last dispatch from paris.

Am in Paris, leaving tomorrow morning for the States. Very exciting. Sad, sort of, but more than ready enough to go back to the US, where all the signs are in English and I screw up maybe 20% less than I do here. I have lots of pictures to torture you with, but they'll have to wait a few days. I will get them up as soon as possible though. Off to Boston.

a couple photos of the seine, and new shoes.

The weather here is gorgeous. The other day I went for a walk along the Seine; I had a lovely picture of the sun on the water, but I got so caught up in the frenzy of deleting over a hundred Loire photos from my camera that I accidently erased it. Oops.



I walked along the island that runs through the middle of the Seine for a fair distance. I was, in succession, surrounded by a mob of German tourists in backpacks, surrounded by a mob of French mothers pushing baby strollers, surrounded by a mob of Amerian tourists, and then, when I thought I was free of them, I walked right through a wedding-photo session. They were a very cute young couple, maybe 25, Asian, very sparkly in general; I couldn't figure out, though, why they were doing their wedding photos underneath a bridge. Later they drove by me in a giant black SUV piloted by two stern-looking old men. And then I ran up on the Statue of Liberty.



And crossed to the other side of the Seine and took a boat photo. Skye met a girl at one of her open mikes who lives on one of these boats; she apparently has stories about people coming to her parties, getting drunk, and falling in the Seine, which is probably the nastiest river to fall into, ever. At least it's not the Revolution and they're throwing corpses in it.



Printemps was perhap less successful than I'd have liked, but in addition to a headache I got these shoes. They are possibly the most ridiculous shoes I own. They're sold as "bath shoes," which probably just means that they're so shoddily made Printemps won't vouch for them holding up in anything but a shower. Oh well. Can we ignore how weird my feet look in this photo, and focus on how weird the shoes look in this photo?



Gosh they're bright. That's the imprint of my jeans in my leg from sitting on it funny, in case you're wondering why I look all wrinkly.

enfin, bref.

A few remarks, in no particular order:

The faux-hawk appears to be the hairstyle of choice for young Asian men in Paris.

Today I saw a line of Sarkozy posters, maybe twenty of them, in which his face had been violently and specifically torn out of each one. (Nicholas Sarkozy, for those of you just joining us, is the right-wing candidate for French president.)

The FCC has ruled that using cell phones will (still) not be allowed on planes. Allow me to do a little jig of joy.

A man appeared to me on the subway today wearing a strand of parsley about his neck, possibly to ward off vegetarian vampires. Or carnivorous ones. I haven't worked this idea out fully.

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.

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.

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.

in which i hit the Big Three of paris tourism.

I am on vacation, but vacation so far has mostly consisted of coughing and sniffling in my room. Sucks. Plus, one of my four classes isn't on vacation, so I had Translation yesterday. (Okay, it's kind of a poor excuse for a class, but still.) I have that class with Skye, who's in London, and Bin, who is here. So after it was over, Bin and I walked to Notre Dame.

Bin lept in front of my mounted-policemen picture. Lept, literally. He jumped off the curb into the middle of the street. Say hi to Bin.

Notre Dame from the back.
And the front.
I want to go to the Crypte Archeologique at Notre Dame, but we didn't have time before it closed, so I'll have to go back. Instead we went to Trocadero, which is a plaza flanked by the Musee de l'Homme on one side and the Musee de la Marine on the other. From the plaza, though, you have a fantastic view of the Eiffel Tower and Paris across the river. I ate a sugar crepe. It was delicious.
And today I went to the Louvre. Because I have that silly student ID card that says I'm studying art history, I get a Louvre pass for free; but the woman there sure didn't want to give it to me. She told me the stamp was insufficient. I found this amusing because everyone else in my program has the same stamp, and got their cards with no trouble. I told her this. Actually, I said, "Well, that's strange, because my friends--" and she said "Oh no. It is not strange. No."

Well. I just sat there and stared at her until she gave in and made me a card. In revenge, my picture looks intensely odd.

Anyway, this is the Louvre. I take that back. This is something outside the Louvre that looks like the Arc de Triomphe. Only small. I have no idea what it is, but every Japanese tourist within five miles had come to take pictures of it. I found this vaguely amusing, because inside the Louvre, it was entirely populated with Italians.

That is not the Louvre. It is across the river. I do not know what it is either.

This is the Winged Victory of Samothrace. I love this thing. I spent all my time in the Louvre on ancient Greece and about half of Egypt before I got exhausted. I don't know if you know this, but the Louvre is really freaking big.

I was putting my Greek Art and Archaeology class from last semester to good use. Unsurprisingly, lots of the pieces we studied in that class were in the Louvre. I set myself to finding them. I actually did find quite a few. The class was incredibly easy while I was in it, but turns out it was worthwhile, because things made a lot more sense after we studied them. And by things I mean "Greek art."

So I took lots of pictures of random Greek things because I was so excited that I knew something about them. Look! Black-figure vases!

White-ground lekythoi!

A sphinx! Oh wait.
Bye!

新年快乐!

Today is the Chinese New Year in Paris's Chinatown. "Chinatown" here has to be taken loosely; there were definitely just as many Vietnamese or Thai places as there were Chinese, and a couple Japanese restaurants floating around. When I showed up, at about 1:15, there weren't many people there yet, but as soon as I got out of the metro station I saw these guys.


They were all pretty young, probably pre- to mid-teens. I saw older groups later, when more people showed up and I got into the middle of Chinatown.


One of the dragons has a moment with an orange.

There were groups of dragons and musicians everywhere, about one per block. Each group (except the kids I came across first) had a string of firecrackers that they set off, deafening everybody in a half-block radius, and covering the ground in this.
After about an hour these guys came walking by, and I followed them.
To here, where they set off their firecrackers.

At this point it was really, really crowded. I climbed up on a fence, but I still couldn't see much. It was me, a few little boys, and a bunch of teenage guys on the fence; I get the impression that French women put way too much emphasis on "ladylike" for me.


The reason I got a decent picture of the musicians for this group is that I was standing right next to them. My hearing still isn't back all the way.

He wins against the lettuce!


Hah. Hahahah.
I ended up covered in pieces of red paper from the firecrackers and completely deaf from the musicians and with about six hundred pictures of dragons dancing. A French woman next to me told her daughter when she was getting bored, "Just a second. On va faire le dragon!" The dragons are going to start dancing; only it sounds much better in French., and by better I mean more absurd. On the way back a little Chinese boy on the metro repeatedly smacked me in the face with his "Happy New Year!" balloon. He was very cute.

touristing it up

Yesterday was freakishly gorgeous. I even took my coat off. Skye and I walked from our house across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower (we didn't go up, it was incredibly crowded) and from there to Les Invalides, where Napoleon's tomb is.

From the bridge looking at the Eiffel Tower:

From the Eiffel Tower side of the Seine, looking back at the bridge; where the bridge goes in between those two buildings is our metro stop, and our house is a few blocks back.

This installation, whatever it was, said "peace" in about six bajillion different languages, including Chinese that looked like it was written by a chicken.
Les Invalides:

Hilarious. It's a little model of Napoleon's coronation, but here I think he's crowning Josephine. For some reason, Les Invalides was really big on dolls.

Above the entrance to the lower level, where his tomb is, is this: "Je desire que mes cendres reposent sur les bords de la Seine, au milieu de ce peuple francais qui j'ai tant aime." (I want my ashes to rest on the banks of the Seine, in the middle of this French people whom I have so loved.) (There are a couple of accents in there, but I'm lazy.) Awww, sweet. I don't, um, exactly know my French history, but I do know that there is a continuing Cult of Napoleon in modern Paris.

Napoleon liked his jewelry.There's his tomb! An awfully big tomb for a little man. You could fit about ten of me in there.

It was so pretty out, I just can't get over it. Of course this is our last gasp until winter returns, oh, tomorrow, for a nice long stay. Whatevs. The space under the Eiffel Tower was like Little America. Yankees caps everywhere.