La Fée Verte

Dix jours avant de rentrer chez moi, j'étais prête à partir. Je pensais à Noël, à ma famille. Cet après-midi-là, je me suis promenée dans mon quartier, pas complètement contente d’être à Paris. La pluie et le froid me rendaient un peu déprimée. Puis j’ai décidé d’aller au restaurant/café, La Fée Verte qui se trouvait au coin de la rue. J’y suis allée plusieurs fois pour dîner, mais cette fois je me suis mise au bar, et j’ai pris un chocolat chaud. J’ai sorti un livre pour mon cours d’histoire et commencé à lire, mais c’était beaucoup moins intéressant que l’atmosphère. D’abord, l’intérieur parfaitement français et intime : des plantes, des vitraux, le grand tableau aux couleurs vives. Mais ce qui m’intéressait le plus, c’étaient les gens – les barmans. Ils travaillaient, mais c’était comme une fête. Ils riaient, bavardaient, dansaient sur la musique. Ma tasse étant vide, le plus beau m’a offert quelque chose à boire, et j’ai commandé un vin chaud. Maintenant, je me suis liée d’amitié avec ces barmans. « Vous » s’est transformé en « tu » et désormais on faisait des blagues comme si on était d’anciens amis. On parlait en français, et ils ont fait montrer de leur anglais. Un des hommes m’a acheté une bière. La conversation vivante a continué, et quand j’ai dit qu’il fallait partir le 17 décembre, je ne voulais pas le croire. Je me suis rendu compte que ce genre de soirée serait impossible aux Etats-Unis. Partir, c’était la dernière chose que je voulais faire. J’avais envie de revenir à La Fée Verte chaque jour, de parler comme ça avec des Français, d’avoir des amis parisiens. Tout d’un coup, j’ai su que j’appartenais à la France. 

And so I went back to that perfect little restaurant/café/absinth bar almost every one of those last ten days. I studied for my finals while drinking hot spiced wine and joking in French with my bartender friends. I figured out who the other regulars were. I rarely got charged the full amount and in turn tipped generously. One of my favorite establishments in Paris (so by default, in the world), a five minute walk from my apartment. The community I found there is one of the things I miss most now that I'm back in St. Louis, thousands of miles away from vin chaud and French humor. I want to walk around the corner and sit down at a beautiful café with a warm drink and Le Monde, and to hear the song of French conversation all around me. 

http://s1010.photobucket.com/albums/af228/themc123/Ville%20Lumiere/

La Corse, "île de beauté"

I’m almost afraid to try to put Corsica into words, for the same reasons I’ve been having hesitations about portraying it through pictures. Just as a camera lens is too limiting, too distorting, a pen and paper, directed by a scattered mind, don’t have the means to give a deserved description of this paradise. I’ll give a report a meager effort, but this time the lenses that are my eyes and the videotape that is my memory will inconsiderately keep this island to myself.

From the moment our plane bumped down the runway at Ajaccio’s airport, I could tell this would be a different kind of place: the sea was almost directly beneath us. That impression was cemented later, while noticing the smiles of people milling around in the sunshine. We had left a cold, grim Paris and landed in another planet. A planet where cars stop anywhere to let pedestrians pass. Where the names of places and streets could be in French, Italian or Corsican, representing a unique history. A world where time passes more slowly…

My roommate Nicole and I stayed at the hotel Napoleon, which was nice and comfortable, with big N’s everywhere proudly representing the legend of the emperor born in the city. The orange tree below our shuttered window was temptingly close but dangerously out of reach. Our first day we had the afternoon ahead of us, so we explored the old part of town: pastel colored houses, shops selling coral jewelry, a very Mediterranean church. Then hiked along the sea, catching a brilliant sunset.

The next morning, after a satisfying hotel breakfast buffet, we set out to rent a car. Apparently Saturdays in November are not good days to rent. And apparently 23 is the minimum age here. And trains and buses are infrequent at best. Tourism offices exist for a reason! The nice man showed us a bus that would bring us to Tour de la Parata, overlooking the îles Sanguinaires. As for Sunday, absolutely nothing operates during the off-season, but he called his friend who gives excursions, and five minutes later we had a rendezvous for a private trip the next morning. 50 euros each for the half day. 

