A new perspective

I'm back in the United States, and I'm not happy about it.

It's been about three days now, and I keep indulging myself with "life is unfair"-type musings and wallowing around eating canned soup and Ridged Barbecue chips (ew). I'm not at equilibrium. The air seems stale and the colors are muted everywhere. Basically, I'm a whiny little bitch!

I stopped writing in my blog a few weeks back because, somewhere near the end of my stay, Paris become more than a trip. It became personal, a part of my identity. Being distant from the vibrancy of this city, away from the romance and the people and the sunsets—I don’t think I can stomach it.

And of course there’s Fabien. Why he was placed in my life, besides as a slow, cruel torture, I do not know, but I know I am a new person because of him. I should see beyond the positive in people; I should speak what I feel; I shouldn’t idealize others. Things aren’t permanent but that’s okay. And that’s the hardest part. I may like new things and adventure but I don’t like change. I want to stay here in Paris and continue to evolve.

But maybe leaving is my evolution. Maybe going back to the states and living in my old environment is the only way I can truly grow, seeing the stark contrast between who I am and who I want to be—or in a more tangible phrase, where I am and where I want to be.

Fabien sees “with the good eyes,” as he put it, the world and how to protect oneself. I have never had that need, to be protected. I am open and honest, but not in the way he is, not in the way the French are. To be honest is to live openly but to embrace the good and bad, because they both lead to who we are eventually going to be. Announcing one’s opinion does not make you honest, it only makes you loud. (At present, I am definitely in the "loud" category of people.)

Paris has left me feeling liberated. Liberated in the sense that I have been enlightened to how life is meant to be lived. It sounds selfish to say the pursuit of self is the supreme goal of life, but we all believe it, even if we say it differently. The Holy wish to be sanctified in order to feel safe and secure in their rightness; those that offer their lives in service are really just seeking forgiveness and validation for being a human. I am neither of these things, however, so luckily for me this shouldn’t be too difficult.

I need to carve my superficiality into a small, complex nugget of who I am, instead of letting my image guide my actions. I need to become my truest self, and this is where I am both most excited and most afraid. I want to just coast. I want to “end up” in Paris, just “be” with Fabien or some other charming foreigner, and somehow “make” money out of nothing. I have to learn French and graduate and mature and gain life perspective. I need to be fucked up, get knocked around a little. I need a bruised lip and a broken ego. I got a taste of that with Fabien in the café my last night, the rain literally cascading off the awnings around the Marais as he metaphorically rained on my chirpy little existence. He let into me and told me who I was, the kind of bruising essential for the forming of new flesh.

What is it about a physical place that makes it so important? Why is Paris different than Austin and different than New York and Tokyo and Barcelona and Stockholm? A physical environment is just a construct within which the spirit of the city is held; so is it purely what’s “beneath” or is it also the aesthetic? In the case of Paris, of course it involves the aesthetic. It’s the most beautiful city on earth. But the people are also the most beautiful people on earth. So which influences which? Perhaps they live in synchronicity, each invigorating the other with joie de vivre. But I think it begins with the people. People like Fabien do not exist in other places on the earth. He would like me to think so, but who is he to talk? He has not dated anyone non-French, as far as I know. He is gay, he is a man, he is a dentist, but he is French first—whether he realizes it or not.

And now I'm lying here in the room I grew up in, with it's oddly human air and the constant business talk of my father in the rooms across the house. I have emerged from Paris not wiser but more aware of my lack of wisdom. I’m no longer going to live my life with my eyes innocent and open only to the good; without the bad I cannot grow. But above all, I cannot lose sight of what I want. (Which would actually be a contradiction in the eyes of the French: I cannot “plan” what I want to be serendipity.)

I am pretentious, annoying, superficial, and melodramatic, but at least I am sure of myself.

Barcelona...favorite city once again?

I am in Barcelona, Spain. (Wish I could upload pictures, but I can't til I hit up another McDonalds in Paris. That's kind of deflating, actually.)

The weather is perfect. Hot, with a nice breeze off the coast, and just enough sun to give a bloom effect to each and every eccentric facade in the city. Where Paris glows, however, Barcelona sings; the city has a musical pace and rhythmic way of speaking. Everyone is exceptionally kind, refreshing after the cold (albeit mysterious and intriguing) Parisians.

The beach, something I didn't really get to experience last time, is almost too good to be true. The sand is scalding hot and the water is colder than ice, but when combined the two sensations are a uniquely appropriate accompaniment to beers and sun in Barcelona.

I woke up this morning with the windows wide open and the sky more blue than I've ever seen. The city had woken up; the sing-song tune of Spaniards walking to grab tortilla and cortados, the sound of children laughing in the nearby park, and (of course) the very noisy cars four stories below.

I want to continue writing but more than that I want to go back out into the city. Tonight Matthew and our new friend Anya (whom he met at his hostel) are going out for tapas in the Barri Gotic and then meeting up with Rachel and Alex for a little pre-going out wine and snacks. Yo estoy en Barcelona!!!

I can't leave

After last night and this afternoon, there is no way I can ever leave this city and be satisfied with my life!

