À Bientôt, Paris

I’m leaving Paris in a couple weeks. And though I’ve been neglecting this blog, I have too much to say to keep quiet right now. Paris and I have had a complicated relationship since the beginning. I first came here in high school for a brief trip and the sheer beauty of it hit me like a brick wall. There was nothing terribly remarkable about what we did. Actually, the whole visit was a blur of mediocre meals, exhaustive walking, tours I didn’t (care to) understand and bed bugs. Anyone who knows the type of traveler I am knows that I would normally hate that. But the thing is, I didn’t. I fell in love.

When I came back the next year to study abroad, I really claimed Paris as mine. This is when I made memories and finally explored the city— got to know it intimately. But it was a bubble. At that point, I didn’t really understand Paris. To me, it was a land of massages at Le Meurice and Michelin star dinners. An incredible trip no doubt, but in terms of our relationship, an absolute honeymoon period. Every time I came here since then, for vacation or studying, it disappointed me. I was finally exposed to Paris’s realities, which can be pret-ty harsh. As someone who lives in NYC full-time, I’d say even tougher than that supposed paragon of steel. You see, unless you know how to get to them, Parisians just don’t give a shit. This place can be unforgiving if you don’t bend with it.

This time though, I was forgiving. I stopped asking Paris to be something it’s not. I’ve enjoyed the magic when it happens, but I don’t force it when it doesn’t. Believe me, there is plenty of magic— Pierre Hermé white truffle macarons, Sunday market, the YSL exhibit, boeuf bourguignon at Josephine, dancing on tables at Chez Georges, my weekend walks along the Seine. But most of all, that feeling I get when I come home from a weekend of traveling, and I see my street for the first time. That’s something I can’t really explain. I don’t know if I have ever been that happy or where that feeling comes from.

The thought of leaving Paris makes me heartsick. But not afraid. Because in my growing acceptance of this fucked up place, and my personal growth in learning to deal with its challenges, I know that not only will I always be welcomed back, but that I will be bringing a large part of it with me.

Joan Didion claimed that, “A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image." I’ve always enjoyed that quote, but after this semester, I would have to disagree with it. As with any true love, love of a place can’t be about possession. When I am here in the future (and I know I will be), I want Paris to be Paris. That Paris. Not the Paris I’m dreaming of, or the Paris I remember best. I know the moments when I feel that love the strongest will always catch me by surprise. And they will be all the more beautiful for it.

A Thank You

Although I can’t claim to have been fortunate enough to know Alexander McQueen as a person, I do know his work very well. And as he was a true creative mind, perhaps that was the best way to get a glimpse of him.

I’m still very new to the fashion world, but I’m already growing tired of paint-by-numbers collections and the safeness of mediocrity. Lee’s show in Paris, blowing away a litany of bad “clothes,” always gave me (and others) a chance to witness the magic of real art. His designs not only moved me, but also caused me to think and look at the world in ways I never had before.

Because I never even met him, it doesn’t feel genuine to say that I will miss him. But I can’t explain how painful it is for me to grasp that the beauty and ingenuity I had come to look forward to every season will now be absent. At this point, everyone seems to think his show will not happen. Is it wrong of me to feel like this is losing him twice?

Lee can’t be easily forgotten. I truly believe that what he accomplished will become a reference point for fashion in the years to come. His intelligence, unique aesthetic and bravery are all qualities that I have learned from. But if I am still doing this when I am fifty, I sincerely hope that my talk of McQueen will not only be looking back on a past genius— I hope someone will have the same balls he did, and continue the work he started.

“Fashion should be a form of escapism, and not a form of imprisonment. I wasn’t born to give you a twin set and pearls.”

And So?

The bag from Coquelicot bakery in Montmartre made me laugh for about 10-minutes nonstop. It says, "Mangez des gateaux plus souvent!"

My friends and I have decided to spend our weekend at an undisclosed location (suffice to say that it is super awesome) and finally take advantage of the wonderful European train system. However, as I was so cruelly reminded this morning, another "great" thing about France is its love of unions and ability to organize social movements, i.e. strike like nobody's business.

I sashayed into practicum this morning, all madeleines and sunshine, dreaming of my fun ahead and planning the cute travel outfit I will wear, when a classmate said, "Hey, aren't you going to _____ this weekend?"

