Music Fête-ish

It’s wonderful living in a country where the government truly puts the arts on a pedestal. There are numerous annual country- and city-wide festivals that offer up cultural events and attractions FOR FREE. Numerous. Free. Amazing! Did I say free? (Quite a worthwhile offshoot of paying such high taxes.)

Yesterday was the solstice, the first day of summer, and the weather arrived accordingly. It was thus the perfect day for the annual Fête de la Musique. Musicians of all kinds play all over France throughout the day. In Paris, there were hundreds of performances alone to choose from. But rather than strategize, I just wanted to roam and see what I’d find. I headed out at 6:00 to meet friends and do a lazy crawl around the Marais and Bastille area. Here’s the musical collage I experienced:

Down Boulevard Beaumarchais – There are tons of people out! It’s well over 80 degrees F and Parisians have abandoned the scarves and layers of clothes they usually wear, even when it’s in the 70’s. People of all ages are Velib’ing, strolling, smiling. It’s infectious. Some French-Indian guy stops me and asks me to be a sari model for his photography project (it took three times before I fully understood). No, sorry, got people to meet and music to see! I pass a Nirvana cover band (no audible French accent, but not gritty enough to sound like Kurt Cobain). I find my friends and we happen upon a funk-soul cover band. They’re fun and we stop for a while to bob our heads to Stevie Wonder and Finley Quaye, but bolt when we hear the opening bars of a Doobie Bros. tune.

At Place de la Bastille – We pause at the large stage and catch the tail end of Pascale Picard, a popular French-Canadian chanteuse. She’s a tad Lilith Fair but with slightly more edge. The crowd is big, and keeps getting bigger. I’m pleased to notice that Parisians of all ages are out and taking part in the festivities. A couple people are illegally selling beers and keeping an eye out for the cops. Then Mademoiselle K comes on and proceeds to rawk! They have a Le Tigre-esque sound with more dissonant guitar thrown in. I like it. Eventually it’s time to meet up with some other friends. The couple I’m with want to Velib to our destination, but I choose to walk as it’s not far and I want to take in the unexpected musical surprises along the way.

Around Place des Vosges – I pass six extremely different musical arts within ONE BLOCK. Yet, oddly enough, they are spaced out enough so as to not interfere with the others’ sound. I see:
1. I don’t know how else to describe it other than, clowns-meet-marching band. They have the horns. They have the marching drum. They have the right sound. But they are dressed really eccentrically; the band leader is sporting a row of broom bristles on his head. The crowd is loving them, at any rate—Parisians are not so disaffected that they won’t to clap to the beat!
2. African drumming circle. Always great.
3. Bagpipes and traditional Breton dancing.
4. Organist playing a requiem.
5. Chorus belting out a traditional French song. Lyrics had been handed out to the crowd, so anyone could join in.
6. Young rock band. Harmonic guitars, perfect on a warm summer evening.

Past Parc Royal – A French solo-artist tries his best with “These Boots Were Made for Walking,” but he’s no match for Nancy Sinatra. Young girls slowly amble with guitars, just strumming and softly singing folk songs.

On the wide expanse of rue des Quatre Fils – A barbeque! And a DJ spinning some rather fabulous Brazilian-sounding stuff. Kids are dancing. Adults are dancing. Note to self: come back here in a little while.

Up rue des Haudriettes – A not-so-good 90’s cover band. I don’t think I’ve heard “Losing My Religion” and the Four Non-Blondes since the 90’s, and this is the last place I expected to do so. I reach my destination of the teeny Place Vivien, find my friends, settle in with a pint, and enjoy some traditional Irish music. The musicians teach some volunteers a dance (no jig, bummer) and it’s a soothing spot for une petite pause from the crowds.

But we get restless eventually so we wander back to the dance party/barbeque, which is raging with lots of young people, but also a considerable amount of families. It’s almost dark at 10:45, but not quite. (It is solstice, after all, and Paris is on higher longitude than you might think.) We grab beers and grilled merguez sandwiches, and enjoy the DJ’s offerings, which evolve past Latin beats into stranger, very eclectic territory—some hip-hop, some funk, a large helping of 80’s, and my personal highlight, a kind of 60’s dancefloor cover of Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of.” Must find this track. We while away a couple hours here and eventually bed calls.

Thankfully I’m a five-minute walk from home. People are still going full force! I wish I had their stamina. I laugh a little as I come across a band playing “Under the Bridge” in front of (of all places) my bank. (More 90’s covers? More American music?) Some twentysomethings zoom by on Velibs and sing along: “It’s the city I live in…” Oh happy night.

I wish they had this festival more than once a year.

Gevalt, Oy.

