"Monday Afternoon at Parc des Buttes Chaumont" by Sophia Kang

Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

Podcasts of Our Celebratory Reading at Shakespeare & Company

Podcast Powered By Podbean

Part One: If the player does not appear above, click here to listen at Vlogosophy on Podbean.

Podcast Powered By Podbean

Part Two: If the player does not appear above, click here to listen at Vlogosophy on Podbean.

A few words about the final reading ...

I think “triumph” is the best word to describe the final evening of The Poet in Paris program.  The student-poets read their recent work in the upstairs room of Shakespeare and Company Books— an honor in recent years conferred upon some of the most respected living writers on the planet — with the spires of Notre Dame in the window behind them and a standing-room-only audience in front of them — in fact, the crowd snaked down a narrow aisle into the backroom and even onto the staircase — enthralled by their poetry, their originality and verve. No less an aficionado of the Anglophone scene in Paris than Adrian Leeds pronounced it THE best poetry reading she’s ever attended, period. I couldn't agree more. Kudos to all of you!

And then there were two...

As we end this month long extravaganza in Paris, I can't help but reminisce...however I quickly realize that it is impossible to sit down and remember every moment, every laugh, and every joke, and I'm pissed that I didn't take more pictures. But here's the thing: I hate taking pictures. Don't get me wrong, I love the memories, and I love capturing great moments, but to get to those great moments, you have to go through so many shitty ones! Everyone takes pictures of Paris, EVERYONE, so I feel that nothing I take is original, except the pictures of people I’m with.

And now as just about everyone is gone (two more goodbyes today, and then there are only two of us left), I'm really sad that it's all over. I can never get enough of Paris, and I don't think I ever will…and I’m definitely not looking forward to the depression I’ll be experiencing when I’m back in Los Angeles. I’m very aware of how shallow and superficial “France depression” sounds, but I only say it because last year when I lived in France for the summer, the same thing happened when I got back to L.A…and I quickly realized that even though I grew up in southern California, it’s not the best place for me.

Our final poetry reading at Shakespeare & Co. was absolutely fantastic. It was just shy of two hours, which seems so long, but I found everyone’s to be so great and authentic to his or her character. It was really wonderful to end our four weeks of poetry workshops and reflection with this reading. Thanks to Cecilia Woloch and Heather Hartley for reading too! The after-party at Cecilia’s was also fantastic; it was nice to just be able to converse and mingle with everyone in our workshop and our guests!

Here are a few gems of that night.










Photos taken by JENNY HUXTA

"My Green Hour Says the Walls Will Crumble"

by Kelly Baron



Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

Corey Arterian

rappin' and readin' to a full house at Spoken Word Paris



Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

Les Belles Vivantes

As much fun as it is to be a student abroad, enjoying all of the touristy experiences with American friends, there’s nothing quite like total immersion in another culture. Here in France, that may mean learning to be a “belle vivante” and enjoying the high culture: sipping a Kir at the Hotel le Bristol, appreciating the delicate nuances of good Calvados in Normandy, or even just learning the difference between a good boulangerie and a great boulangerie based on the baguettes in the window.But there are also less expensive experiences that are nonetheless so typically Parisian you know you couldn’t possibly find them anywhere else: opening up a bottle of wine amongst friends on the Pont des Arts, over a tombstone in Pere Lachaise, on the Isle de la Cite, or even simply in a random park, the name of which you will never remember.

It was in just such a park that a couple of classmates and I had one of our first impromptu cultural experiences. We had picked up a bottle of wine and some lunch after class, then found a nearby park where we could eat, read poetry, and relax in the sun. As we were reading, a tall man with a giant can of Heineken walked by and called out, “Sante!” We returned the greeting and took a drink ourselves, and before we knew it he had joined us on the grass.

Most Americans shy away from political conversation when they meet strangers. Not so with Parisians. Our new friend quickly listed off several of the preferred anti-American stereotypes that you hear frequently overseas: Americans are violent, Americans can’t speak other languages, Bush, Obama, Bush, Obama, and so on and so forth. We decided to change the topic, and when we noted his accent, he informed us that he was from Equitorial Guinea—then immediately threw his visa to the ground before us and informed us that he was a law student. If this were not enough of a lesson on French racial politics, he then continued by adamantly assuring us that Africans were not rapists, and if they were, it was because they

learned to rape when they came to Europe.

There didn’t seem to be any appropriate response to this statement, so we simply began reading aloud some Baudelaire. He mentioned that he had written some poetry himself, and recited aloud an amazing piece of spoken word poetry, not all of which I could understand, but which was nonetheless really enjoyable to listen to. We continued reading for a bit, and he invited us to stay for a while so he could bring his friends and play some African music in the park. Unfortunately, however, it was time to go.

Soon after, we had an entirely different live music experience—proving that not everything in Paris is that different from what you might find at home. We heard about an electronica party in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont with the DJ from Hot Chip, so of course we decided we had to check it out. When we arrived, we found all of the familiar trappings of quality electronica (albeit, in a giant glass building in a beautiful 150-year-old park). The crowd was young and hipster, drinks were small and overpriced, and the smoking terrace was crowded beyond capacity. We soon befriended some young Parisians, who hung out with us during the party, then stole some beers from the afterparty and invited us to hang out with them some more. After a quick, illegal ride on the back of a Vespa, we found ourselves in one of the few late-night bars in the area. There we chatted, listened to music, and tried absinthe-- I have no idea why absinthe is not more popular in the States.

When I started this post I was planning on steering clear of too much alcohol-related material. I had planned to write about French dinner parties on the Seine. About luncheons out in the countryside. About sailing trips in Bretagne.... but come to think of it, the French always manage to get through a few bottles of champagne and wine at those events, too. So I guess there's nothing else to say, but Vive la France!

For more notes on French culture, please see the video below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5hrUGFhsXo

"The Schools Will Be Filled with Do What You Will"

by Bryan King


Filmed and Edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

"Pulp"

by Andrew Ramirez



Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

Oh Boy

There should be warning signs: The dogs in Paris are adorable. Scary adorable—the kind of adorable that gets you wondering about your priorities in the event of a high rise apartment fire.

“That’s easy,” a friend told me the other night. “You save the fucking dog obviously.”

We were staring at a little black terrier with a spray of white across his face.

“But say you have kids,” I said. “You know, humans….”

“Look at those eyes. You don’t say no to those eyes.”

The dog chased its tail to the sound of trumpets and upright bass and brush-stick percussion. We were listening to live jazz in the 10^th district. The dog rolled onto its side and looked directly at me. “God you’re right,” I said. “I think I could die for that dog.”

Two minutes later we’d named it Charles, Charlie for short, and had devised one or twelve variations for getting it through Customs and safely back to LA with us.

The festival flyer had promised free food and drink at the jazz festival, but when I got there I discovered a foldout table with plastic bowls of peanuts and punch, a basket of unripe fruit, and a metal cash box with a sign taped to it, asking for donations.

I started in on a second plantain and my third cup of juice. In Paris, where the dollar to euro conversion rate is a steel-tipped boot kick to the crotch, I can make entire meals out of anything. Plus, ambiance is everything, and Paris has it down pat. For some strange reason, getting ripped off is a little easier in Paris. There’s a sense that you’re paying for the city you’re in. A six dollar half pint isn’t a rip-off like it is in the States. More so, it’s an investment in cliché postcard beauty, the City of Lights. Never visit Disneyland before you visit Paris. I’m still waiting for Mickey Mouse to parade down one of these streets to When You Wish Upon A Star….

But Paris, believe it or not, is a functioning city. And for me that’s hard to understand. For the foreigner from Texas, spending money takes on a sense of investment when surrounded by well-dressed Disney cast members speaking French next to you. There's magic in the trash in the streets, the public drinking fountains, the public drinking in the parks, the rotten good smell of the 9^th district, all of it swirling down a funnel toward the weird perfection that blooms out of every plume of smoke blown by the girl with the red lipstick….What’s her name, you wonder. I wonder how much she’s getting paid to look that good, you wonder. And then she walks away and you were half-expecting music to start up at some point.

Which is why there should be warning signs. I think that would help—the first night I was here I spent 20 euros, or thirty-something dollars, on dinner because I fell in love with the waitress. That night I went home and considered proposing. Then I came to my senses and decided to start with her name. Needless to say, it hasn’t come to anything. Worth mentioning: she’s my age and studying film and her name starts with an L but I didn’t catch the rest.

*

I went back to the fruit and peanut stand for my fourth cup of juice, third cup of peanuts, and second apricot. The server filled me up, but by this point he’d started with the sideways glances at the donation box—of which I’d yet to drop a cent in. He said something in French, to which I responded, Thanks. Then he said something else and I turned my head sideways and nodded okay. But he kept talking at me in French so I grouped up all my plastic and took off.

I found my friend playing patty-cakes with a tiny blond toddler. The little girl grabbed at my friend’s pearls and held on. My friend was polite, went along with it, and finally the mother came over and undid the little white hands. The girl threw a tantrum and started crying. She broke free from her mom and lunged at the pearls again, this time locking on with her mouth too. The mother moved quickly and removed her a second time. The girl wouldn’t stop crying. She spit on the floor, slapped her little feet on the pavement, pulled at her hair. Finally the mother produced an ice cream bar and it all stopped.

