Space Invasion Music

Last Dinner

On our last night in Paris, some of us decided to go out to dinner at a restaurant called L’epoque. Arriving to the restaurant around 19:30, we were the only ones there. Seated outside at a little table with a red and white checkered table cloth, I couldn’t help but think that this was such a quintessential Paris experience, not to mention the perfect way to spend our last moments in this wonderful city. Our waiter was this nice little Asian man, and we told him that it was our last night in the city and he told us that he hoped our evening was just what we hoped for. He was very sweet and kept coming back to make small conversation, even though his English was slightly limited. It was ironic that we were spending our last night in Paris at a restaurant that was virtually empty and where the service was impeccable. Whereas a lot of my meals, although always delicious, here have been at restaurants that are incredibly busy and the waiters usually have little time to stop and chat. It was very special we had some time to slow down from this whirlwind of a trip right before we were about to leave. As I sit here in the U.S. on the 4^th of July, I look back on my Paris trip with fondness and I am happy that I was able to enjoy my last dinner at such a leisurely pace and with such excellent food and people.

Semi-Local

I have a hard time believing that the trip is almost over. As Heidi explained it "oat sac syndrome" is starting to set in and like a horse knowing there are oats waiting back home, I am yearning mac and cheese and flaming hot cheetos and most of all my family and friends. Walking around the city knowing it is my last day has been unreal I feel like the last month was a dream and I'm about to wake up. I finally feel like I have started to conduct myself as a local, even though my French has not improved nearly as much as i would have liked or expected. I went to the post office to buy stamps today and standing in line a man started talking to me in French. I tried to be as polite as possible with a little bit of a laugh and a big smile I finally said the phrase I know best "Je ne pas parle Française" and surprisingly he was a little taken aback by this. He went on to tell me that he thought I was French! I was very flattered, just being in the post office made me feel more like someone who lives here even before he had mentioned that. He was a very very kind man and was interested about the states and Colorado. He was also nice enough to translate my question about how many stamps I needed per postcard to send internationally because the clerk could not understand what I was saying at all. I was very grateful for his help and his kindness, he told me about how we are all the same in the end and that if we can come together and be accepting of everyone, one love. Marcel is the man who works at the tabac where I get my cigarettes now knows me by name and is always joking and playing little tricks on me. He will pretend to take my change and tried to take the wine bottle out of my shopping bag. It sounds weird in words that he is taking my things but it is very clear he is just messing with me and being silly outside of the language barrier. He has helped me out with my pronunciation of the numbers as well as gitanes and gauloise in which you just don't say the end half of the word, which is common for a lot of french words I am learning. Marcel has even been nice enough to recharge my orange cell phone minutes for me because I can't understand the woman and when the store was busy he helped me understand what the recording was asking me for. He is funny and I appreciate every ounce (or should I say centiliter?) of pleasant interaction I can get. All in all, I thought I would be disappointed that most of my interactions involved buying things but either way I will look back at this and think of these acquaintances as much more than that, as friends.

Locals Only, or Only Locals

Massive apologies for the lateness, my weekend to Brittany turned into a full blown adventure sans internet. So, on Saturday I spent the afternoon in Cancale, which is a small town with world-renown oysters. So lots of tourists come, but very few venture off the main road right by the waterfront. I was wandering around, and ended up walking up away from the ocean. A little lost, and thirsty I stopped at a café. Growing up, road-tripping with my family, my parents loved finding the rougher, locals-only joints and always taught me to be confident no matter what the situation. So when I walked in to realize that I had stumbled into a non-tourist café I tried my best to feel comfortable. There was absolutely no reason to be worried, everyone was really friendly and like a huge family. They were all middle-aged and seemed to know everything about each other. There was plenty of jokes at other’s expenses but all in good fun. I was smiling at what I could understand, which caught the eye of a woman at the bar. She came over and started speaking very fast in French, but really friendly. I told her I don’t speak French very well, so she slowed down, but no one there spoke English. Through my stumbled French I answered their questions, and, of course, everyone was very surprised that I was travelling alone. They were all so friendly and good-humored, just what I imagined a small-town bar to be like. It was a wonderful experience. I like seeing the sights, and going on tours, but being surrounded by tourists and commercialized experiences can be tiring. It was really nice to find that bar and talk with people who have lived in a place their whole lives. Only locals can show you that kind of warm-hearted hospitality and give you an authentic taste of their life. 

Paris Pridefest

This saturday was an event that I had been looking forward to all month in Paris: pridefest. I have a gay roommate in Boulder that told me it was going on while I was here, and she was really excited for me to see what the gay culture is like here in Paris. I myself was very curious, I actually don’t know anything about gay rights or issues in France. I was not surprised to see a huge crowd for the parade, but I was pleasantly surprised at the diversity in the crowd! I saw people of all ages and races participating and having a great time, and I witnessed absolutely no signs of prejudice or hate like I have before at the same event in Boulder.

I have a friend visiting in Paris that has two moms, and she was out with me at pridefest. Her mom wanted her to bring back a souvenir from the parade, and as soon as we saw the flags everyone was waving we knew that would be the perfect thing. Unfortunately, there were none to be found and everyone we asked was pretty unwilling to give one up. Finally, we saw two very conservative looking older French women standing a little ways off the road holding a couple flags and looking pretty lost. We were a little afraid to approach them since they did not look too friendly, but we decided they would be the most willing to give up their flags since they did not seem into the parade that much. We cautiously asked, and they said no, but then they surprised us and asked why we wanted them. We explained as best as we could the situation, and they were immediately so touched and emotional that they gave us both flags! We eventually learned that they were a couple and also had a son, and they felt very connected to my friend’s parents and their situation. I was so glad not only that we got flags, but that my friend had a really profound moment being able to relate to some French people despite the language barrier and that I could be there to help.

Week 4-American Community in Paris

This week my cultural narrative is about the American community in Paris. After going to see Sam perform at a poetry reading in Belleville last Monday I was struck by the strong sense of camaraderie between the different performers. Not all of them were American, bust most were at least English speaking. One of the performers got up on stage and declared that she was from Louisiana, my home state! Granted, she said she was from a small town in Louisiana, which is incredibly different from New Orleans, which is where I’m from. Anyways, that got me a little excited and made me realize what a small world it is that two people from Louisiana could end up together in a small poetry reading in Belleville, Paris. Before she started to perform her song (she was holding a guitar) she prefaced her performance by saying that in moving from a small town in Louisiana and coming to Paris, she felt as if she was ‘running away’ from something. Now, she said, it was becoming more and more clear that she was ‘running towards’ something. These were her words more or less; she did not say what it is she was running towards.

Another instance I had that made me think along the lines of the American community in Paris occurred when I went to the Olive Oil store in the Marais that Heidi told us about called, “Premiere Pression Provence.” Jenna, The lady who works there, is from Cleveland but she has been living in Paris for the past 5 years. She knew everything there was to know about olive oil and the way they make it in Provence, it seemed—pointing out how the extra virgin olive oil in the state is not always purely extra virgin.

Frances had told us about the American community is Paris before, namely the American library in Paris, but both of these experiences demonstrated the reality of this community to me. It is so interesting to me that so many Americans seem to want to come to Paris, not just for a brief time, but to live permanently. It makes me wonder if all of them are simply ‘running away’ from something and if Paris is just a fantasy land that they can escape to. If so, what are they running away from and what is it about Paris that is so magical?

Ultimately, it is very nice to know that there is a strong American and English speaking community in Paris and that so many people are able to come here and find their home within a new city.

It's Not the Guillotine!

