goodbye

Okay, mes amis, I believe this is my last post. I leave for Dublin tomorrow to tour with Bruce and the choir of St. Philip's. (6 days in Dublin at St. Patrick's, a week in London at Westmininster, and back to DC on August 6.) This blog was just for Paris, so... adieu. I've had tons o' fun writing and hearing back from you, and I'm so glad that I've been able to share my experiences from the past 8 months with you.

In that spirit:

THE LAST FEW DAYS have been a wonderful end to my Parisian life. Saturday was pretty much shot to hell, as I slept from 7am until noon, recovering from Harry Potter. In the afternoon Harry and I bummed around, went shopping (well, he went shopping; I stood in line for every to get tax rebates), and enjoyed the sun. I babysat that night for an AmCath family and got to see what would happen if I, like the mother of the family, who's from Oklahoma, marry a Frenchman. (Hint: it involves a three bedroom apartment with crown moulding in the 16th. Not bad.) On Sunday morning, Harry surprised me with an incredible breakfast of champagne, raspberries and cream, eggs, bacon, and hash browns. We somehow managed to join some of the AmCath kids at lunch a bit later to say gooodbye. Needless to say, we didn't eat much, but it was great to see everyone. Afterwards we headed to the Luxembourg Gardens to eat ice cream and read in the sun. We were going to metro home, but decided to get off a couple stops early and try out the new Vélibs that are stationed all over the city. (NY Times article on the Vélibs here, if you have Times Select.) It was a blast! The first thirty minutes are free once you've bought a 1€ card, so we rode around for half an hour, dropping our bikes off near my house. Harry then left to see some friends; I met up with them a few hours later, and we all went for drinks at the top of the Montparnasse Tower. The restaurant seemed to think that the view permitted them to charge 15€ for a gin and tonic, which is a leeeetle steep, but the sights were stunning. It was bizarre to look out over the city and realize that I may never live here again. Bizarre, and sad. To cheer me up, Harry and I vélibed home (walking would have taken 15 minutes, buut biking was so much more fun!) We raced nearly to Invalides and back - he won, obviously. In my defense, though, I was wearing a dress!

Today will be packing, cleaning the apartment, running errands, meeting Harry and our friend Ludo for lunch, and grabbing a quick drink with Laura. I'll be off to the airport at 11pm tomorrow morning, and it will be goodbye apartment, goodbye friends, goodbye Harry, and goodbye Paris.

Harry Potter

Went to a French/English bookstore on Avenue de l'Opera at 12:15am, 2 hours and 15 minutes after their Potter release party started. Waited on line for 20 minutes to prepay for two copies of the book. (Harry was sick at home and couldn't come, but wanted it nonetheless. I am the best girlfriend ever.) Flipped through Domino magazine and the new Chocolate and Zucchini cookbook while watching costumed fans complete Harry Potter crossword puzzles and games. Interestingly, although the book has only been published in English so far, most of the customers were French.

Was somehow near the beginning of the line when the store employees decided where the prepaid hand-out line was going to be. Got on line at 12:40. Joined in the countdown at 1:00:50 Saturday morning and cheered along with the crowd at 1:01. Received my book at 1:20. Was home by 1:40.

Went to bed at 7:10am.

Good book.

kitchen experimenting

My empty wallet (caused by unemployment) and full fridge (caused by my love for grocery shopping) have been resulting lately in some experimentation with kitchen basics, and I thought I'd share the fruits of my labor.

Side note: I hate pasta salad with a passion. This was meant to be served hot. Turns out, though, as I discovered when Harry came home for dinner an hour and a half late, this is excellent cold.

carrots
courgettes
pesto (NOT HOMEMADE, duh)
fusilli pasta
fresh mozzarella

make the pasta. don't add too much salt to the water and don't butter the pasta, just add pesto when it's done. while the water is boiling, slice the carrots and courgettes into very, very thin rounds. here's the genius bit: sauté them in the oil from the pesto jar. don't add any other seasoning or oils, just use that. it's amazingggg. sauté until a little squishy and a little charred. mix with the pesto pasta, let cool in the fridge for an hour and a half (or however long it takes your delinquent
boyfriend to come home). just before serving, top with little pieces of fresh mozz. serve with a crisp white wine, a green salad with balsamic, and a baguette.

Yum, if I do say so myself.

tht life and times of a chomeuse

Since I've been unemployed, I've spent a lot time on youtube, rediscovering bits of movies I love and using it as a de facto radio station (my iTunes is on the blink). One of the sets of clips I keep going back to is from Les Choristes. If you haven't seen the movie (obviously, Christine, I'm not talking to you here), watch some of these. They're heartbreaking.

La Nuit
Caresse sur l'océan
Vois sur ton chemin

p.s. How much would you hate to be this boy (Jean Baptiste Maunier) after his voice breaks? That would be... unimaginable.

p.p.s. The choir they used for the movie is actually of mixed voices; that is, there are both girls and boys singing. They only show the boys, though. See? I'm not the only one who secretly wants to be a treble. Well, at the very least, I'm not the only one who sees more of an appeal in being a boy treble than just a young soprano.

literary confusion

Learn from my mistakes, chums: never read Austen and Alcott together. I just did that. Well, kind of. I read Karen Karen Joy Fowler's The Jane Austen Book Club, then Little Women, and then watched all of the BBC's Pride and Prejudice. (It's free, and in managable chunks. This Elizabeth is no Greer Garson, but I'll take Colin Firth over Laurence Olivier any day.) They've combined to create one ginormous superwoman character that's a bit Jane, a bit Elizabeth, a bit Louisa May, and a bit Jo. I feel like I'll never measure up.

Bastille Day weekend

Chello, chomies.

Summer has arrived. One day it was Marchish, the next - July. Phoom. It's in the low 80s, sunny, and sticky.

So yesterday was Bastille Day, and the day before that Hannah came to visit. We had a ball - literally. On the night of the 13th, dozens of Firemen's Balls are held all over France. Sponsored and thrown by local fire departments, these balls are a way to kick off Bastille Day celebrations. We had planned to go to one in the VIth, which was supposed to be very Ibiza, but were so full after dinner (Chez Omar's, the best Moroccan ever) that we couldn't deal with shlepping across the river. On the way to the metro, though, we passed another ball, and got swept into the maddening crowd. It was so much fun! Not wild and crazy like the Ibiza one would have been; this one was very family oriented. There were kids everywhere and confetti and balloons
and a passable cover band playing everything from Elvis to random French music (okay, probably not random to the French people) to something nearly like American swing. Here are some photos from the frolic:




On Saturday, Bastille Day, we hopped over to the Champs Elysee to see the parade, but realized once we got there that we were several hours late. No worries; we walked up the avenue, stopped at Ladurée for some yummy macaroons (the rose is my absolute favorite), and then walked to the Seine to catch the bus to the Musée d'Orsay. Hannah wanted to see some of the permanent collections there, and I wanted to see the Vollard show, so we split off for an hour and a half. (The show, by the way, Moo, was fantastic. I like art.) It didn't take me that long to go through the show (duh), so I wandered around the Impressionism collection and renewed my love affair with Monet. The museum itself is magnificent; I had forgotten how impressive the architecture is.

After our cultural jaunt, we headed home to hydrate, read, and nap. We meandered out in the early evening to pick up picnic supplies (bread, cheese, cold cuts, apples, cookies, and wine) and then planted ourselves on the Champs de Mars to watch the fireworks. It was complete bedlam out there. First of all, every single tourist in Paris must have been there. Second, one of the local radio stations was giving a concert, so it was packed with people for that. We found ourselves a spot on the side, on grass and with a view of the top of the tower. Even though we were behind a bank of trees, we assumed we'd be able to see the fireworks. WRONG.

When the fireworks started, we - and the hundreds of others who couldn't see - scrambled to the main lawn. They had arranged a whole score to accompany the show; they played everything from the Star Wars and Harry Potter themes to Moulin Rouge and Edith Piaf. I took a [sideways] video of a bit of it. (My technological savvy amazes me.)


It took over twice as much time to get home than usual: metro stations all around the Eiffel Tower as well as several bridges were closed to control traffic. As Hannah observed, sometimes we couldn't even make decisions about where we were going; we were just swept up in a "wave of humanity." Even though one heard English just as often as French - vive la France!

new addition to the links list

haven't actually explored this site in full, but it looked good from the skim:

http://www.theparisblog.com/

London calling

On Friday morning, Harry and I caught a 7:16 am (ugh) EuroStar to London. We arrived in "the country of Shakespeare, Churchill, the Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter. David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to that." just after 9:30am local time, not exactly bright and bushy-tailed, but glad, at least to be able to stand up and walk around. Harry was rather miserable about not being in France; he spent most of the morning complaining about how everything was better in Paris than in London. I, however, thought the city was, as I remembered, wonderful. (Interestingly, though, I've decided I wouldn't be happy living there. As a place to visit, though, it's lovely.) We wandered around South Kensington until noonish, as I had to catch another train to Oxford. Harry had the brilliant idea to get off at the tube stop after Paddington station and then walk; don't, boys and girls, try this at home. It took FOREVER. We passed the Tate Modern, though, which was interesting, and were able to walk along the Themes for a bit, which was terribly romantic.

In Oxford I met up with Hannah, a friend from Columbia whom I met in a couple medieval classes. She's doing a program there for the summer, and so she showed me around the town and we caught up on six months' gossip and news. We had a great time; sometimes I forget how much I miss my friends until I'm confronted with them! We found a great Thai place for dinner, watched Love Actually, and then went out with her friends for the night. I must admit, I felt much more at home in the pub than I do at bars here in Paris. Somehow, when I go out here in Paris I feel like I'm always putting on some sort of Elegant Betsy suit. It's fun, and I like being elegant, but it was so refreshing to let down my hair and drink a beer without being afraid I'd be labelled "American."

