from the sea to the mountains

mercredi 30 avril 2008

A day of transition.

We're going from the region of Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azure (PACA) in the South to the region of Rhone-Alpes in the department of Haute-Savoie in the Southeast, near Geneva.  The name Provence isn't a region nor a department, it is just a name for the area.  Our base for the next few days will be the town of Annecy, which is Didier's hometown.  It has approximately 5,000 inhabitants and receives tourists all year round - skiing for the winter, and all sorts of water sports during the other season thanks to a grand and beautiful lake, Le Lac d'Annecy.

Today we visited a smaller laker, Le Lac du Bourget in St. Germain la Chambotte, which was on our way.  The two photos you see were taken there.

A word about the geography of France.  It is divided into regions which in turn have several departments each.  There are approximately 100 departments in France, each given a number, in alphabetical order.  How do you know what the number is?  Easy, there are two ways other than memorizing them.  Just like the U.S., there are zip codes.  The first two digits in the five-digit code is the department number.  Also, all automobile license plates end in two digits - the department in which they are registered.

For example, the zip code in Paris always begins with 75, and the last two digis correspond to the arrondissement.  A common game that French children play during long road trips is to recall the number of each department.  I guess that's better than repeatedly hearing "are we there yet?"

it's all cheese

mardi 29 avril 2008

Our final day in Provence.  On our agenda today - two of the top 100 most beautiful villages in France (there really is an official list) - Beaux de Provence and Gordes.

We began our tour in Beaux de Provence.  In all honesty, I don't think you could call it a village.  Sure, it's old, it's beautiful, but I saw no sign of inhabitants, just tourism.  Gordes, on the other hand, was quite nice, and indeed there were people living in this old and charming village.  Another city we visited was Roussillon, which is famous for its naturally red rocks, quite similar to Sedona in Arizona.

Didier made a reservation for lunch at "Le Bistrot du Paradou, Chez Jean-Louis" one month ago.  Paradou is the name of the town, and it means paradise in the old local language.  I don't know if the town really is heavenly, but the food at Chez Jean-Louis came pretty close.  People who have dined here inclue Nicolas Sarkozy in 2006 (before he became president of France), Sharon Stone, Tom Cruise, and now Alex Lin.

The concept is quite similar to Alice Waters' Chez Panisse.  There is no selection for your meal except for the entrée.  I began with the tarte aux tomates, which was absolutely delicious.  I love savory pastries, and this one was done perfectly.  The other choice, in case you were wondering, was escargot.  The bread was house made of course, just like everything else here.  The plat was gigot d'agneau (leg of lamb); the portion wasn't enough for me, but the flavor and the accompanying potato gratin were to die for.  We finished our lunch with a selection of cheeses and dessert.

Cheese - something I love but don't know much about, so Didier and Alim taught me a bit about the etiquette of eating cheese.  There were more than 15 types of cheese on the platter, so I stopped Didier after he named three, as I was sure I wasn't going to remember any that I didn't already know.  The ones I do remember:  Comté, Roquefort.  Although some Americans think the Roquefort is strong, it really isn't, relatively speaking.  There was a goat cheese marinated in olive oil that I caught a whiff of every now and then; I wished now and then didn't come every now and then.  I did taste it.  What can I say - cheese is pretty much mold.  There was one that Didier warned me about - the taste wasn't too bad, but if you happen to get any of it on your finger, it would smell for days.  I don't know if he was exaggerating, but I didn't want to find out; the cheese went carefully from my fork to my mouth.

And so concludes our stay in the South of France.  Overall nice, even though we didn't got to Nice.  Cassis is definitely my favorite town.  As for the people here, they are generally more friendly and willing to engage in a conversation than Parisians, but that probably has more to do with the style of living.  Here people are more relaxed, it's sunny (except when I visited Marseille), there is no hurry to do anything except taking the lunch break; so why not be nice.  I was warned in advance about the dialect, and I find that the French here isn't as nasal; all the nasal vowels (four of them) have a slight, flatter twist, somewhat like the Quebecois French.  Secondly, they're more relaxed with their pronunciation.  Oftentimes they drop the very end of the final syllable of each word as if they were too lazy to finish it.  Maybe living in this relaxed atmosphere does affect you in all aspects of life; maybe I should move here and see if it'll rub off on me.

Maybe not - I prefer the life in Paris.

H2O, Harbor 2 Oursin

lundi 28 avril 2008

The forecast for today was showers by the afternoon, so we were hoping to get everything done as quickly as possible.  And no, oursin isn't our sin.

First stop was Cassis, a small seaside town not too far away from Marseille; it is also the name of an apéritif.  As soon as we got to there, I imagined returning there for a month or two while working on a script.  It has vibrant colors in its architecture, which is typical for Provence.  Even though it was a bit cold and the sky was menacingly gray, the town was still enjoyable.