When the husband and I were strategizing to take up digs in the Marais, the thought of its twin cultural legacies were comforting, as they each have some semblance of my two former cities of residence: the old Jewish quarter (I’m a member of the tribe, from NYC no less) and the epicenter of the city’s gay population (I lived in San Francisco for nearly a decade). The combination would surely make us feel at home.

In reality, you may see the occasional cluster of Hassidim strolling around or rainbow sticker displayed in a storefront window, but our neighborhood is hardly 47th or Castro streets. It’s a fantastic area of Paris, to be sure, with its old, narrow streets; small, leafy parks; myriad boutiques, restos, and cafés; and all-around laid-back charm. But one thing our quartier is for sure is gentrified. The French might call it bobo, or bourgeois bohemian. And this process of gentrification, which began several years ago, may be benign to one of the neighborhood’s key social groups, but is squeezing out the other.

The rue des Rosiers is the heart of Jewish life in the Marais, boasting kosher bakeries, Israeli falafel joints, Judaica shops, and small synagogues scattered on side streets. When you walk the insanely narrow, cobble-stoned street (all three blocks of it), you can see these vestiges of Jewish culture—but they’re few compared to the number of modern fashion boutiques lining the rue. On my first walk down Rosiers, I felt simultaneously heartened and disheartened. The reality was as surprising as the first time I visited the corner of Haight-Ashbury—I wasn’t expecting to see a hippie commune, and to be honest I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a swath of expensive shops. The Haight has been performing a dance for years now, holding onto its bohemian past while making way for its gentrified present. A few years ago, Haight-area residents successfully petitioned against plans to open an Urban Outfitters on the infamous street. People feared that “mall-ification” of the rest of the street would follow, and wanted to prevent the havoc the store would wreak on the already insane weekend crowds and impossible street-parking situation. Back on the rue des Rosiers, people are gearing up to resist the very real threat of an H&M store opening on the grounds of a former hammam. The last thing the largely chain-free yet pedestrian-thronged Marais needs now—especially on Rosiers—is a big, brash H&M store.

I can’t afford to shop in the smart boutiques and don’t need an H&M within 10 minutes of my house, but I support the Jewish businesses by literally putting my money where my mouth is. I relish frequenting the two best eateries on Rosiers, where I can be sure to get my money’s worth for a delicious lunch and also practice my very-rusty Hebrew: the famous L’As du Falafel (best falafel outside the homeland? The long line of locals and tourists proves it) and the kitty-cornered fabulous deli with the blue-tiled exterior (I can’t remember the name and it’s driving me crazy—but they make great turkey and pastrami sandwiches and have all kinds of Sefardic and Ashkenazi goodies). Gentrification may be inevitable, but I know where my loyalties lie.

Robert Langdon, Eat Your Heart Out

I’m on an American expats listserve (hey, why not) that recently posted an interesting event: a Saturday night scavenger hunt around Paris. The attendees would meet at a pub on the Right Bank, where they would split into groups of no more than 5, and compete to complete the hunt within 4 hours. An adventure company would provide the entire game, including instructions, clues, and waiver forms (in case any participants encountered danger along the way). And participation was free. COOL! I, Nate, and his fellow American-in-Paris co-worker were in. We ran into another American expat Nate randomly knows at the pub, so we had a perfectly-sized group and were ready to compete…or at least finish the game. We didn’t really care about winning.

We received seven clues, a stylized treasure map, and a cipher. Each clue was written as a poetic riddle. At the bottom of the riddle was a word or phrase encrypted in cipher code. You had to decipher the location of where the clue would be located. Once you got to the location, you either had to find an agent (an actor within the game) who would provide more pieces of the clue or a piece of information (e.g. an inscription on a wall, a name on a building) that would enable you to determine the cipher key. Then you’d have to use the cipher to unscramble the answer to the riddle. Once all six regular clues were unscrambled, you then had to determine the total numeric value of all the answers’ letters and use yet another cipher to determine the answer to the seventh (bonus) clue. If you ever got stuck, you could call the coordinator for small hints. You were instructed to solve the clues in whatever order your team saw fit. When you finished, you were to meet up with the larger group at a pub on the Left Bank.