On Saturday morning Hannah and I lazed around and then met up with Gen for lunch. She's grown - she's nearly as tall as I am! (Also, Kate, she's absolutely stunning. Good job.) It was wonderful to catch up. A little strange, though, to talk seriously about college with her! After lunch we hoofed it back to the station for my train, and I arrived in London around 4pm. Because of some snafus with Mel, a friend from both NCS and Columbia who's been living in London for the past year, Harry and I ended up bumming around King's Cross for nearly an hour and a half (not the prettiest part of town). Eventually we meandered back to his parents' hotel to shower and change for dinner. (Possible highlight of the evening: Mr. Smeeden telling Harry to run to thge drugstore to get some asprin and water for the Mrs. while he and I had a drink downstairs.) Dinner was a little intimidating at first; we (the Smeedens and I) met up with some family friends, a British couple and their two teenagers at a nice restaurant in Kew Gardens. Everyone was very nice and friendly, though, and it was tons o' fun. Poor Harry was on the end of the table and, as I was trying to be socialble to everyone else and he was sitting opposite his mother, I think he felt a little left out. After dinner I said goodbye (and thank you, duh) to Harry's parents and headed back to King's Cross to Mel's appartment. I didn't get there till nearly midnight, but things were lively as she had a few friends over - including Ashley and Claire, two friends from high school! Clare is studying in London for the summer, and Ashley is studying in Valencia and was up just for the weekend. We hung out for a few hours until everyone finally left, and crashed around 2am.

Sunday morning was blissfully uneventful: I left Mel's around 10:30 and met up with Harry back in South Kensington. We had a leisurely brunch and walked around some more until we had to go catch our EuroStar back to Paris. All in all, it was a lovely, if tiring, weekend.

field trip!

I'm going to London and Oxford for the weekend. Will report back on Monday.

bagatelles (upon which I have always mused but never blogged)

1. The children's hospital that Harry works at is called "l'Hopîtal Necker pour des Enfants Malades." Scrawled across all the signs, engraved into every lintel are the words "Hopîtal Necker / Enfants Malades." Well, duh, the children are sick. That's why they're there! Do you have to make it so painfully obvious?

2. Buildings in France (apartment buildings, at least) must by law be cleaned every ten years, and residents have to shoulder the cost. This makes for pretty buildings, but don't you think this would also make for pissed-off residents?

3. I'm going through a corgette phase. France is making me a whole new woman. Seriously, by the time I leave, I, like Sabrina, will know how to properly crack an egg,

4. Today Armelle told me that she knew my dress wasn't from here because it wasn't "trop en France." Good thing she worships me, cause otherwise I'd feel pretty bad about being called a fashion failure by a seven year old.

il pleut

If it doesn't stop raining soon...

Paris, je t'aime (encore)

So. I still haven't seen the film, but you can find some of the shorts on youtube. Here are a couple, along with a montage of clips someone put together for the song that plays in the trailer. Enjoy!

We're all in the Dance (Feist)

14th arrondissement

Faubourg Saint-Denis

Tuileries

Le Marais

killing two birds with one... photo

Bird one: you get to see my new dress!
Bird two: basically, it's just a really cute photograph of Harry and me.
(He is trying to take away my bottle of wine. Although I am laughing, my heart is angry.)

chez moi

Finally, photos of my apartment! Enjoy.

my bedroom

the hallway to my bedroom

the sitting room (study/dining room/guest bedroom)

the kitchen

petit coin (toilet, silly french people)

de tout et de rien

I am finally eating a real canteloupe. These silly French people call everything melony a melon, so when I think I'm buying a canteloupe, I'm actually buying other melony things. My melon repetoire has grown immensely, but damn, this canteloupe is good.

The sales are on! Twice a year, in late January and early July, the stores in Paris (France?) have these amazing 30-70% off sales. It's incredible. Think Black Friday, but in French; the grand magasins (Le Bon Marché, Printemps, Galeries Lafayette) open at 8am on the first day and stay open past 8pm for the first week, an unheard-of thing here. The boutiques in Galeries Lafayette are secured - that's right, secured - by guards and barriers to prevent overcrowding (and stealing, I suppose). It's a crazy sight. I haven't seen as many tourists in the stores as usual, maybe because they've been scared off by the hordes of French women. Men, too, actually; when I hit up the men's store with Harry we had to fight our way through determined French men to get to the Pink shirts. I can claim a good haul from the past week: three Longchamps bags, none of which are for me; a La Baggerie purse for me; some tops, a skirt, and a trench from Gap; and two tops and a work skirt and dress from Alain Manoukian. It's been excellent.

I was out with Imogen, a friend of Harry's, today, and we stumbled upon a market-y street near Denfer-Rochereau in the 15th. We came upon a guy playing the sax outside a cafe, and sat down there so we could listen to him. Just as we sat down, though, he stopped playing. We chorused, "Oh, no!" and he looked up. "Would you like me to keep going?" he asked. We nodded eagerly, and he played for another 20 minutes. Afterward, we invited him to join us for a drink. Turns out he's from Boston by way of Kansas, and came to Paris three years ago to go to conservatory. (Apparently the saxophone was invented in France. Who knew?) He was really good - and very interesting; we spent a while discussing politics and education and fun nerdy stuff like that. He's playing with a jazz trio at a restaurant in that area on the 20th, so I'm going to try to convince Harry to go with me. Egyptian-influenced jazz + couscous = yumminess all around.

I'm a little nervous about how little I'll be working (working, in this case, means earning money) over the next couple of weeks; since I quit with the crazy family I probably won't get more than 15 hours of babysitting each week - 20 if I'm lucky - from various families, and most of my tutoring is winding down as the kids finish school and go on vacation. This will free me up to start researching my thesis, but will absolutely curb my dining out and shopping activities!

and that, ladies and gents, was that

I quit work a week early; today was my last day. I wasn't going to run away - after all, difficult children and parents are absolutely a part of babysitting (although I'd never before experienced it) and money is money, but there was an Incident on Monday night that made me realize I had to get out.

That's right, an Incident. With a capital "I".

Blanche, 8 years old, and I have to read in English for 20 minutes every day. Naturally, she hates it, and, naturally, she's a start procrastinator. On Monday evening, when I told her that we needed to start reading, she replied, "I don't have to listen to you. You won't be here for very much longer." Bizarre thing to say, yes, and rude, too, but she was right (at that point my last day was July 5), so I ignored it. We finally sat down and opened the book, but after 15 minutes had only read a paragraph and a half. I was frustrated by her stalling tactics, and tore the book out of her hands. I swear to God, I did not touch the child. But she looked at me, completely deadfaced, and said, "You hit me," I was like, "Excuse me?" She said, "I'm telling my mom that you hit me, and you'll be gone, just like Loretta, you'll be gone." (I later learned that Loretta was a nanny who had been fired because she didn't interact with the children enough.) I was totally shocked - and furious. I went to tell Madame Mère that her daughter had just threatened to have me fired with an abuse allegation, but Blanche ran past me. "Elle m'a tappée, elle m'a tappée!" she cried, in tears. The mother sent Blanche to her room and told me to finish reading with her. About 10 minutes later Mme Mère came into Blanche's bedroom, made the girl apologize to me and give me a hug and a kiss, and left - all without hearing what had happened. I followed her out and told her the story. Her response was, "Well, that's just how Blanche is. She's done that before. You just need to show her who's boss, be firm with her." I was kind of shocked at how nonplussed Mme Mère was, so I repeated the main bits of what had happened, just in case she hadn't fully understood me. She replied, "Don't take this so seriously." I wanted to be like, "Lady, I just spent 11.5 hours with your children. Do you really want me to not take my job seriously?"

The combination of Blanche's attitude and that of her mother incited me to give notice the next day.

growing every day in every way

A few days ago I ate a tomato.

Last night I ordered a gratin d'aubergines for dinner.

Booya.

Part III

Q: If you add these two facts together, what do you get?
1. Blogger doesn't have spellcheck.
2. I live in France and haven't officially written anything in English since 2006
A: A really impressively spelled and punctuated blog. Get off my back.

(This is aimed directly at the Rosenblum women - yes, both of you - and indirectly at everyone who smirks to themselves when they catch my mistakes.)

Waiting for the Girls at Ballet (A Story in Three Parts)

Part I: I'm waiting for the girls at ballet. The baby is asleep (well, he's probably woken up by now) at home. Maman is home as well, planning Monsieur's surprise 40th birthday party - this party takes up much of her time. I've 70% decided to tell Maman that Friday - or possibly next Monday - will be my last day, rather than next Wednesday. I'd lose 250€, yes, but I wouldn't be 70% unhappy 42 hours a week. The funny thing - not funny ha ha, but funny weird - is how much of my sense of self is tied up in being good with children. After 7 hours of being told that I'm not doing things the way they should be done (reading to the baby, disciplining the oldest, searing the lamb for dinner), when I get home at night I doubt the Betsyness of myself. I need to learn how to leave these things at the door.

(If I do stop work early, though, I'll still have things to do; I have three other families who all want 10-15 hours a week for the next several weeks. Booya.)

Part II: This past weekend has been a whirlwind of sitting and playing. Thursday was the Fête de la Musique; I think this was the inaugural year of New York's festival, so most of you know what I'm talking about. If not, in brief, the Fête de la Musique is a huge party that is held on the equinox and takes place in the streets and concert venues of Paris; bands and DJs camp out on street corners and bridges, and more established groups play at the Louvre and in all the churches. It's kind of like Mardi Gras in New Orleans - everyone is out, carousing and singing and laughing and if you get seperated from your friends you'll never see them again. Harry and I met up with a bunch of his French friends (okay, by this point I suppose some of them are my French friends, as well) at St. Michel, near where I used to live. We were both zonked after a week of work, and I was in an infectiously bad mood, so we only stayed out until 11:30 or so, but I had a great time wandering around and soaking up everything.

On Friday I babysat and tutored and babysat again until 1am, so that was that day gone.

Saturday, though, was a blast; Harry and I slept in for like the first time ever, which was so wonderfully unstressful, and then I spent the afternoon with K because I needed to take a shower. Let me explain myself: in the way that karma works, God decided that it was my turn to leak. On Friday morning I was woken up by a neighbor banging on my door and explaining that I was ruining his bottom-floor apartment. I turned of the water, and, since the landlady's plumber couldn't come until Monday, resigned myself to a few days of serious deoderant use. I had a party to go to on Saturday night, though, so I galivanted gaily up to K's apartment (only a 10 minute walk from chez moi) to use his shower. We ended up frolicking away the entire afternoon; after eating lunch at his apartment we walked back down to mine, stopping in a pharmacy to buy pacifiers (not for me, for la famille, obvi!) and in a supermarket so I could restock my fridge. (Funny supermarket story: A guy was standing with a tray of dessert nibbles, and we tried the madeleines and absolutely loved them. I said no to the big bag, explaining that if we got a bag of twelve madeleines I'd eat eleven, but that I'd only eat seven if we got the bag of eight. The guy smiled knowningly and said, "Ah, yes, Madame, but the madeleines in the big bag are packaged individually - perfect for the children!" K and I exclaimed, "Ah, yes, the children!" and took the big bag from his hands. It was fantastic.) K and I parted ways at about 5:30, after spending 45 minutes on clips of the Daily Show (watch them!), and I headed off to babysit. That eneded around 12:30, at which point I raced home, changed into my new (and terribly trendy) dress, and headed off to a housewarming party with Harry. By the time we got there, the party was begining to wind down, and so the remaining partyers were pretty hardcore. Also, incidentally - or not, as the couple throwing the party were 28 and 29 and gay - older and way more flamboyantly homosexual than my 19 year old English boarding school boyfriend is used to. I had a lot of fun, but Harry, I think, was a little uncomfortable.

Sunday was kind of unbearable, as I had to sing 5 hours after I had gone to bed, but it was my last AmCath service and we did lovely music (Purcell and Byrd), so I tried semi-successfully to will away my hangover. After the service, Harry, Imogen (a school friend of Harry's who's been living in Paris for the year as well) went out to lunch, and then I grabbed a lousy nap. I hate lousy naps - they're so unproductive! I then, shockingly enough, had to tutor for an hour. The weekend ended in the best way possible: dinner in the suburbs with K's family. K, you see, had bought a bottle of really good champagne for his sister because she was accepted to Columbia, and we finally drank it last night. I made it out there (40 minutes away on the RER - you can see stars and everything!) by 8, and we apero'd (drinkey-poo'd to you, Li) until nearly 10. We didn't sit down to the actual dinner until 10:30, and so I was beginning to crash, but the yumminess perked me up neatly. Also, it's difficult to fall asleep when your waistband is digging into your tummy. (When K asked if anyone was going to say grace at the beginning of the meal, his father and I chorused in unison, "Grace!") K's sister made a wonderful "gaspacho" of puréed raspberrys and strawberries and mint, and we had brownies and coconut cake and I told myself that I'd never eat again. (Ha!) Finally crawled into bed ariund 2. Up early this morning to babysit. What happened to summer vacation.

Part III: You'll get it. Eventually.

café life

I'm doing internet work at a really nice café on Avenue Kléber, and one of the managers just told me that I need to work on my French accent - apparently the way I pronounce my vowels are incorrect.

UPDATE: He just made fun of me for not knowing a word. Not sure if he's being obnoxious or is hitting on me.

contratry to popular belief, I AM NOT AN IDIOT

Okay. Re: the old Jewish men.

1. I did not blindly follow them into an apartment. I followed them cautiously into a completely open room on the courtyard. The whole wall was practically windows, the door was open the entire time, and I suspect it was a back room of the totally reputable restaurant in my building.

2. I made sure before actually entering said unthreatening room that I could take them. After all, they're old Jewish men. Who couldn't take them.

3. I'm never going to see them again. Cool your gakis, and stop kvetching.

t - 10 days

I have never been so unenthusiastic about waking up and going to work before.

Bar Mitzvahs for Jesus?

Yesterday's Amcath service included the Rite 13 service, where girls and boys of thirteen years pass into woman- and- man-hood. Copycats.

One of the acolytes, who was also the older brother of one of the Rite 13-ers, gave the sermon. For a 15 year old, he did an amazing job. He talked about how humbling it was to be in the pulpit, and said he hoped that the congregation could "learn through and from his confusion" - something priests, I think, often forget. The two lessons, the Gospel, and the psalm were about forgiveness; the Old Testament reading was Samuel II 11:26-12:10, 13-15, and the New Testament was Galatians 2:11-21, and the Gospel was Luke 7:6-50. The boy, Jordan, talked about how it takes an active step on our part to be forgiven for our sins; he said that we have to want and to ask to be forgiven in order for it to happen, and that no matter what our sin God loves us for making that choice. It was really something to see that boy up there. He was inspiring.

We sang our last evensong of the year - we did the Howells Coll Reg and Parker's Now the Sun Sinketh. We kicked ass on the Howells, but kind of train-wrecked on the Parker. Whatever, though; it was still a lovely service. I miss doing evensongs! They're so calming. Yoga for the soul, kind of, minus achieving nirvana and plus a little lack of faith on my part.

satuday, jour des fêtes

Woke up early on Saturday morning to bake. Duh. K was having another brunch, and, as I had refused to host it for him, felt the least I could do would be to bring a yummy lemon poppyseed cake. (Mission successful, by the way.)

The brunch was tons o' fun. I didn't stay till the end because I was party hopping like a frog on New Year's Eve, but he invited a different crowd at the begining than usual, so it was nice to make new friends. Most of these cats were ENS - École Normale Supérieure - masters students; I talked to one girl who was studying the morality of infants. The explanation of her thesis totally went over my head, but it sounded very cool. (K very cleverly has his guests stagger their arrivals so that each different group of friends is at the party for a different block of time. Sneaky.)

On my way back home to bake another cake for party number two, I was stopped in the courtyard of my building by an man who asked me to come talk with him and his friends. I was like, "Um... yeah, no, I have to go home." But he was kind of insistant in a non-creepy way, and because he was about 60 and wearing a kippah I figured it couldn't hurt. I followed him to a room on the rez-de-chausse, where he and three other kippah-toting men were finishing a Shabbbas lunch. We talked for a while, and every so often they'd offer me food or coffee or whatever, but I kept saying no. Finally, I couldn't resist the challah on the table, and asked if I could have some. They were like, "How do you know challah?" "Je suis juive," I said. They all exclaimed and laughed and the man who had invited me in looked very smug; apparently, he had guessed that I was Jewish from "mes gestes." So that opened up a whole nother can o' worms - I ended up staying for nearly two hours, talking Jew shop with these men and eating challah. One of them, the first, told me he wanted his son to marry a Jewish girl like me - and then he invited me to Shabbas dinner at his house next week. Sneaky. Another, a little older than the first, lived most of the year in Jerusalem. I knew that most Israelis of a certain age were very anti-Palestine, but I didn't realize how rabidly anti-Palestinian they were! This man was insane; when I pointed out that the wall didn't fix any long-term issues, he got very agitated and said, "Why do you not want us to protect our children? Thay are coming in and killing our children. How can you tell us we do not have the right to protect ourselves?" Okay, fair point, but the Israeli army kills Palestinian civillians and children all the time - what about them? Obviously I didn't say that out loud, but. Anyway, it was very very interesting. I hope I manage to make it back to lunch with them next week!

The second (or third, if you will) party of the day was hosted by K's sister, Julie. She and her friends had just finished the Bac and were celebrating. (Taking the Bac is kind of like doing the SAT Is twice plus three SAT IIs all in one week. Yikes.) I took the train 40 minutes of of Paris into the beautiful western suburbs. It was so bizarre to see stars and houses, actual houses! I had a great time; we barbequed and ate pie and watermelon and it was lovely. Best quote of the night came at the end, as K and his mother drove me and a few other guests back to the train station: "The problem with the suburbs," he said, "is that every town has a chateau." Problem? What? Okay, with this town it was definitely a problem; their chateau was hideous. In theory, though, it sounds pretty sweet!

ani lo mitaberit ivrit

A few months ago I took an four new English students. I now have Armelle (age 7), Clement and Thomas (16 year old twins), Arnaud (a 30-something lawyer), and Julia (age 12). I've been having the greatest time tutoring them!

Armelle is the little girl I've had since February. Since she's only 7, most of the English we're learning together is by rote, but we have a lot of fun anyway. Today we went over question words - who, what, where, when, why, how, and the ever important phrase "what happened?" - and played reporter. We took turns being the journalist and the policeman, and made up news stories in French, using the English question words. Now that I've discovered what an amazing imagination Armelle has, we've been doing a lot more games like this that demand creativity. In one of the rounds where I was the policeman on the scene, Armelle asked me what had happened. I replied, "Armelle fell in love with François." She shook her head gravely and said, "No, not François. Lucien!" It was the funniest thing.

Clement and Thomas, who I see individually, just meet with me for an hour of conversation a week. They have a very good grasp of the language, but are going to Andover for a summer program in July and want to practice colloquial English. They've been recommending me bands and underground concert venues - I feel like such an old lady for not having been to these places yet!

Arnaud is fantastic. As a lawyer for top European private equity firm, he does a lot of work with London, but his English fluency is pretty much limited to the written word and his grasp of complex grammar is, like mine, tenuous. An English teacher at a girls' boarding school just outside of Paris meets with him once a week and they do real grammar and vocab work together, and then I meet with him once a week and we review, do reading and reading comprehension, and practice conversation. We've been reading Frankenstein, and had an amazing discussion about the man/God, creation, nature, and goodness/evil/original sin. It was very cool.

Julia sees the same English teacher, and meets with me once a week just for conversation. She's 12 and a little shy, so sometimes it's hard to draw her out, but once she starts talking she's on fire. I feel so victorious when I get her going, when she forgets to be nervous about speaking in English and just runs with it!

if you want this choice position, have a cheery disopsition...

I said I'd blog about my new family, but, in retrospect (and outside-help-spect), I realize that it may not be terribly politic.

This means that I won't be blogging much for the next month, as the family will pretty much be my life until they leave for their country house on July 7.

So, to quench your thirst for all things Betsy, I recommend you read Emma McLaughlin and Nora Roberts' The Nanny Diaries. However, to get a fuller picture of my month, insert "Betsy" when they write "Nanny," "three children" when they write "one child," and "the 16th arrondissement" when they write "the upper east side."

je t'aime

It's kind of incredible that I live in this city that so many dream/write/sing/[insert action verb here] about. When I leave my new babysitting job (expect a long post about that soon) and walk down the street to the métro, the first thing I see is Trocadero and, below it, the Eiffel Tower. It's unbelievable.

Will be seeing "Paris, je t'aime" tonight. Expect also a review.

The only slightly jarring thing about Paris is that it's not an independent city in my mind. I mean, I don't think I'll ever be able to think about Paris without thinking about Harry. Okay, maybe when I'm a happily-married soccer mom with 2 kids, a lab, and a Volvo - never a minivan! - somewhere in the Washington suburbs, I'll think of Paris just as a place where I spent a perspective-changing six months when I was twenty, but for now, Harry is my Paris experience. I bring this up not because I like to talk about Harry (although I do) or because I want you all to know I've got the sweetest guy (which I do), but because with the advent of summer has come the inevitable question, from every Jean and Marie we meet as well as from a lot of you: What happens when I leave Paris at the end of July?

We'll be breaking up. It's a bummer.

catch-up

Nana called my blog "anemic;" blame her for the over-compensation.

Today was my last day with the lovely Ithaca family. The father is a physics professor at Cornell, and he brought his family to Paris for a month for a workshop he was attending at the Curie Institute. I worked with the family 9-12 hours a week; usually I was just babysitting Lily, who will be three on August 29 (my birthday!), but sometimes the mother and I would go on field trips with Lily and her 3 month old brother Wolfgang. Paris is a nightmare city to navigate when it's unfamiliar to you, so I can't imagine trying to get around with a stroller, an infant who is nursing constantly, and a metro that is unaquainted with the Americans with Disabilities Act. I had a great time with Sue, and I think she really liked having someone over the age of three to talk to oduring the days! Wolfie was a cutie; he's young enough that in just this past month I got to watch him learn to roll onto his belly from his back and hold himself up a little. (An infant with the hiccups is the funniest thing EVER.) Since we often went off on our own, Lily and I totally bonded, and last Friday she told me she loved me.

The best part about the sitting, though, was that it gave me a chance to do all the tourist things I hadn't done; and to explore further things I had. We went to the Cluny Museum, the Catacombs, the Eiffel Tower, Sainte Chappelle, Notre Dame a million times (she loved the stained-glass windows), the Tour Montparnasse, and the Louvre a million times. Lily was obsessed with the Louvre; she called it the Triangle Museum and was totally happy just hanging out under the big pyramid in the lobby. (Bonus to travelling with a stroller: you don't have to wait in long security lines!)

The whole experience was really fantastic. Lily was a doll, and I'll totally miss her, and Wolfie was a delight to cuddle, but it was the mom who tied it all together. She never made me feel like I was intruding, or like her way of doing things was the best/only way, or like I was the "help." Whoever gets her full-time back in Ithaca once Wolfie gets a bit older will avoir de la chance.

pop culture for parents

Dear Michelle,
Haven't you seen "Clueless" or "10 Things I Hate about You" or pretty much any Disney Chanel Movie? I guess not; if you had, you would know already that being cool to your kid is never going to happen.
Sincerely,
Betsy

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/07/fashion/07Cyber.html?pagewanted=1&ei=5087%0A&em&en=fab074711e530c6e&ex=1181534400

is that a compliment?

I hate it when men, while hitting on me, tell me that I'm beautiful, and then tell me that they don't like skinny women. It's so bizarre! First of all, calling me fat isn't going to get you a date. Second of all, explaining that you like a woman with a little sum'in' sum'in - they almost always follow up with descriptions of how and why - isn't going to get you a date. Third of all... you're not going to get a date.

procrastination nation

or, putting up photos rather than revising my belle epoque paper on maupassant

(Harry and me, at lunch with his parents a few weeks ago)

(Saturday, midnight)

(with the grand Rosenblums in Berlin)

argh?

I absolutely need to read another well-written book. The Gopnik has faded and my writing style has returned to pot.

Hence the angsty, feelingsy post. Sorry about that. Anyone have any recommendations?

the strangest dream

There's this movie I really want to see called "Paris Je T'aime." The film is made up of 18 unrelated vignettes by different directors, all shot in Paris. I've heard both good and bad things about it, but I need to see it. I watched the trailer nearly half a dozen times early this morning - it was the strangest thing, I couldn't stop.

I think I'm somehow homesick for Paris already.

Yesterday, for only like the fourth time ever, I was homesick for Washington, DC. I'm blaming Ned and Trinity Sunday; the hymns at AmCath were very Nat'l Cathedral/NCS hymns (Love Divine, O God Our Help in Ages Past, etc), and we did some Britten (I wasn't a huge fan of it, but I couldn't stop thinking of that time Chorale did "Rejoice in the Lamb"). Following the service, because AmCath is technically the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, we had a Name Day picnic outside. It was so twilight zoney; most of the adults were speaking English, most of the children French, and I was standing in a group of other singers who were mostly British. After that, I saw the new Pirates movie with Rob - but it was dubbed in French. This morning, Harry left to go back to England for a week, and tonight Alex Evans comes to visit for the end of her Grand European Tour.

You know that scene in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" where what's-his-face and Kate Winslet are running through Grand Central and all around them people are disappearing? I kind of feel like that - except it's not people, it's homes.

Even though I pride myself on being a New Yorker, I don't really miss New York at all. For some reason, here in Paris, I miss my high school experiences. I have no idea why (especially since I hated French in high school), but when I long for somewhere else, it's always DC, I'm always 17, and it's always a sunny fall morning when the air is crisp but only the maples on Brookeville Road have started burning. And yet, when I think of "home," I see my new apartment in my mind's eye. I've only lived here for a week and a half... how is this home already? And my old apartment - five months, and enough poo went down to fill a memoire, but it was never really home. What the hell is going on here?

I think part of the reason I'm in such a hurry to finish school is because I want to settle down. I don't mean settle DOWN settle down, I just mean that I want a home that is mine, all mine, not a dorm room, not a sublet, not even 365 West End Ave. I want somewhere that is mine and that will be mine for a very long time, somewhere where I know exactly why that Ikea bookshelf is tilted and why the green in the Pottery Barn sofa is faded only on the right side. Somewhere I can have vanilla beans just chilling in the pantry because I know I'll use them eventually. Somewhere I can put frozen chicken stock in the freezer, somewhere I don't have to worry about an un-housebroken dog peeing, somewhere I can want to vedge when I'm home sick.

Uprooted. That's the word I'm looking for. I love Paris, I love New York, and I love Washington, and I'm uprooted. Present tense.

Remember how I claimed the NYTimes is stalking me?

I rest my case.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/03/fashion/03cupcake.html?pagewanted=1

things to do before leaving Paris

a) play poohsticks on the seine*
b) have an affair with an older, married politician**
c) smoke an entire pack of cigarettes while drinking an espresso in a dive café***
d) go to Queen - not on ladies night****
e) go on a date with an actual Frenchman, not a Tunisian or a Brit**
f) bake a successful soufflé

* while watching carefully for traffic
** sorry, Harry, but it won't mean anything
*** i keed, i keed.
**** i.e. the gay club

debeo, debere, debui, debitus

[Latin; owe, ought. Aren't you impressed I remember this? I am!]

Basically, I really need to get caught up on the blog fo' real, yo. None of this "I'm vaguely writing something..." poo. We'll start with the new apartment/quartier.

I still can't transfer photos from my camera to my laptop, so you're going to have to settle for a really, really well-written description. (My new favorite website smallblueprinter doesn't let you save. Bummer.) So. My building, 10 rue Saulnier, is darling. You walk in (door code required, obviously), and there's a big beautiful courtyard in front of you, full of plants. They've hidden the trash cans and mailboxes, so it's really pretty. Turn to the left just before you enter the courtyard, and go up escalier B to the first floor - the second, to you American isolationists. I'm the apartment on the left. You walk into the center hallway of my apartment and see a closed door at the end of the hallway. That's my landlady's room; she usually rents my room and another to a student and acts as kind of a host mom, but she's not here this summer so the apartment is all mine and we won't bother with her room. If you go into the first room on the left after entering Chez Elizabeth (sounds way better than "Chez Betsy") you'll be in the kitchen. It's sizable - two can fit in without killing each other with a knife/hot oil/weapon of choice. In the corner is the toilet - in its own little closet, of course. (I still think it's stupid to have the WC and the bathroom in two separate places. Really discourages washing the hands afterwards. Silly, unhygenic French people.) Anyway, the kitchen has everything that makes me happy: a full-sized fridge, a four range gas burner, a small oven (toaster sized, but ça suffit), and, glory of glories, a dishwasher. You can do good things in this kitchen. (In fact, a few nights ago Harry and I made magret de canard in a white wine sauce with peas and roasted potatoes. It was heavenly.) Moving on. The room next to the cuisine - second door on the left - is the salle de bains and, let me tell you, it shows my old apartment's bathroom how these things are to be done. Full tub, sink, washing machine, closet, enough room for two people to not kill each other... you get the idea. Moving on: if you make a right from the front door, you are presented with another little hallway, at the end of which are a charming little writing desk and a mirror. Just off the hallway, again to the right, is my little chambre de coucher. Really, there's not much room for anything but couchering; you can just barely walk between the wall and my bed. There is room for a closet and shelves and a night table, though, and it's all pink and white, so it's lovely. If you pass the hallway once you've gotten into the apartment, the sitting room is the last room on the right. I call it the sitting room because, during the year, it's someone's bedroom, but for me it's livingroom/diningroom/study. It has a sofabed, a closet and shelves, and a table, and it's all done in blue and white. It, too, is lovely. So... that's my apartment. It makes me happy.

My quartier, too, makes me happy. The 9th is much more residential than the 5th - I don't think I've seen one tourist since I moved in. (When K came to visit, his first comment upon turning into my street was, "Welcome to the real Paris!") There are a couple of boucheries and fromageries and wonderful fruitstands as well as the best French traiteur ever on the street parallel to mine, and a couple supermarkets within a five minute walk in case I need to live on more than bread, cheese, magret de canard, and mangoes (which I'm doubting). This is a really Jewish area, too, so there are a bunch of kesher bakeries and boulangeries and restaurants on the street behind mine. Check out the map in a post from a couple weeks ago - you can see six synagogues just in that one square. It's intense. The métro, Cadet, is on line 7, which is kind if a pain and means I have to take a bus or transfer at least once, to get anywhere, but I'm much closer to the metro now than I was at 11 Victor Cousin. So, all, in all, my quality of living has gone from like +3 to +303.

Excellent.

More later. Must refuel. I'm thinking mangoes.

the New York Times is stalking me

Remember how I got bumped from my flight from France to Berlin last weekend and was rewarded with a €350 AirFrance voucher for my trouble? Well:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/30/business/30bump.html?pagewanted=1&ei=5087%0A&em&en=cb453ca4b2d9ed62&ex=1180670400

Speaking of the voucher, though, Harry and I are going to use it for a long weekend somewhere. We've narrowed our options down to Vienna, Turin, Lisbon, Barcelona, and Copenhagen. Any suggestions?

career ambitions

So I'm considering going to culinary school after I graduate from Columbia.

Seriously.

I want to become a professional patissière. (Translation: pastry cook.)

What's that? You want to know why? Well, okay then!

I love to bake. You know this about me. Or you don't, and are therefore not really my friend at all. Anyway, I've been baking for AmCath - for rehearsals and brunches and stuff - since February. A few weeks ago, Kate, one of our altos, approached me and asked me to bake for her retirement party. Of course, she said, she would pay for the ingredients and labor. Excellent! I gave her a list of about 8 different cakes and pastries that would go well with the ice cream and champagne she was planning on serving; unfortunately, she decided to only have 4 of them. So. I spent all of Saturday afternoon and evening grocery shopping and baking. It was AMAZING - I had so much fun doing it! Okay, after the 6th batch my arm was starting to hurt, but it was a good hurt. A feel-the-burn kind of hurt.

The following was served at the party, which nearly 70 people attended: chocolate cake (with a chocolate glaze, duh), chocolate chip cake, vanilla sponge cake with cream and strawberries, and lemon poppyseed bread. (I had also suggested some sort of fruit pie or crumble, scones, banana bread, and pistachio cake, but she wasn't interested.) I hovered by the foood table for an hour, greedily watching people eat, until Harry told me I was creeping out the guests and tore me away. I couldn't help it, though: it was so satisfying to see people enjoying what I had made!

Anyway, the point is, I walked away from the party with €30 and the desire to learn how to bake, properly, and to do it all the time. So there.

happy [belated] mother's day.

[Warning: introspective post. Do not read if you're anti-introspection.]

I used to be a lot like Dad. When I was younger, people used to comment in equal numbers that I looked like either Mom or Dad; my temperament, however, was absolutely Dad. We were both stubborn in the same way, driven in the same way, and angry in the same way.

I'm not sure when or why this changed, but I've been realizing recently how much like Mom I've become. I don't mean physically, although once I hit puberty everyone agreed that I looked like Mom (and not just because of the boobs and hips thing). You know the expression "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree?" I'm not entirely sure this apple has actually fallen from the Mommy tree.

From the way I react to people and situations, through my values and morals, to my habits and rituals, I am my mother. I'm writing about this now because, although my awakening has been happening for the past few months, it was thrown into relief over the past week; primarily because Harry and I have been dogsitting for the past week, but also because I just moved into a new apartment. The dog thing is pretty simple. Even though it's technically Harry who's dogsitting, and he's wonderful about it, when I've been there I've been the one who gets up in the morning to take her out for a walk, the one who defends her when she's been bad, the one who has a hard time not feeding her people food, the one who calls her pet names, etc. Moving into the apartment has been another eye-opening thing; specifically, this morning I had to stop myself from taking my cup of coffee (black, obviously, because that's how Mom drinks it) into the bathroom and leaving it on the counter to get cold while I showered, which is what Mom does. These two examples fall into the "habits and rituals" category, and as children learn from their parents, I suppose it's not surprising that I am copying what my mother would do in these situations. However, it's not just in this area that I look to my mother for what to do. I'm not entirely comfortable giving examples of the other two categories, because that's way too personal to put online, but if you know me and Mom, you know that there's a good chance we would deal with a problem the same way, we would give to our friends and family the same way, and we would value the same things in the people around us.

Even though I can no longer call my mom ever day (damn international phone rates!), she's absolutely here with me, in Paris, all the time. She's not looking down on me, like someone who has died; she's HERE here, inside me. I can't escape her.

I'm so glad.

pendrer la crémaillère

ATTN: only read if you love me. And by "love" I mean "send me things through the post."

Since I'm moving on Thursday (woohoo!) I have a new mailing address. It is:

Betsy Remes chez Mme Dubreucque
10, rue Saulnier
75009 Paris, FRANCE

the Pee-er

There's a new baby in my life. Her name is Olympia. I call her the Pee-er.

I bet everyone but Mom is totally confused. "The Pee-er? A baby? What?"

She's a dog, silly! Harry is housesitting for some friends while they're out of town, and they have a 10month old puppy that they're still housebreaking. Hence the nickname "the Pee-er." She's a total sweetheart. They don't know what breed she is; she's black and looks like a lab except that shes a little smaller and a lot skinnier. (She was sitting on my lap - okay, trying to sit on my lap by spilling off - but is now curled up between the small of my back and the back of the armchair. She's making it pretty difficult to type, so any errors are her fault.) Harry and I have already fallen into playing good cop/bad cop: he yelled at her when she tried to jump up to the table to steal breakfast and she ran between my legs to hide. Obviously, I told him off for yelling at her, but I have a funny feeling this is the way it's going be be for the next week, especially as I only work part-time while he's full, so I'll see her more often. She really is a sweetheart. She makes me miss my other baby - the Grunter!

ach ja

Last night I got back from a weekend in Berlin with the grand Rosenblums. It was an adventure from start to finish.

I left my house at the buttcrack of dawn (okay, 8am) to take the RER to Charles de Gaulle. Realized 15 minutes into the train ride that I had forgotten my passport. Had to bribe Nellie, who was asleep, to bring it to the station so I wouldn't miss my flight. I ended up making to to the airport with an hour to spare - only to discover that they had overbooked my flight by 20 seats. I was bumped to a flight that was taking off at the same time for Stuttgart. Okay, not so bad, right? I mean, at least I didn't have to connect through Cairo to get to Berlin. The layover in Stuttgart was 2.5 hours, but everything was smooth and I assumed the adventure was over when we finally landed in Berlin, 4 hours after I was originally scheduled to. Not so much - my luggage had been left in Paris. So that was a bummer. (It all ended well, though; my luggage arrived at the hotel a couple hours later, and Air France gave me a flight voucher. Biarriz, here I come!)

I missed the day's activities with Nana and Pappy (that's Dr. and Mrs. Rosenblum to you), but managed to join them for the opera that night. We saw Der Rosenkavalier at the Komische Opera. It was... unconventional. Musically, it was superb; I'm not a huge fan of Strauss (or the Romantics in general), but the singers were all excellent. The last duet between Sophia and Octavian was so beautiful it made my heart melt. The director made some interesting staging decisions: each act took place in a different century, with different period costumes, and the set in the last act was completely turned upside down. Interesting.

On Saturday we breakfasted together, and then, as Nana and Pappy had been in Berlin since Tuesday and had done all the museums already, split up. I think they just wandered around; I went to Museum Island. Spent nearly two hours in the Bode Museum, which houses medieval and renaissance art. It was incredible. It felt really good, too, to be able to analyze everything properly after having taken this medieval art class; I loved passing a sculpture and immediately noticing the contrapostal position of the figures or the style of the folds in a robe. I felt terribly educated. I then triped over to the Pergamonmuseum, where I just went through their three-room highlights tour. Then, while waiting for Nana and Pappy to meet me for lunch, I went through a street fair next to the river and bought a lovely menorah for 10 euros. In the afternoon, Nana and I did a little shopping (note: H&M is different in every city!). Before dinner, the three of us walked to the Brandenburg Gate and the Holocaust Memorial. It was incredibly moving; theres a stretch of land covered with gray stelea, over 2000 of them, all of different hights. It's so stark and bleak and beautiful. I had a little trouble with some of the underground exhibits. The museum beneath the stelea began with a timeline of WWII's genocide, and moved onto diary entries from victims and a room with artifact from different families that were killed in concentration camps. Tha hardest bit was the next room, where a voice read the names and dates of murdered Jews as their information flashed on the walls. It takes over 6 years to get through everyone.

Obviously, we went to dinner - right next to the Brandenburg Gate - rather somberly. The restaurant was really good, though; it was in Max Lieberman's old house, which was cool, and the food was delish.

On Sunday morning, after breakfast, we all went to the Jewish museum. I found it pretty disappointing. Every piece of every collection led to the Holocaust. I'm not saying we should forget what happened, but it's kind of irresponsible for a museum to focus exhibits on a specific goal; German Jewry existed for 2000 years before the genocide of World War II, and we need to learn about it's triumps and glories as well as the persecutions it withstood. After that, Pappy and I hit a roadside stand for some curryworst, sausage covered with ketchup and curry powder. The stands are everywhere, and I was told I HAD to try it, but it was pretty uneventful. As I had to finish a paper for a class, I headed to a Starbucks to work in the sun for a few hours before going to the airport.

(I love museums and sightseeing and everything, but my favorite part about a new city is just wandering and then people-watching at a cafe.)

The adventure ended with an unexciting flight that was delayed for 30 minutes. Woohoo. It was really wonderful to see the grand Rosenblums, though (really; I'm not just saying that because I know you're reading this, Nana); I practically live with them while I'm at school, so it was lovely to catch up.

mi casa es su casa!

I mean that sincerely, but in the broadest sense of the phrase. Like, my casa is my casa, and I'm not going to share it, but COME TO PARIS AND VISIT ME from May 24-July 17! I have, in fact, an extra bed. Très exciting.

Anyway, here's a map of my new area: http://www10.ratp.info/Proxi/proxi.php?exec=proxi&cmd=LexicoAdresse&Profil=RATP
Please note that there are six (6) synagogues in the quartier. Also, rue Cadet (the bit between rue Lafayette and rue Faubourg Montmartre) is an open air market, pretty much. ALSO, there are tons of ethnic restaurants around that I discovered while getting lost after meeting with my landlady last week. Très exciting.

I went to the Paris Choral Society's performance of Beethoven's Missa Solemnis last night. Apparently, by just emailing Ned for an audition when I first arrived, I missed out on the fact that there's a whole world out there of Parisian musicmaking. Don't get me wrong, I love AmCath and I don't want to sing in the PCS (I don't like rehearsing one piece for months and months and months, performing it once, and then putting it away), but... who knew? Anyway, it's Ned's group, and some of the AmCath kids - inluding Harry - are in it, so I played the supportive girl/friend, and went. Ho no, I didn't pay for my ticket; I volunteered to usher, and so got in for free. It was a good performance. It was, really. It's an exhausting work to do, and most of the PCS are amateur singers, but they gave it their all and so woohoo to them. Afterwards a bunch of us went out to some swanky 8th arrondissement bar, drank way too expensive martinis, and gossiped. I love choir people.

more editing

I just deleted one of the posts I put up yesterday afteroon. If you didn't read it, you didn't miss much; basically, my apartment has lost power, sprung leaks, and been denied hot water, all in the last three weeks. If you did, sorry to have subjected you to my ranting.

The whole thing pretty much should have been summed up as such: I can't wait until May 24th, when I move into my new place.

editing

I said we were doing the Mathias "God is gone up." I was wrong, duh; it's the Finzi "God is gone up," and we did the Mathias "Let the people praise thee." Oops.

Speaking of AmCath, though, I was like a microtone flat throughout the entire service, which wouldn't be that bad except that I was standing in front of Edmund, who's an amazing musician and probably absolutely noticed. I tried to think of a way to joke about it too him - " Oh, I hate having flat days, don't you?" - but didn't think I could pull it off. Of course he's forgotten about it by now, but I'm stil embarassed. Poo.

Armelle, Art History, and Americans

a) Armelle. She's the little girl I tutor in English. I'm kind of obsessed with her. She's seven, and smart and very playful. We don't get as much done as her father would like, but we have a really good time. (I think she's kind of obsessed with me, too.) Today we spent quite a bit of time talking about what it means to be part of a global community. She told me that she thinks the world should be linguistically divided in two: half the world should speak French, the other half English, and that the two sides should never trespass on each other. I tried to explain to her that it was important for countries and regions and whatever to keep their languages because language is tied to culture and tradition, and that if we didn't share our cultures and traditions we'd all be the same. She replied that we'd all get along better if we were the same, and then said that when she's president, she's going to make a law that says that you can only speak French in France. "All the Americans who don't speak French - poof! - out!" She said. "This is OUR country. Poof! But you can stay, Betsie." (She spells my name like that.) "Your French gets better every time we have a lesson, so you can stay." Aw. Thanks.

b) If you need proof that I'm a baller, here it is: I had this huge medieval art dossier due on Thursday, and I really needed an extra day or two to finish it. After the exam on Wednesday, I went up to the professor and pointed out that the syllabus says it's due Friday. She asked if I needed the day, and I replied that it would absolutely help. She looked slightly taken aback (Betsy? Needing extra time? Not being on top of her game? Impossible!), but told me that she'd rather an excellent paper than one that was merely finished, and that I could take the week. Excellent!

c) No Finzi next week - the soprano exodus kind of xnayed that. But tomorrow we'll be doing the Mathais "God has gone up" and a really really pretty Nestor chant thing. In other singing news, though, I just got the music for this summer's tour with Bruce. Good stuff - a lot of Howells and Sowerby and Neswick (duh) and some Darke. Holla! Can't wait to look over it all.

laïque, my left foot

Okay, I guess I get that even an avowedly secular country like France makes Easter monday a bank holiday. I get that.

But Ascension and Pentecost? Are you kidding me?

in-laws

Harry's parents loved me, by the way. He was totally freaking out about me meeting them (he almost cried when I joked about wearing a miniskirt and a see-through top to dinner), but I was a smooth criminal and charmed my way into the fam. Well, I definitely charmed his father; we had arguments about the relative merits of historical fiction and had several very civil discussions about politics. He was a doll. The Mrs was a little harder to crack, but I don't think that has anything to do with me. We did have a lot of fun ganging up on Harry at lunch after AmCath on Sunday, though, so that's something.

first step toward adulthood:

the apartment search!

I have to be out of my apartment, which I share with two other girls from my program, by June 1, and so I attacked my apartment search with gusto. I was very cute, actually; I poured over craigslist.com/paris and circled listings in the English-language classifieds magazine with a red pen. I wrote up a list of questions to ask potential landlords, like, "How far is the nearest laundromat?" and "Does this include utilities?"

(Déjà vu, by the way - if I've already written about this, sorry; if I haven't, let's just chalk it up to my delirium.)

I made four appointments. The first was for a room in an apartment just on the other side of the Pantheon from me. I really wanted my own apartment or studio, but was willing to trade off for location and a lower price. It was a beautiful apartment, and had great views (including the one from my would-be-future balcony). More importantly, it had a washer/dryer and an actual bathtub. The couple was really nice, too, and I must have made a good impression, because although I need somewhere for less time than their other interviewees, they offered the room to me.

The second appointment was for an apartment in the 9th, an area I don't know very well. The place is actually a full apartment, split in two; the front half has a tiny bedroom, a livingroom/diningroom room, a full kitchen (with dishwasher [!!!], oven, microwave, and 4 top range), a big bathroom, and decent closet space. The second half, in the back, is the landlady's private suite of rooms. She'll be in the states this summer, but usually shares her apartment with a student during the school year. The place was really pretty and very cute. Kind of smallish, but more than sufficient. AND it's only on the 1st floor (that's the second to you Americans) and gets tons of sun and faces the courtyard and there are flowers everywhere. I was entranced. I took it. I'm siked. I'll put photos up when I move in.

(The third apartment was more expensive than I wanted, and the fourth was far out, so I don't think I jumped the gun by not seeing them.)

I'll actually be moving in on the 24th of May, nearly a week before I have to, but Operation Let's See If Betsy Maintains Her Sanity With A Flatmate She Can't Stand has failed spectacularly, and so I want to be out asap, wasted rent money be damned.


(Funny story about my new hood: I was walking around a bit after looking at the apartment, and I ran across two butcher shops and a flower shop in a row that were closed. "Strange," thought I, "things don't usually close on Saturdays in Paris." I walked a little further, and passed two bearded, dark-suited men. "Strange," thought I, "it's the middle of the day. I wonder where they're going?" I walked a little further... and tumbled on a synagogue. "Aha!" thought I.)

lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

(It seems I have used this as a blog post title before. That's either amazing or really, really sad.)

lions = allergies. France is crazy with pollen, kind if like DC, but with pollen that my body can't deal with. I've developed these super Nana sneezes that scare me with their violence.

tigers = finding a new apartment and finalizing my summer jobs. (More like a big, stuffed, fuzzy tiger from FAO Schwartz; I've both bound a new apartment and finalized my summer jobs. Details later.)

bears = the last week of Reid Hall classes.

It may seem kind of counter-intuitive, but every time the end of the semester rolls around, and I'm staring down freedom, I start wishing I had taken the semester off and swearing that I'm going to run away to the circus. Why? This is why:
Monday: grammar paper #4 rewrite, grammar paper #5 final, med. history paper, grammar exam.
Tuesday: bank holiday woohoo!
Wednesday: med. art exam
Thursday: med. art dossier, history of paris exam
Friday: death and destruction

I'd greatly appreciate emails and stuff in my time of travail. I'm starting to think that only Kate Chieco, Christine, and Nana still love me.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/05/us/politics/05darwin.html?hp

Can you even imagine this being an issue in an election in France? France, a country where religious influence on the government is so feared that officials are doing their best to curb religion entirely, would never debate the relative merits of Darwin's theories.

I wish someone had assigned these 10 Republicans "Inherit the Wind" when they were in the eighth grade.

olfactory Paris

There are a couple smells that I absolutely love here in Paris. The first, the eggy waft of crepes on the wind, is pretty indigenous to France, so it's not surprising that I've never smelled it in the states. The second and third, though, are more or less banal, but I've only noticed them here.

Bakeries. Boulangeries. You always know that you're coming up to one by the yeast in the air. No matter which way the wind is blowing, the boulangerie smell always entices you forward.

Cologne. Men. Most mecs smell amazing here, and the scent always lingers after you've passed them in the street. Always. Doesn't matter how attractive - or not - the guy is; I almost always do a double take just because of his aftershave/cologne/whatever it is that men wear.

Yummm.

le débat

(K met Maureen Dowd last night at the Times' Paris bureau. He's got the hookup. I am jealous.)

So the debate watching party went well. We started out with 18 people, of whom maybe 66.67% spoke French, and by 10pm, an hour into the debate, were down to 9 people, all but one of whom spoke French. There was food and wine and the company was, of course, stellar, but I've never seen people concentrate so hard on a TV before. (Except maybe during Grey's Anatomy, but that's a whole other level of viewing.)

I think I understood most of it. Ludo, a French friend of Harry's and the only eligible voter in the room, explained some of the more obsure things to me, like the 15 minute argument about nuclear power, which I still don't really get but put on a convincing show of nodding my head and murmuring, "Ah, oui, oui, je vois."

As "Matin Plus," the morning métro paper, says, Royale was on the offensive for most of the evening, and Sarkozy displayed a capability and collectiveness (as well as an ability not to speak like a robot) that his opponent just couldn't match. It was, as expected a heated debate: at one point, Royale accused Sarkozy of "political immorality" and told him he lacked "credibility." Sarkozy, on the other hand, delivered some zingers at socialist Royale, such as, "Calm down. If you want to be President, you have to be able to be calm." It was kind of amazing.

Anyway, after the debate, Ludo, Acha, and Henri, our French delagation, discussed the hot points. I contributed by asking stupid questions, Rob jumped in with poli sci and IR awesomeness (I was very proud of him; he really knew what he was talking about), and Harry pledged everlasting love to Sarkozy (I can't believe I'm dating another conservative! This is bad.).

elections

Everyone keeps asking me what I think of this year's elections in France, and I usually crib a line or three from my French friends, creating my own learnèd persona. I think, however, that it's time for a confession: I have no idea whom I'd vote for, were I eligible.

I don't think foreigners, even those who have lived in France for decades or those who have a comprehensive knowledge of French history, can fully understand the importance of this election or everything that has led up to it. We understand immigration struggles, anguish over unemployment, and questions about national identity, but we cannot understand these issues as the French do; we can only study them objectively, rather than internalizing them subjectively.

That being said, I'm having people over tonight to watch the Sarkozy/Royale debate (there will be wine and dessert, too, obviously; you know how I do). Mostly my guests will be American, but there will be a strong French showing, so, together, we'll maybe kind of hopefully get what's going on.

le 1è mai

So the first of May is a huge holiday here in France; to celebrate and honor the workers (sorry, Workers), we have a day off from work. (Have I mentioned how I love France?) There are also people selling muguets on every street corner - it's the official flower of the day. Anyway the weather is phenomenal, and I think every Parisian must be outdoors today. I picnicked in the Luxembourg Gardens today with K and his friend Wendy, and it took me a good 5 minutes to find them in the mass of humanity on the lawns. I must have walked past three seperate brass bands while walking through the park, as well as some sort of show in the gazeebo. Such festivities! Labor Day has nothing on this.

I was supposed to tutor this afternoon, but got stuck waiting for a tram at Cité Universitaire, at the south end of the city. (European cities are rediscoving the utility and eco-friendliness of electrical trams; this one rings the city at the periphery.) As Armelle's father told me when I called to tell him we'd have to reschedule or I'd be 45 minutes late, "Nothing functions on the first of May.) Glad I went down there, though, because I got to see France's Socialist movement in action! Okay, not exactly in action, but en masse nevertheless; Segolène Royale, the Socialist candidate for president, had a "meeting" at the Stade this afternoon. According to a guy on the street, the Stade was packed, but you couldn't even get within half a mile of the thing for the hundreds of people gathered outside. Everyone was walking around with pins and stickers and posters. It was a pretty young crowd, lots of students, I think. (Voter turnout for the first round of elections was 85% this year, a record for France. Can you imagine where our country would be today if 85% of Americans had voted in 2004?)

While I was down there, though I walked around the Cité Universitaire and fell in love. It's an international student housing complex - kind of - that was founded just after the Great War to foster international understanding. (I think the idea was to get them when they are young... muahaha.) There are about 20 houses for different countries, and an international house for all the others. It's mostly residential and cultural; students who attend the various universites in and around Paris can live there, and they have tons of events. It looks like a college campus, with lawns and trees and things - not like the Parisian Universites at all. I'm going to call and see what kind of hoops you have to jump through to live there.

Why, you ask, would I want to live there? Well. Let me tell you. I got rejected (no soft language here, I was rejected, and [expletive] the waiting list they put me on) from the summer program on medieval churches I wanted to do. I have to be in Dublin on July 24th, though, and I really wanted to stay in Paris, so... I'm staying in Paris. I'll be babysitting and tutoring and working on my thesis. I've been trolling FUSAC, the English classified magazine, as well as Craigslist and various bulletin boards for babysitting gigs and apartments. This is my first apartment search - it's scary! I feel terribly grown up when I call people and ask them questions about their apartments, though. "Excuse me, but is the 650€/month all inclusive? How close is the nearest laundomat?" I've got it down! First appointment to see a place is tomorrow night... wish me luck!

cell phone absolutes

I always get a kick out of how self-centered my cell phone is. I don't have a plan; I bought the phone for 39€ and get minutes from a prepaid card. The phone, taking initiative, sends me texts when my minutes start running low. The first text always says this:

"Your credit claims the greatest attention. There is no more than __€."

The greatest attention? Well, okay.

The second text, which is sent after I have used up the card, says this:

"Think about buying a baguette, about brushing your teeth, about not sleeping too late, and about calling 224 to recharge your card."

Well, okay. You dig the priorities of the French? baguettes = hygiene = getting to work on time = having minutes on your cell phone. I dig.

waiting for rain

Sounds like an emo album title, right? It's true though; we're desperately waiting for rain. It's been dry here for weeks (which is great for tourists, but bad for those of us who have spring allergies), and we really need it.

Even though rollerblading isn't au courant anymore in the states, it's still huge here in Paris. They (whoever "they" are) organize a rollerblading parade thing through the streets of Paris. It's intense; there must be nearly two hundred people - mostly young adults, but some families participate - and they're escorted by the police and four Red Cross vans. If you get stuck trying to cross the street while they go by, you're screwed, as it takes 8 full minutes for the whole pack to traverse la rue. Intense, I tell you. It looks like a lot of fun, though.

AmCath was fun today - I'm looking forward to Sundays more and more, no matter what the music, as I become better friends with the other kids in the choir. (Actually, today the music was great: we did a Parker "Agnus Dei" and Britten's "O Be Joyful." For some reason, though, I have the Walton "O Be Joyful" stuck in my head. Next week we're doing the Mathias "Let the People Praise Thee" - woohoo! On the 18th, we're scheduled to do Finzi's "God is Gone Up," but I'm thinking Ned will change that, as there are two soprano parts and 4 of us sopranos will be MIA.) Anyway, I'm totally digging the people and our dynamic. Markie and Jo, my uncle and aunt, came to the service and stayed for the coffee hour, which was nice. I'm so glad my family (Mom and Dad were here last week) have gotten to meet all my friends, both from school and the choir. This is totally a remnant thing from high school, but my friend's don't seem officially my friends until they've met my parents. Doesn't matter if Mom and Dad like them or not (although they almost always do), just that they've all been introduced. (Harry, incidentally, was a rockstar with Mom and Dad. I'm very proud of him. His parents come into town next week - yikes!)

Okay, must write papers. Must. Write. Papers!

Bah humbuug to homework.

summertime, summertime, sum sum summertime

It's in the mid-70s, the sun is shining, the breeze is doing it's thing - and I've officially checked out. This may be a problem, but one of the side effects to checking out is not really giving a damn.

Okay, I do care just a little bit. See, I've finished my major major work things: all three of my exposés have been turned in or presented. Reid Hall classes end on May 11, so I have just three midterms (that I can't start studying for until the last minute, obviously) and an art history dossier left. No worries. The Paris IV classes don't end till June 1, so that's going to be more of a poo. There's a 10 page paper due on May 7 on women in the "Lais" of Marie de France for my medieval class, which I'm looking forward to writing, and a final (not yet announced) paper for my Belle Epoque class. The pooey bit is that I only receive two grades from my fac professors, and Reid Hall required three per course, so my tutor is going to assign me an extra project or paper to complete in the next month. Awesome.

Really, though, life is otherwise too lovely to be gloomed over by homework. (Who can think about studies when she's spending an obscene amount of time strolling through Paris hand-in-hand with an adorable Brit? Not this girl.)

oops

Turns out, I forgot
to write about my Spring Break
adventures at all.

Tanned for two days on
the beach in Marbella, Spain.
Paella - delish!

Venice: so lovely.
Tourist swarms; better to stick
to side canals, yes?

Fell sick in Florence.
Mostly stayed in the hotel.
"David" was ginorme.

I would live in Rome.
A lot like Paris, 'cept for
the Italian thing.

Yearned for home by Thurs.
Can't belive Paris is home!
So good to be back.

spring break, abbreviated, and more

Okay. I don't think I'm going to write so much about my travels for a couple reasons. Reason numero un: this week is kind of nuts, as the Reid Hall semester ends in two weeks and I, like the dedicated student I am, didn't really work during vacation. Reason numero dos: mes parents sont à Paris cette semaine, and I'll be busy squiring them around. (Don't worry, though; althought this means I won't be writing about les vacances, it doesn't mean I won't be blogging at all. Upwards and onwards, I say!) Reason numero tre: I just can't. Sorry.

(You should all be impressed that I got all three languages - French, Spanish, and Italian - in there with the numbers. I am a linguist like whoa.)

Also, I'm kind of self-conscious about my writing style right now; my dad read my blog recently for the first time in a while (read: since the last time I reminded him to read it), and commented on how "stilted" my writing had become. I've re-read some of the post from the past couple weeks, and I think I must disagree, although I'm totally open to your opinions, dear readers. I don't think I've become stilted; rather, I think I've been writing less stream-of-consciously and more essay-ly. I pondered this on my last train (from Florence to Rome, absolutely beautiful), and realized something horrible: I don't have my own writing style! I mean, I guess the stream of consciousness thing is about as me as you can get, but I unconsciously chameleon into whatever author I'm reading at the moment. For the past couple weeks, as I've been reading Adam, I've been essaying, as he does, using lots of semi-colons (although I'm kind of obsessed with semi-colons anyway, and have been using them excessively for years) and parenthetical asides (see above). When I read all my old L.M. Montgomery books, my writing drifts into language like, "she gathered the dear, blossomy, filmy things to her breast with rapture," and when I'm in the middle of a Terry Pratchett novel I have an incorrigible urge to irreverently footnote. I can't help it. It's horrible. Well, no, it's interesting, actually, but I wish I was a writer enough to find my own style!

Maybe I'll write my next post entirely in haiku.

things I've learned so far on spring break:

a) my Italian - culled from opera librettos, one summer of an intensive italian course two years ago, and eight years of singing in latin - is totally inadequate.
b) Venice's population is made up of 0.33% residents, 0.33% tourists, and 0.34% mosquitoes.
c) the BWI stop on Amtrak’s NE Corridor train is greatly underappreciated.

I'll write actual things about all my travels when I get back to Paris.

For those of you who are totally out of the loop (losers), my Spring Break itinerary is as follows:
April 12-15: Marbella, Spain (with friends)
April 15-17: Venice, Italy (on my own)
April 17-19: Florence, Italy (on my own)
April 19-21: Rome, Italy (con mia mama!)

delirious on the train from Florence to Rome

When I wrote my pathetic woe-is-me homesick-in-the-most-beautiful-city-in-the-world post, I asked at the end, “How weird is that?” Turns out, according to my newfound hero Adam Gopnik, it’s not weird at all. (By the way, when I read the bit I’m about to quote, I had one of those deeply satisfying “yes” moments you’re supposed to reserve for writers like Sartre, when you realize that hell really is other people. This may be sacrilegious, but then, isn’t all hero-worship?) In his book Paris to the Moon, Adam, who despairs when his son displays an agonizing Frenchness in his approach to playing soccer, recounts how he began crafting a bedtime story for the three-year-old about baseball. The story, he hopes, will both tie his Parisian-bred son to America (and to New York; the star player pitches for the Giants) and soothe his own homesickness. Of the latter, he writes,

“The things an American who is abroad for a very long time misses – or at least the things I missed – I was discovering, weren’t the things you were supposed to miss. …The things Americans miss tend to involve that kind of formlessness, small, casual, and solitary pleasures. A psychoanalyst misses walking up Lafayette Street in her tracksuit, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup with the little plastic piece that pops up. My wife, having been sent the carrot cake that she missed from New York, discovered that what she really missed was standing up at the counter and eating carrot cake in the company of strangers at the Bon Vivant coffee shop. I thought I missed reading Phil Mushnick in the sports pages of the Post; when I read him online, I discovered that what I really missed was reading Phil Mushnick on the number 6 uptown train on a Monday morning around 10.” (Paris to the Moon, 206-207)

Yes. Deeply, satisfyingly, yes. I only got it right when I wrote about needing to walk down Broadway at dusk and wanting to drive to the Cathedral in the morning, but I realize now that the other bits are just covers for what I really miss. My Columbia boys – sure, I suppose I must miss them somewhere, somehow, but what I actually miss is delicately shoveling Ethiopian food into my mouth with my fingertips at Awash alongside Amar and Josh. Snickers – of course I miss him, but what I actually miss, morbid as it is, is walking into an otherwise empty house, checking that the comatose dog is breathing, and then waking him up because, each time, I’m so overjoyed he’s still alive that I can’t help but jump on him.

Anyway, I tried, about two months ago, to recreate the walking-down-Broadway-at-dusk feeling. I had just been completely and utterly rejected romantically (French butchers, if you request it, will hack a thick slice from a chunk of beef that is so red and vivant that you can imagine it having mooed several days ago, thunk it down on the counter, where it will resignedly ooze a little blood, and then pound it with a mallet until it has been relieved of any semblance it once had to something you might find at the Tanner farm; this, I theatrically imagined, was a perfect metaphor for my heart), and couldn’t bear being around my flatmates’ silent sympathy. I fled my apartment into the drizzle of a February evening, setting off north down the rue Saint Jacques, towards the Seine. I crossed at the Pont de Notre Dame, lapped the Ile de la Cité, and then headed further north into the Right Bank. I wandered past the Hôtel de Ville into the Marais, up rue de Temple. It was a perfect night for my dramatic moonings: the mist of an almost-rain turned the evening sky a bruised purple, and the streets were, for once, practically devoid of tourists.

The problem was, while it’s easy to get lost in Paris, you never quite get lost the way you mean to. Parisian loneliness is unique to Paris in a way that, I suppose, New York loneliness is unique to New York. Adam calls New York’s brand “a scuffed-up soulfulness.” In New York, this can be accessed simply by stepping out your front door, no matter what the weather. In Paris, it is a state that, much like nirvana, must be achieved, and very rarely – if ever – is. Adam continues, “In Paris, no relationship, even one with a postman or a dry cleaner, is abstract or anonymous.” I agree, but would like to take it one step further. A character in another book I just finished, Arthur and George, by J. Barnes, mentioned his desire to be married in general, rather than in particular. I think that this distinction can be transferred to New York relationships versus those in Paris. In New York, you are allowed to disappear if you want because people look at you generally; a waiter smiles while taking your order in general, a man waking his dog grunts good morning in general, the girl sitting next to you in class asks if you’re prepared for the test in general. In Paris, this anonymity is nearly impossible to find. The waiter smiles at you (or not) in particular, the man grunts (or not) in particular, and, like as not, the girl in class doesn’t even look at you – however, she is not looking at you in particular. The same, I think, can be said for things and places. In New York, it’s easy to let everything be obscured in a blanket of oblivion: yes, this is the corner where I fell and scraped my knee in those painful new heels Carmen convinced me to buy, but it’s also just a corner in general. Pont Neuf, where I was once kissed in the rain (a dream come true, incidentally; what girl doesn’t long to be kissed in the rain on the Seine in Paris?), will never be a bridge in general. I had an amazing dinner with friends last spring at the Blue Water Grill in Union Square, but it isn’t really a restaurant in particular, whereas the café with 1.50€ espressos on rue Sufflot will never be a café in general.

Thanks to this, it is impossible to be abstract or anonymous – the people around you forbid anonymity, the crêpe stands and sidewalks conspire to keep you from abstraction. I found no consolation in my failed attempt to recreate the Broadway-at-dusk feeling, in my failed search for scuffed-up soulfulness, but I take refuge in the fact that I remember Broadway walks in general, while I will always remember that walk in particular. I find that it’s impossible to have the formless pleasures we enjoy in New York and long for in Paris when everything – everything! – in Paris has a form.