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.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
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
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
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.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
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
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
Monday, September 21, 2009
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!!
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!!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Un Pichet de Monet (s'il vous plait)
Everyone's heard of the dude. Monsieur "inventor of impressionisme," but I'm telling y'all, this guy was crazy. (good crazy, not... van gogh crazy*).*Note: van gogh crazy is also good crazy...depending on context, give that man paints and easle? good. Give that guy an ear infection and a really sharp knife? bad. (too soon).
So somehow over this past week or so I've developed a bit of a relationship with Monet, nothing "offish" (short for "official." Learn my language), lets just say, before, if I ran into him on the street I'd just say, "DUDE, Claude! DIGGIN what you're doin there, I mean I love your work, amazing use of color....an uh....yeah...laterz!" It was a very "Just Friends" status; Like that movie I can't remember the name of... or that tv show....Seinfeld. But really, I knew, admired, and respected him quite a bit, but NOW? I'm down to sit at a cafe for hours with this man, elbows on the table with my tilted head resting on my folded hands as I gaze into his eyes--and please, you won't be the first to remind me he's old slash dead. I GET IT. YOU'RE INTOLERANT.
But yes, as far as my recent courtship? I'll brevy (breifify?) it up: Je te presente, the places I went, in their order, forgive me for a temporary lapse into I AM AN UTTER SLAVE TO ART, IT MAKES ME GO "GEEE!" phase.
Orangerie - my breath leaves me as I walk into the two rooms of ceiling to floor waterlillies arranged around the walls. Whats that? I get to swim in Monet's lily pond and gaze up at the clouds in the sky, or I mean, in the pond?, uh yes please?
Marmottan- MONET ONLY museum. I'll stand in front of Promenade pres d'Argentuil for a good ten minutes. how did he do it? her dress is white, and yet, there's white, yellow, blue, green, red--all are there....but its WHITE. at least that's what my mind says, Monet knew better.
Musee D'Orsay - I meander through monet's landscapes until the fifth floor, (ah this one floor worth every museum in the united states) where, among other tasty treasures, i find a full wall dedicated to four of Monet's Cathedral paintings. And in my awe I realize I'm not looking at the face of the same cathedral over and over, neither was monet, I'm looking at the light, and how the light plays with a surface (the surface of what? N'importe quoi. (anything)). The light transforms the object....it becomes the "object" seen.
Giverney - my chance to stare at the same lilies the same reflections, the same gardens monet did and to realize everything we see is a combination of colors. everything we see we see through the game it plays with light. NO WONDER HE PAINTED PONDS. Honestly, everything interesting that's in a lily garden is happening just at that water's surface, and the light does magic there.
Rouen - the actual cathedral Monet painted. BUT WAS IT? no. he painted it on some day in the early 20th century. Today, the light isn't the same, it is not the same cathedral. But all of a sudden I saw Monet setting up his thirty easles in his apartment overlooking the cathedral and jumping up and down while clapping his hands and saying "OH BOY OH BOY! THIS is gonna be GOOD!" Monet got to teach the world to see in a new way by taking something most people would just say, "yes. white" and revealing its hidden spectrum.
So yes, Monet was a modern artist, because all of a sudden, he wasn't doing all the work, he wasn't replicating reality but interpreting. He manipulated the ways our minds are used to seeing blots of color so that they say, "Oh yes, apple!" and just doing that with blots of paint--we don't need a delicately fine umbrella perfectly painted for us to know that's the object over the lady's head.. and BOOM. The viewer, NOT PASSIVE, the image, NOT DEAD. Monet made art speak, his art demands its viewer do some of the work.
SO here I am, after two weeks of general museum-ing in Paris, to have accidentally touched on themes of Monet seemingly everywhere I went: dearest Monet, your paint makes the light come alive? Well Paris makes you come alive.
ok rhetorical shpeil over. perhaps i'll begin a more artsy fartsy blog devoted to these "meta" thoughts. so they dont rub shoulders with stories about me being sneezed on or a dog's funny outfit. or not. juxtaposition is a literary device after all. don't worry mystery audience (mom) more stories about dogs' wardrobes yet to come.
