à la maria

"Berbers are the Scots of Morocco."

2011-05-01T12:53:00.000-07:00

The Berbers are the Scots of Morocco. Or so a shop owner told me. According to him, they resemble the Scots because they wear plaid and drink "Berber whiskey" (mint tea). I'm not sure how well the comparison holds up. The Berbers are the indigenous peoples of Morocco and most of Northern Africa. I had the good luck to go to a Berber village two weekends ago when I was in Morocco.

We drove for hours to get out of Marrakech into the mountains. One thing that surprised be about the city was how green it was. The mountains that we drove through, on the other hand, looked more like what I had expected - packed dirt from red to brown held together by by scraggly shrubs and trees.

Our car dropped us off in Imlil, a small village in the Atlas Mountains, and we hiked up to the home where we were having lunch. As we climbed, the world opened up to us so we could see a rushing stream and the highest peak in North Africa, Jebel Toubkal, in the distance. For some reason, this place felt more ancient than most. If it were a person instead of a locale, it would be a gray-braid weraing woman with tanned skin, and a face and hands as deeply cut with wrinkles as the hills are by the river. She would be a weaver and a singer and a memory-keeper.

When we finally reached this Berber home we ate the most delicious Moroccan food I've ever had : a chicken tagine with potatoes, zucchini, and carrots, a couscous, tea, and oranges.

My friend Sasha said going there made her feel close to God. It made me feel close to the earth.
Maybe it's the same thing.
Maria

Au Jardin Majorelle

2011-05-01T10:47:00.001-07:00

The Majorelle Garden in Marrakech is just what you'd hope for : exotic, lush, and full of color. Bevies of cacti, ponds full of water lilies, and forests of bamboo coexist among brightly painted doors, pots, and buildings. Originally created by the painter Jacques Majorelle, the gardens were later purchased by Yves Saint Laurent, whose partner still owns them today. According to their brochure, "[t]he originality of these places lies in the combination of a luxurious vegetation and architectural elements allying sobriety and traditional aesthetic Moroccan."

Wishing more of my life had that Yves Klein blue.


One of YSL's "Love" posters on display in a gallery at the garden.

Love 2011,
Maria

Arriving in Marrakech

2011-05-01T10:47:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Marrakech and left it in at about the same time - about half past seven in the morning. At that time of day, there is something almost soft about the city. The light turns the earth colored buildings, which look orange at night, to pink. Some of the hustle and bustle has already started but in a quiet way, everyone going about their lives : getting to work, setting up shop, drinking coffee. It is not yet the rabid tourist feeding frenzy that it becomes later in the day.

The boulevards are lined with palm trees and roses. Bougainvillea creeps over the buildings. The streets are already alive pale yellow taxis, cars, and bikes (bicycles, motorcycles, and their country cousin which I can only describe as a motorbike - that is to say a bicycle that has been souped up with an engine). In many places the flow of traffic is unclear, the motorists apparently making it up as they swerve around pedestrians.

As the sun rises, so does the activity. The main square in the medina, the Jamaa el Fna, is a giant frying pan on which the city scrambles. There are juice stands fresh-squeezing oranges, grapefruits, and lemons into what can fairly be called ambrosia. Women ink henna onto tourists who stand still too long. Men charm snakes and make monkeys do back flips over their chained collars.

You can enter the souks from the main square. They are a beehive of activity. Every vendor sits outside his little alcove, calling out to passersby. Most of the time you see in one stall what you saw in the last and will see in the next. Chinese manufacturing has hit Morocco. Sometimes you will find shops that have the real deal - turquoise, coral, and lapis jewelry; ancient daggers; teapots, chests and chairs inlaid with stone and enamel. If the shop owner is named Hassan, you will escape with only enough money for your taxi back to your hotel.

Roccin' in Morocco,
Maria

Granada

2011-04-18T16:23:00.000-07:00

When I asked my cousin Kathryn, my architecture guru, what I should see in Andalusia, she recommended Granada and sent me this little limerick :

Dale limosna mujer, (Woman, give alms to the beggar,
que no hay en la vida nada, for there is no pain in life

como la pena de ser, like the pain of being
ciego en Granada blind in Granada.)

Granada would in fact be a bad place to be blind for several reasons :

1) It is a hilly city and there are a lot of uneven cobblestones and stairs.
2) Fortune-telling gypsies who tell you you're beautiful and then want €10 would be able to sneak up on you.

3) You wouldn't get to see the incredible beauty - both natural and man-made - of Granada.

Sierra Nevada

I had the good fortune to visit when the orange blossoms were in bloom, making the whole city smell divine. I had a delicious melón y jamón for lunch one day, which is one of my all time favorites. I watched the sun set over Alhambra and the city from a hill. I was charmed by the white washed buildings with tile roofs, dripping with wisteria. I got asked on four dates in a little over 24 hours (slightly above my usual average). I liked Granada a lot, but all my plans went a little bit awry. This may or may not have been caused by a gypsy curse (see no. 2 above). The only truly devastating snafu had to do with my visit to Alhambra.

Alhambra, as you may know, is a world famous castle built by the Moorish Emirs of Granada around seven hundred years ago. It's a big deal and a very hot ticket. In order to get day-of tickets you have to show up at the crack of dawn. Once you're in the huge compound, there are lots of different buildings to see. The most famous of these buildings is the Nasrid Palace, for which you are given a specific entrance time on your ticket.

I got to Alhambra well before my visit time and did the other buildings first so I could leave after the Nasrid Palace. Somewhere between the second to last thing I visited and the Nasrid Palace, however, my ticket fell out of my back pocket. It is impossible to get in anywhere without your ticket. I retraced my steps; I asked at the information desk if anyone had turned it in. No luck - gypsy curse. So after exhausting outrage, attempts at bribery, begging, and tears I had to leave without seeing it or miss my bus.

But now, I have a reason to go back, right?

Maria

The City of Tiles

2011-04-13T18:00:00.000-07:00

Lisbon is decked out in tiles. Whole buildings are covered with their floral and geometric spiraling in navy, mustard, olive and terra cotta like the table cloth your grandmother spreads over her table on Sundays when your whole family goes to her house for dinner in the garden. The city has a slippery glisten as the sun hits the tiles.

In Portuguese, tile is "azulejo."
Maria

Portuguese Kindness

2011-04-13T04:15:00.000-07:00

At every turn in Portugal we were met with kindness, friendliness, and generosity. Here's one little story of it :

My last afternoon in Lisbon, I met a man named Sergio with only a few teeth. He’s always lived in Afalma, in Lisboa. We were sitting in the shade looking out over the water when a pinecone fell – thwack – onto the cobblestones between us.

He spoke to me in Portuguese as he went to pick it up. I looked at him and at the pine tree, twisty and sinuous unlike the pencil straight pines I knew growing up.

He brought his treasure next to me and with rough fingers began to pull apart the prickly cone, plucking brown stones from its womb. With a rock he cracked open one of the little stones, offering me the soft whiteness inside – a pine nut.

When I sat beside a cone’s worth of nuts, he told me his name and asked me mine.

“Ah. Maria,” he said, “Maria.”

Depending on the kindness of strangers,

Maria

Fado

2011-04-13T04:13:00.000-07:00

On our first night in Lisbon, we went to a tiny local restaurant. Devagar Devagarinho, for dinner and fado. We got there around nine and were worried that the fado would never begin.

Around eleven, however, they turned out the lights except for a couple of red-scarf-covered lamps that threw the room into a dim pink glow. Two men with Portuguese guitars started strumming gently and sure-fingeredly. They looked around at the crowd, a mix of old and young locals, talked to each other, closed their eyes a little ; they never looked down. They knew the music better than they knew themselves.

The man who had stood behind the bar at the grill when we entered the restaurant came upstairs to sing for us. The guitar player sang. A short woman who also worked there took off her shoes and sang in a voice rough but breakable like the bark peeled off of an oak tree.

A group was there filming the real fado of Lisbon. They shot the woman out on the steep stone-paved street. Fado is important to Portugal - its name means "destiny" and it is their national music, part of the deep soul of the nation. It is like the sea : melancholy and beautiful, with all its drama coming from its swells, the great crashing wildness juxtaposed against the sweetly gentle lapping of the voice as it trips from soft to loud.

A Portuguese guy who spoke a little English asked me if I knew enough Portugese to get the story.
"No," I said, "What's it about?"
"Longing," he replied.
I told him, "I don't understand, but I understand."

A wannabe fadista,
Maria

Lisbon | Lisboa

2011-04-10T12:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Lisbon,

This is the way I will always think of you, just the way we are right now. Me at the white-curtained window, leaning against the sill looking at you. At you, with your just after sunset haze of pink, orange, purple and blue over the river, with your bells tolling softly in the distance, with your roofs staring back at me and birds braiding the air with their evensong.

Love,
Maria

2011-04-08T02:50:00.000-07:00

I'm traveling for two weeks, so I may not post much.

"We are all inventors, each sailing out on a voyage of discovery,
guided each by a private chart, of which there is no duplicate.
The world is all gates, all opportunities."

Emerson

Arriverderci,

Maria

Words, words, words

2011-04-07T17:51:00.000-07:00

Like learning French? Me too! Here are some wonderful new aquisitions of mine:

un orfèvre : n. a goldsmith
un requin : n. a shark (I can never remember this, for some reason)
une flaque (d'eau; de boue) : n. a puddle (of water; of mud)
foufou/fofolle : adj. scatterbrained ; n. scatterbrain
chatouiller : v. to tickle (adj. form is chatouilleux/-uese)
flou : adj. hazy, vague, blurred
un tube : n. a success, a "hit"
une serre : n. a greenhouse
un clic-clac : n. a futon
sournois(e) : adj. sly, underhanded, devious
éternuer : v. to sneeze (I always mess this word up.)
arobase : n. at sugn (@)

A logomaniac,
Maria

Oh hey sweet thang!

2011-04-05T16:07:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I had a couple of friends in town, which meant a weekend full of semi-touristy things. One thing they wanted to do, and rightly so, was eat French pastries. I ate more pastries this weekend than the rest of the year combined. (Not really.) Every pâtisserie has it's own unique creations, but some things remain the same. Here is a guide to the staples when it comes to little cakes, tarts, and cream puffs.

Le Millefeuille
A tripple-decker puff pastry and creme filling sandwich, topped with icing or powdered sugar. Sometimes you get a little strawberry thrown into the mix. The combination of height, crisp pastry, and soft cream makes this pastry extremely difficult to eat elegantly. Not first date food.

Le Paris-Brest
Choux pastry puff filled with praline flavored cream filling. This pastry is round, like the bike wheels in the Paris-Brest bike race it commemorates.

L'Opéra
An opéra is a moist almond cake with chocolate and coffee filling/icing. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what's going on inside the opéra...

La Tartelette aux Framboises
A tartelette is simply a mini tart. It comes in lots of different flavors, but raspberry is my favorite. A hard tart shell is filled with custard and topped with raspberries. Simple, but perfect. Tartelette au citron is PDG too - lemon filling with whipped meringue on top.

L'Éclair ou La Religieuse
The éclair and the religiese are the same except for their shape. Both are cream puffs covered in icing. The éclair is long and thin and the religieuse is two balls stacked on top of each other. The standard flavors are chocolate and coffee, however others exist, such as the violet-flavored religieuse and caramel, grand marnier, and pistachio eclairs pictured above. A divorcé is a religiuese that is half chocolate, half coffee.

Le Flan
This is not your Spanish flan. French flan is like custard pie, but firmer. The butter-yellow slices of it kind of look like cheese cake, though the texture is different. The taste is simple but delicious: eggy, not too sweet, and vanilla-y.

Le Cochon
Since the new year, I've seen these long patisseries dressed up as pigs all over Paris. I asked what they were once and was told that they are chocolate covered in pink marzipan. I kind of want to get one to keep as a pet.

Sugar and spice,
Maria

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

2011-04-03T13:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the most beautiful day of 2011. It was sunny and warm and perfect.

In celebration of that weather and in invitation of its continued presence in my life, here is a list I compiled with a friend on good places to while away an afternoon in Paris.

Camila and Maria's Afternoons Outside Par Excellence :
(in no particular order)

La Fontaine des Amoureux in the jardin de Luxembourg.

Parc Monceau - no one minds if you sit on the grass.

