on fashion

Parisian fashion is an odd beast. On the one hand, when you're not in Paris but rather hearing about Parisian fashion, it is, oh, how do you put this -- Mecca. Paris is where fashion goes to reincarnate; Paris is the target of virtually all fashion-magazine slobbering. "Fashion Week," I am assured, is Quite The Event (I'm not even quite sure when this is, but I'm sure it's important). I admit myself to not being entirely immune. I have bought at least two new pairs of pants since getting here, plus boots, plus -- oh, this is embarrassing. So yes, I am part of the herd. But on the other hand, Parisian fashion gets boring. The sixteenth time I saw a wide jacket with big buttons and cropped sleeves worn over a turtleneck -- well. It had lost some of its snap, shall we say. Everyone is dressed very well (okay, most people are); but after a while, it becomes incredibly uninteresting, because they are all dressed very well in the exact same way. Allow me to construe my own Parisian clothing purchases as an attempt to blend in. As a foreigner, it does not do well to be out of camouflage. But Parisians, Parisians, what are you thinking? Don't you just get bored? Don't you ever wonder what would happen if you wore a lime-green trenchcoat? No? Lack of imagination, the lot of you. You would stand out in that sea of black overcoats, though, that's for sure.

But I must note this: leggings. Leggings are okay; I can't muster much enthusiasm for them, being well over both 5'4" and 100 lbs. I do, however, know that leggings come with a couple of rules. And these are rules unlike those that define "fashion" as a herd mentality; they are not rules about conformity, they're rules about not looking, well, skanky. And they are these: leggings are not pants. Leggings may be worn under a dress, a short skirt, a long shirt, a long sweater. I'll let you get away with those, as temporary self-appointed arbiter of fashion. Leggings may not be worn as if they are real pants; that is to say, with a shirt that doesn't go down past your hips. They don't look good with a short t-shirt. They especially don't look good when you tuck your shirt into them. So stop it, Paris, just stop it.

And please, please, don't let me get started on wearing tights as if they were leggings -- as if they were pants. No.

on the continuing theme of "things that make me squeal with cuteness"

You have to watch all the way to the finish; the best part is 17 seconds from the end.

PS. I also like the part at the end where a woman says, "You're not supposed to be in there, dear."

second day in the loire valley

Daylight savings time happened to be this weekend, so while we thought we'd be getting a reasonable amount of sleep (breakfast at 9? oookay!), no. We were up early in the fog (it rained the whole weekend) and got on the bus, which drove us to the town of Bourré (600 people). (Interestingly enough, bourré is also rather impolite slang for "drunk.") This is not Bourré, but one of any number of identical tiny towns that we drove through.



Anyway, the point of going to Bourré was that it has a champignonière, a place where mushrooms are grown. The region of the Loire is full of these rocks called tuffaut, incredibly soft white rocks, essentially chalk; and the towns near the quarries are maybe 30% underground. All of the houses back up onto the hills, and behind them the garages and studies and sometimes even whole houses are cut into the rock. The champignonière was in a system of underground tunnels (200 km) that used to be a tuffaut quarry. Now I have a lot of pictures of mushrooms. Oyster mushrooms:



Yellow oyster mushrooms:



I forget the name of these mushrooms, blue somethings:



And an underground town sculpted out of tuffaut:



The rationale they gave us for the underground town was, "since the buildings made out of tuffaut" (most of the buildings in the area, including some chateaux) "deteriorate quickly, the underground town was made to show future generations how they were constructed." I tend to believe that the real reason was something that more closely resembled "we are a town of 600 people whose main industry is mushroom-growing, and not even the hallucinogenic kind; so we gotta do something to get the tourist dollars, right?"

After Bourré, we got back in the bus and headed to the chateau of Chenonceau. Before the chateau itself, we had lunch and wandered a bit:





The original chateau belonged to a banker to the government, and nothing of it remains except one tower. Caught embezzling, the banker lost his chateau, and the king (Henri IV, I think?) took over the property. He demolished the chateau and built a new one over the water, which he gave to his mistress, Diane de Poitiers. Diane had it for a while, until the king's death, when the king's wife, Catherine de Medicis, forced Diane to trade with her for another chateau, an ugly and blatantly inferior one high up in the mountains.



Chenonceau is made of tuffaut--you can see how white it is. It's unfortunate we weren't there on a sunny day, because it would be beautiful. It's built entirely over the water except for a tower far off to the right that was part of the original chateau, and it has formal gardens (one by Diane de Poitiers and one by Catherine de Medicis).







The area over the bridge is really just one long room, the gallery, which was used as a hospital during World War I.



Chenonceau also has a fully-equipped kitchen in the basement (from the early 20th century).



That's the tower from the first chateau (now, predictably, the gift shop).





Chenonceau was lovely, but man, if only the weather had been better and it would have been gorgeous.

completely off-topic, but

Can I just note that this is my favorite video, ever, ever, ever?



Thank you.

chateaux de la loire

Oh my goodness do I have pictures for you.

We left at 7:22 am (7:22 am, the train, people, at 7:22 am; Skye and I woke up at five) on Saturday morning for the Loire valley. We spent two days touring chateaux, guided by the art history professor at Reid Hall, who seemed completely insensible to cold and to our waning attention span; so, since I don't particularly intend to come back to these particular chateaux (you only chateaux-see once?) I ditched him and toured myself around. It was lots better that way.

First chateau: Bloire. Honestly, not all that interesting except for its questionable melange of styles. Exterior (style 1, circa Louis XII I think):



Interior courtyard (styles 2, on the right, Italian; and 3, on the left, I forget):



An excellent view of Blois and the Loire (the most polluted river in France, rock on):





I rather liked the piano.



Next up, Chambord. It's a hunting cabin. No, really.



Chambord was one of the coolest things I've ever seen. I don't think my pictures in any way convey the sheer awesomeness of Chambord. We were all in kind of a bad mood after Bloire, which was a) a disappointment, b) freeeeeezing cold, and c) unique in my willingness to listen to the tour guide for an hour in said freezing cold. But then we went to Chambord, which is in the middle of a park the size of the city of Paris, and it was like we were living in Beauty and the Beast. And we ditched the tour guide.



Interior courtyard: I am just giving up on making these pictures ever vertical. Help.



It was really cold. Andrea is a peasant woman warming her hands at the fireplace. We were so, so grateful for the fireplaces.



Let's be honest, I only included this picture because the shadow makes Francois I's throne super ominous.



The ceiling: carved salamanders. A king's emblem. Somehow I feel that salamanders are not the classiest choice.



View from the roof:



Lots of shots of the roof. It was just so cool. Also, looking down into the courtyard and one (one!) of the spiral staircases (the major interior one is a double helix, which I rather enjoyed).







Proof, for those of you who continually bug me about it, that I was actually there and am human and not just some phantom who flits about taking pictures that have no people in them.



These are, um, deer skulls. And antlers. I think the antlers were the point rather than the skulls.



(Actually, the point is that there is a Musee de la Chasse -- Hunting Museum -- inside Chambord, complete with a replica blind that was luxuriously furnished. Surprise. These are French kings we're talking about here. They have spending money on luxuries down to an art. They periodically lose their heads for it.)

These trees are everywhere and I do not know what they are. The stone wall on the left is les ecuries, the stables, but they were closed.



So that's day one. We spent the night at Domaine de la Tortiniere, a small chateau that has been turned into a hotel and restaurant. We stayed in guesthouses and had a fancy dinner and the best wine ever, it almost makes me understand some people's obsession with wine. Skye does not snore. I'm glad.

I will post Day Two tomorrow, but right now I have been sleep-deprived for a week and I am going to sleep in.

au revoir

Tomorrow is the ungodly 6:45 am train to the Loire Valley for our chateaux trip. We'll be back late on Sunday, likely with lots of sideways pictures. See y'all later.

france takes transportation seriously

I have seen the high-speed moving walkway in the Montparnasse metro station, but it has never been in operation when I'm at the station. Hilary says that it's working now, but her description makes me uncertain of whether I want to avoid it forever because I like my life, or whether I want to try it just for the death-defying adrenaline rush.

in which i become the travel agent of the gods

Plane tickets to Barcelona: check.
Hotel reservation in Barcelona: check.
Train tickets to Aix-en-Provence: check.
Chambre d'hote reservation in Aix: check.
Annalisa's spring break: GOING TO BE AWESOME

barcelona

Skye and I just booked four nights in Barcelona for spring break! We are EXCIIIIIITEDDDDD, oh man.

weekend tripping

Along with two other girls from the Vassar-Wesleyan program (Kat from Bowdoin and Andrea from Amherst), I've signed up for a weekend horseback riding trip around Mont St. Michel. We're going in the last weekend in April; it's on the border of Normandy and Brittany, though, so it's probably still going to be freeeeezing. Oh well. Anyway, here are some pictures if you want to take a look. I'm pretty excited about it myself. We ride for a day, spend the night in a chambre d'hote (bed and breakfast, essentially; the French are far too good to sleep in tents), and ride for another day. I do not anticipate being very excited about the soreness, though.

In other news: this weekend is the VWPP "Chateaux de la Loire" trip. It sort of snuck up on me; I had no idea it was here already. We're going to the Loire Valley, at some hideous hour on Saturday morning, and that is all I know. I am going to show up and bring my camera. How much more do I need to do, really?

today in ridiculous bureaucratic ideas

"Wesleyan University confiscated more than $40,000 in fire safety inspection fines this semester. A portion of the money will go towards constructing a model dorm room, filling it with confiscated tapestries, candles, hot plates, etc., and burning it down."



From the good folks at Wesleying. (You can hear my roommate Holly and my friend Xue in the background. They make me miss Wesleyan, until I hear about the winter storms up there and I remember I'm in Paris.) (Xue's comment about "What's wrong with the fire alarm? It must have spiders in it" is a reference to the fire alarms that made our lives hell in Hirise last semester. They went off three times in the span of a day and a half, at ungodly hours, and the only reason that could be found was that there were spiders living in them that made them malfunction. After the first time--which was not particularly hasty, either--it took the firemen a good twenty minutes to show up. Confidence-inspiring, the whole thing.)

a day at montmartre

Skye plays Wednesday night open mikes at a Scottish bar called the Highlander. Old photo:



Friday afternoon I went to Montmartre, in the 18th arrondissement, where one will find both Sacre Coeur and an infestation of tourists. Before I left, my host famiy was thrilled to be able to inform me that Mme de Lassagne's great-grandfather was one of the architects that designed it. I'd been wondering why they had a dishtowel with a drawing of Sacre Coeur prominently displayed on the kitchen wall. (I remain incapable of fixing this sideways-turning. Somebody help!)



From the top of the hill, in front of Sacre Coeur, you can see almost all of Paris.







There is this square, whose name I forget, where artists congregate and do portraits of tourists as well as selling their own stuff, generally in the category of "Paris buildings and bridges." Walking through here you get accosted non-stop by people trying to get you to buy things. I had five euros on me, exactly, and told them so. No one believed me. I said it was true, really, vraiment, and I had to eat.







In Place des Abbesses, down the hill a little, there is this fabulous metro entrance.



And this is the Vespa I have been pining after for a long time. Eventually I will get it. Mine will hopefully a) not look like it ran into a pole, and b) have a seat.



There is also this section of three or four blocks of stores that sell fabrics almost exclusively, but there are also these indescribably bizarre stores like this one. If I ever need a bellydancing skirt in Paris, I know where to go.



At the bottom of the hill in front of Sacre Coeur is a carousel. Skye enjoyed it greatly.



After my third sighting of a Scotsman clad in full regalia, I was stumped. (Let's be honest, after the first I was pretty confused.) Turns out it was "L'Ecosse a Montmartre" weekend (week? I forget), meaning Scotland at Montmartre. I never did find out why.

They had this fabulous band, though: five drummers and a bagpiper, and they were rockin. The dude at the back with the long hair was my favorite person I saw all day.



Before we left, Skye and I got bracelets made by two of the guys who hang around Sacre Coeur harassing tourists, trying to sell these friendship-bracelet-type things. I forget what the guy who made Skye's was named, but the one who did mine was named Alpha. They were from Guinea and we chatted in French for a while. I had trouble understanding his accent and did a lot of nodding and smiling. My bracelet is in Jamaican colors; Skye's is French. Also I bought that ring in a little shop run by an African woman in a turban; I bargained, nervously.



Anticlimactic ending! Ta.

my nose is sparkly now.

On Monday, Skye and I went to Artcorpus. We became buddies with the piercer, Yannick, who has facial hair stylings that could best be described as "reverse goatee" (I shall leave you to imagine it). Yannick pierced my nose and Skye's bellybutton. The nose didn't hurt particularly much in the piercing proper, but something went wrong when he was trying to put the jewelry in. He explained, but he explained in French, and as I was lying on the table trying not to hyperventilate, crying out of my left eye, Skye is the only person who understands what he said. Something involving sinews. That sounds rather ominous. Anyway, he was jamming at my nose for about ten minutes, and it hurt so bad there are not enough italics in the world to possibly convey it to you. He kept wiping the tears off the left side of my face, which was the side away from Skye; she thought he was wiping away blood, and when it was her turn to get her bellybutton done, she was in a state of near-panic. Then, of course, she said, Oh, that was it, was it.

I think it looks fabulous. Skye's too, for that matter.



If anybody can tell me why my pictures that I post to Blogger from iPhoto are turning sideways (and it doesn't make a difference if I rotate them preventatively in iPhoto, then try to post), I would be greatly indebted. In the meantime, rotate either your computer or your head, whichever you think is easier.

joyous day!

MY COMPUTER IS HERE!

i know you're all dying without me

There will be updates from me soon, I promise. My computer is on the way! It should be here Tuesday-ish, if I'm lucky. For the time being, go look up Monty Python on YouTube or something.

ah, the sweet taste of resignation.

My computer's hard drive is fried. Awesome! I have lost most everything since I last backed it up in August (please no lectures, I know, I know). Anyway, am looking to buy a new computer, likely a Mac. Any suggestions, Apple or otherwise?

death

My computer has exploded. I am out of commission. If for some reason you desperately want to get in touch with me, you can call my cell phone, which is 06 83 39 30 77, and the French country code is 033. Or 33. I can't remember. Anyway, yeah, computers suck.

Update: thanks to my dad, who says that the direct dial to my phone from the States is 011 + 33 + 6 83 39 30 77. Gracias.