So somehow over this past week or so I've developed a bit of a relationship with Monet, nothing "offish" (short for "official." Learn my language), lets just say, before, if I ran into him on the street I'd just say, "DUDE, Claude! DIGGIN what you're doin there, I mean I love your work, amazing use of color....an uh....yeah...laterz!" It was a very "Just Friends" status; Like that movie I can't remember the name of... or that tv show....Seinfeld. But really, I knew, admired, and respected him quite a bit, but NOW? I'm down to sit at a cafe for hours with this man, elbows on the table with my tilted head resting on my folded hands as I gaze into his eyes--and please, you won't be the first to remind me he's old slash dead. I GET IT. YOU'RE INTOLERANT.
But yes, as far as my recent courtship? I'll brevy (breifify?) it up: Je te presente, the places I went, in their order, forgive me for a temporary lapse into I AM AN UTTER SLAVE TO ART, IT MAKES ME GO "GEEE!" phase.
Orangerie - my breath leaves me as I walk into the two rooms of ceiling to floor waterlillies arranged around the walls. Whats that? I get to swim in Monet's lily pond and gaze up at the clouds in the sky, or I mean, in the pond?, uh yes please?
Marmottan- MONET ONLY museum. I'll stand in front of Promenade pres d'Argentuil for a good ten minutes. how did he do it? her dress is white, and yet, there's white, yellow, blue, green, red--all are there....but its WHITE. at least that's what my mind says, Monet knew better.
Musee D'Orsay - I meander through monet's landscapes until the fifth floor, (ah this one floor worth every museum in the united states) where, among other tasty treasures, i find a full wall dedicated to four of Monet's Cathedral paintings. And in my awe I realize I'm not looking at the face of the same cathedral over and over, neither was monet, I'm looking at the light, and how the light plays with a surface (the surface of what? N'importe quoi. (anything)). The light transforms the object....it becomes the "object" seen.
Giverney - my chance to stare at the same lilies the same reflections, the same gardens monet did and to realize everything we see is a combination of colors. everything we see we see through the game it plays with light. NO WONDER HE PAINTED PONDS. Honestly, everything interesting that's in a lily garden is happening just at that water's surface, and the light does magic there.
Rouen - the actual cathedral Monet painted. BUT WAS IT? no. he painted it on some day in the early 20th century. Today, the light isn't the same, it is not the same cathedral. But all of a sudden I saw Monet setting up his thirty easles in his apartment overlooking the cathedral and jumping up and down while clapping his hands and saying "OH BOY OH BOY! THIS is gonna be GOOD!" Monet got to teach the world to see in a new way by taking something most people would just say, "yes. white" and revealing its hidden spectrum.
So yes, Monet was a modern artist, because all of a sudden, he wasn't doing all the work, he wasn't replicating reality but interpreting. He manipulated the ways our minds are used to seeing blots of color so that they say, "Oh yes, apple!" and just doing that with blots of paint--we don't need a delicately fine umbrella perfectly painted for us to know that's the object over the lady's head.. and BOOM. The viewer, NOT PASSIVE, the image, NOT DEAD. Monet made art speak, his art demands its viewer do some of the work.
SO here I am, after two weeks of general museum-ing in Paris, to have accidentally touched on themes of Monet seemingly everywhere I went: dearest Monet, your paint makes the light come alive? Well Paris makes you come alive.
ok rhetorical shpeil over. perhaps i'll begin a more artsy fartsy blog devoted to these "meta" thoughts. so they dont rub shoulders with stories about me being sneezed on or a dog's funny outfit. or not. juxtaposition is a literary device after all. don't worry mystery audience (mom) more stories about dogs' wardrobes yet to come.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
La Famille!
la famille d'aceuil! le mot [word] pour, "homestay family" en francais. Et AH! Ils sont SI mignon [=SO cute, like when you get a cute chunk of cow in a cute restaurant]! et je les aime beaucoup. (I love them oodles! (literal transltion)) Ok enough sous-titres (subtitles) lets get down to beezwax. and by beezwax i mean english / descriptions of my new home.
