uprooted from the South and thrown in the middle of Paris' Latin Quarter

I went café hopping today.  Okay, well, I only went to two, but that just sounds cool.  I wish I could give you the names of these fantastics... but France doesn't name their cafés, unless I'm a tard (which is mega possible) and just haven't spotted the letters... on the 53 of them that I pass daily.  Anyways.. the first one I have been to before, really quaint.  It's a continuously crowded hole in the wall with dark wooden furniture and delicious patisseries.  You see all sorts of people there - young couples, old couples, lone old people, dads and daughters...  and the staff are appropriately Parisian-stressed workers.  After reading a first chapter in the book I have to lire for my music and politics class -  "L'âme de Hegel et les vaches du Wisconsin" by the italian writer Alessandro Baricco - which is actually proving to be rather interesting, I started feeling the pressure of other customers wanting to sit down, and so I paid for my delish café au lait and made my way out of the cozy establishment.

On the way back to my apartment I decided I hadn't satisfied my café fix and so I stopped at another.  This one I had always been intrigued by, but had never been in before.  It is much more well-lit, less crowded, and not as cutesy as the first, but I fell in love with it nonetheless.  As I savored my pain au chocolat, I realized this place had been uprooted from the South and thrown in the middle of Paris' Latin Quarter.  The staff were humbly dressed, super smiley, and there was a little band of older merry hommes chattering at the bar.  I miss the warmth of the South, it was nice to find it again, in my Parisian backyard.   

{side note: I really love cereal}

     

refreshing

I love rearranging my room, but I can't really do that here - the blog was a perfect substitute.  So super duper refreshing is the feeling I get when I look at a newly organized web page.  hallelujah

Today has been rather refreshing all together - even on the academic front.  My second prof for my "Cultural Triangulations between Africa, Eruope, and North America" course finally arrived today, Mike Ladd.  He was absent the first two weeks of class because he was on tour in New York.  That's right, my prof is famous... and not in the i-am-an-important-uppity-diplomat way that most professors are at Sciences Po, but in the cool-spoken-word-performer kind of way.

He is a lefty(! - not sure why i like this, but i do) and today he taught us about "Negrophilia," the term used to describe the interesting fascination European's had with black culture in the 1920s.  After class, I ran to a computer to listen to his stuff, I'm impressed.  He's collaborated with lots of other artists - pianist and composer Vijay Iyer, the german electronica group Terranova, english rapper Juice Aleem - and has a genre that's hard to pin down.  Apparently he was a drummer in a punk band in the 80s.

I can't believe he's my teacher.  queered (cool + weird)

full full full

Books have trapped me...and not as in the good happy books that inspire you and bring you joy, but the bad ones filled with political theories and long histories of German nationalism.  Granted, sometimes these bad books can bring you de la joie, but right now all they're bringing me is stress vestibules and lack of sleep-dee-zeep.

I am not the only known victim of these trappings.  Let me introduce you to the Collyer brothers, Homer and Langley.  They moved to Harlem in 1909 with their doctor pops and former-opera singer mama.  After their parents passed, the brothers stayed in their family home.  When their fam moved into the neighborhood, it was quite fashionable, but as time went on the fashion faded and the brothers turned into hermits. These crazies would set booby traps around their place and board up their windows, spending their time collecting a plethora of newspapers, instruments, furniture, fabrics, cats...their dwelling was full full full.


In 1947, Homer was found dead, and after a couple of weeks, including a manhunt leading the police to nine different states, and the removal of lots n lots of garbage/treasures, Langley's decomposed body was finally discovered only ten feet away from where his brother died.    


Now "Collyer mansion" is a term used by firefighters to describe an overpacked home.  I wonder what word creation I'll leave behind.
    

and love wins again

A Valentine's Day well spent:

Wake up to a knock on the door from your stylish horse-farm-owning aunt, in Paris for three hours before she boards a plane to Havana for a salsa sejours, slash, to see off one of your cousins soon to be married to a 21 year old Cuban, followed by croissants, clementines, and coffee.

Step Two: Wander through the Muséum national d'Histoire naturelle as you snap photographs of you chilling next to giraffe re-constitutions and giant crocodile skeletons, and giggle at your peeps who are faux-ice-skating on the smooth wooden floors.   

Take the Metro 5/then 2 to Montmartre, search for food, settle with a Mickey D's, and then continue to Pigalle where you mimic a paparazzi-er as your fourteen-year-old (but looks like he's eleven) cousin walks by the not-as-cute-as-the-movie Moulin Rouge and the red-neon-lit Sexodrome. 

Stop by the Tour Saint-Jacques to pick up a fellow Franco-American and search for the Carnaval/ Chinese New Year défilé, fail, and end up in a crowded café with a crème chatting about past loves.

Quick trip to Notre Dame to enjoy its majestic-ness, filled with soothing organ rhythms. 

Round off the night with a telephonic version of hot potato.  Sprinkle in a jam: Rilo Kiley's Silver Lining - to remember that you're better off.

That's what I call a winner.  and the skies were blue.

swirling particles

I woke up 31 hours ago.  Had to pull an all-night-start-and-finish-an-exposé-inlessthan10hoursbeforeit'sdue for my politics class at 8 this morn.  Afterward, in my cultural triangulations (!) class I saw itsy-bitsy swirling particles above Monsieur Pierrepont's spectacular touffe of hair.  I think it might have been his aura.

Other swirling particles of happiness to look forward to: the film Dear John.  Ever since Step Up gave me the spark I needed to pursue my life-long dream of street dancing, Channing Tatum has held a most special place in my coeur.  Dear John's "dethroning" of Avatar is quite impressive, but even more so is Chan's jawline.  Ya, I am in slight-mourning of his fading boyish looks as he continues to... age, but there's something about the mister that will forever keep me holding on.

Gahhh! Please watch this interview.  He's just precious... in that manly way that makes you want to be protected/faiped by him.

Too bad the film doesn't come out in Paris until years from now... to illegally download, or not to illegally download?

only in France...

The Parisian metros change their wall-sized ads every week-or-so. This week, they're incredible.

The mattress company Dunlopillo's ads read: "difficile de s'aimer ailleurs que sur un dunlopillo" ["difficult to make love other than on a dunlopillo"] accompanied by photos of stereotypical sexual lieus in the home - the couch, the sink, the washing machine... - topped with comfy-looking mattresses. Ha, only in France.

Here is an older ad from the same company:

Translation: "Making love on a 100% Naturalia Dunlopillo mattress significantly preserves the environment" and in smaller font "because during this time man is not using his car, he is not genetically modifying corn, he is not watering his lawn, he is not letting the water run as he brushes his teeth, he is not building a nuclear power plant, he is not heating up his mashed potatoes in the microwave, and he is not hurting the penguins."

Ah, utterly divine...Vive la France.

paris des rêves

Yesterday, after standing in an über-ridiculously long line, I walked through the most enchanted free (!!) exposition. Housed at Hôtel de Ville, or Paris' city hall, Izis: Paris des Rêves, displays the photography of the Lithuanian artist, born Israëlis Bidermanas, spanning from his beginnings with portraits, to his Paris Match days, past Chagall, and into his wondrous world of the circus.

The man was in love with this capital; and through his often b&w photos, his amour is easily seen. I soaked it up.

« Pourquoi Paris ? Parce que Paris excitait mon imagination. C’était la Ville lumière. Pour moi, tout se passait à Paris… Nous étions attirés par la France comme pays de l’Esprit. La Liberté, l’Égalité de l’homme et la Culture, c’est ça qui nous faisait rêver »

The expo runs until the end of May, so there is time, but if I were you, I'd be on my way, running, right about now.

sunshinedom

Today was an epic sunshine day in Paris. I forgot how friggin' happy it was to walk down a street lined with bright-faced people - pausing in the outdoors out of pleasure, instead of duty. Although I was sporting a scarf, "winter" jacket, and boots, it felt like summertime. The idea of keeping my giganto window open had almost faded --- glad it's back.


Sunshine is not only a good source of Vitamin D, strengthening our bones, muscles, and immune system - oh my! - but it is also a good source of musical delightfulness. Check out "Sunshine" from Atmosphere's album Sad Clown Bad Summer Number 9.

"whoa let it shine" ...

corny quirky suburban white kid

So I was web-world browsing and came across Asher Roth's name, which reminded me that he had an album out there that I hadn't yet explored. I jammed to "I Love College" a while back [side note::check the legit remix to this song by an up-and-comer from Boston, Sam Adams], but was just now able to thoroughly follow up on Asleep in the Bread Aisle. And boi, am I glad that I did.


I really love all twelve tracks -- I wouldn't even feel right stating favorites, they're all all-that. Oh, fine - "As I Em," "She Don't Wanna Man," and "Fallin" - yummy. His smooth voice and chill rhythms provide a completely satisfying musical moment. Plus, touches of Cee-lo and Busta Rhymes render the album indestructible.

The self-proclaimed "corny quirky suburban white kid" released two mixtapes previous to this album - Believe the Hype in 2006 and The Greenhouse Effect in 2008 - both of which got him attention. Until hearing Jay Z's "Hard Knock Life" Annie sample (!!!) and falling in love with hip hop, Asher was jamming to Oasis and Dave Matthews. His unique chemin to the music is understood through his simple but highly-politicized lyrics.

When it comes to his industry, he says he is "a fan first." Well Mr. Roth, same here, glad you're there with us.

one notch higher on the maturity scale

Today at Sciences Po the smaller conférence style courses began their semester -- yayyyy learning! - but in between "Musique et Politique" and "Dessin" (an art class I was able to get into! !!) , I swung over to Pigalle to visit Musée de l'érotisme, the erotic museum of Paris.

In one word, "Whoa." First of all, the walk from the metro to the museum is bordered by sex shops and older women propositioning men to enter "Pussy's Lap Dance" -- semi-uncomfortable. When I entered the museum I was greeted by the familiar tracks of Madonna's 2000 album Music, which made me feel safe again. The 7-floor tour that followed was well, interesting. The museum offers much erotica - from ancient figurines to contemporary figurines, to odd painful-looking furniture, to photographs, to decorated dishes, to old porn, to art expos: if you can imagine it, it's probably there.

I realized that I am a bit of an immature little child when it comes to these things, and although it was educational and quite captivating [except for Antoine Bernhart's mega nasty expo that coupled too much blood with too much privates], I think this musée is one that I'll just reserve one visit for.

I do feel a little older though - I'm now one notch higher on the maturity scale --- just 17,342 more notches to go.

lanes of culinary delight

Although I have been lucky enough to be acquainted with French markets since I was a wee lil babie, today I fell in love with le marché all over again.

Every Sunday morning, while nearby supermarkets close their doors, Place Monge opens up with an abundance of fruits, meats, veggies, seafoodies, cheese, leafy plants, discount clothing, and make-you-want-to-keel-over-and-die-of-happiness specialty ethnic dishes.

As you turn the corner, the smells of this place climb into your body and take over. Walking up and down the lanes of culinary delight takes you to a temporary place of ecstasy. Actually going up to the vendors is slightly intimidating, especially when you fumble with your veggie vocab -- today I went up and asked for "zucchini" in a french accent, instead of courgette, fail -- but, happy to share their treasure with the people, they greet you with des grands sourires.

Now I'm off to bite into my shiny grapefruit, bake my Brussels sprouts, and chop my basil... ha, or watch my chef-extraordinaire Isa do it.

crisis at the distributeur

So I love Paris, but there are some freaky people who call this place home --- old men with wigs spritzing themselves with lots n lots of perfume, Sarkozy, my roommates, homeless people with bunnies, et cetera. Then there are the freakers who try to steal your shizz. Last week my roommate was pick pocketed in the metro, and this week... was my turn.

I was on my way to Sciences Po to sign up for my Ultimate Frisbee course (woot woot), and I had to get some argent out of the ATM to be able to pay for the class. As I approached the distributeurs I saw a group of kids - girls and boys from about 9 to 13 - kind of messing around, pressing buttons, some of them smoking. I really hate stereotyping, but for lack of better more-informed words, they looked like gypsy children. [complete side note - check out this legit gypsy jazz guitarist from back in the day, Django Reinhardt] And although I was naive enough to go up to the ATMs, I still kept my messenger bag safely snug under one arm.


I put my card in and discretely - just as the machine tells me I should - typed in my pin. When I got to the screen where you pick out what amount you'd like to deplete from your account, one of the older girls reached over and tried to push one of the higher amounts. Had I thought up this story in my head, I would imagine myself standing there like a wuss, scared out of my mind, frozen, letting this child intimidate 300 euros out of me. Fortunately, I don't know myself that well.

I proceeded to forcefully grab her hand and tell her "Non" and "Arrête" -- after-wards I wondered if arrêtez, the formal way of saying stop, would have been more appropriate (?) -- but she continued to reach over and try and get some money money money. All the while Yelle's dance-tastic pop hit "A cause des garçons" is playing in my right ear, as the left side of me frantically tries to find the CANCEL button. Finally, after about 4 or 5 of these exchanges, her posse started to retreat and she followed suit.

I got my card out and proceeded to shakily walk the streets of Paris with a "don't mess with me right now or I will drop kick you" look on my face. And well - so far, so good.

$

Don't you just hate it when you find out about something uber special after it happened, and thus you are unable to be a part of its specialness? Exhibit A:

This past Sunday, Ke$ha was live at Queen, a club on the Champs Elysee in Paris. Although a tad shamed by my love for Ke$ha --- pronounced like the beginning of ketchup but then with a 'shaa' at the end instead of a 'tchup,' ya dig? --- I can't deny that she intrigues me. I've listened to the tracks of her debut album Animal, and honestly I'm not supper impressed - although I love jamming to "TiK ToK" and "Dinosaur" makes me giggle. But I just dig her style.


The dollar sign did throw me off at first, but it turns out she put it there out of irony in that she's the female voice of Flo Rida's "Right Round" and got zero cash for it. From her family's appearance on The Simple Life in 2005, to her dumpster-diving episodes, to her tours with Calvin Harris(!) and Mickey Avalon (!!!), I just think she's cool.

Some have premonitioned that Ke$ha is going to be the new Lady Gaga, after she topped Gaga's 10, 859 weekly radio airplay record by a few hundred plays, but I don't think they flow in the same stream. While Lady Gaga aims to be revolutionary and break barriers (which she is doing quite fabulously with), Ke$ha's chillin and just not giving a fuck.

I look forward to see what she gets into next.

nouvelles passions

So with the new year came the development of a few new passions...

Men's Fragrance

Having a male roommate brings a lot of new things to life... one of which is man-smells. I have become semi-obsessed with Chris' cologne "Brit" by Burberry. Before heading out on the town, I have to sneek into his bedroom and spritz on its deliciousness. And yes, it gets the job done.



Buses

I used to be a metro gal. And well, it still holds a place in my heart... but a tiny bit smaller place than the bus. The Parisian bus system is just as developed as its metro, a tad bit more complicated to navigate, but its effing wonderful. When you stare out of the window, instead of seeing concrete walls covered in dust and sketch-tastic lights, you see boulangeries, fluffy dogs, and the Eiffel Tower --- no real comparison. And, when it's bloody cold outside and the idea of a walking tour of Paris makes you want to cry, the ceiling-to-waist windows of the buses are a perfect alternative. I suggest the route 63 - it hits all the big beauties of Paree.



Bridges 

There is something super magical about them bridges. This is a photo I took in Toulouse this past weekend of Le Pont Neuf, which borders the wondrous Prairie des Filtres. The entire weekend there was wonderful, but this bridge was definitely a highlight. I just get really happy when I am on a bridge, there is a certain mysteriosity about it. In Paris, all of the bridges going to and from Île de la Cité are splendid: Petit Pont, Pont Neuf, Pont Notre Dame, et autres.

love love love

transformation

Strike two. Another two months went by: so I am a failure, but at least I am consistent! No, but for reals, my blogular issues are now coming to an end. Why? Because one of my resolutions is to prendre soin de mon blog --- along with working my French, being health-responsible, and others --- and unlike your regular misses lazy, instead of it taking a month for my new years resolutions to fizz out, it takes a month to get them started! wahoo

I have realized that my problem is that I have been addressing blogging as I would address painting a wall-sized canvas --- similar to the rideau de scene "La Tricorne" of Salvador Dali, currently exposed at the Musee des Abattoirs in Toulouse --- which is super scary and seems like a mega task; so instead of starting on my work of art, I would rather drop the brush and go eat a sandwich. I have now replaced this way of thought with une nouvelle in which I will address blogging as a once-a-dayish happy moment of pause and expression, just as it has always been meant to be. Now doesn't that sound nice?

So, to begin: a little praise.

A Nous Paris is a paper publication distributed in the metro every Monday morning, and it is the best read in town. Its pages are filled with the most exciting information on what's going down in the city. Every one of its sections is edited with style and enthusiasm --- I don't know how I would tackle this capital without it. My personal fave is its "Save the Date" section in which A Nous suggests one interesting activity: festival to go see, shop to browse through, literature to buy... for each day of the week.

This week, in their "Affaires Culturelles" section, I learned of the video expo of Keren Cytter in the 19th at Le Plateau. For her first solo exposition in France, the Israeli artiste is showing her short narratives, a melange de genres revolving around "the often tragic fate of different people mired in the violence of their relationships." Sounds a bit troubling, but unmistakably intriguing.

The cover of this week's A Nous Paris. Not my favorite, not going to lie --- but it's truly impossible for me to hate on this glorious publication.



See you tomorrow (ah!!!)