The highlight for today was definitely our discovery for lunch.  Like any harbor town, there are numerous restaurants lined up along the harbor waiting for tourists.  We found one a little further away called "Le Mistral."  It was obviously a family-run business as the two portly gentlemen who greeted us at the door and behind the bar greatly resembled each other.  Its feature, like many other restaurants in town, was "dégustation de coquillages du 1er septembre au 1er mai," meaning "taste of shellfish from the first of September to the first of May."

I had wanted the seafood platter with oursin (sea urchin, uni for those of you familiar with sushi), oysters (huîtres), and an assortment of mussles, but oursin isn't in season.  So I settled (settled probably isn't the best choice of words here) for the bouillabaisse.  Just as a side note, I had always hated oysters in the past (cooked) until recently when my cousins N-bah and J-bah forced me to try a raw oyster for the first time.  I was actually very tasty.  I don't understand why the Taiwanese (and some other cultures) eat oysters cooked; it changes the texture to one that is plastique and... I guess disgusting would be the right word here.

So Didier and I ordered the bouillabaisse.  To be exact, we didn't actually have the bouillabaisse.  The menu states it was a fish soup cooked like the bouillabaisse.  Didier says it's the best he's ever had.  Me too, since it was my first.  Perhaps you need a special license to cook bouillabaisse, and they couldn't claim it to be that since they didn't have the license.  Who knows.  Later that night, Alim would order the bouillabaisse from a different restaurant; it was bland and poorly made in comparison to our non-bouillabaisse.  

Indeed our lunch was delicious, and the price (18 euros) couldn't be beat.  Huge - and I mean huge portions (some of you know how much I eat) - for each of us, with flavorful croutons and a great blend of sauce called rouille.  There were four kinds of fish, along with tender potatoes that have soaked up all the flavors of the fish.  Marvelous.  If you happen to come to Cassis, you must try this restaurant.

By the time we reached Marseille, it was starting to drizzle.  Marseille and Lyon fight for the title of the number two city in France.  Personally, I didn't care for Marseille that much, but keep in mind this judgment is based on a short visit of a few hours on a rainy day.  The traffice was awful (I was told that Marseille has this reputation), even though there were beautiful tramways that mostly went empty.  The trams looked quite new, with beautiful wooden benches inside as seats.  Heck, I'd take that over driving.  The city also has two metro lines, which is not too impressive compared to the fourteen that Paris boasts.

Marseille has an area called "vieux port," the old port, which is the napping place for tons of sailboats, similar to the Marina in San Francisco.  Again, plenty of restaurants along the harbor; we chose one and were quite disappointed.  Typical tourist routine - I knew it was bad before we entered since they served French food and sushi (what kind of a combination is that?), but it was raining and I didn't want to complain (more).

is it all bull?

dimanche 27 avril 2008

Second day in Provence - Nîmes.  I was transported back to my high school days when I ruled the world like Julius Caesar.  Actually, it was more like when I studied Latin, except I don't remember much of it now.

Nîmes is a very old city.  Proof?  There is a coliseum built by the Romans 2,000 years ago.  Les arènes (the arenas) isn't as large as the Coliseum in Rome, but it is a bit better preserved in my opinion.  It was built for spectacles involving gladiators and more recently has been used for bullfighting.

We also visited an ancient temple (again, built by the Romans) called La Maison Carrée in which we saw a short film in 3D depicting the history of Nîmes.  The title was Heros, and after recounting the stories of past citizens, it ended with the victories of a bullfighter whose name I cannot remember (not that I tried).  Someone explain to me why a bullfighter is a hero.  That's like saying Russell Crowe is a hero for making movies.  As much as the French criticize Hollywood and other American customs such as worshipping athletes, an act which I also find despicable, they themselves are also guilty of glorifying entertainers.

Nevertheless, to be in the midst of these monuments that date back to the Romans two millennia ago is truly astounding.  Just think I walked on the same stones that Augustus once graced with his sandals.  My Latin teacher Mr. Shickle (RIP) would be proud.  Well, maybe not, since I've forgotten most of my Latin.

After Nîmes, we headed to Le Pont de Gard, also a remnant from the Roman era.  It has three tiers, and it is truly magnificent to behold.  Didier tells me that because of the frequency of visits by French citizens who probably weren't taking their Prozac (or Paxil, Zoloft, Celexa - take your pick, I am not endorsing any of them, nor do I own stocks in any company that makes them) - meaning they jumped - the top tier was permanently closed to visitors.  I am a bit surprised since I think jumping off the lowest tier would probably produce the same result.

A demain (until tomorrow).  I'm too tired to write in French, so that will have to do for now.

far above, but not too far away

samedi 26 avril 2008

I woke up early this morning to make sure I would get to Gare de Lyon on time.