But WAIT, before gettin into the juicy (dirty, naughty?) details, perhaps lets tell a (slightly related) story. ALL RIGHT INTERNET LAND, HOP UP ON MY KNEE. (no not like in the terrifying dr seuss tale "Hop on Pop" which I have never read, but I'm guessing they end up killing ther dad, or at least some kids out in reality took Dr Seuss seriously and broke thier dad's sternum as he peacefully slept. CUTE STORY NOW, DR. SEUSS??) So, internetland, having the adorably Parisian mindset to picnic sous la Tour Eiffel, last saturday a bunch of chums and m'self grabbed the bare necessities:
1. A round of camonmbert, a block of another cheese
2. Baguettes (one per person)
3. Bottles of wine (and again, one per person )
didn't intend to finish it all, but we also didnt want to run out of the most important things. And of course we threw in saucisson, des tomates, l'huil, des poivons, du chocolat, my guitar just for shitsies and ca c'est tout. So yada yada yada picnic progresses and 6bottles of wine later the last metro leaves before we do. SO, not wanting to spend d'argent for a taxi, we decide to walk at first, and then catch a taxi to the bastille, walk the whole way? PSH. its too far. MUCH too far...? but AH. the gret paradox* of indecisive cab takers who don't want to spend money, the more you walk, the closer you get, and the less you have to walk / less chance you'll hail that cab. (*this is not a paradox). So yes, for those curious, it takes about 2.5 hours for confused americans to traverse the entire width of Paris: Tour Eiffel to Place de la Bastille. crazytown.
(tangent) hmmm as much as "journals" are "fun" to write, who the hell enjoys writing or reading a laundry list of things one does? Ooh and THEN I saw the eiffel tower, and THEN I petted (pet? pat? patted?) a cute dog with a puffy tail, and THEN a bird pooped on me, omg it was so funny! LOLZ to the MAX! yeah .... even writing this story I'm feelin like, eff...me want more blog less journal, get to the point SELF. The point, you ask?....
SO mon nouveau pere, qui s'appelle Jaques (thank God) picked me up at 11:00 to drive me to my new home, in the 15e arrondisement (district). TURNS OUT, for those curious, it take about 10 minutes for an experienced frenchman to drive from Place de la Bastille to the Eiffel Tower. I contained what could be best described as "sigh-laughter" as we whisked by each and every monument I noted seeing only what? 6 hours before.
And here we are. As impossible as it was for me to describe how much I love Paris, the same has become true for my host family. They are adorable, kind, and playful. I WANT TO BE THIER BEST FRIEND NOW. RIGHT NOW. but I'll give it time, can't come off too eager now, even though I often end up biting off more than I can chew when talking with them (because, lets face it, I love talking with them) I start telling a story only to realize, AH NUTS, I don't know that KEY WORD I'll need to tell this story, euuhhh, pardon-moi while I behead your language (too soon). Talking with my host family I sometimes feel as if i'm wooing a beautiful bird to be my companion, but because my bird accent is so bad, I keep murdering its sing-song language fearing the bird'll hate me for it, HOWEVER as far as my first three days have shown, this ain't the case: ma famille is so sweet it makes me smile, they are fun, intelligent, helpful, and mmmmmm (= happy/yummy/content sound, no i do not plan to eat them) YES. LE MIEUX (the best) I could have asked for.
