Paris Women, Redux

Paris Women, Redux: I am starting (well, not really starting, but continuing) to find all the women of Paris exquisite torture.  Every time I venture out of my apartment I know I will be tantalized, teased and tormented, without mercy.  It’s starting to get to me.  I might have to start spending more time inside as the weather continues to warm up.  Actually I am thinking of giving up on the whole “chercher la femme” stuff.  It’s too frustrating.

I saw the perfect bikini model (in French “mannequin”) walking back to my apartment this afternoon.  She was crossing in front of me as I made my way into the Boulangerie.  She was breathtaking … painfully lovely … about 25, 5’6”, long brown hair, curvy in all the right ways … and she even smiled shyly at me (perhaps she has some odd fetish for shy middle aged men?) … oh my … I tripped on the curb.  And then she was gone.  I will have to try to find her again. 

But why did I let her go?  And if I did find her again, what am I supposed to do?  Lob her over my shoulder and lug her home like some prehistoric Don Juan?  Or more likely, try to start a conversation with her? … “Alors!  Oh la la!  Vous êtes très jolie. Très … um … er … Vous voulez aller … er … coucher … non non …”   and then it would degenerate into grunts and unintentionally crude hand gestures.  A bit sad really. 

I always thought a well seasoned traveler always comes prepared.  Would one travel with a spare bikini model in one’s valise?

Paris Nightlife

Some notes on the “nightlife” of Paris.  I walked past the Moulin Rouge (The Red Windmill) along the Boulevard de Clinchy (nestled in with row after row of sex shops).  I have also located Crazy Horse, Lido, and Foliee Bérgere (if one wants a choice in entertainment, or conversely, if one wants to make a full night of it).  On the other end of the entertainment spectrum, I found where most of the … er … les femmes de travaille … shall we say … spend their time, up along rue St.-Denis.  A rather grim and hard looking bunch over all. 

For a special night out in Paris, a friend and I had dinner at this famous old restaurant in Les Halles (a central neighborhood of Paris) called Au Pied de Cochon (The Pigs Feet – there were little pig feet door knobs).  Lots of pig on the menu and of course, pigs’ feet.  We opted for pork chops and steak.  After dinner we went to a show at Crazy Horse.  It a nice show.  Although it is hard not to enjoy beautiful naked women dancing and jiggling about on stage.

After dinner, the taxi driver asked us if we were interested in a brothel.  We declined his offer to show us one.  Although in retrospect, it could have been an experience to spend an evening in a Parisian brothel.

 

Café life in Paris

Finding the perfect café in my neighborhood is a difficult task, but I have my eye on one at the end of the block, Café Rousseau, that looks quite nice from the outside (so many variables, some cafes are too crowded and cramped, some have really uncomfortable seats, others focus more on being brasseries or bistros, some just look like Starbucks and others are full of tourists (Café La Flore was full of tourists, but it does have a great quiet upstairs – although the prices!)).  A full exploration of the Café Rousseau will be needed, over tea will be on the agenda (tomorrow afternoon, after French class?).

A great discovery right around the corner from my apartment -- lovely little bakery, which is apparently quite famous, called Poilâne, Catherine Deneuve apparently shops there.  (I bought a yummy brioche).  I also went over to the 8th to an amazing food store called Fauchon.  It carries all sorts of caviars, foie gras, confiture, teas.  I contemplated a $400 an ounce caviar or a $300 a kilo pate, but got instead some blueberry jam and country pâté. Over the next week or so, I want to find a really good cheese shop (I have the name of a potential one in the 14th , called Androuet), a patisserie and chocolate shop (perhaps Tartine et Chocolat in the 7th?).  

On Learning French, in Paris

I have dedicated my meager mental energies to learning some French.  I am planning on taking a month of classes.  But I am getting so that I can mostly understand what people say to me in shops (or at least the main ideas) and can for the most part can ask for what I need (or don’t really need in the case of evil little pastries, but certainly want). I even went and got a hair cut a few days ago and could follow the elaborate story the somewhat flamboyant hairdresser told about his recent trip to Cuba.

I had a very nice dinner a few nights ago with a friend of a friend (Roxanne) and her friend (Elishéva).  Two very nice women and a very nice evening.  It is odd, over the first month here, I felt like my French was improving very fast and I was actually making progress, but in the past few days I think I am regressing.  I think a good deal of my problem is my atrocious accent.  I can be saying the correct word but no one  has any idea what I am actually saying.  With Roxanne, at one point I was describing something about the church of Ste Marie Madeleine and Roxanne had no idea what I was talking about.  I apparently could not say the word "Madeleine" close enough to a French accent for her to understand.  She also could not understand when I said "Marie Antoinette" (even though when she finally understood and said it in 'French', it didn't sound all that different to me - it was a bit surreal "Who?" "Marie Antoinette."  "Who is that?" "Marie Antoinette, she was the queen." "The queen of what?"  "Of France."  "Who?"  "Marie Antoinette.  She was the wife of Louis XVI."  "Oh, you mean Marie Antoinette!").  I must sound like the most awful and boorish American imaginable.  Probably best to just keep my mouth shut most of the time, as I have little or no aptitude for foreign languages.

 Another evening, I attended a dinner party with Roxanne at the apartment of one Delphine (mid twenties, student, from Reunion Island – who knew there were actually people from Reunion Island out there?).  And it was indeed me and eight other francophone.  Of the eight, four spoke ok English, two spoke rudimentary English, and two none at all.  Rozanne made a point of telling every one that I was learning French and that everyone should speak French to give me practice.  So speak French they did. There were about three different conversations going on at all time, fast and full of slang.  I could follow what was being said about 50% of the time, sometimes more, but never enough to actually join in any of the conversations.  Every so often, someone would stop to ask me if I was understanding, and then they jumped back into the conversational torrent.  It was lots of fun.

It is much much easier speaking with non-native speakers, and it is partly that one does not worry about mistakes as much, but it is also that the non-native speakers speak much more slowly.  That helps a lot.

I really do think that at some point confidence in one’s language abilities is more important that actual knowledge.  If one is willing to just say “what the hell” and jump in there, not worrying about mistakes and willing to keep trying, that will yield better communication.  As I have noticed when I am hesitant, even when I know the words I am saying are correct, I often times say them quietly or mumbled, so I am not really understood.  I need to just say them, damn the consequences.  I think this is an attitude that helps one get many of life’s rewards – too bad I cannot adopt it full time.

Oh, I forgot, I went for another hair cut.  This time to a very traditional looking barber shop on the rue du Four.  Cute looking place with an old guy inside.  I was able to get through the whole cut without him realizing I didn’t speak much French.  I faked it well I guess … he chatted away about the World Cup and I grunted at the appropriate places.

He actually did the whole hair cut with just a straight razor, sort of scary … and the end result is … well … not good.  When I got home, I realized that he made the top really short and hide the fact by combing over longer hair from the side.  Very weird.  I might have to go get another cut to fix it, but that would entail a very short cut indeed.  I guess the barber was a bit too old (or he was wondering why I was insisting, in really bad French, on this awful cut).

The Women of Paris

A few thoughts on the Parisian women.  Before I came, I sort of thought I could find my own Brigitte (Yvette, Genevieve), a little amorous adventure to fill my time in the City of Lights.  But after a few weeks, I feel a bit like I am perpetually standing with my nose pressed up against the window of a marvelous boulangerie, a elegant patisserie (or chocolaterie) where all types of lovely desserts are being paraded, cherry topped, chocolate bon bons, an ample Crocumbuche, a friendly Pain au Chocolat, a well aged Gateau Citron – my breath leaving steamy streaks on the window pane – but alas the door to the shop is locked, the shop hours posted in a different language, I hold no local currency.  I fear that the frustration will become such that I will simply stampede through the window, a frustrated American bull stomping and clumping his vulgar way about the shop.  But at least the weather is turning rainy here, so perhaps the shop windows’ shades will be drawn for the next few days … a brief respite before I continue my search for the elusive shop key.

One of my classmates in French class (Marco, and Italian working in Paris) had a very astute comment about French women.  He said, “French women are beautiful, even the ugly French women are beautiful.  They are better looking than the ugly women anywhere else.”  And oddly, it’s true.

Some Time in Paris Being a Tourist

Life in Paris is good.  I decided to spend an extended amount of time in Paris, to get to know the city.  I rented a nice little apartment (quite little: a bedroom that is mostly bed and very little room, and a small kitchen / living room) in the 6th arrondissement, very near St.-Germain des Pres (a great neighborhood on the Left Bank).  I signed up for some French language classes (an easy Metro ride away), and I then dedicated myself to walking all around the rest of the city, exploring.  I also dedicated just a little too much time to the wonderful patisseries, boucheries, boulangeries, charcuteries, brasseries, cafes, bistros, traiteurs, chocolateries, etc.  Not to mention the evil creperies.  Thank god I walk so much.

One of my first sights was the Catacombs, miles and miles of bones buried under the city.  I am a bit of a sucker for an ossuary (how can one not be?).  There are literally millions of people buried down there in miles and miles of tunnels.  Apparently as Paris grew and grew, cemeteries were moved to make room for the new buildings (or more specifically the bodies were moved – and then re-interred here in bony piles.  Each piles with a sign telling where the cemetery was and when the bones were moved.  Over the archway leading to the main part of the ossuary, it reads: Arrète! C’est ici l’empire de la mort.  Rumor has it that in other (non-bony) areas of the Catacombs there are under ground cafes, restaurants and cinemas – a whole underground world hidden under the feet of city.  That same day, after the Catacombs, I also went over to the Pantheon and saw Foucault’s pendulum, worth the trip (and more dead people buried under it too – over the door of the necropolis (what a great word) is the inscription: Aux Grand Hommes la Patrie Reconnaissant (To the Great Men of the Grateful Homeland); buried there are: Voltaire, Rousseau, Alexander Dumas, Marat, Marie Curie.

