On Est Ensemble

This is my favorite expression that the Senegalese LOVE to say whenever someone does something nice for you - on est ensemble or no farr in wolof, all of which means 'We are together'. I would like to elaborate more on this but the internet café man is kicking me off! My last night in Sénégal; I am going to a sabar tonight, or a drum repetition on the beach, and then play some French Scrabble with the guys. Tomorrow is the baptism of Magueye's newborn son, he-who-has-not-been-named (babies here are named exactly one week after their birth) .

Mustafa! P'tit monstre!

I hate to leave this country where I find myself surrounded by béugué happiness, family and music.

The Gentlemen's Scrabble Club

Malik, my host brother, invites me to his friend's house on Saturday night to chill . I have no idea what to expect, but mostly a bunch of dudes sitting around playing poker and smoking cigars . We walk into the house right around the corner from the beach, and I immediately love it - we're at "The Professor's" house, with a patio that is covered by a grass canopy with pillows and mats spread out . At a little card table, these two old men are playing not poker, but Scrabble. I immediately think of Mom and Aunt Amy battling it out for Champion of Scrabble. Malik introduces me to The General, who is probably fifty plus, with little spectacles, a bald head and a great wheezing laugh. He's playing against Cheikh, also known as Le Colonel. I meet Zappo, Diallo, Lando, DJ, who all live in the neighborhood and are musicians that repeat and play together every night. The atmosphere is chill and cool and "à l'aise" as they say in French. I join The General and Cheikh at the card table, where they sit for hours, smoking one Excellence cigarette after another and battling over French words that most I've never even heard of . As soon as Malik walks in, he sits down and takes score . Between all the guys here, who are all different ages, different backgrounds, different ethnicities and different work, but they all come together at The Professor's house on the weekend to play music, play Scrabble and discuss (and smoke a few joints here and there). Im enraptured the whole time to see this tight knit group, who are so nice and friendly with each other .for example, Zappo does everything to make sure that everyone is comfortable and has what they need, even if we're not at his house.
Later, we all go down to the beach and bring guitars, djembes, tam tams and percussion and play for hours. Once again, I feel like rhythm and music is flowing through me and my foot doesnt stop tapping .
The guys remind me over and over again "On est ensemble" or in Wolof "No farr" which is their way of saying "We're friends and we're in this together." Big Mo and Lando tell me that they are brothers, because there's a certain point in a friendship when you bypass friendship and become brothers. I also meet Laye, a doctor in the Senegalese army - we talk about Socrates philosophy and go on for hours talking about history, colonization and philosophy. I think I've found my new hangout spot.

Le Voyageur

A word about Senegalese nightclubs - what an experience . I went on Friday night with my host brother and sister - Malik and Mamy . First, alcohol is forbidden by the Koran, but at nightclubs you have the odd bunch who drink . But since theyre not at ALL used to alcohol, they're falling all over the place and hit shamelessly on toubabs like me . Things dont get started until at least 2 in the morning - we arrived at the club at 1 and waited around the empty lounge for an hour before things got started. For music, they hit up all the classic American hip hop and rap songs, and I feel cool only because Im american and know all the words . My favorite part though is that there are mirrors on every wall surrounding the dance floor where guys and girls shamelessly dance by themselves in the mirror and see how they look. Dammmmmn apparently self consciousness doesnt exist here. And then, right when a good song comes on and you want to throw your hands up and shake your hips, you feel something behing you and its some creepy guy behind you whispering in your ear that he wants your phone number. I was preyed on nearly the entire night by guys swooping in and trying to dance with me. Thats when your elbow and a nice shove come in handy.

WAAW means YES!

Gorée is...fantastic. Paradisical. I went back there for a day with Sophie, where we spent a fabulously relaxed and chill day. Sophie and I caught the ferry around 10 am and immediately went looking for Mikaela as soon as we arrived. I met the infamous La Hadt, Monica's admirer while she was here. He's...absolutely gorgeous. I could just stare at his all the livelong day, especially when he's playing the djembe. Julia number 1 was also there for a bit, so we got to catch up. She's allergic to something - a reminder that we are indeed in Africa and need to watch out. We hang out at the port, sit in the sun and chill out. So nice not to have anything to do or anywhere to be. Julia takes the next ferry out bc she's ill,while Mikala and I decide to swim in the little harbor. Amadou and Mbaye come in the water with us and we swim all the way out next to the ferry to send Julia off. We find an old surfboard chillin out in the water and 6 of us try to climb on without tipping off. We all jump off the surfboard into the water . Then swim out to an old pirogue boat in the water, climb in and jump off. The entire ferry witnesses me and my pathetic upper body strength as I hopelessly try to hoist myself into the old boat .FAIL ! Swimming is so much fun and all the guys have such nice bodies, not gonna lie. We dry out on the beach and buy some necklaces from a local. We all share the BEST mango I will ever have, it was like eating pure candy. We hang out at the beach alllll day, talking with the local guys who are all about the same age. Mikala plays on her flute while Amadou taps his djembe - hey, its Irish-African music! Nice!
You can just tell that music and rhythm flows throug his blood and in his soul. So cool.He's SO happy when he's playing the djembe, just the biggest smile spread across his face. La Hadt, Samba and Babacar are all gorgeous, I cant stop staring!
And then the highlight of the night : the repetition, where all the guys get together and jam on the djembe while the local girls dance . This goes on for nearly 2 hours, and I dont know how to describe it except that you have to see it for yourself. La Hadt is the leader of the circle, with about 8 drums. Samba is on the big drums, and the rest of the guys play the djembe. Ten hot sweaty Senegalese men banging on the drums, by the ocean, with the sun setting in the background - have I died and gone to heaven????
Then the girls start in formation and do their crazy African dance routine, banging their heads back and forth and shaking their arms, legs, asses as if none of their limbs are actually attached. My foot was stamping the whole time. The surroundings are amazing - behind us is a big old abandoned building , with the sea crashing up right behind us. We take fun jumpîng pictures and walk up to the top of the hill, where the sound of the drums is even louder .
Once the drumming rep is over, we chill out at Alfa's place, where I actually find a HAMMOCK! My life is complete. This island is officially paradise.

Alhamdoulilah

Sunday I go chez Sophie; Magueye's wife hands up her son Cheikh to bring along for the ride to Amadou's. SO funny how different kids are treated here than the States. Nahadi hands us her 5 yr old son to take on two car rapides through the downtown city- no American mum would ever do that ! A word about transportation in Dakar - first, there's the bus, which is pretty regular but always packed . A few times I've held on for dear life with half by body in the rinkydink bus, with one arm and one leg hanging out the door. Next, there's the car rapide -oh, these are an adventure. First, the cars remind me of the ones I saw in India - crappy and beat up twister pieces of metal that have four wheels and carry 15 people (and spew out a black diesel fume) . A teenage guy hangs off the back ledge of the car rapide and hisses at people to give them a ride. Mikaela has ridden on the back of one, I rode on the back for about 2 minutes before I got kicked out. The inside is adorned in pictures of Cheikh Amadou Bamba (like an African Gandhi) and various spiritual guides that the Senegalese adore . On the front of every car rapide is written ALHAMDOULILAH (also my favorite word to say) , which in Arabic means 'Peace to God'. Im getting quite good at the salutations here :
-Salaamalekum!
-Malekumsalaam, nga def ?
-Ca va bien, ca va ?
-Oui ca va ! Alhamdoulilahi!
There's an expression in French that says "You're going like a Senegalese" because chez les Senegalais, things are ALWAYS going well. Non ca va pas is never a response to How's it going?
Next are the taxis, which take forever because haggling the price in French is about half the journey.
And last but not least are the clandos, short for clandestine, short in English for SHADY. These are the non-marked cars that are cheaper than taxis, and way more sketchier. How do you know it's a clando? Look for the realllly crappy cars, wave em down, ask em where they're goin and hop on it.