But WAIT, before gettin into the juicy (dirty, naughty?) details, perhaps lets tell a (slightly related) story. ALL RIGHT INTERNET LAND, HOP UP ON MY KNEE. (no not like in the terrifying dr seuss tale "Hop on Pop" which I have never read, but I'm guessing they end up killing ther dad, or at least some kids out in reality took Dr Seuss seriously and broke thier dad's sternum as he peacefully slept. CUTE STORY NOW, DR. SEUSS??) So, internetland, having the adorably Parisian mindset to picnic sous la Tour Eiffel, last saturday a bunch of chums and m'self grabbed the bare necessities:
1. A round of camonmbert, a block of another cheese
2. Baguettes (one per person)
3. Bottles of wine (and again, one per person )
didn't intend to finish it all, but we also didnt want to run out of the most important things. And of course we threw in saucisson, des tomates, l'huil, des poivons, du chocolat, my guitar just for shitsies and ca c'est tout. So yada yada yada picnic progresses and 6bottles of wine later the last metro leaves before we do. SO, not wanting to spend d'argent for a taxi, we decide to walk at first, and then catch a taxi to the bastille, walk the whole way? PSH. its too far. MUCH too far...? but AH. the gret paradox* of indecisive cab takers who don't want to spend money, the more you walk, the closer you get, and the less you have to walk / less chance you'll hail that cab. (*this is not a paradox). So yes, for those curious, it takes about 2.5 hours for confused americans to traverse the entire width of Paris: Tour Eiffel to Place de la Bastille. crazytown.
(tangent) hmmm as much as "journals" are "fun" to write, who the hell enjoys writing or reading a laundry list of things one does? Ooh and THEN I saw the eiffel tower, and THEN I petted (pet? pat? patted?) a cute dog with a puffy tail, and THEN a bird pooped on me, omg it was so funny! LOLZ to the MAX! yeah .... even writing this story I'm feelin like, eff...me want more blog less journal, get to the point SELF. The point, you ask?....
SO mon nouveau pere, qui s'appelle Jaques (thank God) picked me up at 11:00 to drive me to my new home, in the 15e arrondisement (district). TURNS OUT, for those curious, it take about 10 minutes for an experienced frenchman to drive from Place de la Bastille to the Eiffel Tower. I contained what could be best described as "sigh-laughter" as we whisked by each and every monument I noted seeing only what? 6 hours before.
And here we are. As impossible as it was for me to describe how much I love Paris, the same has become true for my host family. They are adorable, kind, and playful. I WANT TO BE THIER BEST FRIEND NOW. RIGHT NOW. but I'll give it time, can't come off too eager now, even though I often end up biting off more than I can chew when talking with them (because, lets face it, I love talking with them) I start telling a story only to realize, AH NUTS, I don't know that KEY WORD I'll need to tell this story, euuhhh, pardon-moi while I behead your language (too soon). Talking with my host family I sometimes feel as if i'm wooing a beautiful bird to be my companion, but because my bird accent is so bad, I keep murdering its sing-song language fearing the bird'll hate me for it, HOWEVER as far as my first three days have shown, this ain't the case: ma famille is so sweet it makes me smile, they are fun, intelligent, helpful, and mmmmmm (= happy/yummy/content sound, no i do not plan to eat them) YES. LE MIEUX (the best) I could have asked for.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Yes Please.
food blog = a soon must.
Monday, August 24, 2009
La Vie à Paris!!
Les mots ne peuvent pas decrire combien j'aime cette ville!
YES, words cannot describe how much I love this city. Ah! You hear, "Paris is so great blah blah blah paris paris paris" But REALLY....PARIS.
I'm gaga, nuts, drooling like a helpless unfashionable dog (unheard of in paris) as I walk down each Rue; a (beautiful) baguette crunched under one arm, a crepe in the other, trying to figure out why the HELL Parisian rooftops make all buildings I've ever seen in America look like hairy butts. And then the TREES. dear god, praise the strange despotic urges that overcame Napoleon III when he decided, "Um yes, I think I will plant about uh 600,000 EFFIN TREES" he was a genius. Well, except that whole invading Russia thing, smooth move hexlax. But yes, Paris is green, shady (good shady, not shady shady or slim shady), romantic, and just a dream.