Parc des Buttes Chaumonts.

Canal Saint-Martin.

Place des Vosges.

The Right Bank. By that I mean the north bank of the river, especially between Pont de la Concorde and Pont Sully.

Sacré Coeur and its little park.

Parc Floral de Paris in the Bois de Vincennes.

Champs de Mars.

Square in front of the Centre Pompidou. Watch some street performers and people blowing enormous bubbles.

Partners in crime : Camila & Maria

Enjoy soaking in sun-drenched days and starlit nights outside!

Making daisy chains,
Maria and Camila

P.S. Yes, I know the title of this post only makes sense in Cajun French. Je m'en fiche!

Mont Saint-Michel

2011-03-31T16:58:00.000-07:00

Before I went to Normandy for the weekend, my host mom told me that there are some places in Frances that are truly special and that Mont Saint-Michel is one of them. She was right. In the words of Guy de Maupassant : " l'abbaye escarpée, poussée là-bas, loin de terre, comme un manoir fantastique, stupéfiante comme un palais de rêve, invraisemblablement étrange et belle. "

Mont Saint-Michel is an abbey town built on a stone island off the coast of Normandy. According to legend, in the 8th century the archangel Micheal appeared to St. Aubert, the bishop of the closest town, in a dream and told him to build a church on the island. To this day a functioning monastery crowns the mount.

The monastery has a clean peacefulness about it. I sat in this rooftop garden and listened to the church bells.

Mont Saint-Michel has the highest tides in continental Europe, and depending on the season, the water level can change up to 15 meters and the coastline can recede 15 kilometers. One can cross from the shore to Mont Saint-Michel during low tide, but only with the help of a guide because of the fast moving tides and quicksand. We were there during low tide, so the island was surrounded by a strange, lonesome but beautiful marsh.

I know no man is an island, but if I were, I would be this one,
Maria

Traces of The War

2011-03-29T12:36:00.000-07:00

This weekend I went to Normandy with my program, and most of Saturday was devoted to World War II memorial sites. We visited the cemetery and memorial at Omaha Beach and Point du Hoc at Utah Beach.

The memorial and cemetary at Omaha Beach.

In both places, I was struck by the natural beauty and the immense difficulty the troops of D-Day faced assailing those cold, steep cliffs. The visit provoked interesting reactions from my group, as we asked ourselves what purposes war memorials serve and how we feel about those purposes and about war itself.

View from Point du Hoc, Utah Beach.

Craters left in the earth by American bombs.

I ran into two girls I went to high school with (our graduating class had a little more than 50 girls) at Omaha Beach. The world fits inside a shoe box sometimes.

Peace,
Maria

Le Train Bleu

2011-03-25T16:11:00.000-07:00

I dropped a friend off at the Gare de Lyon on Wednesday, and while we were waiting for his train we went up to the beautiful restaurant, Le Train Bleu, to have a drink. The restaurant has not changed since the train station was built for the Exhibition of 1900. The great hall is covered in Belle Epoque paintings; the banquettes are in rich dark wood and leather; gold leaf is used liberally. It's like stepping back into a more genteel time.

Sipping my limonade,
Maria

P.S. Thanks for the rec, Mom!

The Writing On the Wall

2011-03-22T17:37:00.000-07:00

Across the board, French graffiti artists perform on a much higher level than their American counterparts. One of my favorite hot spots of street art in Paris is near my university on the Passage des Patriarches. I once overheard a mother teaching her young daughter the names of colors with the help of the swirlingly colorful wall.

Street-smart(ish),
Maria

Hello there springtime

2011-03-20T18:24:00.000-07:00

It seemed appropriate, on the first official day of spring, to visit a chateau famous for its gardens : Malmaison. Malmaison was bought and renovated by Joséphine Bonaparte in 1799. It was where she finished her days after her divorce from Napoléon and where he in turn lived between his defeat at Waterloo and his exile.

The extensive grounds (three full parks plus grounds around the house) hold many exotic plants, but are most famous for their roses. Josephine had her favorite flower crossbred so that her gardens held roses that couldn't be found anywhere else in the world. The roses weren't in bloom this weekend, but there was quite enough splendor to be going on with.

The day consisted of the following simple pleasures:

Cherry blossom trees reminded me of the D.C. version of home.

I stole walnut shells.

This Western redcedar is 150 years old.

And you can sit inside its branches like it's a fort.

I took off my shoes to walk barefoot on the grass.


Bridges.

The town of Ruil-Malmaison, about fifteen minutes outside Paris by train, is also charming. I ate a wonderful millefuille in the town square as all the residents sunned themselves in the warm afternoon.

The whole day smelled nice.

Wishing you hyacinth-colored days,
Maria

An afternoon drive

2011-03-17T11:07:00.000-07:00

This film, C'était un rendez-vous, was filmed in one take by attaching the camera to the front of a car. The route, as far as I can tell, would take about 25-30 minutes if you were making good time. Claude Lelouch does it in under 10. When you gotta be somewhere, you gotta be somewhere.

Vroom vroom baby,
Maria

Life lessons in art class

2011-03-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

This semester I am taking a class in drawing and painting for the first time since I was in middle school. I love the atelier; it's filled with the gray natural light of a Parisian afternoon and the harsh smell of paint. I'm learning a lot about art, but I've also found that I'm learning a lot about life and myself. If you'll forgive me for a moment of empurpled soul-bearing, here are some things I've learned :

The hardest part is starting. When I sit down to that white page, I feel like I wouldn't know how to write my name with a crayon, much less paint a human being. Once I start, it gets easier.
There is no right or wrong way to paint a picture. Part of why the blank canvas is so intimidating is that I don't know what I'm doing. I've realized that I'm really uncomfortable with not knowing how to do something "right." In the world of academia, where there is often a right and wrong, at the very least in terms of methodology, it's nice to have an outlet where the point is just to do.
Don't force it. The more I try to draw what I think I see instead of what I do see, the less human my pictures look. When I relax and work in the moment, the results are usually more interesting.
Trust myself. "Don't be afraid to be audacious," said my teacher to me, "When you've decided where to put something, make deliberate brushstrokes. If it's not right, you can change it later."
Freedom scares me. When I look at that blank page and think "I could do anything," I freeze. This, maybe more than these other things, surprises me. I love the idea of freedom. I guess with time that infiniteness will scare me less, as will my own boundlessness.

I painted this!

Beginning,
Maria

Chez Michou

2011-03-12T12:19:00.000-08:00

This week I saw the last gasps of a well known drag show cabaret, Michou. Why do I say we saw its "last gasps"? Because most of the drag queens and clientele are over fifty, at the very very least. One gentleman in the front has his picture in the dictionary under "grandfather." It's funny that I can't imagine my grandparent's generation setting foot in a drag show in the United States, but here in France they're the target audience!

Michou himself. He kissed my hand when we arrived at the club.

Chez Michou was next door to the hotel where a couple of friends of mine were staying in Montmartre, and too intrigued to not do it, we rang the bell outside and were let into a bygone world of dim, red lighting, mirror covered walls and glitter lipstick. It was campy, ridiculous and fun. Oh to have seen it in its heyday!

Trying to figure out glitter lipstick,
Maria

Lennon Wall

2011-03-08T03:56:00.000-08:00

The Lennon Wall in Prague is a combination of an act of civil disobedience and a world wide arts and crafts project. It is visually overwhelming and ever-changing.

You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one.
I hope some day you'll join us,
And the world will be as one.

Coo coo cachoo,

Maria

Czech It Out

2011-03-07T16:13:00.000-08:00

I spent this weekend in the beautiful, strange city of Prague. Frankly, it's an enigmatic little city, which makes me think I'd need to spend a couple of months or maybe decades there to write even two paragraphs about it that are true.

The friend I was visiting described the Czech language in a way that made sense to me in terms of the city, too. Czech has repeatedly had its insides carved out and recrafted. The way my friend explained all this made me think of an empty house with a beautiful facade and a bare-bones interior.

On the surface there are these incredible buildings in browns, light blues, dusty salmon pinks, butter creams, beiges, mint greens and butternut squash yellows, topped with red tiled roofs and greenly oxidizing spires. The twisty streets, cobbled with small square stones, bear names I can't even sound out because all of the letters wear different sounds. In the touristy parts of town, shops selling bohemian crystal, Russian dolls, and marionettes are as insidious as dandelions and foreigners crowd the streets. The entire city looks like it could be an opera set, with romantically mysterious and menacing forest as its backdrop.

But none of this feels a part of the deeper identity of the city. It's like if you scratched the surface you would find a bizarrely hedonistic and seamy underbelly. I think that Prague is a city of secrets, a city that never sleeps. Real Prague has got to be the blurry outlines of what you see when you look at the following things out of the corner of your eye: Who exactly is making reservations three days early at a local watering hole so they can order an entire roast pig? Why are they selling pot chocolate at the absinthe museum? What does all that graffiti mean? What's really in those bread dumplings? At 2:30 on a Thursday night why is the tram full in equal parts of club goers and little old ladies?

Just going with it,
Maria

Good ol' olfactory

2011-03-02T12:59:00.000-08:00

My day through smells:

This morning when I put on my gloves they smelled like the cinnamon I used to doctor my vin chaud last night.

Walking to the metro I passed a woman who smelled like my first French teacher, Madame.

Bread was baking at the boulangerie I went to for lunch - the kind that makes you sure the crust will melt in your mouth before you taste it.

Grass growing in the field by my house from which I can see les Invalides.

The metro. I won't describe that in detail.

A stolen squirt of a perfume with a red label from an Artisan Parfumeur display.

The pithy orange I peeled this afternoon.

A yellow-spraying flower called mimosa in French is my new favorite. I always stop to smell it at flower shops. It smells sweet.

The siren song of rotisserie chicken slowly turning in its heater on the sidewalk outside the traiteur called out to me at snack time.

Chlorine from the swimming pool. It smells the same in every language.

My apartment smells like my host mother's smooth cigarette smoke again, because she's back from vacation.

Now I smell like my lavender-honey soap and being tucked warmly into bed.

Hoping for lavender-honey scented dreams,
Maria

Salon d'Agriculture

2011-02-28T20:06:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I went to the biggest farm in the world. At least, my host family told me that's what it was. In fact, it's only the largest French agricultural convention, but I'll take what I can get. The entire exhibition complex/village of Porte de Versailles was jam packed with all kinds of livestock, regional products, and food from around the world.

The whole thing was vaguely disorienting. I felt like it was the lovechild of the Houston Rodeo and the Texas State Fair, except everyone was French and not all of the food came on a stick.

I am shocked by my own ability to imitate this technicolor cow.

Highlights included : pigs the size of ponies, a side of fried bananas with lunch, an unnecessary purchase of a jacket that smells like a farm, a kitty commune made of fish tanks, tshirts with horses on them, samples of Italian olives and a moon bounce shaped like a fruit basket.

I never knew there were that many kinds of sheep,
Maria

BAM MAM!

2011-02-26T16:19:00.000-08:00

The MAM is the Musée d'Art Moderne de la ville de Paris, and the MAM is awesome. Both the collection and the traveling exhibits were very cool.

There were lots of things I'd never seen or heard of before: An artist who makes images appear out of layer upon layer of gloppy, random-looking dollops of paint. An owl motif running through one exhibit. An installation that looked like a giant Popsicle-stick house made with rowing oars and bowling balls.

Delphine Coindet, Cosmos

A dark room with a black box in which tiny pin holes light up like orbiting constellations. A whole section with works from a school called SMS (Shit Must Stop) that included, ironically, Paul Steiner's "Johns in Art Galeries," a series of index cards describing toilets that includes "small, but definitely has atmosphere. EAST HAMPTON"

Steiner, Johns in Art Galeries

(image taken from Washington University in St. Louis' Kemper Art Museum)

In the basement there is a very strange video installation by Turkish artist Inci Eviner. Tiny images of dogs, playing cards, cancan-ing legs, belly dancers, buildings, fires, stacks of people, people wearing gray jogging suits and blue plastic dog-cones, doing repetitive actions play over and over to music made of the sounds of whistling, the cheering of a crowd, dogs barking, clapping, and a guitar playing.

Inci Eviner, Broken Manifestos

Looking for a museum off the tourist-beaten path? Try this one.