To have major train stations accessible by a short metro ride is simply marvelous.  Certainly that doesn't exist in San Francisco.  Gare de Lyon, by the way, isn't in Lyon; it is in the heart of Paris, and it is beautiful.

There is something about arriving at a train station and watching and hearing the hustle and bustle of adults and children all around, the adults scrambling to track their trains and validate their tickets, the children chasing each other and seemingly finding every way to annoy their parents.  The smell of croissants and pains au chocolate permeate the entire station.  Lines of TGV trains extend beyond what the vision can perceive as it is temporarily blinded by the rising sun peeking out behind them.  The senses are stimulated beyond what a visit to the airport can conjure.

By the way, a few of you have asked if I am eating croissants everyday.  No.  I've had exactly one croissant in the past month.  Typically, I prefer pain au chocolate (I'm not a masochist nor do I have a strange fetish for sweets; pain is in French), roulé au myrtille (a very delicious blueberry roll), or viennoserie au chocolat.

But back to my journey that was about to begin at Gare de Lyon.  The ride at about 300-350 km/hr from Paris to Avignon would take a little under three hours.  There was no point in taking pictures; the speed of the train was too great.

Alim and I met Didier at the TGV station in Avignon, after which we drove into the ancient town of Avignon, which is surrounded by a "rempart," which, as you may have guessed, is a rampart.  Avignon is famous for a few things "Les demoiselles d'Avignon" by Picasso, "Sur le pont d'Avignon," which is a famous French folk song (notice my not so clever alliteration); and the papacy.

The Palace of the Pope was constructed in Avignon in the 14th century; it was the center of Christianity prior to its settling in the Vatican City.  Now you all know I'm not a religious person, but after a visit to the palace, it was even harder to contain myself.

The Pope and his entourage really lived in luxury beyond perhaps the king.  There were several towers and "treasure rooms" in the palace, conveniently located above and below the pope's chamber.  God only knows what kind of treasures these people held.  I couldn't help but repeatedly ask myself:  If Jesus Christ suffered for humanity and is a symbol of the religion, why do people so blindly accept that the Christian leaders should live in luxury?  Even if they don't accept it, why do they allow it?  Yes, I use the present tense correctly.  My classmate Giovanna, who comes from Rome, tells me that many residents of Rome scramble to make ends meet while the select few (or many in this case) are living luxuriously in the Vatican; unfortunately, this isn't something that Italians from other cities experiences.  Additionally, a classmate from Berlin revealed that Germans who identify themselves as Christians must contribute a percentage of their income tax to the church.

But then I thought: perhaps people don't want to wake up.  Perhaps they know very well what they are paying for their so-called religion.  We are, after all, only human.  We all make mistakes.  We all know we do things that we shouldn't.  Perhaps some of us feel that by paying and contributing, these mistakes can be erased and we can then deny that these mistakes were ever made.  After which, of course, we can do the same things over and over again.  Maybe that's why some of us proudly march on the streets telling one group they are sinners and another they are going to hell.  Is this the price and the message of Christianity?

I know not all Christians conduct their lives this way, and I know that the people I've described exist under all religions; it's just that the power and wealth of Christianity is simply incredible and... unreligious and anti-Christ.

After exiting the palace, I got the feeling that it was really a big closet.  I gladly walked out of it into a warm spring afternoon.  The spirits of the past, however, seem to have trapped themselves inside.

Not too far away in a foreign city, there is a far grander closet whose residents continue to trap, continue to control the present, the past, and very likely the future.

P.S. In the pictures, you see images taken from and around the Palais des Papes as well as Le Pont d'Avignon.  You are also blessed with picture of Saint Didier - notice the halo above him.

aiming high

jeudi 24 avril 2008

By tomorrow, I will have been in Paris for four weeks, and my first session of French class will be over.  I am in the process of making a few changes to make better use of my time in Paris.

First of all, I am dropping the evening class.  Up to now, I've had both the morning and evening classes; I was ambitious.  Trop.  For May, I will only be attending the morning class, which I believe will bu sufficient to improve my grammar in French.  That means I will have two additional evenings available.  Quoi faire?  As planned, I have been meeting lots of French people interested in language exchange.  It has been great, but that also needs some adjustment.

When you meet someone for such a purpose, the topics of conversations typically revolve around "why are you in Paris," "how long have you been studying English," "where have you visited," etc...  I can honestly say I can answer these questions more than adequately in French.  Sure, when you meet the same person repeatedly, the topics change, but the context doesn't vary much.  So an important goal for the second month is to immerse myself into the daily lives of French people.

I don't know exactly yet how I will accomplish this, but an idea is to join a running club; exercise, French practice, explore more neighborhoods in Paris - I'll be killing three French oiseaux with one Taiwanese-American pierre.  I don't know what that means; it sounded better in my head.