As all of you in the group have noticed, I recently chopped off my hair. Granted it was pretty short before, but I went from a bob to a pageboy cut. I have always thought short hair was cute in an Audrey Hepburn way, and I have wanted to change the style for a while. When I got to Paris I noticed all of these girls with adorable shorn hair and I kept seeing similar styles all over. On Tuesday, I finally found the courage to do it--an impulsive decision but a good one. I started searching for a "coiffure" and found a couple on Montparnasse near my apartment. A thing about French hairstyling: shampoo, cut, and styling are not all together. You have to ask directly for what you want. The first place I went to advertised a 30 euro deal for shampoo, cut, and style. However, when I went in and asked to get an appointment and they figured out I was American, the price automatically jumped to 60 euros. I'm sure many of you have had similar things happen to you at restaurants or boutiques, and it is always so frustrating!

Anyway, I continued on the hunt and found another place that looked a bit more friendly. I asked for an appointment and she told me to come back in thirty minutes. A note about French timing: 30 minutes will quickly turn into over an hour and you will just have to be patient. Finally my blue-eyeshadowed peroxide blonde stylist got back to me. I don't speak much French and she spoke about the same amount of English, but through gestures and pictures I explained what I wanted. I sat down, the lady put a robe on me and forcefully moved my head to the side. I am a twitchy person and although I thought I was doing a good job of following her directions, Whap! She hit me in the side of the head with her comb. "You not move, cool?" But then that made me even more squirmy, so finally she asked "Why you stressed? You too pretty to be stressed! It's not the guillotine! Cool?" She went back to cutting my hair and muttering things in French, but I couldn't understand a word that she was saying so I just tried my hardest to stay still. Eventually she lightened up and asked me where I was from. I told her that I was from the U.S. and that I was studying art history. "Oh!" she exclaimed, and then began to dance around singing the refrain from the Italian song "Tu vuò fà l'americano" (which means "You pretend to be American"). Finally she was done with my hair and asked with pride if I liked it. "Tres chic!" I replied, and then she gave me two "bisous" on my cheeks. It was the strangest salon experience I've had, but I left feeling a bit more stylish and definitely triumphant.

Music in Paris

I went shopping with Julie and we went to this place called Colette. The store is full of tons of interesting things from fashion and art magazines, high fashion clothing, and strange little gadgets such as over-sized lighters. My favorite part of the store was the music section. They had a wall full of music and iPads attached to the wall with headphones so that people could listen to the music before buying it. I went over and started going through some music. After a little while one man who worked there came over and asked if I would like some help picking something out. I initially thought to brush him off as I usually do not accept help from salespeople, but this time I decided it might be interesting to see what he had to say. He asked me what I was interested in getting, and I just said that I wanted to find some French music that I would really enjoy. He asked me what some of my favorite bands are and he knew some of them and didn't know others. He showed me some of his favorite things and stuff that he thought I would like based on what I had told him I liked. I thought it was so interesting that we actually had somewhat similar music tastes even though we come from such different backgrounds. I ended up getting a cd that had several different French artists on it and I have really enjoyed getting to know the music on it so far. However the best part of the experience for me was meeting a real French guy that I could just have an innocent and honest conversation with about something that we both love. It made me feel much less like alien in this place that often feels so different from home.

Small World

I went to find gifts for my family yesterday. The flee market in Le Marais on Rue Reaumur has just about anything you could imagine: food, vintage clothing, books etc. I stopped at a table that had fedoras. The man selling them started speaking to me in French. I obviously couldn’t understand anything he said but I heard him say Frank Sinatra. I just smiled and said yeah Sinatra. He gave me a weird look and asked me if I spoke English. When I said yes he started speaking English to me. He asked if I liked Frank Sinatra, I told him I love Frank Sinatra. He asked what my favorite song was and I told him that was a hard question, but answered that it was Loves Refrain. I asked him what his was he told me his was Love me or Leave me. I was surprised because I might have said the same song. Most people just know his most famous songs, so I knew he must really be into Sinatra. I smiled really big and started trying the hats on. He asked me where I was from and I told him Oklahoma. I was extremely surprised when he asked if that was near Texas. I said YES, it borders Texas. He told me that his sister married an American and now lives in Austin, Texas, and that he has visited her multiple times and that he loves Texas but hates the heat in the summer. All I could say was small world. I found a fedora that I liked and asked how much it was. He told me he charges ten Euro but for me it was five. He was such a nice guy and I was extremely surprised to find so much in common with a Parisian. I have felt pretty alienated here in Paris and was beginning to think negatively about Parisians. This interaction was just what I needed to remind me of our commonalities instead of dwelling on our differences.

Cultural Narrative: Nails, Sales, and Failing at French
By: Sam Lee

So, despite what you may think it is actually really difficult to find French people who are willing to talk with you in stumbly French. This week I tried really hard to avoid using English when asking questions and exploring the city, however, time and time again people would switch to English as soon as I would make a mistake.

Attempt number one was at the market on Friday. In Belleville there is a very long, very crowded, very noisy market that is a hoot to explore. The food is cheap and colorful and for the most part tasty. My first interaction was buying Merguez sausages, which are super tasty, and on the whole it was a rather successful in French interaction.. I asked for fifteen on accident, instead of four (because I don’t know how to ask for things in weight). After lots of pointing and gesticulating we negotiated how many I wanted. Then the man helping me told me they were piquante, which as far as I know means spicy. This was fine by me, but the man seemed really concerned that I didn’t know what he meant and went on to find another example of spicy food. Still telling him this was good he checked again, and I began to wonder if maybe it is not spicy and made of some strange local meat that I might not want to eat, like brains. When I got home it was in fact spicy, although not very.

My second interaction in the market was less successful (in terms of staying in French). I wanted some clementines, and not wanting a whole kilo I asked for six. However, I struggled to remember the word for six, which is six (silly me) and held up my fingers to make double sure. The man behind the counter, understood what I meant and counted out the clementines for me, in French. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or not. He went on to ask, in English, if I was a tourist. I was flustered by this point and all my French vocabulary disappeared.

Still determined to have an actual conversation in the little French I knew I went to the nail salon. I had been wanting a manicure anyway and thought this could be a good setting to talk. However, as soon as the women painting my nails noticed my inadequate vocabulary she switched to English, and even though I tried to strike up another conversation in French, she stuck to my native tongue. Disheartened I went home, although I was pleased with my nails.

My final attempt this week was while buying lunch. I had ordered all my food in French without a hitch, even keeping cool when I didn’t understand a question. I asked politely for the cook to repeat in French. The man behind me in line struck up a conversation with me, and again I kept my cool and told him I didn’t speak very good French. Before I could continue to ask him to repeat what he said more slowly, he switched to English, asking the same questions about where I was from and what I was doing in Paris. My food was ready before I could try to steer the conversation back to French.

I am perplexed with how to keep my conversations in French. I realize that our time here is coming to a close, but I was vainly hoping to improve my French a little while in Paris. I feel that with the trend of my previous interactions, I’m not going to have much luck. It seems that almost everyone I interact with is perfectly fluent in English, and so there is no need to learn more French. At the same time I feel that if I don’t speak French I will be looked down upon by the locals. It is quite a conundrum, and with such little time left I don’t think I will find a resolution.

Parisian Music Experience

Since I have been here the most positive interactions I have had have been at musical events. I feel like the common environment and atmosphere created by a group of people with similar musical interest allows people to be more accepting of their surroundings and the people in them. I have attended many different types of shows and performances and feel that this is a place where people are most friendly to me. However, this of coarse comes with the over friendly men and those who have no intentions of being at all decent.

The first event I attended was at a club for Deadmau5 given, as he is very popular in the states, I was not surprised by the overwhelming amount of American, Canadian and English people in the crowd that I met. What I did find a little funny was how offended Parisians got when I asked where they were from. Their English was so good and most of them had British accents so I couldn’t pick up on the fact that they were actually French. Another night that I went to see Steve Aoki another fairly famous DJ in America, the situation was very different. It wasn’t until 3am that he actually began his set and the whole time that I was asking around if people knew when he was coming on, it was like they didn’t even know who he was. They were strictly there for the club with its view of Seine through the gorgeously lit arches. At both of these clubs men who just couldn’t take a hint followed me mercilessly. Social Club was by far my favorite, we went to see a French artist and there was not much interaction but the whole environment was much more low key, just about dancing with your friends rather than impressing people with your clothes and bottle service area. Although I didn’t have very many interactions with people here I thoroughly enjoyed watching Yelle and can’t wait to see her again tomorrow night where she will actually be singing in French as opposed to playing a DJ set.