Sophie and I discuss how happy and accepting people are, especially thanks to the Islamic influence. I love how proud everyone is here of their country, something that you would rarely find in France . Mamy says she only likes Senegalese food and that Sénégal is Paradise on Earth. They are very proud of their country and of Africa in general. Another thing I've noticed here is that Islam/ Muslims dont talk about HELL/L'ENFER the way Christians do. It's not a concept in Islam the way it is in Christianity, ESPECIALLY Catholocism. For exemple, El Hadji says if you hurt someone, God will punish you, not that you will go to hell. People do right here and pray a lot, not so that they won't go to hell, but to prove their love to God.

We go chez Amadou for a bit, where he shows us pictures of his family, half of which is in Europe playing the djembes. His big bro who taught him how to play the djembe is so cool-looking, with long dreads and a sweet accent.

Afterwards, I go to El Hadji's house, where I salute everyone with the casual greetings. The salutation with all these guys is tapping their hand on your forehead four times, as a sign of respect. And then we shout "Bégué!" which means happiness. El Haji makes mint tea, a process that takes over an hour . Magueye tells me that to make tea and drink tea, you cant be in a rush. This is true. El Hadj makes the best mint tea because he adds a bit of cardamom seeds to it and makes a lot of mousse on top.

On my way home, my Congolese friend Michel is there waiting for me . I have NO idea how he found my house, because I dont even know where it is in the maze of this city, but he's there and waiting ! He's an acquaintance I've made through my friend Bruno in Paris, who lived with Michel for several months. Michel comes from Brazzaville Congo and has been playing the big tam-tams his whole life. He has awesome dreads that reach down to his waist, and he is a true Rastafarian . The next night we make dinner at his place, (a true Rasta is vegetarian) and he tells me all about Congo Brazzaville, about the Rastafarian religion and his respect for Bob Marley.
Bob Marley is HUGE here in Africa - I've learned so much about him. We even celebrated his birthday the 11 may. Africans are obsessed with him, his music and his message. Even though he was Jamaican, he identified a lot with Africans and sang "Africa Unite!" . Michel is very wise and has a lot to give, but I think he might have lost a marble or two. I cant decide. He is deeply distrustful of the Senegalese, especially after living in Dakar for over 3 years. I find they are a people who are generous and friendly, whereas he sees them as jealous and cheating.
He tells me all about his travels around West Africa, playing Congo drums and do traditional dance . I would love to go see his corner of Africa one day. We talk about raising money to build a community center for street kids that teaches traditional drums and dance.

The Island of Gorée

The island of Gorée is a fantastic getaway from the chaos and noise of Dakar. When I think of Gorée, I think of paradise, or even a Caribbean island where the doors and windows are vibrantly painted, and are always open; the bouganvillea hanging off the sides of the multicolored houses. The darker side of Gorée is that it was a major station point in the Atlantic Slave Trade, and thousands of slaves stolen from West Africa passed through here on their brutal voyage to America in inhuman conditions. Gorée is teh keyhole to the African continent following the insatiable thirst for slaves during the 18th and 19th century following the European discoveries. When we checked out the slave house, El Hadj showed me tiny rooms where hundreds of slaves were stored, cramped and chained to the floor. I cant even begin to imagine how terrible the conditions were between the journey from the Congo, Nigeria, Guinée, to the storage house and the months spent at sea, only to arrive in America or the Caribbean to work your ass off as a slave hauling cane sugar. Built in 1786 by the Dutch, they say that out of the 20 million Africans stolen and sent as slaves, only 300 per year went through Gorée. El Hadj got so upset being in there, and for good reason. Except then he tells me that it's thanks to Cheikh Amadou Bamba that Africans arent slaves anymore, and its him who put an end to the slave trade...right. Can't argue with someone who is deeply religious though.
The door that opens from the storeroom to the sea represents the "voyage with no return" for African slaves that would never see their homeland again. The whole thing breaks my heart.
As for the rest of Gorée, it might be my idea of heaven on earth. It has a bit of Caribbean island feel to it, but when you think about the Caribbean's cultural origins- IT's AFRICAN!
The houses are red, yellow, with the bouganvillea overflowing over the sides in brilliant violet colors. Gorean artists post up their paintings, necklaces and African masks for all to see. We meander through the quiet streets where there are no roads, no cars, just serenity and harmony. The beach and port has a big jetti where Rasta and Baye Falls fish for carps rouges. Children play soccer while listening to MBALAX music played by a local DJ. Four guys sit on the rocks out by the beach and bang on djembes while singing chants about Islam . Dreadlocked (and hot) Senegalese guys chill out on the beach and play music.
We meander through the streets and up the hilll to see the statue of the two pirogues; symbolizing peace. AKSILEM ak JAMM - please feel welcome and come in peace .
I meet a local artist who shows me his work and how he paints the abstract canvas of African scenes. He has a funny little cap and quirky glasses, and is covered head to toe in PAINT ! He casually mentions that he'll give me a good price, but is not aggressive like those in Dakar . Ive noticed that everyone here is chill and relaxed. Im invited to several little boutiques to look at beautiful necklaces and fabrics. Good thing I left all my money at home or I would probably buy EVERYTHING
The island is not big, but there are a lot of tourists. Everywhere you ho, you hear the ocean waves. Its an island paradise. I love the image of the colorful laundry hanging out to dry; with the waves crashing up on the rocks . CEST TROP BEAU!
El Hadji and I eat lunch at a friendly restaurant where the owners are friendly as can be - the cook has the biggest smile I have ever seen; and his white crisp shirt sets off the beauty of his dark skin. Later on, we cross someone who is eating the local fruit here 'madd' and she doesnt hesitate in offering it to us strangers. Some kid later on asks us for some of our water, and El Hadji doesnt hesitate either in giving him half . I have a LOT to learn from the Senegalese about generosity and sharing what you've got. Mikala jokes that its funny I work in a savings bank because the Senegalase (or maybe West Africans) are the worst at saving money - cuz anything We chill out on the rocks by the sea for hours, watching the sun set and seeing the locals fish for their dinner. El Hadji goes swimming but Im not up for it this night. We share a lot of laughs throughout the day. AURA AND ANDREA - this one is for you girls: Ive started introducing myself as LULU because when I say 'Julia', they respond 'Chulian' . But they nail it when I say Lulu. So now El Hadj has nicknamed me 'LOLO" which, ironically, means big boobs in Wolof. Nice.

INSHALLAH

This means "If God wills it"- such as, see you tomorrow!, Inshallah. I have gotten quite used to saying it, along with "leggy leggy" which means "see you later" (and is probably my favorite word to say) . Another thing Ive noticed here is the immense generosity. Neighbors come and go through our house, asking for running water or ice cubes. Life is pretty normal here; people in Dakar are nearly as poor as the rest of West Africa- the world's poorest region . There is, at least, running water and sewage. That's saying a lot for West Africa. But people here nevertheless are friendly and happy . They dont rush and always take the time to say hello. There are two national sports here; football and wrestling, but we say that haggling is the third national sport because the Senegalese are vicious hagglers. I've picked up some skills in India and Morocco, but here, I am way out of my league.