Amusée par Art Moderne,
Maria

Ashes to Ashes

2011-02-24T07:21:00.000-08:00

This is the story of the Catacombs of Paris:

The remains in the Catacombs come from another time, when bodies were still burried in Paris and the living brushed shoulders with the dead. Eventually, the cemetaries were overflowing and the Parisians wanted to purge the city of this insalubrious excess, so the old quarries on the edge of the city became the catacombs.

There is an aura of dark romanticism surrounding the catacombs - like a gothic novel full of madness, buried family secrets, and bloody deeds done by moonlight. The catacombs encourage this attitude with a macabre theatricality. A sign over the entrance to the ossuary reads "ARRETE : C'EST ICI L'EMPIRE DE LA MORT." (Stop! Here lies the empire of death)

The walls are lined with femurs and tibias tightly packed, broken in half by rows of jawless skulls, illuminated and thrown into shadow in equal measure by the wall sconces. This carefully arranged display is interffupted by plaques bearing quotation on shuffling off this mortal coil, etc :

Ils furent ce que nous sommes

Poussière, jouet de vent ;

Fragiles commes des hommes,

Faibles comme le néant !

Lamartine

And though regularly cleaned, the corners hold the dusty traces of a second death - one of bones - and the promise of what we will one day become.

Dust to Dust,
Maria

P.S. It's hard to take good pictures in caves when using flash is verboten...

Rouen

2011-02-22T12:26:00.000-08:00

This weekend I visited a rainy, chilly Rouen. Rouen, a small city in Normandie (the North of France) famous for its cathedrale, immortalized by a series of paintings by Monet, and as the location of Joan of Arc's trial and execution. The old city has cobbled streets and leaning eighteenth century buildings. There is a big clock, called the Big Clock, that tells the day of the week and the phase of the moon in addition to the time.

Gros bisous,
Maria

Royale with Cheese

2011-02-18T15:38:00.000-08:00

I cannot tell you the last time I did this, but a while ago I went to McDonald's (called "MacDo" here in France) with my host sister. I got a quarter-pounder. It was called a Royale Deluxe.

I just couldn't resist drawing this parallel:

See 1:00 for the pertinent part. Excuse the language - that's Quentin Tarantino, not me.

My meal was happy,
Maria

Pardon my French

2011-02-18T15:29:00.000-08:00

Hello, reader! Today I'm talking about language, foul language.

There are myriad reasons to curse: to let off steam; to besmirch someone or something; to describe aptly where no other word will do; to wallow in your own creativity or crudeness or both; for the hell of it! Recently I've found a new reason to swear - to disarm.

I have found that as a non-native, pretty nice seeming (a taxi driver recently told me that I possess a "white heart" - truly, I have the strangest transportation experiences) young woman, a well chosen swear word is the secret password, a shibboleth if you will, that let's me interact organically with the French. I may have a funny accent, but when I call Monsieur le President "une petite merde," I'm just one of the gang.

Here are a few helpful words with gentle translations:

MERDE

merde - fecal matter, often used as an exclamation
de merde - something made of fecal matter; crummy; VDM (vie de merde) = FML
emmerder - to bother

CON

con - stupid, foolish; idiot fool; can also verge on vulgarist of vulgars so use it with caution
connard - a jerk
connerie - a stupid thing, as in "I've done something stupid"

PUTAIN - lady of the night, often used as an exclamation

BORDEL - collective home, even a dormitory of sorts, for ladies of the night

SALOPE - can translate as any unsavory word you might want to call a person of the female persuasion

Do try this at home,
Maria

Back to School

2011-02-16T09:59:00.000-08:00

This week second semester classes began at the Sorbonne, so I am once again a full-time student.

Here's what my time inside the classroom is going to look like:

Littérature:
Littérature du XIX-XXe siècle : Ecrire la ville
Littérature du XXe siècle : Ecrire la guerre

Histoire:
Histoire de Paris à travers ses monuments

Théâtre:
Genre et forme dramatique à l'épreuve de la scène

Art:
Atelier de dessin : modèle vivant et nature morte

So far I think my coup de coeur (favorite) is going to be Histoire de Paris because we take a field trip each week. We've been to the Basilique de Saint Denis, Sainte Chapelle, Notre Dame, the Chateau de Vincennes and the Musée Cluny so far. I'm also pretty psyched about taking art for the first time in about a decade!

Academically,
Maria

Spanish sunrise

2011-02-14T12:43:00.000-08:00

At a lonely crossing of worlds at dawn,

I watched two sisters with round stomachs and cheeks

playing in the waking light.

A blue-eyed father hugged them

and whispered laughing secrets

in their ears.

At once I saw

my past and future

rolled into one.

And I hoped for a blue-eyed man,

small armed hugs,

and tiny hands pressed against glass.

Maria

Guernica

2011-02-14T12:38:00.000-08:00

In Madrid, I spent a day just seeing art. I imagine I could have spent a week there seeing art and not have seen it all, like I could in Paris. The best seeing, in my opinion, is to be had at the Reina Sofia, which houses modern and contemporary art. Its most famous resident work of art is without a doubt Picasso’s Guernica.

Guernica is a piece of art with a big bad rep. I’m not a huge fan of Picasso and I don’t think seeing Guernica really changes that. However I cannot pretend that seeing it was not surprisingly emotional.

First of all, the painting packs a punch because it is enormous. Second of all, it gave me the chills. Maybe that was because I know its history, maybe not. When I looked at pictures of Guernica, I felt like the painting was committing violence against me, but in person, it was the painting and not me that was the victim: the world was covered in ash; color was dead, killed along with sunlight and gentle touches.

Perhaps what I’m about to say is silly, because after all Picasso does have a habit of abstracting reality so an abstract image is nothing new, but there’s half a woman engulfed in flames, reaching up in pain on the far right of the painting, and when I thought, “Where’s the rest of her body?” it almost made me cry.

I had to leave the museum after that and go sit in the sun.

A witness,

Maria

Spain Is Different

2011-02-14T12:28:00.000-08:00

10 Things I Hate (¡Love!) About Madrid

Tapas y churros y sangria
Painted-tile street signs
Retro decor
The painted façade in the Plaza Mayor
Beautiful Spanish men
Parque Retiro, the saxophone player in Parque Retiro
Long days
Tiny old Spanish women (“I know you’re three feet tall and a thousand years old, but please get out of my way.” my friend Don Burke on the subject)
“Vale"
Afternoons on sunny green lawns with friends and lazy Sundays

Encantada,

María

Mystery Men

2011-02-10T19:06:00.000-08:00

I went to see a play at the Théâtre de Chaillôt last night and, arriving early, went to sit on the terrace next to the theatre that looks over the Eiffel Tower. I ran across two enormous puppets that looked like they were made out of white bird's nests and illuminated with Christmas lights. Teams of German puppeteers were manipulating the enormous men - making them play leap frog, do Michael Jackson impersonations, and take forced perspective photos with the Eiffel Tower - for one of their crew members who was filming the whole thing. It was unexpected and fantastical and a little bit marvelous.

The play I saw was a one-man marionette show about a marionettiste.
My life is so meta,
Maria

L'Orangerie

2011-02-08T14:53:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite cures for the blues, or the grays, or even the angry reds is a trip to the Musée de l'Orangerie. It might be my favorite place in Paris, and by extension, the world. The museum holds lots of good art by artists that I like a lot, but the only reason I go is for the Nymphéas.

Monet's Nymphéas, or Waterlilies, live on the ground floor of the museum. Natural light filters down to them through the old greenhouse's glass roof. The eight paintings are hung in two ovular rooms that together make an infinity sign. Somehow the space itself becomes liquid and refreshing; it makes me want to be alone and quiet. It is beauty, distilled.

In front of my favorite panel.

Floating,
Maria

Find your light

2011-02-06T15:08:00.000-08:00

In the Middle Ages, light was considered a manifestation of God's presence on earth. So in churches, the meeting ground of God and man, God was present in the light that shone through the stained glass windows.

I've been thinking about the importance of light a lot lately. When it's absent in the winter in Paris, the whole city is gray, and I am gray too. But when the sky is blue and the sun is out, the whole world feels newly minted, as though every moment is a sort of dawn, with the reawakening of my spirit just on the horizon.

I don't care whether it's God or just weather; when the winter sun shines, my heart does not feel weary.
Maria

In Over Our Heads : Drowning in Tea

2011-02-03T13:38:00.000-08:00

We love tea rooms, Mom and I. She was in Paris for six days ; we went to five tea rooms for a pause gourmande. (This phrase might be translated as "gourmet snack" or even "indulgent snack.") Though we both like tea, it has to be said that we really know nothing about it. At a couple of these salons de thé we received booklets, which might as well have been written in Greek, of literally hundreds of choices in tea. We learned a little about it, but what we really learned about is those elusive hybrids, tea rooms, themselves. Here is a little guide to the ones we frequented:

Mariage frères*
Carrousel du Louvre (1er)
30, rue du Bourg-Tibourg (4e)
13, rue des Grands-Augustins (6e)
260 Faubourg Saint-Honoré (8e)
Mariage freres is famous for its tea. Even their simplest brews are delicious - Earl Gray, English Breakfast, bring it on! I had a Proustian-madeleine moment when I took a sip of Mom's Earl Gray. A French friend of mine brewed me a cup about two years ago, and I had never forgotten the taste. Tasting it again made me feel like I had found a lost friend. The gourmande part of this pause gourmande wasn't as good as the tea. If you need help choosing from the overwhelming list, the well groomed waiters, dressed in all white suits, are more than happy to lend a hand.

À Priori Thé
35 Galerie Vivienne (2e)
Ding ding ding! We have a winner for cleverest tea shop name! The phrase "a priori" is a cornerstone of the French intelligentsia's lingo; you can't make it through a week in university, or I would guess a week in many work places, without hearing it. (The phrase is exactly the same in English - thanks Latin!) The "Priori Thé" makes a homophone with "priorité," which means "priority." A little pricey, but incredibly delicious for lunch as well as a pause gourmande. Reservations are not a bad idea since this restaurant is cute as a button and about the same size as one.

L'heure Gourmande
22 Passage Dauphine (6e)
The drink of all chocolate drinks is the chocolat à l'ancienne. (I know, not a tea.) I think that solid chocolate is melted and poured into ambrosia to make it. It's thick as mud (almost) and as filling as dinner (almost). And it's great at L'heure Gourmande. Tucked away in the Passage Dauphine, this little shop sports an impressive collection of novelty tea pots including a head of lettuce, a cat in a dress, an elephant, an owl, a toad - basically the entire cast of Mother Goose. These are pleasingly at odds with the slightly Asian, buddha-centric decor of the rest of the salon.

Ladurée
21, rue Bonaparte (6e)
16, rue Royale (8e)
75, avenue des Champs Elysées (8e)
64, boulevard Haussmann (9e)
Ladurée is most famous for its macarons, but it also boasts nice little tea rooms. In the sixth arrondissement, the salon is done in light teal and 1920s chinoiserie. It is full of hidey-holes with low slung leather camp chairs and warm, low light. Mom was convinced that it was an established trysting ground. Go for the tea, stay for the people watching.

Foucher
134, rue du Bac (7e)
The smell of chocolate hits you the moment you open the door of Foucher, the chocolate store with a salon de thé. The family has been in the chocolate business for over 200 years, and boy have they figured it out. This was not my top pick in terms of ambiance, but it was far and away the winner in terms of the "gourmande" part of the pause gourmande. Mom and I had the cake of the day, a rich, airy chocolate situation, and it was pretty out of this world. Also a great place to shop for gifts made of chocolate.

Indulging,
Maria
* Asterisk denotes top choice, though it was a close race.

Lute-a-toot-toot!

2011-02-02T17:54:00.000-08:00

I think Terpsichore played the lyre, but my advice to would-be muses is to pick up the lute. I saw the most interesting lutenist, Jozef van Wissem, give a concert at Shakespeare and Co. this afternoon.

Jozef, a dutch man with longish un-brushed hair who hunches over his instrument as he plays, is a magician of sound and creation. He has done a lot of work with medieval lute compositions, playing them backward and rearranging them and creating entirely new pieces. His compositions have beautiful, evocative names like, "The Hearts of the Sons Are Returned to Their Fathers," "Dew Drops Fall Like Tears," and "Love is a Religion."

I was still sitting in the room, writing, as he was packing up after his session, and wanting to say something before he left, I accidentally and embarassingly effervesced all over him. I told him his music was iridescent. What word was I looking for? Even I cannot say, but what I kind of meant is that there is a colorfulness and translucence to his music. Or then perhaps the music made me think of those words, themselves - iridescent, translucent - and not of what they mean.

I cannot say that I have an informed appreciation for lute music, or even that I liked everything Jozef played. However, there were glimmering moments of great beauty that I couldn't help but feel in the secretly musical parts of my soul.

"The soul has arrived at understanding of her nothingness"

A disclaimer : I only call Mr. van Wissem "Jozef" because that is how he introduced himself to me. He also told me to follow my dreams!

Trying to follow that good advice,
Maria

Now That's What I Call "Movie Magic"

2011-01-30T16:12:00.000-08:00

La Pagode, one of the coolest movie theatres in Paris, was built in 1895 by the then owner of Bon Marché, M. Morin. M. Morin reconstructed this real pagoda in his back yard to reconquer his wife, who loved all things chinois. Unfortunately for M. Morin, his wife left him for his business partner the year la Pagode was completed. Fortunately for us, La Pagode was opened to the public as a movie theatre in the 1930s and is still in operation today.

Walking into la Pagode feels a little like going through the wardrobe. There is a beautiful, lush oriental garden outside with lion statues, winding little paths, and lights that throw leafy shadows against the abstractly mosaicked walls. They show lots of artsy films and foreign films in this red-carpeted, two room cinema. You can buy sparkling water and ice cream cones at concessions.

Unfortunately, the people watching was better than the movie I saw : a woman with bouffant hair, kitten heels, and a full length red coat; the ticket-tearer in a yellow print skirt, a purple turtle-neck, and a sparkly black cardigan; another woman wearing a coat with plum colored fur at the neck and wrists.

Bisous,
Maria

Litchi!

2011-01-28T08:43:00.000-08:00

My new favorite winter fruit is the litchi (usually spelled lychee in the U.S. of A., I believe). These pink bombs of fruity deliciousness, indigenous to China, are extremely popular in France.

They are pretty bizarre, as fruit goes. The "skin" of the fruit is a dusty-pink/brown hard shell that must be cracked and peeled in order to eat a litchi, kind of like a hard-boiled egg. The meat of the fruit is white, slightly translucent, and is approximately the consistency of a rare steak. There is a large, dark brown, shiny seed in the center of the fruit that looks like one of those fancy pebbles used for landscaping.

Since I've done such an abysmally unappetizing job of describing litchis so far, I won't attempt to describe their flavor beyond "sweet, with a little something unexpected." I like them well enough to have had a carton of them for lunch today, anyway.

Try them - they're de-litch-ous!
Maria

P.S. Russian doll photo sequence stolen from a "euro-caribbean blog."

How to Dress for the Cold Like a French Person

2011-01-26T12:32:00.000-08:00

Today I did not follow these steps. Instead I dressed for the cold like an idiot and almost froze, even though Paris really isn't that cold. The cold here has that damp, insidious quality that sinks into your bones...Heed my cautionary tale and follow these guidelines :

Neatly wrap and tie your scarf around the collar of your jacket.
Layer unexpected things, like tights with leggings.
Wear boots, heels encouraged. (re: ice : beauty is pain, pain sometimes caused by slipping)
Let your chunky knit scarves, sweaters, and fingerless gloves explode out of your coat, obscuring the bottom of your face if possible.
Find a sophisticated, unique, but not too quirky hat to pull low on your brow.
Do not let your cigarette catch aforementioned knits on fire. Not chic.

Warmly,
Maria

Frida + Diego

2011-01-24T10:55:00.001-08:00

On an afternoon foray out of the ultra-touristy Sultanahmet district, I saw a beautiful exhibit at the Pera Museum, not of Turkish art, but of the works of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.

I like Diego Rivera just fine - he had a real way with calla lilies - but, I kind of love Frida. Why? I love the honesty of her exploration of self, I love the mysticism of her art and her persona, I love that she was a woman who was a force of nature, I love her outfits and her unabashed portrayal of her traditionally unfeminine facial hair.

Portraits of Frida taken by Nicholas Murray, her longtime lover.

I'm already planning my Frida Kahlo costume for Halloween 2011. The Pera Cafe was also outstanding - all leather chairs, cerulean banquettes, and warm chadeliers, A+ hot chocolate, too.

Un Frido,
Maria

Turkish bathing

2011-01-24T10:55:00.000-08:00

Let me preface this by saying that I hope this story does not make me look like an ugly American. Chock my discomfort up to American prudishness or the experience getting lost in translation, but I just thought this was too hilariously ridiculous not to share:

My friend and I decided we'd like to try one of the famous Hammams of Istanbul. We asked our hotel for recommendations and decided on one that was "pretty authentic" and a "good deal." We quickly realized that "authentic" was not really what we were looking for. What we wanted was a Turkish twist on a Western spa. We got something a little different.

We selected the Bath and Massage option. We were given towel sized cloths and told to wear those into the bath. The bathroom was a large grey stone room with a high domed ceiling and three alcoves with benches and taps where we were instructed to rinse ourselves off. There was a sauna, a very thorough body scrub, and rub down portion to the experience, too. It all smelled a little like, well, I'm not sure - dankness? mold? sulphur?

What we didn't count on was the large quantity of nudity that would be involved. When we walked into the bath, we were confronted by several older Turkish women taking their actual baths. Kind of like their American counterpart, the old women in the YMCAs showers, these women were no beauty queens. As I was being hit in the stomach with a soapy pillow case by the naked Turkish woman who was attending to me, I couldn't quite believe what was happening.

My friend and I used the sauna as a place to engage in some highly middle school maniacal laughter. We couldn't help ourselves.

Cleaner,
Maria

The Istanbul Chronicles

2011-01-24T10:09:00.000-08:00

Istanbul is a strange combination of European and Middle Eastern. The city is twisty and windy and thrumming with life. Crowds were streaming into and out of the Grand Bazaar. The smell of fish is everywhere along the river, where there are restaurant boats, fish sandwich sellers, and chestnut roasters. Near the top of the Tünnel, there are bars with open-air-seating lining alleys, where live music is playing, pints are being had, and people-watching is top-drawer.

The weather was coolish and gloriously sunny - perfect for sight seeing. We stayed in a very touristy part of town, which had is advantages and drawbacks. It was a less-than-five-minute walk from the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sofia, which I left feeling wiser. The area is clean and strangely Western looking in odd ways. On the down side, a lot of Turkish men constantly and persistently tried to practice their English with us as they sold their wares.

Turkish food is wonderful. Tons of vegetables, lamb, apple tea - separately, of course. We could almost always see the water from the restaurants where we ate. Our hotel gave us incredible breakfasts every morning that included home-made yogurt and olives. Apparently, I am the honey to the standard-touristy-restaurant waiters' bees. I was once given a half bottle of wine. It was getting out of hand.

I proved, again, that I am my father's daughter. At the end of our beautiful boat tour of the Bosphorus, I had the nerve to say "Good thing we're back in the harbor. Thirty more minutes and I don't think I'd have made it." I then promptly tossed my cookies off the back of the boat. TMI? Sorry...

Here is a smattering of pictures:

Turkish delight-ed,
Maria

Diaghilev

2011-01-16T14:10:00.000-08:00

We went to the V&A (Victoria and Albert) to see an exhibit on Diaghilev, the creator of the famous Ballets Russes.

Basically the exhibit was excuse to show the most magnificent ballet costumes : hand-painted silks, futurist creations, diaphanous tutus, richly embroidered maharaja's suits, ikat togas and tiny shoes. They almost conjured the scenes of Léon Bakst, the music of Stravinsky, the skill of Najinsky.

Videos of a 1964 re-imagining of Les Biches the cocktail party scene from "The Graduate" turned musical dance number.

I fell in love with the drawings Jean Cocteau did of the dancers with their shadow-deep eyes and feathering hands.

Projectors played a performance of Firebird larger than life on the walls of one room; the outline of a ballerina danced against backgrounds of art and fire.

In the museum store, I found funkily-printed silk shirts that almost made me break my rule about not wearing clothes sold by museums.

My heart dances - does that count?
Maria

More Tate, Please

2011-01-16T07:41:00.000-08:00

I won't go on about the Tate again, though I could, but I just wanted to share this one thing that ignited my imagination during my last visit:

John Latham, Film Star 1960
Books burned around the edged that can be opened to differently colored pages. The day I was there is was opened to a neon yellow-chartreuse, making the books look like lightening bugs.

Chasing things that glow,
Maria

The play's the thing...

2011-01-14T02:10:00.000-08:00

I must say, it's nice to see plays in English. I just saw two incredible shows in London: Warhorse and Hamlet.

War Horse is the story of Joey, a horse who is raised in the English countryside to be a hunter by a boy who loves him. The boy's father sells him to the cavalry, so Joey goes to France to fight in the first World War. The boy goes to war to try to find his horse, and the story follows the two friends. It is woven together by a traveling bard, whose songs narrate the feeling of the piece rather than the plot of it.

The moment the colt appeared onstage I knew I was going to cry. It cantered around the stage on wobbly legs as a song of creation knit together string and air and imagination, turning them into horse flesh. The magic of the horse puppets was in the twitch of the ears, the flex of the hooves, and the multi-layered sounds of its breathing and whinnying. These puppets were operated by three puppetmasters each and were so strong that they carried the actors as riders.

Other beautiful puppets were an incorrigible goose, some sweetly chirping birds, and three carrion crows on the battlefield.

With one or perhaps two exceptions, I've studied Hamlet more than any other Shakespeare play. I've read it, listened to it, studied it, done scenes from it, workshopped scenes from it in classes, seen several movie adaptations of it; however, until last week I had never sat in a theatre and watched it. Fortunately this Hamlet, set in a modern state where every move was surveyed by secret service, was the kind one dreams about - rich, high stakes, every moment creating itself for the first time.

Rory Kinnear is an all-star. His Hamlet is smart as a whip, funny, real. Watching him, I forgot I was at a play. Hamlet was entirely his own, modern and timeless.

Listening to James Laurenson play the Ghost and Player King was a masters class in acting. He handles the language of Shakespeare with such facility that for all I know, he may talk like that all the time. He takes his time and speaks to the end of the line so that the language was as easy to understand as a grocery list though it lost none of its beauty.

David Calder's Polonius was pitch-perfect : obsequious, long-winded, clueless, infinitely mockable and misguided, and ultimately pitiable.

Ruth Negga created a lovely but real Ophelia, one of the hardest women to play in Shakespeare. Her death was played as a politically motivated murder instead of a suicide - cool, right?

In truth, it ran out of steam at the end, but we can't have it all. Saw Simon Callow leaving the National theatre!

"All the world's a stage..." - oh wait, wrong play!
Maria

We're Not Having Any Fun

2011-01-08T07:12:00.000-08:00

Just kidding! You didn't believe that did you? We're having a blast!

My mother (the ravishing creature above) is visiting me for a little bit. We just spent a couple of days seeing art and theatre in London. Now we're taking Paris by storm!

Cackling through Europe,
Maria

Homegoing and Homecoming

2011-01-02T09:47:00.000-08:00

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.
-Roland Barthes

I return to France this afternoon after a two-week holiday in Houston, leaving one home and returning to another. More posts on my life à la français to come!

A toute à l'heure!

Maria

Head of State

2010-12-16T12:34:00.000-08:00

Eureka! They've found it...

...the head of the Good King Henri!

Henri de Navarre is famous for bringing a period of great prosperity and peace to France. Originally a Protestant, he famously said, "Paris vaut bien une messe!" (Paris is worth a mass) when he converted to take the thrown. His Edict of Nantes granted religious freedom and saved the country from self-destruction. He also is famous for promising his people they would have the means to have a chicken in their pots each Sunday.

Dr. Philippe Charlier and twenty of his scientist buddies have verified that the skull belongs to him because of the following characteristics:

A small dark spot under his right nostril
Evidence that his right ear was pierced, which was the fashion in the Valois court
A lesion indicated a slash above his lip that he sustained in an assassination attempt

How, you may ask, did the head part company with the body? Well, Henri IV was buried with the other kings of France after he was assassinated by a religious fanatic in 1610. Then the French Revolution hit; things got crazy. Some people who were rather less than happy with the system of monarchy broke into all the tombs of the king of France, dragged out their moldering remains and burned them in the Commune. Henri's head got cut off and kept while his body got tossed. So since, 1793(ish) the head's just been bopping around, passing from one antique collection to the next.

Isn't that deliciously bizarre, gruesomely awesome? Where can I buy a skull?!

"Alas, poor [Henri]! I knew him, Horratio"
Maria

P.S. Here is the article about the discovery in Le Monde, if you want to practice your Franch.

That Time of Year

2010-12-12T11:00:00.000-08:00

"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."

Mark Twain

I generally try to follow the example of Mark Twain, but unfortunately my schooling has to take the front seat for a bit. I may not post much this week, but I'm still alive. Finals period is as un-fun in French as it is in English. Who'd have thunk it?

Gros bisous,
Maria

La Comédie-Française

2010-12-12T09:27:00.000-08:00

Title: La Comédie-Française, aka Le Théâtre-Français or La maison de Molière
Location : Place Colette, Paris 1^er
Theatres : La Salle Richelieu, le Vieux-Colombier, le Studio-Théâtre
Motto : Simul et singulis

The Comédie-Française is the national theatre of France. It plays the "repertoire," that is to say all the French classics. The goal is to keep alive France's rich theatrical heritage and to bring it to the French people.

The main theatre, the Salle Richelieu, is an enormous, beautiful salle a l'italienne that has been located in the Palais-Royal since 1799. There is a lot of gold and red velvet involved ; according to a teacher who worked at the comedie-francaise, the chandelier is practically a historical landmark in and of itself.

I'm always in the nose-bleed section...

Sometimes called "La maison de Moliere," this theatre was where the great French playwright played before aristocrats and royalty. He died there, too, during a not so imaginary turn in "La Malade imaginaire." The green chair in which he died is displayed at la Comedie. The color green, considered a harbinger of bad luck, is now rarely used on French stages.

La Comedie-Francaise is made up of sociétaires and pensionaires, all of whom are technically government officials. It is run by an administrateur général who is elected by his or her peers ; the sociétaires also vote to determine who moves into the company, who stays, and who get kicked out. All the actors must come from the Conservatoire national supérieur d'art dramatique, which takes about thirty pupils per year. They are the best of the best, and watching them is a class in acting unto itself :

Les femmes savantes

Andromaque

La grande magie

Standing in line for 5€ last minute tickets,

Maria

P.S. Stole all these pictures. Thanks internet!

Happy Hanukkah!

2010-12-08T10:37:00.000-08:00

You may or may not know this about me, but in a previous life I was Jewish. So last night I celebrated the Festival of Lights by meandering over to the Marais (the Jewish quarter/gayborhood of Paris) to poke around a little.

I went to Chez Marianne for sweets - they have the whole schmeer. All of the bakeries in the Marais are mushuggah good. I don't think what I got was actually Jewish, but it's the thought that count's right?

Chez Marianne

Is baklava Jewish? Maybe a little? 'Cause that's what I had. I also got dattes fourrés à la pâte d'amande. I don't know how to translate that other than "Almond-Date Cookies," but they are scrumptious. They're Moroccan pastries that come in rose and pistachio flavor, and I can eat about one before I've reached my sugar quota for the week.

The French spell it "Hanoucca" - weird right?
Maria

P.S. Paris is a blizzard.

A Table Chez Isabelle

2010-12-06T17:07:00.000-08:00

My host mother often tells me, always in a slow voice, "Tonight I'm making something that is traditionally French. I don't know if you'll like it..." I tell her every time that I will like it and I always do.

Les choses qu'on mange qui sont typiquement françaises :

Le Hachis Parmentier - ground beef and mashed potatoes, kind of like shepherd's pie
Le Cassoulet - white beans and sausage
Le Pain Perdu - "French toast!"
Le Croque Monsieur - a sandwich invented in Paris: ham and cheese topped with sauce ; if it's a cheval, or topped with an egg, it's a croque madame
La Blanquette de Veau - veal in a white sauce with vegetables
La Racquelette - from the mountains, a dish where you melt cheese to eat with charcuterie and potatoes

In France, lots of people eat yogurt or yogurt's delicious cousin "fromage blanc" after dinner as dessert.

Bon appétit!
Maria

Un Froid de Canard

2010-12-04T06:05:00.000-08:00

Paris is the coldest place on earth. Okay, probably not, but this week, it's felt like it. The temperature has been hovering around 0° C and it's been snowing quite a bit.

When I woke up this morning, it was sticking to the ground, which doesn't happen very much. Here are some pictures of the Parc de Passy in the 16th arrondissement:

Il fait un froid de canard is an expression that means "It's damn cold." I don't know what that has to do with ducks, but I rather like the saying.

Almost a popsicle,
Maria

A first time for everything

2010-12-02T16:21:00.000-08:00

As a rule, I don't give money to beggars, street performers, or métro musicians. You may find I'm unfeeling, ungenerous, tight-fisted, an enemy of the arts - call me what you will (I call myself "broke"), but it's just something I don't do.

However, last night I broke my rule. When I got on the line 4, a man used the two poles that stand in the open part of the car to hang a black backdrop that had two green cactus-cutouts and a yellow moon sewn to it. Then the music started (Pat Boone's Speedy Gonzales) and Speedy himself appeared in puppet form, complete with poncho, sombrero, and guitar, to "sing" to us.

All of the riders were surprised but amused. One girl pulled out her camera to film the show. We all made tickled eye contact with each other. I had a front row seat and got special attention. The most remarkable part of the performance was this : I laughed! Normally the métro performers makes me want to change cars or crawl into a hole and die.

Anyway, j'ai craqué (I gave in) and gave Speedy a euro. I figured a good unexpected giggle was worth that, at least.

Getting off at Vaugirard,
Maria

Throwbacks

2010-11-30T10:54:00.000-08:00

The French have some great old music (and some good new music too). Here is a small sampling of classics:

Minor Swing, Django Reinhardt

La Javanaise, Serge Gainsbourg

Le Plat Pays, Jacques Brel

Padam Padam, Edith Piaf

Les Champs-Élysées, par Joe Dessin

The French are still connected to the songs and artists of bygone days. For example, I danced to Les Champs-Élysées a party just this weekend.

Mellifluously,
Maria

I fell from the moon!

2010-11-28T15:50:00.000-08:00

My favorite play of the semester so far was "Cyrano de Bergerac" at the Théâtre de la Tempête. I made the trek out to the Bois de Vincennes, où se trouve le théâtre, earlier this week.

I fell under its spell; I almost couldn't tell you what I liked about it or if the play really lasted three hours, as my watch seemed to tell me. The production hit many good notes. The lighting recreated a silvery night like a poem might, the creations of the pâtissier, Ragueneau, looked like they could have dressed the set of Marie Antoinette, for the final Act, the stage was covered in rose petals. The troupe reminded me of a Greek chorus, speaking and percussing in unison, moving around each other like dancers. The Cyrano was arrogant, noble, vulnerable, explosive, tender, romantic, heart-wrenching - a poet-magician who had the power to light up the moon.

"I fell from the moon!" says Cyrano to the Conte de Guiche...

CYRANO (beaming with joy):
I have shot back to Paris!
(Quite at ease, laughing, dusting himself, bowing):
Come--pardon me--by the last water-spout,
Covered with ether,--accident of travel!
My eyes still full of star-dust, and my spurs
Encumbered by the planets' filaments!
(Picking something off his sleeve):
Ha! on my doublet?--ah, a comet's hair!. . .
(He puffs as if to blow it away.)

My theatre teacher explained to us that the French view Cyrano as a national symbol : at once grotesque in his timidity and sublime in his sacrifice.

Maybe I fell from the moon too,
Maria

American in Paris

2010-11-26T14:52:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving, the most (and only) North American holiday, made me think about being an American. As an American in Paris, I'm certainly not alone. English is everywhere and American pop-culture has a definite presence here, too.

Here are some of my favorite Parisian transplants from the other side of the Atlantic:

Breakfast In America
B.I.A., as it's called, smells like the significant part of my childhood that I spent in Avalon Diner. Milkshake of the week a while ago: The Obama - vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce, peanut butter.

Thanksgiving
The name of the store that sells a cornucopia of American grocery products. Aunt Jemima, Pace, and JIF live here. Go only when desperate ; I had to promise my first born son to pay for my instant oatmeal.

Tea and Tattered Pages
In the anglophone bookstore scene of Paris, if Shakespeare and Company is the twenty-something hipster who wrote a senior thesis on "The Lady of Shallot" at a small liberal art college then Tea and Tattered Pages is the grandmother who had a quietly fascinating life of writing opera and seducing world leaders to shape modern politics before you knew her and who has kept every book she and her children ever read. Go for used books, cinnamon toast, or to pet the big tabby cat who lives there.

Bagels and Brownies
Inventive sandwiches on bagels, which are thin on the ground in Paris. Every sandwich has an American city for its name. I'm partial to the Detroit (pronounced deh-twah) : smoked turkey, cream cheese, and cucumber.

Cinéma le Grand Action
A movie theater in the Latin Quarter that often shows old American movies. Favorite field trip to date : "Roman Holiday" on the big screen. Basically, it was a dream come true.

Looking over this list, I realize that 3/5 have to do with food. Hmmm...

Expat love,
Maria

Faux Amis

2010-11-24T12:56:00.000-08:00

From my recent posts, you make think that I no longer live in France. Just to prove I still do, here are some French tricks:

assister à - to attend

actuellement - currently; les actualities are the news

un collège - middle school; I have to stop myself from using that incorrectly a lot

ignorer - to not know; to be ignorant of something

un préservatif - a condom (that was a surprise!)

une librarie - a book store

la déception - disappointment (close but different)

normalement - can mean "normally," but can also mean "theoretically"

*E.G. My host mom wasn't sure she was going to be able to travel one weekend

because of threats of a strike, so she said, "Normalement, je prends l'avion de

11h15."

Nice try, faux amis, but I've outsmarted you! Better luck next time!

Your vraie amie,

Maria

Damn it feels good to be a Medici

2010-11-23T15:32:00.000-08:00

The Medici family lost power almost three hundred years ago, but from all I heard about them this weekend, you'd think they're still the Corleones of Florence.

The Palazzo Pitti? Sumptuous because of the Medici.

The best, and only, "delux" cell in the monastery of San Marco? Belonged to a Medici.

The collection of the museum of classical instruments at the Accademia? All made for a Medici.

The gelato flavor recommended to me by the girl working at the gelateria? Crema de' Medici.

I think it would sound pretty good with my name...
Maria (de' Medici)

P.S. Just in case you missed it (Dad), the title of this blog refers to this. Homegrown gangsta rap - what up H-town?

David

2010-11-23T05:24:00.000-08:00

I try not to get too worked up over famous works of art. Ever since I saw the Mona Lisa and thought, "That's it?" I try not to believe the hype. Michelangelo's "David", however, delivers.

In life, I am one of those people who says, "Perfection? That's boring!" But when I saw the David, I knew that I was wrong: David is perfect, and he didn't bore me at all. He looks alive, like his skin would be soft if I touched it and like if I did touch his face, his cloudy expression would smooth. His feet were a little big for him, as if he was still growing, and so were his hands, which have veins that wrap up into his forearms.

Taking pictures of David is strictly verboten. One man took pictures of people as they looked at the statue instead. I thought about buying a post card of him, but then I realized that the well-lit pictures took away my favorite part of him - the shadows. It's the shadows that show the muscles of his back banding around to his chest and abdomen, the indentation where swaying hip meets extended leg, where chin tucks in and becomes mouth.

Don't worry - I'm not harboring any Pygmalion-themed fantasies. I just wasn't expecting the David, or any statue, to look so beautifully real. He's too tall for me anyway...

Baci,
Maria

Il Duomo

2010-11-22T04:01:00.000-08:00

The walk to the top of the Duomo is not easy. Neither is paying the 8€ entry fee. In fact, when I arrived at the halfway point, where you walk around the inside of the Dumo right up close to the Divine Comedy of a ceiling depicting sweet little baby Jesus, other holy people, and some pretty freaky hell-dwellers (the Italians, it appears, do not shy away from depicting human disembowelment, even in churches), I said to myself, "That's cool, but I could have seen it from the ground floor." What I could not have seen from the bottom of the church was the view that followed.

From the top of the Duomo, Florence looks like a medieval painting. I actually sighed when I saw it. The clouds were parting and the butter cream and brick red patchwork quilt of Florence glowed in the intermittent sunlight. The sky was the refreshed blue of a bird's first song after hatching its shell. The hills were still veiled in fog and cloud; to the South, I could see buildings in the hills and the individually spiking cypress trees through the haze.

There are so, so many important Italian artists, and now I know why: Italy is art and Italy makes us all artists.

Ché vista!
Maria

Florence/Firenze

2010-11-22T04:00:00.000-08:00

Dawn had just broken as I lost my way from the train station to my hostel. Enormous billowing cumulonimbus clouds were lit a light satiny gold against a sky pink and blue with sunrise. In some places, an unhealthy gray-yellow interrupted the blue making it look like it was going to rain. It did rain, in fact. When it rains in Paris, everything is gray - the sky, the buildings, the people even. The rain makes Florence more vivid, the yellowing walls and red roofs gleaming.

Florence was divino. I can't wait to go back to Italy!

Photo record of my trip:

Porto Vecchio

Banks of the Arno

Boboli Gardens

Palazzo Pitti

Firenze!

Santa Croce

Oh haaay, Dante!

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Il Duomo


Baptistry doors

And I got to see an old, dear friend, too!

Amore amore amore!
Maria

Symbolism

2010-11-19T08:08:00.000-08:00

I was in London over Armistice Day, when they celebrate their veterans. About between two thirds and three fourths of the people over there were wearing plastic poppies on their coats as a symbol of remembrance and gratitude.

Trafalger Square

Outside Westminster Abbey

Votre petit coquelicot.

Maria

The Tate

2010-11-16T18:37:00.000-08:00

The Tate Modern might be the coolest museum I've ever been to - it's definitely top five, anyway. You can take interactive coloring books and games throughout the exhibits; you can write the Tate a postcard, a selection of which are displayed on the permanent collection floor; if you read the notes on the sides of the escalators, you will learn interesting facts about modern art such as : Piet Mondrian, in addition to not using green in his art, refused to wear the color or to allow it in his work space.

Two favorites.

I got there close to closing time, so I only had time to see one exhibit called "Poetry and Dream." It was interestingly displayed and an interesting framework to give to a lot of famous, well-known pieces, or at least pieces by well known artists like Matisse, Picasso, and Bacon.

My favorite discovery at the Tate was Julião Sarmento, a Brazilian who works with "themes of memory, sexuality, transgression, morality and duality." An especially cool series was the illustration, through drawings, photographs and words, of a sentence from a love letter from James Joyce to his wife : "there is also a wild beast-like craving for every inch of your body, for every secret and shameful part of it, for every odour and act of it." Oh là là!

Julião Sarmento, Dublin-Trieste 2 December 1909

Ecs-tate-ic about art,
Maria

London Calling

2010-11-16T18:31:00.000-08:00

I was in London this weekend, and I have to say that I'm a little in love with it. Here are some reasons why:

London style. It's way funkier than Parisian chic. Wear anything, literally anything you want in London. Bright colors, crazy make-up, wildly died hair - anything goes. For example, in Portobello Road I saw a guy wearing a red military style jacket, royal blue corduroys tucked into beat up brown boots and a short black top hat with a butterfly pin on it. Completely normal, if unique, in London, almost non-existent in Paris.

Good traditional English food. Mediocre to bad English food is everywhere, however I splurged on a deliciously satisfying traditional shepherd's pie and sticky toffee pudding at the Portobello Organic Kitchen.

Pints!

Markets in London have lots more pipes, canes, old rugby balls and, surprisingly, Italian masquerade masks than the markets in Paris.

Street performers in Covent Garden singing opera, walking tightropes, juggling knives, doing the cancan while playing classical music, escaping from straight jackets, and having the chutzpah to wear orange Doc Martens.

With my new best friends at the Tower of London

English politeness. I've never encountered anything like it. It put me in a wonderful mood. Also, English teasing. I had to ask a lot of people for help and directions (note to self: buy a map next time) and was often met with good-natured leg-pulling.

Harrod's : one of the more magical places in the world. Turkish delight, instant snow, shoes!

Westminster Abbey Choir. I went to Westminster for evensong with a friend. The choir is made up of the boys in the Westminster Abbey Choir School and some adults, though I don't know who they were. Evensong may be a prayer service, but the real religious experience was listening to the choir. The divinity of their voices made my soul swell, calling to mind everything in my life that makes me feel raw or guilty and lifting up all of those misdeeds and flaws to be judged by the purity of their song.

Rugby rivals sporting their colors (or colours) and chatting amicably on the Tube.

The next time I study abroad, I think I'll go to London,
Maria

English Place Names

2010-11-14T16:19:00.000-08:00

I'm about to wrap up my first visit to England. I absolutely cannot get OVER the whimsical oddities that pass for real names here in London!

Some favorites:

Swiss Cottage (the neighborhood where my hostel is located)
Frognal Lane
Parsifal Road
Elephant and Castle
St. Pancras (my new favorite train station)
Ickenham
Tottenham Court Road
Jubilee
Piccadilly Circus (Circus?! Really?!)
Crutched Friars
Totteridge & Whetstone
Goodge Street
Tooting Bec
Wapping
Petty France (tell us how you really feel, England)
Ave Maria Lane
Allsaints Spitalfields (a store in Portabello Road)

Charmed,
Maria

It's raining, it's pouring...

2010-11-10T12:11:00.000-08:00

It's been raining here for the past five days and it will probably rain for another five days. This is what I thought Paris in the Fall would be like. Standing on a street corner right now smells like wet pavement, cigarettes, moving cars and rain.

Henri Cartier-Bresson

As e.e. cummings said, "the world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful."

Singing (on the inside) in the rain,

Maria

Marchés aux Puces

2010-11-10T12:06:00.000-08:00

In my last documentary cinema class, I learned a new word : chiffonier. After class I learned its scrumptuous English translation "rag and bone man." A rag and bone man is a scavenger that finds cast-off things, remakes them and sells them second hand.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, the chiffoniers sold their goods all around the outskirts of Paris. These markets around the périphérique have been reincarnated into the marchés aux puces or flea markets of today.

I've been to the markets at Porte de Vanves and St. Ouen (which is nearly impossible for me to pronounce correctly - my host family told me to give up on it...) and they are overstimulating and overwhelming, at times delightfully magical and at others a little shabby, dirty sometimes.

At Porte de Vanves I tried on hats with friends, dug through trays of trinkets and jewels, talked myself out of buying a handsome leather overnight bag for no less than 100€, according to the vendor, and flipping through hilariously unconventional comic books.

At les puces de St. Ouen, I found a part of the market that is in permanent buildings, every store a cubby-like stall in the winding narrow corridors of the labyrinthine structure. There was a store full of only Burberry raincoats; one with a button store that had miniature stuffed vegetables; several outstanding vintage places, including one where the sellers were wearing various fantastical get-ups, filled with fur coats and incredible dresses; a place where I had my choice from an array of vintage dental instruments; a tempting place with shelves and shelves of leather bound books; and more than I have the power to recall or describe.

Baubles and trifles and tchotchkes, oh my!
Maria

Un billet doux pour le Général Beuret

2010-11-08T16:12:00.000-08:00

I live across the street from a groovy little bar/bistro called Général Beuret. It appears that there's no real story behind Beuret, however it is a clever homophone of "beurré," which I believed can be translated to the colloquialism "plastered."

Général Beuret is a total neighborhood hangout. From my window I can see the enormous blackboard where they write the day's specials and I can spy on the diners and drinkers. There are always tons of people of all ages and sorts there. It's friendly, relaxed, and (gracias a Dios) reasonably priced. The staff always ask what you're having three or four times, but I like 'em, so that's alright.

The General has nourished my body and need for people-watching for some weeks now, so it's time to give a little back with a haiku:

thanks for that one time

when I got beer and fries

they changed my life

So local,

Maria

It's official!

2010-11-04T15:10:00.000-07:00

It is only today, November 4, 2010, my 70th day here, that I am fully a legal resident of France. Sometime the efficiency of French bureaucracy is astonishing.

Before I came to France, I got a visa. When I arrived, I sent in my housing information and visa to the OFII (Office Français de l'Imigration et l'Intigration) office. Today I had a doctor's appointment to be cleared healthwise and got my OFII sticker.

That's it?

Traveling outside of the Schengen area (most of Europe) before receiving the OFII thing in not advised, because you can be deported. England is especially inflexible about it, apparently. Good thing everything went well in Jordan!


Me: Am I supposed to keep this? OFII Woman: Yes, that's for you.

During my less than short wait at the OFII office, some friends and I revisited the wise words printed at the top of the pages in American passports. I leave you with a favorite...

"We send thanks to all the Animal life in the world. They have many things to teach us as people. We are glad they are still here and we hope it will always be so."
Excerpt from Thanksgiving Address, Mowhawk version

MDR*,
Maria

*Morte de rire (≈lol)

Les Petits Mouchoirs

2010-11-02T05:21:00.000-07:00

I went to go see Les Petits Mouchoirs, the new film from Guillaume Canet, last week. It's a story about a group of friends that goes on vacation together and all the complexities of their relationships. The French title literally translates to "The Little Handkerchiefs," but the English title is "Little White Lies." Isn't that an interesting gulf between languages? And what are white lies but bits of insubstantiality we use to cover things up?

The film is excellently played and directed. It's also beautiful. If it's out in the U.S. I recommend going to see it. It is long, but it's worth it.

All of the actors are friends of Canet's. Some of the people in the movie are not actors by profession, but rather are people out of Canet's life. One of these people is Maxim Nucci, the singer of group Yodelice (with whom Marion Cotillard, Canet's partner and actress in the film, sometimes performs). He sings this song in the film, and I haven't been able to get it off my mind.

Hope you're talking to the people in your life,
Maria

Salon du Chocolat

2010-10-31T16:47:00.000-07:00

This weekend I went to the one and only Salon du Chocolat, which is the biggest chocolate festival IN THE WORLD. As my mother would say, I was in hog heaven!

Basically the ticket to the salon just got us in, but fortunately almost everywhere gave free samples. There were all kinds of chocolate products and some non-chocolate ones too.

Chocolate hedgehogs, obviously

Things I loved included*:

Lime infused chocolate from Cacao Sampaka
Chestnuts - they were candied or something
Anything filled with salted-butter caramel
Bailey's and dessert wines (not together)
Mesoamerican themed chocolate scultpures
Truffles, every single truffle
A fig and chocolate spread to accompany foie gras (!)
Chocolates filled with melon au porto flavored cream

Coup de Coeur

There was chocolate fashion. (What does that mean? I don't know.)

There were also performances, talks and demonstrations. We, for example, saw a great time of a Brazilian dance exposition hosted by a flamboyant, be-sequined gentleman named Roberto.

A chocoholic,
Maria

*In fact, I loved everything except cacao beans. It was pretty disappointing - like trying to drink vanilla extract.

Unexpected Destinations

2010-10-29T04:17:00.000-07:00

Before I left for Jordan, I posted a quotation about journeys having destinations of which even the traveler is unaware.

I realized that this was true of my trip to Jordan:

I have never been further from what is familiar to me than I was in Jordan, but being with my friends from Georgetown made me feel more at home than I have since I left America.

Maybe they’re my home. Maybe home is the part of myself that I find again with them.

A little nostalgic,

Maria

The Lowest Point on Earth

2010-10-28T13:57:00.000-07:00

The road to the Dead Sea is winding and hilly; sometimes the road opens up onto sweeping vistas of dusty brown hills carved with folds and creases. There was something very Biblical about that drive.

I ended up taking a taxi round-trip because organized transportation in Jordan, while existent, isn’t really that organized. My cab driver was very nice to me – he bought me a Pepsi on the way there and a snack on the way back and talked with me almost the entire way there, even though my Arabic is only so-so.

I’ll pass along the helpful tips one of my friends gave me for doing the Dead Sea right.

Nick’s Guide to البحر الميت (Al-Bahr Al-Mayyit) :

Do not try to swim normally. It will not work. Keep your feet under you.
Do not go underwater or get water in your eyes.
Don’t try to swim to the other side. You’d end up on the West Bank.
Do cover yourself in mud. It’s part of the experience.

The water is blue green in the shallows and turns turquoise once the bottom drops away. The water is completely clear. As you walk out, you will see pockets of white salt on the floor of the sea, following the ridges of the sand.

Between years of swim team practice in the pool and hours of reading in the bathtub, I’ve spent a lot of time in the water, and I know what it feels like. That sounds silly, doesn’t it? It’s not silly if you’ve been in the Dead Sea, though, because the water feels like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

The salt in the water almost makes it feel slimy or alive, as though when you touch the water, it touches you back. As I swam through the shallows, the sun hit the salt that was curling through the water and cast its shadow against my skin like swirling smoke. As I swam further out, it was as though I was still standing on the seafloor, and I floated without any effort at all. It was such a bizarre feeling that I couldn’t help laughing for my first four or so minutes in the water.

I did happen to get a drop of water in my eye. For a hot second, I thought I was probably going to need a patch or a monocle. Fortunately, I blinked it out. Out of curiosity, I also gave my finger a little lick to taste the salt. Horrible idea.

Pickled,

Maria

I say "tomato," You say "bindoora" (بندورة)

2010-10-28T02:57:00.000-07:00

Cultural Differences and Surprising Tidbits about Jordan:

If a truck is driving slowly through the neighborhood and playing infernally annoying music, in the United States it’s the ice-cream truck, but in Amman it’s the gas truck.

In Jordan, toilet paper is not flushed. That was a surprise.

I’m going to make a generalization and say that most of the women in Amman were wearing some form of the veil. There are lots of different ways to wear it. Some girls wore heels, a cute but highly modest outfit, and a colorful scarf over an ENORMOUS pile of hair. (It could not have all been real. Is there a Middle Eastern Bump-It?) At the University of Jordan a lot of girls sported this full-length trench coat dress type thing over their other clothes in addition to a hijab. Other women wore the niqab, either not covering or covering their eyes and sometimes with gloves and stockings so they were completely covered.

The call to prayer is broadcast over loudspeakers from every mosque in the city five times a day. Each mosque’s call is different from the others. I’m a pretty deep sleeper, but after the call to prayer on my first morning I was fully awake.

There are police everywhere in Amman. Some wear the old-fashioned helmets with little spikes on top and yellow and black striped vests. They look like bees.

I look like an Arab. This is widely confirmed by 1) people speaking to me in Arabic, 2) people giving me confused looks and asking where I’m from after hearing me speak Arabic, 3) a gentleman in a car asking me for directions as I walked through the neighborhood, 4) Arabs telling me I really do look like an Arab when they find out I am, in fact, not.

One of my good guy friends is with a host-family in Amman. When he mentioned I was coming a few weeks ago, they said he should bring me to dinner. My girl friend told me not to get my hopes up about it really happening because the family would probably be uncomfortable hosting me for dinner since I’m a non-relative female and not engaged to my guy friend. She was right – the invitation was not renewed.

No one in Amman knows street names. When you get in a taxi, you give the driver a general area or landmark and direct him from there.

According to my girl friend, sometimes simple monetary exchanges, like in a cab or in the grocery store, can be awkward because there is still so much tension around physical contact between men and women.

Amman

A stranger in a strange land,

Maria

A Wonder of the World

2010-10-28T00:09:00.000-07:00

Gillian, Nick and I went to Petra on my first day in Jordan. The entire city is carved out of these gorgeous cliffs that are burnt-orange ribboned with red and rose. The structures, which date back to the 6th century B.C., look born rather than built, as if some accident of nature shaped columns and carved out caves.

Petra is Jordan's most visited tourist attraction, which means that it is covered with Bedouins selling jewelry, drinks, and rides on camels/donkeys and tourists from all over the world. It feels like a strange combination of theme park and pilgrimage site.

A really cool thing about Petra is that very little is closed off. You have almost complete liberty to explore the ruins and caves. Someone official looking did motion for us to get down from a kind of high cliff we climbed, but that only happened once

The bookends of Petra are the remarkably beautiful buildings of the Treasury and the Monastery. The climb up to the Monastery was my cardio for the trip, but man was it worth it. We saw a view called "The End of the World," and looking out over the mountains I almost felt like I was at the edge of the Earth.

Why would they call it "Petra" when the "p" sound doesn't exist in Arabic?
Maria

A thousand words are worth a picture

2010-10-25T07:39:00.000-07:00

I felt like I was looking at the world through the lens of Yann Arthus-Bertrand as I traveled to the Middle East. Since I didn't take pictures, here's a verbal account of what I saw.

The Pyrenees: capped with snow and dotted with lakes whose coldness I could almost taste, even from 40,000 feet. Greek isles, Cyprus, my first look at the Mediterranean. I've never seen water so blue, like lapis lazuli made liquid. The coast of Lebanon appeared suddenly.

To me, Beirut looked like the Hollywood of the Middle East, couched in green hills. Maybe it's because my friend told me it was the best place she's visited in her life; maybe it's because I've never been to Hollywood. The city looked both ancient and post-apocalyptic, the ecru buildings exploding in a geometric design, like a blossoming gemstone.

Amman. In the desert now. Flat sand and spindly trees. The sun set as we landed in a glow of pink in the hazy dust-filled sky which made it impossible to know the exact moment the sun disappeared. The moon was already in the sky, a pale shadow of what it was about to become. As the night darkened, the sky turned navy and the full moon let off so much moonshine that the sky turned almost green around it, an unearthly halo. In the distance, bright orange glows nestled against the horizon like the blazes of an enormous fire: street lights lining the highway.

I listened to music on the flight into Amman, but I realized that I don't have the soundtrack for this place, just as I do not have the vocabulary to capture everything I see.

A desert rose for now,
Maria

Vacances de Toussaint

2010-10-21T16:48:00.000-07:00

“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.”

Martin Buber

I leave for Jordan in the morning. I may not write until I'm back.

Off to find new eyes,

Maria

Faisons la grève!

2010-10-21T16:25:00.000-07:00

Here it is, the post you've all been waiting for: Strikes, French-style.

If you've been reading the news lately, you may have noticed a few little articles on the strikes going on in France. The government is upping the retirement age from 60 to 62. The news, especially the American press, makes it seem like it is practically impossible to step out of your door without running into a mob of angry French people.

However, while it's hard to miss the demonstrations entirely, they don't necessarily play a big role in your day : sometimes the metro runs only one out of two trains; once in a while you run into marches of your fellow students or what have you; you will regularly read signs posted around your school emblazoned with messages like "Even your grandma is going on strike"; one time, you may find yourself surrounded by music-making chanters in the metro; your teacher may be forty-five minutes late to class, or, if you're really (un)lucky, you may not have class at all.

In addition to being avoidable to a certain degree, I have been gently commanded to steer clear of the strikes. As a representative of Good Old Georgetown, I'm not really allowed to be involved in all the hoopla, as evidenced by the following excerpt from an email from the Office of International Programs:

"While these are typically peaceful, the events of the past few days have shown that violence may erupt unexpectedly. It is for this reason that the Georgetown Conditions of Participation prohibit active participation in any political activities while you are abroad. We can appreciate that you may want to experience this unique element of French culture firsthand, but when emotions run high, there is strong a possibility that some people (protesters and police alike) may get out of hand. So, please limit any involvement to passive observation from afar."

Passively observing from afar. That face is all bravado.

That's okay though. The French got it under control; they don't need my help. Whatever you think of the wisdom or lack thereof of this strike, you've got to admire the French ability to organize and mobilize.

Damn the Man,

Maria

La Grande Mosquée de Paris

2010-10-19T15:21:00.000-07:00

La Grande Mosquée de Paris is the biggest mosque in France. It was also the first mosque built in France (1922-1926, to commemorate the French Muslims who died in WWI). It contains a prayer-room, a school, a library, a bathhouse, a tea room and a restaurant. It is also about two blocks from la fac (the university).

Today I went for lunch with a friend, and we felt like we had stepped into a different world. I had a delicious tagine with chicken, onions, almonds, and plums.

There were birds flying around the ceiling that swooped down to pick at crumbs after people left. It was charming.

This may or may not be a total tourist attraction; I'm not sure. For me, it was just a convenient lunch spot. Go have a mint tea there if you have the chance.

مع سلام,
Maria

Macarons!

2010-10-17T11:03:00.000-07:00

If you don't know about macarons, this is your lucky day. The macaron is an elusive thing, not truly translatable and hardly ever found in the United States. The name would make you think that this delicious dessert is merely a macaroon (the coconut thing, here a congolais), in the American sense, when it is in fact a sort of airy puff-pastry sandwich with filling in the middle. That description does not do justice to their scrumptousness.

Today, I made this French delicacy with my host sister, Sybille. She may have done most of the prep work, but I glued a lot of these things together. Brown = chocolate. Yellow = lemon.

Sugar and spice,
Maria

Ballet Preljocaj

2010-10-16T04:23:00.000-07:00

Last night at Théâtre National de Chaillot, I saw a really interesting ballet danced by members of the Ballet Preljocaj and the Bolshoi Ballet. Angelin Preljocaj based "Suivront mille ans de calme" on the Apocalypse. Now, I don't know a ton about the Apocalypse, and I know even less about modern dance, but I know what I saw last night was a revolution.

The music was sometimes classical, sometimes techno, sometimes was made by the sound of the dancers dragging chains on the ground, and sometimes was the sound of 1250 audience members holding their breath.

It was bizarre, beautiful, violent, sexy, striking, dynamic. At one point, all the women on stage were wrapped in plastic; at another, everyone had a book in each hand and mouth; at the end, flags of country of the world we dunked in water, spread out on the stage to dry and two lambs were let loose to wander among them.

Standing and clapping,
Maria

P.S. Here's a video excerpt of the ballet, and words from the choreographer if you want to practice your French.

My homegirl

2010-10-14T14:48:00.000-07:00

Forgot to add this picture from Avignon. Enormous gold statue of Mary.

Oh hey, Mater. What up, girlfriend?

Aren't we all golden goddesses?
Maria

Is this part of the tour?

2010-10-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

Here are some old French drinking songs I learned this weekend:

Chevaliers de la Table Ronde
"The Knights of the Round Table"

Refrain:Chevaliers de la table ronde,
Goûtons voir si le vin est bon.
Goûtons voir, oui, oui, oui,
Goûtons voir, non, non, non,
Goûtons voir, si le vin est bon.
S’il est bon, s’il est agréable, J’en boirai jusqu'à mon plaisir.
J'en boirai cinq ou six bouteilles, une femme sur les genoux.
Si je meurs, je veux qu’on m’enterre, Dans une cave, ou y’a du bon vin.
Les deux pieds contre la muraille, Et la tête sous le robinet.
Sur ma tombe, je veux qu’on écrive, Ici gît le roi des buveurs.

Jeanneton
- Jeanneton prend sa faucille
  Larirette, larirette,
  Jeanneton prend sa faucille
  Pour aller couper des joncs (bis)
- En chemin elle rencontre
  Quatre jeunes et beaux garçons (bis)
- Le premier un peu timide
  Lui caressa le menton (bis)
- Le second un peu moins sage
  La coucha sur le gazon (bis)
- Le troisième, un intrépide
  Lui souleva le jupon (bis)
- Ce que fit le quatrièmeN'est pas dit dans la chanson (bis)
Au trente et un de mois d'août
"The 31st of the Month of August" (The refrain is the only part I learned...)

Buvons un coup, buvons-en deux
A la santé des amoureux,
Buvons un coup, buvons-en deux
A la santé des amoureux,
A la santé du Roi de France
Et merde pour le Roi d'Angleterre,
Qui nous a déclaré la guerre!

Dites-moi, Gentille Bergère
"Tell Me, Gentle Shepherdess"

Refrain :
Appelle tes chiens, appelle les miens
Appelle Fanfan, appelle Taïaut, Taïaut
Taïaut, Taïaut
Ah! Dites-moi gentille bergère
N'avez-vous pas vu le lapin, le lapin
Si fait répondit-elle, je l'ai vu ce matin
Ah! Dites-moi gentille bergère
N'avez-vous pas vu le canard, le canard
Si fait répondit-elle, je l'ai vu dans la mare
Ah! Dites-moi gentille bergère
N'avez-vous pas vu le chamois, le chamois
Si fait répondit-elle, je l'ai vu dans les bois
Ah! Dites-moi gentille bergère
N'avez-vous pas vu le chasseur, le chasseur
Si fait répondit-elle, c'est lui qui a pris mon coeur

Don't get too carried away - or do!
Maria

P.S. Sorry some of the linked versions are lame...

Provence Part Deux

2010-10-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

The second day of the weekend in Provence was split between les Baux-de-Provence and Avignon.

Les Baux in the distance. It was windy in those hills!

Les Baux is a very small, old, beautiful village in the Alpilles. It is also the home of the incredible ruins of le Château des Baux, which was built in the 11th century and was destroyed on Richelieu's orders because it was a practically unassailable bastion of Protestantism.

Avignon has the charming feeling that I've found in some other cities in the provinces, like Tours and Lyon. It's like a three-course dinner to Paris' seven courses. We visited the Papal Palace and the famous Pont d'Avignon, which is in fact, only half a pont.

The Avignon Papacy began when Pope Clement V said, "No way, José. Rome is crazy. I ain't living there!"* Benedict XII renovated the Cistercian monastery where Clement had set up camp, creating what is known as le palais vieux.

Clement VI, who was noble by birth, decided be wanted the look of the Palace to be a little less "I have taken a vow of poverty" and a little more "I am the most powerful man in Christendom." Our guide repeatedly used the words "a castle of the Renaissance" to describe what Clement did. He was very ahead of his time, ornamenting le palais neuf with painted tile floors and sumptuous frescos at least three centuries before even the kings of France.

Of course, then there was that whole Papal Schism business and the papacy ended up back in Rome. But Avignon must have been beautiful while it lasted!

Thank you, Wikipedia, for this wonderful picture

My favorite part of the Palais des Papes was the contemporary art exhibit of Miquel Barceló's work. So bizarre. So cool.

And of course, Sur le Pont d'Avignon :

Literally sur le pont.

Le Pont d'Avignon

Amb amor,
Maria

* May or may not be correct translation of Pope Clement V quotation.

Aaaarles be back!

2010-10-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

This weekend I went to Provence with my program. We started in Arles where there are incredible Roman ruins:

When it was built in the first century, this arena had a pulley system that covered its 25,000 spectators with vellum on hot afternoons. After the Roman Empire crumbled, a town was built in the amphitheater because it was easy to defend. Now you can go see bull fights there.

We went a market filled with tables of spices, cheeses, dried sausages, breads and pastries.

A middle-aged, hobbit-sized gentleman tried to sell me candies whose proceeds went to animal rescue. When I declined he told me that I was charming anyway and that my eyes were full of love. Don't worry Mom and Dad - I didn't give him my number.

We went to the Pont du Gard, part of an enormous (50k!) aqueduct from the Roman Empire.

Le Pont du Gard was built when God was in the third grade; in comparison, I felt a little bit like a tiny speck on the great continuum of time and space...Actually, I felt a lot like that.

I like Arles. I would like to go back to see une corrida.

Three kisses (that's how they do it down south),

Maria

P.S. More on Provence to come! Also, I stole the non-Pont-du-Gard photos in this post...

Dalíwood

2010-10-07T11:55:00.000-07:00

Photos from the phantasmagorical Espace Dalí in Montmartre.

Alice in Wonderland. Tristan and Isolde. Romeo and Juliet.

Exit through the gift shop:

That's the actual size of my mustache,

Maria

Au Jardin des Plantes

2010-10-05T17:20:00.000-07:00

Paris is supposed to be warm this week. Hopefully it will be like this again:

A flower child,
Maria

La Nuit Blanche

2010-10-03T16:58:00.000-07:00

Once a year in Paris there is a dawn 'til dusk festival called "La Nuit Blanche," which literally translates to "the white night" but also means "all-nighter." La Nuit Blanche is a funky, odd, interesting art free-for-all scattered throughout Paris. J'ai adoré.

Whatever this was looked like a bicycle people-power ship that was made to fly through the clouds.

There was a large cubic explosion of scaffolding onto which moving geometric patterns were projected. It was the inverse image of a bridge - more of an arc than a tunnel. Buzzing techno music played that made it feel like you were underwater as you walked through.

Notre Dame's windows were lit from behind so it looked like a jewelry box from the outside. The inside was simpler, but almost heartbreakingly beautiful. Hundreds of candles illumuniated the hallways, but the only light in the center of the church was that thrown off by the lights against the windows. The white lights made it look like there was fog floating around the ceiling. Slowly tinkling piano music and birdsong played loud enough to fill up my whole heart. It felt like dawn in ruins. It made me want to cry.

Hotel de Ville wore a light design bearing the message "Love Differences" in more languages than I could read.

Hotel de Ville or City Hall

!حب اليختلافات

In one video, the artist, a very tattooed, pierced middle aged man played every part (always dressed in drag) as he recreated pivotal scenes from cult classics with the original voice track.

A dinosaur and mammoth were taken from a closing amusement park.

If you look closely, there's me making a dinosaur face.

Spectatrice extraordinaire,

Maria

The Devil's Avocado

2010-10-01T02:25:00.000-07:00

Here are some nuances I have learned about French:

If you want bring up the politically-charged topic of wearing the hijab or burqa, make sure to use "le voile." If you happen to use "la voile" instead, you may find yourself off on an in-depth discussion of sailing.

L'avocat du diable can be correctly translated as "the devil's advocate" or as "the devil's avocado." My advice is to use context clues for this one.

If the French are plying you with food, and you wish to decline, do not attempt to translate the English sentence "I'm full" literally. Unfortunately, saying "je suis plein(e)" is a rather unsavory way of telling the world that you're expecting a new baby-friend.

It is not flattering to refer to a theatre troupe as un troupeau. Just stick with plain old une troupe, otherwise you're using a term that is best reserved for flocks of animals.

Be careful with your pronunciation of menthe when you tell your host mother you'd like mint tea. Otherwise, she will understand "malt" and think that you are such a princess that you only drink tea from Malta or, alternatively, that you like malt-whiskey-flavored tea and are, therefore, probably an alcoholic.

Telling someone that they smell good is nice. However, saying to your host mother "vous sentez bonne" is apparently not the same thing as "vous sentez bon." I think the difference is summed up well by my host-sister's advice to me: If someone says to you "Vous/tu êtes/es bonne," run.

Read carefully at all times. Otherwise you may read enseignante as enceinte. This may prove troublesome since "teacher" and "pregnant" have pretty different meanings.

Votre enseignante (careful!),
Maria

Shakespeare & Co.

2010-09-29T12:41:00.000-07:00

NB: I stole this from the internet.

Thank goodness for rainy afternoons; without them, I might have never stopped in Shakespeare and Company, the famous bookstore in the Latin Quarter. I was on my way to the Musée Cluny and took a respite from the weather for an hour there.

I generally try to avoid English-speaking places, since I am here to learn French, but now that I've visited Shakes & Co I won't be able to stop going back.

It. Is. Magic.

Downstairs there is a hodgepodge of small winding rooms, with contemporary books on shelves from floor to ceiling, a nook for all things Shakespeare, a table display of only books with red covers, and a doorway covered in notes offering and requesting English speaking fill in the blanks.

On the wall next to the stairway there are cartoon portraits in olive and cream of some of the many writers who have frequented the store.

Upstairs, there is a room with low mattresses covered in Indian blankets and a piano for anyone to play. In the hallway there is a nook with one chair, one typewriter, fairy lights and the notes of dreamers past. If you sit in the stall and read the notes, one will say "I wrote a piece of music this year and I played it for the first time on your piano." Another will say "Thank you." Yet another will say "I fell in love in this room." There is a reading room with mismatched chairs and benches, fresh flowers and a window that looks over the Seine. The books upstairs are not for sale. You may read one, like Lady Chatterly's Lover, while you sit in the Reading Room.

A bibliophile,
Maria

Locks of Love

2010-09-27T15:54:00.000-07:00

In France (and perhaps everywhere in Europe - I don't know) love is immortalized not by being carved into trees but by being inscribed on locks. I found a bridge where many people have hung their love for the world to see.

The messages are painted, scratched, written and engraved. Different kinds of love are represented...

In love with the city of love,
Maria

To everything, turn, turn, turn...

2010-09-25T16:26:00.000-07:00

Autumn has been coming on for a while now. The leaves of the Luxembourg garden have begun to line its walks instead of garnishing its branches. Last week when I woke up I could smell its crispness on the air.

Within the French, knowledge of the change lies dormant, and without knowing why they do, they've been wearing jackets in warm weather for weeks to prepare for its coming.

Today the shift in the air was palpable. I went to the river to watch the sun set. Instead of turning away from it, I embraced the cool touch of the nimble-fingered wind, and it made me feel alive.

Jardin du Luxembourg

Falling,
Maria

I'm here to study?

2010-09-23T13:52:00.000-07:00

Today marks exactly four weeks since I left the States, and I am happy to announce that after one month of great anxiety and stress (ha!) I have a semi-official academic schedule. This may interest you greatly or not at all, but here is what I will be studying:

La litterature:
Mythes et filiations culterelles : XIXe siècle, Le mythe de Pygmalion
Mythes et filiations culterelles : XXe siècle, Miracles sacrés, miracles profanes

Le théâtre:
Théâtre et mise en scene
Ateliers pratiques diversifiés : Acting Shakespeare (un cours du méthode de Stanislavski)

Cinéma:
Le cinéma documentaire en France

Class starts next week!

Academically yours,
Maria

Mot de Cambronne

2010-09-21T15:39:00.000-07:00

Pierre Cambronne was a general in Napoleon's army. Though his military career began in 1792, he is most famous for the role he played in the Battle of Waterloo:

Cambronne was commanding the Old Guard, and, as we know, the battle didn't go too well for the French. The legend goes that when General Colville called for Cambronne to surrender, our stout Frenchman told him that "the guard dies and does not surrender!" When Colville pressed the point, Cambronne replied in a manner that was concise but well understood:

"Merde!"

Which has become known as le mot de Cambronne, or Cambronne's word.

Street sign from my window.

And it is for this illustrious man that my street is named.

Les cinq lettres,
Maria

Delicious in any language

2010-09-19T15:02:00.000-07:00

Tonight I made Lulabells as a thank you to my temporary host family. Changing measurements and ingredients is tricky!

Fortunately it was a grand and glorious success; they asked for the recipe, and my temporary "host father" rechristened it "gateau à Maria!"

Eat your heart out Julia Child!
Maria

P.S. If you have the misfortune of not knowing what Lulabells are, let me know, and I'll make them for you next time we're together.

Jour du Patrimoine

2010-09-19T12:14:00.000-07:00

France, and apparently all of Europe, has this wonderful annual tradition called le jour du patrimoine, or "heritage day." On these days lots of museums, consulates, and government department buildings open their doors to the public for free - there are guided tours, talks, and concerts.

This weekend I went to the Palais Bourbon, home of the Assemblée Nationale, the lower house of French parliament.

Assemblée Nationale

Also in the Assemblée Nationale is the Hôtel de Lassay, which is the home of the President of the Assemblée Nationale, Bernard Accoyer. He may be older than my father and married, but I would overlook all that if I could live in the Hôtel de Lassay with him.

The only word I got is...

...splendor!

But my favorite thing was the library!

Palais-Royal. No big deal.

Molière fell sick and died after performing Le Malade imaginaire in this room.

You say formal wear, I say normal wear!

Display of opera costumes from bygones past.

Surprised to be falling in love with mushrooms,

Maria

Don't know much about history...

2010-09-17T10:25:00.000-07:00

Hear ye, hear ye! Let it be known far and wide that on this day, Friday the 17th of September, 2010, I, Maria, after one week of hard work, have accomplished a high and mighty task: today, I read the final square of the History of France cartoon that adorns the right hand side of the powder room.

L'histoire de France racontée par Astrapi!


Charlemagne being crowned and starting schools.

King Dagobert wearing his pants backwards.

I am now an expert in French history. Ask me anything. Go ahead - I dare you!

It's the little victories, right?
Maria