The first riddle we tackled led us to an “urban waterfall” by the “city’s ancient marketplace,” or in other words, the fountain by Les Halles! We had to look for “two men regarding numbers and suits.” We scoured the plaza for a couple of guys playing cards, but could only find random teens skating, breakdancing, and getting harassed by the cops. We searched and searched and finally found the two guys comfortably sitting in a café, drinking espresso and playing cards. “We can only talk to two of you,” they said mysteriously. Two of us withdrew, but I was one of the lucky ones who got to stay. The agents then entreated us to play blackjack. We lost the first hand, but then won the second with a 17 over the dealer’s 26. “17 is a very good hand…a VERY good hand. And that’s all I can tell you.” Aha, it wasn’t just enigmatic nonsense…17 was the cipher code. We unscrambled the first clue and moved on to our next location…

…At the “seat of city politics” (Hôtel de Ville, we surmised), where “there stands a house with insides made of ice” (the igloo-bubble-shack thingy that serves as an entrance to the temporary ice-skating rink in the plaza at HdV). We determined we had to look for an inscription of a De Gaulle quote on one of the smaller stone walls surrounding the building. This one left us scratching our heads for a while. We jotted down what we thought was good information, and then ran off to the next stop…

…At Notre Dame, where we sought “an agent whose treasure would help you win this race” and (more iambic pentameter blah blah blah) “the light of the color of the night.” Huh? A woman with treasure? Black lights? We roamed around the plaza for a while, but all we could see were people pulling beer stashes out of the bushes and engaging in some major public drunkenness in front of one of the world’s most famous landmarks. Suddenly N noticed a woman pull a strange looking box out of a duffel bag…so our agent hadn’t been ready until now! Indeed, she had an intricately carved wooden chest. She demanded we perform for her in exchange for her treasure. “Whadda you mean, like sing a song or something?” N was not amused. I was ready to do a pseudo-tapdance when our teammate started belting out some silly ditty. It worked. She opened the lid of her chest, revealing fake gold coins and purple objects – she instructed to take a purple thingy. Turns out it was a small black light which, when lit up underneath the clue sheet, revealed the answer written in invisible ink. Neat trick. We then focused on our next location…

…On the “larger of the city’s isles” (ok, still on Ile de la Cité) on “the water’s edge” overlooking "merchants' shops." We determined we needed to find a quai along the Seine overlooking the old Samaritaine department store. The riddle also instructed us to look for a man leaning ever closer over a ledge, who would be saying nonsensical things. Hmm. We reached a stairway leading down to a quai, where a lone figure stood shrouded in darkness. Either a serial killer or our agent…we tempted fate and inched our way towards him. Pfew, it was our agent. He handed us a slip of paper with a chicken-scratch scribble resembling words and whispered, “Smoke makes things clear. You must leave now.” Love the intrigue! Thinking of the telling line from the riddle that when the agent “says smoke, you think fire,” N made the best call of the night – the scribbled message was meaningless; it was the old lemon juice trick. We were pretty cold and hungry at this point, so we took refuge at a café near St-Michel and proceeded to hold a flame under the slip of paper. Eventually, the flame singed the paper enough to reveal the hidden lemon-juice etched message – another number, this riddle’s cipher.

Over mediocre croque monsieurs and marginally better vin chaud, we figured out the answer to the fourth riddle just by using the poem and a city map (awesome). We also nearly tore our hair out trying to pick apart the fifth, and when we finally did, realized we’d done the second riddle all wrong and we’d have to go back to Hôtel de Ville…on across the whole of Ile de la Cité, on the other side of the Seine. What was worse, we also figured out that the sixth riddle’s answer was right around the corner from the pub where we’d started, deep into the 2nd arrondisement. Normally all of this wouldn’t be a formidable distance to walk, but it was cold and now starting to rain. We hopped on the Metro, swung by our two locations and figured out the riddles, hopped back on the Metro a little soaked but not discouraged, and puzzled out the bonus riddle during the time it took to ride to the final meeting place, a pub in the Latin Quarter.

Well, we weren’t the first ones there. It had been four hours since we started! But when we arrived, some teams were still figuring out a few of their answers. Not too shabby! Overall, it was challenging, but not too hard, and it forced us to use a variety of skills to crack the riddles and codes. It was so much fun and a fabulously unconventional way to explore the city. We’re definitely looking out for the company’s future free events.

Hôtels and Hawkers, or How I Spent the Holiday Weekend in Paris

November 1 is a French national holiday. As it fell on a Thursday this year, most people took the 2nd off of work as a “bridge day” (day between a holiday and the weekend). Ok, so Halloween may have come and gone with a whimper, not a bang, but a subsequent four-day weekend was the least the French could do to make up for it. We had a lovely time exploring different parts of the city during a period of relative calm, when many Parisians fled the city for the pleasures of la campagne (the country).

We discovered that we could walk in a straight line from our doorstep all the way onto Ile St-Louis, one of the two small islands in the Seine. From there it was a stone’s throw to the other island, Ile de la Cité, home of the imperious Catedral Notre Dame. Nate and I had both already been inside and the line to get in was winding practically all the way back onto Ile St-Louis, so we were content to just stroll past the iconic building and marvel at its architectural splendor: intricate spire, flying buttresses, stained glass masterpieces, myriad gargoyles...it’s quite humbling. They just don’t build churches like they used to. We then stopped to use the restroom at Hôtel Dieu de Cité, one of the city’s oldest hospitals kitty-cornered from the cathedral. It has all the makings of a normal hospital, except for the gorgeous open-air courtyard located in the building’s center. Roman columns and a vibrant garden flank the grand limestone quad, lending it the air of an ancient agora where intellectuals or senators orated from pulpits to the gathering masses. Leave it to the French to create the ultimate convalescent paradise. I now know where I’d want to recover from surgery.

