Not much of interest has happened since I last updated. Except that time that Leah and I went to buy yarn...in the ghetto. To be fair, it wasn't really the ghetto, but Barbes Rochechwhatever was certainly a higher level of sketchiness than I had as yet experienced in Paris. This made it all the funnier when we went into stores and asked if anyone knew where we could find yarn. "You know, the soft thing with which you do the knitting? And the crocheting? It makes a scarf for to keep warm?" Yes.
We also had to figure out if "textiles" was the same word in French as it is in English. We decided it was either the same, or it actually meant crackhouse, but the store with the big "textiles" sign turned out to be closed upon further inspection, so I honestly still don't know.
But the short story is that we didn't find any yarn, just a lot of fabric, much of which was hideously ugly. Like in the fuzzy, hot-fuschia zebra way. So after our futile quest we met up with Leah's friend from Bowdoin and headed to the Marais for FALAFEL! Which I had been craving like a nutcase for quite some time. It was tasty, if kind of expensive. It was so cold that we ended up wandering around the gift shop of the Centre Pompidou for no apparent reason other than the desire to not get frostbite. But we did find some postcards with the same technicolor zebra pattern we'd seen on fabric earlier. At least now we know who buys that crap, I guess.
Our lit prof is still pretty evil, only now we're reading a book which is stupid in an entirely different way from anything we've yet to see. It reminds me of that time I read the first 15 pages of Twilight and wanted to shoot myself in the foot because it was so hilariously badly written. In grammar we're learning the subjonctif (il faut que nous apprenions le subjonctif...fo' serious). And phonetique is nulle as usual. Theatre consists of me drawing christmas narwhals while our prof makes up things to take up our three hour class and prepares us to see a play which she fully admits might suck. Apparently it's gotten so awful reviews in le Monde, so that should be, you know, enjoyable.
Friday might involve a pizza party for Lizzie's birthday, and Saturday is Mwantuali's pot de Noel, after which we are returning chez moi to (hopefully) watch Love Actually, paint our nails, drink hot chocolate and probably eat more cochonerie (literally means "piggery" but is used to describe unhealthy food stuffs). And Monday is our long-awaited foray to Angelina's, which I have to prepare for by dreaming about montblancs and not eating anything remotely sugary for...as long as I can beforehand, which admittedly is not that long. Whatevs.
Only a little over a week before I go home for Christmas. Paris at Christmas is actually not all that Christmasy. With the whole "etat laique" thing going on it's kind of inappropriate to have open displays of religiousness, which is why the holiday windows at Galleries Lafayette are made up of purple rock men, octopuses (octopi?), babies on mushrooms and mechanical bunnies. I never thought I would be in support of open displays of religiousness either, mainly because I'm not religious in any way, shape or form, but I love Christmas with a flaming passion and I kind of need to have the traditional Christmas trees and Santa's and angels with harps and horns and reindeer and elves. I'm also OBSESSED with Christmas carols, as most of you know because you've probably gotten frostbite as a result. And if visual displays of religion are scarce here, songs about it are even harder to find. Except in Lily's Bread (an American bakery), and even then it's "White Christmas" and "Chestnuts Roasting" etc. Also, singing in public is probably frowned upon in France unless you're actually good at it, which I am certainly not. And lastly, wearing red and green striped socks and jingle bell earrings is definitely a faux pas. So needless to say I haven't gotten my Christmas fix in yet and am looking forward to being able to do so very soonly.
PS - I am obsessed with Fleet Foxes' White Winter Hymnal, so I'm hoping that one Hilary Raye Bovay might have put it onto a certain mix CD which may or may not be making its way across the Atlantic ocean to me as I type this. Hmmm!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Christmas squirrels, naked Shakespeare and a mustard manifestation. And cowboys. Again.
I guess it's only appropriate that after our French surrealism-induced stressful week, we had an action packed and fairly ridiculous Friday and Saturday.
Friday included the most delicious bread ever (from Lily's Bread by the Bon Marche where I will definitely be returning as much as humanly possible), a jar of Nutella that cost 43 euros because it was HUGE, and a Christmas squirrel. That's what I said.
Ellen, Kristin and I are innocently browsing the Christmas section of Bon Marche (like Galleries Lafayette, only more expensive if you can believe it) which is jam-packed with elegantly decorated Christmas trees, all the ornaments (mostly of the ball variety) you could ever want, garlands, stick-on star and snowflake wall decorations, shiny lights and more. When what to our wondering eyes should appear, but a not-so-small (or subtle) white squirrel with a feathery tail and an acorn between its two front paws, clipped onto the branch of one of the trees. I felt like David Sedaris trying to identify "What one does" on certain French holidays--does one clip little doves and lovebirds onto one's tree in an attempt to make it prettier? Yes, one might do that. Does one clip a SQUIRREL onto one's tree for no apparent reason? Yes, apparently in France one might do that as well. Naturally upon seeing this phenomenon of French culture our immediate reaction was to clip it into my hair and take a million photos with Ellen's phone. Words cannot express how amazed I am that we didn't get thrown out. But actually the cashier was American, so maybe I'm not that surprised. Her mind was probably still boggling over the aforementioned squirrel as well.
