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!