Au Lapin Agile

This blog was written in late October, but in the spirit of NEVER FORGETTING (9/11 too soon) I have decided to post it nonetheless. ouais.


I sat with my French “negative expressions” exercises sitting in front of me. “Phffff,” I thought to myself, “Je n’ai pas besoin de PLUS exercises simples.” My professor had put together a list of questions that we needed to respond to in one negative form or another, “No, I’ve never eaten cow brains” “No, I didn’t finish the whole box of cookies.” Mindlessly I filled through the blanks until I came upon, “Es-tu déjà allé au Lapin Agile?” Here it was almost November and I found myself staring at this question, knowing I couldn’t answer affirmatively, though wishing I could. “Pas encore” I scrawled down.

Pas encore….it seems the list of “Not Yet’s” is growing too large for the number of days I have left here. It’ weird to think about the end of things, but what do humans do if not look at what’s coming up, or what’s about to end? it sometimes seems that we really weren’t built to n’inquiete pas, and just take in the present. TANGENT: I find this to be true about 98.7 percent of the time, with the following three exceptions: (1) when I am running, (2)when I am making / seeing art, and (3)when I am ivre (pronounced “eve-rah” French for drunk, but classier because it’s in French). Though one could argue, those are all the same thing.

Let’s face it, if you’re running and not slightly absorbed in the present, then you will FALL AND BREAK YOUR FACE. And this even happens to those of us who try to be pretty aware, but still fail miserably. So, beyond making sure feet hit pavement, running—especially in a city like Paris—is one of those great experiences where you see SO MUCH, hear so much, become a little part of so much for an instant and then leave it. It’s fleeting, it’s exciting, it’s constantly changing and if you’re not paying attention you’ll miss it—the grandpa chasing his grandson who’s tiny laughs sound like big gasps of air, the crowd of people that gleefully throws rice as the married couple dressed in business semi-formal steps out of city hall, the little boy too old to be sucking his thumb but not too old to have a yellow BABAR backpack, It’s all so immediate and quick that the seconds you spend thinking on the future will be interrupted by something more interesting happening right in front of you. Everything is faster but in a way this concise taking in of the world creates more distinct impressions…

And then there’s making and seeing art, also slightly obvious absorption in the present. If I am standing in the Louvre charcoaling down a not-so-famous “Venus and Satyr” compelling all those walking by to give what they might have considered a mediocre Renaissance painting an extra nod with that raised eyebrow frowned mouth confused but intrigued expression. I’m engulfed in the moment—eyes on the canvas, eyes on my notebook, canvas, notebook, back of some guy’s head (GET OUT OF THE WAY), canvas. It is a fun play where opposite to running, time slows down, it lulls, yawns, meanders over every surface of the painting picking out those little details, unnoticed at first glance, as they surface like tiny bubbles. AH yes, that shading is quite strong, ok that’s how the leg twists—see, draw, edit, see. In a way, this connects to just seeing art.

Par exemple, on Friday, from the tippy-top poor man seats of the theater I sat gazing down at the heads and laps of wealthier theater goers who had also decided to spend a night at “La Cage aux Folles.” It was exciting to sit knowing for a few hours I would be absorbed in watching the comedy unfold onstage, but just as much watching the people around me—a forty something woman who’s laugh sounded like “oooh! Oooh!” Her husband who would slap his knee and close his eyes with his below-breath chuckle, then of course the actors who were AMAZING, except when they talked just too fast for me to catch up. (maybe I should go to a children’s production…). Sitting in that audience was like being stimulated by countless little electrodes all of them trying to grab my attention (er…in a good way…Bell Jar, too soon)

So finally being intoxicated (with life, art, love, or alcohol) is one of those wonderful moments where future and past don’t take center-stage and individual moments take the spotlight. Last weekend I hit up this place called “La Vinia” an out-of-this world wine shop encompassing three stories with crates after crates, displays upon displays of wine. Selling everything from a modest 5euro Bordeaux to the 50,000euro bottle of SOMETHING REDICULOUS THAT PROBABLY TASTES LIKE LIQUID GOLD there seemed to be nothing this place did not have. However, the true beauty is that a poor but dignified student like myself can go in, pick out a bottle, and take it up to the third story restaurant (très chic) where waiters in formal attire will serve it to you at retail price – no tip, no service fee, hell they even throw in a basket of bread without batting an eye. It beats sitting on some church’s steps swigging down a 2euro monoprix wine from the bottle and wiping your mouth with your sleeve. No, here you get lost in thought, conversation, and contentedness as gradual inebriation washes over you as the amount remaining in the bottle disappears.