We had tickets for Midsummer Night's Dream (in French!) that night at some theatre in the 17e, so after Bon Marche and Lily's Bread Kristin and I met up with Hannah at my house. We decided to head up to rue Mouffetard to find something to eat before the show, the only problem being that we'd have to make it quick because seating was not assigned and we wanted to not get trapped behind some million foot tall French guy with a big head (like we always do when we go to the theatre with our class). So we (stupidly) chose an Indian place because we were all craving it and it was relatively empty, it being the beginning of the night (no self-respecting French people go out to dinner before 8h00). It turned out that the people at this restaurant, despite the fact that they had been able to convey to us that they were in fact open and we should eat there, did not understand our French. Or, for that matter, our English. In fact, they did not understand any languages that were not Indian, which none of us speak. We thought about having Kristin try Chinese, but I figured it would be futile. They brought us things we hadn't ordered (twice!) only to realize after a painful period of confusion that they belonged to the table next to us. Whcih was the only other occupied table in the restaurant. Uh, okay. After all that the food wasn't that great and they kept not understanding our request for the bill because we had to leave like yesterday.
When we finally got out of there we got a call from Sky saying that he had gone to the wrong theatre and would be late. Awesome, because we had hoped that he was already there saving us seats. This didn't seem like a huge problem as French people are never early and rarely on time for anything. It became a problem, however, when we realized the ridiculous metro route we would have to take to get there. It became a HUGE problem when we ended up waiting more than 10 minutes for our last connection (on which we had like 9 stops), and it became slightly hilarious (in a depressing way) when the train was packed to bursting with people. Not all of whom wear deoderant. And all of whom are taller than me. You can guess how that went.
When we got out of the metro we RAN to the theatre, getting there like 2 minutes after the start of the show and having to wait for like 20 more minutes before they let us in. When they did let us in it was between scenes and we had to walk DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STAGE. Fortunately there were a lot of other people with us, but it was still probably the most embarassing thing ever. I will never be late again, EVER.
But once we sat down and got to finally watch the play it was all worth it. Out in the lobby of the theatre we'd been sort-of watching it on a tiny TV screen, and it hadn't looked so great. First of all, it was in a black box theatre (who does Midsummer Night's Dream, of all things, in a black box?) and there didn't seem to be much (read as: any) decor. Yuck. But we came in on Bottom's first scene and he was absolutely hilarious (and quite reminiscent of our Phonetics teacher). Then, for whatever reason, there appeared a man in a fuschia fairy costume with glitter and sequins, suspended from the ceiling, flailing around. Then he sang some of his lines to a rock and roll song, and I knew that all our suffering had not been in vain.
The play was really very good with a ton of original ideas I'd never seen before. My favorite was that in a couple of scenes Helena followed Demetrius around with a video camera which they projected onto the huge screen that made the backdrop. Another weird thing was that they occasionally switched phrases into English--"keeng of zee faeriez," and in the scene where Puck scares the shit out of the Mechanicals, "we are haunted..." Also during that scene they projected Puck's face onto the huge screen and flashed all these crazy colors, which was super creepy. ALSO, they used the same actors for Oberon and Titania for the Duke and Hippolyta, which was really cool. They actually sat up from behind a platform as Oberon and Titania and started changing their clothes into the costumes of the Duke and Hippolyta, which was the coolest thing ever. Although I think maybe it was just an excuse for the actress to get naked, which she had already done in the scene where Titania falls in love with Bottom. Awkward to the max, thanks France.
Saturday was our excursion to Dijon just for the day, which was good because that was all the group madness I could handle after 4 1/2 hours of sleep. We were all excited to have a guide that wasn't Laurent, but it turned out that she was actually even more irritating. Yes, I know it's her job to drone on about the art history, but I don't really get why Hamilton employs people specifically for that subject. I'd be fine with just the general history and random trivia, I don't need to know who made the door-frame on the church, especially when he was nobody I've ever heard of. Anyway, we had lunch as a group, which consisted of pumpkin flan (wasn't as good as you might think), salmon in mustardy sauce with mashed potatoes, and pears with vanilla ice cream, red wine sauce and gingerbread. I wasn't a fan of the dessert, but I did like the salmon and potatoes.
After lunch we followed the useless guide around for awhile, visited the home of Colby's Dijon director (which is ancient and gorgeous), and bought a lot of gingerbread which turned out to be kind of gross.
Then I met up with Sarah Hirsch! It was fun to see someone I knew, and more importantly someone who is having ocean withdrawals like me. We saw some guy playing a kazoo, had hot chocolate, and watched cowboys square dancing. Yes, that's what I said. COWBOYS. Square dancing. In France. FOR THE SECOND TIME. I don't think it was the same people we saw in Avignon, which makes it all the more hilarious.
When we got back from Dijon a bunch of us headed over to Breakfast in America, a diner on rue des Ecoles which serves (you guessed it) breakfast, as one might find in America. There are also burgers--most remarkably BACON CHEESEBURGERS WITH PICKLES AND ONIONS AND FRENCHFRIES and a chocolate milkshake, which is exactly what I had. I know I'm in the land of tasty and delicious food, but seriously, that was the most satifsying meal I've had in quite some time. It made up for the fact that we had to wait FOREVER while the French people at the only big table ordered more food, fed it to eachother slowly and disgustingly, and made out really obnoxiously.
Then Emily and I walked home in the freezing cold and tried not to get pnuemonia. Why do all stories end like that?