"Why, as a matter of fact I am!"

"Oh, so you figured out how to get around the strike?"

At this point I started laughing hysterically, because strikes are such a cliché— the proverbial flat tire in European backpacking— that I thought she surely must be heckling me.

Our professor overheard this, her ears finely tuned in to pick up these not-so-uncommon inconveniences, "La grève?"

The class nodded solemnly while I must have turned green, regretting such a sugary breakfast. She shrugged in that way I'm still trying to master, apparently unfazed.

As it turns out, this particular strike will not effect international trains and ends on Thursday. If you're wondering how I found this out, it's because although French workers' unions are inconsiderate enough to prevent 50% of the country from traveling, they are also frighteningly efficient, creating an official website for their efforts.

I am not kidding: http://www.infolignes.com/sommaire.php3

And, because I don't want to disappoint those of you who read especially for the foodie bits, after class today E, N and I went to Sale e Pepe in Montmartre to sample the legendary lunch menu that we read about in BlackBook Magazine: an appetizer, slice of pizza, pasta, dessert and grappa for 15 euro. However, I am here to tell you that this was a dirty, dirty lie. The only thing on the menu was pizza. However, we weren't disappointed as it was INCREDIBLE— just as good as and possibly better than Lombardi's or anyplace in NYC. What distinguished it for me were the toppings. Normally I am not a toppings girl, as I hate wet, old vegetables out of a can on my cheesy goodness. But the artichokes, ham, red peppers, salami and mushrooms were so fresh and enjoyable, I was practically pushing aside the margarita we got.

The place was tiny and adorable, with only one man running it, so we forgave him for cheating us of the promised feast. However, the other group in the restaurant didn't. We overheard them asking him if they, "Could please ask him a question?" at which point, we all looked wide-eyed at each other, perfectly aware that when someone is that polite, shit is about to go down. It turns out they were asking about the disappearance of the menu too. We never got a satisfactory answer. Maybe the kitchen was on strike?

Je Veux Seulement Oublier

Still obsessed with these mushrooms— they are perfect for my pasta.


The most delicious hazelnut, pear and chocolate chip tart in the world will surely get me through my exam.

As I'm slowly awakening from the pleasant daze of the weekend, I'm realizing that this is my last week of French grammar boot camp (huzzah!). Although in ways I'll certainly miss the course, I can't wait to get back to a real university schedule, where I choose my courses to take up a minimum amount of time and then complain vehemently about them, only to not-so-secretly adore their bookish appeal. It's how I get off.

My French cinema class started early today— actually, it was supposed to start even earlier, but that is another story— and I discovered that academic pretension is even more fun when it's in French. Students kept leaving in the middle of lecture, coming back with tiny cafés and staring inquisitively around the room. That didn't stop them from taking full advantage of our 15-minute recess later in the session. Our professor is absolutely wonderful, by the way. I like her because she's snide in front of the class, but sweet and charming one-on-one. She also throws around the word "aesthetic" a lot. This is a good sign for me, because if I can't understand a film, at least I can write about how pretty it is.*

As a general cultural observation, I've discovered that this attitude is becoming one of my favorite things about the French. They aren't at all afraid to be total assholes in public, because making a scene or being aggressive is how they achieve what they want. But this shouldn't be mistaken for their actual personalities— not at all. For my part, I tend to bottle up my rage, thinking it's better to be polite when someone interrupts me or cuts in line, while I am inwardly plotting my sweet, sweet revenge. I think their way might be healthier, or at least more direct and honest.

Because this is my last week of practicum, I won't have much time for exploring. I will mostly be staying in and pretending to study, or alternatively, going to a café, ordering pastries and actually (kind of) working. Either way, I think there is a lot of dessert and pasta chez moi in my future.

* This is what I always end up writing about at Columbia anyway.

Je t'aime, moi non plus

La Pagode


I need this poster.