In desperate need for something other than the club scene, we went to check out the gypsy jazz festival at the flea market. In a restaurant still covered in Christmas decorations and hidden in a winding antique market, it was like this place had never been tainted by the changes that come with time. A woman with a beautiful deep voice blaring loudly through the speakers in the tiny café over a small band of an accordion, bass and keyboard. Occasionally, a man would come on with his drink in hand belting classic French music, the crowd was a testament to this. Later on in the week La Fete de la Musique also filled my craving for world music. Although we saw many different DJ sets playing everywhere from on top of a truck, on a boat, a balcony and a huge temporary stage the different cultures we came across when turning the corner is what truly amazed me. I was lucky enough to witness a traditional Chinese drum circle and song performance just far enough away from a Native American pan flute band that their rhythms wouldn’t be competing to be heard. Both in traditional and ornate costuming they played as if it was for no one but himself or herself. I also saw the various facets of African culture and how different they are from each other. This is something that I have noticed just from observing the people on the street however, switching from a traditional African drum circle to a rap battle in a matter of minutes was unreal. My favorite show of the night was most definitely a rock show in front of a bistro that we happened to stumble across. Standing behind a lovely French couple hand rolling their cigarettes we watched as a crazy blonde proceeded to climb up onto peoples dinner tables and then their shoulders to crowd surf the passerby’s. Throughout her show she was trying to pull her friend up to sing with her but she wasn’t having it. After a couple songs the craziness dies down and the second girl came on stage to sing a beautiful opera song, melting my heart with each word even though I couldn’t understand her. All in all, I couldn’t have dreamed of a better experience. When it got dark I felt unsafe after being cornered and harassed in the crowded streets even though I was wearing long pants and a long shirt, I think the pure wonderment that was burned into my eyes is what made me an easy target. I was really upset at the time but I realize that things could have been a lot worse. I am able to look past this now and embrace the experience for the beauty of the pride of all the separate cultures that are able to coexist in one city.

the hammum hero

This week I am a little embarrassed to talk about my cultural experience. I constantly put myself in situations where people take advantage of my absent mindedness. On Monday after visiting the Grand Palais I wanted to unwind a bit, so I decided to try out a Hammum. Upon walking in I felt that I stepped back in time, or into a painting by Matisse or Ingres with women lounging and washing each other. I pointed to the service I wanted and the woman handed me a fist full of soaps and tickets and pointed towards the back. Having no idea what to do, I wandered from room to room, far from relaxed. I went back and forth from my locker a couple times. I fussed with my stuff and hoped to catch a glance of someone who looked like they knew what the deal was, so I could copy them. The second or third time I came back I was walking down the row when I heard a stern voice shout “Qu’est-ce que vous fait?....” she continued in French I could not comprehend. I looked up to see a hand pointing at my locker, I had left it open, with all of my stuff inside. She continued to chatter and walked away. Horrified and on the verge of tears I went back to the bath, where I was scrubbed to oblivion. When I walked into the massage room a half hour later I saw the girl who had yelled at me. She walked over and started talking to me again, I told her I didn’t speak French. She smiled then and said “oh, that’s why you didn’t answer me in the lockers! I thought I had just scared you badly!” We started talking and she told me she had seen me walk away from my locker and stood there for fifteen minutes making sure no one stole anything before I got back. I couldn’t believe how nice she was to me. I was so careless and her kindness was completely uncalled for. I bought her a tea and we sat and talked, she was from Libya and come to France to study international affairs. I always thought that my carelessness only affected me, but now I’m starting to realize the amount of strain it puts on people like this woman, or my friends and family. But, it is reassuring to know that the world is full of beautiful people who go out of their way to protect a total stranger.

Happy Terrace!

While wandering through the sixth arrondissement yesterday, Becca and I decided to grab a drink at a trendy looking terrace. We got a table and were nestled in tight with Parisians on both sides. We spoke softly so that we did not give away our identity. While going about our own business, the receipt of an elderly couple next to us rolled off their table and landed next to Becca’s feet. I helped guide Becca’s blind hand to the recite and the old man smiled and said, “oh you girls speak English.” This couple that had been to the right of us had been speaking French, but after Becca’s heroic recite retrieval we began converse with them in English.

It turned out that they had both moved to Paris years ago. The woman had come to Paris thirty year ago and the man couldn’t even remember. (Or maybe he didn’t want to disclose to give away his age.) The old man was quiet and adorable, while his partner was a firecracker, very interesting and very opinionated. She talked about the progressive nature of European transportation in contrast to the US. During this conversation the woman made very astute observation about Colorado’s issue with transportation from the front range to the mountains every weekend. She commented that there needs to be a train service from the front range to the mountain, to save oil.

The couple was so sweet, they wanted to know where we were living, what we were studying etc etc. When we told them that we lived on rue de la Roquette the woman squealed with excitement. When she first came to Paris she had lived on rue de la Roquette. She was so sweet and gave us some suggestions about good places to get coffee and eat around our neighborhood. All the while her partner just sat smiling sipping on his wine. This was quite a lovely and random cultural encounter.

Cultural Assignment 4: Fete de La Musique

After being drained both physically and mentally from a combination of being sick and cussed out and told to get out of their town by several Parisians for no reason, the fete de la musique reaffirmed by desire to be here. The whole city partakes and it was nothing like I had ever seen, there were acts large and small. Everyone who doesn’t plan on participating has no choice since the streets are overrun with people. We saw a DJ ontop of a homemade stage, built on the roof. Another one was spinning from the balcony of a building, with a group of professional breakdancers, “City Ten”, doing some nifty acrobatics below in the street. Bands from all cultures were there; saw a Japanese drum circle, Native American pan flute ban, African chorus and German industrial techno to name a few. I finally started to interact with the nicer Parisians as well.

I went into a Franprix to buy a drink and while I was waiting in line the woman in front of me needed help with her cart which had become tangled with the smaller baskets. I gave her a hand and she responded with thanks and asked, “are you hairy”. I said “what?” “are you in a hurry”? she said. “I said, “kind of, my friends are all waiting for me.” She then told me I could cut her and I asked as long as she didn’t mind. She smiled and waved me on, which was extremely kind of her given the store was packed. Later while we were watching a show where the DJ was on a boat playing to almost two thousand people on the dock, a random Frenchman came up to me and asked if I was having fun, I said, “yeah, definitely.” He said, “good! I want everyone to love Paris!”

Later that night at a café after the insanity of getting back on the metro, I had the privilege to debate with a French girl who was a friend of a friend and spoke perfect English. We talked about the differences of American and Parisian men. She made me come to understand that the women have their own rules for dealing with the men, but are still trying to change it and don’t accept it as simply as part of their culture. They hate it just as much as any other girl but have developed their own ways to deal with it. It was a little disappointing when we would walk and she would get the same treatment as the girls of the course, but would respond with a sassy French line (once she said something like “what? Speak French I don’t understand what you say”) and then the men noticeably changed their demeanor. They became nice (one man gave her his entire uneaten dinner), it was as if since she wasn’t a tourist they didn’t need to harass her. I don’t think it’s fair for them to take advantage of the fact people are tourists who might not be back for some time.

The whole night just made me realize that as much as I would want it to be like it is in America, it’s not. They have their own rules and customs and there is no point in fighting it because it’s easier to just deal with it rather than be angered that’s not like home. I’ve also realized that all the negative things happen almost as soon as the sun goes down and if you plan on going out you might as well assume something is going to happen. You need to play by the rules that are practiced otherwise you will stick out and become a target. I also have become aware that some of these issues are because we are in a large city and that it would be very similar, if not the same, if we were New York, London or Barcelona. She said she would plan something to make sure I didn’t leave with a negative impression, and I really hope she contacts me because it was definitely nice to gain some perspective from a local rather than get angered because it’s not how it is in America.