So. As I was saying, Lapin Agile. Maybe you’ve heard of it, maybe you haven’t. It’s this cute little cabaret on the hill of Montmartre, that’s been there forever (well 1850s). Picasso hung out there, Modigliani frequented it (he painted girls with long faces), Edith Piaf croaked her some of her first wavery tunes there—basically, walking by and NOT seeing a fannypack toting tourist snap a photo of it is a rarity. I finally went, not knowing what to expect, worried I would be utterly disappointed BUT happy to say the contrary. It was like I’d just taken a Delorean to 1905, was hangin’ out during Paris’ Belle Epoque, and I should be saying to my friends, in French, “Look y’all we live in the best effing country in the world, we built that new Eiffel tower, we got like, art and sh*t, yeah, life is GREAT” (I will feign ignorance of WWI and WWII looming in the not-so-distant future as I will return back to the present before either of them break out, time travel, hell yeah) Then I would give Picasso a good fist-pump, swig down my absinthe, and lean back—I mean sit straight (no chairbacks, forgot)—and let the cabaret music wash over me.

I’m going to miss you Paris, It’s been real.

The half finished blog style....

So while it seems Erika has fallen off that famed edge of the earth, you know, where there are like a bunch of mermaids with green skin, Amelia Erhart's plane (sp?), and Johnny Depp with some upsidedown boat or something...or a giant lady made of crabs....who knows, the POINT IS, she HASN'T, she's just been selfishly writing blogs as they spurt up in her mind like little bubbles of perrier water, but then as life/obligations catch up, she doesn't actually finish them. Every night, as she tucks in her computer for bed she swears to come back and finish, edit, post, but alas, along with things such as being on time and not taking "thirds" at dinner Erika isn't that great at keeping promises, SO. before all those little thoughts and mutterings become entirely moot (i.e. before erika leaves this wonderful country of France) she'll share them, half-finished blog style. Because, hey, you're reading this assuming its not going to be that well written, so no fear to dissappoint! Assuming mediocrity of the reader! woohoo!!! (dear reader, you are not mediocre, love writer)

Allright internet land, its a deal.
until next time, here's a petit list of do's and don't's for when you come to paris.

1. Jogging in the street wearing shorts / tanktop - if its november, you play dress up and pretend its the weather november should be, even if its 68 and sunny.

2. if you choose to disobey 1. and jog, don't stop in a market/place where you have to walk unless you like watching 7,000 pairs of eyes scan you up and down

3. Don't eat "Pied de Cochon" (Pig's foot, yeah i know, REALLY tempting) even if it is the name of the restaurant.

4. Munster cheese here tastes like the inside of a butt.

5. Brebis cheese here tastes like the wings of angels, which happen to be very very delicious.

Six pages.....

at first.....thought it would be impossible....now i find myself unable to cut off my thoughts for each element of this painting to ensure i keep at/around six pages. Oh editing--the cutting out of everything but the tastiest nuggets of insight, no wonder they give academy awards for you.

Fashion week...?

Is it bad I don’t give monkey’s butt about fashion week?

I swear I’m a girl. I swear I do enjoy looking nice and all that stuff, but fashion week?

The main problem I have with it, isn’t necessarily with it, but just that it’s a giant invitation for everyone (in the already immaculately dressed city of Paris) to UP THE ANTY [on themselves] and class the daily, “getting dressed” act up even more. PROBLEM. because now the decently fashionable populace crowding the sidewalks has turned into very fashionable populace. ERIKA NO LIKE.

Can I just hire that one short guy from project runway to flip through my closet and declare, “HONEY, I’m looking at a collection of tragic hot trannies who have just coalesced into one super-mega-hot-tranny-uncute-mess” and call it a day? Because honestly walking through the streets of Paris in my chucks / jeans / not silk clothing makes me feel like I’m Remy the rat and I just crawled out of a sewer. But unlike Ratatouille this shit ain’t [pixar] animated—its real life, and if that happened, it would be EFFING GROSSE.

And what’s up with the CRAZE??? I mean sure it’s cool, but its about as cool as if the world’s biggest “Magic The Gathering” Convention just rolled into town; and as far as I’m concerned, very high end fashion designers and MTG have at least two things in common for me: I know they exist, and I know that that other people like them more than I do, but beyond that my knowledge is limited…and to be frank, I’m not really planning / desiring to expand it. So have fun name throwing, and card exchanging folks, I’ve got a rainbow plaid jacket to zip up.

Je m'appelle Erika et je suis une fatty

So after a visit at Versailles, ma prof pointed out one of the best places to buy des macarons in the old town part of the once muddy wasteland Louis XIV decided to call/create? home.

