My last 12 days in Paris

I will try to be a little less detailed in my next posts about Paris.

My second day was spent around Lise’s town of Gouvieux, cute little village not far from Chantilly, famous for horses, whipped cream and their castle. Yep, we saw the castle (didn’t go inside, 12 euros!), snuck into the horse museum (can you really picture either of us paying 8 G.D. EUROS to see horses?).

Lunch: Baguette, Saucisson, cornichon, butter.

Growing up, I always thought that Peugeot was just bikes. Also, the logo looks like if a lion was in Thriller.

On Thursday, after Lise’s classes in Paris, we went to Pere La Chaise, the cemetery where I made my pilgrimage to Jim Morrison’s grave. The whole cemetery was actually worth seeing though. Some pompous 20-something New Yorker musician was just hanging out by the grave, drinking wine (he was being so culturally aware) making obnoxiously bold statements about…whatever popped into his arrogant mind to whoever was polite enough to listen. “Yeah, L.A. sucks, except for weather” “New York sucks…except for music.” “French people are good at English” “German people are bad at English”. “There’s a lot of hot girls coming to visit the grave”. Annoying that he is part of this memory.

Here lies a dead Hipster

That evening we wandered through Belleville, a neighborhood known to be a little rougher around the edges and comprised mostly of immigrants. It was visible (as it always is with me) by the food. Rows of couscous shops, halal butchers, kebabs (ok, those are everywhere in Paris, probably Europe). We went to a bar that was recommended to us for happy hour. I was excited that with our eccentric server served our beer with a little dish of peanuts mixed with…Corn Nuts! Yes, THE Corn Nuts! Lise had never seen them before, and neither did the friendly man next to us, who told us all about how great Pittsburgh is. I had no idea.


That night we went to a party at the apartment of one of her classmates. Not much to say about it, other than that everyone was really friendly, and quickly relieved my intense nervousness about my poor French skills. Nobody seemed to judge me for my lack of French, and they all were more than happy to conform to a foreign tongue for my sake. Somebody brought a girl from Jersey, who was interning at a fashion magazine in Paris, and Lise and I agreed that she more reflected the Parisian reputation of pompousness than anyone else at the party.

After a day of wandering and exploring on Friday, we headed to the Seine, the river that snakes through the center of Paris to meet with an array of Lise’s friends and drink some wine. The sunset was gorgeous, and what can I say about the surrounding scenery. I mean, jeez, it’s Paris. It was a different crowd of people than the night before, but again, they were all very warm and most spoke really great English. After a couple hours, the wine and beer ran out, and there was rumor of a block party somewhere far away, so we hopped on the metro with a couple peeps. Then Lise got tired (as did I), and it seemed that this block party might be more of a rave or club thing with a steep cover, so we headed to Lise’s friend Noemi’s apartment, where we would be sleeping. When we got there, however, she didn’t answer her door. We knocked loudly and repeatedly, but there was no answer. Long story short, with no place to go, we were forced to walk for about 45 minutes through some not so savory parts of town to get to a party that one of Lise’s friends was at. There were three guys and three girls in this small studio, and while they were all fairly friendly, they gave me an uncomfortable vibe. Everything about the guys gave the impression that they were stereotypical frat boy types, which was actually an interesting change in pace for what I had seen so far. We hung out and sipped cheap champagne (or as they call it, “wine with gas”) until the first subway ran at six AM and headed back to Noemie’s apartment. Apparently she had accidentally fallen asleep.


Eating at Lise’s family’s house has been an experience in itself. I have had three formal dinners with them, and it seems they really give me the royal treatment (or basic hospitality as it is here I guess). My first night they served an appetizer of foie gras on toast with champagne. The meal of pork in mustard sauce and scalloped potatoes was followed by a baguette with an assortment of strong cheeses. I don’t remember what the dessert was, but it was rich.




Other things. We saw a castle. It was old and interesting.






We made the obligatory trip to the Eiffel tower, and I have to say it was pretty forgettable. I kind of regret going.

Nice ad placement, Australia

Looks like a tourist trap

Here's me and the Eiffel Tower

There was a protest and strike one day. It forced us to get up earlier because of the reduced train schedule. After Lise’s class, we went to the protest with a bunch of her classmates. It was far more organized, raucous and impressive than anything I had ever seen in Seattle. There were flare guns, people selling mixed drinks and beer, and kebab trucks. I would go to that without the protest. The reason for the protest was that the retirement age had been raised from 60 to 62. Boohoo France. Just kidding. At some point we ended up at an Iris pub (weird, right?) and it just so happened that it was Guinness’s anniversary. What are the odds?

Air France sent a fleet of Airbuses in support

France is so free you can buy Mojitos from children

On Saturday we explored the 18th arrondisement (sp?), a district in the north of Paris. Lise planned the day perfectly and was a great navigator. We started at what I think was called the Marche Barbes, a flea market that would make you forget you were in Paris entirely. To me it felt like a Mexican market or southern California style swap meet, substituting Mexicans for Africans and North Africans. People were selling corn and chestnuts, roasted on their makeshift grills, and music booths blasted the latest hip-hop sounds from Africa and the Arab world. Oversized t-shirts with flags from Congo and Algeria were on display. Lise and I should have felt out of place, but we didn’t. At the end of the market, there was a large gathering under an overpass. It was the most makeshift aspect of the market, and some of the most downtrodden-looking immigrants and refugees from all over were selling boxes of extremely second-hand clothing and household items. Lise said they gather their wares from garbage cans in one of the nicest districts of Paris.



Moulin Rouge.
Sacre Coeur.

A space invader, one of many of these famous street arts found throughout Paris, and the world.

And another. Note that this is a tourist under the space invader. The only people I have seen wearing this kind of beret here are the worst of tourists. Put your white sneakers back on, you're not fooling anybody.

After the Sacre Coeur we walked into the primarily African neighborhood. What a mind trip. It really felt like somebody had taken a West African city like Accra (if it was Francophone) and dropped it in a street in Paris. The women were wearing a mix of western and traditional clothing (just like West Africa), and many were packed into the numerous hair salons for socializing and getting an elaborate new style. People were selling produce on the sidewalks, and many of the items were things that I have only ever seen in Ghana. Everything was filthy. I can’t think of a more trash-ridden street that I have ever seen in a western country. Young boys set up cardboard boxes in the street (cars seemed to be informally banned from this street) as tables to sell bootleg CDs and DVDs. All of a sudden a giant garbage truck appeared. As it started to turn the corner onto the street, a quick rush of panic took over as everyone quickly picked up their box tables and moved them out of the way. As we continued to walk, the population faded from Sub-Saharan African to North African, in a neighborhood known as Barbes. The only notable thing that happened was a lot of guys on the street trying to sell us cigarettes. And all of a sudden it was dark, and we were back at the train station we came in on. We rested on a nearby sidewalk for a while, and watched as a cop pulled over to question a guy selling roasted corn. The cop left him alone after a few minutes, leaving us confused about why he stopped in the first place. Five minutes later, one of the vendor’s buddies brought us a roasted corn as a “cadeau” or gift, which we accepted, and used it as an excuse to find out about the cop incident. The vendor didn’t seem to speak French, but he looked Indian, so I tried English, and this was more successful. He was actually from Bangladesh, but in France illegally. Selling roasted corn on a makeshift grill sitting in a shopping cart is apparently illegal too. The cop just said he had ten minutes to leave (the spot, not the country). Apparently they don’t really mind if people are selling corn in the streets, just if they are doing it in nicer (whiter) areas. Ya know, it just doesn’t look good, right? Lise said she wished the cops were required to take classes in philosophy. We chatted with the corn vendor and his friends for a while, and they tried to give us all the leftover corn so they could just leave. We only accepted about half of their leftovers. We then went to a nearby restaurant for one of Lise’s favorite dishes, “moules frites”. It’s like steak frites, but instead of steak, it is mussels. I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about it, but it turned out to be really good, and the portion was huge. And it came with an appetizer of herring with potatoes, carrots and onions! Ooh it was a good deal.

Moule Frites

That night we went to a party with some people in Lise’s town. They are not her favorite people, the kind of people that never really got out of their home town, and have had the same friends most of their life. Not bad people, but can just be difficult to relate to. They were really nice, and fun, though less skilled in English, giving me the rare opportunity to practice my French. Most importantly, though, was that it further rounded out my perception of French people being…simply people. Lise’s classmates might have fit into my assumption that everyone was very intellectual and of a certain style, but it seems far from the case, and by the end of my time in Paris, I have found a lot of parallels to social groups that I can relate to back home.

Also, catacombs.


Because I am trying to cram 2 weeks into one long (and fairly uninteresting post), I am forgetting the important observations I met while here, and definitely many of the most interesting anecdotes. I may mention them as they pop into my head along the way.

A quick word on the elderly. They are very cute.

However, dogs are still standing by, waiting to make a meal out of them.

A quick word on French food, I like to play with it.

Steak Tartare

Saucisson

A word on bar soap...this is why it is not the only kind of soap we have.

"The French Language has been, is, and will be the most beautiful language in the world. Long live Boetie." This is mostly funny because they misspelled language, twice.

I Love Nothing. I'm Parisian.

Camembert is President.
I am super jealous of the sweet shoes Lise got for $.50 at a flea market near her town.

HaHA France! Not even your centuries old quaintness can escape the clutches of Paid Parking!

So on Monday, it was time for me to depart Paris. I didn’t know whether I would be heading to Barcelona or somewhere in Italy to meet Jonathan, but I had secured a couch surf in Marseilles, France, which gave me decent access to either location whenever I heard word from my travel partner to be. It would be my first voyage solo in Europe, and my first long-distance hitchhike attempt. I was nervous and excited, although sad to leave.