19ème

O meu quarto, 13h43
22 January 2010
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. . . . . . . .This was my first morning waking up in a new apartment in a (re)new(ed) city. It's almost 2PM. Because I don't have any furniture with drawers, I can't figure out what to do with my underwear. This is as good a reason as any to put off unpacking.

The apartment is old. Like, hella old. Though it's equiped with hardwood floors (well coveted in New York), the landlady has decided to lay bamboo mats all over the place, sticking them to the floor with double-sided tape. Where the mats lift up there's no sign of damage. She's also chosen to cover the tiled bathroom and kitchen floors with that fake, plastic roll-out stuff.
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There are also bamboo mats all over the kitchen counter. Errant burn marks decorate the kitchen table, cupboards and curtains. My roommate tells me the former tenant was not particularly "neat," sending the landlady into a tizzy about what the next tenants might be capable of. (I've been tryin to figure out if he didn't actually set the place on fire at one point. It would seem ...) There's also a second bedroom, which I failed to notice the last two times I came here (way to be observant, Sam). The landlady keeps this room for herself: Behind the locked door (of course it's locked) lies the overflow of beloved possessions too dear to let go of and yet not dear enough to keep somewhere the owner actually has access to them.

I tried to take a shower last night after moving. I tried really, really hard. The water temp is fickel as hell and there's really no pressure to speak of (at one point the duck spigot was literally dribbling water onto the floor of the tub). After about half an hour of work, I did succeed (sort of).

I've taken to constantly reminding myself of how much this place costs (with utilities it comes to truely ridiculous $440 a month. Truely ridiculous). It's absolutely neccessary, too. After the financial falls at the very beginning of my trip, I cut down to eating once a day.
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It's amazing how the golden lens of desperation can color any living situation.

Last night after moving, I went grocery shopping and bought a veritable smorgosboard for about 7€ (organic brown rice and ratatouille and eggs and wine and bread and cheese).

Since classes don't start until the 1st, I'm spending the next week until then doing just about as much nothing as I can handle. I did go for a brief walk today through the park and bought a large chocolat chaud at the cafe on the corner (which makes caiparinhas btw, which I'm planning on checking out). Tonight, I'm visiting a bar at Bastille Anna and I used to frequent when we were au pairs. By "visiting" I kind of mean visiting the bartender side of the bar. (Don't judge me -- this is still as close as I've come to doing nothing in a long time.)

I do have two plans for this week, at least: One, is to write another blog entry with photos from the quartier (because, merde*) the other is to meet one of my favorite Parisiens for a drink a some point. I like how this blog has also kind of become a laundry list of things I intend to do. You don't get more quotidien than that. Speaking of I should do laundry. And maybe buy some sort of makeshift drawer to put my laundry in.

Oh, and as far as my roommate goes, well, on verra. What she has going for her: She's super sweet, she seems to enjoy cooking and going out (dancing, which is definite extra points) and has a more than decent taste in music. And I can speak English with her when my brain is fried (upon waking/just before going to sleep/many, many of the moments in between). Against her: Well, not much. She likes to keep the sponge in water (there's a whole race of people that think like this. I don't get it) but even that I can very easily learn to live with. Otherwise ... well, while "perfect" is begging for proof to the contrary, let's say that the way it looks now, I couldn't have been luckier.

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*Meant in the good, American sense of "shiiit."

Rungis

Rue Claude Chappe, 21h05
19 January 2010
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HOW NOT TO IMPRESS YOUR FRENCH DINNER HOSTS : (Volume I)

1.) Don't eat the delicious stew your kind host has prepared because you're a "vegetarian."

2.) Don't eat the delicious looking beans in the stew because as a such "vegetarian" you're worried about unfortunate gastroenterological effects of eating something cooked in beef fat.

3.) When describing your reasoning for not partaking in this kindly prepared food (or meat at all ever),* be sure to throw in friendly slip of the tongue which you can blame on your linguistic inexperience in the second language but which still serves to make everyone feel adequately uncomfortable. (Allowing, for example, the translation of preservatives to be préservatifs, subsequently turning the conversation to an explaination of why you no longer support the use of condoms in your food).
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*Though the explaination in the experience noted above was prompted by a dinning companion, the author of the list notes that initiating an I-[heart]-Veg-fest oneself is even more effective route toward alienating others.

Anthony

Café des Sports, 17h23

19 January 2010

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. . . . . . . . . I've been writing this blog in my head all day, getting (in all truth) worrisome that I wouldn't be able to do my experience justice once my words hit the computer screen. Which started me thinking about why it can seem so much easier to write with artistic simplicity about negative events, lending humor and irony to heartache, embarrassment, anxiety and critique, then it is to write the proper life and energy into happiness or chance or love. The cheese-fest involved in describing the latter detracts greatly from the experience at hand -- one does a disservice to one's own good-fortune.

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For the misfortune, however, it would seem that art (in every which way it is channeled) is not only imbued with a quality of ease but necessity -- this being perhaps the key to understanding the disparate artistic value of good and bad times. We strive to comprehend the emotional boundaries of pain through its semantic (or visual, or otherwise artistic) boundaries. That is, we seek to find a finite end to negative experience by making it subject to the limits of human comprehension (one's grief cannot be greater than one's words are strong; one's loss cannot be more violent than one's brushstroke or chord).*
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To apply this theory then to positive experiences, it would seem that we rather choose to leave experiences unnamed and limitless; that their joy might resonate without the pressure to conform to pre-existing semantic values. Which would indicate that the inherent cheese-ball factor in the relay of good news, is really just self-sabotage, one keeping oneself from disclosing too much and boxing in fate's gracious serendipity and its consequent limitless, intransient delight.

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Anyway, I've found a place to live. The apartment is a one bedroom, shared with a Mexican architecture student. She invited me over for a vegetarian lunch with organic veggies and brown rice to discus the details of the apartment.** Rent is equivalent to less than $500 a month (including charges). The apartment is across the street from the Parc Buttes des Chaumont. The quartier reminds me of the Astoria of Paris : It is extremely diverse and safe and not terribly expensive. The bartender in the café on the corner talked to me about cachaça, then went on and on about his love for this neighborhood, then bought my petit café and told me if I ever needed anything to drop back by. "Elated" cannot begin to describe my mood just now.

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"La vie, elle est belle parfois."

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*Likewise, it's interesting to note that great artistic accomplishments are measured by how far one can push that limit, i.e., how much one can expand the limitation of expression when it comes to anguish or joy.

**This says A LOT when you know that the only thing I love more than food is organic, vegetarian food.

'burbs

Rungis, 00h51

18 January 2010

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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I've spent the last three nights in Rungis, a suburb south of Paris, in the home of my (really unbelievably good-looking) friend. I'm trying hard to find a place to go (since I can only stay here until the 22nd when his brother comes back), but the Paris housing market is not as inviting as I was hoping it would be. Though I shouldn't be complaining -- here studios and room shares within the city limits actually exist in the less than $600 bracket (yes, this is American dollars). My current coupe de coeur is a studio in the 19ème, overlooking the Parc des Buttes Chaumont, shared with an architecture student for a whopping 350€ par mois ($502.83 charges included). But really, who could care about personal space at that price ?

I'm also kind of desperate to get out of here because, while Julien is thoroughly enjoyable to look at (even more fun to talk to, if you'll believe it), and he and his family (Ma, Pa and pooch) overwhelm me with their generosity (well, maybe not so much the pooch), I frequently fear taking advantage (or appearing to take advantage) of the situation. That, and the frequent visits of Ju's 20 year-old girlfriend that's prettier than a Victorian-style baby-doll with bigger eyes (and fancier clothes) is making me feel....awkward. She is just so friggin cute you kind of want to pinch her until she stops breathing (and I would if I thought if would work). Her name I forget, though she goes by a shortened version, "Prie," a homonyn of the French word prix (price), which seems fitting for the porcelin thing.

I am dying of third-wheel-itis.

I went to see Valerie and Philippe and the kids this evening. It was a lot easier than the last time, probably because I knew it wasn't going to be the hi/bye I was forced to do then. There's a flash of recognition when Ugo and Victoria see me, but it was over 2 1/2 years ago that I worked there and they were so young, I gave up any hope of their remembering me after I'd been gone even a couple months. After dinner, though, Ugo showed me his room and pulled from his hidden supply of kid-treasure notes that I'd left him when I was still his nounou and letters I sent him later from New York. It was one of the better moments of my life.

Switzerland

Zurich, 10h10 (local time)

15 January 2010

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. . . . . . The glass of wine in JFK was a classically dumb idea.* Though, it was delicious, and did help to relieve some of my NYC-separation anxiety before going through security, the following $9 tuna sandwich, $37 spent to buy a second bag to disperse the weight of my single suitcase, 7 1/2 hours in the air, 50 minutes with the handsome whiskey-tasting kiosk man in the Swiss airport (8:20-9:10 am local time), $200 flight change fee and the WAY pricey (seven-fucking-converted-dollar) coffee that was meant to make me feel better after paying the aforementioned you-missed-your-flight-you-fucking-asshole fee (and sober me up so that I didn't subsequently miss another), I have decided that the fifteen dollar treat at the very, very start of my trip was probably a bit of a premature splurge.

Or maybe somewhere I knew that it was going to get much, much worse before it got worse and needed to jump on the opportunity before the experience was tainted (or maybe the vague recollection of how god-forsaken and emotionally/physically/financially-draining my last trip to Paris was effected my decision to partake in the indulgence). Perhaps it is a sign that somehow I will two steps ahead of my experience, taking care to cushion my own falls before they occur. Or perhaps it is an omen of the drunken poverty that lay before me.**

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*Classic, here, referring to that before which one would pause for a moment and then say, "Oh, but Sam would do that."

**Not to worry though--as long as there rests room on my MC, I can always rearrange a flight back to the house of my parents (or close friend(s)) where I can curl up in a ball and spend what months it takes the negative experience to fade away in a deep, deep coma.***

***Convoluted though it may be, this is my glass-half-full.