Cultural Narrative: Week Trois

After being in Paris for about three weeks I thought it would be a good time to do some laundry. Amelia and I were blessed with a wonderful apartment with probably one of the nicest view of the city, but only lacked a washer. So this past weekend Amelia and I decided to pay a visit to the local Laundromat, but what happened there isn’t what expected…

With garbage bags in hand we then set off down the street. When we arrived there was an older woman who was also using the facilities. I don’t think we prepared ourselves very well because the machine instructions looked very foreign. I thought that using the machines would be easy, like a universal sort of a thing. Well, go figure, I was wrong. “Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked the women, she replied “Oui, êtes-vous besoin d'aide?” She then explained to us in English how to use the machines, I felt kind of dumb at this point. But soon enough our dirty laundry was getting cleaned and Amelia and I headed back up to our apartment.

An hour had passed and we had already put our cloths into the dryer. Amelia and I then gathered our empty garbage bags and headed down to the Laundromat for our final lap. There were more people this time, so things were now crowed. As we each stood back to back folding our cloths I noticed a man walk in. He was dressed normally in a collared shirt and shorts, but didn’t have any garments with him, so I wondered what he could be doing here. He just stood in the doorway for a minute then went and stood an arms length, directly in front of Amelia. Because my back was turned I couldn’t exactly tell what he was doing, but I could still feel his presence. I wasn’t alarmed at this point because there were other people in room, but he then came around and stood right across from me and leaned up against the washer with his chin in his hand. I took one look at him and knew something wasn’t right and because he had sunglasses on I couldn’t tell exactly what he looking at. Amelia then nudged me and whispered, “He is making me uncomfortable, let’s get out of here.” We then gathered our things and walked out the door. I could sense something still wasn’t right as I looked over my shoulder and there in the street looking at us was the same man who was staring at us inside. “I think he is following us”, Amelia said. We instinctively didn’t want him to see where we were going, so we turned left inside of right and stood in a doorway. 5 minutes passed and Amelia checked to see if he was still standing there, he wasn’t so we ran back to our apartment. We weren’t sure if he was indeed following us, but we didn’t want to take any chances. Afterward we felt a bit freaked out, but both agreed that we made the right decisions.

I’m not going to lie; this experience was a little nerve racking. Reflecting back on it now I find it interesting how innately I knew that something wasn’t quite right as soon as that man walked into the Laundromat. Just goes to show you how well your basic instinct kicks in sometimes. I would say that this occurrence wasn’t traumatizing, just a reminder that we are living in a city and there are certainly creep’s and weirdo’s out there, even in Laundromats.

Trying to have an interactive conversation with a Parisian is hard, especially when you are constantly searching for one.

In hopes to push myself further into the Parisian culture I have been walking around all week looking for that special someone to mingle with. All week I was constantly thinking about potential victims, and analysis how I would execute my interactions with these people. When walking home from the metro after our visit to Giverny today I was again plotting in my mind where this interaction might take place when a light bulb went off in my head. DING DING DING. I realized that I had a wonderful interaction to write about that I had totally overlooked.

I love to eat bananas in the morning for breakfast. And this habitual routine of mine is what coincidentally lead to my cultural interaction this week. Over the past few weeks I have been visiting the same fruit vender on my street. Every time the same old man is there to sell me my bananas. Slowly our relationship has begun to bloom and we have started to greet each other and treat each other differently. At first our interactions started with formal greetings followed by enthusiastic but slightly robotic merci(s) and Au revoir(s) from my end. During my most recent visit I entered the shop around lunchtime when it was very busy. Even though it was busy the old man looked over and greeted me with a “bonjour” and a warm smile. I smiled back echoing “bonjour.” After picking out some tasty bananas I went to stand in line. When I got to register he smiled and said “salut ca va?” I smiled and reposed, “ca va, et vous?” And he echoed back “ca va. ”He knows my French is limited from previous visits, but he was still kind and curious as to how I am doing. This really made me feel special and embraced. Ironically I over looked this interaction. This is because I was over analyzing what an ideal cultural interaction would look like. For the weeks to come I am going try and evolve and let the chips fall as they may.

time for some new bananas looks like another interaction!!!!!!

Vince

This weekend I went down to Aix-en-Provence to research Cezanne. My hotel didn’t have internet so I apologize for this being late. I took the high-speed train out of Paris early Friday morning and three hours later was in a different world. Stepping off of the train it was like stepping into a sun-soaked dream. I fully and completely understand why Cezanne kept coming back to this place. Needless to say, I fell utterly in love and had a hard time getting back on the train today. But, from the beginning. The TGV station is a in between Aix and Marseilles so there is a shuttle that you can take that will get to right to the heart of Aix. I got a little lost in the station and ended up just barley catching the navette. By the time I got there it was nearing capacity so I squished myself into one of the few remaining seats.

It was so crowded and stuffy on the bus, yet the person sitting in front of me still leaned his seat all the way back to lay down. The man sitting next to me got upset for this inconsiderate action and ended up yelling at the person sit up. After this outburst the man asked if I had enough room. It’s been hard to tell if French men are just being nice or looking for a conquest, but he seemed genuinely nice. So I ended up talking to him, Vince, for the whole ride into town. Our conversation was a mix of French and English, because we both spoke a little of the other. He asked about me and was shocked that I was travelling alone. He was traveling home from vacation, to Aix from San Francisco, and was really jet lagged. Despite this he was really interesting and we had a great conversation about Aix. He was born in Brittany, where I’ll be going this coming weekend, so we talked about the differences between there and Provence. He was a normal guy but even he understood how light affects colors and the importance of that in painting. It was wonderful to have him talk to me about this and about Cezanne.

By the time we arrived at the bus station in Aix, he was legitimately concerned that I was alone in a new city. So he walked with me to my hotel and gave me his number, in case I need anything. I didn’t end up calling him, because we had only just met and I wanted to be on the safe side. But I was a wonderful experience to connect with someone, especially in a different language. I discovered that everyone I met in Aix was much more open (?) and genuine than the people in Paris. I supposed it’s the difference between a big city and the country. But I was a lot easier to fall into conversations with everyone, whereas in Paris I have to make a point of trying to connect with people.

Cultural Narrative 3 - Men of Paris

I suppose anywhere you travel, you are bound to meet a plethora of people; some nice, some rude, some interesting, some awkward and so on.  I have been trying to figure out the whole “Men of Paris” deal ... Thus far, my only conversation with new men here seems to revolve around teasing American girls in a friendly way, or deliberately being rude.  

This past week after going out to dinner, a small group went up to the Sacre Coeur to enjoy some champagne and the scenery; there were three different groups of men who approached us.  

As the cork to our champagne popped off a guy behind us yelled, “Nice shot!” ... in response we yelled back, “Merci!” ... the man was not pleased.  He came over to us asking which of us said “merci”, next asking us if we were from France, and if not why would we speak French back to him when he was speaking English?  The situation was very rude, as we were only trying to be friendly and polite and his response was extremely aggressive.  He was so angry with us in fact, that we had to blatantly as him to leave.  

Soon after this, three other men approached us.  These men seemed much more friendly, though they did enjoy teasing us a bit.  The first man came over referring to us as Brittany Spears, Shakira and then pointed to me saying Mariah Carry.  Not being able to understand their accents very clearly, I responded, “Why do I have to be the scientist?” (I thought he called me Marie Curie).  After a bit of conversation, they began speaking in French, and I was able to utilize the small amount of the language I know.  Finally he asked our real names, beginning with Heidi ... I responded for her: “Elle s’appelle Colette”.  

French Guy: “Elle peut dire son nom.”

Me: “He wants you to say your name.”

Heidi: “Colette”.

