How not to ride a Velib'

Since arriving in Paris I've been wanting to try the Velib', the new bike-rental system that the mayor has put into place in the city and that has supposedly transformed Parisians into much more bike-friendly individuals. The idea is simple: you go up to an electronic post where you insert your credit card and choose an abonnement - one day, seven days or one year. All rides under 30 minutes are free and those that go over have a very nominal fee.

Like I said, it's really simple, at least in theory. Of course, I like to make things more complicated for myself, and so decided one drunken Saturday evening to rent one. I couldn't have chosen to do my first essai (the first time I've ridden a bike in years, mind you) near a park on a Sunday morning. No, it had to be a busy Saturday in the Marais in the time between drinks and dinner. As I had spent the entire afternoon and early evening participating in a pub crawl, I definitely wasn't in the best shape to be mounting a rather heavy bicycle in one of the cities busiest quartiers filled with some Paris' narrowest streets.

During my five minute Velib' adventure, I did learn some valuable lessons:
1) Even if you think you can walk straight while slightly buzzed, you definitely cannot pedal straight.
2) Parisian roads arc in a much more noticeable degree than those in the states and gutters are unavoidable, especially if you've just learned lesson #1.
3) In order to shift speeds so that the pedals aren't spinning like the wheels of a Mazeratti, you have to pedal in a straight line for at least 30 feet or more, again rather hard to do once you've learned lessons #1 and #2.
4) Having a sober friend and consumate cycliste behind you shouting at you to "pedal, pedal" and ignore the cars, doesn't make the looming yellow headlights coming up fast behind you any less menacing.
4) Surprisingly, Parisian drivers don't want to deal with drunken cyclists screaming and skidding diagonally across the road in front of them into a gutter while they are trying to get to dinner on a Saturday night. (How could I argue with the driver who went past me and growled, "if you don't know how to ride a bike, you should walk"?)
5) It is best, if you have just learned the above lessons, to return the Velib' to the nearest station.

Though this was one of the most terrifying events in my Parisian life, I will still attempt the Velib' again, but doucement, bien sûr. Sunday in the 16th might be the best idea, after lots of coffee.

Working Animals of Paris: Youki

One of the particularities of Paris and France in general is that you tend to find animals in the most unexpected places - canaries in a café, Yorkshire terriers in a hair salon, cats in a bistro. I've decided to start documenting these "working" animals of Paris, starting with my personal favorite, Youki, whom I have known since her kittenhood when she first came to work at our university center.

Name: Youki ("snow" in Japanese; also one part of the infamous love triangle of Desnos-Foujita- Youki during Les Années Folles de Montparnasse)

Age: 3 (in December 2007)

Job: Catching mice, entertaining students, cuddling with evening receptionist on cold winter nights).

Favorite Pastime: napping, hiding in vacant classrooms, stealing baby birds from their nests, leaving disembodied bird parts in the halls.

Ma petite chouquette

The chouquette. My latest culinary obsession. Seems I can't go past a boulangerie without salivating over its display of little golden sugar-covered balls (alright, that just sounds obscene, but so is my passion for pastry...). I first tasted these little darlings while dog-sitting for gourmand of a Jack Russell, Schweppes. He has great taste and it shows. His rolly-polly little body often attracts derision from his long and lanky human compatriots. Of course, he is blissfully unaware of this and only to happy to continue indulging in large meals composed of steak, pasta, green beans and croissants, all slathered in salty butter from Brittany (only the best for monsieur, s'il vous plaît).

Anyway, I am only too content to feed into his addiction, as long as I can steal a bite or two. And so it was with this intention that I purchased my first paper sac filled to the brim with warm, fluffy chouquettes at the Alsatian bakery in Malakoff. In the end, Scwheppes had one and I had...well, I really can't remember, but it had to be more than six. I couldn't help it, they virtually melted on my tongue. I was immediately aware of the very real possibility of developing a full-blown addiction and so have since limited myself to an indulgence on Sundays.

I wanted to try to make chouquettes myself, but as my apartment has no oven, it's sadly impossible. All the same, I found what looks to be a promising recipe. Any testers out there?

Ingrédients :2 oeufs
50g de beurre
75g de farine
30g de sucre en grains
20cl d'eau
1 pincée de sel

Recette :1-Préchauffez le four à 150/180°C (th 5/6). 2-Versez le beurre et l'eau dans une petite casserole à fond épais. Faites chauffer quelques instants. Dès que les premiers bouillons apparaissent, ôtez la casserole du feu. 3-Versez la farine en une seule fois et mélangez avec une cuillère jusqu'à ce que la pâte forme une boule élastique qui se décolle facilement des parois de la casserole. 4-Ajoutez alors les oeufs un à un sans cesser de mélanger, puis ajoutez le sel. Votre pâte doit avoir une consistance lisse et ferme. 5-Formez des petites boules en vous aidant de deux cuillères et déposez-les sur la plaque. Attention! Laissez un espace suffisant entre les petits choux car il vont gonfler à la cuisson. 6-Mettez au four environ 15 minutes. 7- Sortez les chouquettes du four et saupoudrez-les de sucres en grains. Conseils :Tapissez votre plaque de four de papier sulfurisé.

Tonight I could write the saddest lines...

I just turned the heat on. I though I could make it to November, but I just couldn't shake the chill off me. Tant pis. It smells, the heat. That strange burning, slightly noxious odor that most heaters give off when you first turn them on. I'm afraid it's poisoning me, that it's really carbon monoxide and I'm going to be found dead in bed 10 days from now - well maybe less considering that there are people that would be worried about me if I didn't show up for work on Monday. But nevertheless, I may expire shortly.

At least, I will see my Chabal for the last time - that sexy beast of a rugby player. They call him l'homme des cavernes (the caveman) here and it seems that even the most masculine Parisians I know have man-crushes on him. I've had all sorts of Clan-of-the-Cavebear type fantasies involving him, dressed in a minuscule animal pelt coming upon me in the woods and ravishing me (obviously, not against my will). Why am I admitting this?

So tonight I will watch my would-be lover with his powerful thighs and flowing hair battle the Argentines as I, lonely soul home with just a dog to keep me company, devour a pizza from Speed Rabbit while surrounded by possibly noxious and deadly odors. Nothing brings home the fact that you are a single girl home alone on a Friday night like being forced to order two medium-sized pizzas for yourself (and the dog) in order to get the best deal - 2 for 1. Literally, in my case. I figure I'll just freeze the rest and for the price of 13 euros will be living on pizza for a week. Sniff. Feel very whiny and angsty...

Un jeudi noir

For more than a month now people have been anxiously awaiting the transportation strike that took place today. It was a massive strike, involving trains, buses, metros in all major French cities. Of course, I wouldn't feel like I were in France if I didn't experience at least one strike. Happily, I was given the day off and didn't have to schlepp all the way to work on foot like so many Parisians today. Instead I decided to pull the shutters tight against the windows of my bedroom and sleep in. While everyone else was agitatedly searching for an available velib', I was lying under my quilt, dreaming about the huge pot of lentil soup I planned to make today - leeks, zucchini, potatoes, cumin...yum.

On my way to the market, I did unwittingly join a parade of disgruntled young cheminots (train conducteurs). They waved their red flags and blew their whistles in between taking a drag from their cigarettes and a chug of what must have been fairly warm cheap beer. I walked along with them for a while until I got bored with feigning righteous indignation and went to the Super M to get ingredients for my soup. The store was eerily empty. I imagine they were seriously short-staffed like most companies today.

I enjoyed the rest of my free afternoon. Took a nap. Read. Watched Cuisine TV. Strikes are a wonderfu thing...er, that is until I heard that this one may continue. What? Don't they know I have places to be tomorrow?

La crêpe perdue

Though fall may have officially arrived, we nevertheless had a gloriously sunny and warm day. Went walking around Luxembourg with friends where we ended our jaunt with a glass of apple cider and sugared crepes. We ate our goodies across the Theatre des Guignols and watched the children on the carousel. Some brazen sparrows flew up to our table and began eating directly from my crepe. Delighted, I was going to let them continue to share my food until someone reminded me of bird flu. Right...but from sparrows? Anyway, I couldn't resist, especially when they cocked their little heads at me and opened their beaks, sticking out there minuscule pink tongues to catch whatever little crumb I might throw their way. So I sacrificed the rest of my crepe and tried to take a photo. Unfortunately, they're all slightly blurry.

Developing French Chic

My college nickname - given to me by my work-study employer - was "Desert Storm" - not because I wear fatigues and look like I could take down Iraqi insurgents with my bare hands, but rather because I have the terrible habit of breezing into a room looking like a bedouin refugee from a real desert storm, wind blown, flushed and a little bit dazed. It's true, though, that I love fashion and would love to be as chic as Luisa Casati, traipsing around the city draped in pearls, my pet leopards in diamond collars attached to my wrist. Unfortunately, I always manage to leave the house in a pair of torn jeans and a non-descript teeshirt, a bare minimum of supermarket makeup on my face. So I have decided that this year I will try to become more chic. With this in mind, I've done some serious research on the Parisian streets, trying to establish what it is that makes French girls look so fabulous. It seems that the tendancy this fall is towards slouchy, ethnic chic - oversized cardigans over leggings and boots, loosely pinned up hair, thick scarves made from eco-friendly materials like bamboo. This is a look I think I can pull off, and, happily, can be created relatively cheaply by sticking to the clothing stores of rue de Rennes.