HJS

We were SO lucky our first few weeks here. Some kind, unknowing soul in our building supplied us with free WiFi. Alas, those days are over. They’ve either gotten wise or left the area–either way, we have to hunt for a connection now.

We’re in a cafe two miles from our apartment, and though the beer isn’t bad (at 4 EUR a pint! Ouch!), we probably won’t be making this a daily activity. Expect a post about once a week from us–maybe more, if we find something a little closer (and cheaper!)

When we last posted, we were going out for Indian food. It was the best meal of our lives! The owner/waiter/chef made us a fabulous four-course meal. Tandoori poulet (chicken), curry poisson (fish), and lots of other things we can’t spell. With wine and apertifs included, it came to 26 EUR total. We’ll have to push ourselves to try anything else in Paris–we’re already dying to go back!

Tomorrow we’re going back to the Louvre–early, this time! We were going to go to Versailles today, but we woke up late. With another month to spare, I think we’ll get another opportunity! Ooh la la, what lucky enfants we are!

When we finish this beer, we’re heading to the Latin Quarter, where we’ll drop in on the Paris catacombs, hang out with intellectuals, and maybe even drink some mint tea in the mosque!

Au revoir!

***UPDATE: The fancy bar connection timed out after ten minutes, so I saved the above post on my computer to add later. On the walk home to drop off the computer, we stopped by McDonalds to get Joel le Big Mac. It has a gorgeous WiFi connection! Joel’s very happy with this little development. Maybe it won’t be so long between posts after all…

After 10 days in Paris with barely more French knowledge beyond basic greetings, I think I’m beginning to understand what it must feel like for the Mexican immigrants I’ve lived amongst as a Californian all my life. The struggle to be understood is a powerful one. When you succeed, you feel pleasantly surprised: she actually knew what I meant! When you fail, you feel like a total moron–or, on a cranky day, like the locals are discriminating against you. Today was a cranky day.

We’ve been shut up indoors for the past two days, caught in a summer storm that sequestered us in our neighborhood. It was great, actually: we love our neighborhood, and with six weeks here, we have time to just hang out. We’ve been getting over colds–souvenirs from the plane ride–so the timing was good. We stayed in and made pasta; Joel painted and I read The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. And we spoke English–a lot of English. So much that we kind of forgot where we were.

Leaving the house today shocked our systems a little. It was still cloudy and all of Paris was a little grumpy at losing a summer weekend. We had set out for the Louvre, following the guidebook’s suggestion to go on Mondays and Wednesdays after 3 p.m. for a reduced rate. We figured we’d go EVERY Monday and Wednesday for a few weeks. So we meandered, eventually coming to a park we hadn’t expected with a towering cathedral and crows–real, black, and scary–cawing all around us. It hindsight, we should have recognized the omen.

We were hungry, and rather than shell out a 20 when we could easily make it a 10, we decided to stop at a colorful corner creperie. I’d impressed Joel a few days ago by ordering a galette–a thicker, lunchier crepe filled with cheese, vegetables and/or meat instead of sweet stuff. He wanted to try one, so we picked two from the menu and attempted to order; and then, after a week and a half in this wonderful country, we met our first rude Frenchman.

Joel ordered his meal. Galette au Gruyere et Jambon (ham). I asked for the Galette au Gruyere. “I don’t understand!” he said to me in English. Although my order was simpler–the same thing sans Jambon–he wouldn’t hear of it. After repeating it thrice and pointing to it on the menu board, we finally just gave in. “So two of those?” he asked Joel, suggesting he make the same for me. Yeah, sure. Deux. I ate the ham like a good little trouper, but my tummy still hurts from the grease. After spending far too much time discussing the exchange, we’re pretty sure he was just being passive aggressive. Next time, we’ll say, “desole–au revoir!” and go to the next guy.

We were ready to shake it off and go look at art, so we headed over to the Louvre, where we discovered that the guidebook had been wrong. Monday it closes at 6, not 9:30. The 3-9:45 discount no longer exists. We weren’t about to drop 8.50E each for three hours, so we took the opportunity to explore the lobby and inquire about membership deals. They have signs everywhere promising discounts for artists, teachers, etc., etc.–surely we’d qualify for one. We found the office; we read the sign. 30 euros for an annual membership; self-identification as an artist seemed to be all we needed. So we went up to the lady to apply.

“Are you teachers?” she asked. We didn’t want to go into the whole Korea thing. Besides, the artist qualification was truer. Joel paints for hours every day. I don’t do that, but I can rationalize some kind of excuse to call myself an artist. I model for him. I think artistic thoughts. I write essays and mediocre fiction that I’ll someday try to publish. “No,” I said, “but we’re artists.” I pointed to the sign. I pointed to the brochure. It seemed obvious we qualified. “It is not possible,” she said with a dismissive smirk, turning her attention to the people behind us. Oh. Well, thanks for letting us down gently, madame.

We left the Louvre with sad-sack faces, feeling unwanted and stupid. But things got better the closer we got to our neighborhood, and the whole experience made us happy we have such a nice place to go home to. One American familiar with the 11th arrondissement (ours) said that it was a pleasant place to stay because foreigners are so rare here that they’re seen as a “curiosity,” rather than an imposition. This has been our experience. From the bakers to the store clerks to the people on the street–and to the vegetable market merchant who swore “I love Americans” when I bought leeks from him–everyone around here has been friendly, even welcoming.

I can’t say I blame the people who work in the tourist district for occasionally acting out against English speakers. In the line for the Louvre, the Midwestern woman behind me raised her voice at the bag-check guy, convinced that volume would help him better understand why her purse should be exempt from this time-consuming step. And every time we enter the sightseeing part of town, we can pick out our countrymen from blocks away–wearing shorts (rare among Parisians) and flip-flops, chewing gum and loudly mispronouncing their street names. At least we whisper when we mispronounce things.

We were disappointed at our inadequate communication ability today, but don’t feel too sorry for us: This is exactly what we wanted. We’re bypassing the touristy experience most Americans enjoy in lieu of something a little rougher, but richer in the long run. Besides, the discomfort we feel in not knowing the language is completely our fault–we could have been much more adept at it with a little more self-study at home. But it was cozy and we had a Fellini to watch, and besides, we’d just opened a new two buck chuck…

It’s dinner time here, and we’re getting ready to head out for Indian food (we suddenly LOVE curry!). Before we go, let me hop back to the sentiment I started this post with. I feel real solidarity with the Mexican immigrants in California now. I’m relieved to say that even when I was pretty dense, I was never one of those “English only–you’re in America now” militants. I am here in Paris, singing its praises in English. Why can’t fans of the U.S. celebrate their love of it in Spanish? Language is an integral part of our humanity, and the one you grew up with is impossible to discard. I know now that no matter how well I learn French, I will always be smarter in English. Why wouldn’t I feel most comfortable in the language I’m smartest in? Wouldn’t my anthem singing be truer, more heartfelt, if I did it in my native tongue?

Well, that’s just a little thought. I promised myself not to make this thing too political. The U.S. language debate is a thick, layered topic with plenty of nuance, and I know it heats up Californians on all sides. Just wanted to share how my views of it are changing, now that I’ve experienced life as a “foreigner.”

Adios, muchachos…

HEATHER

JOEL–The Museum of Modern Art at the Centre Culturel George Pompidou is enormous. The space is really incredible; 6 huge stories, each able to be configured to accomodate almost any situation for showing work. Hallways, grottos, caverns, meadows, mazes. Work can be seen in an infinite number of configurations, especially when combined and compared with other work.

The main collection today was configured with a theme that expored the history of the moving image. The show did not just include film, however. Painting, sculture, room-size installations… everything touching the overriding theme. Incredible. Maybe too much.

It’s hard to really spend time with something incredible when you have a sneaking suspicion that something ready to stagger you is sitting right around the corner. Nevertheless, you press on, trying to stay present in the moment. Eventually you exit the museum at closing time… excited, uplifted, but just a little discouraged by your inability to concentrate. I’ve tried to solve this problem by just sticking to a few things that hit me and passing the rest by, incredible as they may be. Trust the first instinct. But what if it’s the kind of thing that needs to grow on you? Some of the best things do that.

I got to see a little book today published by Ed Ruscha back in the ’50’s. He took a photograph of every building on Sunset Blvd. and placed them side by side on a continuously unfolding page. It unfolds in an incredible panorama. This little book folds out to about 30 feet long. When the photos reach the end they continue back upside down, right back to the first page. So many ways to experience this. The little store fronts (and cars) are full of surface detail. Very interesting; even one building can be examined endlessly (a ghost of something that once existed in a present moment). But then, as a whole, it becomes absolutely, nauseatingly repetitious. At a distance, it hums: light, dark, light, dark, liiiiiiiiggghht, darrk, light dark. Just the way a film really is if you look at it laid out in front of you (these are black and white photos). This piece presents you with the whole film all at once. The only limitation is your own ability to assimilate it. You have to bite into it over a period of time. You have to bend over it for a long time and shuffle up slowly and then back down. What a wonderful way to spend time. It’s one of the best movies I’ve ever seen.

Anyway, museums. You really have to reach.

HEATHER–

I can hear my mom gasping. Don’t worry, Mom: I didn’t do it! But the sight of all that beauty almost made me lose it. We went out Wednesday night for the Fete de la Musique–the Summer Solstice festival they do every year here. It’s everywhere, the guidebooks promised: amateur rock bands jamming on streetcorners; orchestras performing in cathedrals. So we went out early. Too early. And while we tried to find the action, we finally got around to seeing the big sights we’d neglected our first week here.

Six days earlier, when we took our first Metro ride — weighed down with backpacks and the slime of a not-so-youthful hostel experience — we walked up the stairs with the Parisian commuters to a world out of a novel. Ancient buildings crumbling around us, with art in every detail; the smells of plats du jour enticing from cafes all around; and the musical sound of this new language flowing from everyone but us. This was the Paris we enjoyed for the better part of a week, and while we saw some sights — the Opera Garnier, Notre Dame, the Seine, etc. — we hadn’t gone to the big meccas that most tour groups slam through in an afternoon.

Wednesday we did. We started at the Eiffel Tower, since we’d heard that the main concert was there. A so-so UK garage band was playing in the park across the river, but nothing on the Champ de Mars (where the guidebook said the party would be). So we looked at the tower–an impressive sight, though it’s 150 years younger than our apartment building–and laid on our backs on the park benches below to examine the structure. Then we walked and walked along the Seine, dirtying my cute new shoes with fine white dust. We saw the Grand Palais, the Place de Concorde, and finally, when we walked across the river and went through a little tunnel, the Louvre. If you stand in the middle of the park, you can see the Place de Concorde and Arc de Triomphe line up in front of you, while the massive art museum is behind you. That’s when my stomach started flipping.

It flipped some more when we went to the Musee D’Orsay, where we caught the end of a choir singing some clever little English ditties. But it was starting to rain, and we didn’t want to wait around for three hours for the 10 p.m. orchestra shows, so we walked through St Germain des Pres, caught a few sub-par rock band sets, and took the Metro to the Bastille, where the party was in full swing and everyone was neck-and-neck. Our necks needed some space, and there was still no big show in sight, so we wound our way through the streets toward the apartment, where, in our neighborhood, we found the real party. Street vendors sold beer and barbecue on the street; some girls from the apartment around the corner even set up a homemade sangria stand. Nearly every band we heard all night was singing American rock songs — mostly from the 80’s, which they love here — but drinking beer on the street in the midst of this jovial crew was a kick. Thank goodness for earplugs, though; they partied all night!

Joel’s being polite, but I know he really wants his dinner, so I’ll wrap up with a quick note about today. My stomach flipped again when we went to the Centre Culturel Pompidou — a massive, industrial/modern construction of glass, cement and steel, where they have offer some of the greatest contemporary art shows in the world. It’s in the middle of old Paris, and even if your stamina for modern art is low, from the top floor you get a vantage point that justifies the 10E admission price. With glass walls offering stunning–yes, nauseatingly so–views, you’ll be looking at a scupture one second and get distracted by a glimpse of Sacre Coeur… or the Eiffel Tower… or some birds on the rooftops. Ah, Paris. I think I need to go throw up.

Tomorrow, we finally visit Montmartre!

HEATHER–We weren’t sure how long the free WiFi was going to last when we got here, so with swimming heads, we set things up on here pretty quickly. Backstory is totally missing from our first posts, as evident from the e-mails we’ve gotten from friends and family whom we haven’t talked to in a while. So here’s a little FAQ…

- DID YOU MOVE TO PARIS? We wish! We’ve rented an apartment in Paris for six and a half weeks, which began last Friday and will end on July 31 (I’m sure I’ll cry all the way back to London). The only other city we’re scheduled to see on THIS trip is London, and not nearly as much: we were there for a few days at the beginning of our trip, and we’ll be there for three days at the end of it, before that super-cool IcelandAir takes us back to California.

- WHAT ARE YOU DOING NEXT? WILL YOU BE HOMELESS? When we come back to California, we’ll rent a car and hang out with various family and friends for a few weeks, squeezing in a camping trip or two and (hopefully) a trip to our family’s cabin. THEN, in late August, we’re going to South Korea for a year to teach English! Yes, we’ve researched it thoroughly; No, it’s SOUTH, not North; and would you believe they’re paying us $2-2.5K a month EACH plus a free apartment plus round-trip airfare for part-time work? This will give us both time to pursue our “real” work, while allowing us to rack up some serious dough for grad school.

- WHY DIDN’T YOU POST ANYTHING YESTERDAY? This is our first blog ever, and we’re not good bloggers. The only promise we’ve made is to our moms, and that’s that we’ll make sure they hear from us at least once a week. We’ll probably do this via the blog, but if you’re suddenly fearful for our lives and we haven’t posted in eight days or more, contact the mom you know and ask her. She’ll know.

- WHAT MOVIES DO YOU RECOMMEND? Werner Herzog is our current favorite (and living! What a bonus!) director. His “Grizzly Man” is a must see, but also check out Aguirre, Wrath of God; The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser; and Fitzcaraldo.

Au revoir, amis!

JOEL-

The apartment is incredible; every little thing has been thought of. To get to it, you find your way up a maze of tiny streets all flanked by 5 story buildings. You go in through a set of red doors and 4 floors up on a creaking, dusty staircase and then inside. Viola! A clean, modern, super-functional studio apartment! A little fridge, a little shower, a chemical toilet, a tiny sink. Everything is the same, but smaller and extremely efficient. Everything remains clean and perfect as long as you follow one cardinal rule: after doing anything, everything involved in doing it must be put away promptly.

Yesterday we had a picnic on the Seine and watched the big boats float down full of tourists. Some Italians were very loud, shouting “Hello France!” in heavily accented English. Seems that their best chance to communicate with French people was in English.

Heather bought a pair of ballet slippers in a tiny Chinese shop. You could barely move. It was just like an outdoor stand, but went slightly inside. Filled with odd things from wall to wall with just enough room to shuffle down a tiny central isle. Nice little black shoes that she says are much more comfortable to walk in. She was getting blisters from all the walking.

Walking is the way to see this city, but watch out for the sidewalks. Before we came, people were telling us about the throngs of beggers that would try to weasle money out of us. This is NOT true! In Sacramento, I got used to being hit up for cash up to three times a day. So far, I’ve been asked for money once here, and since I don’t speak much French I’m not sure he was asking for money. Maybe just directions. What visitors were probably responding to was the huge difference in space allotment. When Heather and I walk down the street, its hard to hold hands; we have to walk single file! Other bodies come within inches of you, deep inside your personal space. It’s very jarring at first, and I haven’t quite adjusted to it. I’ve been slammed into on several occasions. Even motorcycles and bikes come within inches of you! Every fender is covered with scratches. When you’re used to reigning over an 800 square foot apartment, this can be a very different way of living. The strange life of cities.

Heather has a cold so we got started late. We walked to the Opera Garnier (the old opera house) build in the mid 19th century. It’s a real landmark at the center of an intersection fed by about 7 huge avenues. A huge building with a strong classical foundation (a low arcade and a huge colonade) and giant busts of the great musical minds of the West (Motzart, Beethoven, Bach, etc.) Golden statues on top! The sun hits them and makes a big splash! The gold light hits the pavement and even the pigeons. Our little guidebook said that Oscar Wilde used to sit at the Cafe de la Paix (still in business right next door, but I wonder if ownership has changed).

Tomorrow there’s a big celebration of midsummer and we might finally go to a cafe. We haven’t been to one yet. We’ve been practicing our crude French in the grocery stores, and now… Le Cafe! We’ll try to find one that looks forgiving.

Bonsoir!

Yeah. A dollar. The same tub you pay five bucks for at home. Actually, it’s 75 cents — in Euros. I’m doing the math. It’s a dollar even with the exchange rate applied. A dollar! Brie is a whole 1.50 E, and chevre — that delicious goaty stuff that’s always been out of my price range — is 1.25.

Nobody told us about this. We’ve heard about wine “cheaper than water” and didn’t believe it until we saw (and tasted!) it, but the cheese was a total shock. It wasn’t until the second time we bought it that we quite believed the price. So this means we can buy a bottle of wine, a baguette and a tub of cheese for less than 4 E. For five bucks, you have the perfect picnic for two, which you can consume outside, along the Seine or at a park and/or right in front of a police officer. They don’t care! How great is that?! I thought you had to go to Vegas to drink in the sunshine!

Listen to me, rambling on about food. I always chuckled when Hemingway did that, but now I totally understand. We don’t approach food the same way in the states. We don’t savor it and carress it and devote two hours to lunch. We gulp it down like a big old milkshake, cramming it in between meetings, practically injecting the calories into our bloodstreams to keep our machines functioning. And for what? So we can work a little harder, make a little more, and go home to our TVs a little richer? I’d rather be poor, thank you.

Well, this is a travelogue, not a diatribe, and I’d regret pouring out a whole philosophy here. So…

There are some new photos in the gallery (click the lower right hand corner link). Most are of our apartment, which my sister-in-law Joy was wondering about. Speaking of Joy, girls as pretty as her (have you seen her? Gorgeous!) will know how pretty they are when they walk around Paris. The men here are very appreciative of feminine beauty. An amorous Frenchman will openly stare at every woman who catches his eye. If you hold his gaze, it’s (supposedly–according to my guide book) an invitation for him to approach. AVERT YOUR EYES, LADIES! Unless you’re single and they’re hot.

We went to mass at St. Severin in San Germain des Pres today. We hadn’t meant to, but the nice man opened the door and the bells were ringing and we felt like sitting down, anyway. They handed out song sheets, so we were able to mumble our way through the words. The priest gave a long sermon in French, which was lovely to listen to. But we were glad to go, when everyone finally stood up for the ending song; after a day on the Seine with the other picnickers, we were hot and a little queasy.

Tomorrow we’re going to the Musee de Picasso, and I’m going to buy some ballet flats. They’re still in style here, and my feet are a mess.

Au revoir, mon cheries! –HEATHER

JOEL-

There’s too many things to think about so far, let alone write down. I’ll just mention a few.

Very strange to start off from Lodi, California on a Greyhound bus on a late spring morning, transfer to BART to get to the SF Airport, wait ten hours before traveling by plane to Iceland, then on to London, boarding the Tube, and finally stepping out onto an orderly British street, a fog overhead with raindrops coming down. No real sense of having changed space. Just the sense that time has passed, days and nights have come and gone, and seasons have changed slightly.

No idea that Seurat worked on such a large format. Photos just don’t seem to imply this size!

Public transit here is impressive! The train ride from London to Paris was dreamlike. There is no sense that you are on a train — more like floating in your seat while waves of cities and countryside drift by.

Paris has incredible grafitti! Le Gard du Nord was absolutely covered with it. Completely relentless, one entire composition picking up where the last one left off with some consideration of other painters’ work surrounding it. I see this again and again. Service trucks, seemingly painted by many hands, covered bumper to fender, with a surprising regard to an overall effect. Some more interesting than others obviously. I will try to get some pictures of these. Definitely better than a series of simple marks referencing a person or group. Really ambitious! Much like LA.

More later!

Our brother-in-law Guinness set us up with this cool blog and told us about Flickr.com — a great (FREE!) photo-hosting site. You can view our photos as we post them by clicking the link in the lower, right-hand corner of the home page. We’re still catching up, so for now, we’ve got pictures of us leaving Sacramento, traveling and visiting London. We’ll put some shots of Paris up in a few days, when we feel like carrying the camera around. Enjoy!

We’ve made it to Paris, and after two days, we’re already trying to figure out how to move here. Our apartment is perfect — an IKEA-smart studio on the third floor of a crumbling old convent. Last night was our first night in the apartment; we stayed in a hotel for our first night in Paris. Yesterday afternoon was the first time we were able to venture out without our moneybelts and valuables on us, and now that everything is finally tucked away, we’re finally able to breathe a little! We discovered that wine really IS cheaper than water here ($1.50 buys you a decent bottle — really!), so we sampled a few varieties, bought baguettes like Parisians, and slept gorgeously on our king-size IKEA roll-out. We haven’t even seen the main tourist sites yet, but we’re in heaven! More later…