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
Thursday, September 24, 2009
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.
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