Djembes on the Beach

My third night here we have a fish barbecue on the beach, known as a grillade. The other volunteers came: Mikaela, Monica, Sophie and Julia #1, and a bunch of Senegalese guys; Amadou, Moussa, Dominic and some others who played the djembe ALL night long . Magueye cooked up all dhellfish, all stuff that I normally wouldnt eat. In the dark though, I just accepted anything and shoved it into my mouth before I could see what it looked like the firelight. Good thing- I realize halfway through that I am eating sea urchin - tastes like sandy meat .I sit next to Amadou's brother, El Hadj,with really long dreads and an awesome accent when he speaks English. He lived in Amsterdam for years, playing djembe and giving lessons.
Next we have les moules, grilled over the fire and smothered in lime juice, so good! The guys banged on their djembes and Mikaela joined in - she's actually quite good and has rhythm. Amadou leads a circle between Sophie, Julia, Mik and I and I get the hang of it ! Kind of... But then they change the rhythm and I am lost completely. Moussa tries to teach me a bit on the djembe but I'm hopeless. Poor white girl aint got no rhythm. These Africans have got it in their blood!
When the guys play the djembe, Amadou leading the circle, their faces light up with so much emotion, especially Amadou's face - he shook his hair and banged so hard on his drum, as if he was closer to God or something . I've never seen emotion like that when someone is playing music. Julia, Mikala and I dance around the fire, singing to the music and shouting "Olé Olé Olé Olé" In the circle, this African woman jumps in and moves like I've never seen before , with her arms flailing and butt shaking . We dance in the sand, jumping up and down like crazy.
Later that night, I talk with El Hadji and he tells me about his infinite love for Cheikh Amadou Bamba, the marabout and "Gandhiji" of Senegal.

Fish Market

Today I wander through the Sandaga market with ElHadji and he shows me all the famous ingredients used in African cooking, such as mint leaves, lentils, haricots and lots of spices. They even chew on sticks here to cure maladies. There are one man selling natural remedies such as boabab fruit, known as monkey's bread or bouye in Wolof, that cures "la rhume des fesses" otherwise known as diarrhea. I've tried it and it works ! They chew on sticks to cure stomach and head aches, and parasites feeding off your intestines. Yummy!
And I will NEVER forget the smell of a fish market in steaming Dakar, and seeing chopped fish heads, fish eyeballs and raw meat strewn across an acre wide rotting market. Yum! Afterwards we go to the literal armpit of the earth, where all the car parts and mechanicians are. Even the ground is covered in oil and grease. El Hadji's friend finds us a dinky little motor scooter that gets us around the city much faster than a car rapide.

TOUBAB !

The little monster of a 2-year old named Mustafa calls me "Toubab" which means white skin , even after 2 weeks of living with him, he still doesnt remember my name is LULU. Hahaha he loves to run into my room and play with all of my cool stuff. He doesnt speak a word of French, except for "Merci" and "Bijoux!" when I ask him for a kiss (bisous). Whats funny is that in my house I dont know who is married or brother or sister or anybody's names.
Who is Malik's wife? Who is the guy who lives upstairs? Who is the random teenager in our house? Who got Mémé pregnant at age 17 (and is her name really Mémé?) These are all questions I ask myself the first week when things are still really unfamiliar and nothing has been explained to me - it's left for me to figure out. I will pick up later that nicknames here are used much more than actual name, even though Muslims have an elaborate naming ceremony whenever a child is born. I will learn later that my host sister's name is not Mémé but Mamy, and my host mum (the mother hen of the whole brood) is not Mami but Yaye, which means mother in Wolof. When I ask Magueye to clarify everyone's names in my house, he says that he actually doesn't know Yaye's real name and doesnt have the courage to ask such a daunting and disrespectful question. Hmmm... the whole naming thing here could not be more different than back home.

Another thing:the families here are enormous and everyone lives together. Whats even more confusing is that to call someone "your cousin" is actually an insult, so you call your cousin "your brother". I couldn't even begin to keep the family tree straight here because everyone is brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews. Also, the daughter of your aunt is "your sister", not your cousin. Beware ! To make matters worse for us toubabs, polygamy is allowed by the Koran and many Muslim Senegalese take this bit very seriously. Therefore it's quite common to come across someone with two, three, up to four wives. Magueye himself has 2 and they both live in under the same roof. This is more or less uncommon; usually a man with keep his second wife in a separate apartment as to not create jealousy among the wives. I'm not quite sure how Magueye's wives do it all together in the same house. Plus, both of them are pregnant at the same time!
As a result, the families are even more numerous because you have half brothers and sisters. Yaye, who is probably around 60, has a little sister of 28 years old - they have the same father. And let me get another one straight: Yaye's neice is younger than her own daughter, meaning that neice is older than aunty. Woo !
There are kids absolutely everywhere you look here- 30% of the population here is under 14 years old. The babies aren't coddled here the way they are in the States, and treated like fragile porcelain dolls. The women here strap them on to their back like duck tape and carry on with their daily chores. Another thing: it seems like it's the women who do all the work around here: laundry, cooking, child rearing, house cleaning. And the men? Usually lounging around in the shade working on their "social relationships."

Other things I have to watch out for: when we eat (on the floor, we all eat from a giant platter) you never eat with your left hand (your dirty hand) and never pose it on the ground because it's pushing your ancestors into the ground. For djuboudienne, the local dish of fish and rice, you roll up a ball of rice with your right hand and pop it into your mouth. Goodbye forks and spoons!


Today was incredible. I love Africa and the people here. They are very proud of their country - you see pictures of the African continent nearly everywhere you go. Islam has touched here in a way that makes eveyrone respectful and gentle. Once in a while you'll have a big, tall crazy African come by but you learn how gentle he truly is - such warm gentle hearts.

SENEGAL

The adventure continues !! Off to Dakar for a month to work in a microcredit bank run by all women in Cité Nations Unies, a suburb of Dakar.
I am in the Land of the TERANGA ! which means hospitality in Wolof and thats exactly what it is . Everyone here is friendly and you salut people about 100 times a day because everyone says hi to...everyone! Quite a change from Paris .. .
Elegant women roam the sides of the sandy roads, clothed in colorful fabric that straps a back to their back like duck tape.
5 tips for how to ride a motorbike in Dakar :
1. Hold on for dear life. There are potholes, craters, speed bumps and head-on cars and buses and the occasionally horse drawn carriage.
2. Lean with the bike, especially when you're turning a sharp corner and need to avoid a few dozen people in the way.
3. Keep your eyes and ears open. Eyes open because there is always a someone standing in the middle of the road. Ears open because there is music playing EVERYWHERE - the Senegalese are obsessed with music !! including djembe, reggae, hip hop, rap (what they call "resurrection of african poetry)
4.Worst time to take your hands off the bile is when you're stopped. Because chances are Magueye is going to rev up and slip in between two moving buses
5. Never wear a skirt , trust me I learned this the hard way. It's really hard to get on a scooter with a paille tied tightly around your waist and 10 men watching you climb on to a bike.

El Hadj teaches me around the roots of Islam today; about how its all about sharing what you have and contributing to the community. Islam is an incredibly generous and compassionate religion, what its really about, not any of this extremist shit in other countries.
Magueye teaches me about how we drink mint tea here : the first cup is to hell, because its bitter, the second cup to friendship and the third cup to love.
My African mum Yaye teaches me about how too much money can make people unhappy and complicate. You need a little for "alimentation et logement" but its friendship and family that really count.

Camden Crawl

How does one describe Camdentown in North London ? Underground, hipster, alternative, indie, grungy, goth emo punk (or as the Yeah Yeah Yeahs say gemunk) and where the music (and drug) scene is happening. It's here that legends have found their success, from the Sex Pistols to Oasis, Madonna's first UK appearance; or the legendary Barfly - the place that helped launch the careers of Coldplay and The Darkness, or where Amy Winehouse probably first started getting into trouble, or where Pete Doherty or Radiohead rocked out, where Lily Allen debuted or even The Cranberries. And it's here that the Camden Crawl takes place, a weekend-long music festival where you (practically) crawl from one pub to another to listen to alternative bands. Bands such as the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the Maccabees appeared at the Roundhouse, where smaller, lesser-known bands such as Tommy Sparks, the Joy Formidable , Sportsday Megaphone, Does It Offend You Yeah? rocked out in small, but very crowded venues. By day, the Crawl is a sprawling carnival-style arts festival featuring comedy, short film, pop quizzes, bingo, busking, acoustic performances, workshops, spoken word, karaoke, unsigned band competitions, exhibitions, gaming, an outdoor stage with special guests and more… By night, however, the mile-long stretch of pavement becomes an all out live music extravaganza playing host to 150 of the best new talents performing across the area’s infamous venues.