Also, a key to my unquenchable excitement / thirst / love of this place = FREE entrance to ANY museum I want. Louvre. Musee D'Orsay. Saint Chapelle. Orangerie. Rodin Gardens. , je paie zero euro, Nothing, Nada Nichts Nien. tous sont gratuit! Free! ah it even rhymes. thank god. This means I just grab sketchbook and pick up and go to.... (fill in the blank). N'IMPORTE OU! (anywhere) For instance Mardi (tuesday)? = Rodin gardens to sketch, wander, and remember that it's not ok to sit on French lawns. OR perhaps I'll go into the Orangerie (jeudi) to look at monet's water lillies and yeah, that's chill you guys are closing in twenty minutes, jokes on you cuz I'll just KEEP COMING BACK. Like my two day in a row visit to the Louvre? I didnt get past the first two rooms of Greek sculptures, one time spending the entire hour with Le Victoire (the winged Nike), WISHING I had a huge sign that would just say, "Vous êtes jaloux?" that all the crazy-rushing-pas-a-la-mode-picture-taking-tourists could read....and then not understand because they dont speak French.
And OH to speak French. Another reason......why this is possibly the best city in the world. I am happiest when I am speaking French. I love the sound of my voice, the shape of my mouth the use of my throat that happens with each "euh, oi, ou, ere, ion..." I utter. I sneakily eavesdrop on people's conversations on metros and in cafes excited to know the general idea of what they're saying. I try to perfect the throat sounds necesary to utter the perfect "un café s'il vous plaît, pas emprunter, ouais, merci" to not sound like a stupide americaine right off the bat, and then, continue chatting with the barista, en francais bien sur, while sipping on my straight up espresso. mmmmm.
I want to say everything that I've done, everything I've seen, and its just so much--
each is a fragment that pops into my head, EVERYTHING is an experience, Playing peekaboo with an insanely well dressed four year old at a cafe, watching the glowing light change in Saint Chappelle as the buzzing tourists leave, sitting in Tuileries Gardens under a giant tree sun on my back, french conversations with an old lady at the market, about where i'm from and why my hair is so blonde, the shine on my spoon as it cuts the crouton cheese cover of real french onion soup, the smell of a boulangerie en route to class, the colorfully filled window of a patisserie.
D'etre à Paris.
YES, words cannot describe how much I love this city. Ah! You hear, "Paris is so great blah blah blah paris paris paris" But REALLY....PARIS.
I'm gaga, nuts, drooling like a helpless unfashionable dog (unheard of in paris) as I walk down each Rue; a (beautiful) baguette crunched under one arm, a crepe in the other, trying to figure out why the HELL Parisian rooftops make all buildings I've ever seen in America look like hairy butts. And then the TREES. dear god, praise the strange despotic urges that overcame Napoleon III when he decided, "Um yes, I think I will plant about uh 600,000 EFFIN TREES" he was a genius. Well, except that whole invading Russia thing, smooth move hexlax. But yes, Paris is green, shady (good shady, not shady shady or slim shady), romantic, and just a dream.
Also, a key to my unquenchable excitement / thirst / love of this place = FREE entrance to ANY museum I want. Louvre. Musee D'Orsay. Saint Chapelle. Orangerie. Rodin Gardens. , je paie zero euro, Nothing, Nada Nichts Nien. tous sont gratuit! Free! ah it even rhymes. thank god. This means I just grab sketchbook and pick up and go to.... (fill in the blank). N'IMPORTE OU! (anywhere) For instance Mardi (tuesday)? = Rodin gardens to sketch, wander, and remember that it's not ok to sit on French lawns. OR perhaps I'll go into the Orangerie (jeudi) to look at monet's water lillies and yeah, that's chill you guys are closing in twenty minutes, jokes on you cuz I'll just KEEP COMING BACK. Like my two day in a row visit to the Louvre? I didnt get past the first two rooms of Greek sculptures, one time spending the entire hour with Le Victoire (the winged Nike), WISHING I had a huge sign that would just say, "Vous êtes jaloux?" that all the crazy-rushing-pas-a-la-mode-picture-taking-tourists could read....and then not understand because they dont speak French.
