Paris - The Pretty and the Gritty

Typical Paris.

Also Paris.

This is my first time in Paris. In the weeks leading up to my arrival I entertained visions of beautiful architecture, clean streets, and slim, well-dressed people who smoked too many cigarettes, and who would judge me harshly if I didn’t hold my fork and knife “correctly” while eating my dinner.

I was partially right. The people do smoke a lot, sure, but they are far less intimidating than I’d feared. And while much of the architecture in the city is beautiful, I wouldn’t call the streets clean, even in the nicer neighborhoods.  

What I’ve come to realize over the past two weeks is that Paris is just another city. It has a rich history, is/was home to many brilliant artists and intellectuals, and boasts some incredibly delicious local cuisine. But when you get down to it, it's real and it's accessible and that makes it even better than the glamourized versions of Paris that reside in some people’s minds. The various neighborhoods are reminiscent of cities that I’ve lived in and loved, and I’m excited and fortunate to be able to add Paris to that list.

The following two poems, works-in-progress written for class this Maymester,  illustrate the evolution of my experiences in and feelings about Paris over the last two weeks:

A Conversation

On the metro, crushed up against strangers, French speaking strangers. Even the immigrants speak perfect French with perfect French accents. I feel inadequate and dull. Some days I can barely find my own voice in a language I speak fluently.  And right now I am sweating from every pore, my shirt awkwardly damp beneath my armpits and on my chest, but especially on my back, where it is trapped between my skin and the oversized forty pound pack that keeps threatening to pull my feet out from under me. A man’s dog lies on the floor by his feet. A baby squeals once, and then is silent. I think about the baby and the dog and how they bark and growl and squeal and cry and don’t need fancy words or proper pronunciations or specific verb tenses or conjugations to be understood and accepted and cared for. I haven’t had a coherent conversation with another human being in days, and it’s lonely living inside of my own head all of the time. I rest my body (and my pack) back against the doors of the metro, beside a tall, handsomely average man. His girlfriend, who has been leaning listlessly against him, tenses, as she weaves her territorial arms around his torso and glares at me. I stand my ground and glare back. And then I realize how much has just been said, and I turn away so that she won’t see me smile.

The Paris Metro - Accessible and adorable.

1 Rue D’Arras - Biere Academy

The place was dark and cool and nearly empty,

 a refreshing change from the sun-soaked fancy pants cafes that seem to line every main avenue.

I had been drawn to the bar by the long row of exotic (to me) tap beers, to so many words I could never pronounce,

and because I was done being just another tourist paying 8 euro (12 dollars!) for a few ounces of Stella Artois.

The bartender ignored me for a good five minutes.

He was on a seemingly important phone call, and on a land line no less,

so I waited, because I was in Paris, and what else did I have to do that afternoon?

I fell happily in love with my choice, a demi DeKonick blonde (3 euro 80).

Smokey Robinson and the Miracles’ “Tears of a Clown” began to play,

followed by “Rock the Casbah,” by whoever sings that,

Elvis and Ben Harper and Aretha hung out on the walls

I looked out the window to the tight, hilly little street,

the apartments and colorful storefronts stacked on top of one another

and just for a second I believed I was back in Seattle’s Capitol Hill, of all places.

Biere Academy - It's a real place.

Also, I went to Versailles and ran into this guy:

"Resolving to seek no knowledge other than that of which could be found in myself or else in the great book of the world, I spent the rest of my youth traveling...mixing with people of diverse temperaments and ranks, gathering various experiences, testing myself in the situations which fortune offered me, and at all times reflecting upon whatever came my way so as to derive some profit from it."

~Jessica

Spoken Word Paris- Cabaret Populaire/ Culture Rapide: May 23, 2011

Corey Arterian

Andrew (or Andrei, as they call him) Ramirez

Diana Vaden

La Prof: Cecilia Woloch

Lesley Wasserman

Bryan (in the kitchen) King

 These were all taken by Adèle Giraud at last week's spoken word event. We will be going back tonight for more and we'll add the pictures!

