La différence fondamentale

The fundamental difference between France and America boils down to which direction they are looking in. Old Europe, as seen through France, already had its glory days. Its empire, an amazing contribution to humanity, the sciences and arts, has already peaked, and because of this, France is always looking backwards, clinging tightly to its history. America, on the other-hand, is forward-looking and thinking of what’s next. This can be a bad thing, of course, since America may not pay enough attention to its past mistakes, not learning from its history and allowing it to repeat itself. But countries like France do not contribute to our modern world the way America does. It simply preserves a slice of a past world.

It’s seen in Paris’s architecture and art: the one skyscraper, Montparnasse, is something polarizing—most Parisians don’t like its presence. Or in anything remotely new or different—the I.M. Pei Louvre Pyramids or when Jean-Claude and Christo wrapped the Pont Neuf Bridge temporarily in fabric—the Parisians have something negative to say about it.

I’m taking a Communicating Fashion course, and this is most apparent in the Haute Couture system. The French fashion system works so hard at controlling Haute Couture, to limit who is allowed to join and use the name’s exclusive cache that’s desirable around the world. But if someone in Malaysia made the exact same ridiculous outfit that John Galliano made one season before, they would look like a complete fool. It’s all about the French stamp of approval. If it’s not under the Haute Couture name, it’s not high fashion. This type of control dates back for centuries, as seen in the art world. The French Academy had strict control over the art being shown and sold, all of it in the Roman tradition and NONE of it dealing with contemporary life (until the Impressionists). France works so hard at maintaining control over its culture.

It’s a fantastic culture, though, and I totally understand why they are so adamant about preserving it. And with the whole world being globalized, it’s nice to know that France, even as a part of the EU, will remain truly French, even if it gets on my nerves some days.

Slow walking

I’ve started to notice myself walking slower in the last week or two. No one here is ever in a rush, and everyone is walking at a saunter at best. It really annoyed me at first because I like to rush to my destination, weave in and out of pedestrians like traffic, and stomp by with my iPod on—though few people here use iPods, most people read on the metro which is definitely a good quality, but how do you avoid eye contact with the creeper sitting across from you on the train without an iPod? Still can’t live without my iPod, and I’m still always rushing on my way to school as I’m of course running late every day. But it’s simply more than Parisians being slower walkers—they are inconsiderate walkers. This is the most evident when boarding the metro. First off, people don’t stand to the side of the doors and let people off before boarding, they just start getting on. Common courtesy if you ask me. Next, when they are getting on, they take their sweet time even though the doors are closing and there are people behind them. It’s just very rude. It's nice to relax, but it still annoys me time to time how slowly people walk here, but maybe it’s just because they need their concentration to avoid all the dog shit on the ground.

Another Parisian habit that still shocks me is when I see parents smoking near their babies. People will not only be pushing strollers but physically holding their baby while smoking. Scandalous.

But one of the best things about Paris is how attractive their service people are. Bus drivers, male and female, are young to middle-aged, attractive and friendly. People that you get sandwiches from are wearing nice turtlenecks and have their hair done. I don’t know how to say this without sounding uppity, but in America, service people are the grossest, most ghetto people you can imagine. It’s a delight to be serviced by these fine Parisians!

Yesterday my friend and I went to the Musee de Luxembourg, right near me in the Jardin de Luxembourg, for the last day of the “De Miro a Warhol” (From Miro to Warhol) exhibit. After interning at Interview Magazine where Warhols are on all the walls, not to mention seeing his and Miro’s work at MOMA and other museums, I figured I’d seen a good chunk of his work. And I was right. The exhibit was a disappointment: in fact, it barely had any Miro or Warhol, and the works did not have any coherent connection between them except they were all owned by this one rich art collector, which is not enough of a theme for me. I did buy a calendar of the exhibit on sale for only two euros though, which is great to keep track of my limited time here. I LOVE art museum gift shops almost more than regular stores. I suppose I’m really disappointed about the exhibit because I am totally cheap here and spending money on disappointing things always has me thinking of how I could have better spent that money, kind of like going out.

The first two weeks I got here, I went out a lot and would regularly stay out until 5 or 6 AM, but I feel like I haven’t gone out in a while. Paris is a huge city with a lot I still have yet to see, but I just feel like Paris is a tease wherever I’ve gone out so far, and as I said, spending money on disappointing things makes you wish you just spent 3.5 euros on a cheap bottle of wine and laid low at home.

But there is still so, so, so much I have to see, but this is my month for traveling. Every week my Impressionism class has been going to the Musee D’Orsay and this week my Communicating Fashion class visited the Musee Gallerie. With Spring Break this week and a one-way ticket to Barcelona, I’m excited to explore more of Europe before all my midterms, final papers and final exams take into effect April and May.

I was never a freak about speaking French—I wanted to be able to get by, and that’s all I was striving for. But since going to Stockholm where everyone spoke perfect English and it was just so easy, I’ve really stopped caring about learning French. I’m not saying this is a good thing at all, just a signal to the world that I’m kind of over trying.

Don’t get the wrong idea, I do like my life here, and for better or for worse I’ve already fallen into a pattern of living. I go to school and eat a cheap baguette sandwich for lunch at the university café for 2 euros, and when class is over at 6:30 on Mondays and Wednesdays (plus Tuesdays because I’m doing stuff around campus), I’m starving, so on my way to the bus stop at Ecole Militaire I pick up a baguette (one euro) which I start to immediately stuff my face with on my way to the bus, on the bus, and on my way home. I make pasta, eat cheese and wine, and have my pasta with the leftover third of baguette. While Paris is an easy city to live in (aside from the difficult language barrier), I will always feel like a visitor here. I will never feel like a habitant of Paris, only a foreigner. And for that I’m anxious to be a foreigner in other countries of Europe.

I love Slutreas--and Stockholm at Large

This weekend three friends and I visited the hipster haven of Stockholm, Sweden. I'd long wanted to go to Stockholm since many of my favorite brands, like Cheap Monday and Acne, are from there. At first we were planning to go to Venice for Carnivale, but we discovered flights that weekend were expensive, and Ryanair had a cheap deal to Stockholm, everything seemed to fall into place.

Getting to Stockholm was a bit of a pain. After first waking up early and taking the metro to Port Maillot in Paris, we got to the bus station literally seconds before it left. The bus (which cost 13 euros) took an hour and a half to get to the Beauvais airport, then an hour and a half flight outside Stockholm and then another hour and a half bus to the city. That's the problem with budget travel--they take you so far out of the city that you end up having to pay more to get into the city.

Every store in the city had signs for "SLUTREA." Even though I know it means Sale, I couldn't help but laugh every time. As if you need that extra slap when you call someone a slut, the adding of "rea" like an STD really does the trick. I live for slutreas. Shopping in Stockholm is better than Paris, in my opinion, because it's more my style and my budget. I got a pair of green Cheap Mondays and briefs from the Weekday store for only $15!

Changing of the guards in Gamia Stan

Jess, Soo-Young and I in Sodermalm.

Ice-skating on Valentine's Day in Normalm.

The food in Stockholm was also some of my favorite in Europe so far--meatballs, awesome sandwiches, salmon lox, lingonberries and chocolates. Stockholm as a city is just really pretty. It's called the Venice of the North because it's a set of connecting little islands, like Gamia Stan (the Old City) and Sodermalm (the cool, younger area), and it's never been destroyed in any wars--a fact which I referred to this week in my poetry class. Our assignment was to write a descriptive poem about a piece of art, so I wrote about an over-sized gun statue with the barrel twisted into a knot. It made me think of Bjork's "Hunter" when she sings, "I thought I could organize freedom--how Scandinavian of me."

Sculpture in Stockholm that was the basis of my poetry assignment.

Hearts rising from Soo-Young on Valentine's Day weekend.

People in Stockholm were very friendly and all spoke English. The greeting in Sweden is "Hej," pronounced "Hey," which sounds like everyone is just being really informal with you. You answer back in English because you forget that it's actually Swedish. The hostel we stayed in was so accomodating, lively and friendly, but the night life was very strange. Most of the clubs were 23 plus and 25 plus, so we only went to a bar. I think I liked Stockholm the best of everyone I traveled with because it was so relaxing for me to speak English and not struggle with a foreign language. It made me not want to go back to Paris where I'm constantly flustered. On the metro home from the airport, immediately a homeless man sits next to me with a bloody hand mumbling in French. Yup--back in Paris.

A map in the train station. Is this how Scandinavia views the world at large?

Traveling with people can be really hard. I went with four friends, but in groups, you are connected through a mutual friend to someone who you really share no common interests. I'm the decision maker, always, and the one with the loudest opinions, so I usually take charge of traveling, but I feel bad for those who don't get what they want from a trip. Last night Soo-Young and I booked a one-way ticket to Barcelona for Spring Break (which is next week). We don't know where we're staying, what we're doing or how we're leaving, but we know that we'll be enjoying ourselves in Spain!

Pictures taken by Jessica Basil

Ice-Skating in Stockholm

Versailles and Montmartre in Pictures

Versailles looking as picturesque as ever.

There I am!

My friend Soo-Young and Danielle with me by the solid-gold gates. They're both from Northeastern and even my age though we didn't know each other before.

Soo-Young being kawaii with our audio-tour headset in the palace.

Our tarnished reflection in the hall of mirrors.

Hall of Mirrors: So fancy.
Marie Antoinette 's bed, where she publicly gave birth in front of all of the French aristocracy.

It's interesting to remember that during the time of Marie Antoinette in Versailles was also the birth of America. France had a great deal to do with the American Revolution, including this man, whom Lafayette St. in New York was named after. Then he brought back many of the ideas from the American Rev. to France. Many American institutions, like the Rockefellers, fund the Versailles Palace today, and there is a definite connection between the two countries.

The expansive gardens.

Cue the Marie Antoinette soundtrack.

Checking out Montmartre later that weekend.

Cathedral at Montmartre

And finally a riverboat tour of the Seine

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.

The Difference with Paris Style and Why I'm Proud to be an American

I never knew why Paris was called the City of Lights, given the number of fluorescent signs in other cities like New York or Tokyo or even Las Vegas, but I finally realize Parisians love to put cute, sparkly lights on just about everything. Every night the Eiffel Tower is totally sparkly, as is the Hotel de Ville across the Seine. The Eiffel Tower even shines like a lighthouse (borderline cheesy) across the city. The sparkly lights aren’t glaring and seizure-inducing like other urban centers—it’s just cute.

Paris should rename itself from the City of Lights to the City of Scarves. Scarves are truly an integral part of living here that I have fully embraced. My roommate Marie in Boston while helping me pack for Paris (i.e. watching me freak out while I put everything I own into boxes) would only let me bring one scarf. She said, What is Paris if not a place to buy scarves? I’ve yet to buy more, but I desperately need to. Scarves here aren’t just something you wear outside to protect from the cold—you never take them off. Not in a restaurant while eating or in classes or in a bar, your scarf is a crucial part of your outfit that’s both stylish and totally cozy. I’ve been wearing my same one every single day.

All the stereotypes about Paris are true. Everyone eats baguettes that they pick up on their way from work, no one smiles in public places like the metro yet you’re expected to be very polite when dealing with strangers, and everyone is really, really chic. Not so much fashionable as they are chic. Parisians really do have that “je ne sais quoi” that even when they look totally blah, they just look so COOL! I can’t explain it, but I’m jealous. I see 6-year-old boys all the time that are dressed so much cooler than I ever will.

But everything in Paris is so expensive. It’s no mystery why everyone looks so chic when there literally is no option to buy cheap clothes. It’s just not even an option here. I wanted just some cheap Hanes undershirts, but I really think I’d have to go far out to the burbs to get them. Maybe that’s the way it should be, though, to take away the option of looking disgusting. The world would be a much better place.

New York and Paris have such different styles. There really isn’t much diversity in fashion here, it’s all about dark colors, clean lines and looking chic. Everyone looks pretty much the same here. New York has so many different styles, a lot more streetwear, and a general rebelliousness not found here. In New York, you always know that wherever you go, there WILL be someone weirder than you, so you can go as crazy as you want in dressing and it won’t even be shocking. Trends exist much more in NY, where there’s more of an emphasis on what’s in style right now. I think in NY, there’s kind of a survival mode and people dress much tougher to project that image, while with the quaintness and grandeur of Paris, people here are much more simple and chic. Sometimes Parisians even wear the same outfit a few days in a row.


But this is a very exciting time to be an American in Paris. This Tuesday, I, along with the rest of the world, celebrated Obama’s inauguration into the White House. My family all warned me before going to Paris that the French did not like Americans, but this event marks a real change for how the French view us in almost a decade, and it’s pretty special to feel proud to be an American while living here. I first went with some friends to a New York-style bar here that was celebrating the occasion with Obama-themed shots, but it was so crowded that they weren’t letting people in. My friend who did get in, though, actually made it to the CNN website (Image 7) of celebrations around the world. Instead we went over to another friend’s apartment, who is half American and half French, and it really got me thinking how anyone of any background can connect to Obama’s status as an outsider. It bothered me at first that he’s half-black/half-white, and everyone was referring to him as the first black president. But in retrospect, his not belonging completely to either group makes him that much more of an underdog, and any person around the world who has ever felt like an outsider (which I can safely assume is the majority) can relate to him. It’s a very exciting time.

Being at AUP, there are people studying here from around the world, and they often ask where I’m from. They’ll be Swedish, Polish, Saudi Arabian, and it’s a very strange sensation for me to identify as an American. I know I am one, but whenever I’m asked where I’m from, I’ve always answered Atlanta, Georgia. Or, that I go to school in Boston. But never, I’m from America.

So far, in my almost two weeks here, I’ve found that it’s really easy to live an American life in Paris. That’s definitely not my goal in my time living here, but it’s easy to surround yourself with other Americans, use English in stores and go to English-speaking bars. Often in shops, I start to use my poor French and they immediately break in with English just to end the awkward conversation. That’s not the case for my grocery store, though, where everyone--both employees and customers--definitely think I’m retarded. I fumble with French every day, but I finally bought a French-English dictionary and it’s given me a new lease on life. Now, next time I need to go to the post office, I’ll stay up all the night before memorizing the simple words I need to use by heart before going to buy stamps (which France does not use stamps anymore! Hello! Was anyone going to tell me??)

I haven’t really felt the recession here the way it was so all pervasive in America. No one really talks about it and it’s not really brought up on the French news like it was nightly in the States. Paris is a really cute city, but I can’t help but compare it to New York. I’m enjoying my time here, but it’s really validating my love for New York.