Sunrise over Paris

Due to jetlag, I woke up several times during the night. Luckily, one of those times happened to be 6 AM, just as the sun was starting to rise. It was absolutely gorgeous: there were no people or cars on the street, and everything glowed in the warm, orange light of the sun. Having seen something so beautiful, I knew that today was going to be a good day.

When I woke up for real, the day was clear and bright--unlike the rainy, cloudy weather we had yesterday.


This is my street. I hope that the neighbours don't see me taking pictures of them...

My classes start tomorrow, and I'm meeting up with the other girls before our official meeting tomorrow afternoon, when we will be buying out textbooks.

***

Also, inside joke: Check out that Mercedes-Benz dealership ;)

“Il y'a Bal Dans Ma Rue”

The first thing I smelled when I got off the plane were cigarettes. The second thing I smelled was delicious food.
I knew I was in France.
I hopped onto the Air France Bus in a caffeine and sleep-deprived induced stupor and got home fairly quickly. Then again, I don't really remember any of the drive. Oops.
The apartment was just as it had been left the summer before: clean, tiny, and still stuck in the 1970's. (All it needs is a disco-ball, I swear. --Pictures to follow!) It was only the early afternoon, so I took the opportunity to venture out into the big, wide world, with one thing on my mind: food. France—either irritatingly or charmingly, not sure which one exactly—maintains that grocery stores should either not be open on Sundays at all, or that they should teasingly be open from 12-1 in the afternoon before turning their little shop signs to “Ferme.” Unfortunately, I got there at about 1.10 PM. Gah! It is impossible, however, in spite of the traditional and limited business hours, to go hungry in France. I found a little green-grocer shop, bought some milk and pasta and a bag of strong coffee, and later made an unimpressive, but filling pasta à la Bolognaise.
And what welcomed me, but a petit bal in the street by the Rue Mouffetard! Every Sunday, after church and in the middle of the market, a group of musicians plays traditional French chansons: Edith Piaf, Maurice Chevalier, Jacques Brel (technically Belgian, but whatever), etc. and the people gather around and sing and dance together. Being a retro music fan, I sing along and clap as the couples twirl around, happy to be alive and together on a Sunday in Paris. What a beautiful thing to welcome me to Paris!

Not too shabby for a caffeine and sleep-deprived stupor.

Paris, Here I Come!

In my customary procrastinating manner, I saved all of my packing for the last minute. Even if I had wanted to prepare in advance, this week would not have allowed for it; I got back from a short sojourn in Vermont on Tuesday evening, and devoted Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday to spending time with Alex. Wednesday, I went to work for the morning, and then headed up to the Bronx to Fordham, and then to Yonkers in Westchester, before returning home just before midnight (yikes!). Thursday was similar; I met up with Alex in the early afternoon and we spent the day together. Friday, I went into the office for my last day of work. I have to admit, it was bittersweet. I've worked there for many months, and have received nothing but kindness and support from all the agents and other interns who work there, not to mention learning “valuable skills” and meeting “important contacts.” I closed the door for the last time feeling melancholy, and then proceeded to meet up with the boy. It was a fantastic day, filled with fun, good memories, and tearful goodbyes. That night, I went home feeling a whole range of emotions: from happiness to sadness, love to loneliness, and expectation to apprehension.
The next day, when I woke up and realized that, “oh hey. I need to get ready for my flight that leaves in less than twelve hours,” it still hadn't really clicked with me that I was leaving. Yes, I am admittedly a blonde, but come on, I'm not that clueless. I calmly packed my stuff into two small bags, and got ready for my flight at 9:45 PM from JFK.

The flight was dull enough—then again, I suppose that's a good quality for a flight to have. As per usual, I caught up on movies that I had been too lazy to see, like Inglourious Basterds which was all together more violent and more awesome than I had expected. Thankfully, I did not have talkative creepy neighbors like the last time I flew alone to Paris aka Mr “You are the fourth blonde I have watched.” (If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, please check out the link at http://madeleine-b-m.blogspot.com/2008/06/ooh-la-la-parisian-spree-part-i.html . I promise you—it's worth it.) There was an almost-contender for the creeper-of-the-flight award, an older Egyptian man who sat next to me in the terminal, asked, “Are you from New York? What do you do? What's your name?” before I politely excused myself to make a phone-call. Otherwise, the flight was quick, I got to sleep a little, and before I knew it, I was in La Belle France.

(*Cue French laugh.*)

Huh, huh, huhn.

This will be my life! Well...not really. But we can try.

A tiny bit of relief

Ok, so my last post was written in a time of hormonally-induced, sleep-deprived frustration, and, while I do still feel a lot of those things that I spoke about in that post, I'm starting to feel a little better about it all.

I'm going to be in Paris. I can't complain. Like, seriously.

And two people in my life--one who I don't know at all, and the other who I'm very close with--gave me a little encouragement today.

The first was completely unexpected: I had a text-message exchange with Monika, one of the girls who is going to Paris with me, and who I met once for twenty minutes. She sent me the sweetest message, saying, "Hey girl! How excited are you for Paris? I hope we're living nearby to each other!" It was so sweet and so unexpected. I liked her when I met her, but I have to admit I was intimidated. She's absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, and seems like a really lovely girl. I'm excited to get to know her better. We proceeded to message about what to pack, what we were excited to do and see, plans for weekends, and plans to go out together. This little exchange was very comforting for me. It let me know that, yes, I will make and have friends in France, and that, yes, this will be a good experience. Her tiny act of kindness was one of the highlights of my day.

The second wasn't unexpected, but was equally comforting: my wonderful boyfriend, Alex, told me that yes, he was sad that I was going away, but that this was going to be a fantastic trip, and that time goes by. I knew both of those things, but it's always better when you hear them from someone else, and someone whom you care for. Time goes too fast anyway, and soon enough I'll be in Paris and back again, ready for the rest of my summer. This conversation made me feel much better, though admittedly still apprehensive, about leaving.

This week, I'll be hanging out with Alex, and going in for my last two days of work in my office. It's going to be great and busy, and I don't need to worry any more.

I'm not ready.

The clock is ticking until I leave, and I wish that I could muster some enthusiasm for this trip. That's just the problem: the clock is ticking, and just want it to stop. Shouldn't every girl dream of an opportunity like this? To live in Paris for a month for credit? To be in the most beautiful city in the world, with no parents and no strings?

And yet I'm not. I don't want to leave, or at least not just yet. I kind of wish that I could stay here in the States and be a normal, American teenager: work in a restaurant over the summer, bum around, and hang out with friends. The kind of summer I have never had. The graduation of the Class of 2010 this past Saturday really freaked me out. That's going to be *me* in a year. So, this is my last summer of college. The summer before it all changes--for the better or the worse, I don't know.

Right now, I am so happy. Happy with life, friends, and just about everything. The only thing that makes me really upset is the thing that I should be happiest about: this trip to Paris.

Everything is fine, aside from the ticking of that infernal clock.

I feel awful not just on account of the reasons stated above, but because I am being such an ungrateful little prick right now. I'm. Going. To. Paris. PARIS. What the hell is wrong with that? But here I am, asking myself, "Do I want to do this? Is this worth it? Do I want to leave?"

Right now, the answer is no.

But, whether I like it or not, I will be getting on that jet plane Saturday and flying far, far away. I've made my decision, and now I need to run with it.

Une carte de Paris et où je me trouverai

I will be living on the Boulevard Saint Marcel, on the line between the 5th and the 13th arrondissments, in a vibrant little neighborhood next to the Jardin des Plantes, l'Avenue des Gobelins, and the Rue Mouffetard.

A vague sketch of the weeks ahead

The other day, I got an email from Professeur Clark with some of the details regarding the course. Up until very recently, I had no concrete idea of what we would be studying or even where we would be going. All I knew was that I would be going to Paris, and walking around for academic credit. My email from Prof. Clark gave me a more tangible idea of what exactly I would be doing for the next month.

Every day during the week, I will take class at CUPA in the 6th arrondissment which will last from an hour and half to two hours. After a small break, we will go for a walk or to a museum visit at a specific location. The visits will last from one to three hours and I'll be done each day around 5.30 pm.

Over the course of the month, we will attend three different spectacles, two plays and a modern dance production. We will also go on four guided visits to the Lovre, the Musee d'Orsay, Montmartre, and the Institut du Monde Arabe, led by art history professors from CUPA. Finally, we will go on one late night walk, and one early morning market walk at around 6 am.

All in all, a very full schedule!

T- minus 1 week, and what the heck is a flâneur anyway?

And so I find myself exactly one week away from my trip to Paris.

7 days.

168 hours.

A week from today.

In many ways, I've been waiting for this for over a year. Ever since I first took a class with Dr Clark, the director of the program, in the Fall semester of my Sophomore year, I knew that I wanted to take this class. It was, essentially, ideal.

The description for the course in the Fordham catalogue reads as follows:

"From the corpse strewn small crotte covered streets ofthe French Revolution to the arcades and grand boulevards of modern Paris, the figure of the flâneur, or the solitary urban wanderer, has intrigued authors, poets, philosophers, and artists alike. He (and sometimes she) has been seen as a figure of resistance to bourgeois life, a visionary, an anthropologist, a bohemian, and a dandy. This course will give an extensive examination of the figure of the flâneur in literature, art history, and philosophy, including works by Mercier, Rétif de la Bretonne, Balzac, Baudelaire, Manet, Zola, Courbet, Apollinaire, Colette, Benjamin and Calle, among others."

So, in my month in Paris, I am to become a flâneur. What exactly is that? you may ask. As is common in my profession, terms are seldom well-defined, and often open to one's own interpretation. Some have called him a detached observer, others a lazy lout who wanders the streets. Upon reading those descriptions, I was a bit off-put. I don't see myself as a detached, haughty observer "making the rounds," and certainly do not identify with a lounger in the street.

What was being a flâneur going to be for me?

I then stumbled upon a much more palatable and appropriate view of the mysterious flâneur. The life of the flâneur, as defined by French visionary and poet, Charles Baudelaire is that of "a botanist of the sidewalk" or, basically, a professional people-watcher. I love Paris and I excel at people-watching, so I knew this was the course for me. According to Baudelaire, the flâneur has a key role in understanding, participating in, and portraying the city. He is a sociological, anthropological, literary, and historical observer of the relationship between the individual and the metropolis. Not too shabby.

I shall live on my own in Paris for a month, taking classes, walking around the city, not speaking English, and getting an in-depth view of the most beautiful city in the world. I will, in short, become a world class flâneur...in one week's time and with a bit of practice.