We found the line 5 bus and the driver informed us that he could go only halfway to Pararta due to road work. So he let us off, and we discovered a little beach that we had all to ourselves. Absolutely gorgeous weather, if a little chilly. The air was my favorite. I think I go days in Paris without taking a real deep breath, but here the subtle mix of the sea, flowers, and burning leaves created an autumnal freshness. We hiked along the coast for a couple miles then back. The so-called roadwork was at the very end… I guess the driver was trying to go green.

After a little rest at the hotel, we went out in search of food and drink. A few bars and cafes were buzzing, but most restaurants we passed were nearly vacant. Finally we came upon the perfect spot: a classy bar/resto with a crowded terrace overlooking the blackness of the night sea. We had some wine, and our little tray of appetizers was replenished halfway through. Nicole and I had been speaking French with each other all day, and now let ourselves slip back into English.

I had been checking weather.com every day for a week, so I was not surprised when on Sunday we awoke to rain. Xavier met us as promised in front of the hotel. When, to my “merci” for helping me into the van, he responded in a charmingly offhand manner, “j’suis comme ça,” I knew it was going to be a fun outing. It was. The three of us chatted in French, and the breathtaking drive around perilous curves went quickly. Soon we were in Piana, one of a hundred or so villages said to be one of the most beautiful in France. Nestled between green hills and bluish sea, the cluster of red tile roofs exuded Mediterranean perfection. Past the town were the famous red granite Calache cliffs. Look them up – I can’t describe them. Despite the rain and fog, it was quite impressive. The next stop was Cargèse, a picturesque town with two churches facing each other, one Greek, one Latin. We walked around a bit and Xavier gave us some history of Corsica. On the way back we sighed at waterfalls sprouting from the rocks, slowed for goats on the road, and sang along to Xavier’s iPod. 

That evening we went to Harry Potter 7 at the Ajaccio movie theater. With one huge room with a balcony, it was very different from the 20 screen megaplexes typical of the US. A velvet curtain lifted to reveal the screen. Instead of an elaborate video clip telling you to turn off your cell phone, an usher called it out quickly just as the movie was starting. It was in French, but I was able to follow fine. 

Already looking forward to my next trip to the Island of Beauty.

http://s1010.photobucket.com/albums/af228/themc123/Ile%20de%20beaute/

Barça!

I have to wake up in less than 5 hours to go catch my plane to Venice, but I thought I should say a few quick words about my last excursion before I embark on a new one.

Barcelona, España, Halloween weekend 

The journey
Had my first encounter with Ryanair, the UK's budget airline. Its little airport is 50km outside of Paris, so it takes a bit of time to get there. There was a marked difference in the stress level of the airport security compared with that of the staff at, say, New York's JFK. The passport checker guy asked where Missouri was, if I was good at French, if I had a Facebook. To the last question, I responded "on l'a pas aux Etats-Unis" (we don't have facebook in the US), and got a laugh out of both him and the bag x-ray lady. The guys who sat next to me on the plane helped disprove the notion that Parisians aren't friendly to strangers. On their way to Barcelona to attend the Barça-Sevilla football match, they bought drinks for me, the couple in front of us, and themselves, and the flight went by quickly.


Barcelona
It was immediately evident that Barcelona's character is very different from Paris'. Whereas Paris is nearly always in a hurry, Barcelona seems to know either fiesta or siesta time is coming right up. The relaxed feel was helped by the warm, sunny weather, and the fact that Barcelona loves Halloween. A friend from my Paris program and I stayed in a hostel right off La Rambla, which was bustling with mimes, tourists, booths, and probably pickpockets. A couple highlights: Mercat la Boqueria, a market up the street with everything imaginable from a fresh and delicious banana-cocunut smoothie, to inexpensive and beautifully presented fruit, to folds of spiny flesh of who knows what at the seafood counters. Park Güell, the Gaudi wonderland, offered great views of the city, but I was more intrigued by the dozens of illegal merchants selling jewelry and scarves. I had finally made a decision on a purchase after about an hour of browsing, when someone yelled a warning and suddenly my would-be ring was whisked away with the rest of the products for sale. In the blink of an eye there was not blanket in sight.

