2/3

Countries Visited: still 6, but that is to change as of this afternoon

Total Louvre Visits: You guys...you would be so proud of me. I've gone to the Louvre like six more times this month. Yes, about four of those were mandatory for my art history class. But still. I'm pretty much a VIP there.

Best Example of Absolute Denial:

One of these days I'll get around to writing about classes and when I do, you will hear stories of my hilarious art history professor, who likes to insert random English phrases into conversation. Particular favorites are "Shut up!" "Don't speak English!" and a great Pepe Le Pew impression. Whenever "l'amour" is the subject of a painting, he will break into a speech of "My little sweet, my little darling. Let me kiss your hand." This is especially funny, because most French people do not know who Pepe Le Pew is. And even if they do, the full effect is lost on them. Because, you see, in France, Pepe Le Pew is Italian. Yes, the French, undoubtedly enraged at our decision to characterize them as amorous skunks, have decided to pretend that we really meant to insult their neighbors to the south-east.

Basically, Italians are to the French what the French are to Americans. They drink strong coffee, appreciate good food and wine, are fashionable and enjoy (as one of my friend's host mothers put it) "sport in bed."So why shouldn't Pepe be Italian?

Most Common Dinner Subject:

I don't know if you know this, but Americans are fat. Like really, hugely fat. When we go to the beach, whales swim away in fear. At least, this is what people continue to tell me. The subject of fat Americans is brought up weekly by my host family, who are fascinated by the eating habits of my compatriots. Kathleen, a new American girl arrived to live with my host family about a month ago, and we are both subjected to questioning about our food consumption. A sample conversation is below:

HS (Host Sister): Kathleen, you never eat very much.
Kathleen: Well, at home my mother is always on a diet. So I'm used to small portions.
HM (Host Mom): Oh.....what are the portions like at your house Alanna?

I tried to answer her, but as I don't know the French word for trough, the conversation didn't get very far.

Worst (Best?) Restaurant Chain: Indiana...the Tex-Mex restaurant

We're Halfway There...

Actually, we're more than halfway there at this point. Today marks the five-month anniversary of my stay in France, with four months to go. Just a warning for any of you who may talk to me in the coming months: Please do not make any reference to the fact that my time in France is passing quickly. I literally do not know how I will survive without my beloved pastries, the warm baguettes aux graines from my neighborhood boulangerie, or a public transit system that actually gets you places in less than 3 hours. So my strategy at this point is hardcore denial, and I would appreciate it if everyone else helped me maintain that illusion. With that said, here are some highlights of the past months:

Countries Visited: 6 (Poland, Belgium, Ireland, Germany, Italy and Vatican City)

Best Pick-up Line*: This one comes courtesy of our Italian friends. Although French guys are not above skeeziness, they lack in originality. Their come-ons are generally limited to: "Would you like to get coffee with me?" or "I'm looking to practice my English."* They could learn a lot from the table of Italian guys sitting next to me and Eunice. After trying to get our attention for the entire meal, they finally saw an opening when we were getting up to leave. The conversation went something like this:

Italian Guy (to me): So are you Irish?
Me: No...Well, Irish-American.
Italian Guy: But you're so white!
Pause
Me: Yes. Yes I am.

I'll spare you their poorly-phrased, reasonably offensive remarks about Eunice's Korean eyes. The point is, we were seduced into going home with them. Because you just can't resist those lines.

*After writing this segment, I was subjected to another come-on while walking to a friend's apartment. I won't copy it here, as it was rather vulgar. But it rhymed. Needless to say, I slept with him as well.

Least Effective Way to Get Money:

There are a lot of panhandlers in Paris. Some of them sort of earn their money by serenading tourists with "La Vie en Rose" or "I Love Paris." But a lot of them just jump onto Metro cars, recite a litany of misfortunes and unspeakable tragedies and then walk down the aisle with their hat held out.

Sometimes these speeches are so pitiable that even the flinty-hearted Parisians are moved to give a few centimes. But I heard one the other day that was earning the speaker no money. It went something like this:

"Hello ladies and gentlemen. I am German but I have lived in France for 20 years. It has become my home country. I am currently out of work and homeless. I don't even have a room or a closet to call my own. If you were in my situation, you would have killed yourselves. Yes, killed yourselves ladies and gentlemen, because we all know that French people are not very hearty..."