Friday included the most delicious bread ever (from Lily's Bread by the Bon Marche where I will definitely be returning as much as humanly possible), a jar of Nutella that cost 43 euros because it was HUGE, and a Christmas squirrel. That's what I said.
Ellen, Kristin and I are innocently browsing the Christmas section of Bon Marche (like Galleries Lafayette, only more expensive if you can believe it) which is jam-packed with elegantly decorated Christmas trees, all the ornaments (mostly of the ball variety) you could ever want, garlands, stick-on star and snowflake wall decorations, shiny lights and more. When what to our wondering eyes should appear, but a not-so-small (or subtle) white squirrel with a feathery tail and an acorn between its two front paws, clipped onto the branch of one of the trees. I felt like David Sedaris trying to identify "What one does" on certain French holidays--does one clip little doves and lovebirds onto one's tree in an attempt to make it prettier? Yes, one might do that. Does one clip a SQUIRREL onto one's tree for no apparent reason? Yes, apparently in France one might do that as well. Naturally upon seeing this phenomenon of French culture our immediate reaction was to clip it into my hair and take a million photos with Ellen's phone. Words cannot express how amazed I am that we didn't get thrown out. But actually the cashier was American, so maybe I'm not that surprised. Her mind was probably still boggling over the aforementioned squirrel as well.
We had tickets for Midsummer Night's Dream (in French!) that night at some theatre in the 17e, so after Bon Marche and Lily's Bread Kristin and I met up with Hannah at my house. We decided to head up to rue Mouffetard to find something to eat before the show, the only problem being that we'd have to make it quick because seating was not assigned and we wanted to not get trapped behind some million foot tall French guy with a big head (like we always do when we go to the theatre with our class). So we (stupidly) chose an Indian place because we were all craving it and it was relatively empty, it being the beginning of the night (no self-respecting French people go out to dinner before 8h00). It turned out that the people at this restaurant, despite the fact that they had been able to convey to us that they were in fact open and we should eat there, did not understand our French. Or, for that matter, our English. In fact, they did not understand any languages that were not Indian, which none of us speak. We thought about having Kristin try Chinese, but I figured it would be futile. They brought us things we hadn't ordered (twice!) only to realize after a painful period of confusion that they belonged to the table next to us. Whcih was the only other occupied table in the restaurant. Uh, okay. After all that the food wasn't that great and they kept not understanding our request for the bill because we had to leave like yesterday.
When we finally got out of there we got a call from Sky saying that he had gone to the wrong theatre and would be late. Awesome, because we had hoped that he was already there saving us seats. This didn't seem like a huge problem as French people are never early and rarely on time for anything. It became a problem, however, when we realized the ridiculous metro route we would have to take to get there. It became a HUGE problem when we ended up waiting more than 10 minutes for our last connection (on which we had like 9 stops), and it became slightly hilarious (in a depressing way) when the train was packed to bursting with people. Not all of whom wear deoderant. And all of whom are taller than me. You can guess how that went.
When we got out of the metro we RAN to the theatre, getting there like 2 minutes after the start of the show and having to wait for like 20 more minutes before they let us in. When they did let us in it was between scenes and we had to walk DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STAGE. Fortunately there were a lot of other people with us, but it was still probably the most embarassing thing ever. I will never be late again, EVER.
But once we sat down and got to finally watch the play it was all worth it. Out in the lobby of the theatre we'd been sort-of watching it on a tiny TV screen, and it hadn't looked so great. First of all, it was in a black box theatre (who does Midsummer Night's Dream, of all things, in a black box?) and there didn't seem to be much (read as: any) decor. Yuck. But we came in on Bottom's first scene and he was absolutely hilarious (and quite reminiscent of our Phonetics teacher). Then, for whatever reason, there appeared a man in a fuschia fairy costume with glitter and sequins, suspended from the ceiling, flailing around. Then he sang some of his lines to a rock and roll song, and I knew that all our suffering had not been in vain.
The play was really very good with a ton of original ideas I'd never seen before. My favorite was that in a couple of scenes Helena followed Demetrius around with a video camera which they projected onto the huge screen that made the backdrop. Another weird thing was that they occasionally switched phrases into English--"keeng of zee faeriez," and in the scene where Puck scares the shit out of the Mechanicals, "we are haunted..." Also during that scene they projected Puck's face onto the huge screen and flashed all these crazy colors, which was super creepy. ALSO, they used the same actors for Oberon and Titania for the Duke and Hippolyta, which was really cool. They actually sat up from behind a platform as Oberon and Titania and started changing their clothes into the costumes of the Duke and Hippolyta, which was the coolest thing ever. Although I think maybe it was just an excuse for the actress to get naked, which she had already done in the scene where Titania falls in love with Bottom. Awkward to the max, thanks France.
Saturday was our excursion to Dijon just for the day, which was good because that was all the group madness I could handle after 4 1/2 hours of sleep. We were all excited to have a guide that wasn't Laurent, but it turned out that she was actually even more irritating. Yes, I know it's her job to drone on about the art history, but I don't really get why Hamilton employs people specifically for that subject. I'd be fine with just the general history and random trivia, I don't need to know who made the door-frame on the church, especially when he was nobody I've ever heard of. Anyway, we had lunch as a group, which consisted of pumpkin flan (wasn't as good as you might think), salmon in mustardy sauce with mashed potatoes, and pears with vanilla ice cream, red wine sauce and gingerbread. I wasn't a fan of the dessert, but I did like the salmon and potatoes.
