The trap of the restaurant conversation

Last Sunday I had completely gone through the food at my apartment, which was pretty sparse to begin with. Almost all stores in Paris are closed on Sunday, so I was planning to go grocery shopping the next day after classes. After getting out of class at 6:15, I ended up using the computers on campus for the next four hours, chatting and catching up on sites. I probably could have stayed longer but the building personnel told me to wrap it up. By the time I left to go home, I was starving, but since this is Paris, all the stores close early, 10 at the very latest. Even my little convenience store Proxi was closed (probably taking a long weekend). I walked up and down my block on both sides of the street looking for food until I get to Delice Tokyo, a sushi restaurant. A guy on a motorcycle went in, so I followed.

The host said something to me in French, and I, puppy-dog-eyed, responded, “A emporter, s’il vous plait,” meaning, “take out please.” He looked at the other hostess, and then in English said, “Okay sit down.” I realize now he probably was telling me the restaurant was closing, and I realize now that the guy on the motorcycle was a delivery person, but I was hungry! I ordered three normal rolls, the kind you could get cheap at any decent grocery store in America, and yet it was 13.80 euros—that’s about $18. For crap sushi. But I was just grateful to be fed.

This restaurant conversation is a frequent trap I fall into. I can order at bars or cafes in French, and be understood, and I feel so proud and accomplished. But then they’ll respond back in French and I have no idea what they are saying. No clue. It’s even harder when they’re speaking French through an Asian accent, but luckily names for maki rolls seem to be the same internationally, except probably for Japan.

Because I was in the neighborhood on Tuesday, I finally went grocery shopping at Monoprix. Monoprix is kind of like a really nice Target with groceries, but all really nice. I bought peanut butter there, which is such a find in Paris, and it was the most expensive thing I bought. But then after stocking up on groceries, I seemed to think the Monoprix was closer to my apartment than it really was—it was essentially three RER stops away! Still, I walked the straight shot home. My arm was about to fall off by the time I came to my building, especially after dragging the groceries up 6 flights of stairs. Now, I’m eating this really excellent cheese I got from there after dinner—it’s delicious—but I ran out of wine last night and am drinking it with water—a big Frenchie no-no!

The Metro workers, and possibly the public sector as a whole, are supposed to strike tomorrow. My Impressionism/Post-Impressionism class is supposed to go to the Musee D’Orsay tomorrow, but since we’re going nearly every Thursday, it’s not a great loss, but it will make it a pain getting around if I have to walk to and from school. Impressionism is my hardest class for sure—it’s a 300 level art history class, and the last time I took an art history class was high school. I never liked Impressionism and always thought it was a very suburban mom genre, perhaps because my mom likes it, but it is such a Paris-centric period in art and really teaching me so much about the city. The teacher is tough though—she means business.

I’m also taking Creative Writing Poetry, which is really nice to get my creative juices going after four years of formulaic journalism writing; Film Noir, which is watching and discussing movies; Making a Documentary, where we watch documentaries and create one by the end of the semester; and Communicating Fashion, where we talk about the positive and negative but always powerful role fashion has played throughout history and today. I think it's my favorite class. I’m taking five classes so this can be my last semester of college. Graduation a full year early—go out with a bang, I say!


For my Poetry class, our first assignment was to write a lyric poem about one specific thing. Mine, below, is about my apartment:

Hidden at the top of the forbidden tower
Up ceaseless flights of shallow steps,
And past the vacant marble tribute to
A life kept separate from those below,

Through the locked entryway
And the coded door of secret numbers,
Like an alligator-filled moat protecting a rotting kingdom,
Combinations thought up by an unknown genius,

Lies a fifteen-square-meter cell.
Expensive but free to leave as you please,
Compartments in a honeycomb.
Bees with no Queen.

The RER moves under me, and my foundation shakes.
Cigarette smoke permeates from the sides or below
But not from my window. Voices echo down the halls,
Reminding me of how alien I am.

They say after years of prison life,
It becomes all the prisoner knows.
Toy car ambulances scramble by,
But who is hurt?

My legs burn--
But in a good way.
The dead bolt clanks to the right,
And I dismantle today’s attempt at armor.

After sidewalk pretense and miscommunication,
Seven-dollar baguettes and wet socks,
A warm glow comes on and familiar sounds set in,
And I forget where I am.

Going to school at AUP, aside from being in Paris, is a very different type of school than I’m used to. It’s very small, and though it’s in a big city, social life seems to revolve around the school. It has three main buildings in the 7th arrondisment and a small student body, comprised heavily by visiting students. That means the full-time students really stick together and everyone knows everyone. There is a bar/café in the school that people go to all the time—even I go since they have a good, cheap lunch—and there are weekly events that everyone goes to. I’m usually very anti, but since this is essentially my last semester of college, I’ve let my judgment down and given the campus life a chance, for now... Full-time AUP students, on the other hand, are a whole nother story.