open. (I really hope I'm spelling Shreya's name correctly.)

Arriving there, we found the line to be massive, and despite the fact that it was moving quickly, the girls weren't interested in waiting, so we moved on. After wandering around for a bit, we went into a bar and managed to get a bottle of wine a emporter (to go). As we were waiting for the guy to uncork it, we witnessed this belligerant guy being thrown out, which was great fun. We then walked around Paris in the midst of the revelry as people darted about celebrating the game (France had apparently miraculously won) and the whole city basically made a drunken ass of itself.

We eventually parked alongside the Seine and sat and drank and talked and generally felt very French. We then resumed our wanderings and eventually stopped at a small cafe and ordered invidual pizzas, which were quite good. (They, too, had egg on them, though unfortunately no mayonnaise). After that, we wandered around a bit more, and I was surprised to see a friend from highschool, Dan Choi, whom I hadn't seen in years, quite randomly in the middle of the street. We exchanged numbers and decreed that we had to get together. We'll see if that happens.

We thend ecided to head home, on the Metro which everyone was saying would be open "all night." Apparently, however, everyone was wrong, because, while the main lines were still running, the smaller auxiliary lines, like the one to Lila, were not, and we would hear later that eventually they all closed. Luckily, we ran into thsi girl from the yearlong program who knew the busses well enough to tell us how to get back. Nevertheless, it was a fucking ordeal. Finding the first one wasn't so bad, but the second was a real bitch. We eventually found its little waiting spot, but it said it was out of service. We waited a bit and eventually a bus pulled up, though it was empty but for its driver and a little man in a suit who informed us that the line was not running. "We need to get to Lila," we said in French, and he told us that that was on the other side. After much, much, much searching, we eventually found the mirror stop for the bus going in the other direction, which was more like a funhouse mirror stop in that it was several blocks away and facing a different direction. I guess that's what you get for having a city where no one block stays straight or flat for more than seven consecutive feet. Some drunkish guy kept telling us that this bus wasn't running, but we got the distinct impression that it was as there were still a lot of people there, and sure enough, eventually, it appeared and we, exhausted, trudged on.

Some guy from "the great state of New York," as he called it, began talking to us. He seemed to fancy himself quite the bohemian, with his little guitar and his shoulder-length hair. The girls thought he was flirting with them until he mentioned his girlfriend, at which point they lost all interest, until he mentioned that he had been mugged, at which point we figured he merited at least the interest of sympathy. It was his stop then, though, and he got off and we rode the rest of the way home, getting in at about four.

Despite this, I ended up staying up until 7, talking to Shiraz and various others online while looking at all the listings on this site that lists every movie playing in the city of Paris for the week. Since our conversation girl said that Paris is the city with the most cinemas in the world (which is pretty amazing, I think--again, I'll get to Conversation later), you may imagine that this is quite a lot of films. However, if one knows the French translations of most of John Ford's catalogue, one can eliminate the chaffe (most of John Ford's catalogue) rather easily.

Cinema--The next day I arose at twelve after a whopping five hours of sleep (I knew I would be kicking myself in the morning but I'm nothing if not thorough) and headed back to the Latin Quarter to catch that film, which I will write about at the other blog. Needless to say, it was utterly wonderful, and I had a delicious gyrosy thing beforehand, too, to up the day's delightfulness quotient. I then headed back and worked on homework obsessively until I collapsed at two. Ah, back to the schoolweek...

Conversation--Moving back, and forward, we have these conversation sessions every week that consist of a group of about three or four of us and a French university student going out and doing activities and generally just talking, in order to, I guess, show us more of the culture and to, obviously get us to practice our french more outside of the classroom. Our girl is named Lea, and she is very pretty and metropolitan. She's sweet as punch and smokes like a chimney, and is an architecture major at the School of the Louvre, or whatever it's called (the school run by the Louvre). The first day, we headed over to a nice little cafe and sat and had drinks and talked. The others, Timon, Tina, and another girl, all had coffee, though since I detest it, I followed Lea's lead and got a grenadine-and-water. Amazingly dorky, but I choked and just said I'd have what she was having. Apparently the guy running the place though that was kinda lame, because when he brought the drinks, he set mine down and said something about it being "the baby drink" or something (appropriately translated); and then, as he handed Timon his coffee, looked at me and said "et pour monsieur." Eye roll.

It was a nice time, though, and Lea is fun to talk to. Our next meeting took place just yesterday, and headed over by Pompidou again to get dinner. We walked first through the gay neighborhood (quartier gay) and then into the jewish neighboorhood (quartier juif), where, to our dismay, we found most of the restaurants to be closed for some Jewish reason, presumably. Nevertheless, we eventually found a nice place and had a good dinner. Most everyone got falaffel, though I opted for the curry chicken. It was a little pricey, but quite good, and any enjoyable time, though it was harder to hear.

