Observations in Paris.

Right now, I am procrastinating getting out of bed and getting dressed. I am meant to go and see the Pope at Notre Dame today but I am not looking forward to the 7 hours I will spend camping outside the cathedral just to see him. It is gray and looks like it may rain, which only makes matters worse. And to make matters even more worse, my eye is swelling shut from some allergic reaction to God knows what (I'm assuming a mosquito bite) and therefore it looks like I am the victim of domestic violence or a BDSM enthusiast. Seriously. Not exactly the face I want to have when meeting the Pope.

But enough about that and more about Paris.

Parisians are an entirely interesting bunch of people. You think that you all "escape the bubble" when you leave college but to be honest, the whole world is a bunch of bubbles. Yes, they are different than Flekke and no two bubbles are exactly alike, but every corner of the world is a little strange microcosm of being not found anywhere else. Paris is an enormous, enormous bubble, but still a bubble.

After a long trip that finally ended at Charles de Gaulle, I was sarcastically dealt with by customs officials (eh, americaine...) before being allowed to leave the airport and meet Marc. We carried my two bags, both the size and weight of dead cows, all the way through the city's metro system and off to our little corner of the world. When we exited at our Metro stop, I was amazed by how French the street was. Now, that might sound stupid, but seriously. It is just so French. Exactly what you see in high school textbooks. Bakeries everywhere and cobblestoned streets and everyone smoking at tables outside of cafes. Apparently, Parisians never carry lighters even though they all smoke like chimneys and they did not hesitate to ask us for lighters as we carted the two dead-cow-bags through the neighborhood. We finally got to our building, wrestled the bags up 3 stories of spiral staircases and into the apartment.

The apartment. It seemed small at first. Now it seems normal. We have a full kitchen, our own bathroom, an enormous bed and a pull-out couch...really, everything we need. We have lots of windows and they are always open. There is a primary school near my building so all day I hear screaming French children on the playground behind the apartment. The apartment only has one sink that is apparently supposed to double as the kitchen sink and the bathroom sink. At first it was a bit awkward to have to move dishes aside to brush your teeth, but we're used to it now. You have to light a fire in the oven to make it heat up (seriously) but it's kind of cool. We don't have a table to eat at yet, but the couch is working out just fine. We buy baguettes in the mornings for breakfast and eat them with goat cheese. We always have wine in the apartment. We don't have enough storage space for all of our clothes so there are random piles of things all over the place, but I'll sort that out soon enough. The apartment has white walls with yellow trim and doors and blue curtains. At first, I thought it was a little ugly but now I would say that it has a kind of retro charm about it. We have managed to put up one picture (Picasso's "Don Quixote", a birthday present from Pilar) but I'm working on doing a little more decorating. All in all, the place is really starting to feel like home.

I have done almost all of the touristy stuff already. Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc du Triomphe, blah blah blah. Don't get me wrong, it's all lovely and I will re-visit all of these places many times. But the most interesting insight into Paris has come from just walking around or sitting at cafes.

Parisians have yet to discover the wonders of air conditioning. I swear, it just does not exist in this country. Which really would be okay as open windows are nice, except for all the mosquitoes that fly in through those open windows.

Also, in Paris, anything can be a parking space. I have seen people park mo-peds in the tiny little spaces between cars parked along the curb. Yesterday, I even saw someone park their car next to a median in the middle of the road. As in, he just kind of turned his car off in the middle of driving and got out and went walking around. No one even bat an eye.

Parisian men are very good at staring and winking at any woman within eyesight, but I think that most of them would pee their pants if one of these women actually approached them to talk.

All Parisians smoke and they have absolutely no qualms about asking for a cigarette from a complete stranger.

Parisians will applaud equally as loudly whether they are watching an American ex-pat juggle flaming batons at the Centre Pompidou or whether they are listening to a German street musician make his way through a heavily-accented version of "Knocking on Heaven's Door" on the steps of the Sacre-Coeur.

Paris is a very normal city fashion-wise. The people who try the hardest with how they dress seem to be foreigners. Parisian women don't look like they think twice about what they throw on in the morning, but most of them still look fabulous even if they are just wearing jeans and a cut-out t-shirt.

There is an unofficial uniform for Parisian men. For one thing, a respectable Parisian man has long-ish hair that is a little messy. They always look like they have not shaved in a couple of days. They wear jeans and tweed blazers or jackets and always have a cigarette hanging out of their mouths. If they want you to notice them, they push their long-ish hair out of their face and smile, wink, or possibly even offer you a cigarette as well.

Alright, that is all about Paris right now as the Pope waits for no one, especially not me. I have finally gotten a French phone so if you ever feel like calling, I'd love to listen. +33 06 76 07 76 96.

In Paris, finally.

Life feels a bit like a dream. I am poor, I live in a small apartment, I only eat bread and cheese, and I spend my days walking along the Seine or perusing used bookstores. It is all, in fact, wonderful.

My address, in case you are interested, is:

Valerie Bondura
30 Rue Geoffroy St-Hilaire
75005 Paris
France

As I write, a French waiter is trying to kick me out of the cafe I am at because apparently I am abusing their free internet because all I ordered was a coffee. And seeing as I am not about to spend 10 euros on a salad so I can keep sitting here, I'll have to write a proper post some other time.

Going...going....gone.

The next sign of life will come from a cramped apartment on Rue Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire (or perhaps a Parisian internet cafe).

Until then, bisous d'une americaine perdu.

Indian Summer

The summer is winding down. The last days of summer are always my favorite, those heavy, hot days in August when everyone tries to squeeze the last ounce of perfect out of the summer. "Indian summer". All the things you meant to do all summer but never did are all crammed into August. Everyone goes out for ice cream, they spend their days running around in the parks, they spend their nights at rooftop bars with trendy cocktails enjoying the breeze as the sun sets.

In many ways, I feel like I could do this all the time. But it wouldn't be as sweet if it was permanent, would it?

I worked my last night at the restaurant on Saturday. It's funny, it is the job I loved to hate. But I really did love to hate it. It was addictive. And I cared about it, as stupid as it was. But leaving work really drove home the point that the summer was over. It brought me to tears, honestly. Everything about my life this summer has radiated from that restaurant. I have met some of the most entertaining people, some that I only spent a brief conversation on and some that I have come to care about in ways I did not expect. I grew up in a way I never had to at college, I got my first taste of what the "real" world is like from that restaurant. I learned about wine and learned to mix cocktails. I learned to appreciate things that I knew nothing about before. And now it's over.

On Sunday, I went to a new church. It was enormous, what we call a "megachurch". It is hard for any non-American to imagine such a thing, thousands of people all worshipping in a building with no alter, no crosses, no stained glass windows, no choir, not even a specific denomination. Instead, it had stadium seating and electric guitars. The church even had a Starbucks Cafe inside of it. To be honest, the whole thing kind of blew my mind as well. But it was nice to be at a church, it is something that I had not realized I missed so much until I went back to it. I'm quite looking forward to the cathedrals of Paris.

I've bought the Julieta Venegas CD (I know, at this point, it's already kind of old and I'm kind of out of it). But I love it. I mean, seriously? I always wrote off "Eres Para Mi" as pathetic Mexican pop sung by some Thalia-wannabe but now I can't stop singing it. And every other song on the CD. She's just so...happy.

I have been so happy lately with things that are so small. I love getting peach Italian cream sodas from a small cafe at the edge of a city park and just spending hours walking and reading and writing and enjoying. I love singing in the middle of the road in Buford when the entire town has already gone to sleep and chasing the train along the tracks each time it passes. I love spending the afternoon in bookstores, buying whatever I feel like or not buying anything at all. I love slow dancing at 3:00 am to songs from the jukebox at trashy 24-hour restaurants. I love all of it.

I only have a few more days of reddish-orange sunsets and cotton dresses and gelato and impromptu lullabies but I am betting that Parisians also know a thing or two about the wonders of Indian summer.

It is late and the weekend has already passed me by before I even had a chance to notice. I feel like I have wasted a lot of time lately, spun my wheels, avoided doing things and making plans and generally procrastinated life in general.

I'll be leaving for Paris in two weeks and for some reason, I am scared. In some ways, more scared than I was about leaving for college. Yes, college prepares you well for what it feels like to have to leave somewhere. But it does not necessarily prepare you well for going somewhere. I am used to saying goodbyes, used to being uprooted. But the college takes care of you upon arrival. Your social life, your academic life, your residential life...all of it is predetermined by some extent by other people or simply by the fact that you find yourself living in an extremely isolated and secure corner of Norway with 200 other people. Life doesn't happen like that in other places.

So it is not really leaving that I am scared of. It is what happens after I leave. I know I will miss people, but I do not fear it. I know I will miss my home and my country but again, I do not fear it. What I do not know, however, is what I will do and who I will be doing it with once I leave. There is no safety net to fall back on if I find myself lonely or bored in Paris. I can't call maintenance to replace a light bulb in my room, I can't go to the kantina to eat a meal if I'm hungry, I can't go to Snikkarbua to meet up with people. I am moving to a city full of strangers who quite frankly don't give a damn whether I starve to death miserably or not. And that is what I am afraid of, that unknown, that lack of someone to jump in and save me should I need it.

I have been looking forward to my soon-to-be independence in Paris for so long. When did it change from being something to be excited about to being something to be frightened about?

Here and Now

It has been said that love is the glorification of the present. Love cares not for the past and throws caution to the wind when it comes to thoughts of the future. Love, in it's purest form, is about the here and now. It is about the present smile, the present warmth, the present wine, the present conversation, the present gaze. It happens only when you finally cease to think beyond the moment. Anything outside of your exact focus becomes meaningless, everything else falls away. It is impossible to think of future moments, or past moments, because you must indulge yourself so fully in the present, become engulfed by the temporal nature of it all. Love happens at that exact moment when you can feel the entire world turn to look at you, when you can feel the whole world watch you and smile, nodding in approval. Love happens in that spotlight. It is not quiet, it is not reasonable. It is decadent and reckless. And it happens because you realize your own finite being, you feel the pressure of time. It happens when you unconditionally live in the present. It happens when you are lucky enough to let yourself allow it to happen. It happens to you and because of you and for you. It is dangerous. And it is wonderful.

My New-Found Loves

1. Quills and ink
2. www.statravel.com
3. Shiraz, Malbec, and Rioja wines
4. Private beaches at the lake
5. Days spent in bed
6. Teas flavored like flowers
7. Golf courses at night
8. 5:00 am Waffle House trips
9. Postcards
10. Ghost towns
11. Guinness beer
12. Milan Kundera
13. Heirlooms
14. My mother's art
15. The Olympics
16. Peach Italian cream sodas
17. My new hair color
18. Life.