Paris, the City of Lights, Is Glowing this Evening

The week of Thanksgiving, life in France carried on as usual.  So, I tried to ask my students, “Does anyone know what holiday is in the US this week?”  Legitimately, no one knew.  Well, that’s not true.  On Wednesday, I had one student who nervously answered, “Thanksgiving.”  New favorite?  Probs.  So after I would explain what the holiday was to everyone, dating back to 1621 and its history that went from loving the Native Americans to celebrating defeating the “heathen Natives,” I would ask if there was anything for which the students were grateful.  Loud and clear, I got the message: No. 

            On Thursday, I had a lesson on identity with the Première Littéraire group.  (Lycée/high school in France goes for three years.  You start as Seconde, then to Première, then to Terminale.)  Obviously, since we were talking about race and identity, I played this video for them.

           After the class ended, one of the girls, Noämi came up to me to tell me she had been to Canada.  “Where in?”  Ontario.  “For what?” I asked her.  She said a response.  “Sorry?”  She repeated it.  “Sorry?” and I leaned in.  She repeated again.  I just said I had never heard of it since I still couldn’t understand what she was saying.  I’m fairly certain she just wanted to tell me she had been out of France before.  Then she asked where I usually eat lunch.  So I told her that I eat in the cantine, and she asked if I eat with students.  That’s when I realized she wanted to eat lunch with me.  So I had to let her down and tell her that I eat with the teachers.  First time teaching this girl, and I’m already being asked out to lunch.  Kind of strange as I can’t imagine ever asking one of my teachers to eat lunch with me.  Especially not in a cafeteria. 

            I’ve actually just come from my second class with Noémi.  As soon as I walked into the classroom, she came up to me to ask, “Where have you been these two weeks?”  I’ll admit, I was shocked at the unexpectedness of the question.  I told her I had been here.  She said, “I’ve been looking for you, but I can’t find you anywhere.”  So I told her I usually only come in just before a class and will hang around for a bit after, but otherwise, I go home.  (Which is true.)  So then she said she wanted to talk to me and that she’d do so after the lesson.

            This lesson was about fashion and what it tells you about personality.  Unfortunately, most of the students told me that they wear clothes so that people can’t tell what their personalities are, which kind of hindered the lesson.  I ended up asking them what kind of stereotypes they have about different ways of dressing: jock, preppy, street, and gothic.  Then I remembered that one of the profs had told me that French people often make fun of how British people dress.  So I asked if it was true.  The students resoundingly affirmed.  I asked what they associate with British style.  Their response?  Boys in leggings.  I actually have no idea what this means or where it comes from.  Clémence told me that last week she saw a boy wearing yellow flowered leggings.  I asked her where she saw this, and she said London.  How is this possible?  Anyway, later in the hour, I asked what they associate with French style.  Fashionable and stunning.  Obvio.  Then I asked about American style.  The first word on the list?  Tacky.

            After class, Noémi came up to me to ask what I do on the weekends and vacations.  I told her I travel.  Then she asked what I do at lunch and on Wednesday afternoons (since French schools have Wednesday afternoons libre/free).  I told her on Wednesdays I don’t do anything in the afternoon.  She asked about the cantine and if I could eat with her.  I told her probably not, and she said, “What if I ask the headmistress?”  Has any teacher ever been so sought after?  I told her it’s not good to show favorites, so she dropped it.  But then she was all, “Maybe we could do something on Wednesday afternoon?”  So I thought maybe she wanted me to tutor her, but nope.  She wants to go to a show or something.  So I told her she could email me and she asked if I was on Facebook, and I said yes but that I don’t think I’m supposed to be friends with students on in.  So, I gave her my email address.  Then, I guess that wasn’t enough because she asked if I have free periods during the school day, which obviously I do.  So I told her if she emailed me, I’d let her know.  This is getting really strange really fast.  I’m trying to figure out a way to be not rude about not hanging out with this 15/16 year old girl.  I don’t need any fatal attractions.

