11 days later: Home in CA

Those last seven days in Paris passed bittersweetly, as I packed up my pounds of international presents, saw a ballet at the Opera Garnier as a final outing, squeezed my American friends and bis*ed (cheek-kissed) my French family goodbye, and rode the shuttle from home to Roissy airport, contacts a-blur and cheeks feeling the final drops of my last Parisian rain.

It's over. Four months of my life spent in a foreign country, four months of a completely different existence, has ended. On the plane ride home, memories of Paris seemed to be slipping by me as quickly as the land beneath us. By the time I reached Los Angeles airport, my head was only in the present, as I was struck with new old faces, overly-friendly Christmas-spirited Americans, and 76 degree weather. A deluge of new perspective on my home that was ever-before the same. Welcome back to Cali.

In many ways, it's good to be home. Car drives, grass, open spaces, family, friends, and American dollars that translate into American dollars. But, I miss real chocolate eclairs, the 58-story Montparnasse tower by my home that can be seen from almost anywhere in Paris, the efficiency of the Metro (the only efficient thing in France), the creaky floor-boards in my appartement that were bound to wake someone up at 2 in the morning, the free couscous Fridays and cigarette-polluted bars, the lights on the Champs Elysees and the French way of doing everything in the moment. Enjoying one's existence.

I think that's what I'm going to do my best to continue here in the States: living for the moment, carpe diem-ing. But, really. Taking breaks to breathe in the world around oneself. That's the only way to truly experience life, even if you're not necessarily living the dream in Paris, traveling to a different country every weekend, and exploring some new museum, park, or Metro stop every day.

They said I'd have culture shock when I returned home. They were right. The first day back was fantastic--waking up to the most beautiful southern California sunrise, riding in my dad's convertible in the summer-like weather, working out for the first time in four months, smiling at people on the street...but as little everyday exchanges sparked memories of Paris, I missed it terribly, and I realized the dilemma I had found myself in: In these two entirely-different places of Paris and California, how could I choose which one I loved more? Lucky for me, I don't have to. I'm flat broke so I'm currently an inmate of California. I guess if Paris isn't an option, though, then this not a bad place to be imprisoned.

The only unfinished business that remains now is the question, "Will I go back?" Well, yeah. Duh. But, to live? Only if I'm able to walk the cobblestone streets of the Marais on a Sunday, enjoy a cup of espresso on the terrace of a cafe in Saint Michel, or pop open a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from Bordeaux on the quais of the Seine.

7 Days

One week left. 7 days. How can I possibly accomplish all I had wanted to get done by this point in 7 days? With finals next week, and presents to buy, and packing to do, I can't. It's okay, though. I'm comin' back.

As you know, I had a tough time integrating into French society. Assimilation is impossible for a foreigner in Paris, I've found, but integration is possible. To a certain extent, the French actually will accept you for who you are. Of course, this is usually if they mistake you for a French person, or if you live on the outskirts of the city, which is mostly populated by multi-ethnic immigrants. But for me, integration is enough. Being different makes life more interesting.
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Last weekend, I visited some Santa Clara friends in London. I felt like I was back at home as soon as I entered their dorm-type living area: clothes strewn all over the floor, the trashcan overflowing, unmade bunk beds, computers and ipods and cellphones everywhere. It was just like the Santa Clara that I know and love. Despite having been engrossed with the idea of staying in Paris forever the week before, this little bit of home reminded me how awesome it will be to see friends and family again. It's weird to think, at this point, that I haven't seen any of my friends and family in four months (with the exception of my brother). The friends I've made here...we all kind of act like a family for each other, a little transplanted group of awkward Americans suddenly become half-French.

London is...big. Intelligent observation, I know. But, so true. The "Tube," as the Brits call their Metro system, is a necessity, whereas you could walk Paris if you wanted. As tourists, we did the usual--Tower of London, photo-op with the British Guard (he spoke to me! he asked me what time it was), fish & chips (never again), tea @ Herod's department store, a run by Big Ben/Westiminster Abbey/Buckingham Palace as it was raining cats & dogs all Saturday, and an evening at a 5,000 pound ($10,000) nightclub where the likes of Prince William & Harry go. You know, the usual. ;-) Actually, our Santa Clara friends had randomly met some guys who called Saturday night and invited us to this club in South Kensington, the Boujis, where they had purchased a table for the night. Ridiculous. I'm quite positive that I will never have $10,000 to throw out on any given night at a club (especially as my current form of income is writing this blog, in which I receive $0 per entry).
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Je peux parler le francais bien maintenant. I can speak French pretty well now. Thanks to my considerate host family who keeps inviting me to additional meals, to the random Frenchmen to whom I must give directions, and, well, hearing French 24/7. I'm afraid returning to 3 hours a week of French class as my only source of French conversation is going to murder my comprehension and accent. So, if and when you see me back in the States, just speak French to me, okay?

