Two sangria malts down. I repeat: two sangria malts down. And I'm wondering where the inspiration is. Ten months ago, I found myself typing away furiously after a night out with my Parisian friends. Actually, it didn't even have to really be a "night out" per se, but maybe just an apératif-afternoon. Tucked inside my fourth floor chambre I would type away, sometimes for hours, writing blog entries, intricate emails, longing letters, and everything in between. I chatted with friends, skyped with loved ones, and found myself utterly inspired by the world around me. And tonight I find myself oddly uninspired...not in a bad, depressing way though, just in a very confusing, oddly uninspired mood. What strikes me as so odd is my lack of inspiration. I live in an incredible world where everyday life usually inspires me. There's usually at least one part of my day that muddles my mind, intrigues me into deep thought, or challenges what I've always believed in. But today, I find myself very, yes I will say it again, oddly at ease. It's a content feeling I'm not acquainted with. For some people, this may be an exceptionally comforting feeling to have, but for me...I just feel like a waste of space. A waste of perfectly capable, perfectly thoughtful, space. My life is interesting enough, isn't it?
Maybe it wasn't my own life that intrigued me so much while I stayed in Paris, but rather, the lives of the Parisians that intrigued me so. But Miami, Florida is such a unique place to live. I should feel inspired by something everyday, and yet I just feel--content. Ugh, the sound of that word is giving me a headache. No one should be content. It's both mundane and tragic at the same time. (Yet the word itself does not mean either!) My need for adventure and experience has both blessed and cursed the very ground I walk on.
Two questions come to mind: (1) Is the world I live in too comfortable? Or, (2) is it just so blatantly structured there is little time for either adventure or experience?
I'm not unhappy. I'm really not. At least, I don't think I am the majority of the time. And I think that's how it should be. There is no room for total happiness, just like there is no need for complete unhappiness. But somehow I don't think my lack of inspiration lands me anywhere productive on either end of that spectrum. So now I'm left with wondering where to go from here. With only Monday's sobering agenda nearing me each passing moment.
Showing posts with label French culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French culture. Show all posts
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Whatever your faith, it's beautiful.
I've always felt a little lost when it comes to religion. Growing up, Church wasn't a mandatory thing, and when I went with my friends I just listened and went more just so I could spend time with them and their families. While I support 100% each individual's religious practices, going to Church or Saturday Services was never a religious event for me. And it didn't occur to me until middle school that that wasn't normal for someone who went pretty often.
And then of course, when a few events changed my life at a young age, I started to question why anyone would want to believe in God, especially if such horrible things happened to a girl who was only twelve years old. So for a while, I was bitter with the concept of religious practices, giving all your faith and hope to one belief. I wanted to make my own way of life, and follow my own morals. They were morals I had always been raised with, and my mother isn't particularly religious either, so I know her morals didn't come from Temple, or the Bible, or any other religious manuscript. At that point in time, I knew I could follow my own way and make it out all right.
"Toute seule dans le jardin", Luxembourg, 2010
When high school hit me, and things worsened a bit, I tried to explain to myself that bitterness would help nothing. So instead of casting off the concept of God, I simply disagreed with it and believed in a higher order, something out of human hands, but not necessarily one creator of the world. And again, for a teenage girl, that was very hard to accept. And to be able to discuss, or defend. I still went to Church services with friends, but was more hurt by not being included or not feeling welcomed at times.
When I traveled to France with PNH, I saw some of the most beautiful Cathedrals in the world. I stepped inside the walls of history, where people came to beg for forgiveness, beg for good health and pray for a good season. These people all truly believed in something higher than themselves. And for me, I tried to feel that same way. I sat in the most beautiful church of all of Paris and talked to myself, hoping a more powerful voice would enter. But it never did. So I knew I wasn't meant to believe, or to have this kind of faith. And the search ended.
"Nous avons peur", Notre Dame, 2010
When Shay died my whole world collapsed. A young, vibrant life, lost so violently-- to me, had no excuse. No reasonable explanation could dictate to me why one of my best friends was killed late in the night, while his father was out of town. Even to this day I find myself with the same hating thoughts from time to time. And they're not healthy. It's never a healthy lifestyle to be so consumed with confusion, anger and frustration.
But to try to cope with Shay's death and the history that floated in my mind, I restarted the search for God, or for understanding this January. I found a Church who's Chapel felt warm and welcoming even on the coldest day in Miami...which happened to be 38 degrees. And living in Miami, I definitely didn't own a coat. I walked in and was greeted by a wonderful Pastor, her husband and a sweet couple who sat in the same pew as I did for the first 8 weeks to make sure I felt welcome. I followed every service and tried my hardest to pray and understand the scripture. And for a few weeks I truly felt like things were changing for me. I felt more at ease with the world and I even felt good about most of the scripture readings.
As the semester pressed on, I again started to feel distanced. But instead of angered, I just felt blank. There was no emotion towards going to Church or not. So naturally I found myself very confused. I still went for the company and for the non-Biblical lessons, but I wasn't studying at home as much and I certainly didn't schedule my week around going to church on Sunday as much.
This summer, since I left for Europe religion hasn't been an important part of my life. It's not that I forgot about it because I still read daily scriptures, but I found myself not praying as much. And when I learned about the problems my family was facing, I told myself I couldn't pray for good health because I hadn't been to Church in ages. I have little respect for those who run to a Church when things get just a little bit hard. So I relied on hope, on faith, that the doctors would heal the ailments my family members faced. And it worked. But I never told myself that God didn't have a hand in it. Because I know some of my family believe that God did, and I 100% respect that notion.
But onto the point of this blog. All of these things combined have helped shape my religious beliefs, but this trip is starting to change them yet again. Walking to school, riding the metro, getting stitches and even dining in small cafes I see so much pain and self-destruction in the world. And I can't even talk about the world in a greater sense because I was only in a few districts of one major city.
Every corner I turned I either saw a woman huddled over a cane with a dirt covered hand out, one small mangled foot revealed from under her skirt; a man sleeping against a wall with a puppy in his lap, sleeping just the same; or even children walking around trying to sell pieces of paper with prayers written on them for spare change. For me, if God created everyone just the way they were meant to be, and everyone is perfect in their own sense, how do you explain those people? There is no way that every single one of them had a perfect life before and they, themselves messed it up. Children who are born into poverty hardly stand a chance at getting away from it. And people who lose their jobs but have ailments that require medical attention literally wither away in the streets.
"Le chien innocent", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
Most of the time people just pass them by and pay no mind. But I see every single one of them. I see every single diseased foot, coughing chest, torn pair of pants, and sun burned back. And you honestly can't blame them for turning to bottles of wine, there's no other way to stay warm. Today I was on the Metro going to a Museum in the 16th district and a man stepped onto the train and asked everyone for a few cents so he could call a shelter across town to try to reserve a room. He had lost his job and was unable to find another. He also mentioned that this summer there will be a lot of homeless shelters being closed from over-crowding and not enough funding. For me, if there is a God, what good is it to put people back out on the street where skin diseases and fleas run rapid through the gutters?
I hope I'm not sounding bitter, because I'm not. I understand that God cannot help everyone in the world, and you have to help yourself. But there's a point when self-help isn't enough. There comes a point in everyone's life where you need someone to offer their hand, or their home for the night. If we all just rely on ourselves and turn to God for help from time to time, nothing will get accomplished. You can't boil water without heat and you certainly can't expect miracles to happen without a little help.
"Personne n'aide jamais", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
This summer I found out that I can't be satisfied with changing one heart at a time. Because I tried to help people one day at a time and I would turn the corner and find another tragedy at my feet. And that's fine if you want to tell me that "you can't help everybody", but alas my friend, I can and will help the world, with or without the help of a Higher Power.
And then of course, when a few events changed my life at a young age, I started to question why anyone would want to believe in God, especially if such horrible things happened to a girl who was only twelve years old. So for a while, I was bitter with the concept of religious practices, giving all your faith and hope to one belief. I wanted to make my own way of life, and follow my own morals. They were morals I had always been raised with, and my mother isn't particularly religious either, so I know her morals didn't come from Temple, or the Bible, or any other religious manuscript. At that point in time, I knew I could follow my own way and make it out all right.