            Back to Thanksgiving week, though.  So, Thursday after I got out of school, I got on the bus to Chambéry to catch a train to Lyon Part-Dieu where I would be getting a train to Paris to visit Maryse for the holiday.  The train from Chambéry to Lyon was, I’d say, not heated.  But definitely not as not heated as the Lyon train station where I had a 30-minute wait.  It was so cold that I went into the Relay store and looked at some mugs for an absurdly long time just so that I’d be warm.

            I got on the train and made it to Paris in about 2 hours, though in total my journey took 5 hours to complete.  Maryse fetched me from the train station, and we went straight chez elle.  She lives in a lovely apartment near the Bastille with a crazy American woman from Viriginia, Sarah, who’s there every few months (this being one of those times when she was around) and a girl from Strasbourg named Cécile.  While Maryse was preparing our turkey and mashed potatoes (made from some of the biggest potatoes ever), Sarah was wandering around with her French copine/girlfriend and a Eiffel-tower glasses of red wine.  I was on Skype with the ‘rents.

            Maryse wand I enjoyed the luscious meal before having one gin and apple juice each and heading out to go dancing at one of Maryse’s treasures: BizzArt.  BizzArt is a bar with a restaurant all the way around, so throughout the night, you could look up at the second floor to people who had stopped their dinner conversations to blame it on the boogie with the dancers and drinkers below.  When we walked in, the cover band, who was really sensational, was covering Michael Jackson.  This always means a good night will be had.  They sang Jackson 5, Michael Jackson, the Jacksons, Luther Vandross (you read that right), and a slew of other artists.  All were excéllent.  At one point, the lead singer (so obviously mixed—especially with a name that was something like Najoua McNamara) pulled up a random woman to sing with the group.  Later, there was a massive group in the center, just in front of the stage, all doing the same dance moves in time.  It was like the most impromptu and uninspired flash mob ever.   Then they switched to DJ-ed music, which was great, considering they played Whitney Houston.  While they played this music, though, they had images projected onto the wall, which is great.  You know, I’m as down for mixing the two genres as the next person.  But the way they did it was really strange.  For a while, they had just a repeated still frame from an episode of Soul Train on the walls.  Then, later, they had music videos of African American artists, but not the ones who were singing.  (Which was a real shame because they sang MJ’s “Do You Remember the Time” and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”  Great videos—anything with Magic Johnson or gender-bending is okay by me.)

            When they played “It’s in His Kiss (The Shoop Shoop Song),” though, I was a little confused.  So the next time they played an undanceable song, Maryse and I peaced out.

            The next morning (which wasn’t the time when Sarah came into the room where I was sleeping to get something from her baby fridge way early in the morning), Maryse went to work while I continued to sleep.  Around 10:30, after Sarah gave me directions, I set out.  I walked through Place des Vosges:

and came upon the Bastille:

For the glory of the French citizens who armed themselves and combatted for the defense of public liberties on the memorable days 27, 28, 29 July 1830.

Then I realized that I didn’t actually know which direction to start walking.  I knew I needed to be walking along the Seine, but funny thing about rivers is that they go two directions.  So, I guessed that I was supposed to be going to the right and magically happened to guess correctly, but I didn’t find that out until about 20 minutes into my walk.  That’s when I saw signs pointing towards Notre Dame and just about every monument you think of when you think of Paris.  And so I continued on.  I felt even more rewarded when I came upon this sight:

Backside of Notre Dame Cathedral.  Back back back it up. YEAH!

            Since I couldn’t really remember if I had been in Notre Dame (I remember standing outside for an inordinate amount of time two years ago and taking photos of it), I decided to do a quick walk through since there was no line.  Which is quite remarkable for this cathedral.  As soon as I got inside, I realized that I had been in before, but I kept on going just because.  When I had the opportunity, I sat down for a few minutes since after leaving here, I intended to go to the Musée de l’Orangerie in the Jardin des Tuileries, which is just what I did. 