He continued on with statistics about poverty in France, and the observation that such statistics were shameful for a country that calls itself a developed Western nation. But he wasn't making much headway. Tip for getting money from French people: Do not call them weak. Especially if you are a German.

Weirdest Metro Poster:

In addition to panhandlers, there are also advertisements on the walls and ceilings of Metro cars. Most of these are pretty standard ads for phone services, English language lessons or real estate agencies. A few months ago, however, some strange ads started popping up in numerous trains.

It took me a while to really realize what these posters were. On one particularly long ride, I finally realized that they depicted a sad-eyed horse named Caramel standing next to a menacing cleaver. Apparently Caramel and many of her equine brethren daily fall prey to Parisian gourmands. I don't know if you are aware (I wasn't), but horse meat is still a reasonably popular food in France. I've never seen it on a menu, but there are apparently boucheries chevaline, special horse butchers, where you can buy the meat. It caught on during several revolutions, when people were desperate for food and too poor to buy anything else. It is still eaten, probably because you can buy an entire horse for the price of one Laduree macaron.

I can't be too judgmental, considering the number of hamburgers that I've ordered over the past 20 years, but I am sympathetic to Caramel. Still, I couldn't help laughing at the dramatic posters, and their insistence that I visit jenemangepasdecheval.com (idonteathorse.com).

(Do not visit said site. It's gross.)

Anniversary Present to Myself: So guess what I did to commemorate the 5-month mark? I went to THE LOUVRE for the first time this trip. That's right. I no longer have to live under a cloud of shame, no longer do I have to confess: "My name is Alanna Byrne, and I am a Louvre-phobic."I will now not be expelled from the country for my astonishing lack of culture and refinement.

To be completely honest, I went because I was obligated to for the new art history class I'm taking. But I think now that the floodgates have been opened, many more self-motivated visits lie ahead.

One Third Down...

Another month has gone by, and this time I really have no clue what I've been doing with my life. Between a bout of illness a few weeks ago, and the realization that maybe I should not have put off doing all of my homework for nine weeks, I haven't been exploring Paris nearly as much as I'd like. I've taken a couple international trips, enjoyed a couple of excursions in and around Paris and visited a few museums and monuments for the first time. But an unreasonable amount of my days have been spent curled up in bed, sleeping, working or (more often than healthy) pretending to work. I was just getting used to Paris in the fall, and now all of a sudden it's almost December, I have less than a month of classes, and the semester students on my program are already getting to leave. Again, let me reiterate how glad I am that I chose to stay the year. I'm already terrified by how the months are flying by, but I can at least comfort myself with the fact that six months still sounds like a lot of time. If I were down to my last three weeks I would be breaking into preemptive tears every time I saw the Eiffel Tower and gorging myself on every pastry, baguette and cheese wheel in sight (actually, I am doing that last part).

Happily, you all have six more months before you get to stop reading about my life. And despite the fact that I have spent most of this month in my bedroom, I've gotten out enough to give a quick recap of the past four weeks.

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Countries Visited: 3 (Belgium, Poland and Ireland)

Greatest Shame: I still have not visited an art museum that may or may not be one of the most famous in the world. I'll give you a hint: it starts with "L" and rhymes with "Groove" and according to Dan Brown Francois Mitterrand turned it into a satanic haven.

Favorite Metro Stop: Leave it to Paris to ensure that even their Metro stops are attractive. Most people have seen photos of the art nouveau above-ground signs. But the fun doesn't stop there. Many of the stations have elaborate interior decorations as well. Sometimes these are themed. For example, the Varenne stop is the closest to the Musee Rodin, and decorated with full-sized casts of "The Thinker" and "Monument to Balzac." And the Concorde stop is decorated, in true revolutionary style, with the text of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen (isn't Independence just so much more concise?)

But my favorite stop has to be Louvre-Rivoli. It is, appropriately enough, the stop for the Louvre, and it features replicas of pieces from the museum collection. It's all dark and dramatic, and if I were a bum in Paris this is definitely where I would hang out.

Favorite Street/Metro performer: There are a lot of musicians and artists in Paris. One of my favorite things about the city is its wide variety of subway musicians. The accordionists tend to stick to the tourist-pleasing standards ("La Vie en Rose," "I Love Paris"), but some of the performers add charm to dark, crowded stations drenched in various bodily fluids. The only thing that gets me through a transfer at Chatelet is the prospect of seeing my beloved Peruvian folk band. And there's no better stress reliever than the strains of "Ave Maria" floating down a Metro tunnel at you.

But it was not until last week that I found my favorite street performer of all time. I was crossing a bridge off of Ile-de-la-Cite, right next to Notre Dame, when I heard the plaintive notes of one of the most romantic songs of all time. I turned my head to see the singer, and then laughed for approximately eight and a half minutes straight.

Only in Paris can I be serenaded by a puppeteer and his foot-high marionette, complete with guitar and microphone, assuring me that I am, indeed, beautiful.

Most Bewildering Moment: On the rare occasion that I need nourishment that a boulangerie or patisserie can't provide, I head across the street to my local Monoprix. Monoprix is kind of like French Super Target, selling everything from clothing to books to food. I have come to enjoy these trips to Monoprix, as I always leave with a greater sense of cultural understanding.

For instance, you can tell what French people's priorities are by the fact that every Monoprix in Paris has a vast selection of incredibly cheap wine (not that I've ever even stepped foot into that section, Mom and Dad) and an entire aisle devoted to cheese. But you can also tell a lot about how the French view other countries, notably America.

I was standing in the checkout line the other day, counting out euros to avoid the wrath of French cashiers who are apparently incapable of making change, when my eyes fell upon a shelf at the end of an aisle. I'm very upset that I did not get a picture of it, but I'll describe it as best I can.

This aisle was labeled "U.S./Japan," and was apparently devoted to the cuisine of America and Japan, which, as you know, is nearly identical. The Japanese got the bottom half of the shelf, which was filled with fairly innocuous noodles and soy sauces. But the American half of the shelf was truly a celebration of a country that unites some of the most diverse culinary traditions in the world. It was filled with the following:

-pancake mix
-microwave popcorn
-Pop Tarts
-Oreos
-peanut butter

and

-Marshmallow Fluff

I must admit that I am an American, and I do love six of the above seven items (sorry Orville Redenbaccher, but even your light, fluffy popping corn and adorable old man name can't tempt me) But seriously? Seriously. This is what the French think of us.

Best Instances of French Passive-Aggressiveness:

One thing that I've realized since coming to Paris is that the French are either enormously rude or enormously frank depending on your interpretation. Often, they are both. I've heard stories of host parents remarking on weight ("I got you a special chair because you're too big for the other ones"), sleeping habits ("It's not healthy. Everyone else lives between 8:00 and 8:00; you live between 12:00 and 12:00") and both simultaneously ("If you got up earlier in the morning, you'd have time to run..."). My host mom has refrained from any personal attacks on me, but I have been subject to the following two exchanges, both of which were hilarious, yet indirectly insulting.

#1 (related to the above Monoprix post)

HM (Host Mom): So, is Chicago famous for any specific food? Because we had a student from Vermont who brought us maple syrup. And there was another girl from Seattle who told us that they eat a lot of salmon there. Does Chicago have anything like that?

Alanna (after a pause): Well, there's this kind of pizza that Chicago is famous for. (Receiving nonplussed looks, she perseveres) It's not like New York pizza. It's called deep-dish, and the crust is about this thick. (Horrified looks tell her she should stop, but she keeps trying) You can get lots of toppings on it, and they put on a lot of cheese. I mean, it's not very good for you. But it's really delicious.

HM: Hmmmmm.....Anything else?

Alanna (continues to dig her own grave): Oh! And we have Chicago style hot dogs. They're normal hot dogs, but with a lot of toppings on them. But never ketchup.

HM:....So no special food, then?

