the metro

Despite the cramped seats and the questionable smells that linger, I love the metro. The metro is a world of its own and weaving in and out of the crowds of people below the streets of Paris somehow makes me feel connected to the city above. After being back in Paris for almost three weeks now, I've rekindled this old love, forcing myself to get back into the habit of avoiding eye contact with others -- or contact of any kind -- while being cramped together into a tiny train car. Occasionally I slip up and smile at my neighbor, but it's a work in progress.

The metro can turn the most dull day upside down (disclaimer: not always in a positive way). The other day I was riding in the metro only to be accosted by a middle-aged man, I'd say in his early 30s. I was reading the New York Times on my iphone when out of the corner of my eye I see a man beelining towards me. "Vouz rentrez chez moi?" (Do you want to go home with me?), he asked, rocking back and forth on his heels. My first reaction was annoyance, followed quickly by my reflex of tucking my new iphone safely away in my bag. Not quite freaked out yet, I calmly yet boldly replied "Vous m'embêtez, allez-vous en." (You're bothering me, go away). I'd like to say that worked, but of course, such a mild reaction didn't suffice. At this point I could tell this wasn't just a random man hitting on me in the metro . . . no, this was clearly a random mentally unstable man who unfortunately decided to get on the metro in the same car as me. As he loomed over me, he tried to reach out and touch my arm. Though my fellow metro-riders in my immediate vicinity clearly noticed my crisis, they all just looked on (avoiding eye contact of course) while awkwardly trying to not get involved, yet intrigued by the action. Now my adrenaline kicked in. This man had to be crazy -- he was breaking one of the cardinal rules of taking the metro: do not (purposely) make physical contact with others. It was time to break out the tutoying. "Ne me touche pas!" (Don't touch me!). My suddenly raised voice surprised him, and he jerked back his hand before reaching my arm . . . but then decided to try again. "Ne me touche pas!" I yelled, even louder this time, attracting the attention of most of my section. Victory -- he moved along the car to pester other people, then got off at two stops later, teetering around picking his nose before reentering our metro car then descending again as one of my fellow passengers shouted "Dégagez!" (Go away).

And then of course, using the metro in Paris means dealing with the occasional strike or two (or three, or four . . .). This past Tuesday there was a strike and I naively believed it wouldn't affect me that much. I made it to my internship with no problem -- early in fact -- but getting home took me nearly 3 hours which is triple my normal commute time. After waiting for the metro for an hour, during which three trains passed but were too crammed full of people to physically hold anymore (see picture above), I opted for taking the bus. Note to self: Don't leave the house on days when the metro isn't fully functioning.

weekend in the countryside

Well, I'm here. I've arrived. Though I'm not a full-fledged Parisian according to my address, I live close enough . . . at least for the moment (it's the city circled in white on the map). Lately my days have been filled with the mostly mundane tasks that come with moving to a foreign country: i.e. opening a bank account, getting a cell phone, sending in more visa related paperwork, etc.

Before settling down into my new life, however, I did spend a nice weekend in the countryside attending a wedding. The highlight of the trip -- no not cake, but the lovely bed and breakfast we stayed at for the weekend, Le Moulin Trubert. Everything about it was so charmant. The best part: a full breakfast that included homemade bread, croissants, jam, cake, coffee . . . and of course, cheese; we're in France after all.







If you're ever looking for a place to stay near Chartres: http://moulin.trubert.free.fr/

it all starts here

I've realized that for a while now I've been waiting for my life to begin. Paris -- and travel in general -- taught me how to be completely myself, how to live in the moment and yet when I was placed back into my university bubble my life went on hold again. It's hard to live in the moment when your life is consumed with essays and exams . . . or is that just an excuse because life will always be filled with some sort of equivalent to essays and exams, right? Yes, of course, it's just an excuse. Even right now as I write this all I can think about is the future: (all-consuming) visa worries, looking forward to seeing close friends again, and the delightful nightmare of packing up everything I own. I feel like I'm in a vacuum; I swear I can hear the roaring of the space between today and August 19th colliding. Let me figure out to live in the moment despite the distracting noise.

21 days

If all goes well I will be arriving in Paris in 3 weeks. I say if all goes well because I don't exactly have my visa yet -- a minor detail, right? My visa appointment is Monday, as in 17 days before my departure date which means more than likely my visa will be mailed back to me in time as long as my nightmares of bringing the wrong documents (or envelope), missing my appointment, or being refused my visa altogether don't come true. Either way I know these next few weeks are going to fly by and soon I will begin my new post-grad life in Paris. :)

strikes, les martiniquais, and how the english saved the day

After waking up at 3:20am to catch my flight to Martinique -- and arriving 17 hours later -- the ride to the hotel felt like a dream, especially in the somewhat delirious state that my lack of sleep fostered. It was too dark to make out the landscape, but I could make out the occasional "Carrefour market" signs which made me feel like I was back in France (and I guess technically I was). Man, I miss brioche.

The next morning, after a night of much needed sleep, I woke up to this amazing view outside my window. This picture sums up my vacation quite nicely: I spent most of my days going to the beach, going to the pool, and reading which is not my typical vacation style (I prefer fast-past urban vacations to lounge around getting sand in your shoes vacations) but I have to admit that it did feel nice having absolutely nothing to do for once. Plus, I was in good company. :)

Then all hell broke loose the last full day I was there. Arnaud was leaving a day earlier than me because of work. He and his fellow coworkers were planning on eating lunch at the hotel, then leaving for Fort de France. This plan was ruined by the kitchen staff striking in a sign of solidarity because the hotel was closing down soon. Would striking save their jobs? -- Of course not, but I feel like it's more of a reflex action. I found the whole situation bemusing particularity to do guests comments like "Did they announced this in advanced? Une grève sauvage, ça se fait pas!" To me strikes seem inherently "sauvage" but I guess there is a proper, civilized way to go about refusing to work.

Waking up the next morning at 5am I am unaware of the chaos that awaited me. Arnaud had arranged for a car to pick me up at 5:30am and by 5:15am I was waiting in the reception area, reading to kill time. Minutes go by and still no car -- I begin to get a little nervous. A little voice inside my head is telling me "This guy isn't going to show up." By 5:40am, there is still no car. I start to panic a little. My flight is at 7:35 and the airport is about 30 minutes away. My cell phone won't make calls but I notice the phone on the reception desk. No one was at the reception so I go and start dialing. When the phone starts ringing I feel a little relieved, but then curiously the hotel phone on the other side of the desk starts ringing as well. I tell myself it could just be a coincidence. The security guard enters the room and answers the phone and I hear his voice in my ear "Hotel de Baie Galion." I explain the situation in French, my checks flushed red with embarrassment, "Sorry, it's me. I'm trying to make a call." Fortunately he was very sympathetic, though not very helpful. I explain how my taxi is late, I'm worried I'm going to miss my flight, and my boyfriend is the one who has the driver's number." "Your boyfriend in England?" he asked. How to I always end up British in these situations? "No, my boyfriend's in Martinique. Are you sure there is no possible way to dial a cell phone from the hotel phone?" "No, I'm sorry. It doesn't work for cell phones. Is your boyfriend Martiniquais?" I wasn't really in the mood to make small talk about where my boyfriend was from. At this point I was almost in tears. I had no idea what to do if I couldn't get in touch with Arnaud.

Luckily, a hotel worker drove up. She and the security guard make small talk for several minutes, then she notices me sitting nervously and helplessly in the lobby. After explaining my situation, she kindly offers her cell phone. I call Arnaud who said he'd call the driver then get back to me. His call back isn't great news. He got the driver's voicemail, so he called his friend, an English women named Suzy, who agreed to come to my rescue. She pulls up around 6am, and I jump in. Just as she is making a u-turn to exit the hotel, who other arrives than my driver. Suzy rolls down her window, yells at him, then speeds off. At this point, I have a dreaded feeling that I am going to miss my flight. When I rush up to the ticket counter, there is still a long line waiting and I feel relieved. As I try to enter the line, a man stops me and asks for my name. Fortunately he lets me in, and not even a minute later hands me a sheet of paper with my name written on it, stating "Give this to the last passenger at 6:30am". The poor guy who arrived after me was denied access to the plane. One minute later and that would have been me as well.

parisienne is a state of mind

Oh, Paris, I can't get you off my mind so I might as well devote a little of my energy to writing about you. These past few days I've been skimming other blogs devoted to Paris (and there are so many!) in search of inspiration and in hopes of curing my homesickness. Unfortunately, seeing gorgeous pictures of baguettes, charming bistros, and iconic symbols of Paris have only compounded my desire to be there. But it also has made me say to myself again and again, "God, how lucky am I!" I mean seriously, how did this happen to me? I used to daydream about what life in Paris would be like, and when I got the opportunity to study in Paris for a year I thought it was my one chance to live out this dream. Somehow, everything fell into place and I am actually moving to France. No more make-believe for me, this is the real deal. The other day someone told me, "You're not moving to France, you're becoming French!" I smiled, but you know, it a way it's true. After all, Parisienne is a state of mind.

the wonderful world of french bureaucrats

Lately I've been making a bunch of lists: a list of things I'd like to do in Paris (such as the cooking classes), a list of things I need to take care of before leaving the country, a list of things I must be sure to pack, a list of things I need to do soon after arriving in France, etc. Since I'm forced to wait for a piece of paper -- the ever elusive arrêté -- from l'Académie de Créteil (the school district I'll be teaching in) before being able to apply for my visa (and thus buy a plane ticket to Paris), making these lists seems to help me feel better about this state of helpless waiting that I am currently in. At least planning out my future is the one thing I can be proactive about.

Today the teaching assistantship program sent out a list (what a reoccurring theme today) of my fellow Académie de Créteil teaching assistants so at least I can get into contact with others who are in the same helpless state as me. It's in moments like these that I realize how much control the government (French and American) has - I mean, who are these people to demand paperwork from me so that I can move to France to be with boyfriend? It's weird how much of a role they are playing in my personal life at the moment. Anyway, I guess an answer to that is - they are the French bureaucrats and thus a piece of paper stands between me and being able to move in with the man I love. Correction: actually, several sheets of paper stand between us. We're talking about bureaucracy here after all.