Montserrat
Also known as Middle Earth, as far as I'm concerned. About an hour 30 minute train ride from the city of Barcelona, Montserrat is a mountain top monastery with a Benedictine abbey. We hiked up and got some amazing views despite the clouds and eventual drizzle. Back at the abbey, paid a visit to the statue Catalonia's favorite saint, rubbed her orb for good luck. I could see why they decided to build a monastery at this location. It was one of the most beautiful, spiritual places I have seen.

Language mixing
It has been 6 months since I was in a spanish class, which is maybe why I almost said "merci" to the airport shuttle driver. Catalan is the language written everywhere since Barcelona is in the Catalonia region of Spain, but everyone speaks spanish as well. I didn't have many chances to use mine over the weekend, and there was a weird mix of english, spanish, and french swirling through my brain. Most residents (like most people these days) speak english, but I preferred to look a word up in my pocket dictionary than to take the easy way out and say everything in my native tongue. I feel I owe it to a place I'm visiting to at least attempt communication in its language.

Here are some photos from my weekend in Barça: http://s1010.photobucket.com/albums/af228/themc123/Barcelona/


Time to get some sleep so I can go further confuse myself with the Italian language. Two nights each in Venice, Florence, and Rome.

Ciao

Un week-end à Biarritz

Sometimes you need to take a break from your life to figure out what you're living for. Daily routines, needs, and desires can snowball into an existence that's moving faster than the speed of life. I notice this when I'm home for a break from school, or take a weekend escape. It's when I have time to think - not about irregular subjunctive forms or what to choose for a history paper topic, but just THINK - that I'm able to evaluate whether my actions are corresponding with my dreams. The pace of modern life doesn't give me enough chances to truly stop and reflect. I love Paris, but it was time for a break.

10 minutes after getting off the train in Biarritz, a surf town in south western France, I was hit with a blast of peace and quiet. Following my nose from the station to the youth hostel, I could hear birds chirping and nothing else. Now a lone rooster. I, too, was lone, but I wasn't lonely. Of course it's nicer to share the excitement with family or friends, but when exploring by myself, I don't feel loneliness, but independence. I have a connection with the place I am experiencing, as well as with the other travelers who for some reason or another sought out the same adventure. Anyway, walking down the sunny lane, gawking at the palm trees, smiling at the flowers, listening to the silence, I could hear only one word: serenity.

I came upon the Auberge de Jeunesse with its bright white walls and grapevine fence. Two girls were playing ping pong on an outdoor table. Learning from the receptionist that check-in wasn't for another five hours, I threw my bag and coat in a storage room and ventured into town, about 3km away. There is always something special about that first sighting of the sea. La mer! The black dots were surfers. I made my way up the coast taking in the views, then stopped at a little beach called Port Vieux to rest. Several sunbathers were sprawled on the sand. My favorite: an elderly woman leaning against the wall, cane beside, knitting, with her swimsuit rolled down to her waist. Gotta love France! Napping in the sun, I was once again very aware of my senses. The smell of the sea was subtle, refreshing after the metros of Paris. The constant yet ever-changing sound of the waves was somewhere between a gentle crash and a violet caress. German voices to the left; French to the right. The stone in my hand smoothed from a long sea life. I was utterly in the present.

Explored centre ville for the next couple hours and scoped out restaurants. By this time, my camera, phone, and iPod were all out of charge. Then for the first time, I requested a table for one, and ate a three course dinner with no one across from me. So I played the restaurant reviewer game and took notes in my Moleskin. Tikia restaurant would have been pleased with my review. A delicious salade au chèvre chaud to start, saumon à la plancha avec riz for a main, and an île flottante for dessert.

Back at the hostel later, I met three guys in their 20s in the computer room: a German and two Canadians. They had wine, so we imbibed in the hostel bar/rec room and compared our adventure stories until drowsiness augmented by wine took over.

Saturday was supposed to be my day trip to San Sebastian, Spain, but... vive la grève. The French transportation strike cancelled all but a couple trains, so best case scenario would have been two hours there smack dab in the middle of siesta time. I seriously considered hitchhiking. Looked up the word in my French dictionary and asked the hostel receptionist if that would be a bad idea. Risky, he said, "tout le monde est fou maintenant."