Exchange #2 (This one's not even an exchange, it more of a monologue)

HM: So, you're going to Dublin this weekend? (Nod from Alanna). I was surprised when I went there because the Irish girls are ugly. When I was walking down the street, maybe two or three girls were pretty out of ten. But the way they dress....And they're all fat, because they drink beer all day long...I don't think you'll have much competition.

Best Sequel to a Former Blog Post: So I mentioned in my two-month anniversary post that French sidebar ads often promise you the opportunity to win a green card. This month, I discovered that they do even more. Not only do these ads provide a means of entry into the U.S., they also allow you to choose your own American dream from the following realistic options:

Hollywood star...

New Yorker...And, my personal favorite:

Farmer in Texas

Again, this is what French people think of us. How have I survived for three months here?

Two Months and Counting

Two months ago today I arrived in France. It's been an interesting 60 days. I've explored a lot, eaten even more and had a surprisingly easy time adjusting to European life.

What did I do to commemorate this occasion? I walked. And then I rode the Metro. And then I walked. And then I walked some more. I walked all over the Latin Quarter and the Marais. Then I took the Metro over to the 8th and walked back to the Place de la Concorde.

It was a beautiful day outside, blue skies, colorful leaves, 65 and sunny. It was good to just wander around the city, stopping whenever a shop or park caught my eye. Paris is a great city for walking, and I ended up running across two beautiful churches, a little English-language bookstore in the Marais, the Parc Monceau, the ruins of the Arenes de Lutece and (most excitingly) the Irish Cultural Center. Then I went home and celebrated my physical exertions by eating half a box of cereal. Good day.

I have much to post about, including a recent trip to Normandy, classes, Parisian parks and pastries. But I'll leave those for another day, and instead give you a run-down of my second month in Paris.

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Countries Visited: 1 (with another to come this weekend)

Favorite New French Expression: "Berk!" It means "Yuck." But it only works if uttered with great conviction and disdain. (Bonus: "Yum" translates to "Miam"

Most Life-Threatening Moment: The boulangeries of Paris will someday have their own entry in this blog. They are like more charming, more delicious versions of Starbucks--there is one on every single corner and yet they somehow manage to stay in business. I stop in at least once daily for a sandwich and (more often than not) a pastry of some sort. Not exactly figure or wallet-friendly.

So the other day I decided to forgo my customary tart and chose the cheapest menu option at my regular boulangerie. I tucked happily into my cheese sandwich, but halfway through, I tasted a new flavor, something aside from the usual ingredients. It was then that I realized: I was eating a baguette filled with goat cheese, slathered with butter and with a special addition of mayonnaise. I thought my heart was going to stop right then and there. But I have never felt more French.

Worst Translation Job: One of the dilemmas I face constantly in my daily life here is whether I should use French pronunciation for English expressions. For example, French people can't say my name "uh-lah-nuh" with a heavier second syllable. Instead they pronounce it "ah-lah-nah," with stress on the first syllable. It's not a dramatic difference, but it's enough to create problems. In the interest of cross-cultural communication, I've pretty much surrendered to the French on this one.

Another example of this came in my theater class. We're going as a class tonight to see Moliere's The Miser at the Comedie-Francaise. My professor's instructions for picking up our tickets were as follows: "At 8:15 you will go the ticket counter and say 'Je voudrais prendre ma place pour Sweet Brie-are Coe-ledge.' You will not say 'Sweet Briar College.' They will not understand you, and you will not get your ticket. You say 'Sweet Brie-are Coe-ledge.'"

But even when you do say "Sweet Brie-are Coe-ledge," there is miscommunication. Case in point, the train ticket on a group excursion to Normandy last weekend. Clearly the reservations had been made over the phone, and the result was a new program name which I actually quite enjoy.



Sweat Brillard...miam.

Most Retina-Searing Image: Coming out of the Metro near my apartment this afternoon, I realized too late that I was walking in front of a man with a camera. I hurried out of his view, and then turned to see what he was filming. I didn't linger too long, but I caught a glimpse of a nearly naked man (think no shirt + something resembling a leather thong) interviewing a very perplexed woman. I have no idea what was going on, but it just proves that you can never really get used to Paris.

And, finally....

Best Online Ad: One of the nice things about living in a foreign country is that everything seems novel, even if it's actually annoying. Case in point: those sidebar ads that inevitably pop up on every website. You know the types: 1,000,000 VISITOR!! or Shoot the turkey, win a prize!!!

Except the prize advertised in the U.S. is always something lame like an iPod. Clearly, the French have raised the stakes:



Suck on that, Apple.

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There you have it. Despite all the fun I'm having (or because of it), I'm a little sad at how fast the time is going. It's not surprising; I feel like ever since high school the years have been zipping by at a frightening speed. But it's even harder to feel time slipping away when you're in Paris and it feels like you'll never have enough time to experience even half of what the city has to offer.

The downside is that I only have seven months left in Paris, and they'll be over before I know it. The upside is that I still have seven months left in Paris, unlike many of my friends who are leaving in six weeks. If I were leaving in December, I would have to be forcibly dragged onto the plane, so it's probably a relief for French transit officials that I chose the full-year option.

It's not that I don't miss home. I really do miss my friends and family, and all of the U.S.'s fall traditions (they don't get much into Halloween here). But I can honestly say that I haven't really felt any serious culture shock or homesickness yet. I guess I'm just immensely brave, eating fantastic food, visiting world-class museums for free and wandering the Champs-Elysees without even one complaint. I don't want to use the term saint, but...

At any rate, Moliere is calling. Not a bad way to kick off my third month in Paris.

A bientot,

Alanna

One Down, Eight to Go

Congratulations are in order (for me, of course). Today I celebrated my one-month anniversary with France. And I am still lodged firmly in the honeymoon stage. I've seen and done a lot of great things in the past four weeks, and I have every reason to believe that the year is going to be a good one.

To celebrate this auspicious occasion, I spent the afternoon at the Musee Rodin, but that merits another, more intellectual, post. For now I offer you this, a brief summary of my first four weeks in France:


Countries Visited: 1, but I'm working on it

Museums Visited: 4 (but not the Louvre)

Times I've been asked for directions: Twice (!) ONCE BY A FRENCH WOMAN, AND I ANSWERED CORRECTLY BOTH TIMES. Both instances occurred last night. I was probably approached because the French couple next to be was engaged in a make-out session bordering on cannibalism, hence unavailable. But I like to think it was because I looked like a local.

Calories Consumed: I don't want to talk about it. This could easily be broken down into subcategories: Crepes eaten; scoops ordered at Berthillon; pounds of goat cheese eaten; whole baguettes devoured. And I wouldn't want to talk about any of those either.

Favorite Cross-Cultural Experience: My first night with my Parisian family, my host mom told me that we would be eating an earlier dinner that Friday, as her boyfriend would be visiting. This was followed by silence. And then my host sister started doing the awkward turtle.

Strangest Musical Choices: Probably a toss-up between these two, both of which met with widespread approval at the bar we were at last night.

Best (or worst) Renaming Job:

McDreamy=Dr. Mamour
McSteamy=Dr. Glamour

Best Movie Poster Seen in the Metro:

I don't know if you can read the blurb at the top, but it translates to the following: "One of the greatest affairs of espionage in the 20th century."--Ronald Reagan. RONALD REAGAN. As in, Ronald "Where's the rest of me?" Reagan. Now, I know that this quote refers to some Cold War espionage business, and not the movie itself. But I really love the idea that Ronald Reagan so loved this random French movie that he felt compelled to communicate his approval from beyond the grave. I don't know how this worked, but I feel like Miss Cleo was somehow involved.

Since this is probably not what actually happened, I have to say that the French are pretty ballsy, using a dead ex-President to sell one of their movies. It makes me wonder if Americans shouldn't try same thing. Charles de Gaulle hawking New Moon, perhaps?

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Overall, a successful month. On one hand, I've happy to have reached this milestone. It feels like an accomplishment, to have gone a month without suffering homesickness, culture shock or Grippe A. At the same time, I'm reminded of just how fast this year is going to go by. I'm just thankful I'm at the beginning of it, with eight more months to soak up Paris.