London Town

I arrive in London town on Friday night after taking the Eurostar which goes under the English Channel, right into the center of the city. It's funny to be a on a train that leaves from Paris, and to get off only 2 hours later and be in a completely different city. My dear friend Hannah, a good friend I met a year ago in India, meets me at the terminal with her friend Katie, a very warm and slightly drunken welcome. They've been at the Crawl all day, standing outside in the sunshine listening to bands rock out. We head back to Hannah's new flat at Queen's Park that she shares with her boyfriend Olly (from Kent), the most British person Ive ever met! In terms of sense of humor that is; I think I laughed at nearly everything he said all weekend. He's a bit of legend, Hannah tells me before, and I immediately see why. He's awesome! And the two of them make a perfect couple.
We sit around their flat, drink cold beers, or watching Summer Heights High (an Australian version of The Office, but set in a school...it's absolutely brilliant) and listen to freakin' good music Olly is an amateur DJ and between him and Hannah, they have a music rep that rivals that of a record company. The music scene in London is huge, and so much bigger than in Paris, esp when it comes to small rock or electronica bands.
The differences between the two cities is striking - here in London, there is a whole underground music scene of offstream, alternative, creative groups and its mostly centered in Camden. I havent sensed any of that in Paris; its more a scene of house or techno music, or influences coming from West Africans making their beats.
Another difference I've noticed, not surprisingly, is that Americans are much more like the British than the French. A little obviously I know, but true, and here's why. Hugs for example; the French wouldnt dream of hugging to greet one another unless of course someone died, but go 2 hrs on the train, and the English are all about hugs ! (as are Americans.) And breakfast: the French just dont eat it. It's small and usually consists of a croissant or a piece of toast. The English? Love a big breakfast! Eggs, bacon, toast, beans, the works! (As, I would like to compare, do Americans.) And tea and milk ! The French don't really do tea, and if they do, it's black almost always. Go two hours north, and the English make a mean cup of tea, always complete with a splash of milk or cream. At work one day in Paris, I put a splash of milk in my café/tea and everyone looked at me like I was crazy and remarked "That's a very English thing to do."
It's fun to see these apparent cultural differences, esp between 2 cities that are only 2 hours away by train (granted, Britain's an island), but that are so so different. We don't really have this concept in America - go 2 hours on a train and well, you'll probably still be in America, where things haven't changed much except for how much milk costs. But between London and Paris, the English and the French, they've evolved into completely different people and unfortunately detest each other for it. I was told all weekend how much the English hate the French (and almost all foreigners in England, there's quite a bit of racism there.)

Saturday morning, after everyone crashed on the floor, Olly cooks us all breakfast, complete with beans, bacon, fried eggs, all put on white bread with ketchup. We sat around in PJs and watched The Goonies, the pinnacle of the 80s as well as Josh Brolin's career. The movie was incredibly corny yet amazing. Katie's boyfriend Tom has a great sense of humor; by the end of the film, the comments made by Tom or Olly had me rolling on the floor.
After a lazy Saturday morning, we rollll out (all 6 of us) and head into Camden Town for lunch before going to see some bands. I basically had no idea what was going on all day but just went with the flow. I adore the British accent and vocabulary and could listen to it all day, esp words like mental! brilliant ! We get some greasy food at the Camden Market and sit by the river with a bunch of tattooed and blue-haired goths. There's some really good people watching around here. And there we stay all day, talking and drinking cider beer until 5 in the afternoon before the bands come on. The river is nice and relaxing, whereas up on the street is an absolute madhouse with the Crawl plus Market Day for the world-famous Camden Market, London's most popular open-air market area with stalls, shops, pubs and restaurants.
We hit up The Camden house for more drinks before going into The Black Cap, our venue for the night to hear The XX, Sportsday Megaphone, Golden Silvers and Tommy Sparks. We just danced our way through the night, esp the last band that was on (Tommy Sparks) was out of this world and so much fun. The crowd was fun and everyone was in a good mood. After hours spent there, we head to the Marathon Kebab Shop where they have a backroom where people come to play guitar or saxophone. It's there where Pete Doherty used to come and play unannounced, in the back of a kebab shop - brilliant. This is the side of London that I love.

Boycotting the Metro

I fell in love with Paris tonight, finally.
All of a sudden, it just...clicked. And I realized how much I truly love this city.
I had just met up with my friend Jens for an "Adieu Ice Cream" because he's leaving town and packin' up back to Germany. Dommage. We got the city's best ice cream at Bertholy's - for a rich creamy and out-of-this-world chocolate ice cream. As we sat on le quai down by La Seine, les bateaux mouches passed by, filled with tourists. All the famous monuments were lit up so nicely and somewhere on a nearby bridge, a lonely man was playing Amélie tunes on his accordion. The air was warm and a pleasant breeze carried the smells of the local food markets in a nearby neighborhood. I assumed that Paris would be dead on Easter Sunday and that few people would be out - just the opposite ! There were all kinds of people out and about, enjoying the city that I've come to love so much. But it wasn't in stressful flurry of crowds - there was a certain placidity in the languorous, relaxed way that people were walking and talking and promenading.
After saying goodbye to my friend Jens, I decided to avoid the metro and walk along the Seine to enjoy the warm breeze and the view. It was incredible and something I haven't taken advantage of enough. Down by the water, one level below all the cars is a lovely boardwalk that follows the Seine and is lined by old fishing boats tied up. At the very tip of the tiny island on which Notre Dame cathedral is located, were people picnicking along the water's edge - usually with a 12-pack of beer or a bottle of red wine. Friends gathered to spend Easter Sunday afternoon sitting outside on a picnic blanket, telling old stories and having a good laugh. I walked all along the Seine, whistling with my hands in my pockets, stopping at each bridge to observe the people there enjoying themselves with good friends.

Another decision I've come to:
I'm boycotting the metro. Actually, that's how my love affair with Paris began this one evening. I discovered that there's an entire world, believe it or not, above the METRO that connects the whole city and which I've come to depend on. I literally take the métro everywhere and never get to see any of the above-ground scenery.
That has all changed this weekend.
On my way home, I rented out a Vélib bicycle and rode allll the way home. Everywhere I turned was a new monument - look left! Assemblée Nationale! Right!Le Sénat! Place de la Concorde ! La Tour Eiffel! Notre Dame!
Marion and I, during our 4-day weekend, have walked everywhere and it's been pure loveliness in terms of seeing new parts of the city. We discovered that Montparnasse is actually a lot closer than we thought. We walked to Invalides to have a look at Napoleon's tomb, and then enjoying the park at Le Musée Rodin. Today we walked to Cluny La Sorbonne and meandered around the small streets of the Latin Quarter. There were a bunch of intellectuels mosying around weird and small bookshops; others lined up at the door for cinema tickets on a lazy Sunday. Such a French thing to do. We tried to see an old movie with Audrey Hepburn in an ancient salon that only shows black & whites. The little streets that surround Notre Dame are among my favorite little cobblestone roads. Instead we see a black & white 1941 Greta Garbo film "Two-Faced Woman" or La Femmes aux Deux Visages in French. It was so much fun !

We also check out the only mosque in Paris, La Grande Mosquée de Paris, where they serve mint tea and Moroccan sweets under the canopy of orange trees in the courtyard. Beautifully-tiled walls line the courtyard and the big rooms that open up behind where dinner is served.
We walk through Les Jardins des Plants, where big magnolia trees are just starting to bloom, and colorful flowers are planted all over. The Natural History Museum is there (you can see the dinosaur bones from outside!) and a little zoo. How lovely!

On Friday, we walked all the way to Le Grand Palais and saw the Andy Warhol exhibit on display. His famous Marilyn Monroe, Jackie O and Elizabeth Taylor pieces were on display, as was his colossal portrait of Mao. Wow!