It was pretty funny.  This went on for a little while longer as they asked me in French how long we had been there and what we had done earlier that day.  The men seemed nice enough and I was happy to put my French to use.

The next night we met up with my friend Faiz and some of his friends from Paris.  I was chatting with his friend Hedi who asked me what I thought of the French men.  I told him about our experiences earlier that week and he was very surprised ... He was disappointed that they would treat American girls this way asking, “What’s the point?” After discussing this for a bit we talked about places we have visited in Paris so far, places he thinks we should make it to, what we are studying and what I plan to do when I get back to the states.  It was nice to finally have a conversation with a Parisian man that had more depth than pointing out American stereotypes!

Cultural Narrative: Talking with Kids
By Sam Lee

This week it felt like there were a hundred children at every museum we visited. Although the kids were loud and everywhere it warmed my heart to see so many youth involved in the arts. Not only were kids seeing the art, but many were sketching and writing about it as well. It feels like the arts are taken a lot more seriously here in France, and valued much more than back in the States. I wish America took the time to introduce its youth to the wealth of art in our country.

While we were at the Musee Marmottan Monet I had the chance to have a brief conversation with one of the students that was also visiting that day. After Marit’s presentation I was inspecting the canvases more closely. I was really curious to see the unfinished areas of the paintings. A little girl caught my attention and shyly asked me what my name was in flawless English. I told her and asked her back (however, I can’t remember her name now), and then asked her what she was drawing. She told me the art. I asked her how old she was (still in English), and she had no idea what I said. She looked over to her teacher for encouragement.

It hadn’t even occurred to me that she was practicing her English on me, so I switched to the little bit of French I know. I dumbly asked her if she spoke French, which she obviously did, and then told her I don’t speak very much French. She smiled sweetly, pointed at her notebook, said something in French really fast, and then ran off shyly. I was disappointed to not have the chance to learn more.

I’m constantly stunned by how well the youth in this country speak English. They don’t have any accent at all, so I find myself constantly caught off guard. I heard some kids on the metro one day practicing with their parents, and again if they hadn’t switched back to French when getting into an argument (they were siblings) I would have been none the wiser. I’m curious to know when these kids are learning English, and how they learn it so flawlessly when most adults I talk to still have a really thick accent.

Friends in Unexpected Places

Although it has been difficult for me to interact with the Parisians since I have only one semester of the language and my very limited funds have made it difficult for me to go out and do many of the things I would like to do, I have finally found that the best way to truly connect is to find places where there is potential for people that have similar interests as me. I found a neighborhood this week that has a tattoo parlors, which was unexpected since I have not seen very much of that culture here in France. I really love body art, and I was so interested in looking at how different it was here in Paris and happy to find French people that love it too and want to share it with me and talk about it. I have found that people with tattoos always want to talk about them, and since they are such a personal thing it is really a good way to learn about people and hear their stories. It took a couple times walking by and awkwardly poking my head in before I finally went in and started looking at the art on the walls and flipping through the portfolios. A man asked me if I needed help, and I explained in my best french that I was just looking, and that I have not seen any tattoo parlors yet in Paris and I wanted to see what it was like. He was kind of an intimidating guy, so I was ready to scurry out of there but I saw his face completely change when I told him why I was there and he got friendly and excited and pulled out his portfolio to show me. He did not speak enough english and I did not understand enough French to really have any sort of meaningful conversation, but the shared excitement and interest was the most bonding I have done with a French person since I got here. I feel like I spend so much time in tourist areas where the French people do not want to interact with me because there is no opportunity to break the ice and find out what the common ground is between us. Going somewhere that is a little out of the way took some courage for me, but it paid off in the end.

Youth in France

One night after a particularly long week of classes we decided to check out one of the local concert halls in our neighborhood. The venue was packed full of fashionable young Parisians, the girls all looked like they had walked out of a fashion magazine and even the men were well dressed wearing button down shirts, v neck tees, and colorful skinny jeans, a phenomenon that will probably never occur in the states. As I was waiting by the bar inside a young French girl dressed in all black struck up a conversation with me in French; I had understood that she was asking me where I got my dress but when I couldn’t formulate an answer quick enough I just apologized and told her I did not speak French. She then started talking to me in English and was very sweet, she wanted to know where I was from and what I was doing in Paris. I answered her questions in English and interjected a few French words and phrases; I felt bad that I had studied French for seven years but not spoke it in three, and had forgotten just about everything.

This young girl told me that she was from Paris but has always wanted to go to California and New York, she was surprised that I had not been to either besides one trip to California but I told here traveling in the US was a lot different because our country is so big and that most people will not see all 50 states in their lifetime. In Europe, she explained, it is easy to travel from country to country and she had visited places all over Europe as well as Morocco and Egypt. When I asked her how old she told me she was 17, I was shocked; she was already well traveled, spoke perfect English, and was dressed like a 25-year-old American. I thought about myself at that age and I couldn’t have even come close to how confident and mature this young lady was. In France I believe teenagers are exposed to more and at a younger age whereas in the US we are protected within our communities and set loose once we turn 18. The drinking laws are one example that reflect the difference in levels of maturity; she told me that here they are allowed to drink sooner and therefore learn their limits early on. Back home teenagers loose control more quickly because they are not exposed from an early age, their curiosity leads to dangerous experimentation which is why most young Americans are notorious for binge drinking. I am impressed with how mature the young people are in Paris, much more refined and worldly that anyone I have met in the states.

Breaking the ice with a cold one

As a beer connoisseur I came to Paris curious about what their beer selection would be. When I visited Italy and Greece a couple of years ago I was very disappointed with the beer, but I thought that France might be better considering that they supposedly have the finest cuisine and wonderful wine. Since I’ve been here I’ve been trying each new beer I see, and attempting to ask the waiters about the flavors. It’s interesting because it doesn’t seem like most of the waiters know much of anything about the beer they are serving and act confused when I ask them about it, as if the question is simple, what size do you want? I’ve been to several different café’s with the same experience, but a couple of weeks ago I ran into a waiter in a small restaurant in Le Marais who seemed more engaging and excited that I wanted to talk about beer. He spoke pretty good English and stood at the table for quite a while talking about the beers that they serve and asking what my favorites are. I didn’t recognize any of the beers on the list, but decided to go with something that the suggested. It turned out that this beer was not exactly my taste, but much better than anything else I had tried here.

I went back to the same restaurant about a week later and was happy to see that the same waiter was working. He recognized me and immediately asked what beer I was drinking. I tried to explain to him that the one I had last time was fairly good, but still not exactly what I wanted. With mainly hand motions and facials expressions I attempted to relay to him what I was looking for and suddenly he got it. In a moment he brought out a tiny bottle of beer called, Grimbergen. With a smile he popped the top and handed me a cold one. The beer was good, it wasn’t amazing, but it was good. The beer actually had flavor, which was new. So glad I found the lone beer-lover in Paris.

The perfect "prescription"

Last night I met up with Amelia, Genna, and Faiz (one of Amelia’s friends that is a native Parisian) at the Amish Kapoor exhibit. When Amelia introduced me to Faiz he greeted me “the French way” as he said with a kiss on each cheek. After we were done looking around we all piled into Faiz’s smart car. I never realized how small those cars really are until I in it but they really do make sense for a city like Paris. I don’t think that most of the cars that we drive in the states could maneuver the narrow streets much less fit into any parking spaces. It was nice to actually be in a car and see Paris from a new perspective and it was also interesting because I see all the crazy drivers in their cars, but this time I was actually in one. He drove us to a bar called “The Prescription” to meet up with some of his friends. Apparently it is their favorite place and they go there at least once a week. That night it was a “Madmen” theme so everyone was dressed in 20’s/30’s attire. At the bar we met Faiz’s two friends, Hedi and Ramsey. I felt so lucky to be out experiencing the night life with real Parisians in a local spot, but I also felt somewhat intimidated. The boys were so friendly that I quickly felt much more at ease. I talked with Faiz for awhile about my experience in Paris so far and the places he had been in the U.S. After that I talked with Ramsey about how he splits his time between New York and Paris because his girlfriend lives in New York and works for Alexander McQueen(!!). It was interesting to hear his perspective on New York and how he thought is was similar to Paris in a lot of ways; I have now lived in both cities and I feel the same way. He also started talking about music festivals and how he really wants to go to Coachella. We actually had a lot of similar music tastes and the more and more I talked to everyone the more I realized that as much as we seem so different, we actually have a lot in common. We plan on hanging out with them again and hopefully we can continue getting to know each other better and maybe even become friends. All in all a night at "The Prescription" was the perfect medicine to cure what had been a pretty tough week.

Week 3: Mischief

Having a very limited French vocabulary in Paris can feel a bit isolating. It simplifies and mechanizes interactions, and allows for no eavesdropping on conversations happening all around you. I find that I really want to blend in and conduct myself in French as much as I can, but sometimes this can leave me feeling cold when all I can say is “Bonjour, … s’il vous plait, merci” instead of the option of any kind of small talk. This is why I relish the occasional friendly or playful acknowledgement I receive: I have two examples that happened this week.

            Last weekend, I decided to check out the Elizabeth Peyton and Richard Avedon shows that are up at Gagosian gallery. When I found the gallery I walked up to the glass door, and the man standing inside noticed me and partially opened it to sternly say something in French. I kind of got the gist of it, something along the lines of a special membership ticket for entry, but I stammered, “Pardon? Je ne parle pas francais…” He repeated in English, asking me if I had a Gagosian card. “No… sorry, I didn’t realize…” at which point his expression softened, the door opened all the way; he smiled and welcomed me in. I laughed it off with him but immediately felt a new level of discomfort. There was a certain truth to his playful teasing – the gallery is very high end, very clinical feeling – I did not feel the same warm energy from the other security guards or from the people behind the desk, but rather felt like my every move was monitored. I understand that the gallery business is tricky and can be stressful, but to say it was different from visiting a museum would be an understatement. Regardless, I enjoyed the work, and as I was leaving the same security guard at front asked, “Where are you going?” as if I was leaving the party just as it was getting started. He nicely directed me towards the second level and wished me a good day, and I really appreciated this contrast from the very tight display of the art.

            Later in the week, on the day that we went to the Rodin museum, I arrived about 20 minutes early so I decided to find a place to wait. There was a fence surrounding the park, the bottom portion creating somewhat of a stone ledge – I decided to hop up and position myself in a corner against the upper portion of metal bars. I assume that this is not a typical place to sit, since it is high enough that you have to do a bit of climbing, and since I received many odd stares from below me on the sidewalk. Shortly after settling into my perch I felt someone softly clutching my right foot for a second as I dangled my leg over the side. I was surprised and looked down just in time to make very brief eye contact with a man in a group as they walked by.  I realized it was just a spontaneous playful gesture, his own version of the quirkiness he may have seen in my unconventional choice of a seat, and although I couldn’t crack a smile quick enough I felt that we were in on the same joke.

            In general people seem to conduct themselves very professionally here, which is fine, but it is the rare moments of lightness and play that make me feel more like I belong.

Week 3-A Global Seminar

As many of my peers have noticed, Paris is in many ways a mix of different cultures, not just the French. People are often trained to speak multiple languages apart from their native tongue. Everywhere I am reminded of this fact, from the girls singing a Spanish song on the metro to the many waiters who can speak English perfectly. Last week we were discussing the fact that this program is called a “Global Seminar,” and more and more I feel that I am being exposed to more than just the French culture, namely in terms of the art that I am viewing.

Today I decided to go to the Musee Guimet, where I knew there was an exhibition of a contemporary Indian artist, Rina Bannerjee—not knowing quite what to expect. In addition to the contemporary exhibition, which was interspersed throughout the museum, there was an amazing collection of Asian religious art from places such as South Asia, India, Japan, and China. I was blown away at the intricate craftsmanship that must have been required to erect such exquisite religious figures. The fact that they were created so long ago and with such devotion was really inspiring. It reminded me that all art has the power to become a sacred object, not simply religious art. However, these statues and objects no doubt had a very powerful presence about them.

The Rina Bannerjee exhibition was equally awe-inspiring. She is a contemporary Indian-born artist who moved to England and then the United States as a young child. Her installations are mixed media, using materials such as netting, light bulbs, Indian fabrics, colonial objects, animal skulls, feathers, and much more. Because of her unique background she brings a special vision to her work—a sort of combining of East and West, past and present. One of her more interesting works was a Taj Mahal made out of pink plastic wrap. I don’t think you were allowed to take pictures, but I was able to snag one photo of this installation shown above.

I especially enjoyed my visit to the Musee Guimet today because in the past few semesters at CU I have taken several courses in Indian history, as well as the history of British colonialism in India, as I am double majoring in History in addition to Studio Art. This exhibition so beautifully encompassed many connections between Eastern and Western cultures in a way that also speaks to more current issues of globalization and mass culture. I would like to learn more about this artist and continue to see what new inventions she creates. My visit to the Musee Guimet was just another example of how this program is exposing me to so many other cultures and ideas in addition to the French, making this a much richer and more valuable experience.

Always a Little Lost in Translation

Living in France as an American who does not speak French is certainly a humbling experience. To compensate for the language difference, I have dressed modestly, lowered my volume, and developed a metro stare that Medusa would envy. Still, the Parisians can always tell that I am an American. There are many opinions on how Parisians can identify us: our noses and makeup, how we look around at the buildings, our loudness, our tendency to wear tennis shoes, the way we walk, etc. I started off very concerned about fitting in, but after about a week I decided to just be polite and do my own thing. That's been going relatively well, but I still catch myself inadvertently doing dumb things.

Take today for an instance...I have had a little bit of a cold so I went down the street to the pharmacy that looked the most inviting. Walking in, I was a bit overwhelmed by all of the boxes--some with brands that I recognized, but all descriptions that I did not understand. As I was wandering around looking for a box with a picture of someone with a cold, I failed to notice that I had walked into forbidden territory behind the desk. One of the pharmacy attendants came out and politely asked me if I would step away from the medications and join the line at the front counter. Another American moment, and I could feel my face burning with embarrassment as the man explained how to take the pills in a tone that implied I was a simpleton.

I shook that experience off and headed back to the apartment and stopped at the corner store where I always go to get my Schweppes Agrum fix. The couple that owns the store recognize me now and are very friendly, so I thought I would let the woman working know that a flock of birds had descended on the fruit.
"Parlez-vous anglais?" I asked.
"Un peu," she responded.
"The flock of birds is stealing your fruit."
"Burrrhs???"
To demonstrate what a "burrrh" was, I found myself tweeting and flapping my arms to get my point across. She had a good laugh and then went to beat the birds off her plums with an umbrella. I felt rather silly, but at least this time I communicated efficiently.

Not So Lost in Translation

Living in France as an American who does not speak French is certainly a humbling experience. To compensate for the language difference, I have dressed modestly, lowered my volume, and developed a metro stare that Medusa would envy. But still, the Parisians can always tell that I am an American. There are differing opinions on how Parisians can identify us: our noses, how we look around with , our loudness, our tendency to wear tennis shoes and sweats, the way we walk, etc. I started off very concerned about

The French Mistress

Studying 19^th century French art has opened my eyes to a lot of customs I didn’t know about before this trip. The idea of the mistress is something I was aware of, but I did not understand the degree it affected artists, their lovers, and society. As we continue to learn about muses, playboys, and socialites the themes of love and infidelity are constantly surfacing. From Rodin and Claudel to Picasso and Marie Thérèse, the mistress is a theme that has been present for centuries. 

