A Christmas treat

Christmas is a time for food and fun with friends and family, and, also, a time to make those special dishes that you make only once a year. There's gingerbread and plum cake, Christmas logs and peppermint cookies, and then, there are the things you make only once a year because your nervous system might collapse if you tried any more than that. I discovered one such recipe this Christmas, just in time for the Holidays and for the Winter Wonderland outside my window, not to mention this column and blog.

My roommate sent me a recipe for Penguin truffles, which she found at "2 Stews," a cooking blog by a former flight attendant. They were too cute--not to mention, too delicious--to resist: a chocolate truffle sculpted to look like a penguin, dipped in white chocolate, and finished with a coat of dark chocolate.


I made two batches of these little critters this week (and that's enough for one year). They were ridiculously time consuming and labor-intensive, but, hey, it's Christmas and they sure were worth the effort for the "oohs and ahs" and the delicious result.

Being a child at heart and having an excuse to play with food, I posed my penguins in various situations: attacking the Christmas tree, staring at the Christmas turkey, huddling around a chocolate egg, and marching in the snow.


Check out the recipe from 2Stews (http://www.2stews.com/2009/12/penguin-truffles.html) and make your own on a snowy day!

Merry Christmas!

Book Review: Eat, Pray, Love

So, I took the plunge. After having admired the cover, and seen the ads for the movie, and heard the buzz about how great "EPL" is, I finally caved in and bought a copy. Now, generally, I tend to shy away from NYT bestsellers and wildly-successful popular books, because, well, they don't really do it for me. Sadly and often, the books that make it these days are either dull, poorly written, or--worst of all--both.

I wasn't exactly sure what to expect when I read the first pages of Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Would it be a chirpy, women's empowerment book? A preachy "I love God a lot and you wish you could love Him as much as me" book? A mixture of Jane Austen Book Club and the Bible?

My first reaction? It's *extremely* well-written. It's engaging. It's structured in a really cool way. I like it. I like it a lot.

This is one of the best books I have read in a while: witty, cool and contemporary, deeply emotional, and yet filled with such joy. Gilbert is an artist. She not only drws you into her impressive and fascinating journey around the globe, but also into the deppest and some of the darkest parts of her soul. You feel her. You want to be there with her. She's simultaneously someone to admire and to be best friends with.
This is definitely not an easy read; it requires a lot of time and thought. But it's also (definitely) not a prayer book or a preachy "how to get your life together" book; it's one woman's exploration of herself. And in her discoveries and her joy, you, too, find joy. After all, joy, like melancholy, is contagious.

Keeping France fresh with some good reads

It's no secret: countless numbers of people have fallen head-over-heels in love with France, her people, and her food. Fortunately for the masses, many of those individuals also happen to be as skilled with pen and ink as with their verbal praise. Though I have no concrete idea of how many new books about France are published each year, I imagine that it must be in the hundreds.

Being as avid a reader as I am a traveler and Francophile, I've picked up some great reads on France, the majority written by foreigners who visited the country and were captivated with what they found.

Here's some suggested reading for those who have carried on a long-term love affair with France and for those who have just started to discover her charms:

One of my favourite writers on the subject of France is Peter Mayle, English writer and foodie.

His first book, A Year in Provence, is about just that--he and his wife, Annie's, decision to retire from their drab jobs in England, and to move to Provence cold-turkey. Mayle, with a rollicking wit and attention to detail, captures what we love and love to hate about France and the French. The book is a pleasure to read, as truthful as it is humourous.

The experiences he describes include: installing a heating system and trying to track down French handimen over the summer; buying a car; the battle over green v. red peppers in a traditional Provencal dish; the sudden onslaught of English invites; and Peter and Annie's participation in an annual goat-race. Tons of fun. The sequel to the book, Encore Provence, is just as good, if not better than the original.

Another fantastic and fast read from Peter Mayle, French Lessons chronichles his "adventures with knife, fork, and corkscrew" across France. A die-hard foodie and bon vivant, Mayle speaks of his first trip to France and his first encounter with French cuisine, and his subsequent decision (many years later), to embark on a trip to attend all the major French food festivals over the course of a year. From the truffle worshippers to the "perfect thighs" of the Vittel grenouilles, to the patriotic Bourg-en-Bresse chickens (the best chickens in the world, which ironically sport the colours of the tricouleur), Mayle's book literally makes your mouth water. If you ever need cooking inspiration, look no further.

Of course. I don't even think that this needs explanation. If you've ever wanted to cook anything, Julia can show you how to do it. Sure, everything includes at least 3 sticks of butter. Maybe it's not the best thing for your cholesterol. But, heck, you only live once. Also, if this is any consolation, Julia Child lived to be 94 (I think?). If she could eat this well and not die of a heart attack at 30, something's done right.

Ok, so I have not actually read this book, but both of my parents have and have loved it. An account of the World's Fair in Paris that led to the construction of the iconic symbol of France, the Eiffel Tower, this book also examines the cultural changes and clashes in France and the United States during the same period.

Good old-fashioned French cooking in VT

Quite soon after our return to the US (ahem, "quite soon" being "within 24 hours"), my family and I were hit with a familiar longing: the longing for France, her picturesque panoramas, her quizzical but ultimately amusing and endearing people, and her rich culture, but, most of all, for her superb cuisine.

Let's just face it: no matter how many French people move to the States, how many French-sounding restaurants appear in chic foodie towns, or how many DeanandDelucaCitarellaDagostino's attempt to pass off "French" baguettes and croissants, let's face it, mes enfants--French food only exists in France.

Even in a place like VT, where people flock to and produce organic and all natural products with a kind of frenzy, you cannot find the same quality of ingredients or devotion to food as you do so easily in France. Boy, they have got it good.

I noticed that our shopping cart contained products that were decidedly reminiscent of France: a French bread, a wheel of brie, heavy whipping cream, butter, a robust red wine, etc.

But no matter how hard we try, it's near-impossible to bring the buttery goodness of France to our American table.

That, however, does not prevent us from attempting to reproduce the tastes of France in our kitchen in VT; since our return home, we've made Blanquette de Veau, a veal stew; Quiche Lorraine; Gambas a l'Ail, shrimp fried in garlic and butter; and a Fricassee de Poulet a l'Ancienne, a creamy soup with full pieces of perfectly-cooked chicken.

We may not hit home runs, but we sure have fun trying.

Where does the time go?

So, here I am back in America, in the Green Mountains of Vermont. I've been back for exactly 2 weeks, and how remarkable it it for me to think that it has only been 2weeks since my return. How the time flies, to echo the old addage.

I find that, in spite of having spent almost 2 months abroad--truly extraordinary when you think about it--I have settled back very calmly, as if I hadn't left. But the thing is, I had left, I did leave, and I feel altered in some way, though I'm not sure what that is.

Perhaps I've learned more about life? Perhaps; I don't feel particularly wiser in any way. Maybe I've grown up a bit? Likely; living alone in a foreign country will do that too you. Maybe I've changed? I think so. I feel a change, and, yet, I dont know what that change has worked in me. Is it for the good? I'd like to think so.

It's almost scary. I feel like I've been plopped back where I left off, but that two months have gone by and I don't know where they've went. I'm not saying that those two months were a waste--far from it. I had a wonderful time. I learned a lot. I made new friends, and had new experiences. I just feel as if, perhaps, life is rushing too quickly by me, and I just want it to slow down and wait for me to catch up.

Expect lots of moody reflections on change and my return to the States in the weeks ahead, when life starts speeding even faster.

The Final Product!

And this is the paper that Madeleine wrote:

Le Flâneur: L'Homme de la Foule

Avec la montée de la modernité dans les grandes villes et avec la création d'un espace publique, on voit aussi l'ascension de la figure du flâneur, le promeneur qui se laisse « [s'égarer et se perdre] en train de marcher » (Mercier, 41). Une des choses qui permet au flâneur d'exister est l'existence de la foule. La foule, plus qu'une masse de gens qui se bousculent, devient le lieu de la création, de l'imagination, et du projet du flâneur. Elle donne la possibilité de créer un esprit qui est tout à fait dans et à part de la foule. Les œuvres de Louis-Sébastien Mercier, Charles Baudelaire, Walter Benjamin, et Sophie Calle tous discutent de la relation entre la foule et le flâneur, et comment la foule est celle qui crée le flâneur, mais aussi celle qu'il essaie d'échapper pour gagner une perspective unique de la ville.

On trouve notre flâneur sur la scène d'une ville et une vie qui est en train de changer complètement. Normalement, quand on pense à la modernité, on pense aux résultats tangibles: les avancements de la technologie et de la science, la création d'une ville raisonnable et alignée, et les améliorations de la vie et des conditions de la santé urbaines. Ces circonstances donnent à la ville moderne une logique et une nouveauté, mais bouleversent aussi le caractère des gens « modernes » qui sont frappés par ces changements. Les gens modernes et urbains, comme beaucoup ont suggéré, sont vraiment distincts des autres: ils pensent d'une manière différente, il n'y a rien qui les choquent, et ils ont une dureté vers la vie de la ville. Mais comment est-ce que la ville crée et influence cette figure du flâneur? Quelles sont les spécificités d'une ville, comme Paris, qui nous donnent la possibilité de flâner?

Une des choses les plus importantes à propos du flâneur est la présence de la foule, une condition inévitable de la modernité à Paris. La foule est celle qui nous emporte, «qui nous traine / Nous entraine écrasés l'un contre l'autre / Nous ne formons qu'un seul corps, » comme Édith Piaf chante dans sa chanson, « La Foule ». Même les résidents et les visiteurs à Paris contemporaine ne peuvent que remarquer cette même foule, formée de tous « les individus qui fourmillent dans cette immense capitale » (Mercier, 29). La foule, quelque chose d'inévitable dans toutes les grandes villes modernes, nous présent avec deux choix: la possibilité d'être un inconnu de la masse (mais pas dans le sens que Marx discute) et de se laisser tomber dans une existence mécanique, ou de se distinguer de la foule. Les critiques de la modernité parlent souvent de l'aspect homogène de la modernité: on perd les distinctions entre les classes sociales; la moralité n'existe plus; tout le monde est le même; et tout le monde se laisse tomber dans une vie mécanique et banale, ils disent. Et, dans certaines circonstances, ils ont raison.

Il y a, néanmoins, un aspect de la foule qui, loin de nous enchaine, peut nous libérer—si on le permet. Dans son œuvre, « The Metropolis and Mental Life », l'anthropologue Georg Simmel parle de cet aspect fortifiant et bénéfice de la foule dans son discours sur la ville moderne:

The metropolis creates these psychological conditions—with every crossing of the street, with the tempo and multiplicity of economic, occupational and social life—it creates in the sensory foundations of mental life, and in the degree of awareness necessitated by our organization as creatures dependent on differences, a deep contrast with the slower, more habitual, more smoothly flowing rhythm of the sensory-mental phase of small town and rural existence. (Simmel, 1).

Donc, la vie de la ville est unique de celle de la campagne parce qu'elle crée de véritables individus. Bien sûr, il existe des individus à la campagne ou dans les petits villages, mais Simmel propose que la présence continuelle des stimuli violents qui nous frappent continuellement, le manque d'espace entre les gens de la foule, et le changement continuel produisent des individus qui peuvent trouver la solitude et le calme dans la foule. « The resistance of the individual to being levelled [and] swallowed up in the social-technological mechanism », Simmel dit, c'est ce qui définit la ville moderne (Simmel, 1). La nécessité de survivre dans un espace qui peut facilement devenir affreux crée la dureté dont on a parlé avant, mais aussi l'indifférence et l'anonymat. C'est avec ceux-ci que le flâneur se distingue des autres personnes de la foule.

Le flâneur n'est qu'une personne dans la foule, même s'il n'en a pas l'air. Une caractéristique intéressante du flâneur est sa capacité d'être, au même instant, un de la foule et à part de la foule. Qu'est-ce qu'on veut dire? Le but du flâneur—d'observer, de critiquer, et de peindre un tableau d'un instant de la ville moderne—nécessite qu'il soit une partie de la foule. Il faut qu'il soit dans la rue, avec les autres, pour gagner une vraie expérience. Mais, en même temps, il faut se distinguer de la foule, et de ne pas se laisser tomber dans l'homogénéité. Il faut chercher sans apparaître chercheur; il faut regarder sans être vu comme voyeur; et il faut critiquer sans avoir de préjugés.

Louis-Sébastien Mercier, dans son œuvre Tableau de Paris, parle du projet du flâneur. Le flâneur, chez Mercier, essaie de peintre un tableau d'un instant à la ville. Il sait que la ville est toujours en train de changer de plus en plus vite, donc le projet du flâneur est d'observer et d'inscrire à la fois le coup d'œil général et les regards plus précis. Mercier, dans son projet presque encyclopédique, sait que le travail est impossible, mais il sait aussi que c'est nécessaire. Comment est-ce que le flâneur fait son projet? La ville pour Mercier est comme le théâtre où « tous les acteurs qui jouent le rôle sur ce grand et mobile théâtre, vous forcent a devenir acteur vous-même » (Mercier, 29). Pour Mercier, la foule et l'espace publique sont un spectacle plein des contradictions comme « des Esquimaux qui ignorent le temps ou ils vivent; des Nègres qui ne sont pas noirs; et des Quakers qui portent l'épée » (Mercier, 29). Le flâneur, il dit, regarde la ville comme un spectacle, observé par un seul observateur, mais il joue aussi un rôle. Ce théâtre de la ville parle d'un instant que le flâneur partage. Il est très important, chez Mercier, que le flâneur regarde, voit, et parle avec la ville pour nous donner un « coup d'œil » de Paris (Mercier, 29). Il parle de l'importance de la présence du « je », parce qu'il n'y a qu'un sujet qui voit. L'absence d'universel souligne cette personne qui doit observer la ville et voyager dans la foule.

Il utilise deux métaphores intéressantes pour décrire la ville: il parle de la ville comme creuset et comme corps humain. Les deux soulignent comment Mercier veut approcher la question de la foule. Paris, bizarre et comme un cirque, nous présente avec « un large creuset, où les viandes, les fruits, les huiles, les vins, le poivre, la cannelle, le sucre, le café, les productions les plus lointaines viennent se mélanger et les estomacs sont les fourneaux qui décomposent ces ingrédients » (Mercier, 30). La ville comme creuset parle de la foule comme un lieu incompréhensible, mais aussi comme quelque chose qu'on doit examiner. On a le potager, mais on a aussi tous les ingrédients qui le forment. Il faut savourer le goût de la ville en entier, mais il faut aussi goûter chaque élément, chaque rue, et chaque type. Mercier parle aussi de la ville comme corps humain—sauvage, simple, et naturel (Mercier, 28). Une promenade à Paris ressemble à la circulation du sang; on passe d'une chose à une autre très facilement. Ici, Mercier souligne encore l'importance de regarder le corps entier, mais de regarder avec plus de soin, les petits éléments qui composent cette immense ville.

La promenade dans la foule pour Mercier est le spectacle, mais elle est aussi l'endroit où on trouve la vraie moralité de la ville. C'est où les sens sont interrogés et où on peut parler vraiment avec la ville. Le projet esthétique de Mercier, de peindre un tableau de Paris, est impossible, mais nécessaire. Il résiste un peu la totalité et il choisit d'être dans les rues, à côté des gens, parce que c'est là où on trouve la moralité de la ville. Dans cette foule, l'aspect anthropologique du flâneur peut avoir lieu. La foule donne au flâneur la possibilité de se perdre et d'être inconnu. L'anonymat du flâner permet au flâneur de goûter la ville, et d'exister dans une relation dynamique. Qu'est ce que ça signifie, aller à pied? Aller à pied « sera bientôt une chose ignoble. Tous les hommes de génie dans tous les genres vont néanmoins à pied. Il y a d'esprit dans les voitures, mais le génie est à pied » (Mercier, 255). Flâner chez Mercier c'est se laisser perdre dans la foule, se promener dans tout anonymat, et se laisser faire interroger par la ville. Donc, la foule rend le projet du flâneur possible. La foule est la scène du drame humain, et le Paris qu'on trouve dans les rues est où on trouve l'esprit vrai d'une époque.

D'une manière similaire, Charles Baudelaire parle des aspects bénéficiaux de la foule. Dans Le Spleen de Paris, il examine la relation entre l'individu et la foule, où il demande comment on peut utiliser la foule comme lieu créatif. Chez Baudelaire, flâner c'est utiliser l'aliénation que la foule nous donne pour créer. Différent de Mercier, Baudelaire parle des sacrifices qu'on doit faire pour la création esthétique. La ville de Paris est souvent affreuse comme on voit dans « Une Heure du Matin », quand le poète parle de cette « Horrible vie! [Et] horrible ville! » (Baudelaire, 122). Aller dans la foule et aller dans la ville pour un artiste devient un sacrifice du soi à une « ineffable orgie, à cette sainte prostitution de l'âme qui se donne tout entière, poésie et charité, a l'imprévu qui se montre, à l'inconnu qui passe » (Baudelaire, 128). Donc, qu'est-ce que le flâneur fait? Son but est d'aller dans la foule, de trouver les fragments dans un monde qui n'est pas tout intéressant. La vie et la ville moderne sont une image de la fragmentation de la modernité. Dans cette instance, le travail du flâneur est de rendre intelligible les fragments d'un monde haché.

La foule chez Baudelaire est à la fois quelque chose du mal et du bien: elle est effrayante, instable, et bourgeoise, mais elle permet aussi une « universelle communion » qui est quelque chose pour la multitude, mais qui est bon pour très peu de gens (Baudelaire, 127). Du côté du mal, la vie moderne est une de conformité et d'oppression. Baudelaire, dans « A Une Heure du matin » parle du sacrifice nécessaire pour être artiste: la vie quotidienne de la modernité est, comme suggère le philosophe Michel Foucault, de conformer à la société bourgeoise, d'être un de la foule mais dans le sens de la homogénéité. Souvent, les conditions de la vie moderne créent le désir de la solitude, et de tourner la clef pour augmenter et fortifier « les barricades qui [nous] séparent actuellement du monde » (Baudelaire, 122). Donc, ici, la foule est angoissante, quelque chose qui provoque un désir fort de s'enfermer à clef et de se cacher des horreurs de la ville.

De l'autre côté, le côté du bien, on voit le projet de l'artiste. Pour l'artiste, ou bien le poète, « prendre un bain de multitude » est un « incomparable privilège » (Baudelaire, 127). Pour ceux qui savent exister dans la foule, elle leur donne « Multitude, solitude: termes égaux et convertibles pour le poète actif et fécond » (Baudelaire, 127). Ici, on voit un compromis—le poète voyage dans la foule, se laisse perdre, et sacrifie le soi pour son projet esthétique et intellectuel. La foule, qui nous encercle des gens, est aussi un des lieux les plus libres, car la foule donne la possibilité d'être seul et d'être inconnu. « Jouir de la foule est un art, » dit Baudelaire; le hasard, le sens d'inconnu, et le manque de stabilité te rendent libre d'être connu, et te donnent la capacité de te changer. Guidé par la passion presque fanatique, le flâneur utilise la solitude de la foule comme un pouvoir intellectuel. La foule est le lieu de travestissement avec son propre langage, où chaque mot a un masque. L'artiste n'est pas aliéné parce qu'il utilise l'aliénation pour créer son propre monde. Entouré de gens, il peut devenir tous les gens de la foule, avoir la capacité de réorganiser les fragments, et de faire des masques du quotidien pour créer quelque chose d'artistique. Le flâneur chez Baudelaire est l'homme qui vit de la foule, et ses poèmes deviennent les objets qu'il a trouvé dans ses voyages. Donc, la foule nous donne la capacité d'être un tabula rasa, de se masquer, et de se former pour le projet esthétique.

Pendant que Mercier et Baudelaire parlent des aspects bénéficiaux et pratiques de la foule pour le travail intellectuel, il y a d'autres qui ont une relation plus négative avec la foule, mais qui réalisent au même temps qu'ils doivent l'utiliser pour le projet esthétique. Par exemple, Paris, Capitale du XIXeme siècle de Walter Benjamin parle aussi de la relation entre le flâneur et la foule, mais du côté des aspects négatifs de la foule. On a deux types de foules dans la modernité: on a la foule des objets du passée et du présent, et on a la confusion entre les classes sociales traditionnelles. Le premier est une condition d'une modernité qui n'existe pas en actualité. Le problème chez Benjamin est que le présent n'est pas quelque chose de moderne, mais un mélange entre le passée et le présent, qui ne réussit pas à se distinguer vraiment. La modernité n'existe pas; c'est un mélange d'objets pris du passée, dont on dit on a laissé tomber, mais qui nous enchainent tout de même. Paris, l'exemple parfait de la ville moderne et fantasmagorique, est une allégorie où on peut voir les créations qui peuvent faire rêver. Cette « foule d'objets » crée une fantasmagorie, où on prend les fragments du passée pour fabriquer le présent (Benjamin, C.II.). Donc, on reste dans un piège entre le rêve et la réalité. «  Le nouveau » dit Benjamin, « est une qualité indépendante d'usage de la marchandise. Il est a l'origine de cette illusion dont la modernité est l'infatigable pourvoyeuse » (Benjamin, D.III.). On désire toujours le nouveau, mais la nouveauté est une illusion.