Mamma Roma--Tuesday, to let off some stress and because I though I had an upper hand on my homework, which I would eventually find out was completely wrong, I headed over to the 5th arrondissement to the Grand Action cinema on the Rue des Ecoles ("Street of Schools," though I only saw one), where they were playing Pasolini's Mamma Roma. Again, I'll probably write this up at length, but it was very nice. I got there a few minutes before the middle showing, but it took me like half an hour to find the fucking place because of the confusing streets, so I ended up with an hour-and-a-half to kill until six o'clock. I stopped at a little patisserie and got a lemon mirange tarte, which had the best fucking mirangue on top I've ever tasted in my life. It was orgasmic. I ate it slowly, oh so slowly, as I did my reading, allowing myself only one bite after every gigantic paragraph of Martin Luther's prattling (which I actually enjoyed simply because it was clear and structured and therefore I could understand it through the fog of the French), though I did allot myself a few extra bites when a minor fender-bender occurred in front of me and I got to watch middle aged French men yelling and gesticulating wildly. Good times.

I got some sort of gyros pita thing again, which seems to be my dinner of choice (I believe I had it for a meal three days in a row, Sun through Tues, and Wed, if you count the Jewish, which was very close), and then headed in to see the movie, which was typically delightful. Thankfully, since I know it by heart, the French subtitles weren't a problem, though I was pleased to find I could generally understand them anyway, and fill in the blanks with my prior knowledge when I couldn't.

A Note on Homework--Finally, this catch up posting, which I think has now finally nearly reached its end, could not be complete without a long ramble about the education here. Like I said, the main class itself, history, is typically boring, in that it is history, despite the passion of Arnaud, our professor. Like I said, though, the keeping us an average extra 15 minutes definitely is not cool, however.

Two days a week we have a second class after lunch, wherein we are divided into groups, obstensibly by tested skill level though not seeming to reflect it and, really, not seeming much different to my eyes. My class, the higher one, is taught my a woman named Sylvia Garnier, who reminds me of a more proper and strict version of my high school teacher, Mme Rano (for those who were with me in high school, I wasn't sure if others would be reading this, which explains the seeming redundancy of that qualifier). Generally I like her, though, though she can be a little tough sometimes. We're learning something called the style soutenu, which, as far as I can tell, basically just means "proper language," which is quite complicated. Depending on the way things are phrased, there are lots of random and seemingly redundant subject pronoun repetitions and inversions, and parts of speech are obsessively grouped together in the name of "clarity." I kinda sorta get it, but really, I'd rather throw myself down a well. This hurts. I don't want to write French French papers...

The other group has a woman named Isabelle Folletete, which, yes, does translate as "Isabelle Crazyhead." Poor thing. Aparently, though, the name is quite apt, as no one seems to like her. I have to say, I kind of wish I were in that class, because then maybe I could be at the top instead of at the bottom, but whatever. I guess that's the theoretical point of being in the higher, isn't it--to push me on?

Anyway, a typical night consists generally of me coming home, usually wanting to go get some piece of shit thing fron the Champion, somehow finding dinner (usually not by my own hand, though I have been experimenting with pasta and liked what I can do, so hopefully that will change and I can start on the road to becoming a more functional adult human being), and then checking my email and delaying the inevitable until around 8, when I start the reading or Sylvie's homework. The reading generally takes forever, due to a mix of procrastination as a result of how fucking boring it is and the fact that it is extremely long, extremely dense, and extremely in French, all of which are massive imediments to both me understanding me accomplishing the task, which usually requires lots of backtracking. Generally, I get my work finished around one or two, depending on whether I have one or two classes the next day and whether I started exactly at 8 or not, and probably several other factors. Nevertheless, every night is packed to the gills with beween 30 and 40 pages of French reading and, often, some sort of worksheet, so it's very tiring and very disheartening to finish and then have to run straight to bed for fear of being utterly exhausted the next day if I don't. I generally collapse into a sleep, exhausted at the end of every day. I've got to say, this is not that I expected Paris to be like. But when it delights, it really delights.

All right, I think that's more than enough for now. I will see about getting those pictures up, hopefully quite soon, though I would also like to see if I can salavage a little partying this evening, since we get Fridays off and I'm thus willing to put off homework a little bit. Nevertheless, I ought to get to bed quite early, as I need to wake up at 6 tomorrow for our trip to the chateaux of the Loire valley. I will, of course, take many pictures, and I will try to manage short little postings for now on, no matter how late it is or how tired I am, now that I am up to date.

I love and miss everyone, really, truly, dearly (and mostly because when I am around you I have less homework, and the desperate response is now pavlovian).

Au revoir, et a bientot!