Friendly French

I haven't taken a French course in over 3 years. And in spite of having taken 6 years of French in my academic career, I suck at speaking it. Although, I often have little conversations in my head, which go quite smoothly, but once actually faced with a real person, I clam up. I just trip over "oui...uhhh...je...suis?...oui...merci." Or something along those lines, which is just depressing. I can't help but think that I am being slyly laughed at by Parisians all around.

But, today, I spoke French! In fact, I had a rather lengthy conversation in French. I was sitting by, what I am calling, the Mini Arc De Triomphe in front of the Louvre and writing in my poetry journal. As I was deep in thought, vigorously scratching out half-formed ideas, an older man stopped by and said: "Vous etes jolie quand vous ecrivez." (Or something like that, as I said, my French sucks... point is: I understood him). I laughed and said "Merci."

He sat next to me and commenced speaking in French. I was astonished that I could understand him extremely well. When he asked questions, I responded in French. Sure, I stumbled, but he didn't seem to mind and encouraged the conversation.

When he found out that I was from the United States, he seemed surprised, although, it must have been a feigned emotion. He told me that I didn't seem American, which, I suppose I must take as a compliment. I was just so happy to be speaking and understanding French. I felt so accomplished. Furthermore, having someone who probably could easily speak English, but chose to speak French with me was a delightful change of pace. Generally, I walk into a cafe, and attempt to let the server know that I am going to be sitting down outside, and I will be two words in before I am cut off by their English and led to a table.

This is frustrating, to say the least. I understand that it's probably even more frustrating to sit around for 3 minutes while someone tries to fumble out a sentence, but I have to say that with the positive conversational environment that this man fostered, I was able to speak fairly well--at least, well enough to keep the conversation afloat. So, a little patience goes a long way. I was confident with my French and it was awesome!

Since I don't have any pictures for this post (or any pictures at all... camera is broken), I am just going to end it with one of my favorite pictures that has nothing to do with Paris and everything to do with basic awesomeness:

Sincerely,
Corey

Cafe L'Embuscade

"Fill me up Kronenbourg, fill me up gin!
Line my stomach with yeast and don't let me in
When I pound on the door demanding another;
I do not mean to upset my mother.
She thinks I drink too much already,
It's true I do like to pound them steady . . ."

This is the genius that comes when I write at the Cafe L'Embuscade (that's sarcasm by the way; I know it doesn't always translate it France). It is a small cafe right below our apartment, 111 Boulevard Richard Lenoir. Its proximity makes it convenient in a number of ways, mostly in that we don't have to worry about getting home before the metros close (which can really suck when you're in Montmartre . . . and you don't have money for a taxi . . . and it's a 45 minute walk home . . . and shady drunk men like to approach you in the street). But moving right along, we've discovered that it seems to be open at all sorts of convenient times, like when we leave in the morning for class, when we stop for a drink before we go out, and when we stop for a drink after we go out. From the very beginning, Corinne and I earmarked it as a place to become regulars. Fortunately, this is a goal we were very quick in achieving.

So one night after a couple of us had celebrated the sunset with a bottle of wine (because really, every Paris sunset over the Seine warrants such celebration) Corinne and I decide to head to the cafe. Our intentions were noble. The plan was to go there with our laptops, have a beer or two, and either blog or write some poetry. I had barely asked the bartender for the WiFi code when two slightly older and very well dressed men approached us. They introduced themselves as Simon (See-mon) and Adrien and ask what we were doing. When we explain that we're here for the month studying poetry, they of course get very excited. This is followed by the customary Baudelaire-Rimbaud-Apollonaire name dropping. Eventually our talk moves on to soccer, tattoos, and St. Louis, Missouri - nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

It was a little while before I notice that these men have positioned themselves very strategically. See-mon is leaning over Corinne, deeply engaged in conversation with her, leaving Adrien sitting sort of dangerously close to me. So I try to make small talk, something I'm typically very bad at to begin with. I find out he's a teacher of literature in what is the equivalent of an American high school. I tell him that starting in June, I'll be teaching the exact same subject in Detroit, Michigan. I ask both men if they have ever heard of Detroit. They give the same "oh shit" reaction that I get from Americans when I tell them I'm moving there. "Have you been?" I ask See-mon and Adrien. "No, but we've seen it in the movies." Corinne and I look at each other. "Like 8 Mile, right?" Neither of the men seem to understand. "How does that translate in French?" I ask Corinne. "Huit . . . kilometer?" Blank stares. "Never mind."