            Even though these photos make it look like the weather is just absolutely lovely, trust me when I tell you that it was bitterly cold.  I was gloves in pockets all day with scarf doubled around my neck.  I stopped to get a tarte au sucre from a Paul stand once I arrived in the Tuileries.  It’s situated just across from this place:

Obligatory Paris picture.

Naturally, I had to take off my gloves while eating it.  Instant regret.

            I walked the whole of the Tuileries on my way to the Musée, and was so glad to finally get inside.  Having never been to this museum before, I didn’t really know what to expect, but I was pleased with what I did find.  They have two large oval rooms with gigantic Monet landscapes.

I would live here.

The space was chosen so that it would be like the viewer was actually surrounded by the images—as if they were real.  Perhaps this photo is helpful to get an idea of the scale.

And the scale is SABADO GIGANTE!

It was quite peaceful in the rooms.  Everyone just sat and looked at the paintings.  (Except when security had to tell people “Pas de flash!”/No flash!)

            Downstairs (aka underground!) the museum continues.  I first went into the special photography exhibit that was displaying the work of German photographer, Heinrich Kühn.  Not gonna lie, some of his photos were totally hipster.  Loved it. 

  

 Then I went to the other side where they had Impressionist works.  Naturally, I took a photo of this Renoir: 

So, once upon a time, my mom went to France when I was a little girl (WITHOUT ME).  When she came back, she gave Alex and me a Memory card game where you had to match the paintings of famous painters: Degas, Van Gogh, Gaugin, Renoir, and 3 others whose names I can’t recall right now.  Maybe Modigliani is one?  (This is fact.  You can look in my CD holder at home.  The deck of cards is still there.)  Anyway, as I continue traveling, I get so excited when I see paintings from that deck of cards.  So that’s one of them.  End of meandering into my past.

            I continued walking in the bitter cold trying to make my way over to the Musée Marmottan Monet.  I crossed to the other side of the Seine (the side with the Eiffel Tower) before realizing that I was overeager (and just flat out wrong) and so I went back to the correct side.  As soon as I got back on the right path, I stumbled upon this monument:

Flamme de la Liberté: Exact replica of the flame of the statue of Liberty offered by the French People through donations from the entire world as a symbol of the Franco-American friendship on the occasion of the centennial of the International Herald Tribune (Paris, 1887-1987)

            I continued on my way and paused when I saw this building, which is absolutely designed to impress but utterly ravaged by graffiti:

You can't see it, but there's a skate ramp on the left.  Also graffitied.

I’m not entirely sure what it is.  I think it might be something to do with modern art, but I really couldn’t tell.  It also seemed strangely vacant for a Parisian space.

            At this point, I decided to stop for a hot chocolate instead of making time for lunch because I was behind schedule.  So, I got a cup at a stand across the river from le Tour Eiffel and continued walking.  I eventually got to the Musée Marmottan Monet, which was (you guessed it) a museum dedicated specifically to Monet.  It housed other artists’ paintings of him, various drafts of his works, his early caricature drawings, and a whole bundle of other things.  For the Monet completist in your life, this is the perfect museum.  It is certainly more intimate than many other museums.  For me, to be perfectly honest, it wasn’t my favorite.  Although I did enjoy the southern couple standing at the poster of the Money family tree and trying to figure out what was going on.  It was pretty straightforward, to tell you the truth.  Basically, wha ha happened was, Monet had his wife Camille but she died after they had some babies.  Then Monet’s family moved in with the ­­­­­­Hoschedé family, who had a litter of their own.  After Mrs. Hoschedé died, Mrs. Hoschedé and Monet got married.  So, too, did Monet’s oldest son and one of the girls from the other family.  It’s kind of Flowers in the Attic, but not really because they were like 30 when their folks got hitched (also because it didn’t take place in an attic).  Anyway, this gal at the museum was insisting that her husband was misunderstanding even though he was pointing to the lines on the family tree.  After about 5 minutes of listening to them argue in their drawls, she saw that he was correct.  Then she said, “That’s kind of creepy.”  Funny given the reputation of many Southern states in the US, n’est-ce pas? (Isn’t it?)