Tributes


A drawing of Serge and Jane on their former home's wall

This was a weekend that Serge Gainsbourg would have been proud of. Not only because it was saturated with memory of the man himself, but because we enjoyed ourselves up to his impeccable standards. After a long week of conjugating for hours a day, there was no option but to go out and celebrate. We chose the modern Lebanese restaurant Liza, sharing tapas of hummus, pumpkin kebbe, chicken rolls, kebabs and the most fragrant rose, almond and pistachio ice cream I've ever had. Before descending upon our usual clubs, M, A and I decided to attempt to infiltrate the mysterious Experimental Cocktail Club, a semi-private faux speakeasy frequented by off-beat locals and celebs, such as Quentin Tarantino. Luckily for us, the bouncer appeared to have a thing for the awkward Américaine vibe we were working, pronouncing us "trop mignons!" and waving us inside. We weren't disappointed. Hard liquor is usually shunned in favor of wine here, but these concoctions were exquisite— some of the best of my life. Perhaps the fresh ingredients explain the appeal. The bar practically smelled like a florist between the herbs, berries and flowers being crushed into syrup.

Despite getting lost in the night, we had to find ourselves again right after dawn to make a showing of the new film, Serge Gainsbourg: Vie héroïque at la Pagode. Incidentally, it appears that the owners had an even rougher evening than us— no one arrived until ten minutes before the film to let people (or the resident cat) into the theatre. But the old-fashioned decor, velvet curtains and incredible chinois architecture made it worth the hassle, not to mention a quality-vs.-convenience moment.

As for the film, like the director, I can't really be impartial when it comes to Serge. That explains why he decided to make the movie partially animated/puppetry fantasy, claiming he loves Serge too much to tell his story through anything but, "exaggerations and lies." Although the Pan's Labyrinth actor seriously, seriously freaks me out, I loved the way Serge was split into different personalities. And of course, the music made up for any of the weaker moments. But we have Serge to thank for that.

Today was one of the first beautiful afternoons we've had in awhile, so I decided to walk around the 7th. Funnily enough, I found myself coming up to chez Gainsbourg-Birkin and decided to stop by to pay my respects. Although each is an icon to me individually, I find their union incredibly moving. Supposedly Jane and Charlotte keep the inside of the house exactly as it was when Serge was alive, with all of his old knick-knacks and many, many Repetto white Zizi lace-ups.

Here are a couple of my favorite Serge moments. The first is him singing "Manon," which is 1) possibly the most tragic song ever and 2) perfectly explains why women couldn't keep their clothes on around him, despite the face. The second is him with Jane— enough said.

Oh, and There Are Clothes Here Too!

I was banging my head on my desk at my summer internship last July when I heard about the Madeleine Vionnet exhibition at my favorite fashion museum in the world, Musée de la Mode et du Textile, part of the Louvre's Musée des Arts Décoratifs. Designers such as Marc Jacobs and Jean-Paul Gaultier were flocking to see the rare and legendary dresses, making it near impossible for mere mortals to get in between irregular opening hours and crowds. Fortunately, the show was extended until this weekend due to its immense popularity— so no need for that meltdown afterall.

When I went the other day, the museum was STILL, if you can believe it, more packed than I have ever seen it, even more so than when they did Balenciaga and Valentino retrospectives. I love France for this. I guarantee you almost no one outside of this country has ever heard of Vionnet (excepting, maybe, the insulting current line that surely causes pauvre Mme Vionnet to spin 360's in her grave) despite the fact that it is arguably one of the most influential fashion houses in history. Let us take a moment to thank her for the bias-cut and her minimalist, modern take on clothing that is still with us today. Merci bien!

Going through the exhibit, I really was shocked at how current many of the pieces still are. And not just current, but seriously ahead of what many designers are doing now. There was something very Japanese about her aesthetic in the way that large, geometric cuts of fabric were placed and twisted together to make deceptive simplicity. Mme Vionnet, may I present you to Yohji Yamamoto?

Fancy schmancy videos digitally showed you how many of the gowns were made and played vintage atelier photos with models in the garments to demonstrate how they work on a human form. The Costume Institute should have this... It should also, incidentally, not be shut down all the time.

I tried to photograph the exhibit, as the only thing I like more than food porn is clothing porn. Truly, I get alarmingly worked up over looking at pictures of hats. It's my guilty pleasure. But photography is expressively forbidden and as I learned last time I was there, they are not kidding. I was definitely going to sneak a few but the guard who threatened to throw me out of the Valentino exhibit for "persisting" was there again and I got really scared. As a result, all of these photos are stolen from the museum's website AND I'M NOT SAYING SORRY.