The next time I look over, See-mon is holding Corinne's hand. I sigh. The thing is that See-mon's a charmer and Adrien is well . . . not. See-mon has tickets to the opera. He's going on a business trip to the Alps this weekend. He knows where we can find absinthe. Adrien and I should get along spectacularly. But when he asks me if he can hold my hand too, I'm not particularly thrilled. I excuse myself to go the bathroom.

When I return, Corinne and See-mon are . . . pre-occupied. Adrien is still trying to get my attention. I decide that I need another drink. Adrien offers to buy me wine. I tell him that I prefer beer. He gives me a look, and asks, no, almost begs to buy me wine instead. I tell him that I like the Grimbergen. "What's wrong with beer?" I ask. "Nothing," he says hesitantly. "It's just that the girls who drink beer are . . ." He pauses. I give him a steely look. "What's wrong with girls that drink beer?" He backs down. "Nothing," he finally replies.

Did I mention that "L'Embuscade" translates into "the ambush"?

There is no better time to make friends with the bartender, who knows my face but not my name. He introduces himself as Salma and tells me he is from Algeria. He doesn't speak English very well, but he has a friendly smile and he plays Janis Joplin. When Adrien steps out for a cigarette, I tell him, "Salma, I don't know what to do with this guy. I don't like him." When I ask if they come to the cafe often, he says yes and that they are good people. It didn't occur to me that there might already be "regulars" at this place. But Salma turns to me and says that if they give us a problem, we should let him know. I say "merci beaucoup" as warmly as I know how to, and as I have done every time, give him a 50 cent coin as a tip for my drink.

It is at this point that Adrien returns. He asks me why I have given the barteder a tip, especially when this is not something "we do" in Paris. I won't go into details, but at this point we get into a debate about the custom of tipping, how I think every person in a service position deserves a tip, how I used to be a waitress and I lived on tips, etc. We get to a point where Adrien becomes the translator between me and the bartender. I learn that Salma uses his tip money to buy cigarettes. Salma learns that Janis Joplin is one of my favorite singers. And Adrien finally learns that I am not interested, and disappears.

Salma and I continue our conversation. He lets me come behind the bar and put on the Beatles' "Twist and Shout." We talk about our favorite American bands. He tells me that his favorite is Led Zeppelin, and since I'm three beers in by this point, I get way more excited about this then I should be. I ask him if he likes Jacques Brel, although it takes a while, because he thinks I keep saying "Jackie Brown." When I finally get the message across, he looks at me with a sort of reverence. "Jacques Brel, I love" he says.

Corinne tells me she's ready to leave. Her and Simon exchange phone numbers. I tell Salma we'll see him soon, probably tomorrow. And it's not until we get to the apartment that I realize what a good night we've had.

My Experiences, Thus Far

This is front row at Shakespeare and Co. Jack Hirschman and Sylvia Whitman looking for something, man. Jack gave an inspirational reading of his poetry, he is RADICAL!
I spend my weekends skateboarding at Dôme, which is the Tokyo Museum, with my new friend Hugo. He likes to practice speaking English with me, and I try to learn French from him...not working out so well.
This is a picture from an evening spent on the Pont Des Arts Bridge over the Seine River. This is where winos come to hang out and lovers put locks on the fence to show their love for one another. I also gave a rose to a beautiful Parisian girl and it went swell, but I have yet to hear from her...
Oscar Wilde has many red lipstick wearing lovers...it doesn't really make sense, but I'm sure he would appreciate the love.

Seriously? Can you?

This past Monday 5/23 our class went to Culture Rapide to take part in the weekly spoken word! It was a blast and a few of our class members spoke: ME, Andrew Ramirez, Corey Arterian, Lesley Wasserman, Diana Vaden, and Cecilia and Suzanne. We definitely will be back next week!

Group Photo!

Getting prepared to do some spoken word with my poet juice drank.

Looking forward to more adventures! And a quote that reveals my feelings:

"In Paris they simply stared at me when I spoke to them in French. I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their laungauge." Mark Twain

Sincerely,

Bryan "is in the kitchen" King

Peripatetic Paris

Sounds of a water fountain, women with baby strollers, pigeons, cafés, tourists in baseball caps, cigarette butts, businessmen. Shards of language—English, Spanish, Italian, Chinese, German, Russian. The sound of a saxophone, pickpockets, an empty Veuve Cliquot Champagne bottle on the sidewalk next to gypsies, teenagers, the occasional aristocrat.



This is Paris. This is Paris on the Left Bank in the 6th arrondissement next to the Fontaine St. Michel. The Île de la Cité is in near us. It’s Wednesday afternoon on a sunny spring day and we’re walking parallel to the Seine.



Paris is a pedestrian’s dream—just watch out for manic motor bikers and buses. Charles Baudelaire is credited with creating a verb to express the idea of someone who walks in the city for pleasure, for passion, for nothing: flâner. What a deep pleasure it is to walk here among the café terrasses, bookstores, boulangeries, open-air markets, galleries, boutiques.



Consider the words of author and dreamer Jules Renard: “Ajoutez deux lettres à Paris: c’est le paradis.” (“Add two letters to Paris: it’s paradise.”) Although not a paradise every day—Metro crush at rush hour, long lines at stores, at banks, at everywheres—I do agree with Monsieur Renard on this particular point: Paris is a bliss for pedestrians.



Living in the US, I was always in my car. I moved to Paris eight years ago and I’ve never had a car here and wouldn’t want one—not only because it is very difficult and expensive to find parking, but also because one of the principle pleasures of Paris is to discover the city on foot. There’s something new around the corner. It may sound kitsch or false or facile, but the truth is—it’s the truth.



Remember Baudelaire’s prose poem “Enivrez-vous!” (“Get Drunk!”)? And his entreaty to be passionate about the wind, the wave, the star, to allow this heightened awareness and rawness be a part of your experience—be it on the page or in the street—to be conscious of all that moves, all that flees, all that lives? Remember him? To his words I would add: get lost—get lost in Paris—and write, write, write about it—share it here on this blog, with a friend, with your class, with your family, your cat, or with the grass and sky, but write, write—write without ceasing.



xo,
Heather Hartley

Prepping for Monday's special guest.
2 hour reading and Q&A with Marilyn Hacker. Amazing opportunities every day here for us poets in Paris.

Art Breeding Art

Art happens when you let the world touch you in ways you could not even imagine…now enter the room with the felt-covered walls.

In Paris, art is literally everywhere, from the architecture and museum exhibits to words sprawled across café awnings. The whole city is a conversation about the imitation of life and you enter into that language of body, color, texture, and shape with a wide listening eye.

On visiting the Hotel de Ville for L’Exposition des Impressionnistes:

The room smelled of color and years. Each painting framed and displayed according to style and theme. The people grateful for a moment of silent art-enthused catharsis…completely gratuit. They wove through the paintings and gazed at the noise of the charcoal, pencil, and paint. There’s a deep soulful language spoken by the seers and the viewed. They tell us of obscurity, humans and landscape colliding in blur and brushstroke. We whisper with our eyes, “oh, I’ve seen this somewhere - in a dream, yesterday, down the street - before.”

I was sucked into each painting – the familiar blur, the foreign stroke. The materials are common but the texture is different. I found myself wondering, “from which perspective am I viewing the balance of values?”

