Men in Skirts

Et alors... Voila que je suis de retour sur mon ‘blog’. J’ai décidé cette fois ci de l’écrire tout en français. Ya... that’s not going to happen. Although curiously enough, Word recognized that I was writing this in French and is now trying to correct every English word that I write. Wish I had known this a while ago. It could have saved me some embarrassing work emails.

The big news of the last week or so is that I have now moved. It’s a mixed blessing of sorts. I’ve left the ‘hood and am now in much more comfortable surroundings. Neighbourhood-wise. I’m now in Montmartre so you would now all be correct in your visions of me in sitting in a quaint Parisian café with a coffee in one hand and a baguette in the other. Apartment-wise though, I am now truly living the Paris experience with a grand total of 230 sq ft of living space. It’s good though; If I want breakfast in bed, I can actually make it from bed! Fortunately the weather has been good enough lately that I can get outside a bit more and not feel completely cooped up.

I think I mentioned it before but I think I’ve seen most of what I need to see in Paris and it’s time to take advantage of being over here to explore some areas I may otherwise not have. Thanks to those of you who sent me some suggestions. My agenda is pretty much set for the rest of my weekends. I’m off to the Alps this weekend, Corsica the next and then Normandy and Bretagne for my last weekend. Hard to imagine that this is all the time that I have left here. I’m not complaining though... it’s time to go home.

As for the last few weekends, I spent them in Amsterdam and then Alsace. The two don’t belong in the same sentence but there you go. Amsterdam was a chance to catch up with some friends and visit some old stomping grounds. The city never disappoints me in that a bizarre experience can always be waiting for you around the corner. My weekend there happened to coincide with Scotland playing Holland for World-Cup qualifications and the city was flooded with men in skirts (they were kilts in medieval times, now let’s just call them what they really are). The official tally was somewhere around 15000. There’s a point to these facts though; I was recruited (unwillingly) to play wingman for a friend who decided that she was taking home a kilt that night, with or without a Scotsman in it. I was conflicted... I barely wingman for men, let alone women but the challenge was too amusing to not be part of it in some way. Actually, I would have thought that it should have been quite easy for a cute Englishwoman to bring a drunken Scotsman home, but apparently, football weekends are all about the ‘boys’. The goal changed from taking one home to just getting a picture in one but even that was harder said than done. The legend, it would appear, is true. T’ain’t nothing underneath them skirts but what the good lord gave them. We know this because, after politely refusing, a nice Scot didn’t a survey of his friends to see if any of them were wearing their kit underneath. Not-a-one. Again, I would have thought that a drunken Scotsman would have been more than happy to parade naked around the streets of Amsterdam but there’s just another stereotype broken. (you need to look at the picture to the left to know that there is a stool in a pub on Leidsplein that will forever be out-of-bounds) Ah, but I wasn’t disappointed when we finally did find a willing volunteer (wearing shorts thank God) and for his kindness asked my friend “can I have me a little grope now?” In front of his son no less.

From the surreal to the sublime. I spent last weekend touring around the Alsace region. Not much to report on that. Walled medieval towns, great food, a new wine region to explore. Very French with just a little bit of German in there to remind you how close to the border you are. However, as if someone knew that I was writing a blog, the town of Riquewihr was kind enough to be holding a roll-playing game convention that weekend. Think Star-Trek convention but with a Dungeons and Dragons theme, bigger nerds and more elaborate costumes. Interesting side note here; there is no French word for nerd. I tried to explain what it means but the concept doesn’t exist. The spirit definitely does though.

Paris in Springtime

Springtime in Paris. The thought conjures up many different thoughts. It’s finally here with gusto. Despite the fact that everyone warns me that our recent spate of sun and warm weather is only temporary I’m soaking it up and allowing it to change my mood for the better. Spring has really transformed the city. My neighbourhood looks more and more like a street party as the cafes have stretched their patio seating further and further onto the sidewalks. There have been evenings where the street is the only place you’re able to walk. The only downside is that I’m reminded that I came here for the two months only and didn’t pack any non-winter clothing or jackets. I have my light fleece, but I’ve felt far too Canadian the few times I’ve walked around with it.

Still more and more walking the city. The last couple of weekends I spent ambling along the Seine and discovering the city from a different angle as they close the road there down to all traffic on Sundays. Paris at night has offered another vantage point now that it’s warm enough to walk around later in the evenings. It is incredible ominous and gothic once the buildings get taken over by shadows. It doesn’t help that I’ve seen a couple of werewolf and vampire movies set in this city. You can understand why I’ve found myself alone on the street late at night a few times and wished I had never seen those films. If I look pale and ashen when I get home, hold a mirror up to me and check and see if there’s a reflection.

It’s a bit unfortunate that after spending too much time in a city that you begin to lose your appreciation for it. I no longer feel like a tourist here but this has become the place where I’m living temporarily. There are moments that sneak up on you though, and remind you were you are. A month ago (which reminds me that I have not written people in far too long) I was taking a cab home and noticed a pretty incredible church next to where we were stopped at a light. I wondered aloud how such architecture goes completely unnoticed in a city with so many historic landmarks when the cabbie pointed out that it was Notre Dame. Which reminds me that no one who visits here should ever ask me for directions or guidance! Still though, if you do make it here, check out Notre Dame at night. It is pretty cool.

Another opportunity for myth busting; Last Sunday I stopped in my tracks along the Seine while a man actually picked up after his dog. It was awkward, as it was something obviously new to him, and he was tearing pieces of a plastic bag apart rather than the ‘inside out’ bag thing dog-owners back home have mastered, but it was still refreshing to see. It helped fight my opinion that as much as Parisians love Paris, they really don’t treat this city with too much respect. In support of that, I was talking with a group of people outside a club a few weeks ago when one of them said ‘they don’t do that in your city do they?’ Another member of the group had crumpled a pack of smokes and tossed them to the ground and apparently my eyes followed it from his hand right down to the ground and back up again. I’m not as subtle as I think I am at times.

Back to myth-busting... I’m afraid I’m not that good in doing it in reverse. I’ve let Parisians think that Canada is swarming with Caribou, that we hunt bear from our front porches and that the reason why we have so few heritage buildings is that igloos melt. All of these are comments or questions I’ve had to endure from various Frenchmen or women. A younger colleague who works down the hall told me of his upcoming vacation to Montreal and sheepishly asked m e if it were true that Canadian women were a little more “open”... you know... uninhibited... I could have taken this opportunity to defend your moral values but, with a wink of the eye and a nudge to the ribs, all I could get out was “ you know it!”. Sorry. I needed for him to be disappointed the old-fashioned way.

For those who may not know it, my return home has been pushed until the first week of May. It feels a long way off but time is going by far too quickly. I’ve decided that the weekends that I have left are going to be spent travelling around and discovering the rest of the country and continent, if time permits. If anyone has must-see suggestions for me, let me know. So far I only have Amsterdam, Lyon and Corsica planned and probably the Alsace region as well. There is still room for other ideas though...

What's happening

Wow.... It’s getting more difficult to write these things as life becomes a bit more routine here. Until now, I’ve been following people around waiting... waiting... until they do something French then running home to write furiously before I forget. Problem is that the first guy you see wearing a beret is funny.... many beret spottings later it just doesn’t have the same cache anymore. It’s still funny... but not as noteworthy.

The highlight since the last update was spending last weekend in the company of two visiting Moldovan sisters. I should just leave it at that and let you all make up your own stories but one of them is on this mailing list and she may not appreciate it. But let’s just say that everything they say about Moldovans is true ;) No, no, no... having fun at someone else’s expense is wrong. I had a lovely weekend playing tourist again and walking the city from end to end. I even managed to finally go inside one of the museums here. It wasn’t the Louvre though. I think fate and laziness will stop me from ever going inside as it was closed the day we tried to get in. I did peer through the windows though so I’m one step closer.

I thought I would write about last Tuesday night’s ridiculously drunken evening and Wednesday’s thundering hangover but there is nothing funny about an unwilling 40 year old (moi) being dragged around by an over-eager 42 year old from night club to night club. However... one highlight would have had to be when the over-eager 42 year old (remember that’s not me...) was refused entry into the bar that promised to be filled with French celebrities and found the closest parked police vehicle to complain. I have to hand it to the Paris police though... they actually treated him with respect throughout the conversation even when, faced with inaction on the police front, he decided to tell them just how much he paid in taxes last year. Quote of the night; " Ah... you had a very good year" without any trace of irony in the cop's voice.

Finishing off a pretty good weekend here. I spent yesterday walking the Pere-Lachaise cemetery. The final resting place of pretty much anyone famous that ever stepped foot in Paris including Proust, Modigliani, Chopin, Edith Piaf and Jim Morrison. Morrison’s tombstone has been cleaned up a little though. It used to have a bust of him and was covered in graffiti but the bust is gone and it’s just another headstone albeit with poems and cigarettes laid out as offerings rather than flowers and candles. Oscar Wilde’s has to be the coolest crypt I’ve ever seen. A huge art-deco rendition of a winged man, covered with lipstick imprints and assertions of love to him (I haven’t figured out this feminine devotion since Oscar Wilde was gay?!?). Anyhow, a few hours of walking around a cemetery really reminds one of his own mortality and I thought it would be a good time to remind all the women reading this of my expectations of you at my funeral. I want wailing; Uncontrollable, shrill wailing. No mere sobs or dabbing tears but top of your lungs cries of “WHY??” Maybe one of you could throw yourself on my casket? I think that would be a nice touch.

I must be homesick

Hey all,

I know I just sent out an update yesterday, but I'm trying to keep my average to one a week. That and noone replied so I'm thinking that it may have been a little boring. I've also discovered that I need to write these things quick before the memory fades. I'm getting on in years you know...

Last night I finally gave up on the whole French thing. I was craving the sound of English. I would have even taken American English.. that's how hard up I was. I fought it a bit... I went on the hunt for a jazz club that is supposed to be in my neighbourhood. Unfortunately the bar isn't around anymore but the prospect of an evening spent with CNN or BBC (my only English stations) was not going to work for me. Mulling about the 'hood, I thought I came across a neat little bar with some great music playing. The site of a couple of women dancing by the window didn't hurt either. Once inside, I realized that I was kind of crashing a gathering of the bartender's friends. Feeling a little conspicuous if I turned around and walked out, I took a stand at the bar and ordered whatever everyone else seemed to be drinking. Don't ever do that. I had to choke back a glass of 150 proof rum mixed with something that was way to sweet but not enough to water down the rum. I toughed it out with that and was greeted with a shot of vodka when I tried to pay. Normally, my sense of adventure would have told me to stick around and see what could happen next, but the crowd (all 5 of them) had obviously drank to many of the rum concoctions and the dancing women looked way better through frosted glass than in person. Back on the street and I couldn't help accosting a couple of American students. I really needed to hear English. The upside of that is I learned that my neighbourhood is where the Natalie Portman segment from Paris je t'aime was filmed. It adds a little something knowing that she was walking these streets. From there, I am ashamed to say that I made my way to " The Moose". A true Candian bar where I could order a Moosehead or an Alpine.... no Export or 50 though. C'est domage. I held back my disapointment when I was greeted by an Australian bartender, but I made believe that I was in Whistler and all was good. I thought I would be there for a quick drink or two, but ended up in deep conversation with a group of Aussie's (ok... it wasn't that deep.. .it started with comments about the fact that their poutine was made with gruyere and not cheese curds as is the proper fashion). Fast forward to 4am and I'm in a cab taking me back home. I'm not sure why but I don't seem to have the same sleep requirements in Europe.

I had the foresight to set my alarm before crashing. Today I decided that I finally had to accomplish another of the Paris tasks that Ryan has set out for me. His first was to send me to Neuilly. I had asked around at work and nobody could really understand why I would want to go there but Ryan was insistant. I was told that the only thing I would find there would be rich expats. Thinking that Ryan must have found himself a 'sugar-momma' in Neuilly I gladly hopped on the metro. I was thinking that this would be a better alternative to starting the job search back in Vancouver. It wasn't until a week later that I found out that Ryan has never actually been to Paris. I'm thinking he must be trolling the Lonely Planet website. Neuilly was like suggesting that a tourist in Vancouver had to make their way to Kerrisdale. Oooh... and while there don't forget to visit the Starbucks!

