Montage Video by Vlogosophy

Corinne DeWitt

reads (and drinks ;) at Spoken Word Paris



Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

Diana Rosenberger

reads at Spoken Word Paris



Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

Lesley Wasserman

reads "The Babbling Baboon" at Spoken Word Paris



Filmed and edited by Suzanne Allen at Vlogosophy

"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

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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!

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