Florence

I took a petit séjour, as the French say, this weekend in Florence, one of my favorite Italian cities. I love it's charm, it's people, and of course, it's gelato !
But the trip to get there was a bit of a fiasco. I arrived at the airport with my ticket already printed out and ready to go. Nice and easy getting from my work in the lower 14th to Orly airport. Well, I had some time to kill before I had to go through security, so I bum around the airport. Sitting down at a café I realize that my boarding pass says "Pisa to Paris Orly"...Wait a minute, that doesn't sound right...Merde! I've printed out the wrong boarding pass! C'est pas vrai! I go tearing through the airport with my purse and suitcase in hand and skid my way across the hall to the Check-in for EasyJet. Check-in closed, but the lady must have taken pity on my blotchy and desperate face so she takes a look and prints me out the right boarding pass. I then have about 2.67 minutes to get through security before my gate closes - so once again I go teetering and skidding across the airport in my high heels, with a suitcase in tow. I run into 2 or 3 people, shouting "Désolée!!!!" over my shoulder. I shamelessly cut the entire security line and push someone's stuff off the belt to get mine through. Whew. Ok Im in and unless I trip and die between this point and the gate, I won't miss my flight. But of course they want to do a random check. Someone searches (thoroughly, I might add) through my suitcase, and as I pick it up to leave and run to catch my flight, I quickly realize that it hadn't been zipped shut and allllllllllll my stuff goes, literally, flying across the floor. I'm talkin' underwear, tampons, socks, shirts, my Converses are flung across half the airport. And of course the entire security line witnesses it. So like a homeless old lady, I pick up my stuff in piles and dump it into my suitcase, sans folding or anything. But I make the flight so, whatever.

Florence is lovely - Kelly and I meet up on Friday night ( I had to wander around for an hour or so looking for an internet café cuz, like a dum dum, I forgot to write down her number) for drinks at an American bar right near the Duomo. I can't stop thinking about Lillian!!! Her name is everywhere in this city and it makes me miss her like c-r-a-z-y. This is her city and it made me so sad and nostalgic that she wasn't there. It's almost like she belongs there more than Boston. But it's good to know that Florence isn't going anywhere and she always has the option of moving back.
We make some fun basketball-playing American guy friends, go dancing until 4 am and then sit in a circle in Piazza Signoria singing "Akuna Matata" and other classic Disney tunes until well past 7 am. As soon as we sat down in the giant, but empty square, I remember thinking to myself "This is gonna be a good night."

On Saturday, after sleeping most of the day, Matteo and I meet up in Piazza Signoria and he treats to an extra-large gelato (my breakfast and lunch for the day) We have a little walk around the city centre, enjoying the little streets and certainly catching up on the months since we've seen each other. We even pop into Il Mondo di Heidi to see Heidi is soooooooo pregnant! She's huge! And due in a few weeks with a little girl :) I gave her a hug and kiss for Lillian
Matteo and I have a little aperitivo and red wine across from Oibò, and laugh about old stories from last summer. I can't wait for when he visits us for a month this summer!!!

On Sunday, we take a

Ventes aux Enchères chez Sotheby's

La Chaîne benefitted on Monday night from a fabulous 4-hr long auction held at Sotheby's, directly across from chez Sarkozy at Elysée Palace. I went there right after work in one of the most expensive zip codes of Paris and shuffled my way in to the packed showroom at Sotheby's, where the items have been on display all week. I was privileged enough to see Claude Lelouche (the French Steven Spielberg), Michou, Laurent Baffie,
Pascal Selem et Mireille Darc

Ok, so they were all a bunch of French celebrities and I didn't know a single face, but everyone else was going gaga over the celebs there (called "people" in French, but pronounced "pipol") Loads of items were donated by stars, such as paintings, clothing, a roadbike, Edith Piaf's Chanel shoes, and then sold to benefit our charity and two others. Très chic!

Métro Boulot Dodo

I'm quickly finding out what it's like to be in the real world and no longer a student (for the time being), and it fits in perfectly with the French expression Métro Boulot Dodo which is Metro-Work-Sleep. That's it. That's your life. Oh, you know there's the weekend, or the occasional vacation getaway but that flies by and you're back to Monday, and it restarts just until Friday. That becomes the cycle in our lives, everyday blends into one and there's not much to do once you get home after work, except to eat dinner and go to sleep. And then wake and restart. I've added my own word to the sequence for the typical American schedule: Mérto-Boulot-McDo-Dodo. It's cute how the French call McDonald's McDo (like dough) while we name it Mickey-Ds.
Something adorable happens yesterday at work- I brought in little Hershey's Kisses that I received for Valentine's Day and sent them out on the table for everyone to try. Well they all looked at the little Kisses and looked at me and said, "What is it? Is it cheese? C'est du fromage?" But of course, they would think a tiny little kiss is a piece of cheese and not chocolate!

My internship so far is going super-well. It's fantastic and I love it, which makes it much easier to wake up every morning at 7h30. I can't imagine working at a job where you dread going to a job you hate, especially because it's not just one day out of the week but every day for the rest of your life. I actually look forward to work every day, for a new project and more lives of children to save. It's so inspiring to be here, seeing that people actually can make a difference and save a life that otherwise would be forgotten in the misery of the world. Take Afghanistan for example; La Chaîne has just build a brand new hospital in Kabul- literally the only functioning healthcare center in the entire country. Not surprising considering the country has been an open battlefield and ripped to shreds for the last 25 years. I really like this article by the way, by my hero Sarah Chayes (an American woman living in Kandahar, Afghanistan for the last 8 years)



Even (not) more shocking is that the sanitation conditions there are abominable and hard to look at - trust me, I just saw a photograph the other day of the Children's Hospital a few years ago that had the dirtiest operation table I've ever seen. And some disturbing pictures to go with it. Miraculously, La Chaîne has raised millions of dollars through promotions and private donations to build a state-of-the-art Children's Hospital where we send missions of a team of doctors , from cities such as Paris, Caen, Toulouse, Nantes, Lyon and Rennes to Kabul for a few weeks to operate and save as many children as possible, for surgeries such as open-heart and plastic surgery. It's remarkable the things people around here do and I'm very proud to be a part of it.

Normandie

Reims Cathedral

The week I was supposed to start my internship, a miracle for God arrived- a week off! As the French say, il faut profiter. So I went to Normandy. Well, actually, on one of my days off I took the train out by myself (after a restful sleep of, well, sleeping in until 2 in the afternoon...) to Champagne-Ardennes to the famous medieval town of Reims. Talk about Champagne! Rows upon rows of vineyards cover the hills like patchwork on a quilt, and green fields stretch out for miles. At this time in the year, farmers are already out there preparing for a new crop and a new season. Everybody needs their champagne! Reims has a very old cathedral that is packed with history from back in the day; including where a majority of the line of French kings were crowned. Sitting on the wall facing the mammouth cathedral, (covered in intricate designs of all sorts of holy men) I both witness a catfight between two French girls and make a new friend sitting beside me on the stone wall. My new friend is German, hailing from the southern city of Nuremberg. I am instantly reminded that my grandmother was there during the war crime trials. We talk and chat and get to know each other a bit while walking and exploring the old city of Reims. There's not too much to see beside the cathedral, but the charm of it is enough to for me to like it. What's ironic about my afternoon is Reims is that I saw about 2% of la ville (cathedral included) and spent the rest drinking Belgian beer and talking Jens. Always an adventure! We head out that night for drinks at Place de Clichy with his friends that he teaches with outside Paris- Germans, French, Spanish, and me the American. Thursday morning I am already thrilled to get out of Paris and take the train direct to Rouen where friends of Francoise and Daniel are there to greet me. Countryside, here I come !!! Fanfan and Michel are super-sweet and hospitable all weekend, and couldn't be more kind even if they tried. Fanfan was quite pleased to have a guest for the weekend - here I was expecting to not really go anymore all weekend and just have some quiet reading/relaxing time, while Fanfan is planning la grande adventure around Normandy!






