Appropriately, "cliché" is a French word...

Here in Paris, sometimes every day seems like a cliché. 

One day, I might sit along the Seine at sunset and hear French accordion music while couples in love walk hand-in-hand and circles of friends strum guitars, singing and laughing; another day I might sip espresso at a sidewalk cafe watching bicycles, mopeds, and impeccably dressed Parisians with their little dogs parade down the road under a drizzly gray sky; still another day I might picnic under le tour eiffel with wine, cheese, and baguettes as the sun goes down and it's light is replaced gradually by the golden glow of the tower, glittering on the hour.

 Or hey, maybe i'll just do all of those things in ONE day, so that the next day I can watch a mime in a striped shirt, a red scarf, and a French baret pretend to be stuck inside a little box. Anyway, you get the idea. 

Before coming here, I tried to expel all romanticized notions about Paris from my mind, so that I could be entirely open to absorb this new and exciting culture for what it is. Since I have been in Paris, though, it's sometimes like I've been living in one giant daydream, and all of those romantic images of the City of Lights are a tangible reality. 

Sometimes I wonder if the city has collectively decided to just pump-up the romance and embrace and perpetuate the stereotypes to make us tourists happy...

Now, I acknowledge that many of these clichés of which I speak are deeply rooted in Parisian and French culture, but I guess I just know there must be more. I see the façade of daily life out on the streets of Paris, and though it has been poetic, romantic, and beautiful, I feel like I'm just playing along with the game, seeing what I want to and am supposed to see as an American in Paris. While I may stop by the same local boulangerie for my baguette as any local, as long as I am here in this city I will always enter a different world than would a real Parisian when I leave those cobblestone streets and am tucked within the walls of my classrooms or my apartment.  I wish I could see the a different side of the city, beyond that beautiful façade...

Now, I'm still having the most amazing journey in Paris. It's because I am already in love with the city and the way of life here that I recognize how completely unfamiliar it is to me. I want to understand it more--at least be a little less of an outsider. I imagine there's only so much picnicking and cafe-going and city strolling that one can do before it loses its charm and the novelty wears-off a bit. What I wish I could find is what makes a Parisian really fall in love with her city, because I already know what makes visitors say to Paris, "je t'aime". I want to see the culture, which I know must exist, that seems to be carefully protected from the outside world by white stone walls of stereotypes embellished with flower-filled window boxes of red romance. I want to see the culture that distracts millions of visitors with fine wine and a sparkly golden tower in order to preserve its own authenticity. I want to see the real Paris. 

Photos!

Ma vie à Paris

Recap time!

Since the last time that I wrote, I've been getting more acclimated to the time zone, more in sync with Paris and Parisians, and more sure of my own ability to navigate French culture.  I've moved into my studio on Avenue Daumesnil, which even better than I expected. I am on the third floor and out my window I can see a stretch of window-boxes, each overflowing with bright flowers, and I am slightly protected from the roaring bustle of the street by the Viaduc des Arts and the Promenade Plantée, which is basically an old railroad viaduct that has been converted into businesses--complete with a garden and walking path on top.  To get to my apartment, I have to go from the street through a locked gate beneath one of the Viaduct's arches, and then up to another door with a security code, and then once inside the foyer I have to hold my key up to a reader, which opens the next door, and theeeen I can get to my apartment. Needless to say, and to the delight of my parents I'm sure, it is very secure. 

It's taken me three days to finally unpack, because I have been so excited about being in Paris that I haven't wanted to be in my room for more than five minutes! Now that I have cleaned everything, put away all of my belongings, shopped for groceries, and done my best to make the place more homey, I am actually very comfortable here! It's nice to have my own place to unwind and relax, because being out in a foreign world all day is EX-hausting! 

I'm happy with the Accent center in Paris, which has a very friendly staff and nice facilities. I was a little bit worried about what the quality of the school would be like, but I definitely got a good vibe—I think this is going to be a great semester! 
  
Yesterday I explored the Luxembourg Gardens, The University of Paris, and the Cathedral of Saint Suplice on the left bank. I wore my feet out to the point of blisters, but all in all I had a nice day. I intended to come back to Daumesnil in the afternoon to explore the city by bike with some other UC students, but I ended up being so tired that I slept away the rest of the afternoon and evening.

One of my favorite memories of the last couple days is my taxi ride from Montmartre to my school. Walking is perhaps the best way to see the city, and an essentially Parisian thing to do, but sitting back in an air conditioned car and putting the sight seeing on fast forward was a nice change. 

After my first day at Daumesnil, I realized that I'm here with a collection of awesome people! One guy helped my lug my suitcase up the stairs because the elevator was broken, another let me have the French press in his room when I saw him in the grocery store and complained about having no way to make coffee, and everyone else I have met has been friendly and just as excited as I am to be studying abroad here in the City of Light. After a picnic on the Viaduct at sunset with a new friend, I walked down the banks of the Seine and through Ile St. Louis with my new neighbors. All in all, a successful day. 

Now I realize that this all might seem sickeningly optimistic… but that's because I'm in PARIS for goodness sake. It's every bit as fantastic as I have been making it sound. It's like I'm seeing "la vie en rose."  

Obviously it's not ALL picnics at sunset and sparkling nighttime strolls on the seine, there have been a few mishaps. For example, walking out of Monoprix, (which is a store kind of like a Target in the U.S.) I set off the security sensors at the door. No one working spoke English, and I had a really hard time explaining that I was not shoplifting! Just before they looked over my receipt and told me I could go, I had a scary and somewhat comical vision of myself locked up in a French prison somewhere. It all worked out though, of course! 

It's about 11 am here and I'm getting ready to go to my academic orientation. I wrote a few letters early this morning while sitting at a sidewalk cafe on Rue du Faubourg with un cafe creme et un croissant. The waiter there spoke a little English, and I told him that I will try to speak more French the next time I came to the cafe, since I have come to Paris to learn about the language and culture of France. He definitely approved of this!  

 
I have to go now! It's a bit of a walk to the Accent center. Much love from Paris to my family and friends that read my blog! <3 font="" nbsp="">

Bonjour Paris!

Bonjour Paris! 

I've been in Paris for two days (I think—the time difference has really been messing with my mind!) and what a crazy experience it has been already!. I don't know how this blog is going to work… I'm going to have to be very selective about the stories that I choose to tell. Either that, or I'm going to have to write a large novel's worth of adventures on here. Actually, I could write a whole novel's worth of stories already, and I've been here a couple days! Imagine after 6 months! They wouldn't have room for my  blog in the whole library of congress!! 

So let's see… Where shall I begin? It's going to be confusing, but I think I will tell the story of the last couple days BACKWARDS. 

Just to stick it to the chronological man. 

August 20th: 

…My feet hurt. Very much. 

And that's because I have been exploring, getting lost, and walking kilometers and kilometers (note the metric system) in what I mistook as a comfy pair of flats, but what have  actually turned out to be tiny foot torturing devices in disguise, that not only make your feet ache, but also give you blisters and heat your feet up to ten times the outside temperature. Note to self: get some comfortable shoes! I just got back to the Caulaincourt Square Hostel from shopping on the Champs-Elysees. I didn't buy a thing; instead, I just window-shopped for a while, and then sat outside a cheap sidewalk bistro with a cappuccino and a quiche for lunch and took advantage of my prime people-watching location. The Champs-Elysees is a charming clash of people,  ranging from flawless Parisian fashionistas to fanny-pack weilding American tourists wearing "I heart Paris" t-shirts. After taking a much needed break, I got my iphone a French sim-card from "Orange" (finally). Today has been a great day so far! 

…I just had the most wonderful morning! I woke up around 7 30 and couldn't go back to sleep, so I got dressed and walked out into beautiful Montmartre just as the city was beginning to stir. I thought that I would be able to sit and have a quiet "café et croissantt", but businesses were not open. I've read that restaurants in France are not usually open for breakfast, and those that are won't be open early; well, I guess it's true. Instead, I just decided to do some essential sight-seeing before the tourists swarmed in with their cameras and backpacks and restless children—off to le basilique sacrée-coeur!  As I walked up the sloping streets to the Basilica, I hardly passed anyone—only a few joggers, dog walkers, and tourists who had ventured out to get an early start. Men were setting up the tables and chairs on the sidewalk that would later be filled with café-goers sipping espresso and chatting under the lacy shade of Rue Caulaincourt's massive trees.The air was cold, but it was warmed by the smell of fresh bread and pastries baking in the many boulangeries and pâtisseries scattered around Montmartre. I climbed higher up the hill through narrow cobble-stone streets, beneath towering sand colored buildings with bright red flowers in every window box, passing in and out of the sunlight, taking pictures here and there but mostly just talking in the peace of the moment, and I suddenly let out a laugh of  joy. This—not the tourist infested landmarks, the graffitied périphéries, or the even the boulevards lined with shops the likes of Chanel and Ferrari—was the Paris that I really wanted to see. I reached the Basilica, which I thought, despite the locals' supposed distaste for the monument, was beautiful. Maybe it was just that it was empty and quiet, for a change, with it's bone colored stones bathed in a golden light. Like most architecture in Paris, it is tastefully intricate, enough to be breathtaking, but not enough to be gaudy. Knowing where the "too much" line is, and preceding to get as close to it as possible without ever crossing it, seems to be a skill held by all things Parisian; that includes the cuisine, the fashion,and even the weather. I guess that's why we all know it as the most stylish city in the world! Anyway, from the top of  Montmartre I could see Paris sprawled out before me, the streets radiating out from various centers like spokes on a wheel. Sure, a grid would be more logical, and maybe I wouldn't get lost all the time if there was any system to the city's layout, but I guess the slight chaos of Paris' map makes it beautiful, interesting, as well as a total pain in the butt. The dicey neighborhoods, the modern skyscrapers, the iconic landmarks, and vast stretches of ivory and sandy buildings with their charcoal roofs and black wrought iron window boxes, were all thickened by a slight haze and drenched in the sunshine of the morning of August 20th as I stood outside Sacre-Couer. 

That's when it hit me that I have an amazing opportunity at this moment in my life, to see things I have never seen before. Indeed, things most people have never seen before. How did I score this deal??? 

August 19th 

…Well my first day in Paris is done. Dang. Now that I have called my parents and taken a shower to get rid of the grime of a day of travel, I feel pretty good!  It's been real though… I'm emotionally, mentally, and especially physically tired. When I got to the Caulaincourt Hostel to check-in, after Mr. Toads Wild ride in the taxi from Charles de Gaulle airport, through the Parisian suburbs, and up to the hill to Montmartre,  I was pleasantly surprised at the charming location. Classic shops and cafes line the road, which smells strongly of fresh baked bread. The man at the front desk was nice enough, although he sure didn't like me asking "parlez-vous anglais?" I think this was either because: he, of course, speaks English and how dare I insult his intelligence! Or perhaps: he would prefer me to try to speak French to him, because I'm visiting his country after all! Anyway, he silently slid my key onto the counter, muttered "twenty," and swept outside to sit on the curb and have a smoke. C'est la vie. I was prepared for that type of encounter. After settling in to the tiny but nice room 20, with the effects of jet lag surely still altering my brain-chemistry, I wandered out into bustling Paris to try to get a few things done. This was a mistake. Try to get on the metro—fail. Try to find an "Orange" mobile store—major fail. Try to buy lunch—fail. I mean, eventually I succeeded in all of these things, but not smoothly. No, not at all; I'll spare you the details. So after failing miserably, I realized that before I should do anything else, I needed to sleep. So I drudged back to by room, fell onto the bed, and instantly crashed for five hours. When I awoke in the evening, I felt refreshed and was ready to venture out again. This time, I did alright. I got on the metro, and headed down to see, of course, the Arc de Triumph and the Champs-Elysees. After the Arc, I got myself a drink on the Champs-Elysees and watched folks pass by speaking rapid French, or occasionally English with a thick British accent. Then, strolling down that famous avenue, I looked down a sidestreet and there it was, with no warning. BOOM! Eiffel Tower. My stomach lurched a bit, just like it used to when I was a kid and remembered with a start that it's christmas morning, or when I would turn a corner in Junior High and see that boy I liked standing in the hall, or just like the first time, a few summers ago, when the Eiffel Tower snuck up on me from around a corner just as it had done now. It's not all that beautiful to me, but there's just something about its iconic nature. It has that aura about it like a celebrity among buildings—the queen of icons. The whole world knows of this symbol, the WHOLE WORLD, and now it's right in front of me (at it's prettiest, might I add) glowing faintly gold with the pink and grey-blue background of twilight. I hiked up to the Trocadero to get a better view, and found that a man was serenading the tourists with French accordion music. I laughed to myself because it totally ruined the romance of the moment; now that was just TOO cliche. As I turned my back on the tour eiffel to head back, I pretended for a moment that flashes from the thousands of visitors' cameras were all pointed at me. Like the paparazzi eagerly snapping my picture at a red carpet event. But I knew deep down that the real star was the Eiffel Tower, who obviously sensed that I might steal the spotlight, and was now glittering spectacularly in the night as it does every hour; as if being a glowing golden goddess isn't good enough, it sparkles too? Personally, I think all the atttention is getting to its head... 

   Overboard on the personification there? Perhaps. ANYway. I squeezed into the metro car and headed Back to Montmartre, exhausted again as I emerged from the spiraling staircase exit of the Lamark-Caulaincourt station, just as the sun finally went down on my first day in Paris. What a journey this is going to be. 

August 18th/19th

…The voice just came on the intercom saying something in French, that perfect stewardess voice that follows the cheerful "dingggg" that always wakes me up as i'm just falling  asleep; I think it said we're going to be landing soon. Yep. She just said it in English. Landing. In France. In Paris. We're landing. Wait, really?? Of course, I knew we wouldn't be staying on the plane forever… but after around hour six, it felt like I was just going to be stuck in this 30,000 ft. limbo forever with Mr. "I'm-really-pissed-off-because-I'm-not-going-to-be-able-to-smoke-for-11-hours" sitting next to me, eternally silent, and occasionally falling asleep on my shoulder (at which times I was sure that he had enough second hand smoke in the fabric of his fancy designer coat to take a whiff and get his nicotine fix…)

Landing. Wow. I slid open my window and saw a cottony gray layer covering the earth clear to the horizon. We started the twirling decent into CDG airport, as I eagerly poured out the window for my first glimpse of Paris through the mist. We were lost in white clouds for minutes, though it could have been another ten hours as I waited. 

I had time, in the fog, to start thinking in metaphors (which I often do when I get emotional or nostalgic or just bored). This moment of waiting in the fog was like these last few months of waiting. I had taken off, and I had started my journey, but what the future had in store for me was still hidden behind an impenetrable fog. Now, as the turquoise Air Tahiti Nui Airbus broke through the clouds (literally), I felt like I was finally living the adventure that I have been anticipating for months. 

"Au revior!", the flight attended said as I stepped out of the plane and onto solid ground at last. "Goodbye!" I said.

and Bonjour Paris! 

Je suis d'accord

"My bags are packed, I'm ready to go..."

<---------It doesn't look like much, but I still feel like I overpacked...

Which is easier... running 26.2 miles or flying 5,661 miles?

After the next few months are over, I'll be able to answer this question from experience.


This past Sunday, I ran the San Francisco Marathon.
In other words, I paid  $150 to wake up at five in the morning, and subject my body to four hours and 26.2 miles of pounding against the paved streets of San Francisco with thousands of other equally insane and sweaty folks. Sounds like a perfectly reasonable thing to do... right?


Maybe not, but I'm starting to think that it's a little bit more reasonable, and a hell of a lot easier, than what I'm going to be doing two weeks from now... which is flying 5661 miles.
Some might argue that, although sitting in coach for eleven hours watching inevitably awful in-flight movies while being served little bags of stale airplane pretzels might not be the height of luxury and relaxation, it surely cannot be more difficult than the burning, aching, cramping, chaffing, and sweating that accompanies running a marathon, right? Well I'm not too sure about that. 


In many ways, I think that studying abroad will be a lot like running a marathon. 


True, (I'm hoping) there will be a lot less sweaty joggers around during by Parisian adventure, but figuratively speaking I see some parallels:


1. Running a Marathon, like Studying abroad, takes months and months of preparation. 
That is unless you're like my brother, who can just say, "sure, I'll run 26 miles today even though I haven't run in a year." (Brad is a unique case.)

Anyway, planning to study abroad has taken preparation. I've spent hours at a time completing the paperwork, practicing the language, researching the culture, packing, unpacking, repacking, and all of the odds and ends of preparing to live on the other side of the world. Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say that it has taken up more energy than months of running about 50 miles a week to prepare for a marathon, but it has been hard work.


With the date of my departure coming up, it's just like standing at the starting line of a marathon—at this point I can only hope that I have prepared enough. 


2. The race starts, and that's when it hits you. 
I trained for the SFM for months, but it wasn't until I left the starting line behind me that I realized, "Oh, this is it. I'm ACTUALLY dong this..."
 It seems like that's how studying in Paris is going to be as well. Here I am, with about a week left in the United States, and I still don't feel like I'm actually going. I'm not nervous, because in my mind, I have nothing to worry about. Every once and a while I'll feel a brief jolt of excitement or fear, but I smother that as soon as possible. I know once the plane leaves the runway, the reality is going to smack me in the face with the force of all the built-up excitement, nervousness, and apprehension that I have been suppressing all summer. 
But then I'll get all those little jitters out, and can precede to have the time of my life. :)




3. A marathon is a difficult, filled with ups and downs, and rewarding in the end. 
When I started running, I felt great. There was a cool cottony mist over San Francisco; the lively city had not yet begun to stir and it seemed the only sound was that of hundreds of rubber soles on the pavement, each with a corresponding pair of lungs taking deep rhythmic breaths. With the ocean to my right, and waves of eclectic shops and skinny pastel-colored homes to my left, all was well. Marathon Shmarathon. This was fun. 


I imagine when I get to Paris, I'll feel that initial peace. Perhaps I'll picnic on the banks of the Seine with a baguette and a bottle of wine, or sit in a street side cafe and sip espresso. Cliche, yes, but still... exhilarating, poetic, beautiful—just like those first few miles of the marathon. 
Living in Paris is not going to be like a movie or a vacation. The romance will no doubt wear off a bit, and the weight of constant, inescapable unfamiliarity will start to take it's toll on me, just as miles of running and breathing and sweating and pounding begins to wear at the body.  


Even at mile 20 of the SFM, I was under the impression that marathons were a piece of cake... provided that during training you put in enough mileage and avoid as many actual pieces of cake as possible. 
But ohoh those last 6 miles. Insurmountable. Daunting. Painful. The marine mist was no longer soft silk against my skin; it sent chills through my dehydrated skin and carried salt from the ocean that burned as it settled on my skin. My back ached dully, my legs shook, and my feet cramped up so that even a light touch against the asphalt felt like a strong blow from a hammer.
 I started out too fast; I went to hard; and now I had nothing left. I felt like quitting with only a few miles left to go! It was one of the more painful things that I have ever experienced, no doubt. 


I pray that I will never hit a low like that in my little metaphorical marathon abroad, but I do anticipate a point during which I will have exhausted all of my cross-cultural endurance, and might even wish, for a moment, that I could quit. I'll miss stupid things like Del Taco and peanut butter, and less stupid things like wide open skies and my friends and family. 


But then I'll relish those last few steps as I cross the finish line. When times get hard and I'm feeling homesick, I'll remember that there will be a time in the near future in which I'll miss that stony gray city of love and lights where my eyes were first opened to a new and beautiful way to think and speak and live. I expect I'll get on the plane back to Los Angeles, a different, stronger, and better person, and wont regret a second of the experience.