While learning about these scandalous affairs I tried to contextualize these relationships in their time periods; I told myself things were different back in the day, marriage and divorce were different situations. Yet the more I tried to tell myself this, the more I realized these circumstances it in present day life. When I see men returning in their work clothes late at night I wonder…have they been with their mistress? While walking around in the evenings we see much younger women with older men and end up dramatizing their lives. Although much of this may be my imagination, I have been observing more and more situations that remind me of artists and their many mistresses.

French customs are so different than American culture and this issue has been something I continually compare and contrast. This is one of the many things I have observed during my stay in Paris, and I found it intriguing that some traditions have not changed since the 19^th century. 

Week 3: London Vs. Paris

Last weekend I went on an excursion to London to meet up with some friends who are also currently abroad. I was really interested about how different the city was compared to the states, but more intrigued by how different it was in comparison to Paris. America seems a lot like London, which makes more sense obviously because we were originally colonized by the British. It's funny to ride in a taxi driving on the 'wrong' side of the road though. The pubs and restaurants and streets seemed a lot more modern and had a lot more open space about them, where Paris seems to make due with the limited amount of space it has available. Although they speak English, it was almost more difficult to understand them then the people even Paris, which is ironic because I don't really speak any french. The waitresses had no idea what I was saying either, they didn't even know what soda or pop was-they just called it coke. The taxi drivers were extremely friendly and were pretty fun to talk to. We started a conversation with one about his favorite football team and how although he loves Chelsea and the English world team, Spain seems to always win- most recently the 2010 World Cup and European Premier League Championship. The food was a little greasier than the cuisine in Paris, but it's more likely that we weren't getting the best quality fish n chips at 1 in the morning. Drinking is more socially accepted in Europe and even more so in London. When we went to a pub for lunch at around 11 am, most of the people there were about 2 pints in. They also serve most of their popular beers warm. It was a really fun weekend and nice break from Paris, but I was ready to come back here after hearing their jagged accents for three days. The french language is a lot easier on the ears.

Interactions

I think it is safe to say that I have adjusted to the Parisian time in that I don’t get hungry for dinner until about 9pm, given that this is when the happy hours end and it is still very light outside. When we go out to restaurants and I go up to the bar to ask for a drink or the check, men have a tendency to approach me and start speaking in French. I have only taken one months worth of classes and bought CD’s to try and teach myself. However, I have been able to say, “comment tu allez vous?” and get through basic introductions and such, shortly there after they will just switch to English. Without me even asking they can tell that I have reached the limit of my language capabilities. I will not take that for an answer though and immediately start talking to them about my difficulties with the language, more specifically with saying the letter “R” correctly. No CD’s could prepare me for the speed and the graceful manner with which the French connect their words into a seamless flowing song. I ask about the letter “R” because I feel like this is the easiest way that I am given away as an American although I’m sure that my accent in general is awful. After talking with these gentlemen and Val’s friend Meg, an American who has been living here for three years and speaks beautiful French, I have realized that there are many other subtleties that give me away long before then. Even the shape of our mouths when we open them to speak is different, I have also been told that we walk more aggressive. This reminds me of Manet and his fellow flanuer’s and the way that they stroll the Parisian streets observing every person right down to the details of the way the neckline falls on a woman’s dress.

Fortunately, those who I have tried to talk to spoke very good English and were more than happy to talk to me in my own language. Their English is so good they are surprised and confused when I ask them where they are from because a lot of them hast very British accents and can’t always tell that they are Parisian. Conversations typically start nice but end with a man upset that I am leaving, even though I haven’t accepted their drinks or any other offers. They have all said that I am so kind, telling me that French women won’t give them the time of day and to myself I think that I know why. Soon enough it becomes clear that they have no other interest in me then the possibility of hooking up with an American girl. The piano player at a restaurant was so upset I was leaving after our brief conversation that he offered to pay for my taxi home multiple times, but I am smarter than that and have no intentions of leaving without the people I came with. Another man went out of his way to track me down on faebook after the Deadmau5 concert I went to. I want to interact with people but it’s so hard for me when I feel these ulterior motives are present. It is like there is no common ground between acquaintance and possible conquest. Even back home, I have a hard time making friends with girls and hang out with mostly guys so it’s extremely difficult for me to go out of my comfort zone and try to speak to these beautiful and blasé women who inhabit this city. I haven’t been able to muster the courage to do so yet. When we see the groups of young children in the museums doing school work, I envy them and the fact that they learn about things I wouldn’t have ever heard of until college at ages younger than 12! I sometimes just feel that people from here are so much more knowledgeable, especially in the subject that we have all come here to study. The only woman I have actually gotten to speak to was in the line for the concert I spoke of earlier, we talked about our apartments and how nice it was to be in the area we and briefly about music and the show we were all about to see in comparison with the very old crowd waiting to see the Moulin Rouge show next door. When we got to talking about studying French art history she said “that’s so boring!” and it made me laugh, but she was a very sweet girl for talking with us translating certain things she had trouble remembering or understanding back and forth with her friend. Lastly, we talked about Colorado and she had said she wanted to come out and learn to ski and see the mountains, then we parted ways as the line began to move and on into the large crowded dance hall.

Interactions

I think it is safe to say that I have adjusted to the Parisian time in that I don’t get hungry for dinner until about 9pm, given that this is when the happy hours end and it is still very light outside. When we go out to restaurants and I go up to the bar to ask for a drink or the check, men have a tendency to approach me and start speaking in French. I have only taken one months worth of classes and bought CD’s to try and teach myself. However, I have been able to say, “comment tu allez vous?” and get through basic introductions and such, shortly there after they will just switch to English. Without me even asking they can tell that I have reached the limit of my language capabilities. I will not take that for an answer though and immediately start talking to them about my difficulties with the language, more specifically with saying the letter “R” correctly. No CD’s could prepare me for the speed and the graceful manner with which the French connect their words into a seamless flowing song. I ask about the letter “R” because I feel like this is the easiest way that I am given away as an American although I’m sure that my accent in general is awful. After talking with these gentlemen and Val’s friend Meg, an American who has been living here for three years and speaks beautiful French, I have realized that there are many other subtleties that give me away long before then. Even the shape of our mouths when we open them to speak is different, I have also been told that we walk more aggressive. This reminds me of Manet and his fellow flanuer’s and the way that they stroll the Parisian streets observing every person right down to the details of the way the neckline falls on a woman’s dress.

Fortunately, those who I have tried to talk to spoke very good English and were more than happy to talk to me in my own language. Their English is so good they are surprised and confused when I ask them where they are from because a lot of them hast very British accents and can’t always tell that they are Parisian. Conversations typically start nice but end with a man upset that I am leaving, even though I haven’t accepted their drinks or any other offers. They have all said that I am so kind, telling me that French women won’t give them the time of day and to myself I think that I know why. Soon enough it becomes clear that they have no other interest in me then the possibility of hooking up with an American girl. The piano player at a restaurant was so upset I was leaving after our brief conversation that he offered to pay for my taxi home multiple times, but I am smarter than that and have no intentions of leaving without the people I came with. Another man went out of his way to track me down on faebook after the Deadmau5 concert I went to. I want to interact with people but it’s so hard for me when I feel these ulterior motives are present. It is like there is no common ground between acquaintance and possible conquest. Even back home, I have a hard time making friends with girls and hang out with mostly guys so it’s extremely difficult for me to go out of my comfort zone and try to speak to these beautiful and blasé women who inhabit this city. I haven’t been able to muster the courage to do so yet. When we see the groups of young children in the museums doing school work, I envy them and the fact that they learn about things I wouldn’t have ever heard of until college at ages younger than 12! I sometimes just feel that people from here are so much more knowledgeable, especially in the subject that we have all come here to study. The only woman I have actually gotten to speak to was in the line for the concert I spoke of earlier, we talked about our apartments and how nice it was to be in the area we and briefly about music and the show we were all about to see in comparison with the very old crowd waiting to see the Moulin Rouge show next door. When we got to talking about studying French art history she said “that’s so boring!” and it made me laugh, but she was a very sweet girl for talking with us translating certain things she had trouble remembering or understanding back and forth with her friend. Lastly, we talked about Colorado and she had said she wanted to come out and learn to ski and see the mountains, then we parted ways as the line began to move and on into the large crowded dance hall.

week three!

