Painter at Notre Dame

Fall Days in Paris Part 2

It occurred to me that my previous Fall Days post was directed towards outdoor-lovers (which I unabashedly am).  For those less inclined to spend a brisk day outside, however, here are several other excellent autumn expeditions.

One such expedition is a trip to la Musée de l’Orangerie (www.musee-orangerie.fr).  This tiny museum is tucked into one corner of the Jardin de Tuileries (otherwise known as the home of the Louvre, that international behemoth of art museums) and also offers visitors a top-notch view of Place de la Concorde and the Eiffel Tower, as seen here:

 Place de la Concorde...former home of the infamous French guillotine, now a hub of even more infamous French traffic

Although less well-known than its cavernous sister just across the river, the Musée d’Orsay, l’Orangerie houses a breathtaking collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionist artwork, the centerpiece of which is a collection of Monet’s Waterlilies.  Eight paintings were donated to this museum after World War I by the artist himself, who believed they expressed the universal human spirit.  The paintings, each one at least fifteen feet in width, are now hung along the walls of two white, circular rooms, so that visitors are surrounded on all sides by incredibly abstract waterlilies.  The overwhelming size of the exhibit creates the impression of suddenly having entered a strange and utterly extraordinary world. 

So much for the cultural side of Paris.  But, of course, Parisian autumn would not be Parisian autumn without the passionately adored Salon du Chocolat.

This annual festival, which takes place over four days at the Porte de Versailles exposition center, is as much a feast for the eyes as it is for the tongue.  For these chocolatiers, who come from all over the world to display their delicious goods, chocolate is not simply a food; it is an art form.  That means chocolate figurines, chocolate sculptures, chocolate jewelry, chocolate paintings, and, I kid you not, a nightly fashion show of clothing made from candy and molded chocolate.

That being said, no Salon du Chocolat would be complete without imbibing some—well, a lot—of the titular sweet.  In part to justify the  €12,50 admission price, every single stall in this football field-sized exposition center is handing out samples. And believe me when I say that every kind of chocolate imaginable is available for consumption.  Some stands offer bananas drizzled in fondue, others soft-centered truffles and crunchy caramel delights, handmade hazelnut chocolate spread, and flat discs of chocolate studded with nougat.  There was even a surprisingly delicious sugarless chocolate. 

The minute a tray of some of these goodies was extended over the counter, hoards of eager French men, women, and children descended upon it as if their lives depended on it.  Caught up in the sudden surge of insanity, we followed suit.  It took us about an hour and half to realize just how much chocolate all those tiny samples add up to.  

Just to give you an idea:

  Yummm...

  It's SANTA!

  It's SUSHI!

  It's CHOCOLATE WAFFLES!

Me and a very tiny seahorse

 Sculpting a chocolate ballerina

In which the definition of a feast for the eyes is epitomized

Chocolate Fashion Show: words cannot even begin to describe...

After all this epicness, Carol and I retreated to a nice, quiet park to recover.  As we sat there nursing the chocolate equivalent of a hangover, it occurred to me that Americans are completely outclassed by the French when it comes to eating. 

Despite all being the approximate diameter of a toothpick, the French can put away food the way my family does at a Thanksgiving dinner.  And unlike my family at a Thanksgiving dinner, they don’t loll around in food comas afterward.  Rather, they stand up from their four-course meal—served with a bottle of wine on the side, thank you very much!—slip on a terribly fashionable coat and scarf and stride off in four-inch high heels (or polished leather shoes, in the case of men) looking thin, carefree, and fabulous.  The mechanics of this process defy comprehension.

Yes despite the mad delight of a visit to the Salon du Chocolat, I must admit I’d rather just take an autumn walk through Paris.  It’s a love affair of the best kind, and one that I hope will last a long, long time.

Photos from Ireland!!!

 Me at the Cliffs of Moher

 Panorama of the Cliffs of Moher

Very happy cows at the Cliffs of Moher

Me with James Joyce :)

Fall Days in Paris Part 1

I love fall.  No, let me rephrase that.  I adore fall.  If fall was suddenly transfigured into human form, we would elope right then and there and spend the rest of our lives cuddling by the fire, jumping in leaf piles, and eating pumpkin pancakes. 

Fall in Paris, while not quite the spectacular panorama of color that it is in New England, is nevertheless a magical time of year.  The last stragglers of the summer tourist season are making their way home, and the city seems suddenly able to breathe again.  A seasonal crispness grips the air.  Outside le Jardin de Luxembourg, a vendor roasts chestnuts in an enormous black pan.  Children bundled in coats, scarves, and brightly-hued hats, toddle along like awkward penguins, flapping puffy sleeves.  

It’s moments like these that make me fall in love with humanity.

But fall days are not merely chances to marvel at the adorableness of children.  They are invitations for adventure—a chance to try something new, go somewhere as yet undiscovered. 

Last week, that undiscovered something was le Musée d’Albert-Kahn (http://albert-kahn.hauts-de-seine.net/).  Located on the outskirts of Paris, this magnificent collection of gardens can be visited for the rock-bottom price of €1 students, €2,50 adults.  Perhaps most importantly, it is a guaranteed crowd-free area. 

So, upon hearing about this hidden jewel, Carol and I decided to make a picnic of it.  We packed up our paper plates and plastic cups, water bottles, sandwiches from the boulangerie, and the requisite Kit Kat bar, and took the metro over to Port Saint-Cloud, located at the end of line 10.  Basking in the sun, we delighted in the finer things in life: the crunch of a fresh baguette, the blue sky overhead, and the sensation of complete and all-encompassing relaxation.

The gardens are actually divided into four sections: the elegant, rigorously symmetrical, and admittedly boring French garden; the decidedly less symmetrical and far more interesting English garden; the forest section, which is meant to feel like an alpine woodland; and the museum’s crowning jewel, the Japanese garden and village, where tea ceremonies take place in finer weather.

At this time of year, one of the most wonderful attractions to the Japanese garden is the collection of Japanese maples, whose vibrant red leaves provide a burst of color amongst the regional trees.  Unlike the French garden, for example, which is now merely a collection of arbors covered in brown vines, the Japanese one continues to radiate color and life.  Streams and ponds are scattered throughout, spanned by red-painted bridges, and tiny walking paths wind up hills, past pagodas and tiny statues of Buddha, in a glorious whirl of fantasy.

 Tea House in Japanese Garden

 River through the Japanese Garden

The Japanese Bridge

The English garden and the woodland have their own charms, of course, with paths taking visitors through groves of silver birch trees and through rocky passageways suspended over ponds.  It's all the more beautiful, in fact, because it's so unexpected: you would never know that you were a three-minute metro ride away from the heart of metropolitan Paris.  And if it ever gets around to snowing in Paris, I may just hop on a train and rush over to Albert-Kahn.  I have a feeling it would be absolutely breathtaking.

 Expedition through the English Garden!

 We are supposedly near Switzerland...

 Close-up of tree vines, still near Switzerland...

 Me in the middle of an epic trek through the English garden

View of the French Garden with a steeple in the background

Random Pictures from Life in France

Last summer with ma maman at Fontainebleau.

My alma mater, in the truest sense of the word.

French ducks!!!  

On Crazy French Drivers

There is an uncountable number of things that I adore about France.  I walk down a street and fall in love ten times over—with the elderly lady biking home with a basketful of baguettes, with the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and warm pastries, with neighbors leaning out the windows and shouting morning greetings to each other in unbearably beautiful French.  I couldn’t even begin to describe it all.  

But there are also several things about France that make me want to run for cover and stay there for a long, long time.

A prime example: Parisian drivers.

Now, I may have a slight grudge against drivers, and against driving in general.  One of the innumerable things I love about France is there magical public transportation system, which my equally magical Navigo pass gives me unlimited access to.  But I can state with perfect objectivity and accuracy that Parisian drivers constitute a serious public danger.

 Perhaps we simply have different conceptions of good driving.  For example, when I see a green walk sign, I assume that that means the cars will stop driving.  Or at least slow down.   It took me several heart-stopping close calls to realize that Parisian drivers are operating under an entirely new set of rules.

Like every other country, France has a three-light system.  However, these lights seem to have slightly different meanings than they do in America.  Green is “go fast” ("slow" is somehow a central concept to all aspects of French life except driving).  Yellow means slam on the gas pedal while honking loudly at any vehicles under the mistaken impression that they are supposed to be slowing down.  Red means the same thing as green, except that you are advised to glance around for pedestrians before plowing through.  But that last part is merely a suggestion.

This being said, as with most of the crazier French tendencies, there's an element of genius among the madness.  I’ve been witness on various occasions to Parisian drivers performing feats of maneuvering never previously attempted or even imagined.  Perhaps because “stop” is such a foreign concept here, drivers go to extreme lengths to avoid anything so shameful as halting.  Cars pass each other like it’s their job, even on the narrowest of roads, and it is perfectly permissible to drive up onto the sidewalks to get around someone (this is particularly true of motorcyclists, who are yet another brand of crazy). 

Most importantly, no one can reverse like a Parisian driver.  Perhaps there’s a theory that it’s better to go backward than to simply stop.  But after watching a car back up half the length of a street at full speed, pull into a four-way intersection, and speed off in the opposite direction, I am too full of awe to attempt to analyze anything.  Which makes me suspect that, as much as I fear for my survival every time I cross I street, I secretly love Parisian drivers.

But somehow has got to teach them the meaning of a red light.

Nymphs, Horses, and Funny Turtles in le Jardin du Luxembourg

On Rainy Days in Paris

In Woody Allen’s fantastic 2011 film Midnight in Paris, the main character, played by Owen Wilson, states repeatedly that Paris is most beautiful in the rain.  After today, I am starting to think he has a point.  There is nothing like waking up late on a Sunday to a suddenly quiet and softly-lit world.  The Seine becomes a mass of steely gray ruffles, the sidewalks and monuments are slick with rain, and a host of umbrellas unfurl like brightly-colored bonbons.

 And the most wonderful thing about Paris in the rain?  No crowds.

Summer is, of course, beautiful in Paris.  But summer also means putting up with blazing heat, no air-conditioning (or ice, for that matter), and hordes of tourists speaking everything but French and occupying every sidewalk and park bench. In comparison, a rainy autumn day is pretty near perfect.

So this morning, after a breakfast of farm-fresh eggs and bread with honey for sustenance and an agreement to speak only French, my roommate Carol and I set off to explore the city.

While quite a few things close on Sundays, the marchés are always packed and bustling.  There is nothing quite like a Parisian marché.  I always feel as if I am wandering through an exotic bazaar, surrounded on all sides by wonderfully unfamiliar scents and sights and sounds.  A typical marché has two rows of tents on either side of an aisle, usually teeming with shoppers.  

As soon as you step over the threshold, you are whisked away to another world, one unlike any other.  The first thing you see is the fish stand, its glass display case lined with masses of crushed ice, silver scales dangling down from the tent roof like charms on a charm bracelet. 

No sooner have you gotten over the sight of enormous fish and baskets of mussels and shrimp, however, than you notice the display case of cheese right next to it.  You gape helplessly at the huge, soft rounds of brie and emmental, the mottled trapezoids of Roquefort, the tiny logs of goat and sheep cheese, the creamy interiors oozing out of each perfect wedge.  

Then the bread stand captures your attention, or the little tent selling tiny jars of honey and fruit preserves.  Some vendors offer scarves and handmade jewelry, or perfumed soap from the lavender fields of Provence.  Beyond these are tables heaped with baskets of eggplants, tomatoes, mesclun, potatoes, and produce you have never seen or dreamed of.  The rows of tents extend on and on, rain dripping down in between the cracks and soaking the asphalt.

The marchés may be a cost-effective (and delicious) way to shop for food, but I also love simply walking through them, taking in the sights.  There is a buzz of conversation in the air, calls for six eggs and half a kilo of haricots verts, furious debates over the origin and quality of these or those tomatoes, hands and elbows flying in every which way.  There is always the game of seeing which stands are most popular with locals, and of making a mental note to go there next time.  Occasionally, especially toward the end of the day, different stalls even hand out free samples; I won the last piece of an unnamed but delicious Greek pastry the other day by elbowing my way through a pack of men and beamed winningly at the baker, who professed himself unable to resist “un sourire comme ça.”

After finally reaching the other end of the marché, Carol and I set off for Musée d’Orsay, the Mecca of impressionist-lovers everywhere, hoping to see the new exhibit on Oscar Wilde's England.  As it turns out, however, visiting a world-famous museum on a rainy Sunday afternoon is not the best idea.  We took one look at the interminable line and kept on walking, ultimately ending up across the river at le Petit Palais.  

Built for the Universal Exposition of 1900, this glass-and-iron structure, despite what its name might suggest, is actually quite massive.  And for art lovers who want something eclectic and more under-the-radar, le Petit Palais is definitely worth checking out.  The permanent collection includes everything from Art Nouveau glasswork to Grecian urns to paintings by 19th-century masters Monet, Sisley, and Courbet, and has a particularly nice section on rococo art and artifacts.  Despite its size, le Petit Palais is also one of the rare Parisian museums where visitors can actually see the entire collection in a single afternoon.  Another plus: admission is free, although audio guides cost extra.

By 3 p.m., we were growing hungry, so we walked down to Place de la Concorde and took the metro to le Marais, one of the oldest sections of Paris.  Tucked away on a little, cobblestoned street was a little crêperie called La Cidrerie du Marais, which looked pleasantly busy and affordable.  

Inside its cozy, dark interior, we were greeted by a tiny, bubbly, blonde-haired waitress and the familiar strains of the Beatles.  We quickly downed our respective crêpes—mine was topped with mushrooms and chicken in a creamy sauce, Carol’s was filled with potatoes, wedges of sautéed apples, and the mysterious, delicious boudin noir grille—and then, more slowly, split a dessert: aptly called “La Winnie,” it was a circular crêpe drizzled with honey, with a scoop of cinnamon ice cream in the middle and tiny pain d’épices radiating out toward the edges.  At the end of the meal our plates were clean and we were staring at them with an expression akin to awe.

So, glowing with the contentment of the well-fed, we finally wandered home late in the afternoon.  Our French had grown noticeably more coherent as the day progressed, and under the cover of the peaceful gray sky it felt as if we had blended almost inconspicuously into our surroundings.  

It’s a strange and wonderful thing to live in a foreign country and yet to feel as if you almost belong.  The rhythms of the city slowly become your own, the unspoken rules of practice and protocol settle into your bones, and the invisible barrier that always separates foreigners from the rest of the population starts to ebb away.  Perhaps, as Woody Allen suggested, there is, indeed, something magical about Paris in the rain.  If so, I am looking forward to many rainy days to come.

Evening on the Seine

Bienvenue!

Ideally, blogs that document a year in Paris should begin with said blogger’s arrival in Paris.  The first post should be a virtual dance-for-joy-until-your-downstairs-neighbors-bang-on-the-ceiling sort of thing: I’m in Paris, I just saw the Eiffel Tower, and my internet (confirming my suspicions of it being much, much smarter than me) has already switched to Yahoo! France.

Of course, that would require the internet actually working and the French bureaucracy being able to fix it (still a work in progress).  But internet or no internet, I was still in Paris, I did indeed see the Eiffel Tower (although some part of me refuses to believe it’s not a cardboard cutout erected for the gullible tourist’s viewing pleasure) and some discreet dancing did ensue—no neighbors banging on the ceiling, although I wouldn’t blame them, at the rate I drop things very early in the morning.  In fact, over a month after my plane touched down on the picturesque tarmac of Charles de Gaulle airport, I still perform a mental jig every time I realize that I am spending the next year of my life in one of the most beautiful and fascinating cities in the world.

In retrospect, waiting a month to begin this blog was a good idea.  A month ago, I had never strolled through a marché, or experienced the delights of Shakespeare & Co., or been to Montmartre at night.  I didn’t have a favorite museum or boulangerie, or know how to stare down manic Parisian drivers.  I hadn’t yet met the adorable French toddlers at the end of our hall that cry Bonjour! every time they see me.  I hadn’t even ventured over to la rive droite, that magical place that once seemed terrifyingly far away to us Left Bankers.

This blog will be a record of all the random observations, encounters, and recommendations of an American in Paris, and is done with the utmost love and respect for the French culture, despite their continuing inability to get my internet working (we’ll get there eventually).

That being said, welcome to all, and bonne journée!