I have a week to relax (me, relax?), as if spending two months in Paris isn't relaxing enough.  I'll be traveling to Provence and the Alps with my friends Didier and Alim.  This would be the first time that I travel to the south of France.

Jealous much?  No worries, I'll keep you all updated with photos, it will be as if you were there yourselves.  Reach out into the screen and it's like touching the snowy Alps.  That is, if my brain will still function at an altitude of 4,000 meters.

what happens at night

dimanche 20 avril 2008

Julien and Hermine invited me over for lunch today.  They made a quiche Lorraine for me, with eggs, cream, and lardon - from scratch, even the pastry.  It was to die for.  C'était bon à en crever.

Our sublime feast was accompanied by a mundane discussion of our plans.  Evidently, I'm not the only one struggling about my future.  Both of them are tired of life in Paris and long for a more tranquil life with less artificial conveniences and greater natural stimuli.  A recent failure in Hermine's negotiation of a job transfer has led to some misery for both.

Since I'm an expert in quitting a comfortable job to seek a life less certain but more fulfilling (I'm an expert in quitting things as well), I was glad to offer some advice.  We decided that it is best to have several plans in case one doesn't work out.  On paper, plan A is the best, where she would renegotiate for the transfer to make the move they wanted.  Plan B is to quit their jobs, take a long trip to Spain, Japan, and the US, then return to a new city in France to look for new jobs.  The same trip is also the main component of plan C, but they would settle in a foreign city along their journey to establish a new life there, possibly opening a quiche boutique if I offer enough of a financial investment (interest-free, of course).

I can't say I know for sure which plan would eventually work out, but I do think it's always a good plan to step back from your problems, take a restful siesta, then return with fresh ideas.  The French say "la nuit porte conseil" (Night brings council), and the Chinese "take one step back and you see the wide open sea and sky ahead of you."

I imagine them running their quiche store by the sea, very much like the friendly couple in Miyazaki's "Kiki's delivery service;" how romantic would that be!  They would wake up every morning, prepare the secret ingredients for their quiches, complain that the cream isn't fresh enough that day (they are French after all, they have to complain about something), greet their customers, and finish work by mid-afternoon to entertain their guest (that would be me).  I don't think I'll show up on a flying broomstick (Kiki is a teenage witch in training), but maybe I'll bring along a DVD of my latest film.  Maybe I'll even autograph it.

Speaking of my film career, it's time for me to take a step back and have my own siesta.

all souffléd out

samedi 19 avril 2008

Who loves a soufflé?  The fluffy and warm chocolate flavor that dangles on your tongue, teasing you to hold on to its magic, then when you are certain you are in love with it, it disappears.

Last night, Didier, Alim, Patrick, and I dined at "Le Soufflé" in le 1ème arrondissement behind Le Louvre.  Soufflé, by the way, comes from the French verb souffler, meaning to blow.  Obviously, the specialty of the restaurant is the soufflé, so I tried the menu, which consists of an entrée, plat, and dessert, all soufflés.

Each dish was well prepared, the texture light and smooth, and the flavor delicate and fine.  For the entrée, soufflé aux epinards; le soufflé Henry IV à la volaille for the plat, and soufflé noix de coco for dessert.  Here, I confess I made a mistake.  I read very quickly thinking I was ordering a chocolate soufflé - i.e., cocoa - but instead I got a coconut soufflé, which I don't like at all.  Nevertheless, the point is that by the end of the meal, I had enough of soufflés.  There is too much of a good thing.

Ce matin, j'ai eu un rendez-vous avec un correspondant qui s'appelait Sylvain.  On a marché dans le cimetière Père Lachaise.  J'étais là pour la première fois.  Bien sûr beaucoup de gens connus y reposent, mais je connais seulement Chopin.

On a discuté de plusieurs choses, et je lui ai dit que je suis en train d'écrire un scénario et qu'il raconte mes expériences à Paris il y a deux ans, surtout les histoires des gens que j'ai rencontrés.  Si on parlait de ses problèmes, ça peut-être m'inspirerait.  Fais attention !

Enfin, on a discuté de l'âme soeur et de l'amour idéal.  Est-ce qu'il existent ? Si oui, est-ce qu'il y a une seule âme soeur pour chacun, ou bien est-ce qu'il y en a plusieurs ? En plus, comment sait-on que la personne que l'on rencontre est l'amour idéal ? Est-ce qu'un amour idéal dure pour toujours ? Je suis certain qu'il n y a pas de réponses et que je me prends la tête avec ces questions stupides (merci à Didier pour sa contribution); quand même c'est un suject qui a inspiré des tas de poésies, de films, et de l'art en général.

Pourtant, comme dit Didier en faisant une grimace de désapprobation, est-ce qu'il y a quelqu'un que je connais dans la vraie vie qui a déjà rencontré son amour idéal ? Je ne sais pas. Peut-être que non. Je vais trouver mon "true life" et pas mon "true love."

pack your bags

jeudi 17 avril 2008

We've had a couple of intense discussions in class lately, again about nationality and identification.

It was interesting to hear from the Italian woman Giovanna that Italians, because their country is relatively new, generally do not consider themselves to be proud of their country.  Instead, they identify much more with the city; they would refer to themselves as Romans or proudly declare that they come from Milan.

A second topic was whether we would consider moving to a different country.  This was a very easy question for me since I moved from Taiwan to the US at the age of 10, and consequently I don't feel particularly attached to any one nation.  Sure, my passport states USA, but for me the country is just a place I live; I would have no hesitation moving from San Francisco to Paris, just as easily as someone might move from Berkeley to San Jose, if there is a compelling reason to do so.  I am certain there are many who are loyal to their countries and can't wait to lecture me on the importance of national identity and to remind me of what my country has provided for me; I respect that truly.  But...

Maybe I can illustrate with an analogy.  If you are born in New York then move to Boston at the age of 10, San Francisco at 15, then Chicago at 20, for whom do you cheer - the Yankees, Red Sox, Giants, or Cubs?  Why must you love only the first one?  Why can't you love all of them?  Why must you love any of them?

did I get lost?

mardi 15 avril 2008

Determined to get lost, I decided to do a bit of random exploration today.

A friend of mine, Rick, is here in Paris.  He just arrived a week ago and will be staying for five months.  Unlike me, who will return to work after two months, he quit his job to make a complete change.  Now that is courage.

I asked him to pick a number between 1 and 15 and a letter; I got 6 and L.  Looking on the metro map, I was to explore one of the final stops of line 6 - either Charles-de-Gaulle Etoile or Nation.  Since there is no L in Nation, we headed out toward the touristique destination in the 16ème arrondissement, home of the Arc de Triomphe.

Since the goal was to get lost, we wandered around for two hours, checking out small hidden alleyways, pointing out tourists that stick out like a sore pouce, and not making fun of them too much.  I wonder if anyone was pointing at the two of us and our cameras.

Other than the largest boulevards and avenues, Paris is built so that it is impossible to see far down any street; the view is always obstructed by some architecture several streets down.  Even the boulevards and avenues end in circular "places," which typically features monuments like the Arc de Triomphe or some famous colonne (column).

In the process of getting lost, we found Parc de Monceau, a famous park in the 8ème arrondissement.  Although tiny compared to Central Park, it was still landscaped beautifully (see the picture of the garden), with lots of joggers taking advantage of the environment.  One thing I've noticed in Paris is that in general people don't jog on the streets.  Perhaps there may be one or two çà et là (here and there), but definitely not like in San Francisco.

At the end of the day, after a satisfying exploration of the area, I wondered if we really got lost or if we just wandered.  In order to get lost, do you need to be going somewhere?  And if you don't have a specific destination, are you just exploring?  So perhaps I didn't get los, but I did explore.  And during the process, I did a strip tease in front of the Arc de Triomphe.  Don't get too excited, I stripped off my coat.

c'est fou, non?

lundi 14 avril 2008

My journey is nearly 25% over, hard to believe but true.  So what have I done?  That's the question I've been asking myself the past few days, and it has led to anxiety and doubt more than anything else.

As you know, I have the tendency to want to arrive at a solution instantaneously, like the day before the problem presents itself.  What, then, do I want at this moment?  I want to speak French fluently, to have finished the second draft of my script (that's a lie, I want to be directing the film already), to have met lots of French people, to have taken tons of amazing photos, to have walked everywhere in Paris.  In reality, what among these have I done?

In the past couple of days, I have noticed that when I'm spending time studying French or working on my script (only did it once so far), I felt guilty about not taking walks and getting lost in the city; and when I'm meeting and talking to a local Frenchie, I remind myself that I haven't studied French in two days and that I have barely touched my camera.  Yes, I know how to drive myself (and other people) crazy.

How am I going to stay out (or get out) of the cuckoo's nest?  Not sure, but I need to prioritize things a bit.  The most important things I wanted to do were to learn French and to continue work on my script.  Have I done either?  Sure, I've learned lots of French, even very useful bad words which I hope to incorporate into my daily vocabulary when I return to San Francisco, and I've also started just a little bit on my second draft - I decided that one character would be a nanny and that her boyfriend would be a photographer's assistant.

I've also met some interesting French people - Elisabeth, Thomas, Luyang, Didier's friends Patrick, Julien, Marion, Sylvain, and Isabelle.  They're not my best friends yet, but I've met them.  And yes, the camera has been used.  I haven't taken thousands of pictures yet, but I'm 50 closer.