We are all here for the art, to study, see, and basically live in it. For some reason forgot that one of the main purposes for art is as communication, it is a visual language the artist uses to share their unique viewpoint. Even though museums and galleries are full of people most likely not engaging with one another, you are all involved in a similar conversation. Heidi and I decided to stay and see the Odilon Redon at the Grand Palais on Wednesday. We got our tickets and walked into the exhibit, which is even quieter than most. Looking around just for a second we both were getting so excited about the amount of Odilon’s work was there. While working on my presentation I told her a ton of info on his life and art, so we immediately started talking about the images, and themes in the work. We were trying to keep to ourselves, but were apparently less inconspicuous than we thought. Heidi tapped my shoulder and pointed to a little woman standing off to my left, we caught each others eyes and smiled, she had obviously been listening to my conversation. After this, she continued staying close to us, so we turned and said hello. I think she understood English better than she spoke, but was eager to join in our discussion. Walking through the rooms of the exhibit we talked about what we knew about the work. How fascinating the transition from dark to vivid color, and the importance of his contribution to art. At the end of the show she smiled and walked off to join her friends, I’m not sure what she said to them but they all looked back and smiled at us and waked out the door.

FRANCEUSACONNECTION - may be of interest

Week 2 - New Inspiration

As I’m sure all of you will attest, spending 4 years in Boulder for college is amazing.  In a place where skiing, hiking and biking all lay at our fingertips, it seems as though you could never get bored.  Like most places though, a daily routine develops and what once seemed like a place that could never grow old, dims in its light of inspiration.

I was quick to jump on bored this trip as it was my last opportunity to study abroad, and I can not explain how grateful I am for doing so.  My senses have suddenly been reawakened and I am once again full of inspiration.  Each boulevard, street vender, pâtisserie, garden and Parisian I see is truly refreshing.  What I have found most enlightening however, has been the produce shop on my street.  Each evening we have stopped there our way home, picking up different fresh and colorful vegetables that immediately give us ideas for things to cook.  The past couple nights we have been making a stir fry of vegetables (bell peppers, onions, mushrooms, spinach..) and adding it to a bed of angel hair pasta with pesto and olive oil ... DElish!  I have always cooked my own meals at school, but most of the time it was something quick that I could buy in bulk, such as a boca burgers and frozen veggies; not nearly as appealing as our meals here!  

What I love about food shopping here is the number of markets everywhere.  Why not make your own meals every night adding such organic and wonderful ingredients when they are so accessible? (and cheap!)  It is so nice that in the short amount of time we have been here, Paris is already starting to feel like home.  I no longer feel like a stranger to my street anymore, and I believe the two produce owners have become used to our frequenting their shop.  Though there is never much of an exchange, other then euros for vegetables, there is an acknowledged understanding of our preference for their shop, and their appreciation for that.  A simple smile is enough for me.  

On the other hand, we do also go to the supermarché for the things we’d like to buy cheaper and in “bulk”, (things such as bread and sandwich supplies).  Usually here however, I find the people at check out to be more rude.  After quickly scanning each item, being told how much you owe in a monotone voice, you are left to quickly put your own items in a plastic bag to make room for the next customer.  No “bonjour”, no smile, nothing.  The other day however, I finally had a friendly encounter with the women checking me out.  As she smiled and tugged on her shirt, I believed she asked, “Où avez-vous acheté votre chemise?”  Not positive if that was exactly what she asked, I repeated while gesturing to my shirt, “where did I buy this?” She quickly realized I didn’t speak French, and even though I tried a second time in my broken French to repeat what she asked, she blushed and looked down waving her hand as if she was embarrassed for asking.  Once more I tried, “l’internet ... JCrew”.  Again interested, she repeated JCrew with an accent and I nodded.  I knew the site name would slip her mind once I walked away, so after she handed me my receipt I quickly jotted it down and handed her the note.  She smiled very appreciatively and finally for that one moment, our conversation reached of point of true understanding.  Even though I could have used more French for description, I was very pleased when she understood my note.  On my short walk home I felt excited, comfortable and at home.  With all of these new people and places, there is so much to be inspired by.

French Produce

I have always been interested in health and nutrition and after taking an intensive nutrition course at CU I decided that I wanted to pursue it as a career and help others better themselves by improving their health. Growing up in Colorado, fitness and healthy eating is part of the lifestyle and I believe that treating your body like a temple has a direct effect on one’s happiness, energy, and overall well-being. For the final exam of this nutrition course we had to prepare a three course organic meal and all of the ingredients had to be grown in Colorado. With the growing popularity of organic food, I thought this would be an easy task, but once I began I realized much of the healthy food we buy at Whole Foods comes from half way around the world. Many people don’t realize that while eating organic food has its benefits it also can have a negative impact on our planet; shipping organic apples from Australia leaves behind a massive carbon footprint, and we should be more concerned with eating locally.

I was pleasantly surprised when I walked into the grocery store my first week in Paris to buy food and all the fruits and vegetables were labeled with the country they came from. I bought a plethora of vegetables that were all grown within Europe, eggs and chicken from France, and organic rice and spices to make a wonderful pot of stir-fry, without having to do any kind of extensive research to find out where my food was coming from. Whole foods has started to promote the concept of eating locally but here, even at the tiny Franprix on the corner, they have embraced these ideas and made them commonplace. I must add that there seems to be more organic food available here in general, and it is not as expensive as in the states; just this morning I walked into a bread shop to buy croissants and noticed all of their pastries and baguettes were labeled “bio” meaning they were made with organic flour. I believe that if the same food was more readily available and affordable in the states it would benefit our health and our local economy. How we treat our bodies directly effects our mood and energy levels and I want to share with others how taking a little extra time to inspect what we are putting in our bodies can go a long way.

Gypsies

When preparing to travel to Europe, one of the most common pieces of advice that I have received is, “watch out for the gypsies.” It seems like everyone who has traveled to Europe has had some negative experience with a gypsy, whether it be pick-pocketing, conning, or just being pestered for spare change. I was warned of their common tricks: trying to hand off an infant, or the gold ring scam.

I did encounter a gypsy just the other day. Right along the Seine, near the Louvre, a young girl about fourteen came up to me with a piece of paper to sign claiming to be deaf and mute. At first I was taken off guard because she was young and seemingly harmless, I thought this was probably some sort of petition. However, when I looked at the paper closer I noticed that it was asking for a donation, and supposedly the past few signers had all given more than twenty euros each. I realized this was a scam and waved her off saying no, I’m sorry, and after a brief attempt to persuade me by motioning to her mouth and ears that she was deaf and mute, she soon ran ahead to catch up with her friends, a group of about four girls around the same age.

So, who are these gypsies? I started to wonder what sets gypsies apart from other beggars, and became increasingly interested in them. Of course, I recognize that gypsies are a legitimate concern for tourists and some are far from innocent, but through a little research I have learned that there is much more to them than what we get from the stereotype. Gypsies are a mysterious wandering race who usually speak Romany and traditionally live by seasonal work, trade, and fortune-telling. Because gypsies are so well-known as being beggars and con-artists it is wrongly assumed that they do not want to work, and unfortunately most people have a very limited view of who gypsies are as a race of people with unique beliefs, abilities, and customs. I think it is important to understand that thievery and begging most often comes from a long history of extreme poverty and racial prejudice. So, even though I will of course continue to keep my wallet hidden and eyes wide open, I encourage us to open up a little bit to who these people are, and in doing so we etch a little crack in the wall that confines them.

If anyone is interested here are a few videos that both explain the current situation for gypsies and show their music—which exemplifies the potential inside this people.

Johnny Depp on Gypsies: