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.

An hour in the metro is ne bien pas

One of these days I'll begin these posts on a positive note. At the moment, that's quite difficult. Having a great evening, just as me and some of my besties here were heading off for crepes and a barhop in the Latin Quarter, I was left sitting in the metro for an hour and a half while they sped away to enjoy their evenings. I was waiting for a friend who never showed up, and to top it all off I didn't have my dorm key with me--I left it with my roommate. After all, we were all going to get back at the same time, right? Essentially, my night was spent with the homeless men on the Rue de Reuilly. The highlight was when both of the gentlemen pulled out their, ahem, and decided to take a leak on the tree that stretches over the courtyard. Nice.

Well no matter. Now I have internet and can at least know I'm within the dorm complex, if not my dorm. First bad night in Paris, and hopefully the only bad night in Paris.

For the past few days I've just been acclimating to the city. The gorgeous lights, great (if limited) shopping, the new friends. That's one thing I've gotten right so far, making friends. I get along with about ten different students here, and they all bring something unique to my friend circle. I do miss the sense of style and wine knowledge of my Austin friends, but I now have new Austin friends to teach all about what I'm into! Apparently I'm "fabulous" and "crazy," but really I just want to eat a crepe in the Latin Quarter.

Last night, after a bit of shopping and a "bit" of wine, we all headed off to a CIBER-sponsored riverboat and saw the sights along the Seine. It was beautiful. Freezing, yes, and my whole "style over comfort" maxim didn't save me from the chills, but as the sun set the clouds parted, the Tour Eiffel lit up and sparkled, and the entire city just woke up. Afterwards we took a trek through a few bars near the Latin Quarter with our professor and his wife, who happen to be some of the coolest people I've ever met. The night ended with a double-tall glass of Foster's in a bar called "The Long Hop," which is owned and operated by a UT graduate. Apparently, one of my friends mentioned that she was American and the bartender laughed and threw her a bag of potato chips. We're not sure what this metaphor means but we're hoping it was a gesture of endearment.

Earlier this evening we took another tour, this time of the city, and we all decided a visit to the fourth arrondissement is in order for the weekend. Glowing bars and restaurants with names like "Le Roux" have that timelessness so characteristic of Parisian culture. Replace the Peugots with carriages and you have the 1880s.

After the tour...well, you know what happened already. A night was wasted, I'm extremely upset, and I feel like a loser. 

It's still raining, but I think it's clearing up this weekend. I want to travel around France starting next Friday but the friend who I was supposed to meet tonight (and who consequently ruined it) is my travel buddy. I love her, but a night in Paris should never be spent next to urinating homeless men.

To end on a positive note, money spending has been minimal. Food is cheap* (if you don't mind eating croissants and cooking spice-less omelettes) and shopping is cheap, but I am dying to eat out and see the city like the people of Paris do.

*I bought a bottle of wine today for 1 euro. (That's about $1.27.)

"That Iranian man needs to stop grabbing my feet."

In Paris. But that doesn't mean I'm "in" Paris. I'm passed the point of exhaustion into delirium, my stomach no longer feels hunger, and I can't find a wine opener. In fact, I had to trek down to this MACDO for effin' wifi. Ce n'est pas chic.

However, while today may not be perfect (as in, pre-Paris it was horrid), it is symbolic of a fantastic six weeks to come.

The plane to New York, on the oh-so-"happy-jetting" jetBlue, was one of the scariest of my life, but the ads are true--there is a lot of legroom! My flight to Paris, however, was no laughing matter. The airline itself, Swiss (which, like the country, is an offshoot of Air France) was very nice. The food was well prepared and the wine was great. I had a great neighbor, as well. A Bulgarian woman who said only two things to me the entire flight. "I like this international wine" and "hold this tray." After we both watched Milk on the back of our Iranian fore-neighbors' seats, I turned to her and asked her a probing question about the gay movement in Bulgaria. She nodded, and went back to munching on her roll.

(Milk was, by the way, one of the greatest films I've seen in years, and definitely left me proud. Not only is Sean Penn the reincarnated Harvey Milk, but Emile Hirsch was excellent as his slutty little activist. The only off-note was Diego Luna. Both the character and the acting was a fail. But aside from him, I think everyone must see this film at one point in their lives. Preferably before another Prop 8, thx.)

So, as I tried my best to stretch my 6'2'' body in the chair space apparently built for Swiss midgets, some awful man in front of me proceded to drop a endless amount of something on my feet and fish for them under his seat, invitably grabbing my big toe and attempting to extract it for his use. Later, once all of the window shades had been forced closed for everyone to sleep, he kept his open. So, throughout the "night," the bright headlights of the Swiss sun shone in my eyes, rendering even the notion of sleep impossible. But it's okay, I couldn't have slept in that seat anyway. The entire time I was just shifting positions, and by the time we landed I think I had completed an entire yoga session. Downward dog, tree position...at one point, I had a modified crane stand while crunching a water botttle in my groin to prevent my legs from sweating in my (admittedly tight) blue jeans.

But I am now here. At a MACDO, using their wifi while a burly manager walks around wondering why my friend Sarah and I haven't bought anything.

Because it's MACDO, you idiot.

Suitcase for Paris

I'm only bringing American designers to Paris. Adam Lippes, Ralph Lauren, Arrow Sport, Polo by Ralph Lauren, Brooks Brothers, Levis, Sevens, Ray-Bans, and shoes from California. Obviously, my bag is BillyKirk, and Chris Bray (head of BillyKirk design) told me personally to have a wonderful time--and spread the word about American menswear.

All my authors are American, too.

One small step for this American, one (likely also small) step for American menswear!

The Girlfriend Experience

Steven Soderbergh's The Girlfriend Experience was released in theaters and in stores simultaneously, allowing those of us not at Cannes the opportunity to watch this stark, surprisingly relevant drama as soon as release. Soderbergh's genius spawns from his wide-eyed curiosity of the unexplained and the mystified; he is also obsessed with the idea of a herione. His female leads (Julia Roberts as Erin Brokovich, Cate Blanchett in The Good German) are flawed but desirable and mysterious. Soderbergh's choice of porn star Sasha Grey as the lead character, Chelsea, in Girlfriend is bold but not shocking in any way. Who else could play a sexually numb call girl than a sexually numb porn star? (Meg Ryan's stint in the horrid In The Cut does not count.)

However, calling Grey "numb" really isn't fair. Her performance in Girlfriend is well studied and enlightening; she struggles with vocal inflection and her emotions seem fairly shallow, but her timing and body language is spot-on for this kind of film. She stretches across the bed for every man she meets, but she never dehumanizes Chelsea with triteness or overly sexual behavior; this is an accomplishment for any actress playing a call girl, but even more so for a non-actress.

There are really no co-stars, and aside from an annoying side story about a bunch of men on a plane to Vegas, Grey carries the entire film. Shot without any camera effects to increase the "art" factor (a la Vicky Cristina Barcelona), Soderbergh portray's Chelsea's life as one of both grandeur and heartbreak. She meets high-end clients, is invited on trips, and then returns home to her long-term boyfriend at the end of the day. Early in the film, her boyfriend, who works as a personal trainer, declines a client's invitation to Vegas mentioned earlier, only to find out Chelsea is leaving for the weekend with a new client despite her boyfriend's compromise. "It's my fucking life!" she tells him. And really, it is her own fucking life. It's separate, but in love the lines are hard to draw--and even harder to maintain.

Girlfriend is subtle and entertaining, but is clean enough to be a PG documentary. With the exception of the fight scene detailed above, foul language is never used, and the act of sex is not once portrayed. In fact, we see Grey naked only when leaving the bed of her live-in boyfriend (the "real" relationship). This is where the brilliance of this film is apparent. Chelsea is after self-fulfilment and in search of real love. Her clients have sex with her--often mutually enjoyable--and never appear jealous; even her long-term clients understand the business aspect of what she does, and suggest ways for her to wade through the economic crisis without losing clientele. Her actual boyfriend is whiny and attached, ultimately left cold by her line of work.

Is a relationship like Chelsea keeps with her clients just as loving as that with her boyfriend? Both include "the girlfriend experience," (which simply means deep kisses are part of the deal) but which is better for Chelsea? This question has no answer, and that is the point Soderbergh makes with Girlfriend.

Quietly acted, bizarrely sex-free, and gently directed by Soderbergh, The Girlfriend Experience is a never smutty and always smart look at 21st century love and how the game has changed.

Black Eyed Peas' "Alive"

Why do the Black Eyed Peas even pretend Fergie is not their star? She carried the hooks for "Don't Phunk With My Heart," "Don't Lie," "Shut Up," "Where Is The Love?", and "My Humps." Seriously. will.i.am's production may be top-notch, but this group is nothing without Fergie's signature rasp. Or, signature growl. Or signature vocal personality.

Fergie's a vocalist-of-all-trades. And Fergie's importance is evident in both of the BEP's new singles. "Imma Be" is a blast--leagues better than the atrocious "Boom Boom Pow"--with excellent base and drum work. (Shockingly subtle for a will.i.am production.) But Fergie's opening rap, complete with the quintessential Fergie Ferg and "hips" references, saves the track from sinking into a safe pocket musically.

"Alive," assumedly the third(-ish) single off the yet-to-be-released The E.N.D., surpasses any previous BEP efforts since "My Humps." The chorus is derivative lyrically--no surprise for the Peas--but the production here is superb. "Alive" opens with a piano-driven melody, and as the track builds, the piano chords are replaced with vibrant synths and increased vocoder use. It's incredibly underplayed; when any BEP song peaks during an electronic organ solo, you know there is a good deal of innovation at work.