We then walked around the corner to our true destination: the Conciergerie. Once the seat of French government and then a prison during the French Revolution, the building dates back to the 12th century. It features impressive interior architecture, small historical exhibits, and replicas of prisoners’ chambers, guard posts, and rooms where the unluckiest of the bourgeoisie would be prepped for the guillotine. We also saw a real, live guillotine blade – duller than a butter knife (we had to check), but apparently weighing in at over 40 kilos to ensure it got the job done.

On another day, we went to the legendary Marche aux Puces (flea market) at St-Ouen just outside the city to the north. The market boasts a heady mix of ultra-high and ultra-low merchandise. To get to the really interesting wares, you must elbow your way through the crowded aisles of cheap clothes, boho knick-knacks, tacky souvenirs, and a parade of guys hawking knock-off Dolce & Gabanna belt buckles. (Seriously, the latter itinerant vendors came at you one after another, as quickly and aggressively as the fuzzy yellow orbs flying out of an automatic tennis ball machine. Do they honestly think they can compete when they’re all selling the same exact product in such close proximity? Or are they colluding in an attempt to create an urban army of bling?) Finally, you reach the very back portion of the market, where row after row of magnificent antiques whisk you back in time. Furniture, home accessories, art, weapons, clothes, and jewelry from bygone eras such as the Victorian and Art Deco made for a pseudo outdoor museum experience. A vendeuse selling outrageous Chanel and Shiaparelli baubles even had an article pinned up in her booth about her famous collection; we overheard two customers telling her how they come to Paris once annually to drop major loot at the market (um, do you happen to need any benefactees this year?). We didn’t spend our life savings on crystal chandeliers or 17th century swords, but we had a great time ogling the merchandise.

We then walked back into Paris, eventually climbing steep hills (the first we’ve seen in Paris) and stairways up the back of Montmartre. We ultimately arrived at Sacre Couer, the white chapel of wedding-cake perfection overlooking a nearly 270-degree sweep of the city. Tourists were out in full force, but we had to stop and sit on the steps, taking in the vista and trying to locate our home amid the fray of zinc roofs and architectural landmark after architectural landmark. We couldn’t pinpoint our street, but we could make out the zaniness of Centre Pompidou and the 18th-centry grandeur of Hôtel de Ville; we live roughly just beyond the two. I was reminded of the quaintness of certain parts of Montmartre, as the small chemins surrounding Sacre Couer give the area the feel of a small country village – albeit crammed to the gills with souvenir shops and portrait artists trying to make a quick few bucks sketching out tourists' beaming faces. (In one of the most rarely efficient exchanges I’ve had in Paris to date, one of the portrait artists thought he had me pegged for his next customer and approached me entreatingly, squawking out an eager “Yes?” I curtly replied, “Non” (that is, in French, how you say no), all the while maintaining a brisk pace and hearing Nate snickering under his breath a few feet ahead of me.)

Speaking of sidewalk negotiations, our dining experience one evening made us nearly forget we live in the modern Mecca of servers who can’t be bothered (a.k.a., the land of customer non-service). We were craving Indian food, so we went to Passage Brady in the 10th – two blocks crammed back to back with nothing but Indian-Pakistani eateries. The moment we stepped into the alley, we could see the silhouettes of restaurant hosts bounding outside to greet us and make their never-ending pitches. Uh oh. One after another, they call us a lovely couple and oh, it’s so good you came to eat at the best Indian restaurant in Paris, what a great deal, best prices in the neighborhood, oh it would be an honor to have you this evening, best chicken tikka masala you’ll ever eat… And we’re all apologies and sorry just looking, we’re going to keep walking. I mean, with over a dozen restaurants to choose from, why settle for the first, or even fifth, offer? Again, this was an issue of how a business could compete in such close proximity to its competitors, when they all had very little in the way of differentiation. One host was so bold as to follow us, step in front of us, and block us from walking any further. My silent fury was ignited, but Nate toppled like a deck of cards when the guy offered us free aperitifs and naan. Well, there's the differentiation after all, and I guess you can’t argue with bribery. And man, the chicken tikka and lamb vindaloo were delicious, but way too “farang spicy” (and yes, I’m mixing cultures here, but that’s what the Thai serve tourists eager for some kick but who aren’t at all able to handle the indigenous chilis).