            Other thing learned about Monet is that he had cataracts and that he started wearing colored glasses to correct the distortion of colors that resulted from his corrective surgery.  Very interesting stuff.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t crazy about his paintings from this period.  In any event, I can cross yet another Paris museum off my list.  Also, while I was inside, it started to snow!  I kind of went bananas.  But by the time I got back outside, it had melted.  No complaints here.

            Then I hot-footed it to the métro to meet up with Maryse at a night market in Montmartre to get some grub for dinner and to buy apples for the apple pie she intended to make for Sunday evening’s Thanksgiving dinner.  Great news is that the 10 tickets I bought for the weekend in Paris to be used on public transportation stopped working at this point.  So I kept trying to put my ticket it and it kept telling me it was invalid.  Naturally, this all started to happen just as rush hour was starting.  I stepped out of the way to let the first throng of people through.  Then I gave it another go, because I’m nothing if not cheap (and I had already paid 12€ for the tickets!) and this time it worked.

            I managed to get to Maryse only 30 minutes late.  Luckily, I got to watch a French man put the fear of God into some older British tourists.  (This isn’t lucky because I feel for my brethren.  Oh yes.  I went there.)  We wandered around the market and stopped to get some apples from a delightful man who decided to ask me from out of nowhere if I was Brazilian.  NO!  Should I have lied to get a better deal on the apples?  YES! Jokes.  This is what we saw on our way back to the métro:

NBD or anything... Just the Sacré Coeur

            We went back to Maryse’s to have some leftover cauliflower soup, bread, and cheese.  Then we left to meet up with some of Maryse’s friends at the Champs-Elysées Christmas market.  The people in attendance: Jesselyn (Maryse’s paramour), Tori (Jesselyn’s roommate), Roberto (Tori’s Italian petit ami/boyfriend), and Sam (assistant in Poitiers and apparently my blind date).  We wandered up and down for a bit.  It was as thought this was Maryse’s first Christmas market (and it may well have been) because she was pulled in by every singly stall, regardless of what they were selling.  This is a Christmas market with a wide assortment of wares being peddled.  Sausages, nougat, marshmallows, Russian stacking dolls, Russian stacking dolls of Michael Jackson, naughty Christmas costumes, you get the picture.  After we finished with the market, of which I didn’t take many pictures because I had been there 2 years before—SORRY, FRIENDS—we made our way over to a bar for some of my country’s finest dish: fish and chips.  (You can take the girl out of Britain…)  Before I forget, here’s the one photo I did take of the market:

It was on the wall of an indoor skating rink even though it was totes cold enough for that mess to be dehors/outside.

            After we had basically second dinner, we parted ways.  By the way, for the entire rest of the weekend, Maryse smuggled me into the métro because I like to live dangerously and because I didn’t feel like dealing with the hassle of arguing for new tickets.  So Jesselyn, Maryse, and I went back to Maryse’s while everyone else did something else.  I’d imagine, went home.  The three of us sat in the salon for a bit with Cécile just chatting while waiting for Cécile’s friend, Mathieu to arrive.  Then there was a black out.  It was thrilling.  But it was also cold outside.  So Maryse stood at her balcony and took this photo for me:

You try taking a photo of a blackout and see how you do.

            Maryse said it was a shame Sarah slept through the blackout and we tittered.  Then to bed! 

            The next day, I got up to do some reading while waiting for Maryse to rise and shine.  So I breakfasted with Cécile and Mathieu.  Actually, what happened was that Cécile and Mathieu ate while I awkwardly sat and watched even though Cécile offered me croissants/baguettes and her mom’s homemade confiture des fraises/strawberry jam.  As soon as they bounced, you can bet I devoured a healthy helping.  Maryse and Jesselyn strolled in around noon.  Jesselyn had to go to new job training, so Maryse and I puttered about for a bit before deciding to head to Ladurée, which is the place where they invented macarons and is also the shop that supplied them for Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette.  Naturally, it was a place I absolutely had to see!  So I snuck on the bus after Maryse and we took a ride to the premier arrondissement and went to the shop.  It’s absolutely delightful inside and it’s quite easy to see how Sophia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette was influenced by it.  The menu has a history of the confection, and I was surprised to read that the macaron was not even invented until the 1800s, therefore making its presence in the film anachronistic.  But, then again, so were the powder blue Converses in this magical song scene:

Sorry for this tacky photo, but I wanted to get as much of the ambiance in as possible.

So, Maryse and I shared a pot of Marie Antoinette tea while she enjoyed a délicieuse violet and I sampled four macarons.  I had Madagascar chocolate, blackcurrant violet (representing for the UK), salted caramel, and rose ginger (by far the winner).  Afterwards, we took a short walk to look in the department store windows where all of the Christmas displays are up.  There seems to be a theme with teddy bears and/or the circus during this holiday season in France, and, quite frankly, it’s a bit strange.  There was one store that had windows with musicals’ songs playing—sometimes the songs were translated, which was kind of funny to hear, especially with Mamma Mia.  But they also had Mary Poppins and Hairspray among others.  I particularly enjoyed the one with the umbrellas and teddy bears with the score from Les Parapluies de Cherbourg playing.  Luckily, I was there to explain the cultural reference to Maryse.  Because I’m nothing if not a know-it-all.  There was such a massive crowd to see some of the animatronic window displays that I distracted myself with the ceiling, which was certainly nothing to dismiss.

            Then we went back to Maryse’s for dinner and watching some British Indian sketch comedy from Cécile’s DVD collection.  Maryse and I also peeled apples for her first pie, which she baked a bit later in the evening (with me doing all of the conversions from imperial to metric).  We had plans to go out but as we’re getting old in our old age, we bailed.  Instead, Michael Martinez (who also went to Wash U and who is also working as an assistant in Paris) came over until about 3am and we had a luscious time.  Cécile joined in the action as well once she was home from her babysitting jobs.

            The next day, I woke up just as Maryse’s friend, Hallie, was arriving with the real turkey to be cooked for the dinner.  Jesselyn arrived shortly after with the necessary ingredients to make stuffing from scratch.  Michael came later with ingredients to make his candied yams.  Generally, a good time was had by all as we grooved to Christmas music or oldies and I watched people cook because I had nothing to contribute.  Though I did hold the turkey legs together while Hallie tied them and I did relattice Maryse’s pie so it was picture perfect.  Don't worry, though.  I enjoyed some genuine Kwanzaa entertainment courtesy of Maryse's childhood.  You can enjoy it too!

Around 2, though, I had to say my farewells because I had a train to catch!  So, Maryse walked me across the street to the bus stop and I got on illegally and got on my train about 10 minutes before it pulled out of the station.  Sensational. 

            When I got to Lyon, I had made plans to meet Marc at one of the métro stops in the burbs (near his parents’ home), so I set to it straight away.  (This was not originally the plan.  On Thursday, before I left Belley, I texted Marc to see if he could pick me up from Virieu.  He said no but that he could get me from Lyon if that’s where I would be.  Thankfully, yes it was!)  Good thing I did because it ended up taking about an hour to get there, but it was fiiine with me because the métro stops are warmer than waiting in the train station!

            Came back to the good ol’ internat, which wasn’t heated, obvio.  I set up the chauffage éléctrique/electric heater next to me in the kitchen while I cooked myself some dinner and chatted with the ‘rents.  Afterwards, I went to my room and plugged in the heater for a bit before deciding it was still a bit cold and making a move to plug in the heated blanket my momz had sent me.  Oops.  That blew a fuse and then none of the sockets in my room were working anymore.  So, I put all of my blankets on the bed, pulled the covers over my head, and went to sleep.

Somewhat toastily,

Jus

P.S. Did I mention that all the walking I did on Friday (from Maryse’s to the Musée Marmottan) was hugely disagreeable to my right foot?  Just today I was able to manage without an aspirin.  Think I’m being a baby?  Here’s the GoogleMap of my trek: