Tourist Attractions, the Metro, Fashion's Night Out, Magic at the Louvre

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Catacombs and Party

Okay so I wrote this elaborate story about the catacombs but in my frustration with the shitty internet I guess I didn’t save it before I hard reset my computer  and I’m too lazy to rewrite it since the magic has sort of dissipated since it was Saturday and it’s now Monday and I have other ridiculous stories.

So in short, if you don’t know what the Paris catacombs are they’re the secret underground tunnels that were buried under the city hundreds of years ago. Yes, there is the part with the creepy bones all stacked up to the ceiling, I thought I was going to see it but I didn’t (you can pay to see that part, this part is illegal to enter). What I saw was a creepy maze of tunnels, water up to your waste (I ruined a good pair of shoes, who thinks oh in Paris I will need knee high rubber boots?!), the ceiling is very low in some places (I had to walk like a reverse chart of human evolution) a lot of graffiti, street signs older than the Louisiana Purchase (maybe?? They’re definitely older than every American suburb though, but you can fact check me if you want). So, eventually we find this alcove to settle in for a little (to drink wine and smoke cigarettes and make merriness), there was a large castle (sand castle style) carved out of the walls of an unidentified age. Randomly we ran into a strange news crew from Quebec that interviewed my companions, uninterested in an interview in English…although people speak English in Canada too. It really seemed like an out of body experience to be under a city in this strange dark place. It was really like a mixture of Scooby Doo, Indiana Jones, and L’Auberge Espagnole. So, google it I don’t know what else to say about it besides it was interesting.

So, then the next day (Saturday) my hosts and new friends at this apartment in Jaures (the neighborhood) had a birthday party. As I may have said before, my French is not perfect; I can for the most part say what I’m thinking and get my point across if I have patient listeners but I get kind of lost in a conversation when there are multiple people or someone speaks too fast or doesn’t enunciate their words, it makes it harder to concentrate. So anyways, I feel like learning/speaking a new language is like dating. So on your first day you may be too nervous to have a good conversation because you’re scared of saying the wrong thing and misrepresenting yourself...so if you’re like me you need to have a couple of drinks to loosen up.  So, after two or three…you can say what’s on your mind without being too scared of what your prospective lover will think. Then after dipping your toes in the water you get a little bit more comfortable with the person, after a few more dates you’re dating. Maybe you’re kissing (saying hello, and asking for directions, and making small talk), then you go the bases yanno first base second base (effectively telling an elaborate story in French), and then when you’re finally able to  talk about politics, religion, and science it’s sex. So, I cannot wait to pop my metaphorical cherry…but I feel like I’ll get lucky eventually.

So, language learning rant aside the party was interesting. I met a lot of French people, spoke a lot of Franglais (French + English), and witnessed a fight; Elsa is a badass (and my new best friend in Paris)…the fight happened with some guys of the other roommate being disrespectful to the apartment and they tried to kick them out yadayadayada Elsa lays down the law on some surrender monkeys blahblahblah it was kind of funny. Afterwards the party continues, just like any other American college kid party. A college party is a college party is a college party….except maybe for the people who I’m going to school with which I’ll explain later. So, after drinking much courage to speak entirely in French I got the spins and had to go to bed….hopefully I don’t do that on my next date.

End.

The next day I met with my new roommate to be who was a bit indecisive about whether or not he wanted me to stay in his apartment (I suppose it is a big deal to live with a stranger). So I saw this apartment first last Tuesday, it took until Sunday for him to choose, but he chose me!!! How lucky am I to find such a decent apartment within a week. Comparatively it’s a good price, I’d much rather live in Africa (the neighborhood’s a lot of African and Muslim immigrants) in a nice apartment with very nice furniture and my own room, internet, nice and clean roommate, than near St. Germain de Pres near my school. So if we use the New York analogy I’m living in Brooklyn (minus all the hipsters and artists) and commuting to my school on the Upper East Side like the Humphreys from gossip girl, it’s the only metaphor I could think of.

First days in Paris

Day Two:

Paris is truly beautiful. The first day in a new city is always truly stressful; buying a phone the massive impossible headache that is finding a decently priced decently located apartment in Paris, thankfully I’d been lucky to make friends with a French native.  Camille at a diminutive 5 foot tall is as cute as a bucket full of buttons, it may be her French accent or the way she speaks even more cutely in English, because errors in verb tense, word order mishaps, and maybe the insecurity imbedded in speaking a language that you weren’t born into. It’s all so endearing and I severely hope the Parisians will think the same thing about me, but maybe not.  At any rate we met through one of my best friends Jennifer who lived in France for a year in high school, Camille was her host sister, they became good friends, stayed in contact…Camille came to New Mexico for a summer internship and spent the summer with us and their amazingly beautiful and stereotypically German friend Sophie (in the sexual undertones and yayaya speak) so, we bonded (it’s all very cute). So that’s how I ended up in this beautiful apartment in Paris. It was built in something like 1900, it’s got all those quirky French attributes I’d read about:

The elevators: Most apartment complexes in Paris were built before elevators were commonplace, so now I guess you’re lucky to have one I’ve been told. Maybe that’s why Parisian women have such great asses?  Or maybe it’s the designer jeans, who knows. So the elevators are half of the size of a port-o-potty, this one is new, so it’s got one of them fancy glass doors. In my future apartment I’d like to have one of the famous ones that’s in the center of the spiral staircase with the grate that can cut your hand off and leave you trapped there until the worker finishes his strike. 

The kitchens: sometimes there’s a stove. Sometimes there’s a washing mashing where the dishwasher would be if you’re lucky. Counter space is unheard of, so I’ll buy the smallest of kitchen appliances or get really creative and mount my toaster to the ceiling like peewee.

The refrigerator would make my Albuquerque chef beau squeamish.  Consider the Texas state motto “everything’s bigger in Texas!”…well, I’m not in the southwest anymore…and Everything’s smaller in France!  (except the flocks of pigeons that fly dangerously close to your face) . The refrigerator is one of those mini college dorm fridges that many a American would use solely to fill with a favorite alcoholic beverage. In these Parisian mini fridges you may only find the essential milk and fromage rape which means shredded cheese (but it conjures up the most bizarre image of an angry man doing obscene things with the holes of Swiss cheese.

So like I said, I’m having a very difficult time finding an apartment, but today I viewed my first one. It’s in the 20^th arradonisment which is on the edges so it’s a low price for Paris, a high price for us Yankees at 500 euro. You can see the Eiffel Tower and Sacre Coeur from the balcony and it’s furnished, strangely just like my apartment in Albuquerque, with a nice guy who shares a lot of interests.  I will hear back from him on Saturday. Keeping my fingers crossed!

Day Three:

So today Camille left for Moscow, sad day I no longer have a confidant and personal tour guide; Today I realized how much I need one. So since she left her roommates are letting me stay for three weeks since the other roommate is out of the country. FOR FREEEE, how awesome is that...at any rate the apartment hunt must carry on, harder. So, since the roommates left for work and their lives and whatever, I decided it would be brilliant idea to explore on my own since I’m so fond of doing things of that nature in my explorative spirit.

                I mean, it’s not that I’d always considered myself the Magellan of all cities, but I thought my sense of direction could serve me internationally since it does domestically. The thing I forgot in all of my excitement is that in exploring American cities they’re built on a grid. Paris is a windy wagon wheel of whimsical wonders…ooooh alliteration.  I digress. So, I have it in mind that I will discover the new land of le Marais (French for the swamp, like our great American forefathers!) because it is the epicenter of Jewish culture as well as gay culture in Paris and it’s most known for its trendiness, so albeit I want to be there. I got so far as Bastille. My epically lost march may have looked somewhat Parisian in the sense that I was walking fast and looked real pissed off.  So, I walk around aimlessly trying to find this place I don’t even know where to start, staring at maps, staring at metro maps, staring at the chic cafes and windows of bountiful optical shops. I got nowhere. In circles I went.

                These circles, maybe concentric, led me to the Orange shop, which is my pay as you go cell phone provider, as I ran out of minutes on my walk and needed to call a friend for directions. I ended up waiting in line for at least 30 minutes since there are only two salespeople in this store on such a busy street. Oy vey.  Finally purchased some more minutes after much franglais (francais + anglais/english) and sign language….Did not understand how to activate the minutes, tried to get back on the metro dejectedly. I felt as if I’d never find this epically cool place I was looking for. And I didn’t. But the day was not a waste. As I marched on the disorientation worsened exponentially with a direct correlation to my blood sugar, so frustrated and nearing a diabeticesque faint I stopped at the cheapest (but cutest) café on Saint Antoine and had the most delightful lunch! The server was very kind contrary to common perception. I ate a ham and cheese baguette, drew a picture of my surroundings, drank two glasses of vin rouge; which can give a pretty decent buzz when you don’t eat until 2 o clock. I sat on the patio next to a rich American family, probably southern, and eavesdropped on the most terrible ‘mayrecee boooocooo”ing  and was proud to be an American that’s not intrinsically embarrassing.