AND dear America, let me tell you, unless you have been to Paris/France to experience this exquisite thing le macaroon It's something like NO OTHER. Somehow the idea that a piece of food can go from zero to hero (holler hercules) simply by means of its texture is a small fact that I feel gets left by the wayside in America...but is WORSHIPPED here. A fresh macaron is really an orgasm for the mouth, no not the tastes, the MOUTH-- it's like you're biting into a cloud, its about breaking that delicately crispy exterior that seems to dissolve just as you reach to the soft cross between of a cake and cookie beneath to find the perfectly rich moist cream at the center (people with "moist" phobia, GET OVER IT NOW, first of all, its overplayed, WE GET IT, also, is it really that bad if you're not thinking about.....other things...... well now you're thinking about it if you weren't before, go me!). BUT YES, needless to say, its pretty much a religious experience (akin to speaking in tongues or getting baptized...? ok no good examples, KILL ME). So as my snack I ate two of these Sacajawea Dollar sized petit gateaux as I walked. It was difficult to walk.

And of course, upon returning home, I was greeted by a dinner followed by two desserts. Du Vin chaud - a dish of wine boiled with honey, fruit,to which ice cream and biscuits are added. and chocolate mousse.

Dear america, I am a fatty.

amicalement,

erika

OUAIS!

SO. UPDATE NATION? yes please. After succumbing to sleep last night, I woke up to wrestle with the comb, I added conditioner, massaged it, and whispered french poetry to it, only making it more tangled (*note the french poetry may or may not have contributed to tangleness). My whole family offered both help and surprised / amused/ "i've never seen that before" gazes...as I thought, yes....neither have I. (TANGENT, DOES THIS HAPPEN? AM I HURTING MY CREDIBILITY BY RECOUNTING THE STORY THAT ADMITS I AM ONE OF THE FIVE PEOPLE IN THE WORLD WHO HAVE DONE THIS??) Either way, not ready to part with my locks i donned a baseball cap and went to class. whole day: comb under hat. messy tangled mass in hair. As I sat in a meeting with one of the UC directors I attempted keeping a straight face every time the conversation lapsed and my mind whispered, "you still have a comb hidden under your cap" in a raspy old man voice.

When I finally returned home, I sat as mon pere Jaques used scissors that looked like they were from Sleeping Beauty times to cut the comb, but finally, even after cutting it and its bristles....with "pas de grande chose a fait" I decided, 'well, as Rafiki says, "It is time"' So like Simba I climbed rainy pride rock and cut off the comb (female lions roar in approval) AND to my/liana/jaques/gaelle's surprise? no noticeable change! i.e. No 80's-tastic puff bangs! wooohooo!! Fist PUMP! (holler russell) OUAIS! TAKE THAT tangled mass of hair/comb I cut from my head, you can't change me I do what I want!!
so, as they say, tout va bien.

I have a future in being a coiffure...for the profoundly stupid of course.
until next time

Dumb Blondes

Ok internet, i hate to disappoint but this blog will not contain the promised details of dog outfits or other cute things one finds in paris. No. I am too absorbed in the present moment of hilarity / realisation / sadness? that in spite of all my life's efforts...I have come to a point I thought I never would...... YES, Dear, Friends, countrymen, lend me your ears I have come to the moment, (where the eff's my stenographer!? oh wait this is written) where I may declare myself......a dumb blonde.

Because without that defense how else can i explain this:

YES that is a comb. stuck in my bangs.
And thats with an hour's "progress" (Pilgrim's Progress?) of wrestling with it.

....There really isn't anything to explain.
ok maybe a little... a simple desire to see how one would look with bangs...is that too much to ask for god? HUH??? REALLY???!!? What have i done to deserve this strange and unusal smite-ing? I feel like the man in the iron mask. except with the humiliation of everyone being able to see my face. DAMN THAT LUCKY BASTARD. Euf. sometimes life isn't fair.

There we go. a smart person wouldnt end up in the position I am in right now, I'm pretty sure most people can agree on that, and since I REFUSE the categories of stupid, crazy, insane, republican, I will have to accept my fate, destiny, density? and go with Dumb. Dumb Blondes, you may increae your population by 2 (because I'm assuming you'll make an addition error anyway. so 2 just to be safe).

Post Script: I apologize for the SEEMING dullness of this entry, but remember, this Sh**t is LIVE ACTION making it RIDICULOUSLY EXCITING like as exciting as watching live golf or that guy who talks about history on PBS. WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT? will Erika lose her bangs to the comb's wrath just like that lady in It Takes Two loses her hair to Ashley Olsen's bubble gum? Will she walk the Parisian streets looking like she just came from a "run by combing"? Will she battle the comb throughout the night forfeiting sleep? Perhaps all of these will happen.

Post post script: holler Shakespeare/Back to the future /mrs doubtfire references. MDF4EVA!!