What I want for Christmas: Part 2

I have been looking for the perfect pair of slouchy boots for the past month and a half. I know they exist because I've seen dozens of super stylish looking girls wearing them on the streets, in the subway, but for some reason, I can't find them in the stores. This is what I want: mid calf boots in a honey brown leather, slouchy, with not too high of a heel. So far, I've only been able to find cool, slouchy black boots, but I promised myself I would stop buying black. Almost my enitre wardrobe is black, so much so that I had an entire suitcase full of black when I moved here. It was a literal black hole. I even had a dream the other week (the one where I am recording a demo and sound like Jane Birkin, yes I had that dream again) in which my producer, who looked a lot like Jacques Brel, told me that I wear too much black. Have been extremely self-conscious ever since and hence the desire to inject a bit of color (albeit a very neutral color) into my wardrobe of inky despair.

What I want for Christmas: Part 1

Shopping on rue du Four. Why didn't I write down the name of this store? I want it all...

C'est fini!

The strike is over. Transportation is almost back to normal. The weather, though chilly, has decided to cooperate. People are back out shopping with and have descended en masse on Printemps and Galaries LaFayette.

Wednesday seemed to be a pivotal day in the battle between the transportation workers and the rest of us. At work students came in one after another - tired, frazzled, having walked for miles- and completely broke down. They sobbed, they pulled their hair and they called their mothers. Exhausted professors and school administrators lost their tempers and could barely drive their motor scooters out of here fast enough, especially since Montparnasse seemed to have turned into manifestation central. Furious smokers took to the streets in front of school in an chaotic demonstration of their outrage at the possibility of no longer being to light up freely in Parisian cafés. Something had to give...

And happily it did. We got our metro back. Secretly, I believe that this is all due to the indefatigable efforts of one of our cleaning ladies, Chantal, and her ferocious poodle mix. Every morning at 6 a.m. they went to the bus and metro depot near Porte d'Orléans to growl and hurl insults at the grevistes. For the 10 minutes every morning Chantal would let loose a ferocious tirade as a sort of primal therapy that I think we all could have benefited from. And so, just as many Republicans believe that Reagan brought down the Iron Curtain, I believe that had it not been for Chantal we might still be hoofin' it to work.

Retraction

I am officially retracting my post concerning the grève. How naive it seems of me now, after five days of trekking to and from work in the cold, wool scarf wrapped up to my nose. Yes, the temperature in Paris decided it would play along with the transportation workers and go on strike as well. As I write this, my heater is on full blast, but it still won't lift the chill from the room. And according to the weather channel on lemonde.fr, it is 1°C in Paris and may possibly snow. Moreover, it looks like it is going to rain or snow all week. How delightful.

Today unhappy Parisians are organizing a contre manifestation to show their disapproval of what many deem to be the transportation workers' selfish abuse of power. I wanted to participate, but after walking for a mere fifteen minutes outside, I could no longer feel my legs and knew there was no way I'd make it all the way to République without severe frostbite.

Enough whining. Will try to use the rest of the day for complete self-indulgence - movie, glass of wine on the terrace of a heated bistro, maybe a home spa night.

Ikea chronicles

It all arrived in boxes. And when I opened them I wanted to cry. Assembling furniture from Ikea...A two-day long saga. A suivre...

Grève, mais pas si grave

So there is another grève, or transportation strike. For the past week everyone has been talking about it - will it last? will it be like the '95 (when a massive transportation strike ground the city to a halt for more than six weeks)? Happily, it looks like this will not be the case. I took the metro yesterday and again this morning. It wasn't a very pleasant experience, mind you, being squeezed in between perfect strangers, but I didn't have far to go.

Strikes are always an interesting cultural experience. And so when I heard the unmistakable sounds of a manif' on boulevard Montparnasse from my office yesterday afternoon, I just had to make the few students who had made it to class go outside to take a picture and to experience the manifestation for themselves. I'll never forget my first manif' - walking from République to Nation, eating a Merguez (Moroccan sausage) and fries sold by vendors at the strike, listening to the monotonous chanting coming from the man in the truck in front of me with a microphone and 6-ft speakers...This time there were no Merguez vendors, but there was monotonous chanting, a dead rat on a pole, a van blaring Johnny Cash (?!), four very bizarre men in gold lamé robes and Beatles wigs singing and dancing, and small fire works. The students were unimpressed, especially our little Ecuadorian, who is used to violent strikes with pepper spray and militia. One student thought it was like a cheap version of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Everyone found it very anticlimactic...Oh well, I tried...

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.

Work

Started my new job. Hence the infrequency of my blog entries (ok so that may be an excuse, really I'm having trouble putting myself out there in the Internet ether - I'm actually quite a private person, you know). I work for one of the oldest study abroad programs in Paris. It was created in the fifties right after the implementation of the Marshall Plan, as a way for the upper-class southern girls at the school to see a bit of Europe before settling down. They studied art and languages (probably French cuisine as well) during the academic year and then during the summer went on a "Grand Tour" of Europe, doubtless so that they would appear very worldly and cultured at the dinner parties that they would later be hosting for their husbands' colleagues. After a major crisis in the 80s they thought they might have to shut the program and the university down altogether. Luckily this didn't happen because the board of trustees, largely composed of the gentile older ladies who had participated in the Paris program in the 50s, would have had a fit if the program were discontinued. However, the program has been in dire straits, never attracting the appropriate amount of students. We have been assured though that the program is "intouchable."

The office itself is adorable. We're on the fourth floor on the north side of the first courtyard of an 18th century building. Like all top floor rooms, it has mansard windows that make the ceilings slope down at a dramatic angle. I've never lived or worked in a mansard room but it feels somewhat like I'm working in a kind of doll-sized office, like John Cusack's office in "Being John Malkovich." Our desks are set up so that our little heads poke up into the airy and bright space left by the windows. We look out, not at the courtyard below, but directly across at the offices of another study abroad program and into the closet-sized office of the local apartment rental expert. His office is so small that I first mistook it for a bathroom, which was mildly disturbing, but thankfully, we aren't subjected to such an unpleasant view. In order to see the courtyard below - still fragrant and ornamented with the soft pink bloom of Elizabethan roses - we have to stretch our stand on our tip toes and stretch our necks out the windows. From our neighbors' perspective it must look like a re-enactment of the execution of Robespierre. All in all, I have the impression of working in an attic somewhere, but I like that feeling, sort of cozy and romantic.

Tout le monde en parle: World Cup of Rugby

Somehow I doubt that the World Cup of Rugby is the focus of much attention in the States, but here in France you can't step out the door without being reminded that the championship is happening right in our own backyard -at the Stade de France in Saint-Denis. Case in point - the cafe across the street has a huge French flag waving in the wind and a large orange and white sign inviting "les assoiffes du rugby" to come to watch a match and (bien entendu) enjoy a few drinks. I found out, however, that much of this is false advertising because when I decided to head over there the other night the cafe was closed. This happened not once, but twice. I was extremely disappointed. Now I just tisk at the sign as I walk by. I think I'll have to find a good English pub near the center of the city instead. Or I could always go to the Hotel de Ville where there is a gigantic movie-sized screen and huge speakers set up for the other poor people who don't have cable at home and can't find a welcoming bar to hang out in. I have to admit that I have no real interest in the sport, but the guys who play it sure are hot and I'm hoping some of the guys who watch it are too.

Which reminds me...I have never seen so many kilts in my life. It seems everywhere I go in Paris I encounter yet another pack of ginger-haired and pale-legged fellows sporting kilts, jerseys and Doc Martens. And then last night thousands of them descended upon the Eiffel Tower and started an impromptu parade, bagpipes and all, that stretched all the way to the stadium.

A letter from my cat

My cat is phenomenally talented. She wrote me this the day after I left. Apparently she's been practicing typing in the close while I was away at work:

Where are you? Chin and I finally realized at some point yesterday that you were not coming home that day. Monday, we didn't realize it, so we weren't> that upset. But, Tuesday, we knew .... You had been gone a whole day and we were left alone. We were upset and we showed it last night.. I would not sleep with that woman and he bugged her all night long - begging for food, ice, panting, ranking toys> out and moping. He wouldn't relax and any noise he heard, he barked. He's such a fool. He still thinks you're coming back today. I know better. You did this before. Anyhow, we all miss you very much. We'll call you tomorrow. Love, Tasha, and Chin (and Mom!)

Heavenly night

Mmmm. Just may have had the best night ever. Watched one of my favorite French TV crime-fighters, Louis La Brocante (an antiques dealer who always manages to stumble upon some mysterious objet d'art that is the center of some family or village drama), and ate a huge serving of fresh, crusty baguette smeared with creamy white butter and and several tablespoons of the most luscious, golden and flowery-flavored honey (made by a Parisian banker and a part-time beekeeper at his home in the Vosges mountain range). Such simple pleasures. I went to bed happy and sated.

Cheap airfare anxiety

Finding a cheap one-way ticket to Paris is always a crap shoot. So much depends on the time of year you're flying and how far in advance you book. Add to this the general stress of an overseas move, the tense wait for a work visa and an increasingly irrational terror of flying and you have a pretty good idea of how I was feeling when I went online to book my flight. I googled everything I could think of to bring up a legitimate and cheap booking service - "cheap airline tickets" "low price airline tickets" "dirt cheap flights" and I did find some promising looking sights that unfortunately advertised a fare that was no longer available (cheeky bastard monkeys!). In the end I decided to go with my old stand-by, Expedia. I've used them with the majority of my international and domestic flights and I've never had a problem getting a reasonable deal with well-known carriers. Plus I already have an account with them so I didn't have to go through the process of creating a user name, password etc. (Did I also mention that when it comes to booking flights I am incredibly lazy?) This time, however, I was confronted with a real dilemma - choosing between two airlines that I had never heard of before. My first choice was Aer Lingus, an Irish airline that stopped in Dublin on the way, and the other was Condor, a German charter airline that would take me to Frankfurt and then on to Paris. I started feeling panicked, who did I trust to fly me over the Atlantic, the Irish or the Germans. My friends were all in agreement, especially the Irish ones, fly with the Germans. My mom's advice was to pray about it and God would tell me what flight to take. I told her that I thought he would want me to take the cheaper one. And so that's what I did. Booked a flight on an airline that I had never heard of. For the next five weeks I woke up in a panic, imagining that my flight was going down. It didn't help matters that I had just watched The Secret and learned that I had the power to make manifest that which I imagined. Oy! I really have to stop imagining such negative things.

All told, I woke up the morning of my flight reassured that God would not be so cruel as to give me this job in Paris and then have me go down in a fireball somewhere off the coast of Greenland. And I made it. Not even a bit of turbulence. I even slept through the in flight movies thanks to a couple of Bloody Mary's and two Advil PM.