So actually, I have done a bit of everything I've wanted to, and I've got over 75% of my time here to write a bit more, study a bit more, walk a bit more, photograph a bit more, meet a bit more, and give myself a break a lot more.  Much, much more.

Hey, I've also kept up with this blog.  I've done more than I thought.  Somebody, reach your arm across the Atlantic and give me a pat on the back.

o spring, where art thou?

dimanche 13 avril 2008

Maybe it's because I hated playing Vivaldi's Spring when I was learning the violin two decades ago.  Honestly, it isn't my favorite season in The Four Seasons; Winter and Fall are so much more interesting.

Whatever the reason, spring isn't coming to Paris.  But the tourists are.  Over the weekend there were actually two semi-dry days with temperatures in the low 50's (ouais !) - I could take off my sweater and wear just my winter coat.  Well, no, I was wearing other things besides just the coat.

I took a stroll toward Notre Dame and brought along my camera to test it out, apparently so did thousands of other people that day.  I wasn't in a straight mood (am I ever?) and took most of the pictures at an angle.  Among them you will find evidence of the protest against China's rule on Tibet.  Notice the handcuffs in the disguise of Olympic rings.  There was a second reason I took the picture, can you guess?  I already told you why in this paragraph.

getting lost

vendredi 11 avril 2008

Trying to be as active as I can during these two months without tennis, I make an effort to walk to class everyday.  The keyword is effort.  My class is in the 9ème arrondissement, which is a 25-30 minute walk from home.

Navigating through the streets of Paris isn't exactly the easiest thing, even with my handy "Paris Pratique" which maps out every street in Paris, because lots of these streets are centuries old.  Sure, there are the huge, wide avenues and boulevards, but there are also the narrow rues (streets).  One could start out on a boulevard, walk into a street, turn around the corner into another street, and then get lost in a seemingly unending maze of streets that come one after another.

Or maybe it's just me.  I do have a habit of getting lost while driving; just ask Jeni, she has received too many calls from me at random times asking for directions.

Anyway, during the first two weeks of class, I think I got lost about five or six times, usually as a result of thinking that walking into a particular street would lead to a shortcut.  Eventually, I ended up where I needed to be, and in the process I traversed yet a couple more unknown streets in Paris.

So then, getting lost might be a good thing.  One of the first things Elisabeth said to me was that it's necessary to get lost in Paris.  As a doctor, I've always felt that getting lost is the worst feeling to have when you have a concerned patient or parent sitting in front of you; the entire purpose of medicine is to find the solution as quickly as possible, as directly as possible.  There is no room for error, just ask any lawyer.

If my brain has been wired that way, how am I going to reprogram it to accept change, to embrace getting lost?  Like they say, practice makes perfect; I'll have to force myself to get lost more often (not to be confused with someone telling me to get lost).  I think I am going to take the metro, get off at a random station, walk around while avoiding stepping on the brown trails of dogs which one can find every few steps in Paris, get lost (that is sure to happen), and not consult my Paris Pratique until 2 hours later.  Certainly I'll have my camera with me.  Now if only the weather will cooperate my plan.

Will this work and allow me to embrace changes, spontaneity, getting lost?  I don't know, but it's a step.  Knowing me, I'll get lost trying to get lost.  Even better, as long as I end up there.

tongues (des langues)

mercredi 9 avril 2008

So, tongues, what could I be talking about?

Last night I was watching a porgram on TV, something like a talk show but called Magazine in French.  There are many of these on French TV every night, but they offer no resemblance to American talk shows.  On a typical French talk show, there is one host who talks to several guests about current events in the world, anything from politics to book releases and entertainment.  Some of these include "On n'a pas tout dit" (We haven't said it all), "Ce soir (ou jamais ! )" (Tonight or never), and "C'est à dire ? " (That is to say?).  Yes, much more intellectual than Oprah giving away gifts or Ellen dancing on stage.

I was surfing through the channels and came across a blond woman speaking perfect French; ten seconds later, I realized it was Jodie Foster.  I had no idea she speaks perfect French, with just a very little accent (to my ears at least).  I knew that she graduated from Yale, and a classmate just old me that she had majored in French literature.  Ok, I'm ignorant.  She was in France promoting her new movie "L'île de Nim," starring also Gerard Butler and Abigail Breslin.  One of these three stars is cute.  Guess which one I'm referring to.

This morning in class we talked about food in different cultures (again, I know - but you do know that the French love talking about politics, food, and sex, right?)  Someone brought up cow tongues (it wasn't me).  Not surprisingly, most people made a face when it came up, even more of a reaction than to grasshoppers and wasps.  It's just a muscle, people!