Ahhhh, I love long weekends. I really felt like a local this morning as I grumbled my way back to work and silently identified with overheard complaints of employees returning to their offices from their lovely November vacances (vacations). But the toughest part of the day was learning that there is very likely going to be a weeklong transportation strike starting next Tuesday night. Good friggin’ grief, I’ve barely recovered from the last strike and now it’s going to quadruple in length…At least it’ll make for some interesting blogging.

Life Is a Carnavalet

It’s been a few days since my last post, so let me begin by wishing all the fellow members of the tribe a Shana Tovah, as well as a happy post-BMan to those who went. And if you don’t fall into either category, well, your time for a special shout-out will come…don’t you worry .

After a rather gray Saturday (and another trip to the bank during which we could only accomplish one of several banking tasks…sigh), we were delighted to wake up to a brilliantly sunny Sunday. This weekend happens to be Les Journées du Patrimoine, an annual event during which many national monuments, museums, churches, and points of architectural interest are open free to the public. It took us about one millisecond to decide against going to the Louvre. While free admission seemed appealing, judging from its zoo-like atmosphere on a normal day, we decided fighting the crowds was not a favorable Sunday afternoon activity. Hence the plan to visit a lesser-known, relatively off-the-beaten path museum. Ironically, avoiding crowds was just not in the cards, but we had a lovely day nonetheless.


We headed to the Marais and first grabbed a bite at the much-lauded L’As du Falafel on Rue des Rosiers. The huge line snaking up the narrow street assured us that this was, as reported, the best falafel joint of the lot—and there are, literally, a lot on this street, with nary a line a third the size of this one. And so we waited, in a manner reminiscent of Sunday jaunts to Zazie. Our people-watching went into high gear. Now it’s true, there are many stylish people in this city, but there are also some pretty heinous fashion crimes running rampant. One particular disastrous trend we’ve noticed is a style of pants I can only describe as MC-Hammer-meets-50-Cent: super baggy, carpenter-style parachute pants that cinch at the bottom. Ugh. And no matter what type of shirt or shoes is worn with them, it’s a look that cannot be salvaged. Make it stop! (Ze goggles, zey do nah-seeng.) I wonder…is there a Vice Mag Paris bureau?

We took our falafel to go and ate in the street. It was DELICIOUS. Although we were then subject to the sandbag-in-the-belly sensation that naturally follows, we hopped over to the nearby Musée Carnavalet, a museum dedicated to the history of Paris. Nate didn’t seem as wowed by the grounds as I was upon my first discovery of the museum earlier this week (see previous blog entry). Apparently the grounds of the Musée Rodin outshine these, but I’m easily impressed, unlike the oh-so-jaded Parisians (toward which N seems to be slowly but surely evolving, hehe).


The Carnavalet galleries contain artifacts, paintings, furniture, and miniature architectural models from various time periods, ranging from the first to the twentieth centuries. We ogled the Merovingian medical instruments, Medieval stained glass, Renaissance iron works, deluxe 18th-Siècle furnishings, and images of Roaring Twenties taverns. Abundant paintings depicted views of the city from 200, 300, 400 years ago that boast the exact same architecture and Seine views that you can see at present. Of course, it’s impossible not to recognize this when walking the city streets nowadays, but it’s another thing altogether to see it captured on canvas by the artists who breathed that air. Europe is so thrillingly different from the States in this respect.

But our favorite section at the museum by far was the top floor, wholly dedicated to the French Revolution—one of the most fascinating historical periods, in my estimation. The artistic renderings of the siege of the Bastille and beheadings by guillotine were chilling in their realism. The replica of Marie Antoinette’s prison chamber was relatively amusing, as it was quite posh considering the people were rabid at the prospect of beheading her.

All the blood and gore was exciting at first, but eventually wore us down. We abandoned the bayonet-fueled battles of the past, only to enter the fray of present day foot-traffic battles. The Marais’ narrow streets (and even narrower sidewalks) that were so tranquil only a few days ago were now teeming with people. Free sightseeing + gorgeous weather + great shopping and dining + limited space = rubbernecking central. And I’m sure pedestrians do this all over the world, but we’ve noticed that it’s rather frequent in Paris—people will just stop in their tracks, right in front of you, and then it’s an acrobatic feat to circumnavigate them and the adjacent dense flow of foot traffic. Not to complain– it’s all part of the experience and small potatoes compared to places in other parts of the world (Chatuchak Market in Bangkok comes to mind). Nonetheless, it was a bit hairy getting out of the Marais, and afterwards we felt thankful that our apartment is removed from this part of the neighborhood, yet only a few minutes away by foot.

Now it’s time to hunker down and do some lesson planning for my first full week of teaching English to Parisian professionals. The prospect of alarm clocks and bleary-eyed subway rides is not too palatable, but I’m excited to teach again, to establish a routine, and to gain footing in this new chapter of my life.