I can mock him now because Ryan's second task lived up to the expectations I have of him. Hungover as I was, I still dragged my ass out of the apartment at the ungodly hour of 10 to head to the Bastille area and the Cafe Phares, which, every Sunday morning at 11 hosts the Cafe des Philosophes. A weekly coffee meeting where philosophical debates are held. Reading about it online, I had the suspicion that I was going to walk into an Emily Carr student union meeting or something. Cynically, I was anticipating that the smell of pacculli would be overwhelming, but I was more than a little suprised that this was real people, of all ages, without pretention, that just happened to enjoy talking philosophy. It's improvisational in that people are encouraged to suggest topics for the day's debate and the moderator choses which one he thinks would be most entertaining. No surprises that Gunther, today's moderator, would chose the only topic that contained the word sex in it. Let's face it, if you want to get a conversation going for a couple of hours, sex is the easiest one to start with. Loosely translated, today's 'resolution' was "Sexuality is a politcal value". Some guy named Frederic explained his concept but it didn't seem like anybody really listened to him because the conversation never strayed off sexuality to even remotely mentioning the political aspect. Damn me for not taking Phil 101 at Acadia. Socrates was brought up on a handful of occcassions and it would have been nice to know if any of these people were citing him properly. I'm sure they must have been though, because Gunther was interjecting regularly and he struck me as the professor type. For a visual, he was wearing a camel-hair blazer, jeans and turtleneck... only thing missing was suede patches on the elbows. The end result is that it was a Sunday morning well spent, Ryan has regained his 'cred' with me and I hope to go back again and hopefully overcome the self-consciousness of my french abilities to muster up the nerve to take part in the discussion. You all know that it must have called me to listen in on a debate without venturing an opinion.. especially when no facts or data were required!

On a parting note, I know I bring up food on too regular basis, but I want to revel over the fact that I bought two big handfuls of chanterelles tonight for 1 euro 70 (would have been somewhere around 8 bucks on Granville Island). Oh.. and Nutella fucking rocks! I have a new addiction.

A delayed update

It’s been almost two weeks since my last update. My apologies for those who may be wondering what happened to me. I’ve been lazy what can I say. No excuse tonight as I’m spending the evening at home enjoying what would be the French equivalent of ‘chips for dinner’... Bread and brie. Washed down with a nice, little Brouilly that my friend Ian left behind on his visit last week.

So... I thought it best to leave this update until Saturday morning now. A Friday night alone, filled with wine and cheese, just does not put you in that proper, positive frame of mind. Instead, I’m taking the opportunity to procrastinate from cleaning house and doing my expense accounts. It really isn’t right that I should still have menial tasks while I’m over here.

The highlight of the last two weeks was the visit from my friend Ian from Calgary who had just volunteered himself to the economic crisis by quitting his job. I could have used his visit as an excuse to see all those places that just don’t work when you go alone, but I couldn’t resist re-experiencing the different places that I’d been to before thinking how much friends from home would appreciate this. In fact, when it came to food, I often thought of Ian as, out of all of you, he would be the one to most appreciate all things French; indulging in foie gras, cheese, wine, bread and even managing to fight off jet-lag to stick to the French schedule of dinner at 8 or 9 so we wouldn’t be the only people at the restaurant.

As you may have heard on the news, there was a general strike last week. It only lasted a day and I think the union strategy was to keep you guessing what would be running and what wouldn’t. Trains, metros and half the stores were closed, but for some reason, the street cleaners were out first thing in the morning. We came across a strike march that stretched for miles and walked along with it for no other reason than trying to figure out what the strike was all about. Disappointingly, but not surprisingly, it was all about money. Damn the man!

On the weekend we made our way by TGV down to Burgundy to visit another old friend from the Ottawa days. Our friend Mike moved here about 8 years ago and has gone native, living the stereotypic French country life that we all think of; house overlooking a French chateau surrounded by vineyards right on the outskirts of a small village with houses dating somewhere from the 17th or 18th century. I’m not sure Mike’s wife appreciated all the English and Quebecois that was being spoken all weekend but it was good to spend a weekend not asking “what does that mean”? The only disappointment was being surrounded by all these tiny, independent wineries and not a single one open for tastings or purchases. Apparently, in the off season, they just don’t give a damn. Even the ones with the open sign were completely deserted.
The final chapter of Ian’s visit gave me much satisfaction as I have not been able to properly describe one of the most common French experiences. It is one that has to be lived and I couldn’t repress an inner smile as, on the train ride out to the airport, Ian experienced an example of communal cooperation as everyone sucks in their gut at the same time so the train doors can close.

I learned a new French term last week. “Vis-a-vis”. I have been experiencing vis-a-vis since my first day here, but I did not know there was an actual term for it. It is an experience not unique to Paris but to large, concentrated cities and very foreign to most Vancouverites. Loosely translated it is view to view... as in my view looks directly onto your view... as in from my window I can look directly into a number of other apartments... and conversely, they can look into mine. There are about 4 apartments that can indirectly vis-a-vis into my shower room. I try to be discrete, but I’m afraid the view may have caused marital discord. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Ian and I thought we were about to get a vis-a-vis show from an attractive blonde across the way. I know you’re supposed look away... but it is realllly difficult. Alas, she was just getting ready for a night out so there was nothing to tell... but I keep an eye in that direction just in case.... My philosophy here is if you don’t want people to look, close your damn drapes!

La troisième semaine

For those who may think that I’m enjoying myself a little too much over here, I need to re-express my daily routine gripe. Out of the house at 8 this morning... not home until 8:30. I would complain to my co-workers, but I left them all at the office when I finally gave up on the day.

So let’s summarize: French food-Love...French woman – ultimately-cool, stylish and sexy... French wine – cheap, readily available at every corner, delicious, and cheap... French men – weenies (see the blog for full proof on that one)... French work ethic – disgustingly contradictory to their lifestyles.

On to last week’s activities; I think I updated everyone on the Obama inauguration? The night after that was my first experience with French bourgeoisie. I think the battle of the classes originated somewhere between the British and the French. I was invited for dinner at an old colleague’s house. I knew that Francois was a little better off than most, but I didn’t realize that it also meant socializing in different circles. First off, I made sure to seek advice on whether it was appropriate to bring wine to a dinner host in Paris. Advised by normal people that it was, I stopped off and picked up a very nice bottle of Mergot. I’m sure his maid appreciated it when he gave it to her later on in the evening. My 2005 paled in comparison to the multiple bottles of 1990 Burgundy he kept bringing out. Another lesson learned... never bring wine to someone that has their own cellar. Anyhow, the point is not to slag Francois... he was very kind to have invited me and he and his wife put on a great formal dinner. Aged Scotch with appetizers to start, 4 course meal, followed by retiring to the living room where the men smoked cigars and the woman cigarettes. No... this is not to disparage Francois... This is to slag his friends! The true bourgeois of Paris. It was hard not to giggle as I greeted not one but two ascot wearing guests. To be fair, they were a married couple. I wondered about the earlier conversation; “Cherie... with what shall we accessorize this evening? Cravattes or ascots? Ah, yes... it is Wednesday... it must be ascots!”. I kept my mouth shut when the conversation turned towards their membership to the society to bring back French royalty (poor, poor Marie Antoinette). I withheld comment when one woman decided that I must know that she was from a ‘grande famille’ and then asked if it was common in Canada to have family estates and were we having difficulty keeping them in the family as well. But I drew blood biting my tongue when someone asked me where I was living and responded back with “oh la la la (which is the opposite of ooh la la la ) not the Chateau D’Eau area? Yes.. Chateau D’ eau.... the metro station 50 meters from my house.

This weekend was more walking, walking, and walking. I started out in Neuilly, on the edge of the city, walked my way to the Arc de Triomphe, decided to go up it this time, then over to the Eiffel tower and a little more wandering until I found myself in the middle of a pro-Palestinian demonstration. Travel advice for you all; when you find yourself surrounded by a hundred or so riot police, it’s time to find your way home. Ok.. take some pics first, then get out of there.

Sunday’s walkabout was the result of my lazy French. I was told of a group of Canadians that organized a ‘randonn­é’ on the last Sunday of each month. Thinking that a ‘randonné” was the word for get-together I quickly accepted. Imagine my surprise to find out that it was a 20k hike. Leave it to a fucking Canadian to have organized early morning hikes in a city that barely sleeps. Regardless, it was an enjoyable day with some good , outgoing people through the French countryside. It did leave me a little homesick though, as it reminded me of how lucky we are in BC to have access to the rugged nature that we have. French farmland pales in comparison even to the North shore mountain trails. Ok.. we lack 18^th century farmhouses, but we have trees.

That’s it for this update. Cheers,