The Snozberries Tasted Like Snozberries!

Miam miam miam!


They were waving "bonjour!" at me.


Cabbage can be beautiful. Who knew?


The mysterious fluffy chicken

Something I have always wanted to do, but have somehow neglected up until this past Sunday, was a trip to the Richard-Lenoir market by the Bastille. This is the largest food market in Paris with so many vendors I honestly felt overwhelmed after an hour wandering around. Fruit, fish, poultry, wild game, red meat, eggs, cheese, prepared stuffs, bread, desserts and more were available in ridiculous quantities from multiple stands. Even with my total lack of genuine knowledge and experience, it wasn't hard to pick-up on the crowd favorites— these were the ones you had to boldly shove your way up to. Fortunately, C and I are deadly serious when it comes to food.

All of the produce was gorgeous and full of bright, natural color. The strawberries were truly red and the pumpkin looked a rich orange, clearly not pumped full of artificial anything. Part of the fun was interacting with the crowd, sampling mango and aged pecorino, complimenting each vendor on their work. I bonded with one over his intensely beautiful zebra eggplant, explaining that I had never seen anything like it before. But the selection of fish amazed me the most. This came as a surprise, since I typically avoid the ocean altogether. But this didn't smell at all. The fresh fruit had a stronger odor, while boeuf bourguignon simmered in the distance. It was only later upon closer examination that I realized why this was. Much of the shrimp and clams were still alive, their legs waving and shells opening and closing. We were promised fresh, and that was what we got.

In the end, we left with bags of clementines, plums and some caramel buerre salé, promising to return and make a full meal from whatever we grab. Apparently, at the end of the market at 1 p.m., it is Parisian law that everything that is unsold must be reduced in price (so much so that it is practically free) or given away, so that nothing is wasted. I was wondering where it all goes.

Continuing the outdoor market trend, we headed to the (pet) bird market by Notre-Dame. I found this sight depressing in contrast. It was much more empty than Richard-Lenoir, and I had to fight my urge to release all of the animals from their cages. I suppose I'm not a zoo person after all. The one bright spot was an odd menagerie of a petting zoo, including a goose, a chicken, a disturbingly large rabbit and this... perfectly round puff of feathers. Perhaps I will go back in the end. I could use another souvenir.

Champagne in (Where Else?) Champagne

The Reims Notre-Dame Cathedrale


Pommery's secret stash


The McFerdi: Words do it no justice.

On Saturday, I managed to force myself out of bed to catch the bus to Reims, to see the cathedral and town with the program. Though the weather was relatively warm in Paris this weekend, it somehow felt below zero in the countryside. And due to the fact that heating had not been invented in 496 AD, I experienced the joy of freezing to death inside as well. There really is not much more to say about it, as I had been to the cathedral before and even our guides had that please-let-this-be-done-so-we-can-go-somewhere-warm-and-drink voice. Luckily, that was not the sole purpose of the trip.

Reims happens to be in Champagne. As in champagne, champagne. Because it would have be unimaginably cruel to do otherwise, we also toured the Pommery champagne caves and had a tasting that quickly devolved into something else entirely, making the traffic back into the city much more endurable.

And as usual, I did have to make a dinner date. C, A, M and I had reservations at Ferdi, one of my absolute favorite restaurants. Ferdi stands for Ferdinand, the owners' son, whose quirky childhood toys decorate the tiny space. Now around 18-years-old, Ferdi also happens to make a mean mojito just like his papa. The menu is extremely eclectic, with everything from Spanish tapas to risotto to the infamous McFerdi cheeseburger (Seriously, I do not know what the cheese is, but I must have more of it). We inhaled tapas of mac & cheese and grilled piquillo peppers. I tend to praise Ferdi so highly (in case you can't tell) that I was slightly worried it couldn't live up to my friends' expectations— but they all agreed that we should beg for standing weekly reservations. Although this particular meal's popularity might have had something to do with the fact that we were seated next to a certain Kanye West.

Yes, he let us finish.

An Ode

Patriotism en croûte


So much crispy love.