High Heels, Tasty Teas

My employer had to send me to a doctor for a government-mandated, basic medical examination. I’m still not sure if this is a requirement when an employee takes any new job in France, or if I had to do it because it’s my very first job in France (some things do get lost in translation sometimes). Anyhow, I was promised an hour of pay for the doctor’s visit, so I wasn’t at all put out by the prospect.

During our visit to France five years ago, Nate experienced bad carpal tunnel, so he decided to visit an acupuncturist in Marseilles. We were surprised to discover that the doctor’s office looked more like a private home: the waiting room was a richly appointed parlor and the exam room where Nate was transformed into a human pincushion had the air of an old-fashioned study. At the time we thought it had something to do with the taste of the acupuncturist (or perhaps he just worked out of his home?), but I recently read somewhere that this decor is quite typical for private medical practices in France. So color me surprised (and admittedly a bit disappointed) when I entered a highly sterile, nondescript doctor’s office today. Where’s my Louis XV waiting-room chair?

I’ve been surprising myself with the amount of French I can understand. My French speech skills, however, are foundling at best. I’ve managed to get through basic transactions at the bank, post office, restaurants, and various shops, but today at the doctor’s office I came across my first big hurdle—with hilarious results. Everything started out fine. I gave my name, answered some basic questions, and then was told to wait. I asked the receptionist to point me toward the bathroom, and on my way a pair of nurse practitioners accosted me. They started squabbling away at me in French and I stood dumbstruck, only making out two words: “pee pee” (I can only assume this expression transcends language barriers) and “verre” (the word for glass or cup). Before I could respond, one of the NP’s produced a metal cup—slightly bigger than but in the same style of the kind a barrista would use to steam milk—and handed it to me. Are you kidding? I have to pee in a cup, and it’s then going to be frothed up for a cappuccino? The receptionist must have overheard the exchange, because she came rushing over and explained to the NP’s that I didn’t need to provide a urine sample. Pfew. I made it through the medical exam (very basic, mostly consisting of q & a) speaking “Franglais” with the doctor, who I think was more nervous to make inquiries in English than I was to answer her in French.

Whoever coined the phrase “no pain, no gain” has never traversed four arrondisements worth of Paris in 3” wedges. I have newfound respect for the pair of shoes I hurriedly slung on today, way before I decided to walk all the way from the doctor’s office in the 2nd to our aparthotel in the 12th. I didn’t plan to walk that far when I first left the doctor’s, but it was probably the abundant eye candy that propelled me onward—and I made it home without a trace of discomfort.


I started out on the pedestrian walkway of rue Montrogeuil, chockablock with produce markets, flower shops, and touristy cafes. I then veered east toward the Marais, thinking it would be a convenient time to explore more of my soon-to-be hood. I passed the Centre Pompidou (which, as Joe so perfectly puts it, looks like a hamster cage) on my way up rue Rambuteau, which eventually became rue de Francois Bourgeois—an apt name for a street full of fashion, gourmet food, and upscale cosmetics. (Oh man, am I in trouble…thank god the paychecks will be rolling in soon.) Today I wasn’t so much tempted by all the lovely wares peeking out of boutique after boutique—it was the siren song of beautiful public space after beautiful public space. A random turn onto a side street brought me to a quaint park alongside a church. It wasn’t nearly as wondrous as the spots I encountered later on, but sitting in the shade, watching tots play in the sandbox, gazing up at the church’s spire amid the tops of ornate Parisian buildings—just heavenly.


I ambled through the twisty alleys until I came across rue des Rosiers, the heart of Paris’ Jewish Quarter, where one can see Hassidim strolling past Marais fashion hounds. Then right around the corner is rue Vieille du Temple, where rainbow flags soar proudly. (I’ll feel so at home in the Marais, as it’s a perfect cross between my NY Jewish heritage and my decade in SF.) I didn’t see any leather chaps, but I did make the discovery of a lifetime: Le Palais de Thés. I really love tea; in fact, I LURVE it. I like to check out tea shops whenever possible, and this tea takes the cake. The blends here are so unusual and aromatic, and after a few sips of the green tea they’d brewed for sampling, I felt reborn. So let me say it now: if we could abdicate alcohol and drugs for the offerings of Le Palais de Thés, the world would be a much more peaceful, happy place. If I’m found months from now wandering the Paris airport in robes and a tonsure, preaching the benefits of tea, don’t say I didn’t warn you. For now, I’ll just enjoy the Hammam Rouge blend I purchased—a kaleidoscope of flavors ranging from jasmine to grapefruit.


I circled back to rue Francois Bourgeois, where I discovered Musée Carnavalet, a museum of the history of Paris. Thankfully, you don’t have to pay the admission price to soak up the grounds. This is one of the most jaw-droppingly stunning places I’ve seen in Paris. I’ll let the picture speak for itself, although it doesn't nearly do the place justice.


It gets better. I ventured on to Place des Vosges, a square built in the 17th century on perfect symmetrical principles. Nine connected houses were constructed on each side of the square, with arcades covering the sidewalks. A fountain runneth over in each corner, benches are located throughout, and people of all ages lounge on the patches of grass. It’s no surprise Catherine de Medici chose to live here at one point. It’s hard to decide whether to hang out in the park or kick it at a curbside café on the perimeter, but today I opted for a bench as the sun reared its head for the first time all afternoon.


By the time I was ready to head home, I realized I was right around the corner from place de Bastille, a mere 10-15 minute walk from home (go wedges!). I don’t know why this weird carnival booth was set up in the middle of a traffic island—Parisian wonders never cease.

Tuileries

I dropped into the office for a brief spell to peruse some teaching materials for Monday’s lesson. Afterwards I wandered about and realized how ridiculously close my office is to the Jardin des Tuileries. I haven’t been there since my first visit to Paris 11 years ago, so I felt compelled to go, even though a huge gray storm cloud hovered.


To get there, I had to cut through Place Vendôme, a.k.a. the Posh Pavilion (my name for it, anyway). The plaza boasts an impressive column, oxidized by time and intricately engraved; a statue of Napoleon rests on top. All around the plaza and on the streets leading to it are the schmanciest businesses imaginable (Chanel, Cartier, Boucheron, Van Cleef & Arpels, the Ritz, etc.) I then realized my plan to grab a bite on my way to the Tuileries was a mistake. Nearly an hour later, my wallet 13 euros lighter and my belly satisfied with a French version of Caesar salad (much better than in the US), I entered the Tuileries.


Even on a less-than-idyllic day, this public garden is a paradise. I wove through a kiddie football game, striding up the leafy lanes leading up to a swath of flower gardens (hello, dahlias!). After admiring the colors, I made my way to the fountain, which was surrounded by comfy looking chairs free for the sitting. I sat down, opened my book, and tried to read, although I was distracted by the utter beauty of my surroundings. Plus I could see Musée D’Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, the arcades of Rue de Rivoli, the Obelisque (over at Place de la Concorde), and the Ferris wheel from my seat (behold the pics). Directly behind me was the Louvre, the pyramid looming up from a bevy of camera-snapping internationals. I was in a tourist’s paradise, but interestingly enough, a lot of the voices around the fountain chattered away in French.


Soon some Russian intermingled with French, Italian, and English. An elderly Russian woman sat on a chair right near me, muttering at her husband, who was blithely filming the scene on his camcorder. Suddenly the woman toppled backwards in her seat and was splayed out on the ground. Her husband continued filming it, unfazed. Struggling to hold in some laughter at his ridiculousness, I was the one to get up and help her. I think at that point he finally stopped shooting, so hopefully I won’t wind up on YouTube.


Fiinally descending into the Metro, I was reminded of a wonderful little segment in the recent film, “Paris Je T’Aime,” a collection of shorts that each take place in a different arrondisement of Paris. Each short is written and directed by a different director, and is in essence its own unique ode to the city and its inhabitants (I definitely recommend renting it). The Coen Brothers directed the “Tuileries” short set in the eponymous Metro station, in which Steve Buscemi manages to make you laugh without ever saying one word. It’s all about the eyes.

Battle of the Arches

Having multiple interviews on your first week in a new city is a great way to start figuring out the lay of the land. I’ve always been somewhat of a human compass, but big, sprawling cities always throw me off (L.A., I’m looking at you). The urban layout here is certainly not the perfect, Cartesian lattice of Manhattan or San Francisco’s two grids bisected by a diagonal. Paris obeys no rules of symmetry whatsoever – streets curve, twist around roundabouts never to be seen again, drop off after a block or go on for miles only to change names, and several street names are recycled among the designations of rues, chemins, avenues, boulevards, allées, places, and so on. But the city’s layout does follow a geometric logic. The arrondisements, or zones (for lack of a better term), spiral clockwise from the city center, around and around from 1 to 20. About 36 or so points on this haphazard “clock” mark the loci of the ancient gates to the city, when walls once stood high to protect the populace. Outlying villages surround the arrondisements and are almost considered extensions of the city themselves; they’re mostly accessible by Metro (although some could take an hour to reach, depending on your starting point). And outside this circle, the bannlieu (suburbs) crop up. It’s not easy navigating this town, but I’ve got the chronological-spiral logic down, have the perfect city map practically attached at the hip, and I’ll be damned if I’m not a full-fledged Metro pro within my first month.