Last night was a blast. Wine and a light dinner at Allison's apartment--with about eight other houseguests, a perfectly awkward mix of fratboys, UT band members, and gorgeous blond Dallas girls--and on to a few bars and nightclubs to cap off the evening. There was an issue getting home after the final club, which I will not recount, but because I never got drunk the night ended fine.

Today was spent entirely in the Marais. "Soldes," the title Parisians give their twice-a-year "sale days," began today, and a few friends and I definitely took advantage of the fantastic deals. I bought a beautiful teal cardigan at Muji, and I wanted to buy more there, but I only paid 22 euro for the cardigan--it was marked down considerably. And it's my size. And a perfect deal is a perfect deal. Andandandandand.

After a lunch at the best falafel place in Paris (we've tried many), we continued our wandering through the Marais, which is without a doubt the best people watching in the city. I've now been at least seven or eight times, but never has it been filled with such electricity. Obviously the Parisians love clothes and love to shop; imagine a massive, expensive, elegant outdoor shopping mall. But minus the zoo and with a dash of a "scene and be seen" atmosphere.

Andrea, Allison and I stumbled (as in, literally stumbled over the threshold) into the Musee Caravalet, which is one of the lesser-visited museums here. I did not see a single English speaker inside. Centered around Paris-specific history, from celebre chanteuses (famous singers) to le garre (war), the small museum is built within the existing walls of an elaborate turn of the century townhouse where writers and painters lived. Albeit wealthy artists; the rooms are decadent and cake-like, just as much a spectacle as any of the art pieces within them.

The museum was free, too, which was an added bonus. But to successfully shop in the heat of a glowing Parisian afternoon and retreat into a quiet museum just a block off the beaten path is something uniquely Parisian.

A few and friends and I are actually headed off to the Place des Vosges (my new favorite park here) for some wine and hopefully a little more sunlight. It's about five thirty here, but we want to soak up every moment we can. We leave for Barcelona in the morning. Can't wait for that, either.

Pictures as soon as I get internet. Which is, likely never.

The End

Today will always be remembered as the day I truly fell in love with this city.

Nothing in particular has happened to spur this, either; in fact, this weekend was the quietest I've ever spent in Europe. Afternoons at the park, the Louvre on Friday (which sucks), resting on Saturday and Sunday night under Le Tour Eiffel. Surreal.

What's even more surreal is when you bypass the "tourist" threshold. You walk around and feel like you know where you're going. The nooks and tucks of the streets are actually kind of inviting, rather than ominous and empty.

What's most inspiring is the way Time is "spent" here. In the U.S., Time is a border we place around our daily activities as a restraint on "wasting" it. We will eat breakfast for thirty minutes, run for an hour, and make it to work by 9:00 and enjoy a one hour lunch before 1:00 p.m. We may finish many activities in a scheduled manner, but in Paris, Time is supposed to be wasted. It is rude not to. If you get up from a table at a restaurant in less than two hours it is rude. Have another bottle of wine. Enjoy your dessert. Don't be bothered by the taught roundness of your belly telling you to get up and hop in the car. Let the fullness radiate through you.

A life "spent" any other way than in Western Europe is a mistake. Just as a life spent in leisure may be wasted time, if you don't waste time you've waisted your life. What's food if not for enjoying? Why cook a meal and not sit back and drink and talk for hours? What is the sun but if not for laying out in? It's nothing! If you don't give moments in your life the proper time to bloom they are wasted! Only a day not fully appreciated is truly a "waste." How many times have I come home from school-work-internship days at 11 p.m. and had no time for enjoying it? I feel like my most "filled" days are really my most empty. I will not make this mistake again. I will not be rushed.

When I get back to the states, (and this is to your benefit as well as mine, Nanu) I'm planting a garden and refurbishing the backyard eating area. I'm redesigning the layout of my room and I'm not going to flinch at buying wine I like or food I want. I'm going to become a student of the good life; I'm going to read books on wine preparation and how to cook.

I hate people who talk about what they're "going to do" just as much as anyone else; if you can't live up to what you claim you should not claim it in the first place. But I'm dedicated to this. Considering my time here is not even half "over," just imagine how impossible it will be for me to ever return to U.S. normalcy!

Photos

Oscar Wilde's grave in Pere Lachaise.
Taking Absinthe shots...not as potent as you'd think.
Sarah and I at the L'Oreal corporate headquarters. Here's the entire trip in a nutshell: L'Oreal is one of the most efficient (i.e. boring) and vast (i.e. industrial) companies in the world!
Sunset near the Marais, the gay and Jewish district of Paris. Kind of odd, the gay/Jew juxtaposition, but think about it: Greenwich Village, in New York, is also a gay and Jewish district. Gays and Jews just love each other!
View of the entire city at night from the Sacre Coeur. (sp?)

Food.

Wine mouth!
NOT PREPARED FOR THE PIC!