Plan C: go surfing. The Canadians were off toward their next destination, but Fabian from Germany took me along while he bought a new board. It was chilly and cloudy in the early afternoon, and the sea was fairly flat. While waiting for the conditions to improve we ran into another hostel guest, Eva from the Netherlands. During tea at a seaside cafe, the sun and waves appeared, and the day transformed. Eva and I rented wetsuits from a surf shop - 3 euros for two hours, maybe because we were girls.

For those two hours, my smile didn't leave my face. Fabian let me use his extra surfboard, and walking along the beach with it under my arm, I felt cooler than ever. Surfing is something that takes a lot of practice and patience to succeed at, let alone master. So as much I would have liked to have ridden a wave standing upright, I was okay with the stomach version. Paddle furiously with arms, feel the wave start to take you, push up torso, and fly. I was now one of those black surfer dots, which I would never have expected 24 hours before. Around 18:15, the sun was beginning its descent, and I got a rush of adrenaline just admiring in disbelief the beauty surrounding me. The coast of Spain in the misty distance, a cerulean sky above the roofs of Biarrtiz, a rosy reflection on the water. And I was surfing for the first time. Pure bliss. The Dutch, the German, and the American drank an after-surf beer on the beach then found a restaurant in town for Basque-French cuisine and stimulating conversation until late.

Sunday morning I woke up early and took a much-needed shower. You know you're in a hostel when you've used the same provided sheet as bedding, a bath towel, and a floor mat. Ran to the station and after a ticket machine glitch and imperative split-second decision making, I hopped on the train with no real ticket and not a minute to spare (it's okay - it worked out). On the way back to Paris I realized that during just the short weekend away, time had slowed a little to let my life catch up. With only two months left abroad, I've been stressing about taking full advantage of the experience, but now I fully believe I am.

The beauty of travel is showing up in a place alone and leaving with new friends. It is being open to new experiences when plans don't work out. It is establishing a bond with places and people you've never seen and may never see again. I could live for this.

Ne manquez pas le dernier métro!

I have a love/hate relationship with the public transportation system in Paris.

It hasn't ceased to amaze me that if you're in the central area of Paris, there's bound to be a metro stop a few blocks away. Hopefully you've bought the Paris Moleskin, a discreet alternative to a gigantic folding map, and can whip it out to find your present location. Quickly identify the closest M, and you'll be there in about five minutes (no promises if you're directionally challenged, accident prone, or a poky little puppy). There are 16 lines, distinctly numbered and colored, and 300 stations. Here's what the map looks like: http://www.aparisguide.com/maps/metro.htm. In St. Louis, if I just miss the MetroLink, I could be looking at a 19 minute wait for the next one. In Paris, 2-5 minutes is standard.

In the month that I've been here, I've taken the bus only two or three times, mainly because the metro is simpler. But it seems very adequate, and one of its big selling points is that you don't have to descend underground at all.

The Passe Navigo is a little card of wonder. It works on the buses, metros, and even with the Velib bike rental system. I feel like such a local when I brush past the tourists fumbling around for their tickets, and haughtily pass my bag over the magic card reader, barely having to slow down.

However...

Why oh WHY does the metro not run at all between 2 and 5:30 am on the weekends??? And stops around 12:30 on weekdays? After an evening of salsa dancing on a boat last Tuesday, I sprinted through the maze of the Gare de Lyon metro stop to try to make the last metro. A minute too late - I walked home.  Considering how many Parisian establishments/events close/end during that dark period, and how many people are still out enjoying the nightlife, it just doesn't make sense. I'm not saying they need to run every 2 minutes, but come on, every 10? Even 15? To save us from paying too many euros for a taxi, or walking too many miles in the middle of the night? The Noctilien (night bus) is sometimes better than nothing, but its service is very limited and its crowd somewhat sketchy.

People on the metro: business men and women, school kids, gorgeous models, mumbling drunkards, and everyone imaginable in between. I don't think Nicolas Sarkozy travels underground very often, but for the majority of the city, it's a completely natural and convenient mode of transport. When a system works, people use it.