I made Mexican food last night, finally. With that taco seasoning that had spilled all over my bag on the way to Paris--yeah, I finally used that. And those jalepenos, which my host family had never heard of before. Yes, I almost burnt the house down again. But so worth it. The first thing I'm going to do when I get home is roll up my sleeves, wash my hands, and stuff my face with ridiculously greasy, chedder-cheesy, amazingly spicy Mexican food. Lots of it.

Today is 10-page-Muslim-Presence-in-Europe-paper day. Tomorrow is run-around-Paris-and-cry-and-scream-that-I-don't-wanna-leave day. And eight days from now, eight days from now is going-through-withdrawal day. Paris has become something indescribable for me. That cigarette pollution, those one-way suicidal streets, and the urine-drizzled Metro--I can't imagine life without them.

Abou de Souffle (Out of Breath)

Today, I decided to go for a bike ride around Paris. What started as an innocent loop around the quartier, however, turned into a 5-hour feat of champions. And it's all because I decided to cross the Seine.

As you can see in the image above, my neighborhood is located in southwest/central Paris, where the Montparnasse Tower is located. Because I had not yet been to the Jardin des Plantes, (located where the black circle is drawn next to the Seine), I decided to ride my bike there for a bit of exercise, check it out, and go home. Little did I know that this one taste of exlporation would lead to a full day of grand, water-less, uphill, dog-doo all over my pedals adventure. (The entire black line marks the whereabouts of my day spent pedalling).



(photo: first cedar tree in Paris, in the Jardin des Plantes)




Since it was only noon by the time I finished the Jardin des Plantes, I tried to make my way up to Pere Lachaise cemetary (located in the midwest of the 20th). Only problem: Paris runs on one-way streets. Having never been to the 12th arrondissement across the river, I decided to disregard the map and simply bike wherever the one-way streets would take me, in the general direction of the cemetary. Boy was I surprised when I saw the sign for Peripherique/Bois de Vincennes. I had come to the edge of Paris! The Peripherique is daunting for a relatively new resident of Paris--it is the gateway to the unknown, the beyond-Paris that is never spoken of in the within-Paris. So what do I do? Cross it.





(photo: vulture estuary in the Bois de Vincennes)




Exploring a bit of the Bois de Vincennes, I discovered a moated Chateau from forever ago, acres of deserted land where festivals must be held, and lots and lots of trees, reminding me a bit of Redding, California (minus the chateau). See where the black line runs north and finally penetrates the Peripherique again in the 20th arrondissement? It took me that long to figure out where to get back into Paris. That long line running north is where I discovered the "dark side" of Paris; the parts that aren't brought up much in coversation. Then again, this wasn't exactly Paris. These were the banlieues (suburbs) of Vincennes, Montreuil, and Bagnolet.

(photo: the quiche lorraine that saved me as I sat, lost, in the middle of Bagnolet banlieue)




Once I finally returned into the city center and found my bearings--sweating, suffocating, and seething--all I wanted to do was get home. Zipping by Pere Lachaise cemetary without a thought of stopping, I caught a glimpse from the top of a hill of "my tower," Montparnasse...far far off in the distance. How could this 58-story building look so tiny? Because I decided to cross the Seine.














photos: Bois de Vincennes

Fremerican

34 degrees all day long. I wore shorts and tights. I am becoming a European nut.

Not that Europeans are nuts. In fact, I'm starting to become quite accustomed to the typically French fashion of impatience and persistance that is so a la mode. Not only that, but I've noticed myself acquiring a bit of the French way of doing things, as well. When Brian (my brother) came to visit this past weekend, I realized that he could hardly keep up with how fast I walked. When I go to the grocery store, I am pickier about what I buy, checking where the product is from and purchasing things like saumon fume and Munster cheese. A single day is not complete without at least two servings of yogurt.

Yesterday on my bus ride home, a little old French lady sitting in front of me asked me to tell her when her stop was, because she couldn't read the sign from where she was sitting. I hardly did anything at all, but she was so grateful, repeating "merci, mademoiselle" over and over again in her affluent gratitude. I grinned from inside.

I now practically beg to use my host mom's bike to go back and forth to school. Feeling that crisp air on my face as I cross the Pont au Change and Pont Notre Dame is ineffable. Now, when I see the sun setting on Notre Dame and the ancienne brick buildings across the street from my Metro stop in the cotton candy pink dawn of the morning, je suis content. I feel nostalgic for something I haven't even left yet: the Paris where I feel like I belong. It is good to have finally found my place, however insignificant, in this foreign city I now call home.

What is this place--this role? you may ask. Well, I'll tell you about the role of the American who belongs in Paris. She is the tall blonde you see in the Metro, the one who towers above the crowd of brunettes but keeps her head held high. She is the mademoiselle in black who often gets asked for directions by French people, except for when she's smiling her big American smile. She's the one who knows the city's secrets of good local eateries, but never tires of the sight of the Eiffel Tower--morning, noon, and night. She may be the only one at the wine tasting who doesn't know a thing about French wine, but she's ever eager to learn. She's the one with the hint of bright color peeking out from the collar of her coat noir, a notion of the pride of her foreign status.

I leave in three and a half weeks. No matter how long I stay here, however, I know I will still be the foreigner, the one who doesn't quite fit in. But sometimes it's fun to be different.

The Metro is a Cattle Car

The Metro is like...a cattle car. This is the sixth day of the second transportation strike I've experienced in Paris, and people are starting to get antsy. Today, I decided to will metro line four, from Strasbourg-St. Denis to Montparnasse Bienvenue, to work so I could get home. Upon this first glimpse of the underground tunnel since last Wednesday, my willing seemed to be working. "4 Min" until the next train, the board said. Six minutes later, after carefully avoiding the black mice scurrying along the sides of this unkempt, neglected platform, the board now read "4 Min." C'est la vie of the Parisian citizen, constantly waiting on something that may never follow through.
Twelve minutes later, a solitary train stumbled along, already impeded by the weight of the excess number of people crowding its cars. Parisians and foreigners alike glanced at each other worriedly on the platform, shrugged. Time to initiate that stubborn Parisian determination. If this was going to be how it was going to be, well then, so be it. We're still getting on that train.
Hundreds of overly-eager, impatient businessman, students, bent-over old women, bums (who can take advantage of the free passage through the turnstyles during the greve), and friends loaded with shopping bags pushed, shoved, catapulted their way into each separate metro car, forcing everyone to instantly lose ten pounds and learn to appreciate the smell of their neighbor--wedged in inches from their face.
I had about .002 inches to move, myself, between the twelve people pushing me and the bearded man in front of me whom I was being pushed into, face-to helpless-face. If this were in any other location besides a Parisian metro, it would be impossible to fit so many people in such a small space. But fire hazards aren't observed in France.
Luckily, when the creaking train began braking for the next stop, the entire group of fifteen people pushing against me fell forward--onto me. And thus, onto bearded man. Train stops. Everyone waits, bated breath, in anticipation and prayer that someone--even one person--will open the door and get off the train. When nobody dares to make a move toward the door, each person stubbornly claiming their rightful place, a brief moment of stunned silence ensues. How are we, crammed together like cattle pancakes, going to make it unscathed to the next stop? When the moment of disbelief passes, a discreet snicker is heard. Then another, a bit louder. Then another, and another, until the entire car of that train on line 4 is cracking up at the image of ourselves, and, for me, at how ridiculous this would look in almost any other society.
The greve may be grave, after six days of striking and another--bigger--strike to begin tomorrow, but even in Parisian society, with all the constraints and expectations, at least we know that when pushed to the limit, foreigners and outsiders and locals alike--we're all in this together.

Metro-less Marshmallow Fluff

So the metro's been on strike since Wednesday. So I've taken this opportunity to actually get out and walk and see my quartier, the 15th.

Yesterday, I climbed (via elevator) the Montparnasse Tower, the tallest business builing in France, and took in a fantastic view of the city from the 56th floor restaurant and 58th floor observation deck. 360 degrees of sun-beaten Paris, with few clouds (but still a slight visibility block, due to some type of smog, I guess). Check out the pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/maggiemagee1/MontparnasseCemetaryTower?authkey=1ng4dwLP-Qc

The first 20 photos or so are of the Montparnasse Cemetery, which I had checked out the week before. Those really old cemeteries are cool to take pictures of. And, in those photos, you can see the huge black Montparnasse Tower in the backround.

Today I went out in my new brown plaid knee-length coat and walked up Rue de Rennes and St. Germain and some other little sidestreet, eventually making my way to this tiny park across the Seine with a splendid view of Notre Dame (last two photos of the series). I was exhausted from 2 hours of walking in the freezing cold, so by some stroke of luck I ventured in the Metro in hopes of catching one of the very few trains that were still running, and as soon as I stepped foot onto the line 4 platform, a metro came chugging along and I silently did a little dance in my head.

Highlight of the day? Checking out the exotic foods in the Bon Marche (very $$ mall) Whole Foods-like grocery store. In the "United States/Canda" section, the specialties were marshmallow fluff, Mississippi peanut butter, and candy. So that's what they think of us.

Mamma Mia I Went to Italia

What can I possibly say about 9 days in Italia? There is too much...but I will try to give a brief account as best I can:
Three girls from my program and I took our over-packed weekend bags and flew over the Alps to Milan, Italy, for two days in this urban city of intimidating fashion, lots of money, and far too few restaurants/places to find food. Buenos Aires is the main street for shopping, which we walked down several times but kept our pocketbooks close, as we were on a hostel-cheapfood-2nd class budget. Right away Italy was put on the good list as a nice Italian man on the street asked us if we needed help with directions and then proceeded to request additional help from a shopkeeper down the street.
Best Milan discoveries? 80 euro cent espresso. leather gloves. cheap bottled water. BIG dogs. local Italian flea markets where I tower over everyone with all of my blinding blondeness. talented street musicians. The 4th largest church in the world, Milan's Duomo (and our climb to its roof). The bejeweled leather elevetor with tvs in the store that we weren't allowed into...
In Milan, people are so well dressed you want to cry. There's this one street with all the designer clothes--Gucci, Dolce and Gabanna, Prada--and then there's the people in the streets wearing them.

Venice is much more my type. Inexpressibly beautiful, visiting this city is like being in a movie with the best set ever. It's very easy to get lost in this city of canals and tiny medieval streets dead-ending into each other every other corner. And it smells a bit like the ride Pirates of the Carribbean at Disneyland. But in a good way. This is how I'd pictured "Italy," only better. It's truly a postcard come to life. The only setback is that the city is very touristy. I don't think any locals actually live there. But it's a small price to pay for possibly the most romantic city on the planet.
The most authentic part of our first day in Venice was probably resting on a bench across from a very ancient Italian couple listening to a radio while some boys played futball against a centuries-old wall. In some places, you can actually see, very subtly, the building of Venice slowly sinking into their foundations--their foundations of water.
The best part of that day was playing "6 degrees of separation" on a dock we dead-ended into that night and just decided to sit on for a while, swinging our legs over the water. Other awesome things about that day included the outdoor chocolate market, with tons of fresh chocolate of all different shapes and flavors, including scissors, guitars, jasmine-flavored, big blocks that took days to finish...and then eating pomodoro spaghetti at this cheap little place that was so good and tasted like no other spaghetti I've ever had.
"They just don't know how to appreciate the art of the dead end like we do." This quote, which my friend Maddy said, truly sums up our stay in Venice. The next day, after the morning's cup of cappucino, a walk through the city, visits to some really old churches (like all the rest of Europe), a view of the city from the bell tower above St. Mark's square famous for all its annoying pigeons--after all this, we grabbed a picnic lunch and dead-ended where this back street met canal and spent the next several hours devouring foccacia bread, salted pumpkin seeds, and chocolate on the small corner of one canal where we could watch all the tourists on their 80 euro gondola rides cruising by five feet in front of us. All the Asian tourists paused to take our picture, and the gondoliers started flirting with us after their second time around the route. "Omero" (one of them) actually offered Maddy a free ride on the gondola, but that would've required going by herself with the other tourists in the boat. Awkward.
Apparently, Venice is the city of the masquerade. They sell masquerade masks everywhere. Same with glass beads and figurines. But the city's natural beauty is all free--and it sure does live up to it.
Florence is very different from the preceding two cities. It's kind of like Paris, but smaller and it feels older. It's centered around another Duomo cathedral, a beautiful architectural masterpiece of the city. The first night, we ate at a cheap calzone place and received free pastries in compensation for the slight disturbance of a crazy guy who came in. Needless to say, we came in again for breakfast the next morning and dinner the following night--both meals during which we received yet another round of free pastries. :)
The next day featured a date with the statue of David, which was great because we just got to stare at him the whole time. Then we visited this Swedish cemetary where Elizabeth Barret Browning is buried and there was this cute little old nun who used to teach English at Princeton smiling very hard at us in greeting. Later, we had the most delicious proscuttio sandwiches from a deli in some market. Everything was picture perfect, until the walk home when I managed to acquire blood blisters from my shoes, leading me to wear my shower-shoe flip-flops for the next day and a half or so.

The train trip through Tuscany from Florence to Rome is beautiful. Simple vineyard villages, one after the other--its a rustic dream of rolling hills of green and gold and autumn, ancient stone houses telling of some other time and place but really still in use, right then and right there.

Rome. A city that perfects the art of the modern and the B.C. You've got your ruins on your left and your business buildings on your right. And your very, very smelly streets smack in the middle, making Paris seem like a hospital in comparison. Our touristy day in Rome was during a transportation strike, of course, so we walked everywhere: to the Vatican where we saw St. Peter's and the Sistine Chapel, then the Piazza del Popola, the Spanish Steps (Trinita dei Monti--unimpressive), the Pantheon, the Piazza Navona, the Fontana di Trevi, the Arco di Tito, and more and more and more! Rome is like no other city, with so much history and stories ingrained into its foundation. But I would never want to live there. Too dirty. If there's one thing my visit to Rome told me, it's how much I really do love Paris. Coming home was a dream. I somehow see everything with new eyes, like there's so much more of Paris that I have yet to see and need to see...so it's time to explore my home once again...