After lunch we followed the useless guide around for awhile, visited the home of Colby's Dijon director (which is ancient and gorgeous), and bought a lot of gingerbread which turned out to be kind of gross.
Then I met up with Sarah Hirsch! It was fun to see someone I knew, and more importantly someone who is having ocean withdrawals like me. We saw some guy playing a kazoo, had hot chocolate, and watched cowboys square dancing. Yes, that's what I said. COWBOYS. Square dancing. In France. FOR THE SECOND TIME. I don't think it was the same people we saw in Avignon, which makes it all the more hilarious.
When we got back from Dijon a bunch of us headed over to Breakfast in America, a diner on rue des Ecoles which serves (you guessed it) breakfast, as one might find in America. There are also burgers--most remarkably BACON CHEESEBURGERS WITH PICKLES AND ONIONS AND FRENCHFRIES and a chocolate milkshake, which is exactly what I had. I know I'm in the land of tasty and delicious food, but seriously, that was the most satifsying meal I've had in quite some time. It made up for the fact that we had to wait FOREVER while the French people at the only big table ordered more food, fed it to eachother slowly and disgustingly, and made out really obnoxiously.
Then Emily and I walked home in the freezing cold and tried not to get pnuemonia. Why do all stories end like that?
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
I am still writing my surrealism paper, and all I want to do is design Christmas (and Hannukah and Kwanzaa) cards with narwhals on them. Parce que j'aime bien les narvals.
That is all.
PS - I am ridiculously tired for no apparent reason. Well, right now I have a reason since it's two in the morning, but I've been tired for no reason all week and it sucks. Because literally if I stop doing whatever I'm doing, I WILL FALL ASLEEP. Like really. Today, while reading surrealism, I was leaning on my elbow with my chin in my hand, and I swear I fell asleep (like actually sleeping, not just lazing around with my eyes closed) for a good fifteen minutes. Then I woke up, and now my neck hurts.
BUT I have cornichons, so that's okay.
Also, my French lesson for the day:
Me: Valerie, do you know what a narwhal is?
Valerie: Uh, NO.
Me: You know, it lives in the sea?
Valerie: A whale? A fish? A seal?
Me: No, it has a hard thing on its head--
Valerie: A...clam? A lobster?
Me: NO! It's like if a whale and a unicorn had a baby.
Valerie: ...
Me: NARWHAL? NARWHAL NARWHAL NARWHAL! You know?
Valerie: ...uh, no.
That is all.
PS - I am ridiculously tired for no apparent reason. Well, right now I have a reason since it's two in the morning, but I've been tired for no reason all week and it sucks. Because literally if I stop doing whatever I'm doing, I WILL FALL ASLEEP. Like really. Today, while reading surrealism, I was leaning on my elbow with my chin in my hand, and I swear I fell asleep (like actually sleeping, not just lazing around with my eyes closed) for a good fifteen minutes. Then I woke up, and now my neck hurts.
BUT I have cornichons, so that's okay.
Also, my French lesson for the day:
Me: Valerie, do you know what a narwhal is?
Valerie: Uh, NO.
Me: You know, it lives in the sea?
Valerie: A whale? A fish? A seal?
Me: No, it has a hard thing on its head--
Valerie: A...clam? A lobster?
Me: NO! It's like if a whale and a unicorn had a baby.
Valerie: ...
Me: NARWHAL? NARWHAL NARWHAL NARWHAL! You know?
Valerie: ...uh, no.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Food, glorious food!
So it has been a food-filled few days since I last updated, and for a change not much of the aforementioned food has been French.
My mom arrived on Thursday and, despite the fact that Thursday night was our group Thanksgiving dinner, we decided to go to Angelina's for hot chocolate and a Mont Blanc beforehand. Words cannot describe how amazing it was. The hot chocolate there is literally what happens when you take a block of the most delicious, richest and probably most fattening chocolate on EARTH, put it in a cup and melt it. Then you put a huge blob of chantilly cream into it and consume, taking breaks periodically because ingesting that amount of chocolate is no easy feat. A Mont Blanc is essentially a huge ball of chantilly cream, thickly coated in creme de marron (chestnut cream) and sat atop a marang type thing. The only problem with them is that you probably won't be able to bring yourself to eat another one for at least six months later.
Thanksgiving that night was in an odd restaurant on Blvd. Montparnasse not far from Reid Hall, where they stuck us on the basement with a lot of flashy lights and did their best to recreate a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. The fact that they even tried was pretty adorable, which made up for the fact that, let's face it, French people just don't get it. We had turkey of course, but it was rolled into a weird little cylinder shape with the stuffing (mostly finely minced vegetables and some kind of sauce) inside. The mashed potatoes were actually chunky and delicious (surprising, since the only puree I've ever had here has been very, very fine), but the green beans were gross and obviously from a can. The pumpkin soup they served us for the first course was really good even though it tasted not a whole lot like pumpkin. And then there were profiterols (sp?) for dessert because the French (understandably) have no concept of pumpkin pie.
Anyway, it was entertaining. Emily and I walked home in the FREEZING COLD, and when I arrived I found my mom eating apperatifs with French people. Then Marie-Antoinette (no joke, that's still her name), tried to teach me how to walk with a dictionary on my head for some reason I still don't understand.