My long commutes have become much more enjoyable once I took a cue from the Parisians and started bringing my iPod along. Other popular activities to pass the time: reading the paper, doing last-minute homework, examining the hangnails of those grasping the pole in front of me, or playing "find the most attractive guy in this car" (subtly, of course). But no eye contact. If if such contact accidentally occurs, absolutely no smiling!!! Smiling at strangers in Paris can mean one of three things: you are crazy, you are interested in romantic affairs, or you are a clueless tourist from the American Midwest. Smiling at strangers in the Paris metro probably means you are all three of those things.

So, overall, I'm happy with the transportation system here. It's aggravating at times, smelly, too hot. But for the most part it beats the stress of driving and gets you where you need to go.

Et une carafe d'eau, s'il vous plaît

I think it's time to talk about food. The culture of eating here is very distinct, and the French take their food and drink seriously. Obviously, I'll have plenty more to say about this topic later, but to start off:

First, the café. Fitting, since I am currently nursing a tea at an outdoor table at La Fée Verte ("The Green Fairy"), a corner establishment a block and a half from my apartment. (I'm also listening to the Putamayo Paris CD, there's a guy in a beret walking by, and my chair is facing the boulangerie across the street.  No joke. It's almost a frenchness overload.) Anyway, there are street cafés everywhere, so if you pass one and realize you could really go for a café au lait and croissant right now,  relax and keep walking - there's most likely a better one 50 meters down the street. The parisian café is not your blackberry-wielding, laptop-using, yuppie stressfest; in fact I'm pretty sure my computer is screaming "American!" At any time of the day, people fill the tables to smoke a cig, drink a cup, and shoot the breeze. The chairs all face the street for optimal see-and-be-seen opportunities. You can order great food as well, of which I keep getting reminded whenever I steal a glance at the poulet-frites of the woman next to me. I'll get that next time.

Then you have restaurants, bistros, brasseries, sandwich joints, pizzerias, crêperies, bars, pubs, etc. Once I understand the distinguishing factors of all those choices, I'll elaborate. But for now I'll say that when you dine out for dinner, you go around 7pm if you're weird, 8 if you're kind of weird, 9 if you're normal, and 10 if you're cool.

Food at home. Breakfast is tiny - a coffee and piece of bread if you're lucky. Don't expect a croissant hot out of the oven unless you're willing to fetch it yourself from the boulangerie. Approximately 90% of the cereal options at the grocery store include chocolate. If you're the type of person who would consider it disgusting to single-handedly finish off a box of granola aux 3 chocolats in one day, probably don't buy that cereal... or should I say drug. (Same goes for jars of Nutella.) As for lunch, I'm not sure what most French families do since my host mom works during the day. Eat out, I guess. I've been making myself cheese and tomato sandwiches to be fiscally responsible :) Dinner is lengthy, and if you're in a household that truly appreciates the cuisine, it includes several courses. My host mother is mid-range - she doesn't slap stale bread and cold stew in front of us, but usually makes a dinner with one or two dishes plus a cheese or dessert course. For example, one night we had an egg and potato dish served with marinated tomatoes and cucumbers, and a couple of cheese choices, french bread, and juicy grapes for dessert. Luckily I haven't had cow brains or escargot shoved down my throat, and call me unadventurous, but I'm going to keep it that way.

Wow, this talk is getting me hungry. Might have to go snack on that chocolate granola if I want to last until dinnertime...

Une soirée sur la Seine... et des promenades sur ses rives

So one of the perks of being in an American program in Paris is you get signed up for things you wouldn't normally do. In this case, it was dinner on a Bateau-mouche on the Seine. Wednesday evening, nearly all the students in the IES program met at Saint Michel to board the boat. Comfortable leather chairs provided views out the fishbowl walls. We were served salmon, rice, and bread, but no wine (?!?!). Um this is Paris, folks! Anyway, it got dark while we were eating our meal and drinking our non-alcoholic beverages, so when the boat approached the Eiffel Tower, some of us went on the roof of the boat to fully appreciate the monument sparkling and magnificent. Sometimes, the touristy thing is just the thing to do.

Also, I've really been enjoying strolling around with my camera. Everywhere I look, I see an ideal subject. On the banks of the Seine in particular there is an endless supply of interesting people. I've uploaded what I have so far on photobucket, so here's the link: http://s1010.photobucket.com/albums/af228/themc123/Ville%20Lumiere/

More soon, so don't forget me :)

Bisous