Saturday night Allison, Gina, Sarah and I made our way out to Montmartre for dinner at Chez Toinnette, a highly recommended restaurant on some kind of Paris site (Fodor's, maybe), and it was without a doubt one of the best, if not the best, meal of my life. It began with a bottle of wine around ten, a great bottle, and an entree of Foie Gras and pickle. The second course was around 11:00, and consisted of four proteins: lamb, veal, duck, and pork loin, all in different sauces and served with a sweet potato puree and baby asparagus with some kind of wine reduction. The restaurant itself was irrestistable. Small, with only six or seven tables, and owned by two brothers--one, the chef, the other, the waiter--played Edith Piaf and Feist in the background and was decorated in dark red sheaths of velvet. After dinner a family next to us (old money from Boston; extremely kind) gave us a 60 euro bottle of wine. Sadly, as they walked out, the owner told us he hadn't charged the family for the wine because he was confused about who was actually buying it. The moment was one of the most awkward of my life. We were so elated, thinking we had been given this amazing Bordeaux by this beautiful, Penn-educated Bostonian family, and the wine was taken back in front of them. The father jumped at the owner with his credit card but we just wished him a good flight home and to not worry about it.

It all worked out in the end, though. The owner came over before our dessert course (around 12:30) and poured each of us a full glass of wine from the bottle "on the house." It was touching.

The dessert, though...oh, the dessert. It is no secret I adore food. I live for food. I love to cook it, eat it, and read about it. I like just looking at it. We ordered a creme brulee, among two other desserts, that was so purely delicious, so flawless in both design and execution, that I understood why so many critics compare food to sex. It was a sexual experience. Every bite was a seduction, a tease of what heaven must truly be like. Complimented by the slighly bitter wine, that single creme brulee was the single best dish to ever pass my lips.

Best Night...well, ever

I know it's blurry, but this shot perfectly captures what makes Paris at night such a magical place.
In the Parc Buddhiques, about ten minutes from my apartment.

A vinyard on one city block in Montmartre.
The Jardin du Luxembourg.

A few of my friends. From left: Tanya, Matthew, Sarah, Shannon, Lauren, Sarah R., and Mariah.

A few other friends. From left: Allison, me, Gina.
Sunsets in Paris are one of a kind.
Me (with a bit of wind in my hair, apparently) and Allison.
A man playing ball in Montmatre, the most beautiful place I've ever been to in Paris.

View from Montmartre.


If there's one easily comprehended French characteristic, it must be drinking. It is non-stop for Parisians; it begins at lunch, continues after work, levels off through dinner, and begins again apres-midi the following day. To say my friends and I have been partaking in this tradition is only half true--the alcohol is so cheap it's sick, but we are here to learn, not to be drunk Americans all the time.

That last paragraph was my disclaimer to preface this next story.

Last night was one of the most out of control, amazing evenings I can remember. A massive group of us, all well dressed in our least touristy outfits, headed down to Le Quartier Latin for un petit fete. As in, we wanted to go out. Out, out. Beginning at a small dive named Le Rive Gauche--and a larger game of "Never Have I Ever"--moving to a club off the Champs D'Elysees, and ending in an actual Parisian house party at 4:30 a.m., we achieved a great feat: we were no longer tourists.

The club and the bars were fine, but a bar is a bar. The house party is where the magic happened. My friend Thy, always one for spontaneity, pointed out a very loud apartment party along Rue de Rueilly as we were walking home around 2. (the Metro had stopped running.) As luck would have it, a group of about five youth were making their way into the apartment building, allowing us to sneak up. After being turned away at the door--in perfect English, too--the owner of the apartment, shirtless and all, appeared at the entrance and slurred a "let themmm comm eeennnn," saving us the embarassing walk down the stairs. The party was dark, filled with college students and young adults (late twenties, mostly). Lots of free drinks, amazing conversation in both French and English, and one HUGE component of the story I'll have to tell in person. Let's just say it ended with an invitation to party in the South of France next weekend. (Not going, don't worry Mom.)

SIDE NOTE: First of all, no drugs are being consumed by either I nor any of my friends or acquantances, and the safety level in Paris is very high. Not once have I felt unsure about any single situation. This city is safe, I'm being responsible, and everyone is keeping their priorities in check. We don't party every night. Well, except for Thursday, where my roommate and I hosted a mini dorm party for about 25 of our closest friends in the program. (As in, all of the students in the program.)

Before the evening, I spent a few hours in the Jardin du Luxembourg, which is by far my favorite park in Paris. Massive statues, white marble staircases, and pristine lines of square-trimmed trees all give perspective to the fountain in the center of the park, where children race toy boats and dogs take short swims. I had read that Hemingway, both my favorite author and definitely a personal hero, lived in the Luxembourg as a homeless man when he was first an expatriate. The book I'm currently reading, The Sun Also Rises, is Hemingway's love note to Paris, written about he and other American authors (like F. Scott Fitzgerald) living here in the 1920s. I had a very spiritual moment, carrying Hemingway's greatest novel to the very park he starved in, eating pidgeons for dinner, and knowing I was returning his work to the place that inspired him. I had a corny moment, as well, rubbing the book in the dirt, but I had to make the experience tangible.

My sinuses are out of control here. Something about the fickle weather.