Tonight a Chinese friend took me to a Chinese restaurant specializing in "la mien" (pulled noodles).  The noodles were good, but the most surprising moment of the evening was hearing a song that seemed very familiar but surely a version I hadn't encountered.  It took me 15 seconds to realize it was Jackie Cheung's (not to be confused with Jacky Chan who can't sing) "wen bien" (kiss goodbye), but sung in English by an unfamiliar voice.  My friend told me the song was redone in English by a singer whose name he couldn't remember.  So there I was, eating noodles from northern China, listening to a song in English, originally sung by a guy from Hong Kong (no, don't even start with the "HK is China" thing), in Paris.  Super, hein !?

working hard

lundi 7 avril 2008

Over the weekend, Didier, his friends Alim and Patrick, and I went to a restaurnt in Le Marais called Au P'tit Canaillou.  P'tit is short for petit, meaning little.  Canaillou is a word from familiar language (you probably won't find it in a French-English dictionary) referring to a mischievous boy.  The awning of the restaurant features a cartoon drawing of a little boy making peepee like you would see in a fountain.  Lots of restaurants in France utilize non-standard words that either have familiar, literary, or historical origins.  So much more character than what one would see in the U.S., n'est-ce pas?

The restaurant was full that night, meaning the waiter was busy with about 10 tables of 30 customers.  That's right, I wrote "the waiter," not "waiters."  I don't think one would ever see that in the U.S.  All the customers spent at least two or three hours dining, with very few complaints, at least not verbally that we could hear (yes, my French is that good that I can distinguish complaints from 20 feet away).  Even though one doesn't need to leave a tip (un pourboire - literally "for a drink"), the waiter still worked very hard to please every customer.  He even remembered what everyone at my table ordered.  Quite impressive.

D'ailleurs, j'avais un autre rendez-vous avec un correspondant. Il s'appelle Falilou et il vient de Guinea. Il est en France depuis 2002 et il habite dans la banlieue parisienne avec sa femme et leur fille qui a cinq mois. Il m'a dit qu'en mars et en avril, tout le monde qui travaille dans les affaires est très occupé parce qu'il est la fin de la période fiscale.

Sa femme et lui, ils tous les deux travaillent très dur. Il faut que son anglais s'améliore parce que les gens qui peuvent parler l'anglais gagnent d'habitude plus d'argent que ceux qui ne le parlent pas. Il a dit que typiquement il n'étudie pas l'anglais souvent parce qu'il regarde le foot à la télé ou il est trop fatigué de le faire après une journée trop tongue au travail, mais ma persévérance d'apprendre le français le motive à étudier l'anglais plus intensément. Par contre, je crois que c'est lui qui me motive à travailler plus. Sa dédicace à sa famille me touche beaucoup.

déjà?

samedi 5 avril 2008

Has it already been a week since my arrival in Paris?  C'est pas vrai ! Hard to believe.  The week went by quickly except for the days when I was fighting both jetlag and a cold, definitely not a good combination.

I am finally feeling better and what I looked forward most today was to see my good friend Julien again.  I first met Julien and his very elegant mother Martine two years ago, really a very nice family - as the French would say, super sympa.  Julien invited me to his home in Bry Sur Marne, about 10 minutes by the RER (a network of trains) outside of Paris proper, for lunch with his girlfriend Hermine, Martine, and his uncle Pierre-Jean.

Europeans in general truly do not enjoy the luxury of large spaces as many Americans do.  I guess I shouldn't complain about my 625 square-foot (58 m2) apartment when most of the apartments I've seen have been less than 50 m2.

Julien is a typical Frenchman, meaning he complains about everything, and I mean everything.  He knows it too.  Actually, I haven't heard him complain about Hermine yet, so perhaps not everything.  He studied architecture and spent some time working as an architect, but now he does recruitment for an architectural firm.  I think he enjoyed his current job initially, but not any more.  For him, Paris is a depressing, cold city deprived of live and energy (at the same time depriving him of both these things).  He longs to live in the mountains.  If one day he moves there, maybe I'll visit him like Heidi.  I wonder if I'll get to milk goats.

I had seen pictures of Hermine, but when I met her in person, I could see why JuJu was crazy about her.  Neither he nor I can understand why she's with him.  To each his (her) own, I suppose.

I told JuJu he should start a new career as a chef after tasting his cuisine.  Just as an example of a Saturday French lunch (I know I've talked about food already, but you know how much I like to eat) - for entrée, we had bread (yes, a baguette) with one of my favorite discoveries from last trip - les rilletes.  It's basically a mix of pork, duck, or goose, with lots of delicious animal fat; it is most often served as a pâté.  The plat was a Braizilian fish stew (amazing) not too unlike a ratatouille.  He calls it la moqueica de peixel.  To finish things off, JuJu served for dessert a type of pudding with pears called un clafoutis aux poires.  If I were a judge on Iron Chef (the original Japanese version, not the stupid American version), I would be using words like "ah, the subtle aroma of the fish blends perfectly with the delicate texture of the tomatoes, everything is just so good, I could eat this everyday."