Comme c'était beau, ooh la la! We drive along La Route des Abbayes where old churches and cathedrals are hidden gems along the towns and villages. We drive along fields filled with black and white cows, fluffy sheep and little lambs, and old thatch farmhouses that are still built in the Norman style. As for the history of the old cathedrals we saw, most of them date back to the 12th century or before.
Friday was a wonderful day, starting out with the drive to Deauville on the coast. Deauville is a horse-racing, casino beach town known for its "Parisien beaches" because all the rich Parisiens go out there to bet and purchase world-class horses. There's also an annual American film festival there, honoring the presence of some of Hollywood's best. We walked along les planches de Deauville, otherwise known as the boardwalks of Deauville where back in the day the bourgeoisie ladies of Paris would promenade and show off the latest styles. It's also where some of the first maillots de bain bathing suits were styled by daring women in the bains de mer.

Honfleur

La Manche

Next stop was Honfleur, a little picturesque fishing village on the coast of La Manche that has inspired hundreds of artists in the past and was one the places that inspired the pre-impressionist movement by Millet, Courbet, Jongkind and notably Monet. I can just picture Boudin sitting on the edge of the harbor with his pallet and beret, painting the little crooked houses lining the the harbor and the masts of the sailboats were lined up like ducks. Heavy fishing nets are thrown over the railing as old fishing sloops are coming in from a day à la peche. We drive next to Le Havre, one of France's biggest ports, and where I learned it was 80% destroyed by the Allies during WWII. As a result, most of the city is newly built with modern buildings and modern technology. We drive up to the hill that looks over the harbor of La Manche towards Angleterre, revered as one of the most beautiful harbors after Rio de Janeiro. And then the highlight of my day, the cliffs of Haute Normandie at Etretat. Comme c'est beau! It is breathtaking. The white cliffs jet into the water and big holes have been carved out of the massive rocks. I feel like I've been transported to the mediterranean cliffs of Greece!

Saturday we promenade around the old town of Rouen- the buildings still have the look of the Middle Ages! It is the epitome of what a French village looked like 500 years ago. It's also whereJoan of Arc was held prisoner by the English and where alas she was burned at the stake. In place of where she burned alive is... a lovely bed of flowers. :)

Paris' Best-Kept Secret

Today I got to appreciate the quieter side of Paris.
I have the afternoon off, and there are so many opportunities to explore around this great city. After my class ended at noontime, I wanted my day to consist of something more than my room or a classroom: it was time to tackle a new neighborhood. Hop on a random bus and arrive at Hotel de Ville, totally unplanned but totally perfect. I discover something magical: that quiet actually exists in this city, where you can hear something more than cars honking and escape la foule, overwhelming and chaotic on the streets. It's le quai (boardwalk) alongside La Seine, down below all the streets and far away from the chaos. Here it's peaceful, tranquille, and wait...is that...is that a bird I hear? Do they really exist in this city ? Mais oui! Here it's cobblestone walkways and strange sculptures that hang on the giant wall along le quai. There are little tugboats that line the docks, filled with fishing nets or lanterns. Along the river passes les bateaux mouches, the tour boats that show a view of Paris from the water. Tourists hang off the sides and take pictures, awed at everything there is to see, from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower.
I grab a bench, bitter at the fact that this looks like a 'couples only' deal, with two people romantically sitting on each bench. I grab one my own and reluctantly make friends with a seagull.
Then it's to Le Marais, my new favorite neighborhood. It's right off Metro° St. Paul and the tiny, windy roads takes you out of Paris and straight into the old Jewish quarter. Specialty boutiques, like pictures framers, absynthe shops, shoe cobblers, and leather shops line the tiny streets. Even the street names are Jewish and no longer French. My favorite street that I find is called Rue des Rosiers, a road that is so...Jewish I thought I had stepped into a synagogue. Little boys run around with yamakas, Jewish bakeries open their doors to let out whiffs of freshly baked Challah bread. Hollllla! Ok, I can't resist, I need a Yiddish pastry. Le Marais is not only historic, it's quiet. A serene kind of quiet that you start to appreciate here in Paris. Forget about the commotion of the city and just...relax. Wow, haven't done that in a while. I see one friendly neighbor open the shudders and call out to another, and then just enjoy the quiet in Place des Vosges, a nice park in the centre.
Turn the corner and BAM! the Jewish quarter suddenly becomes a very, very gay neighborhood. Instantly and noticeably flamboyant. Brayden explained it as a Venn Diagram: where the Jewish quarter and the gay neighborhood meet, and you've got: gay Jews? Dudes walk past me with tighter pants than I have, with a hairstyle that puts mine to shame. One aggressively homosexual guy practically body-checks me out of the way to make room for his swaying hips coming through. Bonjour ! Even the teenage girls around here are dressed to kill, wearing Vogue fashion, and high heels at the end of their longggg skinny legs. This quartier is also known for its fabulous vintage shops; I mosy around and stop in a few. Even on a Wednesday afternoon, there's a scramble for vintage clothes from the 80s that are now making a comeback with a vengeance. Women are tearing through the racks, digging and digging for vintage clothes like it's going out of style. Oh wait, it already has! It seems that all the old ladies of Paris (most likely, all from my neighborhood) have donated their ancient clothes from the 60s that are now being sold back at record prices. Talk about recycling !

I wander some more and come across Paris's best-kept secret: the Picasso museum hidden away in the calm of Le Marais. The museum is as quirky and eclectic as the artist: mirrors confront and contort your image while bronze statues line the walls. It must be field trip day because there are loads of little kids running around the museum with colored pencils, given the task of redrawing Picasso how they see it. Imagine being a little kid and Paris is your playground: you have access to some of the world's greatest art. Here I see some of his most famous artwork, including his collages, two auto-portraits and his later work. Three levels wind up and up, with assymmetic walls and stairs. Very funky. Very French.