 As  a side note, I also took a tour of the Paris Sewers (Musée des égouts de Paris, located in the sewers beneath the Quai d’Orsay).  I’m not really a fan of Les Mis, but I do like odd tourist attractions.  This was, in a word, stinky.

 A long walk down into the 14e Arrondissement to check out a weekly book market at 87, rue Brancion (just outside Parc Georges Brassens) – a nice little market where local used and rare book dealers set up in an outside market, about 50 dealers in all.  A lot of odd and strangely French books, although I did see some nice 18th & 19th century books (mostly Hugo, Dumas, Rabelais – the usual suspects) but even a few incunabula.  After that I explored the Marché aux Puces down by Porte de Vanves.

 Paris is a tourist city and there are indeed tourists everywhere; it is Paris after all.  I did go into St. Sulpice (I walk by on an almost daily basis, so I finally stepped in).  There was a funny little sign by the ‘Rose Line” that said in part:  “Contrary to fanciful allegations in a recent best selling novel, this is not a vestige of a  pagan temple.  No such temple ever existed in this place.”  Hehe.   “The Da Vinci Code” opened the next week; I saw it at a theater two blocks away.  Fun to see for the locations, but the movie itself was pretty silly.  I also went on a little walking tour of the locations of the film Amelie.  A nice little neighborhood up on Montmartre.  Another tourist spot that should be visited is Pere Lachaise Cemetery, if for no other reason than to visit the grave of Edith Piaf (or Jim Morrison, depending on one’s musical tastes).

 I was out at Roland-Garros, watching a bit of the French Open.   Fun to see, lots of people, great tennis.  I mostly watched the doubles, as I had the cheap tickets for “the annexes” and could not see any of the major events … but the doubles were great … the weather less so (a few rain delays).  But seeing the great tennis got me inspired to play, so I have found an instructor here in Paris, and also looked online and have found at least one tennis partner.  So I will be able to play!  Now I will just need to pick up a cheap racquet.

 Paris is a city that is accommodating.  Last weekend was “La Nuit des Musees,” where all the museums are open until midnight and are free.  I went to the Louvre.    Saw the Mona Lisa, but mostly enjoyed just wandering about. 

 I’ve met a few nice people here.  A Danish journalist from French class, Brian, and I have wandered about some.  Today we are planning a trip to Versailles (it is a national holiday so no French class!  Whoohoo! Ascension Day or Assumption Day or Consumption Day or something).  Could be fun.

 St. Denis is the patron saint of Paris and because of that, I felt it was important to make a pilgrimage to the Basilica of St. Denis.  Brian and I went last week.  The story of Saint Denis:  He was the 3^rd century Bishop of Paris who spent his time converting the pagans to the holy ways of Christianity.  He was beheaded for his touble, on the highest hill of Paris (what is now MontMartre, the site of the Sacré Coeur church).  But, being a good future saint, his story does not end there.  He apparently picked up his head, dusted it off and walked off in a northerly direction, preaching the whole way.  Where he finally dropped dead (and dropped his head no doubt) became a shrine and the future site of the Basilica of St. Denis.  The Basilica is also where generations of French kings (and queens) are buried.  I especially enjoyed the statues of St. Denis holding his head in his hands.

 Of course Notre Dame is amazing too (except for all those damned tourists).

 A plan for my last days in Paris.  I thought it might be nice to walk through all the arrondissement in one day.  Spiraling out from the Louvre and ending up out by, oh I guess, the Bois de Vincennes.  Might make for a long day, but it might be a nice farewell to the city.  In the alternative, I was thinking of walking down one bank of the Seine and back the other where it flows through the city.  Or perhaps both walks, on alternative days. 

The Winter Olympics in Torino (2006)

Torino: a nice city.  I'd never been here before and had heard it was just a big industrial city (home of Fiat and birth place of Nutella -- so it can't be all bad), but the center is quite nice. Not as big or showy as Milan or Rome, but quite pretty and manageable.  The Winter Olympics were a good excuse to visit.

The morning after we got in, my brother and I took a walk down to Piazza San Carlo (being called "Piazza NBC," because that's where NBC was broadcasting the Today Show -- they were not doing a show when we walked by).  But just across from the Statue of Vittorio Emanuele II (The Egoist), a huge screen showed live broadcasts (in Italian) of all the events.  We were lucky enough to be walking past when the Italian team was competing in the Speed Skating Pursuit (a strange and obscure event); the Italian crowd was cheering and going nuts and when the Italians won there was a mini-celebration in the Piazza.  Very cool.

Later that night, after a dinner of pizza and bruscetta, we headed over to Torino Esposizioni to see the US play Kazakhstan in hockey.  Interesting crowd. Lots of Americans (of course), too many American flags, a surprising number of fans dressed in the awful colors of Kazakhstan (baby blue and yellow), lots of Italians with their faces painted in the Italian flag (not really sure why), three blonde Latvian women, looking like triplets, dressed in Latvian shirts and holding "USA" signs (not sure what that was about).

Have the fun of the hockey game was talking to some of the folks sitting around us. To my right was a family from Minnesota, two kids (12ish), parents and a brother-in-law from Florida (the kids knew all the US players by name and their stats). In front of us a father and son (50ish and 30ish) from Worcester, Mass. The son from Worcester kept on chucking whenever the announcer said "Kazakhstan" cause he couldn't get Borat out of his head ("I like to smell people!").  He said he always just assumed that Kazakhstan was a fake country that Ali G made up.  He also had seen The Daily Show commentary on the Opening Ceremonies; his only source of news.

During the game, the annoying chants of "USA!  USA!" were heard periodically, made me cringe every time, although I guess this is the appropriate venue.  Oddly enough, the 20-something Italians a few rows behind us joined in the chanting (even started some USA chants on their own).  I couldn't tell if they were mocking the American fans or just enjoying the scene.  They were cheering equally for the Kazakhstanis.  And I think I figured out something from those Italians behind us.  Those odd 70s disco songs that played during the opening ceremonies: Well they were playing during the hockey game too, same weird techno versions of old disco hits -- and the Italians sang along with every one -- I think they only knew these new weird versions of the songs and not the originals -- so those songs must be an Italian thing. 

This next morning we headed over to the main Olympic Souvenir shop in Piazza Vittorio Veneto, to perhaps watch some of the live Today show broadcast (my brother promised one of his biker friends (who has a pony tail, tattoos, the whole bit (and who now has a job delivering corpses around the state of California)) that he would wave.  We missed the broadcast.  At the Olympic Souvenir shop, I;d really wanted to buy a scarf with the Swiss flag on it. I thought it would be a good totem to wear as I travel around the world.  Whenever I am feeling that anti-American sentiments are getting a little too aggressive, I could slip that scarf around my neck --  Who would ever bother a Swiss?? They didn't have any.  But I did find that the scarf I was wearing looks remarkably like the Latvian flag (who would've guessed?), so I might be ok anyway.

That afternoon we drove out of the city to see the Skeleton: our whole reason for being at the Olympics in the first place: we know the coach -- a childhood friend, Go Orv!  The Skeleton took place at night, so it was a bit chilly, and the bleachers where our seats were located were at the top of the hill -- about a mile long icy walk along the track.  

Skeleton is pretty much an insane sport.  One lies face down on a little taboggan and shoots head-first down an icy track at 80 miles per hour, with one's nose about 6 inches off the ice (Not to be confused with "luge," that sport for pussies who go down the track feet first).  All in all, not a sport to watch live (or really at all come to think of it).  In our seats in the bleachers, huddled and cold, we could see the Skeletoneers trot along at the start and throw themselves onto the sled ... and then they are gone from sight.  That's all we could see.  Later we left our seats and tried watching at different spots along the course, in a futile attempt to see something, anything, of the action.  But all you could see was a blur as the sled sped by -- and most spots along the course did not even offer that, just a bank of ice where you could hear the sled pass.  The US team sucked anyway and we left early.

The next day, in the morning we drove out to see the Super G (skiing).  Again, not a particularly good spectator sport.  All you can really see is the finish, and watch the rest on the big screens. But in our case, it was a moot point anyway. The Super G got snowed out.  Of course the announcement did not come until after a delay of 4 hours, with us sitting under an ever increasing snow drift.  We didn't stay to see if it would ever begin again, as we wanted to get back to the city to see the hockey game.

The last event we saw was USA v. Slovokia in hockey. It was an excellent game and quite the scene in the stands.  More Slovaks (Slovakians?  Slovakanistas?) than Americans, and a boisterous bunch are they.  But everyone was good natured. In the lobby between periods, I saw an American woman come up to 6 big Slovaks, dressed in team hockey jersies, strange hats, painted faced, the whole bit ... she asked if she could get a picture with them, with lots of hand signals.  They said sure and promptly picked her up and held her lying across their arms.  It was cute and they were perfect gentlemen.

I think if I ever see another Olympics, I will stick with watching hockey.