How crème brûlée was meant to be done.

If you've ever traveled with me, you know that I'm somewhat (a lot) of a control freak when it comes to where to eat and shop. But when a good friend who just returned from Paris told me that I had to try Le Petit Pontoise, that is was the one thing she would have me do, I couldn't say no.

A large piece of my heart now belongs to the owner, who sheltered five of us from the cold and seated us immediately without reservations. She was efficient, warm and every bit the stereotypical French bistro host. Her explanation of my roasted camembert en croûte with honey and almonds was as pleasurable as the dish itself— she practically glowed with pride while describing the cheese. Next, the roast chicken and mashed was one of the best I've ever had. And as a French chef at Le Cordon Bleu once told me, "Crispy skin on a bird means the chef is showing you their love and attention." Clearly the gang at Le Petit Pontoise is an affectionate bunch.

Time Is Money After All

My new children


This chou has incredible taste.


Heaven: Breizh Café style

Paris really should be for relaxation: soothing walks along the Seine, contemplation over a glass of red wine, sitting in a café to quietly people-watch. However, for the past week, my Paris has been alarmingly high-energy. Between learning to speak French (Sorry, what? This is sort of important?) and the ever-pressing national soldes, I've been a busy parisienne-in-training.

The sales have been somewhat disappointing this year, though I have managed to stock up on some favorite, often local brands, including a Vanessa Bruno cardigan w/ blazer detailing, an A.P.C print scarf, a draped COS frock and Viv Westwood's collaborative Melissa wellies. I also found a velvet turban at Bon Marché, and am thrilled to report that I do not look, "bat-shit crazy in it." (Thank you for that, C).

Beyond the purchases themselves, shopping here always proves to be an incredible experience. I'll never get sick of wandering off onto a tiny street to explore independent boutiques. If there is one reason Paris shopping trumps that of NYC, it is because of this small but important thrill. Here, shopping is always an adventure, where you learn many lessons and meet even more people. This time, I found a new concept store in le Marais, Surface2Air, met an adorable French bulldog who does a superb job of protecting his master's vintage and discovered that I will never fit into leather leggings, no matter how many times I climb my stairs.

And since that is a lost cause anyway, I like to take advantage of these outings to try new food. Breizh Café has generated so much buzz for its unconventional crêpes that I would have felt guilty not stopping. I had ginger caramel buerre salé with ginger ice cream. As the best things often are, it was familiar and surprising at the same time.

La Parade Humaine

A favorite image from the Fellini exhibit. From the Jeu de Paume


The risotto, topped with the most delicious blacks truffles I have ever had

This weekend was one of extremes. I was either finally succumbing to jet lag, or throwing myself into the unpredictable mosh pit that is Parisian nightlife. As much as I love to sleep (and really I am incredibly good at it), it felt absolutely magnificent to go out for the first time in a month. Mostly we kept to St. Germain entertaining our anglophone tendencies at pubs, later switching it up at the most genuinely French bar I know, Chez Georges. This visit turned out to be a great success, as they played Sacré Charlemagne, a children's tune I memorized in high school. However, it must be said that when I was learning this chanson in third period, I never expected to be headbanging to it years later in an underground wine cave. Somehow I doubt this was the use my teacher intended.

Our second evening turned out to be a bit less low key, as we headed to the ever-entertaining Truskel to dance off the past week's macarons. Though it's extremely spacious by Parisian standards, the room always inevitably turns into a churning sea of humanity, making it too easy to meet "friends." One of our new companions for the night included a man whose mustache somewhat resembled Hitler's. We spent a good hour inventing immature but hilarious (to us) WWII-related pick-up lines before he introduced himself as Italian and a huge fan of Fellini. This ruined our fun.

Incidentally, I happened to go to the Fellini exhibit at the Jeu de Paume. As any of you who know me are aware, I am absolutely rabid for his films, so I was thrilled to see such an incredible homage to him, especially as it focused on his images and aesthetics. The costume section that showed his sketches of coats and dresses from La Strada and Il Notti di Cabiria, as well as the accompanying notes about "tits and bums" was one of the best. As someone who is constantly paying attention to clothing and costume, I've always enjoyed the stylistic choices in Fellini films. But to see how carefully he noted how Giulietta's hair should be done to achieve character honestly touched me. The show also explained that script was entirely secondary to his films. Fellini would only allow his actors to add words after they had played out the emotions of their scenes accompanied by counting from ten. For him, it was all about expression.