I viewed them from the stance of poetry and language:

On Jacques-Émile Blanche

Portrait de femme 1887

Which shapes make a woman? Which colors

Translate her timid flirtatious gaze?

The curve of her spine and

black volume of the draped cloth

The sense of exotic Hottentot hidden under her dress

The contrast of her pale skin—the rose of her

Ear—the fire-tint of the hair, the dark shift of her eye

Against a tan slated wall of nowhere

She stands, gloved hands gently resting

In her manchon—the subtle mole on her face

—the unheard of white blemish-less pearl

The profile of a woman painted by a man

On walking through Centre Pompidou

Now enter the room with the felt-covered walls

A circumvoluted jigsaw dance with life

—the cave, the canvas, the political weapon—

and long strips of sheet music colors

Now enter the room of dangling mirrors

and rattling static vibrating white noise

Sawing through the thick silence of reason

The test of intimate gesture in texture

And space, turning your focus inside out

Now enter the room of three screens of voices

Hear the language of children recreating

Picasso’s Weeping Woman:

“maybe she’s crying because she’s laughing”

Now enter the room of space and affection…

Bukowski on Paris (for Matthew)

Paris

never
even in calmer times
have I ever
dreamed of
bicycling through that
city
wearing a
beret

and
Camus
always
pissed
me
off.

Charles Bukowski

What to Do When You Don't Love Paris

I KNOW. I know, I know I know IknowIknowIknow. Don't say it. I already know.

How in the monde could you not love Paris?!

Well, the answer is complicated.. it's you. I don't love Paris because of you. Okay, not the "you" you but the collective, hypothetical, I'm-using-this-in-an-argument-and-it's-time-to-accept-the-metaphor-or-whatever you. The "you" that calls Paris, The City of Love and Lights and the "you" that brings up only the ~pretty~ pictures of the Eiffel Tower (not the kind you take yourself and look like shit cause even if you have a nice camera who hasn't taken that same photo from that same spot behind the gated grass a million freakin' times!?!?) on the Google search and the same "you" that says the French really don't hold it against anyone for not speaking their language -- except that some of them do and when they do, they REALLY do and maybe don't serve you or just continue to give you a really French stank face while you eat their delicious food (yeah, the person who said this one, you're on my "You Suck" list).

Let me be clear ("For once!" you cry out). I don't hate Paris. There are things to really, really admire and cherish about this city. For one, there are buildings. And they're old. And nice. And old. Yeah, I'm not getting better at this. Maybe I'm just a stuck-up American who can't appreciate fine things in life and maybe my idea of a beautiful city isn't one where I'm sweating constantly because I don't want the natives to think I'm American (which, hello! I'm sorry, but I am!). Which is why I'm writing about this -- about what to do when you find yourself inextricably not in love with The City of Love (and Lights).

You do the following:

1) Eat the hell out of this city. Seriously. Do it. If there's one thing Paris has going on, it's cuisine. The cheeses, wines, eggs, crepes, breads, desserts, coffee, etc. It's all amazing. Hell, even their butter is amazing. And I, who have never really enjoyed butter, found myself at 3 AM eating the butter OUT OF THE CARTON (sorry to my roommate, Diana. I couldn't help myself!). Maybe it was my menopause but maybe it was just that the food is so unfairly delicious that I could not stop eating it. Julia Child, we have something in common after all.

2) Don't let anyone tell you what to do here. This was my biggest mistake. I kept asking people who had been (even some who hadn't) what I should be doing while I'm in Paris. Literally, I have the longest list in the world and half of it sounds ass-backwards boring. I'm sorry, but it does. The truth here is that being in Europe -- or really, anywhere you don't already live -- comes with a lot of pressure. It means that you need to explore and see things and do things and never be in one place for more than five minutes because you might miss something. Who wants to come to a city to race around and never stop and appreciate what you're racing through? Not me. And I had to learn this the hard way. Do yourself a favor: do whatever you want to do and have no regrets about it. This is YOUR trip. Do what you want.


3) Sleep. Jet lag sucks. Get some rest before you get anything else done. Or you might die. Enough said.

4) If you don't speak French, speak whatever you know how to speak. This is a tough (and possibly controversial one). Look, I understand speaking the language in a country with a national language (I'm looking at you, America) is respectful. But what if you took Spanish in high school or have a really hard time learning a new language? Should you never visit Paris? No. You should. But don't come here and police yourself every single time you trip over your Merci's and Au revoir's. You are going to mess up somewhere. Accept it and speak what you know, then move back into familiar territory. I promise, loosening up will save you days of stress and frees you up to enjoy what you're here for: the food, the sights, and the people. But mostly the food.

5) Do something alone. I think this one is the most important thing you can do for yourself. I'm going to be the first to say it: traveling in groups can be the suck. You constantly feel you have to be "on" (lest anyone begin to inquire, "What's wrong? You're so quiet!"), there is never a decision completely within your control, and then there's the occasional desire to, you know, just look at something or eat something without being prodded to comment on it. Yes, Paris has beautiful architecture but can't we just appreciate it without having a 20-minute conversation on how beautiful the architecture in Paris is!? But here's the thing: Go out and do something. Find an empty bench. Discover a tiny, hole-in-the-wall brasserie that serves things you can't pronounce. Take three hours to drink a tiny cup of espresso. Whatever you do, find a moment -- a glimpse at the vibrant life here that the postcards and movies haven't already cliched into oblivion. Find this moment, this little picture that belongs only to you. And never tell anyone about it. Ever. Because it's yours. It's your own personal postcard of Paris that you'll never send to anyone except yourself. It is your version of the French capital that will crack an unexpected but totally deserved smile when people ask you how was Paris. It is the reason you came here in the first place, to The City of Love and Lights. It is what you do when you don't love Paris, but find one stupid little reason to really, really like it anyway.

-- Matthew Cruz

Coup de foudre

I am in love, I am in love: I have drunk a good dizzying gulp. I with an analytical mind and a shortsighted soul now feel completely solemn… And I walk along the streets. The Luxembourg Gardens are flooded with a great gaiety of bells. If she doesn’t love me, if she can’t be wholly mine, what difference will it make? I am in love, that’s enough; I feel generous, holy, human, trembling, so filled with things that I dare not look myself in the eye… No joking, I really mean all that I say.

-Jules Laforgue (trans. William Jay Smith)

Behold the Laforgue beauty. Go ahead and bathe in that indulgence. We walking clichés won’t tell anybody. Who are we to talk, we USC Trojans who fled the States to live out the romanticized lives of starving Parisian poets for one precious, post-semester month? NOBODY, that’s who.

Query: When M. Laforgue writes of this “she,” whose reciprocated affection he doesn’t necessarily require, is he referring to (a) a lady friend, or (b) Paris herself?

Let’s be honest here. Can’t anyone walking these stable, narrow cobblestone streets of Paris fall in love with every goddamn footstep? When we “remember to look up”—as our excessively lovely tour guide and poet friend, Heather Hartley, suggested—doesn’t every living being swoon a bit at each Parisian windowsill’s intricate little grate guarding its lower half? Mustn’t we catch our breath when we realize that the restaurant we’re idling next to has been standing since 1686 (1687, depending on who you talk to, says Heather)?

You drink in this beauty far too quickly—shoot the friggin’ thing back—and now think, Ah yes, this is the width that a street is meant to be, of course, with these buildings hugging me so close at either side! How have I lived otherwise?

Who even remembers the idea of Laforgue’s human lover anymore? Paris has swallowed her up. Sister didn’t stand a chance.

Shit, friends. I am in love. I am in love! So filled with things that I dare not look myself in the eye! No joking, children. No joking.

So let’s do this, and let’s do this the right way, shall we? Let’s raise our glasses of kir (cassis? pȇche?) and look each other in the eye with every clink. If your waiter asks if you speak French, always answer, un peu, un peu. He will likely speak to you in English anyway.

And what difference will it make. You are in love.