After lunch, we all went to a nearby mall (centre commercial) to check out the French version of this American import.  Not too different, except the parking spaces are much smaller here.  We visited FNAC, the French equivalent to Borders, where I looked for "Le Petit Nicolas" by Sempé (children's literature).  With just simple pictures, words, and sentence structures (we're talking fourth grade level here), Sempé hilariously depicts the lives of young French children.

Wanting me to read something more appropriate for my age, JuJu gave me Amélie Nothomb's "Métaphysique des Tubes."  She is one of the hottest authors in France now, and apparently she too uses simple language that even I can understand.  Simple is good, always very good for me.  I guess I like books like "Le Petit Nicolas" and "Le Petit Prince" because I like the simple things that children experience, how the easiest things could seem so complicated to six-year-olds.  At least that's my excuse for avoiding more "mature" (i.e., boring) topics like politics and the economy.

As an adult (yeah, I know I hardly behave like one), I can look at situtations that appear to be super complicated for kids and smile (actually, more like reading and laughing uncontrollably during work in between seeing patients) at the intricately constructed simplicity of their lives.  By comparison, when I become wise at the age of 70, I will probably look back at my struggles now and smile at my own naiveté and ineptitude.  And when I struggle with things at 70?  Who's going to laugh at my mistakes?

I guess I can always do that myself.

what is a tourist to do?

mercredi 2 avril 2008

I met a very interesting woman for language exchange today, Elisabeth Schubert.  She is an artist focusing mostly on sculpture.  We spent nearly three hours in a café chatting about her work and les français in general.  However, she wasn't quite confident with her English, so we conducted our conversation mostly in French.  Surprisingly, I understood most of what she said.  Even more so, she understood what I said.

One of the many topics we discussed was the French people's seeming unfriendliness, or at least that of the Parisians.  For example, when there is a tourist standing at the corner of a busy intersection on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, he could be there for hours with an open map in his hands and a desperate look on his face, and no one would offer to help him.  The key word here is offer.  Accordingly to Elisabeth, the French do not like disturbing other people, and to offer to help would be to suggest that the tourist doesn't know what he's doing (even though it is apparent).  But if the tourist were to ask for help (even better if he were to address someone with a simple bonjour), most Parisians would be glad to assist.  However, the tourist may not understand directions in French or in English with a very heavy French accent (incomprehensible to some, but super cute to me).

Au contraire, Elisabeth tells me she was once in New York, and when she was lost, a heap of strangers immediately came up to help her.  That surprised her a bit.  Too bad she didn't understand that they said.

Regarding cafés, a very welcoming change is the disappearance of the fog, I mean smoke.  In the past, whenever I approached a café or restaurant, the first thing that struck me was not the aroma of pastries or coffee, but the odor of cigarettes and the cloud of smoke just waiting to engulf me and seep into every fiber of my body as soon as I opened the door.  Luckily, as the French would say, ça n'existe plus (it doesn't exist any more).  Since 1er janvier 2008, the smokers can only gather outside these establishments.  Therefore, the classic images of a chic Frenchwoman sitting outside a café with a cigarette in her hand and a ring of smoke in front of her can still be found.

who's a fool?

mardi 1 avril 2008

The most important thing to do today was to get a monthly coupon for my carte orange (a metro ID card with my beautiful picture on it from my trip two years ago).  For about 54 Euros, you have unlimited rides for all public transportation within Paris, not bad at all, considering Paris has arguably the best metro system in the world.  Supposedly, you can always find a metro station within 500 meters from wherever you are in the city.  I haven't tested this out myself, but I have no doubt it's true.  If you don't believe it, just bring a measuring tape on your next trip to Paris.

There are 14 lines, one of them automatically operated.  I did ride on this line during my last trip, quite impressive.  Perhaps there are more automatic lines by now, I don't know - will find out during the next two months.

Hier soir, j'ai eu mon cours du soir de 19h à 21h. Nous étions neuf étudiants avec le prof Stephanie un. Elle était Stephanie un parce qu'il y a deux prof qui s'appellent Stephanie. Je lui ai demandé pourquoi elle n'était pas Stephanie une puisqu'elle était féminin. Elle m'a dit que j'avait raison. Comme toujours.

Dans ma classe, une femme est arrivée très tard. Elle parlait le français avec un accent très fort. Quand elle est arrivée, on devinait la nationalité, la profession, et les loisirs de chaque étudiant. C'était à son tour, l'étudiante en retard. J'ai immédiatement deviné qu'elle était italienne à cause du accent qui me semblait italien et des gestes des mains quand elle parlait. Mais j'avais tort, Natalia était russe. Je me sentait mieux à la fin du cours quand un étudiant italien m'a dit que lui il a aussi pensé au début que Natalia était italienne. Les stéréotypes ont toujours jusqu'à un certain point de vérité.