(86-93): That Was the Week That... Was.

I promise to keep this short.

(86) is Friday, 2 April 2010.

I went to the Rodin museum today with my friend Victoria (also on VWPP). This museum is by and large about sculpture (and those are by and large the work of-- who'd have thought?-- one Auguste Rodin), although there are a few neat little painting gems, including this neat Van Gogh. The museum is this great old building (although it could use a new paint job in certain parts of the ceiling) and the art is really beautiful, but the true highlight of this place (at metro Varennes on line 13) is the sculpture garden. It's full of (are you ready for this?) Rodin sculptures, elegant plantings, well-trimed shrubs, and even a pond.

Even better is that many of these statues are doing Michael Jackson moves.

ThrillAH! Thrill-ah night!

A piece from Rodin's Moonwalk period

This one's titled "The Jackson 3, or, The Mighty Ducks"

So, after about two hours of browsing, Victoria and I decided to get lunch on this open Friday afternoon. So, we headed back to her place and made spaghetti and chicken, and we watched 300, which I had actually never seen.*

After the movie, I headed over to visit Aaron, Kirill, Dan, Liz, her father Andrew, and his copine (French for "girlfriend") Marci. We had sort of a potluck dinner of chili and other such things (I brought wine) before going to the theater. We bought tickets to Le Roi Lion. Any guesses on what that one is? Anybody?

The Lion King. The broadway musical. The one with the costumes. In French.

Pretty entertaining show, and a steal at 25 euro a ticket. Costumes and set were my favorite part. I had never seen the Broadway version, so it was a constant game of "Okay, how are they going to put this film-only scene on stage? ...Oh! Oh, that's pretty creative!" I don't want to spoil it for those of you who may yet make it to Broadway for this one (which I might recommend, provided you don't have any other shows you'd rather see), but some of the ways they turn people into animals and landscapes are really original. Musicals adapted from Hollywood movies are a collective pet peeve of mine, but I must admit that, artistically speaking, this one brings something new to the table. Rock on.

(87) is Saturday, 3 April 2010.

My host family was out of town for Easter weekend, so I chilled out at the house and did some writing (the creative kind) for a change. I also realized that this would be my last full weekend in Paris during my actual abroad program.

(88) is boring because it was almost exactly the same as (87).

(89), too. But did you know that Easter Monday is a national holiday in France?

(90) is Tuesday, 6 April 2010.

I got to Reid Hall early today, which is freaking bizarre, but I got to hang out with some people I don't see as much, including Myles, Tyler, Max, and Carryn.

Most of you readers probably don't know who I'm talking about. Hmm. Oh, well. On with the entry. We then had Reid Hall film class, where we talked about a bunch of different film versions of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Not a bad lecture, and it was graced with a uniquely gratifying moment near the end. One of the movies the professor** discussed-- with the same seriousness as the others-- was the 1963 film The Nutty Professor, written by, directed by, and starring Jerry Lewis.***

So the professor analyzes it. Picks it apart. Stops as often as he did for The Searchers. But the best part-- the BEST PART-- was when he stopped the movie just before Jerry Lewis transforms. There's a gag where Jerry is sneaking into the lab at night and his shoes squeak. He takes them off, keeps sneaking, and the noise continues anyway (probably the funniest part of the movie, and it was actually not a terrible gag). The professor stops the film and explains that, if I can translate, "the sound of the shoes has taken on a life of its own, just like Mr. Hyde will, once the transformation happens."

Best moment of the semester. I really do respect this man, but now I know he's making this shit up.

So, after class, I had host family dinner and then went out again. This is unusual for me on-- what, Tuesdays?-- but I had an invite from Lucien to join a bunch of people at Notre Dame. Max and Nathaniel Draper brought guitars, and we all sang. We moved down to the quai (sidewalk along the Seine) and just sang our favorites. It was a magical evening. And I even caught the last metro.

(93) is Friday, 9 April 2010. It concludes a few days I spent watching a lot of Hitchcock movies and working on my paper.

Next time, from Belgium.

-Andy

P.S.: Short enough, right?

------------------------------

I'm talking to the man in the footnotes... I'm asking him to change his ways...

* Surprisingly good, probably because of my expectations. Definitely epic, Xerxes is a great villain, and that's probably the best role Gerard Butler will ever play. Although I was rather perplexed that such an epic movie took place on a platform of maybe 30 meters square. And lots of blood... so much lots of blood...

** I don't know if I've mentioned this, but my Reid Hall film professor is actually a big deal in the world of critical film theory. 'Cause that's a big deal. But seriously-- he's written a lot of books (including one I had to read last spring for my French New Wave class), and he was president of University of Paris VIII for a few years. That's the one with the REALLY good film program. If you're curious, google Jean-Louis Leutrat.

*** I'd like to take a minute to address this topic, one my father has been asking me about on and off since January. Many French people think Jerry Lewis is funny. I do not know why, and I feel almost embarrassed to ask. I think it's because he does slapstick like Jim Carrey (who is also very popular in France) and because there may actually be mise-en-scene things in his movies for big-deal French critical theorists to read into. What I don't get, especially after watching The Nutty Professor for this class, is how someone with Jerry Lewis's singing voice goes from Rat Pack ties to being so ridiculous and laughably unfunny. ...Wait... Yes, that's the wording I want. But does that even make sense? I supose not, but then, neither does Jerry Lewis, come to think of it.

Tuesday, April 6: Chilling at Reid Hall, Pense, dinner, singing on the Seine
Wednesday, April 7: Hitchcock, Torn Curtain, choir
Thursday, April 8: Stupid Day
Friday, April 9: watching movies

(82-85): Days on the 10

Sit tight, folks, you're in for a long one.

(82) is Monday, 29 March 2010

Mom, Dad, and I all made it back from Mont-St-Michel and St-Malo. Yes, we were all there, but no, we didn't meet meet up because, no, they didn't have a working cell phone.

Yes. Anyway.

This week saw me commuting a great deal, almost exclusively on the Metro Line 10 ("Aha, the title is explained!" I hear you cry). Mom and Dad were staying near Odeon, so like the week before, I would hop on the 10, go join them for dinner, and then go home for the night.

Monday's version involved me going to 'Reagir Sur la France d'Aujourd'hui', my "writing-intensive"* class at Reid Hall. I stuck around Reid Hall to make a few more reservations for Italy/Greece with Liz and Kirill. We're so close to finishing this one, and it's going to be epic. Also, I wound up the accountant for this endeavor, which is no small task when you have to do a round-robin of credit cards to make sure all four seats get booked together.

At any rate, I met up with Mom and Dad for dinner at Allard on Rue St-Andre-des-Arts. It's this little bistro with a rep for great food and American customers. They put us in the corner (unlike baby**), so we had a slightly tougher time than usual conversing. The restaurant also crammed in a lot of tables, so they had to move two or three other tables each time somebody had to get in or out. But ask yourself: would I really recommend the place in spite of these things if the food wasn't to die for? I had foie gras (of which I've become a great fan), a gorgeous cut of salmon that was perfectly prepared, and two beautiful profiteroles. This was all on a prix-fixe menu of something like 33 euros.

(83) is-- wait for it-- Tuesday, 30 March 2010.

Today, I didn't have class until 3:30 (on the count of 3-- 1, 2, 3: "Andy doesn't go to school.") today, so I met my folks for lunch at Fauchon, a rather haute-cuisine eatery at the Madeleine plaza and metro station. They had a variety of tasty-looking things on sale. I had a smoked salmon sandwich, which was great, but I held off on dessert in favor of getting macaroons (that's macarons-- with one 'o'-- in French) at Laduree a few doors down from lunch. These macaroons...

They sent Pierre Herme home to cry.***

We then walked a bit, stumbling onto a street with many well-to-do designer clothing stores. Not a bad walk, although I can't remember the street. We then came to Angelina at 224 Rue de Rivoli (east on the same street as the Louvre, away from Chatelet). This place is an old-fashioned tea room which also makes wonderful-looking macaroons and other pastries. The real draw, though, is the hot chocolate. As my father had explained it, it's "like being enveloped in a warm blanket of chocolate." It was just him being, well, my father.

Then I tried the stuff. With a dollop of whipped cream and parents who get too full to finish theirs... beautiful. That's the only word... that and "blanket-y".

So, I dashed off to class, my Reid Hall cinema one with the very detail-oriented, pause-every-frame film professor. Average class. Fortunately, it went by a little faster than 24 frames-per-hour.

Dinner this evening was at a great little place (in French, that's bistrot) called Le Bistro de Chez d'Henri on Rue de Princesse, which is tucked away near the Mabillon and Saint-Sulpice Metro stations. This place had the best scalloped potatoes I've ever had, with a prelude of tasty foie gras and accompaniment of a sizable, excellently prepared steak.

I then hopped on the 10 to go home.

How you doin', need to take a break? Why don't you take a break? I'll wait.

...

(84) is Wednesday, 31 March, 2010

After Hitchcock class at Paris VII, I met up with my friend Meredith from Vassar. Meredith, who is studying Art History this semester in Rome, came up for a few days of vacation with two friends from her program. I showed them around a little, including a visit to St-Chappelle, a gorgeous chapel tucked in with the Palais de Justice (Paris is big into tucking buildings, it seems). That other place is essentially the French Supreme Court, a few blocks from Notre Dame.

If you go to Saint Chappelle, make sure it's a very sunny day or, if it's alternating (as it was on Wednesday), stay in there until you get some sun. The walls composed almost entirely of absolutely spellbinding stained glass will reward your eyes most handsomely for the wait. You should also hope that they aren't renovating, because that big Saint-Chappelle themed tarpjust doesn't catch the sun as well. Although it's a good thing they're taking care of the place, because it does deserve it. You can also tell which windows haven't been restored yet, because those are much less clean and luminous. In any case, it was well worth the 5-euro student admission (I think it's 8 for adults).

We then walked in the sunnier weather a ways. They wanted coffee. "No," I told them:

"You want hot chocolate."

So, of course, at the height of my culinary decadence, I went back to Angelina for a second day in a row. The upswing of this one, though, was that I got to sample two pastries that Meredith's friends couldn't finish. One was a larger-than-bite-sized raspberry macaroon (I usually eat smaller ones). They're big on raspberries over here, but I'm generally not. I make exception for two things: one is raspberry-flavored vodka (especially mixed into a cup of lemonade) and the other is the raspberries in this macaroon, which were hands-down the freshest and sweetest I've ever had.

The other dessert was a pastry that looked like a ball of light-colored chocolate mousse that had been squeezed out of a Play-Doh mold (one of the ones that gives you a long, textured string of the stuff). It was relatively firm, though, and hid a core of creme. I can't remember what it was called, but I feel confident that the Play-doh description will lead you right to it.

After our little tea-time, I met up with Mom and Dad at their hotel to get dinner for their last night in Paris. We took the metro to Le Temps au Temps on 13 Rue Paul Bert. I hesitated to put that one in bold because I honestly didn't like it nearly as much as the other places. I'm given to understand that the owner/chef has left the establishment in the last 6-12 months. Every part of the experience just barely missed somehow. There wasn't much on the menu that really captured my imagination, the wine we had was fine except for a weird aftertaste, the asparagus soup I had was good but not great... the steak I got was actually very good-- that's what saved this meal from mediocrity-- although they never asked how I wanted it prepared. The dessert, which is now escaping my memory, was good, but it came with a scoop of ice cream that was already melting by the time it arrived.

Oh, well. Can't win 'em all.

So, I went back to the hotel with Mom and Dad, we said our goodbyes, and I took the 10 back home.

(85) is Thursday, 1 Octember 2010. Ha. April Fool's.

I went to Music in Cinema today, which was normal. When I was almost home, I got a message from Izzy, a friend of mine also in the VWPP, who wanted me to join her and some of our other pals at a bar and then a club that night. I was already making plans to hang out with Allix Wright and Christina Allen, two friends from Sidwell, so I skipped out on the bar.

Christina was visiting from her JYA music program in Florence (now there are two people I can visit when I get to Italy!), so we all caught up. We went to Le Volcan on Rue de Mouffetard, since Allix and I hadn't been there in almost three months (I hadn't been to Mouffetard in a while, myself). We knew, however, that dinner would be quite good, down to that same delicious Charlotte au Chocolat that I ordered last time.

I then met up with Izzy and the others at Mix Club directly behind the Tour Montparnasse at the Montparnasse-Bienvenue metro station on line 6. This place was pricey-- 15 euro to get in and 2 more for the obligatory coat check. But they gave you a free beer (which I gave to my friend Max for a few euros) and... you remember in the beginning of The Matrix Revolutions (I know it's the worst one, but go with me for a minute) where Morpheus, Trinity, and (I think) Niobe go talk to the Merovingian in that ridiculously awesome-looking club?

This was kinda' like that.

It was worth the price of admission to come out to that balcony and meet the visual of the crazy strobe and colored lights over hundreds of ERASUMUS students dancing a story below (some on elevated blocks and other platforms). I stayed and danced with my pals a while before taking the Noctilien home.

No duets on the bus this time, though.

There, you made it! Well done!

-Andy

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Footnotes

* "Reacting to France Today," whose exercises are all based on our experiences and other current events and stuff. Supposedly. In reality, we do about a page worth of writing per week, with our only big papers about 3-4 pages. One was reacting to a really simple article, and the other was a personal reaction to a French film of our choosing. Our mid-class breaks (which most French professors do) last anywhere from 15-25 minutes. Like I always say: I don't go to school.

** Nor Swayze, who is instead, regrettably, in the coroner's.

*** The vanilla ones were especially rich. I've realized that one of the things I like about Paris is that I am in a place where people appreciate vanilla as much as I do. It's no small thing-- in America, most people think vanilla is the boring flavor, the one you need to make interesting or add chocolate to or whatever (even though I really don't like chocolate ice cream). But not here. Here, they know that vanilla is not simple, but rather subtle. It is something that can stand on its own if you take the time to do it well, and that is exactly what people do. I think this also speaks to how people care more about putting time and care into finer tastes, not just chocolate ice cream because more people will buy it.

(80-81): There's a Saint... There's Another Saint...

(80) is Saturday, 27 March 2010

Okay, just so I can save myself the trouble of describing things that are really beautiful when I'm not that big on descriptions anyway, here's the link to my photo album about this weekend:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=416088&id=734690178&l=9d34c3b9b6

So! This weekend was a road trip of sorts. I got up at early o'clock to go to Opera Garnier (and this time, yes-- it was Garnier, not Bastille). I joined up with the CIJP (Club for International Young People in Paris), a buddy group of Reid Hall's, for a weekend trip to Mont-St-Michel and Saint-Malo. Turns out I didn't know anybody on the tour, and I'm real good at being awkward.

This was going to be fun.

Well, I befriended a girl named Emily, who took the bus seat next to me, and we chatted and napped.* We arrived at Mont-St-Michel around 12:30 and got out of the bus to scope it out.

Okay: here's what you need to know about Mont-St-Michel. It's a big Gothic church. On a hill. Surrounded by walls. And it turns into an island when the tide comes in. Swim through that water long enough and in the right direction, and you will make a straight shot to England. So, we looked around at the winding streets full of restaurants and souvenir shops, many of which were quite cool. Suits of armor and samurai swords-- 'nuff said, right?

Emily and I found lunch at a little crepe place, and we met up with the rest of the bus group at 2:30 for the guided tour. We had a very nice French lady show us around, but there were a lot of people and echoes, so I sort of tuned her out. Honestly, knowing me, I probably would have tuned her out either way in favor of looking, trading commentary with Emily, and snapping photos.

So, after the tour, we had another hour or so to look around, so we all ambled our way down the hill to where the bus was parked. We boarded at 4:30 and drove (that's English for "slept") for about two hours until we got to the hostel at St-Malo.

I got roomed with Sergio, a Spanish student studying in Paris, and Thierry, a young teacher working for the French Dept. of Education. We got one key for the three of us (STUPID system, especially since other people reportedly asked the front desk for extra keys and got them with no trouble). So, we all walked into town together after a while of getting settled in.

The only problem I found with this hostel was how freaking far away it was from the town itself. We had to walk for a good 20 minutes to get to the point on the coast where everything was located. It was a cute little seafaring town once we got to it. A small group of us had dinner at a forgettable sandwich place and strolled for a while. We found this one bar with a huge hodgepodge of stuff decorating the place: dolls, puppets, all sorts of knickknacks. Best part: the bar itself (as opposed to the tables) had 4 swings coming down from the ceiling as seats. Awesome. Second best part: the bartender was this really nice, knowledgeable guy who learned to speak English in London (so he was French with an English accent when he spoke English). He had lots of great stories about world travel, and was generally a pleasure to converse with. I'm just kicking myself, as I can't now remember the bar's name.

So, after this and a brief stint in a nightclub (before it got going), I headed back to the hostel to sleep for a few hours. I did, and woke up an hour sooner than I'd have liked (yay daylight savings!). We went on a historic tour of the town, which was another 20-minute walk away.

The reason we had to walk was great, partly because I had rather predicted it in some offhand remark the day before. Apparently the bus driver is not allowed to drive more than a certain amount of time before taking a break. This is standard, you would say. Right, I would reply even though I'm not using quotation marks, but is a limit of 2 hours standard? From the country that brings you regular strikes... oh, boy.

Anyway, we had another good tour guide (who I actually listened to this time). She told us about how this town lives by, for, and with the sea. It declared independence once, it had a lot of mercenary sailors, and the giant stone walls are all original, protected by giant logs stuck in the sand to break the force of the waves. Also, a few specific stories connected to photos you'll eventually find in my Facebook photo album.

There was once a navy attack on this town, but it defended itself so well that the only injury was done unto a cat. It lost a leg and thus walked funny. There was a street named after him: "Rue de la Chat Qui Danse," or "Street of the Cat That Dances."

Emily and I found a rather tasty pizza place for lunch. I found a macaroon store that was quite good (although it would later be dwarfed by the culinary wizardry that awaited me and my parents back in Paris).

There was also a street festival of sorts. This was a week before Easter, so I'm guessing that's why. There were elaborate costumes, dancers, drums, and general hubbub. It was great fun. We caught the parade (and the street-cleaners that didn't miss a beat in following them) just before getting on the bus to go back to Paris. We got back in around 10.

Conclusions: if you can, go see these two places. But make sure the weather's good.

-Andy

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Footnotes

*Probably not at the same time, though Sam Seymour claims that it has, in fact, happened.

(77): Andy Remembers He Has a Blog

(77) is Wednesday, 24 March 2010

As I promised you quite a while ago, I thought I would take this entry as an opportunity to explore socialized medicine a little bit, seeing as how this fascinating concept seems to be making its way to the States. Granted, my visit to the OFII (they're the immigration people) doctors' office today represents a slightly more bureaucratic breed than the U.S. will likely see.

Even so.

I went to the office at the south end of the Metro 13 line*, where I sat in a waiting room for all of five minutes before getting called upstairs with my papers. They took those, stamped some, gave them back, and sent me into the room. This is not, I should note, one room where a doctor does everything. No. This room is bordered by doors leading into adjacent smaller rooms with different specialties. The first one: "Weight... height... you're studying cinema? That's wonderful!" and done. On to the next little room. Same nurse, oddly enough, sits me down for the eye test. That's fine. "You like writing screenplays? That's wonderful!" On to the next little room. Chest X-Ray. No small-talk.

Then, I go see the doctor, who takes my word for it that I've had all the right vaccinations (which I had, but didn't necessarily have the papers to prove) and lectures me about how American cinema is totally unoriginal and movies never do justice to the source material because they play to the lowest common denominator.** He signs papers and I have to go see one last person to file them all away. I do this, and I go home. So, that's basically it... go around the room completing different little sections and paying them in paper at the end.

To those upset or otherwise worried about healthcare reform, I offer you this word of comfort. Once the new system takes over, you may look forward to having all your checkups at Build-A-Bear Workshop.

So, I got home, worked more on a midterm paper for Music in Cinema (Paris VII), and, at 8 o' clock, I went to the metro to meet my parents. I should note that I did not need to get on the train. They came to my station. They came to eat dinner with me and my host family.

Oh, boy.

Actually, it worked out great. My host-mother speaks English pretty well, and my host-father picked up words here and there. My translation work that evening was for his benefit (and, if I may say, I did pretty well with it). They all got along great and with ease, and my host-mother's dinner was--as usual-- very good (foie gras, lamb, and potatoes with sorbet from Berthillon for dessert). It was just a very warm, pleasant evening with surprisingly few embarrassing stories about me.

I walked my folks back to the Metro and I then went home to crank out the rest of what turned out to be a 10-page paper about music from Pierrot le Fou, The Story of Adele H., and Once Upon a Time in America. Turned out pretty well, actually (and I had no idea it would end up being 10 pages).

I highly recommend the soundtrack for Once Upon a Time in America.

-Andy

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Everybody Loves the Footnotes... I hope. You would tell me if you didn't, right?

* The 13, by the way, is about as useful as losing an umbrella amid the current Parisian tsunami.

** The funny thing is, I mostly agree with him, but after the fashion of my French professors who are actually French, he feels the need-- despite my verbal concurrence-- to restate his point another three times.