"Toute seule dans le jardin", Luxembourg, 2010
When high school hit me, and things worsened a bit, I tried to explain to myself that bitterness would help nothing. So instead of casting off the concept of God, I simply disagreed with it and believed in a higher order, something out of human hands, but not necessarily one creator of the world. And again, for a teenage girl, that was very hard to accept. And to be able to discuss, or defend. I still went to Church services with friends, but was more hurt by not being included or not feeling welcomed at times.
When I traveled to France with PNH, I saw some of the most beautiful Cathedrals in the world. I stepped inside the walls of history, where people came to beg for forgiveness, beg for good health and pray for a good season. These people all truly believed in something higher than themselves. And for me, I tried to feel that same way. I sat in the most beautiful church of all of Paris and talked to myself, hoping a more powerful voice would enter. But it never did. So I knew I wasn't meant to believe, or to have this kind of faith. And the search ended.
"Nous avons peur", Notre Dame, 2010
When Shay died my whole world collapsed. A young, vibrant life, lost so violently-- to me, had no excuse. No reasonable explanation could dictate to me why one of my best friends was killed late in the night, while his father was out of town. Even to this day I find myself with the same hating thoughts from time to time. And they're not healthy. It's never a healthy lifestyle to be so consumed with confusion, anger and frustration.
But to try to cope with Shay's death and the history that floated in my mind, I restarted the search for God, or for understanding this January. I found a Church who's Chapel felt warm and welcoming even on the coldest day in Miami...which happened to be 38 degrees. And living in Miami, I definitely didn't own a coat. I walked in and was greeted by a wonderful Pastor, her husband and a sweet couple who sat in the same pew as I did for the first 8 weeks to make sure I felt welcome. I followed every service and tried my hardest to pray and understand the scripture. And for a few weeks I truly felt like things were changing for me. I felt more at ease with the world and I even felt good about most of the scripture readings.
As the semester pressed on, I again started to feel distanced. But instead of angered, I just felt blank. There was no emotion towards going to Church or not. So naturally I found myself very confused. I still went for the company and for the non-Biblical lessons, but I wasn't studying at home as much and I certainly didn't schedule my week around going to church on Sunday as much.
This summer, since I left for Europe religion hasn't been an important part of my life. It's not that I forgot about it because I still read daily scriptures, but I found myself not praying as much. And when I learned about the problems my family was facing, I told myself I couldn't pray for good health because I hadn't been to Church in ages. I have little respect for those who run to a Church when things get just a little bit hard. So I relied on hope, on faith, that the doctors would heal the ailments my family members faced. And it worked. But I never told myself that God didn't have a hand in it. Because I know some of my family believe that God did, and I 100% respect that notion.
But onto the point of this blog. All of these things combined have helped shape my religious beliefs, but this trip is starting to change them yet again. Walking to school, riding the metro, getting stitches and even dining in small cafes I see so much pain and self-destruction in the world. And I can't even talk about the world in a greater sense because I was only in a few districts of one major city.
Every corner I turned I either saw a woman huddled over a cane with a dirt covered hand out, one small mangled foot revealed from under her skirt; a man sleeping against a wall with a puppy in his lap, sleeping just the same; or even children walking around trying to sell pieces of paper with prayers written on them for spare change. For me, if God created everyone just the way they were meant to be, and everyone is perfect in their own sense, how do you explain those people? There is no way that every single one of them had a perfect life before and they, themselves messed it up. Children who are born into poverty hardly stand a chance at getting away from it. And people who lose their jobs but have ailments that require medical attention literally wither away in the streets.
"Le chien innocent", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
Most of the time people just pass them by and pay no mind. But I see every single one of them. I see every single diseased foot, coughing chest, torn pair of pants, and sun burned back. And you honestly can't blame them for turning to bottles of wine, there's no other way to stay warm. Today I was on the Metro going to a Museum in the 16th district and a man stepped onto the train and asked everyone for a few cents so he could call a shelter across town to try to reserve a room. He had lost his job and was unable to find another. He also mentioned that this summer there will be a lot of homeless shelters being closed from over-crowding and not enough funding. For me, if there is a God, what good is it to put people back out on the street where skin diseases and fleas run rapid through the gutters?
I hope I'm not sounding bitter, because I'm not. I understand that God cannot help everyone in the world, and you have to help yourself. But there's a point when self-help isn't enough. There comes a point in everyone's life where you need someone to offer their hand, or their home for the night. If we all just rely on ourselves and turn to God for help from time to time, nothing will get accomplished. You can't boil water without heat and you certainly can't expect miracles to happen without a little help.
"Personne n'aide jamais", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
This summer I found out that I can't be satisfied with changing one heart at a time. Because I tried to help people one day at a time and I would turn the corner and find another tragedy at my feet. And that's fine if you want to tell me that "you can't help everybody", but alas my friend, I can and will help the world, with or without the help of a Higher Power.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
How do you call it en Anglais?
24 hours in Paris complete. After sitting in the Charles de Gaulle Aeroport for around let's say forty minutes, contemplating whether or not I had made the right decision to be on my own in Paris for a month, I hailed a taxi and soon found myself flying by the Parisian countryside, on my way to the centre de la ville.
Still nervous about speaking French to everyone I encountered, I curled up on the seat to enjoy the ride while brainstorming some common phrases I could bring up with the taxi driver. "Eh, Madamemoiselle, les chaussures sur la siège, mais qu'est-ce que vous faites??" Shit, already made a mistake. "Oh monsieur, je suis vraiment désolée, c'est un accident, je m'excuse." Apology not accepted. "Mais qu'est-ce que vous pensez?" Tears start to form. "Monsieur, je suis désolée, mais les chaussures sont nouveaux, la siège est parfaite, je vous promets." Still he shook his head and muttered under his breath. I started to cry thanks to my anxious nerves and honest mistake. I always feel bad when I upset someone, and since he clearly felt disrespected by this young American, I felt even worse. So I stared out the window, tears streaming down my face, not daring to move an inch out of fear of him getting angrier. But then we hit traffic. A lot of traffic. Friday afternoon-3 pm- 5 accident, traffic. So after 45 minutes or so, when my eyes were dry but puffy he started to ask about me. We talked about Miami, Paris, University, etc. And by the end, we were doing just fine and I had a good idea of where I was in the city. I sure as hell didn't tip him though. 80 Euros for a cab fare was far enough as is.
So I arrived at 7-9 rue du Val du Grace and stepped inside the first gate. There's a lovely little garden with walkways that lead to the different buildings. Since it was about 90 degrees and I was about an hour late as is, I decided to skip the garden exploration and head for building A to meet Madame Dru on the 5th floor. I rang the doorbell and was welcomed in by a woman a little shorter than I am, wearing black yoga pants, some bohemian sandals, an Eiffel tower tee-shirt and a lightweight black over shirt. Her hair was short, blonde and white in color, and I noticed she wore a pair of golden hoops in her ears, but one was noticeably smaller than the other. So I made a mental note to ask her what the significance was. I also noticed a giant ring on her right middle finger. Very bright green in color, almost egg shaped. Likes ones children can win in prizes from the 25 cent machines. And her green reading glasses hung around her neck on a petite chaine, ready to be placed on her nose at any point in time. Soft greenish bluish eyes popped out at me as she welcomed me into her home.
Her daughter Elisa, sat in the first room on the left, typing away on her Mac Book, smoking a cigarette and sipping some white wine. The hallway from the door is long and each of the rooms breaks off from this one hallway. The next door on the left is my room. Very bright white and clean. There are two desks for me to work at, a large white armoire with sheets and towels and drawers for my belongings. Sitting at the edge of the desk were a spare notebook, a vase of yellow roses and a few writing utensils. Ah, the small things in life. :)
The rest of the apartment is a photographer's dream. A bowl of rings just like the one she had on when I first arrived sitting on a shelf next to a rack of large bangles with a few bottles of Italian cologne d'eau. An entire wall is dedicated to Madame Dru's mementos from her lifetime. A few post-it notes left by her son, Adrien, after long nights out, asking his mother to wake him at certain times. A few photographs hang next to the notes, photos of people who resemble her late mother and father. Then she has odd cartes-postales and maps and drawings she has evidently collected over the years. The stories behind such treasures wait unveiling over the next 30 days. The kitchen door is across the hall from mine, and inside is a small two or three person table, with a fridge, small stove and a wonderful window where Madame Dru grows geraniums, daisies, etc. There are bowls of various fruits sitting next to the window. Again, a photographer's ideal setting, one that they attempt to recreate for their black and white shoots that end up in magazines. Adrien's paintings hang on the wall along with a few other notes and postcards, which surely all have special meanings. There is a toilet closet and a separate room for the shower and sink and washing machine. The apartment is small, but very homey. The eclectic style is just what I've always imagined my apartments (if I live in them) to be like. Books line the walls and where there aren't bookshelves there are places for jewelry or fun dishes or just walls covered in special photos.
My room overlooks a little street and I can see window gardens across from me. The window in the kitchen looks out to other houses and a little walkway or alleyway, I'm not quite sure. But since my window faces north I get a little view of the morning sun and it's just perfect for waking up to.
Adrien, Madame Dru's son, is an artist and lives in the country...most of the time. He's a little taller than I am, with a shaggy beard and walks around in his paint-covered jeans most of the time. He's helping me with my French along with Madame Dru, who both speak English very well. Her daughter, Elisa, is trying to finish up University but is pursuing some type of career/side career in theater and just left for the weekend to go north for a performance. She left the house wearing a black and white polka dot dress and bright white heart shaped sunglasses. Just to give a little visual of how artistic this family is. I adore every bit of it.
Dinner was light, a rice salad with cheese and tomatoes (apparently I eat tomatoes in France?)with some soy sauce and bread. Then we had a bit of chevre and Roquefort cheese. And we ended le diner with strawberries and vanilla ice cream. I was very tired by 9 pm so I retired to my room to read and write for the rest of the night. This morning we had yogurt, granola, toast, and tea for breakfast. I added a few almonds to my yogurt and then we headed out to the market so Madame Dru could show me around. We started off toward the Parc du Luxembourg, this great public park with a gravel trail around it where people jog and walk all day long. The interior of the track is lined with benches and divided shades of grass where people do Tai Chi and yoga. There are a few private tennis courts and a new volleyball court. Madame Dru and I talked about family interaction in places like this, her family, my family, and every kind of literature we liked to read. She showed me how to get to school in the morning, and hooray because it's within walking distance!! Then we went to this video store, one of only two in Paris which holds every kind of movie you can imagine. French films, German films, Japanese, English, etc. All organized by Director's last name. If it's been released, it's in there. So we walked around and talked about how it's not common knowledge for everyone in the U.S. to know director's names, maybe just the title of the film and the major actors starring in it. So hopefully by the end of this trip I'll know a few more than I did before. And there is a wonderful collection of postcards from the 50s, mostly black and white, of candid and planned shots of movie stars. I can't wait to go back and pick out a few to send out.
Then we walked over to la rue Mouffetard where there is a long street of small shops and les librairies (book stores, not a chain) that sell new books and les livres d'occasion (second hand) for pretty cheap. She showed me her favorite cafes and petits restaurants, and bakeries. I found out where she buys her scarves too :) a place called Diwali, not too expensive. But I was advised to wait until June 30 when the sales begin, because everything is very cheap then. But I didn't bring many clothes so I'll need to go shopping at some point! We went to a bakery and bought a couple of slices of Quiche Lorraine and Quiche Chevre Epignard (goat cheese and spinach)and some little sweet tasting rolls (almost as sweet as brioche dough) but are hollow inside and have sugar bits on top. We sliced them in half and filled them with chocolate and vanilla ice cream for lunch. We also bought a piece of flan, she loves cheese cake and flan....how French of her! So then we bought some rotisserie chicken legs and roasted potatoes for lunch and headed back to her apartment. She made a salad and I ate half of a tomato in it, and we talked about life and death and some things in between. Most of the time she speaks to me in English, or mixed French/English and I try speak to her in French, correcting myself in English along the way. I learned how to say pole vaulting :) (Sauter a la perche) And I am a perchiste, or a pole vaulter.
For now we are resting, going to eat dinner around 8 pm and at about 10 I'm going to walk over to le Censier Daubenton to meet Joseph, a boy from my classes in Miami and we're going to venture over to the 4eme arrondissement for the evening. Should be fun.
A bientot et grosses bises,
Lauren
Still nervous about speaking French to everyone I encountered, I curled up on the seat to enjoy the ride while brainstorming some common phrases I could bring up with the taxi driver. "Eh, Madamemoiselle, les chaussures sur la siège, mais qu'est-ce que vous faites??" Shit, already made a mistake. "Oh monsieur, je suis vraiment désolée, c'est un accident, je m'excuse." Apology not accepted. "Mais qu'est-ce que vous pensez?" Tears start to form. "Monsieur, je suis désolée, mais les chaussures sont nouveaux, la siège est parfaite, je vous promets." Still he shook his head and muttered under his breath. I started to cry thanks to my anxious nerves and honest mistake. I always feel bad when I upset someone, and since he clearly felt disrespected by this young American, I felt even worse. So I stared out the window, tears streaming down my face, not daring to move an inch out of fear of him getting angrier. But then we hit traffic. A lot of traffic. Friday afternoon-3 pm- 5 accident, traffic. So after 45 minutes or so, when my eyes were dry but puffy he started to ask about me. We talked about Miami, Paris, University, etc. And by the end, we were doing just fine and I had a good idea of where I was in the city. I sure as hell didn't tip him though. 80 Euros for a cab fare was far enough as is.
So I arrived at 7-9 rue du Val du Grace and stepped inside the first gate. There's a lovely little garden with walkways that lead to the different buildings. Since it was about 90 degrees and I was about an hour late as is, I decided to skip the garden exploration and head for building A to meet Madame Dru on the 5th floor. I rang the doorbell and was welcomed in by a woman a little shorter than I am, wearing black yoga pants, some bohemian sandals, an Eiffel tower tee-shirt and a lightweight black over shirt. Her hair was short, blonde and white in color, and I noticed she wore a pair of golden hoops in her ears, but one was noticeably smaller than the other. So I made a mental note to ask her what the significance was. I also noticed a giant ring on her right middle finger. Very bright green in color, almost egg shaped. Likes ones children can win in prizes from the 25 cent machines. And her green reading glasses hung around her neck on a petite chaine, ready to be placed on her nose at any point in time. Soft greenish bluish eyes popped out at me as she welcomed me into her home.
Her daughter Elisa, sat in the first room on the left, typing away on her Mac Book, smoking a cigarette and sipping some white wine. The hallway from the door is long and each of the rooms breaks off from this one hallway. The next door on the left is my room. Very bright white and clean. There are two desks for me to work at, a large white armoire with sheets and towels and drawers for my belongings. Sitting at the edge of the desk were a spare notebook, a vase of yellow roses and a few writing utensils. Ah, the small things in life. :)
The rest of the apartment is a photographer's dream. A bowl of rings just like the one she had on when I first arrived sitting on a shelf next to a rack of large bangles with a few bottles of Italian cologne d'eau. An entire wall is dedicated to Madame Dru's mementos from her lifetime. A few post-it notes left by her son, Adrien, after long nights out, asking his mother to wake him at certain times. A few photographs hang next to the notes, photos of people who resemble her late mother and father. Then she has odd cartes-postales and maps and drawings she has evidently collected over the years. The stories behind such treasures wait unveiling over the next 30 days. The kitchen door is across the hall from mine, and inside is a small two or three person table, with a fridge, small stove and a wonderful window where Madame Dru grows geraniums, daisies, etc. There are bowls of various fruits sitting next to the window. Again, a photographer's ideal setting, one that they attempt to recreate for their black and white shoots that end up in magazines. Adrien's paintings hang on the wall along with a few other notes and postcards, which surely all have special meanings. There is a toilet closet and a separate room for the shower and sink and washing machine. The apartment is small, but very homey. The eclectic style is just what I've always imagined my apartments (if I live in them) to be like. Books line the walls and where there aren't bookshelves there are places for jewelry or fun dishes or just walls covered in special photos.
My room overlooks a little street and I can see window gardens across from me. The window in the kitchen looks out to other houses and a little walkway or alleyway, I'm not quite sure. But since my window faces north I get a little view of the morning sun and it's just perfect for waking up to.
Adrien, Madame Dru's son, is an artist and lives in the country...most of the time. He's a little taller than I am, with a shaggy beard and walks around in his paint-covered jeans most of the time. He's helping me with my French along with Madame Dru, who both speak English very well. Her daughter, Elisa, is trying to finish up University but is pursuing some type of career/side career in theater and just left for the weekend to go north for a performance. She left the house wearing a black and white polka dot dress and bright white heart shaped sunglasses. Just to give a little visual of how artistic this family is. I adore every bit of it.
Dinner was light, a rice salad with cheese and tomatoes (apparently I eat tomatoes in France?)with some soy sauce and bread. Then we had a bit of chevre and Roquefort cheese. And we ended le diner with strawberries and vanilla ice cream. I was very tired by 9 pm so I retired to my room to read and write for the rest of the night. This morning we had yogurt, granola, toast, and tea for breakfast. I added a few almonds to my yogurt and then we headed out to the market so Madame Dru could show me around. We started off toward the Parc du Luxembourg, this great public park with a gravel trail around it where people jog and walk all day long. The interior of the track is lined with benches and divided shades of grass where people do Tai Chi and yoga. There are a few private tennis courts and a new volleyball court. Madame Dru and I talked about family interaction in places like this, her family, my family, and every kind of literature we liked to read. She showed me how to get to school in the morning, and hooray because it's within walking distance!! Then we went to this video store, one of only two in Paris which holds every kind of movie you can imagine. French films, German films, Japanese, English, etc. All organized by Director's last name. If it's been released, it's in there. So we walked around and talked about how it's not common knowledge for everyone in the U.S. to know director's names, maybe just the title of the film and the major actors starring in it. So hopefully by the end of this trip I'll know a few more than I did before. And there is a wonderful collection of postcards from the 50s, mostly black and white, of candid and planned shots of movie stars. I can't wait to go back and pick out a few to send out.
Then we walked over to la rue Mouffetard where there is a long street of small shops and les librairies (book stores, not a chain) that sell new books and les livres d'occasion (second hand) for pretty cheap. She showed me her favorite cafes and petits restaurants, and bakeries. I found out where she buys her scarves too :) a place called Diwali, not too expensive. But I was advised to wait until June 30 when the sales begin, because everything is very cheap then. But I didn't bring many clothes so I'll need to go shopping at some point! We went to a bakery and bought a couple of slices of Quiche Lorraine and Quiche Chevre Epignard (goat cheese and spinach)and some little sweet tasting rolls (almost as sweet as brioche dough) but are hollow inside and have sugar bits on top. We sliced them in half and filled them with chocolate and vanilla ice cream for lunch. We also bought a piece of flan, she loves cheese cake and flan....how French of her! So then we bought some rotisserie chicken legs and roasted potatoes for lunch and headed back to her apartment. She made a salad and I ate half of a tomato in it, and we talked about life and death and some things in between. Most of the time she speaks to me in English, or mixed French/English and I try speak to her in French, correcting myself in English along the way. I learned how to say pole vaulting :) (Sauter a la perche) And I am a perchiste, or a pole vaulter.
For now we are resting, going to eat dinner around 8 pm and at about 10 I'm going to walk over to le Censier Daubenton to meet Joseph, a boy from my classes in Miami and we're going to venture over to the 4eme arrondissement for the evening. Should be fun.
A bientot et grosses bises,
Lauren
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