And OH to speak French. Another reason......why this is possibly the best city in the world. I am happiest when I am speaking French. I love the sound of my voice, the shape of my mouth the use of my throat that happens with each "euh, oi, ou, ere, ion..." I utter. I sneakily eavesdrop on people's conversations on metros and in cafes excited to know the general idea of what they're saying. I try to perfect the throat sounds necesary to utter the perfect "un café s'il vous plaît, pas emprunter, ouais, merci" to not sound like a stupide americaine right off the bat, and then, continue chatting with the barista, en francais bien sur, while sipping on my straight up espresso. mmmmm.I want to say everything that I've done, everything I've seen, and its just so much--
each is a fragment that pops into my head, EVERYTHING is an experience, Playing peekaboo with an insanely well dressed four year old at a cafe, watching the glowing light change in Saint Chappelle as the buzzing tourists leave, sitting in Tuileries Gardens under a giant tree sun on my back, french conversations with an old lady at the market, about where i'm from and why my hair is so blonde, the shine on my spoon as it cuts the crouton cheese cover of real french onion soup, the smell of a boulangerie en route to class, the colorfully filled window of a patisserie.D'etre à Paris.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Funny Things...
Happen on planes. And mixing in an all-nigther = recipe for HILARITY of the most delicious kind.
BUT before we get on the plane, lets just tuck away in our pocket the episode / process of Erika (sans sleeep) remembering to bring everything to the airport. Everything. Underwear, check. Passport, check. scissors, check. Two extra toothbrushes, check. Plane ticket, .....plane ticket....check...? I mean I have this confirmation, that's the same right? What? It's not!? Well look me up, you have proof I bought it yes? Ok well then--what?? Where the hell are we if not in the future where these problems are solved by magical things like the internet and Bill Gates? (Last time I checked, books written about the future are getting close to thier sequels: shoutout to 2010: Odyssey Two (original title)). Where is my ticket you ask??? Shoot, no, it can't be, wait, yes....it is..... In Berkeley.
Ticket....uncheck.
Plan of action
Lets also point out how great falling asleep on planes is. BECAUSE IT IS. Reason 1: So when the Germans sitting next to you get up to use the bathroom, you sit back down, and in the <5min that passes slightly doze of/clock out entirely until BOOM. Jolted awake with three blonde faces fill your frame of view, with the flight attendent tapping your shoulder uttering "Euh..Miss? Miss?" Reaction Naturale = "Bah!#!@!, Ah! I mean, What? I mean, one second, I'll get up." The next few moments go into interpreting that same confusion +scowling expression while also noting that before being prodded awake (ew) I was most DEFINATELY sleeping sitting up with my head tilted back and my mouth open......classy.
Reason 2: Meals. I have come to the realization that in spite of my human appearance I am actually a og and will wake if a meal is placed before me. Pas d'exceptions. RING THAT PAVLOVIAN BELL SUCKAS! And by ring that pavlovian bell I mean push that little cart full of plane / TV dinners, sauf (Except) une probleme, post dinner food coma, oh yes please, I'll have a cup of coffee....mmm coffee... but wait, it's too hot, I'll just wait a second for it to--KERSPLASHLE ( sound of me simultaneously waking up and seeing my hands thrusting forward to knock over full cup of said coffee). Dreamland why? Under what crazy dream circumstances would I need to thrust arms forward? Was i rescuing a baby? was it worth it? Or was I just doing a crazy dance?
Like I said, Hilarity.
Also. here this is the phone booth as some german plane taker left it. there were 20 mini snickers wrappers. I wonders if he knows they actually sell normal sized snickers. he might die from excitement.
BUT before we get on the plane, lets just tuck away in our pocket the episode / process of Erika (sans sleeep) remembering to bring everything to the airport. Everything. Underwear, check. Passport, check. scissors, check. Two extra toothbrushes, check. Plane ticket, .....plane ticket....check...? I mean I have this confirmation, that's the same right? What? It's not!? Well look me up, you have proof I bought it yes? Ok well then--what?? Where the hell are we if not in the future where these problems are solved by magical things like the internet and Bill Gates? (Last time I checked, books written about the future are getting close to thier sequels: shoutout to 2010: Odyssey Two (original title)). Where is my ticket you ask??? Shoot, no, it can't be, wait, yes....it is..... In Berkeley.
