the spectacular view

"as far as one journeys, as much as man sees, from the turrets of the Taj Mahal to the Siberian wilds, he may eventually come to the unfortunate conclusion...It is impossible to rid himself of the relentless, cloying fever commonly known as Home. after seventy-three years of anguish i have found a cure, however. you must go home again, grit your teeth and however arduous the exercise, determine, without embellishment, your exact coordinates at Home, your longitudes and latitudes. only then will you stop looking back and see the spectacular view in front of you."
-special topics in calamity physics

sucky internet + TOUR DE FRANCE (a sampling)

only source of internets at the moment (aka why i been slackin' with the posting):

thank you paris wifi. no thank you, shitty battery.

this, however, warrants an update, no matter how short it has to be. my big news is: i watched the final stage of the tour de france on sunday!!

because i arrived about 3 and a half hours early (not on purpose, trust me), i was able to secure a sweet spot on the quai des tuileries, right at place de la concorde. in the end, definitely worth the dehydration/mild heatstroke:

here they come!!

amazing

amazing part 2

i have approximately 800000 more pictures i could post right now, but this connection sucks and my battery's about to die!

in conclusion, l8r sk8rs? and not just in the "i'll talk to you later" online or through e-mail sense...i mean l8r sk8rs IN PERSON. because i'm gonna be HOME TOMORROW!!

j'ai deux amours

mon pays, et paris

happy (belated) bastille day!

a few pics from le 14 juillet, for your viewing pleasure:

fly tunes. (thanks france channel 2!)

party people

me, nufar & nalisa

LES FEUX D'ARTIFICES...pas mal, eh?

pre-departure to do list

ahh i'm leaving so soon!

here's my list of things to do before je dis "au revoir" à paris:

• paris plage
• centre pompidou
• giverny? (if i'm feeling ambitious)
  
• the classiest of vin picnics by la tour eiffel
• legit tea sesh at la durée
• marché aux puces
• le louvre, cont'd (i spent five hours there on friday afternoon, and saw about 1/4 of it)
  
• catacombes de paris
• espace dali montmartre
• WATCH THE TOUR DE FRANCE COME THROUGH!!
• parc de la villette
• valentino exhibit au musée des arts décoratifs
  
• postcards, postcards, postcards (sorry for the delay. i've been a lazy bum! also, if i don't have your address yet and you want a little BA-lovin' via airmail, e-mail it to me asap, s'il vous plaît)

things i've managed to cross off the list the past few days:

• louvre (part I + requisite "la jaconde" viewing)
  
• thé à la menthe à la mosquée de paris
• jardin des plantes
• vélib adventure!! (fun fact: i lost my balance at a stop light, and toppled over onto the sideview mirror of the car next to me. so. still not so comfortable with the urban bike riding...)

i'll keep you posted on my progress with this list o' mine. it's a lot to do, but i'm a big girl. i can handle it.

will you be my american boy

i hope that this post doesn't come off seeming too sex and the city-wannabe-ish, although i realize i run the risk of doing so in broaching this topic.

and i may be many things, but i am no tool.

(no offense to any diehard sex and the city fans out there. for the record, i myself think that sex and the city is, and will always be, awesome. i just hate the way some girls refer to it/quote it incessantly, treating it like some sort of holy book. you know, "maybe our friends are our soulmates, and guys are just people to have fun with." ugh...VOMMM.)

anyway, i digress.

friends back home keep asking if i've met anybody over here so far. which i haven't. mostly because i'm too poor to go out very much (1o euros for a cocktail? nooo thank you. i'll just stay in and go to bed early...you know, get the most out of the ridiculous rent i'm paying.)

the few times i have been out though, i have arrived at the conclusion that: i find french men repulsive.

i know i should try and be more open-minded, and obviously that statement is a conclusion reached by my making sweeping generalizations about an entire population of individuals. all i know is, if you're someone like me, who enjoys personal space, and similar boundaries in new and uncertain social situations (and in life more generally) french men probably ain't gonna be your cup o' tea.

first, the lines...oh dear lord, the LINES. their accents might cause them to seem particularly insincere when they say things like "baby, you're the love of my life! come back!" but no, they remain painfully cheesy, even when operating in their native language. at first, it's easy to be mistakenly flattered by it all...that is, until you realize how undiscriminating they are. if you look like you might happen to possess a vagina, chances are you'll be hit on.

second, french men are extremely persistent. in any other situation, persistence is an admirable quality. not so when that persistence is being applied to...oh, i don't know...sexual harassment of a stranger who isn't the least bit interested in your advances.

take yesterday for example. i went out for a run...around noon on a weekday, mind you...and first encountered one group of four or five guys hootin and hollerin (easily dealt with by turning up the weezy and cruising past), and then, about five minutes later, another group of winners. one of whom attempted to block my path on the sidewalk, and then proceeded to chase me down the street for about four blocks, yelling things like "you're sexy! i love you!" all the while tugging at the sleeve of my t-shirt.

NOT OKAY.

part of me thinks i might be overreacting a little bit. i know it's not really a big deal in the long run, but i can't help but be angered thinking about this type of behavior. i shouldn't be made to feel uncomfortable about my decision to go out to a bar or a club, and i really shouldn't have to feel uneasy about going for a run in the middle of the day. when you think about it, it's actually very demeaning. to not even stop to consider how your words and actions are going to be received by the other HUMAN BEING you happen to be communicating with. (the french men i've encountered thus far are much too busy focusing on the combination of ass and breasts at hand. [pun very much intended, because they're not above a little grab-action.])

so, the question of the century is...are these tactics reserved for use on "slutty americans," or are they employed to ensnare french women as well? and if so, are they actually effective? would things be different if i spoke the language fluently?

my guess is no. a french-canadian friend of mine recently told me about a guy she would run into at the market every week, who kept asking for her phone number. when she finally gave it to him, she received countless texts begging her for a date, saying things about how he feels as though there's something really special between them, blah blah blah. (keep in mind, they had maybe spoken for a minute each sunday when she purchased vegetables from his stand...and that's it.)

so then, perhaps there does seem to be some sort of cultural chasm in operation here, and maybe french women are just better equipped to deal with it all, having grown up around it. (i should really do my best to observe more carefully how they handle it next time i'm out and about.) yes, ignoring it works in most situations. but "ignoring it" doesn't quite cut it when someone has grabbed you by the arm in a club and is dragging you along with him. if someone gets up in my grill without my permission, they're gonna hear about it.

now, obviously things like this occur in the states too. just far less frequently, and with much less intensity. ah, makes me long for those good old american boys. i miss safely giving my phone number out to people, knowing there exists a 50/50 chance i might not ever hear from them again.

on that happy note, before we part, i'd like to leave you with some words of wisdom from everyone's favorite single gal, carrie bradshaw:
“But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous.”

no, just kidding, i leave you with this music video. a little ode to all you american boyz out there (i seriously cannot stop listening to this song.)



(and yes, you can go ahead and scratch from the record my previous statement regarding my NOT being a tool.)

i miss my fam

musée d'orsay

as much as i love the Met, i think if i was ever lucky enough to live in a museum ( from the mixed-up files of mrs. basil e. frankweiler-style), i would have to choose le musée d'orsay.

then i saw a segway tour on my way back to the métro and my night was complete.

good news/bad news

it's always best to get the bad news over with first.

the bad news being, i'm newly unemployed. my status as an illegal was discovered! (by the owner of the diner i worked in.) as i may or may not have mentioned previously, in order to get the job i had told them i was in the process of "applying" for my work papers. unfortunately for me, the authorities have apparently been stricter lately, and there was a raid (that's what the owner said anyway, although maybe he just called it that for dramatic effect...) on a business down the street from us earlier in the week, in which other illegal workers were discovered. to make a long story short, to prevent me, my boss, and the restaurant from getting in trouble, i'm not allowed to work again until i have in my possession "something, anything" which would show that i am in fact applying for papers that would allow me to live and work here legally. unbeknownst to the friendly folks at the american diner, however, (who think i'm here for the next year...oops) that ain't happening anytime soon, since, in the eyes of the french government, i have no actual engagement here that would make me eligible to apply for a work/student/whatever visa.

the good news is i think i should have enough money to pay rent for july, and have a little left over to feed myself and do fun and/or free and/or cheap things until i leave in august.

i think.

the quasi-good (but potentially bad?) news is...i have absolutely nothing to do now. yes, this leaves lots of time for exploring the city and reading and watching movies and doing other fun things like that, but i also know that i don't tend to do very well without a routine to follow or responsibilities to attend to. for someone like me, who already tends to overthink everything, the extreme amounts of thinkin time afforded by my joblessness might not be the best or most productive thing for me.

alors, on verra. july is my last month in france, so i'll do my best to make it a sweet-ass one, and not get stuck in an irrational, totally unjustified funk.

in other news:

my lovely little canon powershot sd110 has been returned to meee! it's clean and shiny and doin its thang better than ever. ch-check it:

oh you know, just the back of notre dame, no biggie

also, the other night we ate at refuge des fondus in montmartre, which was, to quote the immortal words of bill s. preston, esq. and ted "theodore" logan, a most excellent adventure.

mostly because we got to drink wine out of baby bottles.

i leave you with this:

a couple more

Calling him back from layoff
Bob Hicok

I called a man today. After he said
hello and I said hello came a pause
during which it would have been

confusing to say hello again so I said
how are you doing and guess what, he said
fine and wondered aloud how I was

and it turns out I'm OK. He
was on the couch watching cars
painted with ads for Budweiser follow cars

painted with ads for Tide around an oval
that's a metaphor for life because
most of us run out of gas and settle

for getting drunk in the stands
and shouting at someone in a t-shirt
we want kraut on our dog. I said

he could have his job back and during
that pause that followed his whiskers
scrubbed the mouthpiece clean

and his breath passed in and out
in the tidal fashion popular
with mammals until he broke through

with the words how soon thank you
ohmygod which crossed his lips and drove
through the wires on the backs of ions

as one long word as one hard prayer
of relief meant to be heard
by the sky. When he began to cry I tried

with the shape of my silence to say
I understood but each confession
of fear and poverty was more awkward

than what you learn in the shower.
After he hung up I went outside and sat
with one hand in the bower of the other

and thought if I turn my head to the left
it changes the song of the oriole
and if I give a job to one stomach other

forks are naked and if tonight a steak
sizzles in his kitchen do the seven
other people staring at their phones

hear?


In Answer to Your Query
Naomi Lazard

We are sorry to inform you
the item you ordered
is no longer being produced.
It has not gone out of style
nor have people lost interest in it.
In fact, it has become
one of our most desired products.
Its popularity is still growing.
Orders for it come in
at an ever increasing rate.
However, a top-level decision
has caused this product
to be discontinued forever.

Instead of the item you ordered
we are sending you something else.
It is not the same thing,
nor is it a reasonable facsimile.
It is what we have in stock,
the very best we can offer.

If you are not happy
with this substitution
let us know as soon as possible.
As you can imagine

we already have quite the accumulation
of letters such as the one
you may or may not write.
To be totally fair
We respond to these complaints
as they come in.
Yours will be filed accordingly,
answered in its turn.


Ode to American English
Barbara Hamby

I was missing English one day, American, really,
with its pill-popping Hungarian goulash of everything
from Anglo-Saxon to Zulu, because British English
is not the same, if the paperback dictionary
I bought at Bretano's on the Avenue de l'Opéra
is any indication, too cultured by half. Oh, the English
know their dahlias, but what about doowop, donuts,
Dick Tracy, Tracy Dick? With their elegant Oxfordian
accents, how could they understand my yearning for the hotrod,
hotdog, hot flash vocabulary of the U.S. of A.,
the fragmented fandango of Dagwood's everyday flattening
of Mr. Beasley on the sidewalk, fetuses floating
on billboards, drive-by monster hip-hop stereos shaking
the windows of my dining room like a 7.5 earthquake,
Ebonics, Spanglish, "you know" used as comma and period,
the inability of 90% of the population to get the present perfect:
I have went, I have saw, I have tooken Jesus into my heart,
the battle cry of the Bible Belt, but no one uses
the King James anymore, only plain-speak versions,
in which Jesus, raising Lazarus from the dead, says,
"Dude, wake up," and the L-man bolts up like a B-movie
mummy. "Whoa, I was toasted." Yes ma'am,
I miss the mongrel plentitude of American English, its fall-guy,
rat-terrier, dog-pound neologisms, the bomb of it all,
the rushing River Jordan backwoods mutability of it, the low-rider
boom-box cruise of it, from New Joisey to Ha-wah-ya
with its sly dog, malasada-scarfing beach blanket lingo
to the ubiquitous Valley Girl's like-like stuttering,
shopaholic rant. I miss its quotidian beauty, its querulous
back-biting righteous indignation, its preening rotgut
flag-waving cowardice. Suffering Succotash, sputters
Sylvester the Cat; sine die says the pork-bellied legislators
of the swamps and plains. I miss all those guys, their Tweety-bird
resilience, their Doris Day optimism, the candid unguent
of utter unhappiness on every channel, the midnight televangelist
euphoric stew, the junk mail, voice mail vernacular.
On every boulevard and rue I miss the Tarzan cry of Johnny
Weismueller, Johnny Cash, Johnny B. Goode,
and all the smart-talking, gum-snapping hard-girl dialogue,
finger-popping x-rated street talk, sports babble,
Cheetoes, Cheerios, chili dog diatribes. Yeah, I miss them all,
sitting here on my sidewalk throne sipping champagne
verses lined up like hearses, metaphors juking, nouns zipping
in my head like Corvettes on Dexedrine, French verbs
slitting my throat, yearning for James Dean to jump my curb.

good poems for hard times

i'm in love with this book, which is a collection of poetry selected by garrison keillor. who i am now also in love with, despite (because of?) his signature hokeyness.

here are some i particularly like.

What's in My Journal
William Stafford

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find them. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.


My Husband Discovers Poetry
Diane Lockwood

Because my husband would not read my poems,
I wrote one about how I did not love him.
In lines of strict iambic pentameter,
I detailed his coldness, his lack of humor.
It felt good to do this.

Stanza by stanza I grew bolder and bolder.
Towards the end, struck by inspiration,
I wrote about my old boyfriend,
a boy I had not loved enough to marry
but who could make me laugh and laugh.
I wrote about a night years after we parted
when my husband's coldness drove me from the house
and back to my old boyfriend.
I even included the name of the seedy motel
well-known for hosting quickies.
I have a talent for verisimilitude.

In sensuous images, I described
how my boyfriend and I stripped off our clothes,
got into bed, and kissed and kissed,
then spent half the night telling jokes,
many of them about my husband.
I left the ending deliberately ambiguous,
then hid the poems away
in an old trunk in the basement.

You know how this story ends,
how my husband one day loses something,
goes into the basement,
and rummages through the old trunk,
how he uncovers the hidden poem
and sits down to read it.

But do you hear the strange sounds
that floated up the stairs that day,
the sounds of an animal, its paw caught
in one of those traps with teeth of steel?
Do you see the wounded creature
at the bottom of the stairs,
his shoulders hunched over and shaking,
fist in his mouth and choking back sobs?
It was my husband paying tribute to my art.


The Goose
Muriel Spark

Do you want to know why I am alive today?
I will tell you.
Early on, during the food-shortage,
Some of us were miraculously presented
Each with a goose that laid a golden egg.
Myself, I killed the cackling thing and I ate it.
Alas, many and many of the other recipients
Died of gold-dust poisoning.


The Cure
Ginger Andrews

Lying around all day
with some strange new deep blue
weekend funk, I'm not really asleep
when my sister calls
to say she's just hung up
from talking with Aunt Bertha
who is 89 and ill but managing
to take care of Uncle Frank
who is completely bed ridden.
Aunt Bert says
it's snowing there in Arkansas,
on Catfish Lane, and she hasn't been
able to walk out to their mailbox.
She's been suffering
from a bad case of the mulleygrubs.
The cure for the mulleygrubs,
she tells my sister,
is to get up and bake a cake.
If that doesn't do it, put on a red dress.