My unconscious Italian theme continued with black truffle risotto at L'Enoteca. The restaurant was lively and quite loud— a change from most of the places I've been dining. Perhaps the best part was our waiter, who shoved plates of food under our noses so we could smell them and insisted, his face expressive, that we savor every bite of our meals. All in all, it was quite Felliniesque.

Comment dit-on food orgy?

The white truffle macaron, immortalized


Stuffed mushrooms de Paris


Mind-altering boeuf


Pineapple cake w/ basil gelato

Two things have been happening for the past couple days. One, I have been visiting the Parisian universities and meeting with advisors to pick courses and discuss my schedule. It looks like I will be studying some interesting topics with some wonderful people, but all has yet to be set in stone.

However, the second activity I have been doing is of MUCH more importance. I have been eating. Beaucoup. Actually, on my official school form when I was asked my interest for future activities, I wrote "food." I'm understanding how it was all Julia Child thought about, as my passion for this cuisine is the only thing that comes even close to my interest in style. Yes, I know. I see the irony.

But what could possibly be more beautiful than the white truffle/hazelnut macarons at Pierre Hermé with their silvery little shells? They taste like the earth in the best way possible. Before, I never even thought of using truffle in dessert— now I can't live without it. Since I've been making a macaron run several days in a row, I'm not sure if the shop people are amused or horrified. I do think I detect an empathetic gleam in their eyes though, as if to say, "Yes, we know that you belong to them now and cannot live without it." As if to make our love affair even more poetic, the white truffle flavor is being discontinued in a week. So this is what it is to be broken.

Tonight, some friends and I had a dinner at la Ferrandaise. Totally convivial, we enjoyed a great bottle of 2006 Bordeaux, which we picked out with help and our combined (re: limited) wine knowledge. I had local mushrooms stuffed with pork, chestnuts and prunes, then wrapped in bacon and glazed. Then we shared a huge pot of boeuf bourguignon and mashed potatoes. Only one thing can be said: the rich, meaty wine sauce basically changed my life. Dessert, pineapple cake with fruit and basil gelato, was probably the most beautiful, but left me unsatisfied next to my entree. What I really wanted was to drink the rest of the beef's cooking liquid.

Ah, l'amour!

The lovebirds


Monet: Before I was chastised for les photos


Le chocolat chaud: Note that it comes with additional and entirely gratuitous sugar.

We all imagine the perfect couple, but I finally found them: Anca and Charlie. Both are art professors at my program who have been leading us on "field trips" around the city to various museums and restaurants to take our afternoon snack à la kindergarten. Apparently, Charlie, who formally taught at UPenn, met Anca here in Paris and decided to stay with her because they are "soul mates." They constantly bicker— not over money, children, or politics— but over da Vinci and Bernini. Anca became particularly upset the other day when at le Louvre, Charlie mixed up explanation of the harmony of lines in a painting. Silly Charlie! I think we infuriate them, because when they wait for questions, we don't inquire about elucidation of theories, but about how they fell in love. This is Paris, after all. Certain things remain on the mind.

It's refreshing to be around two people whose passion for each other extends to a passion for life. Between one and too many museum trips, I've admittedly tired of Monet. But Anca's enthusiasm for him today, especially his later period, forced me to take a step back and appreciate him all over again. As she explained it, in true Anca fashion, Monet is about, "just painting. He doesn't require the pretense of a subject." And it wasn't hard to appreciate something so real in front of me— the paint, the color literally coming off of the canvas it was so thick. The Monet I dislike is the Monet of giftshops, reduced to a stiff postcard that doesn't at all express what he did best: animation.

Of course, such vigorous living requires sustenance. Anca heartily believes in enjoying a good dessert after our parcours, so we went to a lovely spot in the 16th to have treats like rhum baba, crêpes, mille-feuille and LOTS of thick, dark chocolat chaud. Before, I never really cared for hot chocolate. Paris freezing my face off on a daily basis is changing my stance on this matter. Besides, if Anca and Charlie drink it, why not? They must be doing something right.

Qui êtes-vous, Polly Maggoo?

Pictorial representation of a French professor's heart

Parisians start their days so early. The bakers are up to prepare the morning's batch of bread, the sanitation crew sweeps the streets long before commuters are out... and men start prowling before they're even out the door. Like it wasn't bad enough when we're trying to go out at night. On my morning walk to orientation, a gentleman only just descending his steps greeted me with a cheerful but solemn, "Vous êtes magnifique, mademoiselle." What do you say to that? Certainly not, "Fuck you." I'm not yet sure what the etiquette is for formal flirting. Do you have to use "vous" pre-coffee? This appears to be yet another skill I must acquire.

I sense that I will be grateful for this unsolicited friendliness from random strangers next week when I begin classes at French universities. According to the program advisors, French professors are not at all like chez nous at Columbia. Orientation was in French, but if you will allow me to translate and briefly sum up what was said on the subject: "The professors you will have are civil servants and do not care about you at all. You are nothing to them. Nothing. Do not talk to them. Do not make spelling mistakes, because it will be an insult and they will refuse to read your papers and then burn them unceremoniously. We know you are all incapable of meeting these expectations and are inferior in every way, so we will make the F's you will surely receive B's on your official transcript. Pitiful creatures."

Then they hugged us and gave us hot chocolate.

Welcome to la Folie

I'll take that one.


Le balon rouge?


A REAL crêpe... ahem, Artopolis


The View

I couldn't be any happier. I made it to Paris without major incident or delay (no thanks to Newark, you old cesspool, you). My apartment is not only adorable, but also in the perfect location of Saint-Germain-des-Prés where my neighbors are almost unbearably chic... Alcazar, le Wagg, le Comptoir, Assouline, Dior, Karl Lagerfeld, la Palette and Pierre Hermé to name a few. And not forgetting its storied history, the cafés housed everyone from Hemingway to Beauvoir. Existentialism, anyone? As for myself, I'm finding plenty of meaning here— but mostly in the edible form. Maybe Sartre wouldn't count Ladurée rose and chestnut macarons, buerre Bordier, second-old bread and mushroom/gruyère crêpe, but I certainly do. Predictably, just about the only thing I've done since I've arrived is eat. The problem is that I see something I love, MUST have some, and it's only when I feel dangerously full that I remember that I'm here until June. Berthillon, I will have you yet. But preferably when holding you desirously and whispering into your ear doesn't freeze my hands off.

Thankfully, then there are the stairs. My 6th-floor, elevator-deprived apartment is both a daily exercise regime as well as a free pass to eat whatever the hell I want. I'm sincerely hoping that those steps are working as much as they hurt, because les soldes are already crying out to me, and I must fit into these incredible finds. The Isabel Marant studded booties that every sane New York lady pines after (seriously, why Isabel, WHY?! OPEN SOONER!) are not only a block away from me right now, but half-price. I think I stared at them for a solid 15 minutes yesterday. Of course, sales don't stop me from coveting the new goods. Oh no. I also had to stop and examine LV's window display, accessories perched in bird cages. I'm not sure why it is, but window displays in Paris prove to be something I actually want to look at, stop for and perhaps ultimately buy. Why can't other window displays, you know, do their job?

America is better at some things though. Like toilet paper. I discovered this fact with Carolina and her parents today when we went to brunch (INCREDIBLE croque and rhubarb tart) and did miscellaneous running around, along with spouts of not-so-glamorous modeling in the freezing wind. Literally everything Caro brought from the US is at least 70% bigger than its French counterpart. I am not sure how to feel about this— mostly ashamed of unnecessary gluttony, but partly homesick for Bounty paper towels.

We took a long walk from my place to the Bastille, satisfying my urge. My contentment reminded me of my first long stay here, where the small things couldn't get to me. That was when I realized I could be happy alone— at least in Paris. That feeling came back today. Even though seriously(!) every single phone and housewares store was closed, meaning I could get nothing accomplished, it thrilled me just to wander around, oblivious. Who needs to accomplish anyway?

Ok, I admit that maybe the happiness would be even more intense if I were to buy those Isabel Marant boots. But just a little.