Terrasse

Paris Fancy (Schmancy)

Paris is fancy.  The home of haute couture and haute cuisine - it is the very definition of chic.  For this farm girl (any California summer day you would find me in the garden with dirty hands, denim cut-offs, a warmish beer, and a sweaty brow) the chic can be a bit intimidating, even oppressive, and at the very least a bit puzzling - like some kind of hieroglyphic highbrow code I have yet to decipher.  But there are days that I revel in the fancy, sink into it and savor its luscious offerings.  And today was one of those days.

After guiding a little family through the Louvre this morning, I decided to take a detour on my way out through the Sephora - not expecting to find anything of particular note, but maybe pick up a teal polish for my toe nails, whatever.  Instead, I became acquainted with Serge Lutens!

Amazing!  A wall of incredible perfumes like nothing I’ve ever smelled before, designed by French artist, photographer, and cinéaste Serge Lutens (they’re made for shiseido, but bear his name).  Of the 32 fragrances, I chose to wear one called “Fille en Aiguilles” which smelled something like a combination of frankincense and black pepper.  Another favorite is the one pictured above called “Féminité du Bois” and was like charred cedar and rose petals.  Some cost as much as 100 euro, but I think this cheapskate just may be willing to shell out for these remarkable smells.

It looks like the products will start being sold in the US this month, and the brand is offering free samples through the mail (click here).

Well, after my amazing introduction to the olfactory artistry of Monsieur Lutens, I decided to delight my sense of taste, as well, and headed over to Ladurée.  Ladurée is a tea room and pâtisserie that is the fanciest of fancy.  So, naturally, I avoided it for the first year I lived here (give this hippie a tempeh BLT or some vegan brownies any day).  Once I crossed its gilded border, however, I was a convert.  Offering a rainbow of flower-flavored treats (I’m a sucker for anything that tastes like fairy food) and rich pastries in a setting Marie Antoinette wouldn’t disapprove of, Ladurée is a favorite indulgence (even if a bit busy with tourists).

I chose a violet-flavored religieuse (a cream-filled pastry) and an espresso (i’ve become an avid consumer of espresso since relocating to Europe), but Ladurée is also known for its amazing macarons (my favorite flavors are by far the fleur d’oranger and vanilla).

See?  Fancy.

So, to counter all this fancy, I’m now at home, listening to the Grateful Dead (American Beauty is one of the best, sunny day albums of all time. If you don’t believe me watch the last episode of Freaks and Geeks.  Actually, just watch the whole series.) and dreaming about the very unfancy spring days of my youth spent with bullfrogs, lizards, and gold miners.  It’s true, despite the beauty of Paris and the constant discovering of new things, I get homesick this time of year.

The Vonnie Chronicles

My dearest siobhan (vonnie to me) came for a visit to Paris.  Hijinx ensued.  pictures will come later (i do not have the energy to upload right now)  but here are some highlights:

vonnie’s orangina got stuck in a metro-side vending machine.  so she kicked it, and hit it, and pouted at it until an older french man came over to see what all the fuss was about.  Then he hit it.  and likewise frowned at it (silently willing his disapproval to dislodge the over-priced bottle).  then vonnie yelled “beat the CRAAAAP out of it!!!”   he simply smiled and nodded in agreement, having no idea what the fuck she just said, but really wanting to help such a distressed damsel.  i can’t exactly explain why, but this episode was hysterical.

on the metro one day (as most days), people were packing in like sardines, pressed tight up against the sliding doors.  we were sitting in those flip-up seats reserved for the elderly and the pregnant.  so i said, we should stand up, make room for more people.  she stood on the seat.

getting late-night half-drunk “grecques” (kind of like extra greasy shawermas) and vonnie asking me to translate the word “dick head” to a man who refused to throw away his own trash.

dancing to mc hammer on an illuminated dancefloor painted with the face of a panther.

drinking hobo beers at the parc des buttes chaumont.

vonnie painting her toenails to match the color of the eiffel tower.

on the metro (again) vonnie deciding to ask tired, wary parisians to sing songs for her video camera.  we had one taker.  and one person decided to tell her that everyone thought she was weird, but maybe she’d have better luck somewhere else.  so we sang songs for her camera instead.

dancing on a boat in the murky, black seine.

endearing and adventurous, vonnie is a force to be reckoned with.  and paris loved her.  we love her.

Green Green Warm Green

i haven’t been posting - mainly for two reasons: 1.  it’s been grey and depressing here for too long — being from california i’m used to a bit more sun in my winter and it’s been getting me doooooooown.  2. i have a ridiculous number of spam comments to sort through all the time, and don’t ever want to deal with it.  but if you need jewelry from russia - i’ve got a guy desperate to sell it to you.

but now - right now - the sun is shining and has been, beautiful.  the morning starts to feel like spring time mornings and i’m so ready for the world to be renewed, so ready to see this paris in spring clothes.  so ready for daffodils and leaves on trees and finding somewhere to hike near paris.  

not only am i just missing green and sun in general, but i’m missing these things from northern california!

“dirty domestic secrets” or “the fantastic dreams of unpaid laborers”

i have something i should admit to you. having majored enthusiastically in women and gender studies as an undergraduate it feels a bit like a sin or like a really dirty secret that i should only offer up in confession, my face obscured behind a latticework screen: i . . . am . . . a housewife. There, it’s said.

Granted my housewifery is enforced by the French government - i’m actually a government-mandated Parisian housewife - but nonetheless, it feels like i’m failing to inhabit young marya’s lofty visions of tough, independent, financially lucrative globe-trotting. It hit me today, really, how challenging it is for me to be *gasp* a housewife and how, despite my visions of magically transcending that ugly “visiteur” label on my carte de sejour, I will not be able to be employed in France for quite some time. I must resign myself to the status of unpaid laborer - domestic or otherwise.

After applying to and receiving a favorable response from a company looking for a freelance photo editor I set my sights on figuring out some way to slither through the administrative iron barring me from occupying said position. This was to no avail. Instead of finding the magic loophole, I was forced to accept my reality, really and truly. mini-freak out ensued. “What the hell did i just go through graduate school for?” I thought. “How can my man respect someone he has to support?” “Can I really find a way to be satisfied without bringing home the proverbial bacon (or lardons perhaps, since we are in France)?” My man anticipated this freak out and was very encouraging, saying I just need to be patient and wait for our status to change, hope to be sponsored by a company, etc. But still, I’m nearly thirty and anxious to embark on a career (not to mention anxious to move on from a grad school or a two-people-on-one-income budget. we are in paris, after all, and the repetto store is calling to me).

It’s not just the lack of monetary recognition for my talents and labors that bothers me, but it also seems that (at least in my mind) “housewife” is now a dirty word, that i’m not a realized woman or i’m a failed feminist if indeed i’m living supported on my husband’s income. Yes, there are extenuating circumstances, and yes I’m still busy and still trying to work on my career even if it doesn’t pay at the moment. And yes, if you’re asking for a great city in which to be a forced housewife this is the place. But still, there’s a part of me that feels like the world at large doesn’t value that for which it doesn’t pay. Like one could do the most spiritually or artistically or abstractly valuable work but if you don’t receive remuneration it somehow doesn’t mean anything . . . it’s a sad thought, yes, and probably cynical. But this is where i’m at, this is what i struggle with in the center of what i think must be the most beautiful city.

This is the frustration of relocation without corporate sponsorship. This is one of the frustrations of living in a country where you are not a citizen. This is the frustration of being an ambitious woman trapped in genie’s little housewife bottle, forced to ninja my way around very large, French roadblocks.

Full Moon Metro Fiesta

Two Things:

1. After I got out of the Metro at my stop a young man mooned the platform as the train departed. Pink butt-cheeks pressed hard against the glass.

2. When I got home Dustin had prepared for me a surprise Mexican dinner - first taste of black beans, avocados, and bell peppers in over two months! Yay for great husbands.

I’m almost constantly amused by my life here.

i couldn’t take a picture of it, but wanted you to picture the effect of a metro moon so when i got home i drew a sketch of my memory (ignore my drawing skills).

Le Carnet de Voyage Commence

I was at the Territory taking a smoking break (from the mind-numbing administrative project I’ve been working on), tapping my cigarette on the edge of a jar and smiling at the men working on the roof next door, when I picked up a random book someone had left out and opened it accidentally to a page discussing the “carnet de voyage.” The genre of the carnet de voyage was described as essentially a travel journal with images (drawings or photographs) as well as text. This journal might describe the surroundings one finds oneself in, one’s geographic journeying, but more importantly describes one’s personal reactions to these surroundings, one’s innermost thoughts. So more of a diary than a field study.

I’ve decided that perhaps it was a fate of sorts that led me to this unexpected page in a book that I opened out of boredom rather than interest and that perhaps, despite my reservations, I should transform this blog into something a bit more personal (or at least add a new category). I had initially conceived of my writing here as a sort of detached quasi-guide to living in Paris and its artistic offerings. But I’ve found that it’s nearly impossible for me to discuss my life here, to describe my daily experiences, without turning to describe my psychological processing of these experiences. Not to mention, it is boring for me to write in such a way that edits out self-reflection. So I’ve decided to insert this element into my writing here and move away from the mere punchy anecdotes I’ve so far attempted to deliver. So I think it’s necessary for me to conceive of my blog at least in part as a kind of carnet de voyage - if not to add dimension to my writing then to sort out my own collection of bottled thoughts.

So first off, my move to Paris is no simple relocation. It is not merely a series of bureaucratic and administrative steps to settling in a new place. This move is a personal redefinition - a complete revisioning of my life and my identity. It comes at a time when all familiar structures have fallen away of their own accord: my mother died, graduate school had ended, and my boyfriend (now my husband) has decided on settling permanently into what we initially thought would be a temporary relocation for his work. And in moving here, the familiar steps of beginning a career after graduate school are closed to me for lack of contacts and language skills. Things that I defined myself by two months ago (family, school, professional contacts and possibilities) are absent. I’m left completely to my own devices, free for the first time in my adult life to freely experiment with who or what I might be. This is both a fantastic gift and is completely terrifying. Because I also have no road map. It’s just me looking at Paris and wondering what it will take from me and what it will give to me. Well, it’s me and my man (my best friend, husband, muse) and our dance parties and our giggles and me looking at Paris.