Ticket....uncheck.
Plan of action
- Cancel Air Tahiti ticket (SUCK MY BALLS AIR TAHITI) (though je heart STA cancellation policy)
- Buy new plane ticket (via STA, et oui, j'heart STA encore, o la la)
- Kick Air Tahiti desk (plan to go back and see the dent I made)
- Kiss my family until they are sore for helping me and not giving up on this spaz of a daughter
- Take mandtory final picture of now "happy" family (Ingrid is SO pissed off right here) haha.
- Board new plane with a bunch of (beautiful) germans and head to Paris via Frankfurt
Lets also point out how great falling asleep on planes is. BECAUSE IT IS. Reason 1: So when the Germans sitting next to you get up to use the bathroom, you sit back down, and in the <5min that passes slightly doze of/clock out entirely until BOOM. Jolted awake with three blonde faces fill your frame of view, with the flight attendent tapping your shoulder uttering "Euh..Miss? Miss?" Reaction Naturale = "Bah!#!@!, Ah! I mean, What? I mean, one second, I'll get up." The next few moments go into interpreting that same confusion +scowling expression while also noting that before being prodded awake (ew) I was most DEFINATELY sleeping sitting up with my head tilted back and my mouth open......classy.
Reason 2: Meals. I have come to the realization that in spite of my human appearance I am actually a og and will wake if a meal is placed before me. Pas d'exceptions. RING THAT PAVLOVIAN BELL SUCKAS! And by ring that pavlovian bell I mean push that little cart full of plane / TV dinners, sauf (Except) une probleme, post dinner food coma, oh yes please, I'll have a cup of coffee....mmm coffee... but wait, it's too hot, I'll just wait a second for it to--KERSPLASHLE ( sound of me simultaneously waking up and seeing my hands thrusting forward to knock over full cup of said coffee). Dreamland why? Under what crazy dream circumstances would I need to thrust arms forward? Was i rescuing a baby? was it worth it? Or was I just doing a crazy dance?
Like I said, Hilarity.
Also. here this is the phone booth as some german plane taker left it. there were 20 mini snickers wrappers. I wonders if he knows they actually sell normal sized snickers. he might die from excitement.
Monday, August 17, 2009
je suis arrivé
no wonder people are gaga about Paris. It's a dream. a blissful, crazy reality where everything's beautiful and everyone is speaking in a language that sounds like music--and i can understand it!?! (for the most part, euh..I mean... de temps en temps)
ah. paris. un reve.
ah. paris. un reve.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Well By Joe!
One week y'all. its offic-- (pronounced: "ah - fish") and I shall be miles and miles away. Here's hopin' I'm LUCKY out there in the traditional uninuendoed (<-- a word?) sense of the word. Does it count if you wish good luck to yourself?
BONNE CHANCE A MOI!!@!)!@_!
BOOM. that just happened.
then again, i'm (kinda) lucky at cards, so here's hopin i'm lucky IN the traditional sexually inuendoed sense of the word. double BOOM.
I'm considering upon arrival speaking in as much French as I can with my host family but then only letting myself slip on key American phrases of exclamation like, "By God's Foot!" and "Well, great balls of fire!" and "God's underwear!"
lets face it i have a fascination with undressing god. different strokes for different folks.
BONNE CHANCE A MOI!!@!)!@_!
BOOM. that just happened.
then again, i'm (kinda) lucky at cards, so here's hopin i'm lucky IN the traditional sexually inuendoed sense of the word. double BOOM.
I'm considering upon arrival speaking in as much French as I can with my host family but then only letting myself slip on key American phrases of exclamation like, "By God's Foot!" and "Well, great balls of fire!" and "God's underwear!"
lets face it i have a fascination with undressing god. different strokes for different folks.
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