The music was still going, and when I looked over at the stage four or five guys in black and blue suits had taken the stage, replacing the previous musicians who sported Hawaiian-type shirts and about half the musical chops of the suited-up guys playing now. The jazz sounded much better, tighter, but I couldn’t recall when the switch had been made, and suddenly I toyed with the notion that my punch had been spiked. Maybe I was drunk.

The black terrier scooted over to me and rolled over onto its back. I gave it a good pet on the stomach.

“I’d take the dog over the little girl,” my friend said. “Kids learn to talk and it’s all downhill from there. Dogs only get wiser by the minute.”

“I think you’re on to something,” I said. “We better leave soon. The concession guy is getting frustrated. I think he wants a donation.”

The dog jumped up, went over to the little blond girl who was sitting on a curb with the ice cream bar. He took it right out of her hand. It was gone before the girl could start crying again.

“I would take a bullet for that dog,” we both said at almost the same time.

"Untitled Freewrite"

by Matthew Cruz


Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

La Normandie

Wednesday morning at 08:00 we boarded a bus and were off to Normandie. Personally I love bus rides. It's a brilliant way to see the countryside—huge windows! I'm not sure if "excited" is the best word to describe how I was feeling about going to Normandie, but I was certainly looking forward to it. I'd been wanting to go for years, but was never able to make it, so the anticipation of finally getting there was definitely present.

Our first stop was at Le Mémorial de Caen, where we watched a film about the D-Day landing, and proceeded to spend the next few hours going through the museum that encompassed before, during and after World War II.

I've taken quite a few classes on The Holocaust and World War II, and have read countless books on the subject, but it's impossible to ever know everything...and even the stories and facts that I do know, I found myself rereading at the museum, because the details are just so vast. This particular era in history has always resonated with me, and I find that I can never learn enough about it. Even before we left Paris, I was e-mailing back and forth with my mom to make sure I knew everything she did about our family during the war. Fortunately, most of my family was out of Europe by the early 1900s, but we did have distant relatives who perished in the Holocaust, or so we assume, since no one ever heard from them again.

After the museum we drove to Omaha Beach. The American Cemetery and Memorial was breathtaking, in both ghostly and magnificent senses of the word. The headstones seemed to go on forever, and it wasn't until I was walking in the midst of the crosses and the Stars of David that I realized how many men had actually died in this war...and this memorial was barely even a fraction of the deaths.

I can't really explain the emotions that were shooting through my mind: it was all a daze, and the only thing I wanted to do was cry. Of course, this didn't happen because I am quite often incapable of crying, so I simply continued wandering, thinking about the numerous stories of these soldiers that no one will ever know. I didn't want to leave the cemetery, but we were on a time constraint, so I headed over to the walkway overlooking the coast, ran into Andrew and we descended to the beach.

The water was absolutely gorgeous, and the colors were unlike any beach I've ever been to. I ran to the water, got the bottoms of my pants wet (although Kelly wins for actually falling in the water), but the soggy bus ride ahead of us didn’t matter--we just ran around.

Maybe it's silly to feel this way, but I felt slightly disrespectful for having such a good time at a place where mass warfare had occurred. However, I thought of my grandfathers who had both fought in the war and I realized that they wouldn't want me to dwell on their hardships. They would want me to enjoy what they fought for, and not brood about the past.

I had promised my high school U.S. History teacher (a Vietnam veteran) that I'd bring some sand home for him, so I filled up my empty water bottle and headed back up with everyone else.

Next, we were off to Point du Hoc, another point of attack by the U.S. Army during Operation Overlord. Many of the original fortifications are still in place (I climbed through some of them, and there were quite a few that were the perfect height for a little person like me...). There are tons of bomb craters (which always makes me wonder how grass and flowers can ultimately thrive again after so much violence). The size of some of the bomb craters were absolutely enormous, but the cliff was incredibly peaceful.

And then, the surprise of the day—a cider tasting! A tour of the farm and then lots to drink (and cookies)!

À bientôt!
Lesley

"Les Femmes de Paris"

by Diana Vaden



Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

Spoken Word--Cabaret Populaire (5/30)

As promised, here are some more photos from our last time at Spoken Word Paris. All photos taken by Adèle Giraud.

Corinne Dewitt-- Acting out her poem

Bryan King-- Reading Gil Scott Heron

Rosaleen O'Sullivan

Andrew Ramirez-- Giving an animated performance

Lesley Wasserman

Corey Arterian--Starting with a rap

Kelly Baron

Jessica Eller

Diana Rosenberger-- Reading Baudelaire's "Get Drunk!"

Matthew Cruz--Bringing down the house with his powerful performance

Listen to his reading of "Orexis" on the Spoken Word blog.

Diana Vaden

 We have one more opportunity to go back this Monday and I'm sure many of us will!