On a aussi la confusion que ces conditions de la modernité créent. La modernité est se caractérise par les lieux publiques où on trouve la fantasmagorie: les espaces des nouveautés, comme les passages, les Grands Magasins, et l'Haussmannisation. L'espace publique n'est plus pour la politique ni pour les riches de se promener, mais l'espace pour s'amuser et pour le capitalisme. Il n'y a pas de valeur à part la valeur d'échange. « 'L'Europe s'est déplacée pour voir les marchandises' » aux «expositions universelles [qui] idéalisent la valeur d'échange des marchandises » (Benjamin, B.I). On n'a plus une foule de pauvres, de bourgeois, et de riches, mais une foule mélangée—comme la ville elle-même— où on n'est pas sûr des classements traditionnels, des valeurs, ou des choses véritables. La foule est un voile fin sur la masse qui peut devenir dangereuse très facilement. Tout ces éléments du nouveau Paris créent un rêve de la modernité, où on a une confusion profonde entre l'espace publique et privé, la foule et la masse, les choses vraies et les choses de rêve.

Alors, qu'est-ce que le travail du flâneur? Le flâneur doit trouver sa place dans la foule. Dans son étude, Benjamin parle aussi du flâneur chez Baudelaire. Les deux, il suggère, sont les esclaves de la « sainte prostitution » d'aller dans la foule (Baudelaire, 128). Le flâneur, Benjamin dit, vit d'une profonde aliénation qui est au centre de la modernité:

Le regard que le génie allégorique plonge dans la ville trahit bien plutôt le sentiment d'une profonde aliénation. C'est la le regard d'un flâneur, dont le genre de vie dissimule derrière un mirage bienfaisant la détresse des habitants futurs de nos métropoles. Le flâneur cherche un refuge dans la foule. La foule est le voile à travers lequel la ville familière se meut pour le flâneur en fantasmagorie. (Benjamin, D.I.).

Donc, « le flâneur fait figure d'éclaireur sur la marche...il est l'explorateur de la foule » (Benjamin, D.II.). C'est lui qui sait comment naviguer la foule, mais il est aussi emprisonné par la confusion de la modernité, où on oublie tout et se laisse dans le rêve. Le flâneur cherche toujours le nouveau; c'est pour cela qu'il va dans la foule, dans les passages, et dans tous les nouvelles espaces de la ville moderne. La foule, pour lui, est merveilleuse et dangereuse—c'est ce qui l'amuse et ce qui va le détruire. Comme le flâneur de Baudelaire, ceux de Benjamin prenne aussi les fragments d'une vie hachée, mais son but n'est pas la création esthétique, mais la nouveauté. Dans cette instance, les fragments et les objets prennent une certaine vie, et commencent à lui parler. Il est tout à fait fasciné et ennuyé par les choses qu'il trouve dans ses voyages dans la foule. C'est à cause de cela que « le dernier voyage du flâneur [est] la Mort. Son but [est] le Nouveau » (Benjamin, D.III.). Le flâneur « s'abandonne aux fantasmagories du marché » (Benjamin, Introduction), et enfin se détruit en cherchant le nouveau qui n'existe pas.

Sophie Calle, comme Benjamin, voit la foule comme quelque chose de suspect et de dangereux. Mais au contraire de Benjamin, elle sait comment utiliser la foule et les objets qu'elle trouve pour faire son projet esthétique. Des histoires vraies de Calle nous présentent avec les objets—dans ce cas, les photographies qui sont accompagnées par de petits textes—trouvés dans la foule. Le flâneur chez Sophie Calle est quelqu'un qui prend les objets qu'il trouve dans la multitude de la foule, et qui se l'approprie. Dans Des histoires vraies, on voit les objets simples et sans signification: une chaussure rouge, un nez, un dessein, une cravate, un peignoir, une tasse, etc. Mais, dans les yeux de la flâneuse (i.e. Calle), les objets prennent leur propre vie. On apprend que le nez était une imperfection qu'elle a fait corriger par un chirurgien; le peignoir lui a fait penser à son premier amant qui « portait le même peignoir que [son] père » (Calle, 15); le dessein d'elle, quand elle posait nue, était lacérée par l'artiste, coupant son corps dans des « morceaux de [soi]-meme » (Calle, 21). Chaque photographie cache une histoire d'ellei qui est chargée d'émotion, de douleur, et de souvenirs. Le but de la flâneuse ici est de capturer les moments ou les émotions spécifiques avec la photographie. Comme chez Mercier, la flâneuse essaie de faire des tableaux d'un moment pour le préserver.

La forme du projet est très importante à propos du but de la flâneuse, parce que les photographies imitent la promenade de la flâneuse. Être flâneuse, il faut se promener dans la foule, de prendre les objets qui font partie de sa vie, et de les préserver. Les photographies reproduisent le moment quand la flâneuse a vu l'objet ou quand elle a senti une émotion particulière. Elles permettent une reproduction exacte qu'on peut reproduire. Mais différent des autres flâneurs, son œuvre est une vraie conversation entre Calle et elle-même, et Calle et nous. Quand on voit les photographies et quand on lit son œuvre, c'est comme si on se promenait avec elle. La photographie lui permet de converser avec elle-même et le lecteur d'une unique manière. Chaque fois qu'on voit l'image, on la voit différemment, et son interprétation colore la nôtre. Son utilisation de la couleur rouge pour certaines photographies est une autre manière d'encourager la conversation entre la flâneuse et le lecteur; il faut qu'on soit des lecteurs actifs, et il faut nous interroger pour trouver la signification de chaque objet.

Qu'est-ce que la foule fait chez Calle? La foule représente l'homogénéité, la simplicité, et les mœurs traditionnelles et bourgeoises. C'est cela qu'elle rejette. Elle prend les objets du quotidien et qui sont typiques comme la tasse, la robe de mariage, ou les photographies du mariage, et se les approprient. Dans « Noces de rêve », Calle prend la photographie du mariage et de son mariage et les bouleverse. Le mariage typique en France a lieu à la mairie, la mariée porte le robe blanche, la famille vient pour célébrer, et le mari et sa femme passent leur noces. Ici, on a une mariée qui porte le rouge, qui est toute seule, à l'aéroport, sans mari et sans famille. Rien ne marche dans le sens traditionnel, mais Calle nous présente avec cet objet qu'elle prend du quotidien et qu'elle refait dans son projet esthétique. Semblablement, dans « Chambre avec vue » Calle prend la chambre à coucher, un lieu privé, la place au sommet de la Tour Eiffel, et passe une nuit visitée par des inconnus. Calle utilise la foule pour la base du projet, mais sa flânerie la rend insuffisante. Elle doit créer sa propre histoire de la multitude.

Une des choses les plus importantes pour le flâneur est l'existence de la foule. La foule est le lieu où on trouve les objets, les engage dans la conversation, et les approprie pour le projet esthétique. Flâner dans la foule c'est se laisser perdre et de se sacrifier pour le projet intellectuel. Les œuvres de Louis-Sébastien Mercier, Charles Baudelaire, Walter Benjamin, et Sophie Calle tous discutent comment le flâneur doit naviguer la foule, mais aussi comment rester soi-même pour gagner une perspective unique de la ville.

The only blip on my summer's horizon---work

So, by the time July rolled around, life was good. My class was over, my stress melted away, I was no longer horribly lonely and hungry because my parents arrived, I had some "me" time, and all I had to look forward to was a lazy vacation on the seashore before heading back home. Right? Well, kind of.

Remember that class I was taking? Well, aside from the 10 books and journal entries and whatnot, we also had to write a paper by July 18th, 8-10 pages in French. Fine and dandy. I have no real problem writing in French, and after a month my French juices were certainly flowing; however, after having lost the momentum of the class, and having resigned myself to a decadent life of pleasure (i.e. sleep, eating, walking, and hanging out), a paper was not something I was ready for.

There I was, three days before the due date, sitting on the coast of France in perfect weather, and thinking about the relationship between individuals and crowds. Yay. You thought procrastinating at school was easy--try it over the summer. In France.

At first, I sat in my fluffy throne looking confused and sad:


Then, I rallied my zen forces:


And then I got down to business:



The paper got written with six hours to spare. But, jeez. It was torture. I am pretty sure the final 2.5 pages make no sense whatsoever. But I am ok with that. I sent it in, went home, had a cocktail, and had a large dinner. That made everything slightly more ok.

And of course, my beach vacation included beachy cocktails

Mojitos à la Bodeguita del Medio in Havana, Cuba
Fresh Mint Sprigs
1 oz. Lime juice
2 oz. Light rum
¾ oz. Simple syrup (see how to make simple syrup below)


Crush the mint sprigs at the bottom of a chilled highball glass. Fill the glass with crushed ice cubes. Add the simple syrup, lime juice, and rum and stir. I have found that a splash of Perrier (as it is lime-flavoured) is a nice addition to finish the cocktail off.

Simple Syrup
½ cup water
½ cup sugar

Stir together in a saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil, remove from heat, and wait until sugar is completely dissolved. Chill.

A fresh wave of reality

Now, I have never been a beach person. While some people would love nothing more than recumbently roasting on a beach for the rest of their lives, I take sand and surf in limited doses, not in the least on account of the fact that I have an aversion to the sun. Once every year, however, even I—the translucently pale girl who wears SPF 50 on cloudy days—venture to the seashore.


All of my direct family (which is tiny to begin with) lives in Europe, and so, each summer, we go to spend time with them in the family's former house, where they lived during the Second World War before emigrating to the States. Located on the Côte Sauvage in southern Brittany, Saint Marc sur Mer holds a special place in all of our hearts: it's the place where, since the end of the war, the family—then very large, and living all over Europe and the States—would come to reunite. This tradition of our “family reunion” extends right up to today, though the house is now unoccupied for 10 months of the year, and the family is now limited to the four or five of us who can still make it. I have been going there and loving it since before I could walk.

One of the best parts of Saint Marc is the seashore—not your stereotypical, boring beach, but, a savagely beautiful seascape: a pristine beach flanked by rugged cliffs. Every day that I'm there, usually anywhere from a week to ten days, I will make it a point to swim each day. Now, I may not like hanging around on the beach, but I love the seashore, the smell of it, the way it sounds, the way it looks, the sensation of the wind beating across your face. That I could do for the rest of my life. In addition, I love swimming, not in pools, but in the ocean, where the waves toss you around a bit, and where you could keep swimming if you kept going. No boundaries, just open skyline and water. I could swim in the ocean for hours, like my grandmother and namesake (notice similarities? For example, we could both smother people with our hair.) who was a champion swimmer here in the 30s. I have also apparently inherited her love for frigid water, which Saint Marc has a lot of. It's not for the weak; if you're looking for the water to embrace you as you step in, this is not the place for you. But, for me, nothing feels better than plunging into the cold, choppy waves straight away. Maybe I'm crazy. It wouldn't surprise me.

Can you say, "Surprise!"?

After having seen Julia & Julia, and having learned about and fallen in love with Julia and her flair for French cooking, I knew that this year, I would have to take a look at Julia's Paris. The Cordon Bleu cooking school is still open and offers classes to aspiring chefs, the French still baste their food in butter, and Paris is still amazing. We knew all this. I was curious, however, as to what had become of Julia Child's house in Paris. Where was it? What was it now? Was there an itty bitty plaque?

This called for an expedition. After my adventure at the Musee d'Orsay, and having googled the address before going, I set off to find 81 Rue de l'Universite in the chic 7ieme arrondissement. It was pretty tricky to find; Google had been grossly mistaken of its location, and Paris is very easy to get lost in, mainly because the streets are not arranged in a handy-dandy grid system. But sure enough, I found it after a long walk in extreme heat.

The house is located in a very quiet neighbourhood just beyond the Boulevard Saint Germain. I was the only person on the street, aside from a bus load of French Gendarmes who looked at me with suspicion when I started taking pictures. I found the house, however, and was pleased. I'm also pretty sure that the movie was filmed there, as well. This fact, however, needs to be verified.

Sur les ponts de Paris

The other day, I was walking along the Pont des Arts, when I saw a collection of padlocks chained to the railings. Upon closer inspection, I saw that each was engraved with the names of a couple. When I got home, I looked it up: it is apparently a recent tradition (one of Paris' many) for couples who visit the city to take a padlock with their names either written or engraved on it, to attach it to the railings, and to throw the key into the Seine river running below. Being a helpless romantic, I was really charmed by this new tradition. I took pictures of some of the most interesting locks. Enjoy:

What would *you* do? [Caution: This post is not for the faint of heart]

Situation: It's a hot day in Paris and you have nothing to do. You decide that after taking a walk, you're going to take advantage of your student pass and go do things for free. Today, you have decided to visit the Musee d'Orsay, Paris' museum of impressionism. They have some form of air-conditioning and, heck, it's free. Why not.

So, you're wandering through the galleries, looking at all the pretty pastels and watercolours--Monet, Manet, Cezanne, van Gough, Degas, the whole lot of them. Everything is so pretty, you don't feel your skin burning off your body any more, you have the satisfaction of free admission, and everything is generally delightful.

You make a turn to the left into a room with purple walls, which is generally non-threatening, and you see this:

WWYD? (What would you do?)

"The Origin of the World" is one of the master-works of French realist, Gustave Courbet. I had first seen the painting at a Courbet exhibit a few years ago at the Met. I believe I has stared at it trying to not look awkward, and hence looking more awkward. (Also, another amusing sidenote: Whereas in the States, the painting was hidden behind a wall in an isolated corner of the exhibit, in France, it's the first thing you see when you enter the room. Something to think about.)

I thought it would be a fun activity to stay in the room for thirty minutes or so and watch people's reactions(a la flaneuse, I suppose. You know, stalking people in museums.)

This is what I wrote down:

--A man enters the room, see the tableau. He glimpses at it, turns around, and leaves the room.

--A young girl walks up to the tableau and looks at it intently. Her father whisks her away. She looks over her shoulder.

--A young man starts smirking as soon as he enters the room. He giggles to himself, walks up to the tableau. He leaves to get his friend, who reacts in the same way.

--A woman passes without looking.

--A woman walks up and smirks to herself.

--A father and son approach, pass without interest.

--Two elderly English men walk up quickly and excitedly. "Well this isn't like the rest," one exclaims.

--A young man looks at the tableau and then at the placquard. His girlfriend approaches, they look on in silence. He leaves. She stays.

--A group of young Asian girls enters with an older Asian man. All the girls act as if they haven't seen it and quickly leave. The man stays and smiles.

--A couple passes, he looks on intently.

--An older American couple enters, and the woman exclaims, "Oh my gosh. In your face." She reads the placquard, he shows no interest.

--A young woman looks on with ennui, passes, and leaves.

It's interesting. How would you react? What does it reveal about you?

I just stare at it and smile. What about you?

The Arrival of the Masses

I knew it was coming.

Every year on the first of July, France and Europe undergo a dramatic change; not only is it the commencement of the French's beloved "vacances," but it is also the day that signals the arrival of fifty million tourists. Now, I am the first to admit that I am a tourist, and that I, too, am taking up space. (There's nothing that irks me more than obnoxious tourists who wander into a crowded place and say, "God, what are all these people *doing* here??" For your information, o gentle tourist, you too are there, and you probably came there for the same inscrutable reason as the people you're ogling.) I also like to think (perhaps incorrectly and pompously), however, that I am not a pesky tourist--after all, I *am* a French citizen, I speak the language rather well, and, as a human being, I'm not obnoxious. I also do not travel in herds of 100s. This is crucial.

The past month that I've been here has been blissfully quiet, aside from some occasional romps associated with festivals or the World Cup. Yesterday, as my parents and I attempted to walk around the area of the Place de la Madeleine, we were hit with the unpleasant realization that we were in the midst of Eurocrush--a term coined by my family that truly captures the spirit of Europe in the summer months.

Eurocrush = A phenomenon that occurs in Europe during the summer months (particularly July and August), in which swarms of foreign tourists flock to the same place and all try to do the same thing at the same time. This generally results in feelings of claustrophobia, frustration, anger, and fear. Side effects include hiding in isolated rooms, and swearing to never visit Europe during the summer again.

I made the poor decision of walking down the Boulevard Haussmann and trying to buy stockings in an H&M during the notorious French "soldes" period. It was soon abundantly clear that the Cinquanta Cavones, Jabbering Japanese, and Abundant Arabs had me beat.

From now on I'm sticking to side-streets and coming out at night.


'Sup guys.

Gelato on the Fourth of July

There is a magical gelato chain in Paris that was evidently created when God sprinkled magic on the city. You enter the place, which displays before you 20 vats of sugar and love and happiness, filled with twisty glops of deliciousness. You then make your pick of cup or cone, and the servers ask you want you want. You get to choose a max of 3 flavours. Then, behind the counter, the server molds a beautiful ice cream cone with love and artistic skill that looks like a blooming rose. You take this delicious morsel into your greedy hands, and, if you can believe it, it tastes even better than it looks. God I love France.

I was so excited to be alive when this picture was taken.

Hello, Metzlers

The Metzler parents have officially arrived in Paris. This marks not only the loss of my comfortable bed and me actually being fed, but also the post-midpoint of my voyage in Paris. Less than 20 days until my return to the shores of America. Get ready.

La Fete du Cinema

This week, in addition to being the first real week of summer and the last week of classes, was also the Fete du Cinema in France. This annual cinema festival lasts for a week. If you purchase one regular movie ticket, you get a pass that allows you to see an unlimited number of other movies for only 3 euros each. With my student pass, I paid roughly $8 for my ticket, which was not bad at all, considering that the cinema was air-conditioned, unlike the great majority of French establishments. I saw something that caught my eye--a French film, directed by the same person who did the Triplettes of Belleville, Sylvain Chomet. The film was called "L'Illusionniste" and was inspired by the work of a legendary French actor from the 1950s, Jacques Tati. I really enjoyed the film, which was almost completely silent, and which was incredibly moving. I will definitely be seeing it again when I get back to the States.

Last week of classes, and other adventures

This week here in Paris, we had the true beginning of summer (and, consequently, the heat), the commencement of the "Soldes," and my last day of classes for the summer. Yes, you heard me correctly: this was my last week of classes here in Paris. My month long course, which met four days a week for several hours a day concluded after a month of reading, walking, and visits. I must admit, it went by extremely quickly and I really enjoyed it; however, not gonna lie, I'm glad it's over.

This past week was pretty quiet, but also very enjoyable: even my high-octane professor who thought it would be a good idea for us to read ten books in French over the course of a month was pretty relaxed. This week, we had the opportunity to read some of my favourite contemporary French writers: Colette and Sophie Calle, who also happened to be the only two women we read this semester. The material was interesting, we only had 3 days of class, and everything was pretty lax due to the arrival of the heat and the fact that it was the last week.

The week (like the whole month) went by very quickly--it was over before it began. To celebrate the end of classes, we had tickets to go see a spectacle as a class. We went to the Opera de la Bastille, a contemporary structure on the site of the old Bastille of French Revolution fame, to see "Kaguyahime," a modern dance piece by a Czech choreographer, inspired by the folk legends of Japan. Thus the ballet was a true melange of cultures: Oriental, Occidental, French, Eastern European, and Asian. The closest thing I can think to compare it to is (for all you honors kids out there) "The Rite of Spring" by Igor Stravinsky. The music was what many would describe as noise, and the dancing lacked the traditional line, instead relying on the pure vigour and energy of the human body. I, for one, really enjoyed it; it was a truly spectacular work of art.


Afterwards, Prof. Clark invited us over to his apartment for drinks and conversation with *real* French people, which was maybe one of the highlights of the semester. After the ballet, he approached us and told us to meet him at his apartment at 10 pm for drinks, which would usually be pretty sketchy, except that we were so curious that it didn't really matter. Haha.

So, we nervously headed over to his apartment and went up to the fourth floor, where we found his door open. Sure enough, he had prepared quite a spread: wine, cheese, potato chips, you get the idea. And, as promised, he had some of his French friends over, Olivier and Olivia (which also made it easy to remember their names). One is a professor of literature at Cambridge, and the other was a professor of Italian in France. They were both very welcoming and outgoing, and amused themselves by speaking with "les petites americaines." We had a few drinks, listened to Prof. Clark make awkward comments about Asians, French culture, and porn (not related to each other, thankfully), before heading home at about 2 in the morning. Talk about finishing with a bang.

Now all I need to do is choose and write an 8-10 page paper on a topic of my choice related to the course, which is due July 18th. That will come in time. Right now, I am enjoying my free time and relaxation here in Paris. The paper can wait.

La Coupe du Monde en France

One of the highlights of my stay here in Paris thus far has been that it was during the period of the World Cup. I am not a big sports fan, but when I do watch sports I watch either tennis or soccer. So, when the World Cup rolls around, I am always excited about it. Unlike in America, where soccer mildly interests but fails to excite people, Europe loves soccer. A lot. And it shows.

My preferred team is Germany for many reasons: (1) I am German; (2) the French team this year was terrible; (3) They're all really good-looking; (4) They just seem to be a nice, wholesome bunch. I went to watch the Germany-England match, which was a complete blow out. So exciting. Nothing quite like sitting in a cafe surrounded by happy German tourists watching World Cup.

The Saga Continues: Jackie and Madeleine go to Mont Saint Michel

On June 19, 2010, Jackie and Madeleine embarked on a very special adventure; they finally decided that they wanted to go to visit the Mont Saint Michel, the small rocky island about 1 km from the north coast of France at the mouth of the Couesnon River in Bretagne. The mount is best known for the medieval Benedictine Abbey and steepled church that occupies most of the 1km-diameter clump of rocks jutting out of the waters of the English Channel. The island is accessible when the tide goes out, by the means of a small causeway and road. When the tide comes in, however, at the speed of a galloping horse to quote Victor Hugo, the small rocky mount becomes an island, accessible only by the narrow path between the mount and the land.

The Mount is about a 3 hour trip (via train and bus) from Paris, and so we left early in the morning from la Ville Lumiere for the coast. We left Paris in gloom and rain, and within 3 hours, we saw the Mount eerily emerging from the clearing mist in the distance. Soon, we were at the foot of the Mount, looking up in absolute awe. It was stunning--possible one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Now, I can understand why my dad proposed to my mom here so many years ago (good job, dad. How could she say no?). The first sensation I had was of the salty sea air filling my lungs. We were lucky because the sun had started to peek out from behind the clouds by the time we arrived. The Mont Saint Michel stood out like an incredible tower against the bright blue sky, and the water of the coast was a perfect grey-blue that melted into the white sand.
After surveying the area, we made our way to the walls of the city. Right away, we were surrounded by swirls of tourists who crowded the little cobblestone streets. Thankfully, however, we were not victims of Eurocrush (for definition, read Jackie and Madeleine go to Versailles) in spite of it being a Saturday afternoon. So, we slowly made our way up the steep and winding street to the mid-point of the Mount, where our efforts were rewarded with a truly stunning view of the distant town. Our next step was to go in to visit the Monastery right at the top of the Mont, which we thankfully got into for free with our student cards (Win!). The view from the top was absolutely incredible. You could see for miles around, and the horizon was a gentle blue that faded into the blue of the sky. The monastery was really wonderful, and we walked around for a couple of hours, making our way through the labyrinthine corridors of the building, before going back out into the sunshine again. Unfortunately, on account of the time of the last bus' departure, we did not have that much time to spend there, but we did have enough time to visit the Monastery, have lunch in a nice little creperie, and walk along the sand for a while.

We found a little path that was off the beaten path, and made our way to the quiet side of the island, where there were rocks and a path along the beach that led to a tiny abandoned chapel. The winds were incredible. I was actually afraid that I was going to fall over as we were walking across the beach. But at the same time, I was so happy to be there, enjoying the sunshine and feeling the sea air whip across my face and through my hair. The beach was unlike any I had ever seen: the water was neither blue nor dark, but a clearish grey color, and the sand was like clay. I later learned that that was because it sometimes turns to quicksand. Oops.

At the end of the afternoon, we hopped back on the bus, and went back to Paris. What a whirlwind of a trip!

Madeleine's first classy bar ^_^

For those of you who know me, you know that I don't go out. I don't really drink, not because I don't want to. but because it's too complicated in the States and the prospect of hanging out illegally with drunken bros really does not appeal to me. For those of you who don't know me, why are you reading this? That's creepy. Go away.

Back to the point: I don't go out in the States; however, apparently when I'm in France with other young people, I go out somewhat frequently. Again, it's not that I really have a rabid desire to go out and hit the town. Actually, I would rather not. I feel like I need to be sociable and "bien profiter" from the experience while I'm here, however.

One thing that I really enjoy is how I don't have to be terrified to drink or buy alcohol. I can walk into a store, pick whatever the hell I want, walk to the counter, slap my money on the counter, and go for it. Or, similarly, I can walk into a cafe and get what I want. Also, because it's France, it's obviously more classy and more appealing than in the States (probably because there are no French bros).

Last night was the birthday of one of the girls in the program, and so we went out to celebrate. I also went to my first ever bar in France, and my first ever classy bar. I have been to Tinkers and Mug-z once each, and there was a reason why I never returned. Because they're gross, and filled with bros. Not appealing in the slightest.

This place could best be described as a Fripster bar that was tucked away in a corner off the Bastille. Andrea, the girl whose birthday we were celebrating, has a cousin who lives in Paris, and who knows good places to go out, and so she took us. I don't even know the name, but it was a great, hopping little place, with purple walls, fluffy chairs, almost no light, and a shiny round bar right in the middle. It was also filled to the brim with really attractive Fripsters. I felt like I was in Brooklyn--with French people. It was great.

We all ordered the same drink, with a base of vodka and some kind of sweet fruit juice, called a "Jolie Poupee." It was amazing. I wish that I remembered what the hell was in it. Hm, let's see. I think it was vodka, lime, and some kind of tart grapefruit-like fruit. Miam miam.

We chilled there for a few hours--I think from 11 to 1-ish--and it was a great time, not to mention excellent for people watching.

I also had a first--it was the first time a guy ever approached me of his own free will and asked to buy my a drink. He was a cutie, too, probably because he was dressed like a metrosexual, as all French men are. Andie and her cousin went somewhere, and Monika and I were there together, when he walked up to me and said, "Oh hi. Are you French?" When I replied no, he (predictably) said, "Oh, so you're German!" I didn't even fight it, and, heck, it's better than admitting that you're American. We chit-chatted for a little while about what I was doing in Paris, what I was studying, how I was German, etc. and he asked me if he could buy me a drink. Inwardly I was like, oh! score!, but I wasn't going to give him any false hope. He was a nice guy, and that would have been unfair. I hope he was ok with me taking a creep--I mean, flaneur picture of him on the sly (Note the good sweater. Good sweaters = always important).

But, anyway, it was exciting! It was a good night: I got home somewhat early, skyped with my Alex, and went to sleep. A perfect end to a good day :)

This experience will make me a professional stalker

One of the things that I have learned over the course of this class is that a flaneur is, in many ways, a professional stalker. I started to suspect this early on in the class, when we read about people who would see a building they found interesting, go in through the door, find the people inside, and lurk in staircases and closets. My suspicions were confirmed when my professor asked us to stalk people for class.

"For Wednesday's walk," he said gleefully, "we're going to go to the Rue de Rivoli. There, you will find someone who you find interesting. Then you will follow them for half an hour."

"Um, so we're going to be stalking people?"

"No! You're going to be a flaneur!" So--a stalker.

There are three national sports in France: petanque, eating, and people-watching. Ever wonder why French people love cafes? It's because they provide a socially-acceptable outlet for watching people. You pick a place on the terrace, not just because the weather is nice, but because the best people-watching places are outside. You order a coffee. In France, unlike in America, you can order a coffee and sit at the table for as long as you like without having anyone give you a dirty look. So, you sit there with your coffee, perhaps a newspaper if you want to give the impression that you're not actually staring at people, and you watch.

I will admit that I have done some extracurricular stalking in my life. Sometimes there are people who you like, who you find attractive, and who stir your imagination. Then, at least in my opinion, your natural response is to, well, look at them, watch them, and make up stories about them in your head. Right? Is this just me? See! I even took a creepy picture of Clark when he was grocery shopping...that's normal. Right?

So, yesterday we went to the Rue de Rivoli, stood on the corner, and prepared.

"The choice of person is very important," Clark told us. "You can't just pick anyone. It's a real art."

This is very true. You can't just follow any Joe-Shmo in the street; you need to find someone who sparks your interest, and who might have some interesting character ticks. We only had 20 minuts to choose and follow someone, which, in my opinion, was not sufficient to find a good victi--I mean, subject. I settled on a Fripster, which is my newly-coined name for a French hipster, who I expected to be much more interesting than she was. She went shoe shopping, and went to the metro stop, where she proceeded to sit for 15 minutes. Next time, Madeleine, next time...

My personally-preferred method is to sit next to someone in a cafe and watch them, mainly because they can't escape and you can observe them for long periods without provoking suspicion. I think I'll give that a try this weekend.