Chez Yves Saint Laurent

I had an iconically French experience on Saturday. I had the privilege of seeing the side of Paris that is everything that myth and lore has led up to and built up. Films such as The Devil Wears Prada showing Meryl Streep as a kick-ass Vogue fashion editor: FASHION.
Although it wasn't a fashion show I got to see, it was the auction of the Yves Saint Laurent Collection at le Grand Palais. As everyone knows, the great French designer YSL, (yes, the genius man who gave women pants in the form of a business suit for which I am eternally grateful) just passed away last summer. His partner Paul Bergé hired Christie's to sell the chef-d'oeuvres they have been collecting since the 1950s - we're talking masterpieces, statues, sofas, and priceless works of art that YSL has collected during his life as a prolific fashion designer. The show is to be held over the course of two and half days at Le Grand Palais, an exquisite glass dome built at the turn of the 20th century and absolutely magnificient.
Emma, Lindsay, Brayden and I arrive at noontime, thinking we're gonna wait in a quick line to get into the auction. No. The entire city of Paris is here, waiting in a five hour wait to pay homage to famous French couturier. Looking at the line though, I feel like I'm watching "Paris's Best-Dressed". Everyone, and I mean everyone, is dressed for the occasions. We're talkin' fur coats, beautiful designer bags, expensive shoes. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the capital of fashion. I saw so many women who are fifty and older and looking killer with silvery hair, great shoes and chic glasses.
Well the 4 of us decide not the wait in a 4 hr line, there's plenty of other things to do in Paris. But Emma, always one to take advantage of the fact that she's handicapped, saunters up the front of the VIP line (and also where the wheelchair ramp starts) and just waits there. Doesn't say anything. The four of us just kinda stand around, surrounded by press and VIP passes, looking awkward in our sweatshirts and Converses. Before I know it, without saying a word, the bouncer is ushering the 4 of us in, without asking questions. Umm...what?? No bullshitting necessary, just assumes that we're important enough to cut in front of hundreds of people. HA! We go right in, past sore and achy people who have been waiting patiently in line for 5 hours. Oops.
Emma is treated like a queen and we cut past all the lines once inside the Grand Palais. The building is a dream. I remember seeing the Chanel Fashion show here at the MFA exhibit back in Boston, and how magnificient this place is.
The first of many, many rooms is le Salon Apollon: filled with Greek marble statues and ancient Egyptian sculptures from hundreds of years ago, valued at around a million euros. But, you know, no big deal. In le Salon Ingres (yes, he owned an original Ingres sketch) there's an Italian Renaissance mirror from the XVI century, and sofas from the Austrian Empire in the 18th century. Even the lanterns are valued at half a million. And this was actually all of his stuff! People sat on these works of art! The next room, Salon Duquesnoy is filled with bronze statues, one from a Chinese dynasty from hundreds of years ago. Salon Mondrian (yes, the original painting that inspired his checkered dress) is filled with priceless works of art, such as an original Picasso painting, original Matisse, Braque, Gauguin, Goya, de Chirico, Seurat and my favorite, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. On the first day of the sale, Henri Matisse's work Cuckoos on a blue and pink carpet broke the previous world record set in 2007 for a Matisse work, selling for 32m Euros; auctioneers said the collection could fetch up to 300m euros. Imagine sitting in a sofa chez Yves Saint Laurent and a Matisse painting hanging above your head. No big deal.
I felt like I had just stumbled upon Aladdin's cave all filled with hidden treasures, original paintings that the world has not yet seen. Above, cool lounge music played, the kind of music they would play at a fashion show (which I guess would be utterly appropriate for a YSL exhibit). Overhead in one showroom, they had opera music eerily playing overhead.
This was one of those events that people dress impeccably well for; I have never seen so much designer clothing and well-dressed, chic men and women. Is that fabulous event that you dress to be seen. Fur coats, red lipstick, edgy glasses. Even the security guards here are six-foot slim top models. There were a lot of buyers there, working either for Christie's or for big-name clients, such as the Louvre or Musee d'Orsay, taking a look at YSL's collection to buy it for the auction the following day. And a LOT of stuffy, richhhh people. After hearing a lot of English speakers around me, I realize that this event isn't only for upper-class, fashion-oriented Parisiens; there are a considerable amount of Londoners here. I even heard one elegant British woman say to another "So when did you arrive darling?" "This morning". People have flown from all over the world to this event; I even spotted a couple from China and one from Japan. Good thing we only waited 15 minutes to get in, as opposed to 4 hours like the rest of the world....

What a dude

Les Sans-Abris

Alors I'll address two ubiquitous themes here in Paris: the city covered in dogshit, and la grève. But it was when I was walking home from school the other day that I realized what else this city is filled with: bums! This day that I walked home though was no ordinary day; it must have been crazy people day because I literally ran into four of them on my way home, and had to check the news after to make sure it wasn't a National I-Am-Homeless-and-Crazy Day.
I'll start with the woman on the bus who was having a lovely conversation with...herself. Every person who would get on the bus, she would comment and criticise them (to herself). Ok, off the bus, run right into a guy who looks decently normal, just bought his lunch at McDonalds. Except, I think he has Tourette's, because he's violently cursing at someone invisible. Ok, crazy person number two. Then I walk to Monoprix on my way home to pick up some groceries. A homeless guy is cross-legged on the side of the road, bald shaved head and big Woody Allen type glasses. On a piece of cardboard with impeccable cursive, he writes something like "I am 53 years old without a job..blah blah" I never got a chance to read the whole sign because he was cursing and talking to himself, this time it was something about vélos. As I walked past, he got more worked up and starting shouting.
After three encounters in a row with crazy people, I have to wonder what the French government does for these people. Are there centres for somewhere to sleep? To eat? What choices do they have?
When you take the metro home at night, there's are always loads of dirty, barefoot homeless men just sleeping on the benches. Sometimes they even make a little nest with sleeping bags and found blankets. The word for homeless in French is either sans-abri or SDF (sans domicile fixe). I think the city has some centers around for them to go to, but honestly, the situation is pretty bad. Especially when you have immigrants coming from all over Africa, who can't find work or a place to live, and therefore just call the metro home.
There's a lot of criticism for example for the Sarkozy government because he made a lot of promises when he was campaigning for Pres in 2007. One of those promises was to ameliorate the living situations of SDFs and improve social work. But of course, just like all campaigns, it's all talk until they're elected. Now the French are looking at Sarkozy and asking themselves, Where are all these measures he promised us? Why is he helping big entreprises and not the little people? Why are the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer? Some even compare him to Bush, saying he's France version of W.
Well, for the moment, I look with pity on the homeless folk who clog the metro and want to somehow help them. Although the task is a bit intimidating.

'Système D' They Say

I've recently discovered something I both love and hate at the same time, for which France is quite popular: la grève. For all you non-French speakers out there, that's a strike. But we're not talking soccer-moms-with-pickets-protesting-outside-the-local-townhall, I'm talking about a full-on strike. Well, in France, this means that in order to go on strike and protest for better wages/conditions/union rights blah blah blah, that your job is to a.) not show up to work and b.) manifest at La Bastille as our famous ancestors did back in the day (you know, like the French Revolution, where they systematically dismantled the royal prison). We're talkin' parades, posters, angry people yelling, calm people singing, barbecues (!) and a variety of colorful balloons. I find this whole process iconically...French. Why? Because they really love their liberties and rights and take them very much to heart. That's why when the French are unhappy about something (which is usually...all the time, concerning Sarkozy, transport problems, Sarkozy, schools, the EU, Sarkozy) they'll protest it. A friend in Rennes (in Bretagne) even participated in a parade-type strike where angry moms and children sang and yelled about how much Sarkozy sucks.
This is just a little intro to the reason we had all our classes cancelled last Thursday: la grève. Except that this was no ordinary strike, we're talking a national strike where all public transportation is shut down across the country and people basically manifest and yell about everything they're pissed off about. This ranges from union rights (hence, transportation) to angry students protesting Sarkozy's reforms to angry professors protesting their students on strike to angry moms protesting the professors on strike.
Basically, Thursday was predicted to be a mess.
Actually, it reminded me a bit of the weather report of an ominous snowstorm; everyone predicts the worst, freaks the shit out of everybody else, and by the time the thing rolls around, it's never half as bad as we expect it to be.
That's kind of what this strike was like. Newspaper stands (called "La Presse") are laden with papers predicting the worst for Thursday. Strike reports (yes, reported exactly like the weather) say that the entire country will be immobilized, paralysed, you name it, on Thursday. And why would a country do this to itself and harm an entire day of precious work and income? For liberty's sake. To prove "Yea man! We worked hard for this right to protest and goddammit, we're gonna USE IT!"
My professors cancelled all class on Thursday.
Turns out, it really wasn't that bad. One out of two metros were running on most lines and three out of four buses were running throughout the day. Helllllo? Told you they were freaking out. So this day was OK because most people could get to work, unless you worked at La Défense (the Wall Street of Paris) which is on the outskirts of the city and were totally screwed (the strike shut down the main RER B line.)
However, in the case of a bad strike-storm, that is when all modes of transport are paralyzed, how does anyone get anywhere? The Parisiens have a term for it called "Système D." It's just one of those phrases people throw out there when you're stuck in some shit (literally) and need to get yourself out. We call this démerder, which literally means to de-shit yourself (goes well with my dogshit entry, doesn't it? An ubiquitous theme here in Paris). A less vulgar word is débrouiller, which doesn't translate directly (philosophically-speaking, anglophones don't technically need a word for it..) but is something along the lines of "to figure it out, to manage."
So when I asked a fellow Frenchman how does everyone get to work all across town on Thursday if there's a grève, he simply replies, "Systeme D." Voilà. Everyone is stuck in the same shit as you, and therefore you are just as responsible to se démerder, get yourself out of the shit and get your ass to work. Even if it takes you three and a quarter hours to get there, you made it. Even if traffic is hell and you can't get a cab. Walk. The système D way.
So I may have had a ball on Thursday with no class (Marion and I checked out the Picasso/Manet exhibit at le Musée d'Orsay, frolicked around Montmartre, ate ethnic Thai dishes in Belleville) but there will come a day when I have to get to my internship across several arrondissements on a grève day. Let's hope that day doesn't come soon.

Some little anecdotes about words not to mix up between French and English:
exhibition actually means to expose yourself in French. You can imagine the reaction when I said I was going to an artist's exhibition at the Louvre. The word is exposition en français.
plein- in English, we say we are "full" when it's time to stop eating cuz there's enough food in our bellies. In French, to say "Je suis pleine" means you're pregnant, not full. Again, please imagine your host family thinks you're breaking the news about an unwanted pregnancy randomly at the end of a big meal.
*more to come later on! I have to embarrass myself fully before learning them the hard way.

Playing Hookey the Parisien Way

I did something bad today. Very bad.
I skipped class and played hookey all day. But needless to say, it was one of the best things I've done in Paris so far. (!)
So, just a quick a word of advice for the folk out there who want to explore a new city, especially Paris : GET ON THE BUS (no, I don't mean that figuratively, but literally). One of the best ways to get a (cheap) tour of a city is not by some crappy tourguide company charging you up the wazoo or to take the metro from one end to another...but the bus. That's right. Buttttt the only thing is deciphering the bus map. At some major intersections, such as La Bastille or La République, there are so many buses lines crossing in one spot that it looks like a tarantula map. But I reluctantly bought myself a handy little fold-up to see where I'm going (discreetly that is; I find it quite embarrassing to pull out a map in public....why don't you just scream " I'M A TOURISTTTT, ALRIGHT?!?!?!")
Although, this day I wouldn't need a map.
It began with my field trip for my Econ class; plan was to meet at Trocadéro metro at 9h30 Wednesday morning...except that I slept late and forgot this metro station was closed on the 6 line. So once I get there, and don't find the group, I ask some extremely unhelpful people where I could possibly find L'Union Europeen de L'Europe Occidentale - it even sounds like a big building, but of course, NO one knows where it is. Merci, buddy. Welcome to Paris, where everyone is as unhelpful as they come.
I find the building and once I get through the coatcheck, I ask where I can find the Boston University group that just walked through here. After thoroughly looking me up and down, the pretentious snob of a woman at the front desk of this marble palace kindly reminds me this is the European Union of Western Europe, not Boston University. Thanks lady, got it. I then try to explain that I'm here for my economics class and we're here for a field trip ( thinking, "Shit, how do you say 'field trip' in French?!) and again, she kindly reminds me this is the European Union of Western Europe. For freak's sake, I got it. "Big group? Came this way? 10 minutes ago? Hello in there?!" She clearly doesn't understand.
Finally, the light bulb goes off in her head and she recalls there was quite a large group of loud Americans that came rumbling through here about 15 min ago, naturally, but they're in the next building. Right. I've just about had enough of this, and am getting so fed up with pretentious unhelpful snobs, and en plus I'm now half an hour late for this goddamned field trip...Putain!

As I'm walking outside, I realize I don't even care about going in the first place and realize how utterly uneventful this whole thing is gonna be, so I...hop on a bus!!! Yup, that's right. Hop on a bus, didn't even wait at the stop but just got on a random one and saw where it took me.

This was the start of a very good day I decided- I found myself a little place to stand on the packed bus and leaned against the window to take in all the sights. There was an open-air market selling fresh fruits, old wrinkled women walking their springy dogs (both wearing Chanel), a worker standing outside for a refreshing cigarette, and newspaper stands with papers predicting the worst for tomorrow ("C'EST LA CRISE! PIRE CHAQUE JOUR! LA GREVE! GETTING WORSE EVERYDAY, EXPERTS PREDICT").
I'm like a little kid on the bus; wishing I had two sets of eyes so I could look out both sides at once. My favorite this about riding all around the city is that the Eiffel Tower is always there, gleaming in the distance. And, of course, the Amélie soundtrack is blasting from my Ipod because the music just brings out all the flavors and sights of Paris; it magnifies the light, intensity and sound of the city and describes it in notes, not words. It's the soundtrack of my life here. It even glorifies the metro- if I'm listening to the beautiful piano or accordion in the songs, even the metro seems ultra-Parisien and therefore glamorous.
One thing I noticed about the particular bus I was on is that I seemed particularly young. Oh yes, quite young. Oh wait, everyone on this bus is OLD! Where are all the young people? Apparently, like bats, they only emerge at night, ready to drink until dawn and terrorize the streets in a belligerent states. But during the day, this city is old-people land. At least in my quartier. Seriously, I think I saw maybe 3 young folks on the street during my little bus tour to Odéon. Otherwise, little old ladies hunched over a cane, a fur coat that weighs more than they do and far too much makeup roam the streets. Most of them have little pooches (yes, the little shits that are determined to cover every inch of this city in merde) and a caddy in tow with a baguette poking out.

We wind through the 15th, my 'hood, past the old restaurants and brasseries, up through St. Germain Ave and the quartier where Seb and I got quite tipsy one afternoon off Trappistes Belgian beer, past all the wonderful shops and markets and boutiques selling haute couture, past the Louvre and old men selling magazines from the 60s on the sidewalk, over Le Pont Neuf that crosses La Seine. Did you know that Le Pont Neuf (The New Bridge) is actually one of the oldest bridges in Paris? I realized that this city is filled with ways to spend money- that's why I'm so goddamned broke! Because that's all there is to do around here! Where's the good, quality-time FREE stuff to do? (besides riding the bus around..) Remember that? Helloooo it's called a PARC and a FRISBEE! Nope, apparently Frenchies don't do this. Just spend loads of money partout and complain about government.

Another wonderful thing about riding the bus in Paris is that out of nowhere, a famous monument will pop up. We'll ride and roll and jerk and stop and plow through the tiny streets of Paris and then Op! Notre Dame will appear out of nowhere, just like "Oh heyyyy girlfriend, remember me, y'all?" and then Op! there's the Pantheon, but like, no big deal.

So my bus tour comes to an end at St. Germain-Odéon, which I briefly recognize because I had been to a cinema around here before...the street is Maubert-Mutualité, a quartier near to the Latin Quarter, which I've been dying to discover and explore. I walk and walk and walk, down this street, up this street, until I find by intuition Rue de la Sorbonne- I think I smell the Latin Quarter. Oh wait, that's the nerdy students I smell. The windy, cobblestone streets house some of this city's oldest bookstores and quirky cinemas. I was on a mission to find one of these and see myself an old, weird-ass movie. Well, I discover three or four down this old road that I'll probably never find again, and they're all playing horror films from the 60s and Lolita and old scandalous movies from back in the day. Parfait. Unfortunately, none are playing until 14h and I have like 3 hours to kill...
I stumble upon Le Panthéon at the top of this huge hill I've just mastered, a sort of temple dedicated to the Revolution (I mean, how much more French do they get?!?) where folks like Voltaire, Rousseau and Emile Zola are buried. The Greek– (or Roman? One of those.) inspired temple is magnificent, my new favorite monument in Paris.
I duck into some old bookshops and a Tibetan store just to kill time. I've got all the time in the world! Sushi for lunch, and then I treat myself to a lovely piece of Belgian chocolate from Jeff de Bruges, while the Amélie music ringing in my head the whole time. Off to UGC Cinema to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, or at least buy my ticket. I still had another hour to kill so I ducked into the Horse's Tavern for a café noisette and some good solid writing time. The movie was genius by the way. GO see it if you haven't. I emerged at 5pm the afternoon, quite content with myself that I got farrrr more out of this day of exploration and appreciation for Paris than the L'Union Européen of Occidental Europe. Take that, snob.

Three Words for the Day? Poodles, cigarettes and baguettes. Because they're everywhere !

Lady made me a free omelette at Tour Montparnasse when Marion and I saw the sunset! Who says there aren't sweet people in Paris...