The next day was our Thanksgiving with Valerie and basically every other French person in the world. Mom and I proceeded to not wake up until 11am, at which point we sort of panicked and hurried out to do the shopping. We ran around looking for the ingredients for stuffing, sweet potatoes w/ brown sugar and butter, green bean casserole, pearl onions w/ some kind of saucey thing, pumpkin and peacan pie, as well as the stuff for the apperatifs. Compared to the actual cooking, the shopping was easy. Which is saying something because I'm pretty sure it took us a good half hour to figure out what was heavy cream and what was sour cream (which is kind of important when you're using it to make pumpkin pie).
Once we got back to the house with our little wheely cart full of food stuffs (and some pizzas because we were dying of hunger), we began the process of cooking on someone elses kitchen. Let me just point out that French peoples kitchens are, first of all, TINY and second of all just plain weird. A can opener? Oh yes, there's a can opener, it just happens to be a jagged little piece of metal that you have to STAB into the can and then SAW UP AND DOWN AT THE RISK OF HACKING OFF YOUR FINGERS until the can is open. Luckily the three cans of green beans we needed had those easy-open tops, but sadly I can't say the same for the two pumpkin pie mixes and the cranberry sauce (which we made Valerie open in the hopes that she would show us how you're actually supposed to do it, but it turns out that we were right and can openers in France are just idiotic).
We made the pies first (in ridiculously huge pie pans), then we peeled, cut and boiled the sweet potatoes and baked them with brown sugar and butter (they were amazing), and ripped up two baguettes, cooked some sausages, and hacked up a whole lot of cellery and onions for the stuffing. The green bean casserole was interesting because the canned beans here are not at all like the ones we have at home, the mushroom soup isn't condensed, and they don't have little onion rings to go on top so we used onion crackers instead.
We actually didn't have too much trouble with the turkey, which Valerie had ordered from the butcher. It had been stuffed with god only knows what because French people have a very different idea of stuffing, but it actually was pretty good. And the turkey itself turned out really well even though carving it was a fairly interesting process, mainly because no one knew how to do it.
There were eleven of us for dinner--me, Mom, Valerie, Maria, Edouard, Sophie and Jean-Michel and their daughters Camille and Juliette, and Madame Stevens and her husband Jean-Francois. It was a good time, the food was delicious, and even though none of the French people liked the pumpkin pie (it turned out a little different just because of the weird ingredients, but I think pumpkin pie doesn't translate well in general), I had a lot of fun. I even made little leaf-shaped place cards for everyone, which they thought was hilarious. I would have made a turkey center-piece if I knew where to find pinecones, but I don't think they exist in Paris.
Mom left on Saturday morning, and all I did during the day was eat leftovers. Sophie and Jean-Michel actually came over again, expressly to eat the leftovers, and then Leah and Kristin showed up and had some pumpkin pie before we headed to Ellen's.
Ellen's apartment is RIDICULOUS. She has a gorgeous, unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower from her bedroom window and an upholstered hallway along with the biggest kitchen I have seen in France so far. She also has a marble floor. On the ceiling. I don't know what that's about, but it is the shiniest thing I have ever seen in my life and I kept getting distracted from The Devil Wears Prada to stare at it. Ellen's host mom (who goes away to her country house every weekend) also had a lot of silver tea services, fainting couches, and things that looked like family heirlooms. She may or may not have been horrified to know that there were seven little Americans squealing about her worldly possessions while they cooked macaroni and cheese and watched a chick flick. But she told Ellen she could have friends over, so maybe not.
After our mac&cheese, which we made with huge blocks of ementhal and gouda, we (and by we I mean Leah, who I am going to marry because she is an amazing cook) made pancakes with apples and chocolate, which we ate with maple syrup and nutella (not all at once, obviously). It was absolutely delicious.
Today I have done absolutely nothing useful except write in this blog and eat cereal and madeleines. Quelle vie!
My mom arrived on Thursday and, despite the fact that Thursday night was our group Thanksgiving dinner, we decided to go to Angelina's for hot chocolate and a Mont Blanc beforehand. Words cannot describe how amazing it was. The hot chocolate there is literally what happens when you take a block of the most delicious, richest and probably most fattening chocolate on EARTH, put it in a cup and melt it. Then you put a huge blob of chantilly cream into it and consume, taking breaks periodically because ingesting that amount of chocolate is no easy feat. A Mont Blanc is essentially a huge ball of chantilly cream, thickly coated in creme de marron (chestnut cream) and sat atop a marang type thing. The only problem with them is that you probably won't be able to bring yourself to eat another one for at least six months later.
Thanksgiving that night was in an odd restaurant on Blvd. Montparnasse not far from Reid Hall, where they stuck us on the basement with a lot of flashy lights and did their best to recreate a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. The fact that they even tried was pretty adorable, which made up for the fact that, let's face it, French people just don't get it. We had turkey of course, but it was rolled into a weird little cylinder shape with the stuffing (mostly finely minced vegetables and some kind of sauce) inside. The mashed potatoes were actually chunky and delicious (surprising, since the only puree I've ever had here has been very, very fine), but the green beans were gross and obviously from a can. The pumpkin soup they served us for the first course was really good even though it tasted not a whole lot like pumpkin. And then there were profiterols (sp?) for dessert because the French (understandably) have no concept of pumpkin pie.
Anyway, it was entertaining. Emily and I walked home in the FREEZING COLD, and when I arrived I found my mom eating apperatifs with French people. Then Marie-Antoinette (no joke, that's still her name), tried to teach me how to walk with a dictionary on my head for some reason I still don't understand.
The next day was our Thanksgiving with Valerie and basically every other French person in the world. Mom and I proceeded to not wake up until 11am, at which point we sort of panicked and hurried out to do the shopping. We ran around looking for the ingredients for stuffing, sweet potatoes w/ brown sugar and butter, green bean casserole, pearl onions w/ some kind of saucey thing, pumpkin and peacan pie, as well as the stuff for the apperatifs. Compared to the actual cooking, the shopping was easy. Which is saying something because I'm pretty sure it took us a good half hour to figure out what was heavy cream and what was sour cream (which is kind of important when you're using it to make pumpkin pie).
Once we got back to the house with our little wheely cart full of food stuffs (and some pizzas because we were dying of hunger), we began the process of cooking on someone elses kitchen. Let me just point out that French peoples kitchens are, first of all, TINY and second of all just plain weird. A can opener? Oh yes, there's a can opener, it just happens to be a jagged little piece of metal that you have to STAB into the can and then SAW UP AND DOWN AT THE RISK OF HACKING OFF YOUR FINGERS until the can is open. Luckily the three cans of green beans we needed had those easy-open tops, but sadly I can't say the same for the two pumpkin pie mixes and the cranberry sauce (which we made Valerie open in the hopes that she would show us how you're actually supposed to do it, but it turns out that we were right and can openers in France are just idiotic).
We made the pies first (in ridiculously huge pie pans), then we peeled, cut and boiled the sweet potatoes and baked them with brown sugar and butter (they were amazing), and ripped up two baguettes, cooked some sausages, and hacked up a whole lot of cellery and onions for the stuffing. The green bean casserole was interesting because the canned beans here are not at all like the ones we have at home, the mushroom soup isn't condensed, and they don't have little onion rings to go on top so we used onion crackers instead.
We actually didn't have too much trouble with the turkey, which Valerie had ordered from the butcher. It had been stuffed with god only knows what because French people have a very different idea of stuffing, but it actually was pretty good. And the turkey itself turned out really well even though carving it was a fairly interesting process, mainly because no one knew how to do it.
There were eleven of us for dinner--me, Mom, Valerie, Maria, Edouard, Sophie and Jean-Michel and their daughters Camille and Juliette, and Madame Stevens and her husband Jean-Francois. It was a good time, the food was delicious, and even though none of the French people liked the pumpkin pie (it turned out a little different just because of the weird ingredients, but I think pumpkin pie doesn't translate well in general), I had a lot of fun. I even made little leaf-shaped place cards for everyone, which they thought was hilarious. I would have made a turkey center-piece if I knew where to find pinecones, but I don't think they exist in Paris.
Mom left on Saturday morning, and all I did during the day was eat leftovers. Sophie and Jean-Michel actually came over again, expressly to eat the leftovers, and then Leah and Kristin showed up and had some pumpkin pie before we headed to Ellen's.
Ellen's apartment is RIDICULOUS. She has a gorgeous, unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower from her bedroom window and an upholstered hallway along with the biggest kitchen I have seen in France so far. She also has a marble floor. On the ceiling. I don't know what that's about, but it is the shiniest thing I have ever seen in my life and I kept getting distracted from The Devil Wears Prada to stare at it. Ellen's host mom (who goes away to her country house every weekend) also had a lot of silver tea services, fainting couches, and things that looked like family heirlooms. She may or may not have been horrified to know that there were seven little Americans squealing about her worldly possessions while they cooked macaroni and cheese and watched a chick flick. But she told Ellen she could have friends over, so maybe not.
After our mac&cheese, which we made with huge blocks of ementhal and gouda, we (and by we I mean Leah, who I am going to marry because she is an amazing cook) made pancakes with apples and chocolate, which we ate with maple syrup and nutella (not all at once, obviously). It was absolutely delicious.
Today I have done absolutely nothing useful except write in this blog and eat cereal and madeleines. Quelle vie!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
les poubelles
I just saw the most ridiculous play I have ever seen in my LIFE. In fact, I would venture to say that it was the most ridiculous play ever written in the history of the WORLD. But it was a work of surrealism, so maybe I should say that it was the most ridiculous play ever written in the history of the thing that is a LARGE BALL OF ROCK, and not the earth, because what is the earthy, anyway?
Sorry if you're reading this, Professor Mwantuali, but surrealism just isn't my thing.
Anyway, the play was about this guy who is blind and stuck in a chair because his legs don't work (for whatever reason), his servant who can't sit down (you know, because that's normal), and his two parents who live in trashcans upstage. You only ever see their heads because apparently you need to assume that the rest of their bodies are in the process of decomposing. OBVIOUSLY. I would try to describe the plot except for the fact that THERE ISN'T ONE, and I would tell you about the dialogue and discussion points, but THERE ARE NONE. Or at least I'm not smart enough to extract them from the quivering, jellied mass that was my brain before I saw this play.
And right now I'm supposed to be reading le Manifeste du Surrealisme, which is (if possible) even more mind-bogglingly confusing than Fin du Partie (the play). But I can't do it, I've had enough mental suffering for one night.
Lastly, and very unimportantly, I'm really glad that the French government thought it appropriate to give me the x-ray of my lungs they took at my doctor's appointment for my carte de sejour. It was really fun to be able to grin like an idiot whenever anyone asked me what was in the huge envelope I was carrying and say, "My lungs, of course!" And now Valerie has put the x-ray with all of HER x-rays (because apparently one makes a home library of one's internal organs in France), so whenever I get anxious about their welfare I can say "But Valerie, what have you done with my lungs?!" So needless to say I do this at LEAST every other day, just because I find it funny.
I think I'm sleep deprived (or my brain has been sucked out by Samuel Beckett), I need to go to bed now.
Sorry if you're reading this, Professor Mwantuali, but surrealism just isn't my thing.
Anyway, the play was about this guy who is blind and stuck in a chair because his legs don't work (for whatever reason), his servant who can't sit down (you know, because that's normal), and his two parents who live in trashcans upstage. You only ever see their heads because apparently you need to assume that the rest of their bodies are in the process of decomposing. OBVIOUSLY. I would try to describe the plot except for the fact that THERE ISN'T ONE, and I would tell you about the dialogue and discussion points, but THERE ARE NONE. Or at least I'm not smart enough to extract them from the quivering, jellied mass that was my brain before I saw this play.
And right now I'm supposed to be reading le Manifeste du Surrealisme, which is (if possible) even more mind-bogglingly confusing than Fin du Partie (the play). But I can't do it, I've had enough mental suffering for one night.
Lastly, and very unimportantly, I'm really glad that the French government thought it appropriate to give me the x-ray of my lungs they took at my doctor's appointment for my carte de sejour. It was really fun to be able to grin like an idiot whenever anyone asked me what was in the huge envelope I was carrying and say, "My lungs, of course!" And now Valerie has put the x-ray with all of HER x-rays (because apparently one makes a home library of one's internal organs in France), so whenever I get anxious about their welfare I can say "But Valerie, what have you done with my lungs?!" So needless to say I do this at LEAST every other day, just because I find it funny.
I think I'm sleep deprived (or my brain has been sucked out by Samuel Beckett), I need to go to bed now.
Monday, November 24, 2008
So after much pain and suffering I think I finally have my courses for next semester planned. They should go as follows:
1) Grammaire at Hamilton, Tues/Thurs 11:15 - 12:30
2) Modernisme Americain at Paris III Monde Anglophone, Tues 3 - 5
3) Paris Multiculturelle at Hamilton, Thurs 1:15 - 2:30
4) L'Enfant aux Pays des Adultes at Paris III, Fri 12 - 2
Which means I get to take one of my two literature classes in English. Which is great, because there's no way I would be able to even look at the cover of As I Lay Dying in any other language without having an anneurism. I would've preferred Modernisme Brittanique just for the joy of discussing Woolf with French people, but sadly that clashes with Grammaire. I also would've preferred Moyen Age, le Myth de Tristan et Yseult over Paris Multiculturelle, but I don't think three literature classes would be a wise idea.
Saturday night was dinner with Leah and her boyfriend Drew who was visiting from Italy. It was tres amusante, except for the mean crepe man who, even though we came to his establishment bearing at least eight hungry people willing to pay him for food, was irritated and snappish with us. But his crepes were delicious, both the savory (cheese, ham and lettuce) and the sweet (nutelle and bananas). Afterwards we wandered around aimlessly in the freezing cold, found Brandon-the-Birthday-Boy, and Jess and Rebecca, and tried to find some place to go that wasn't jam packed with French people who were overly enthusiastic about whatever sport it was that they were all watching. I think it was rugby, but I could be wrong. Anyway, after a lot of "What do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?"-ing, we (me, Kristin, Hannah, Ellen and Linnaea) came back to my house to have a sleepover. We figured if Leah and Drew were getting to have a sleepover we should have one too, so Ellen brought Pride and Prejudice, we bought a huge bag of gummies, and it was deliciously stereotypical and very entertaining.
The next day it was disgusting--freezing cold and gray with super dark clouds, and it even changed from rain to snow for a few minutes, but nothing stuck. Kristin, Hannah and I stayed inside, made some pasta and planned our courses, then headed to the Andy Warhol museum at the Luxembourg to meet Jen. The exhibition was disappointingly small (mostly disappointing because it wasn't free, even with our art history cards) but it was alright.
Then I decided I would rather walk home in the pouring rain under the ominous looking sky than wait 25 minutes for the bus, so I did. It turned out not to be the best idea since the bottom half of my jeans was completely soaked by the time I got back. Oh well.
Today the computer man fixed my computer. To be fair, it wasn't actually broken, I'm just an idiot. But either way it works now, and he even told me how to make it connect to Valerie's internet, which is good. Or it will be if it works.
Ellen, Kristin and I metroed it over to the Champs Elysees to look at the Marche de Noel, which is pretty cool but not as Christmasy as I'd like. But there's a ferris wheel, which means I definitely have to come back, preferrably at night, to ride it like the nerd that I am.
Lastly, I have to read the rest of Therese Raquin for tomorrow, which makes my brain ache a little just thinking about it. I can't wait to be in better lit classes next semester. I also can't wait to do a workshop, possibly with Hannah so I don't have to be all alone in my geekery.
Alors, a plus tard mes chouchous.
1) Grammaire at Hamilton, Tues/Thurs 11:15 - 12:30
2) Modernisme Americain at Paris III Monde Anglophone, Tues 3 - 5
3) Paris Multiculturelle at Hamilton, Thurs 1:15 - 2:30
4) L'Enfant aux Pays des Adultes at Paris III, Fri 12 - 2
Which means I get to take one of my two literature classes in English. Which is great, because there's no way I would be able to even look at the cover of As I Lay Dying in any other language without having an anneurism. I would've preferred Modernisme Brittanique just for the joy of discussing Woolf with French people, but sadly that clashes with Grammaire. I also would've preferred Moyen Age, le Myth de Tristan et Yseult over Paris Multiculturelle, but I don't think three literature classes would be a wise idea.
Saturday night was dinner with Leah and her boyfriend Drew who was visiting from Italy. It was tres amusante, except for the mean crepe man who, even though we came to his establishment bearing at least eight hungry people willing to pay him for food, was irritated and snappish with us. But his crepes were delicious, both the savory (cheese, ham and lettuce) and the sweet (nutelle and bananas). Afterwards we wandered around aimlessly in the freezing cold, found Brandon-the-Birthday-Boy, and Jess and Rebecca, and tried to find some place to go that wasn't jam packed with French people who were overly enthusiastic about whatever sport it was that they were all watching. I think it was rugby, but I could be wrong. Anyway, after a lot of "What do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?"-ing, we (me, Kristin, Hannah, Ellen and Linnaea) came back to my house to have a sleepover. We figured if Leah and Drew were getting to have a sleepover we should have one too, so Ellen brought Pride and Prejudice, we bought a huge bag of gummies, and it was deliciously stereotypical and very entertaining.
The next day it was disgusting--freezing cold and gray with super dark clouds, and it even changed from rain to snow for a few minutes, but nothing stuck. Kristin, Hannah and I stayed inside, made some pasta and planned our courses, then headed to the Andy Warhol museum at the Luxembourg to meet Jen. The exhibition was disappointingly small (mostly disappointing because it wasn't free, even with our art history cards) but it was alright.
Then I decided I would rather walk home in the pouring rain under the ominous looking sky than wait 25 minutes for the bus, so I did. It turned out not to be the best idea since the bottom half of my jeans was completely soaked by the time I got back. Oh well.
Today the computer man fixed my computer. To be fair, it wasn't actually broken, I'm just an idiot. But either way it works now, and he even told me how to make it connect to Valerie's internet, which is good. Or it will be if it works.
Ellen, Kristin and I metroed it over to the Champs Elysees to look at the Marche de Noel, which is pretty cool but not as Christmasy as I'd like. But there's a ferris wheel, which means I definitely have to come back, preferrably at night, to ride it like the nerd that I am.
Lastly, I have to read the rest of Therese Raquin for tomorrow, which makes my brain ache a little just thinking about it. I can't wait to be in better lit classes next semester. I also can't wait to do a workshop, possibly with Hannah so I don't have to be all alone in my geekery.
Alors, a plus tard mes chouchous.
Friday, November 21, 2008
oy
Okay so my computer won't connect to the internet. Or it will, but it won't open any websites. Which is cool. But it's getting fixed on Monday, or hopefully, so that should be good. I'm using the computers at Reid Hall right now. Which sucks because they are teeeny tiny.
Anyway, I had a rendez-vous with the doctor this morning because everyone who wants to be allowed to stay in France for longer thatn three months has to go and be checked for weird diseases etc. So I waited forever and ever with Jenny, the teaching assistant who went with me, and then they took an x-ray of my lungs. Which I now have in my bag. Because I'm going to hang it on the wall when I go home and scare the crap out of my French people.
Unfortunately I was late getting back to Reid Hall after my appointment so I missed going to Breakfast in America, a diner on rue des Ecoles which (obviously) serves typical American breakfasts. Zut. But I have a meeting with Mwantuali this afternoon to discuss classes for next semester.
Also, Leah and I do not get to go to Christmas Land because apparently there is no Marche de Noel on mondays, which is when we bought the tickets for because we're smart like that. Oops. Oh well, we'll find the small outposts of Christmas Land in Paris.
And now I think I need to go buy a panini because I'm starving to death.
Anyway, I had a rendez-vous with the doctor this morning because everyone who wants to be allowed to stay in France for longer thatn three months has to go and be checked for weird diseases etc. So I waited forever and ever with Jenny, the teaching assistant who went with me, and then they took an x-ray of my lungs. Which I now have in my bag. Because I'm going to hang it on the wall when I go home and scare the crap out of my French people.
Unfortunately I was late getting back to Reid Hall after my appointment so I missed going to Breakfast in America, a diner on rue des Ecoles which (obviously) serves typical American breakfasts. Zut. But I have a meeting with Mwantuali this afternoon to discuss classes for next semester.
Also, Leah and I do not get to go to Christmas Land because apparently there is no Marche de Noel on mondays, which is when we bought the tickets for because we're smart like that. Oops. Oh well, we'll find the small outposts of Christmas Land in Paris.
And now I think I need to go buy a panini because I'm starving to death.
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