I journeyed to one of the outlying villages today, La Dèfense, for an interview. It feels funny to call it a village when it’s really a megaplex of modern architecture and commerce. One comes to Paris eager to soak up remaining vestiges of the Renaissance, the Revolution, the Rococo, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, the list goes on…not the hull of the Starship Enterprise. But if sleek skyscrapers and a gynormous shopping ring your bell, take Metro Ligne 1 all the way to its western endpoint and you will find yourself in standing in the midst of a modern Mecca – as well as smack in the middle of the Arches.

Behold in the distance one of the most famous landmarks in all of Paris. Then turn 180 degrees and you’re nearly in the shadow of Le Grand Arche, a towering mass that could eat 5 Arc de Triomphes for lunch, with room for dessert. Why did they build this? Did they feel the need to outdo Triomphe? I mean, it’s the Arch of Triumph, people! Anyhow, it seems Le Grande Arche is more than just an “art meets technology meets might” type of statement – it’s also a venue for public events, such as today’s kiddie wonderland of Moonbounce, jungle gym, and ball pit. Howweird. When I got over the shock of being in such a hypermodern, surreal setting, I actually started digging it. I had some fun with my camera.

And just for fun, I’m throwing in a picture of yet another one of today’s random discoveries. I like to call it, “Which one of these doesn’t belong?”

Daft Punk Is Playing in My Firestation

Looks like one of 'em got hisself a day job.

Today my travels also took me to the BCBG (bon chic, bon genre) neighborhood of St-Germain. I was struck by the age of the Eglise St-Germain, a beautiful church built in the 6th century and still standing...right next to a Dior store.

Le Premier Weekend

The past couple days have been a mix of exploring, dealing, jetlag, and relaxing. Our adventures have reminded us that it’s soooooooooo much more convenient having a cell phone (duh), having helpful local friends is miraculous (more later), and arriving the last week of August is both a blessing (super calm and quiet, as many Parisians are still gone on ‘les vacances’) and a curse (so many businesses are closed).

Yesterday we met up with Arnaud, the cousin of our good friend DMD and a friend of ours for many years. Arnaud lives outside the city in the town Antony, so we went on a little jaunt to the ‘burbs. Antony – all two and a half blocks of it – is cute. [Although I think everything here is cute. I could be looking at the dumpiest street in Paris and still think it’s charming.] The best part of our rendezvous was connecting with a familiar face, which cannot be emphasized enough. It meant so much to be hosted for lunch and enjoy a friendly afternoon. Plus we learned TONS of info that one could only get from a local. Arnaud gave us the scoop on everything from washing machines to grocery shopping, from news channels to Internet speed, you name it. He even gave us a cell phone. We’re so indebted.


We had a slow morning, which, we discovered to our detriment, severely limited our ability to find food. Many boulangeries and charcutries close at noon on Sundays, plus it’s August, so our chances of putting together a romantic picnic (which sounded amazing when we thought of it last night) were slim. I went out on my own in search of picnic food and wound up finding a farmer’s market (fruits and veggies only).


It was bustling with locals young and old, and boasted some pretty gorgeous looking produce. It was there that I either committed my first faux pas or was just plain stupid. One stall had peaches for sale at a certain price for 2.5 kilos. The vendor started filling up a bag for me, but I said, “Non, je choisi” (which in retrospect may have offended him, who knows). He wasn’t happy when I only selected two peaches, and he proceeded to charge me an amount I couldn’t quite distinguish. After I got my change back, I realized I’d probably been ripped off, but I didn’t have the vocabulary or energy to argue about it. Lesson learned. On another outing today, Nate and I discovered an amazing boulangerie (open on Sunday afternoons, no less) in the opposite direction I’d taken earlier. SCORE. And I now remember what a baguette is supposed to taste like.

This afternoon we walked up a storm and discovered some lovely outdoor spots. On Nicole’s recommendation, we checked out the nearby Viaduc Des Arts. This ancient viaduct (leftover from Roman Empire) has a top level on which the city has planted gardens and a paved walkway. Lovely for a Sunday stroll.

Then we crossed the Seine to the 5th, where we ambled up Rue Mouffetard (a pedestrian-only cobbled street lined with shops, cafes, etc) and soaked up some natural beauty in the Jardin des Plantes (is there any other kind??). The latter reminded me a bit of certain parts of Central Park. It’s also the home of the Museum of Natural History, so the munchkins were out in droves. It’s notable that there are many interracial couples in Paris, so you can imagine how beautiful the children are.


It’ll be a quiet Sunday evening for us, as we embark on a busy week. I have to get my carte de sejour (equivalent of a green card) tomorrow, which will probably eat up my entire morning. Nate starts work and I have six (possibly seven) interviews. We’re already looking forward to notre vacance dans Provence le weekend prochain.