Only in Paris, kids. Only in Paris.

Bon Appetit!

Fresh tomatoes with olive oil and mozzarella.


Galettes with ham and egg.


Salade verte with walnuts and chevre chaud.

Jackie and Madeleine take on Versailles!

My first weekend in France, Jackie and I decided that we would go on a day trip to Versailles, a place which neither of us had ever visited, but which was clearly necessary to do. I have Fridays and weekends off from class, which is awesome, and so I look forward to doing a few more day trips while I'm here, such as Mont Saint Michel or Giverny. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Saturday morning, we met up, and walked to the Gare Austerlitz to take the RER (the French equivalent of Metro North) to Versailles. The train ride took about 40-minutes, and within the hour, we were at the Palais of Versailles.

I had never been to the actual palace before, though I had visited the town when I was much younger. Naturally, I was expecting it to be, well, ridiculous. I was expected gold and fleur-de-lis and riches dripping from the walls; however, nothing could prepare me for what is was actually like.

To be brief, it was absolutely insane. Like woah, guys. Good job. The thing is huge. It's extraordinary. It defies explanation. And yes, I know that's what she said.

The only downside to our visit was that we had to pay the full price for admission, because there was no student tarif, but I guess that's ok, because I can't even imagine how much money they have to invest to keep the place in tip-top shape. We pay $40 each time we get our 1/2 acre lawn mowed. How much must it cost to mow, oh I don't know, like a million acres? I don't want to think about it.

Soon after arriving, and being mistaken for a German tourist (the lady was kind enough to give me a map in German--der Garten von Versailles! ACH!), I remembered why my parents and I had never gone: it's something that we call "Eurocrush" in my family. "Eurocrush" is what happens during the summer in Europe when every tourist is in the same place trying to so the same thing at the same time. Luckily we were there on a weekday in June before the major tourist season, and the crowds, while large, were manageable. Oh and also, the place is so huge that you could fit all of a small Eastern European country there anyway.

I cannot even fathom people living in a place like that. That's something that always really shocks me: when I think about the place *in use* and teeming with courtiers and the people who *lived* there. I cannot even imagine it. One really scary image was thinking of the day when the Palace was stormed by the crowds of rabid revolutionaries. That must have been a sight to end all sights.

The Palace was extraordinary. The Hall of Mirrors was dazzling. Their own miniature Louvre was mind-blowing. You get the idea.

The price of our tickets also included a visit to the Trianons, the "little modest country cottages" that Marie-Antoinette inhabited on the edge of the massive gardens. The day was hot and the sun was beating down on us, which was lucky considering that most of the days I have spent here have been rainy or cloudy. The Gardens. Wow. Huge. Back in the day, how in God's name did they landscape the place? I can see it now: a thousand peasants armed with scissors and going out to cut the lawn. I pity them.

The Trianons were lovely--much more manageable and much easier to appreciate, mainly on account of their size. I was especially amused by Marie-Antoinette's "cottage" which is a mini-Versailles that she inhabited to get away and to live her deluded dream of being a shepherdess. Apparently, back in the day, there were little farm animals and gardens that she would tend. I'm pretty sure, however, that "gardening" went something like this:

MA: Servant, could you replace that flower there? The colour bothers me. Yes, the pink should suffice.

Servant: As you wish.

MA: Hm, actually, I liked the purple better. can you put it back? Oh well, no. Hm. Maybe the red.

The highlight of the visit was seeing Marie-Antoinette's gardening tools. There was a scythe, a shovel, a rake, and whatnot. However, they were all miniature and covered in velvet and tassels. So, basically, the "scythe" was 5 inches long. Not very effective, Marie.

Les Flaneurs

Professeur Clark--stalker of the streets...

...with his harem of young women.

Paris, "le paradis des femmes, le purgatoire des hommes, l'enfer des chevaux"

Paris: the paradise of women, the purgatory of men, the hell of horses.

That's an excerpt from my first reading on the flaneur: Les Tableaux de Paris of Mercier, an early anthropologist. One of the things that we spoke about in our first real day of class were the conditions that arose that made the flaneur possible--something that I had never really considered before.

The Medieval city of Paris arose on the Left Bank (the Latin Quarter), where the ancient Roman city of Lutece had been. The Right bank of the city was primarily farmland and swamps aka not very good to build a city on. The allure of the Seine, however, was enough to make Paris a valuable possession. The River permitted access to the South, Rouen, and Le Havre, and was, therefore, very desirable to control. Control of the Seine gave control of the river that joined the North and South of France.

To be a flaneur was impossible in Medieval Paris. The city was as delightful as any other teeming, medieval city: there were no sidewalks, the roads were not paved and turned to mud when it rained, and there was no plumbing or garbage disposal. You didn't and couldn't walk for pleasure. Walking was not only seen as declasse (if you were anyone worth knowing, you would have a carriage), but was dangerous and disgusting. Anyone walking in the street would be lucky not to get hit. The least serious thing that would happen to you would be to return home covered in mud and "waste." Before the reign of Henri IV, the Protestant king of France who converted to Catholicism for the good of the nation and who uttered the famous phrase, "Paris is worth a mass," provided Paris with her first urban vision, walking was near-impossible.

The improvements which began under his reign would introduce sidewalks and paving, create the first "places" or "piazzas" in the style of the Italian Renaissance, and build Paris' first bridge that was not covered in houses--the Pont Neuf. With the additions and improvements, Henri IV created places for people to walk that were not (too) disgusting and that were (more) safe. These early stages of urbanism in Paris made the flaneur possible.

The urbanization plans of Henri IV set in motion the alignment of the city. Paris, growing from Lutece to old Paris, grew in spurts and without any direction. Due to the haphazard additions to the city, Paris grew without rhyme or reason and became difficult to navigate. Henri IV started to organize the city in a more logical manner, something that made walking and navigating by foot much easier.

Basically, Henri IV, in addition to saving France from religious wars, was the father of modern urbanization in Paris.

So hats off to you, Henri IV, for a job well-done.

Notre premier jour de classe

I had my long-anticipated first day of classes yesterday. The other girls in the program were flying in yesterday, and so, we decided to meet at the University at 4pm instead of having a full day of class. The place was easy enough to find--12 Rue Vavin in the 6th arrondissement--nearby the Jardin de Luxembourg and the Boulevard de Montparnasse, and I got there just in time for the commencement of our class: Le flâneur à Paris 2010.

Professor Clark handed out our syllabi, and briefly reviewed the texts and walks planned for each day. Our schedule is not as full as I (or, perhaps, you) expected it to be: we meet for two hours of class Monday through Thursday, usually in the early afternoon, and then have walks or museum visits most days after class for a few hours. Fridays and weekends are free, as are most evenings, with the exception of nights when we go to see "spectacles" or shows. All in all, we have a lot of free time. Hmmm... What to do...

This week, our readings and walks start with the "Flâneur de l'Ancien Régime" and readings from les Tableaux Parisiens of Louis Sébastien Mercier, a sort of early anthropologist who walked around Paris at night, and, well, watched people. Creeper or anthropologist? I wonder.

This means that I have my first *dun dun dunnn* homework assignment of the summer. Not only that, but it has a great (and very "Clarkish," I might add. Does anyone remember the Enlightenment French porn tableaux? Yup. All Clark.) cover:



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Also, inside joke numéro deux: