The French don't play around, it seems.

I can tell that Christmas is drawing near since my corner grocery store (not a fancy place, mind you) is filled with the most decadent meats possible. On one shelf, and one shelf alone, I spotted foie gras, gésiers, magret, boudin, rilletes, terrine, and paté.

Happy holidays!

Number one: My bank account is up, running, and functional. I have checks. I have a card. I have a working online banking set up. In short, I have triumphed. Now it's on to getting a subscription metro card and perhaps a monthly movie pass. It may be a few days late, but I know what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving.

Which speaking of, Tyson and I passed the holiday in pleasantness, but without any of the traditional trappings. We had a workshop at the Paris Center that day, and two of our friends also have seminars, so we ended up ditching the turkey and pie and stuffing and casseroles in the name of very hearty Vietnamese food. We lived up to the expectation that one becomes so stuffed on Thanksgiving that it's impossible to move, but it wasn't quite the same. But we did have a few other friends who had family visiting for the holiday, and they tried to put together the traditional American experience. First, it seems that few Parisian butchers stock whole turkeys. Ask for pig ears or whole rabbits, and you will come out well-served. But a full turkey? Not unless you special order it. So our friends decided to do just that, having finally found a butcher that would oblige. Except he then offered them a "dinde americaine" (American turkey) weighing somewhere in the arena of 16 kg (roughly 32 pounds). Our friends politely declined and asked for a "dinde française" which ended up coming in somewhere around 4 kg. I guess it's true that Americans do everything bigger.

Another roadblock to an American Thanksgiving would be the paucity of cranberries. Somehow, these little rosy gems haven't made it over here as a usual fruit. And don't even think about canned pumpkin. Of course, at the market you can approach a stand with a massive, probably-16-kg pumpkin (it must be a "potiron americain") and ask them to hack you off a slice. So pumpkin isn't unavailable, but don't look for Libby's.

That said, there are a few import stores here, one of which is called, aptly enough "Thanksgiving." Another one, whose name I forget, specializes in Cajun goods, for some reason, so I guess I know where to go to get my Tony Chachere's. I have not visited these stores, mostly because I'm sure their prices are marked sky-high, but perhaps there is hope for an American Thanksgiving in Paris.

And if you happen to need mushrooms for a particular casserole or other dish, France does have a lovely option for you. If you pick your own, and you're unsure of whether eating those lovelies will kill you, take them to any pharmacy. The pharmacists here are required by law, apparently, to be trained in mycology. I love the idea of toting in a huge basket filled with mushrooms and being told whether they are safe by a white-coated official who can also provide your ibuprofen and cough drops (all available only in an actual pharmacy). What a country!

Learning to Embrace Oddity

There are many things that I don't understand about this painting (Le Singe peintre by the masterful, if strange Jean-Baptiste Deshays). Woman's hair, slightly mannish physique. Cloth tornado. Monkey. Who is a painter. And a knight (I know because he's carrying a sword). Who paints from a strange vantage.

And yet, I find it compelling. I like his skinny little tail and his placid, calm look. I would like to think that 18th-century monkeys were trained in the beaux arts and operated according to a patronage system. Perhaps Fragonard and David and Greuze all farmed their work out to monkeys. And it's a painting like this, which is in the Musée des Beaux Arts in Rouen, that teach me that sometimes weirdness can be compelling. And while I haven't quite experienced anything so weird as a painting monkey here in Paris, I've recently had a few odd experiences that I thought worth sharing. Even though Paris often feels comfortable and homey to me, I must constantly remind myself that it is, at its heart, foreign to me. And when this rings true, I love it even more.

Food is the ultimate in bringing people together:
Tyson and I were walking home from the Bibliothèque nationale de France one day, and decided to visit a nearby fast food stand that sells crêpes and gaufres (waffles). We hadn't eaten lunch, and the sugar and butter smelled too good to resist, so we stopped by and ordered gaufres topped with powdered sugar. The man behind the counter slowly poured the batter into the mold, tended to the orders of a few other customers, and then handed us the hot waffles in thin paper containers. Treats in hand, we proceeded on our walk home, consuming them quickly and letting the sugar drop onto our clothes (black, of course, like all Parisian attire). After about a minute, we saw a jogger coming towards us. He drew nearer and nearer. We stepped aside a bit to let him pass. He was very near to us, but seemed to be paying us no mind. Except, at the last minute, when he was even with us on the sidewalk, he called, "Bon appetit!" never slowing or missing a beat. You know you're in Paris when wishing the joy of food on others is so much like a compulsion that an out-of-breath stranger feels the need to tell you to enjoy your fast food.

Alcohol is never out of place:
It's Sunday. And your church is having a bake sale. The church is on a large road that runs through a busy part of the city. It's about 3 p.m. Children are there, running and playing games near the entryway of the church (which is huge and magnificent and dates back quite a ways, as one can tell from the carved figures on its façade). Mothers are laughing, old women are sitting in folding chairs under the tent. There are madeleines and cannelles and all sorts of molleux. It's a garden of sugary sweets. And of course, one cannot consume sweets without something to drink.
It's true that Parisians rarely drink water. (And it is considered impolite to ask to use someone's bathroom in their home. The two are certainly correlated.) So water is out of the question. Sodas? Expensive and not often consumed. Wine? Maybe it's too close to the blood of Christ. I don't know. But what I do know is: the church bake sale was offering huge plastic cups of port for €1.50. Way to go, France. And way to go, church!

The French have mastered the art of being definitive:
I was walking along the street one day and caught the tail end of a conversation between two men. One had asked a question, and the other one, seeming very engaged, gesticulating broadly, answered, finishing with "parce que voilà" (which roughly translates to something like, "because that's it") in a very definitive way, as if the conversation were now completely and totally finished, as if there were no possible way that the first man could have a response. It's the verbal equivalent of what I like to affectionately refer to as the Gallic shrug, which is a usually lackadaisical gesture, a slow raising of the shoulders and a slight tilt of the head that implies, "you're SOL." Sometimes there's a little purse of the lips that accompanies it, and if you're really lucky, sometimes even a little spurt of air that comes out of the pursed lips for emphasis. Often the Gallic shrug will be followed by the phrase, "C'est pas possible" ("It's not possible."). And it always means, "end of conversation."
So imagine:
"I need to call up this set of papers."
"Why?"
"Because I need to use them for research."
"Why?"
"Because they would be helpful."
"Well..." *Gallic shrug* "I am sorry, but it's not possible."
"What do you mean it's not possible?"
"It's just not possible. Those papers are indisposed."
"Why?"
"Parce que voilà."

To which I would reply, "La vache!"

Yes, that's right, "the cow!" is an expression of surprise. It's the equivalent of "Oh my God." But don't say that in Paris. "Gode" can be short for the word "godemiché" ("dildo") in French, so they may very well giggle when you talk about yours in public.

Anger.

Kindergarten tactics are apparently the new mode in politics. And debates aren't supposed to have multiple sides, it seems.

Ick.

The man with the magnificent dancing calves

There must be some strange microfauna in the Parisian air because I was sick once again this last week. I spent a few days in bed, and I still have a pretty hacking cough, which I'm sure thrills the souls of all who have had the chance to talk to me. But while I've had a bit of down time, I've been reading Joan DeJean's The Essence of Style: How the French Invented High Fashion, Fine Food, Chic Cafés, Style, Sophistication and Glamour, which focuses on the reign of Louis XIV and how many of our standards of luxury were consciously developed as a response to mercantilist and absolutist ideologies at the time. The book is slim on argument (it must have been designed in inverse ratio to the length of the title)--often frustratingly so--but it is filled with fascinating tidbits, some of which I thought I'd share with you. I knew that Louis XIV really knew how to put on a party and construct an image, but wow. Simply wow.

• Last night I was reading the chapter on diamonds, which it turns out, weren't popular until L14's reign. Pearls had been the previously dominant jewel. But L14 invested a ton of money in expeditions returning from India, and within 30 years, they had already exhausted all of India's mines.

• By the time of his death, Louis had amassed close to 6,000 diamonds, none of which were tiny (meaning less than 5 carats, it seems). After being told by a Turkish ambassador that the horses in Turkey wore more jewels than he did, L14 wore a suit to a court function (at which that same ambassador was present) that was covered in diamonds--over 1,500 carats of them.

• And his prize gem was called the Blue Diamond of the French crown, which was 111 carats (trimmed down to 69 carats after it was faceted to make it shinier (also a trend started by L14)). He wore it on a ribbon around his neck, and it was part of the crown jewels until the Revolution when it was stolen. It resurfaced, having been cut down to a 45-carat oval, which is now known as the Hope Diamond (below).
  

• Mirrors, which we all know line the famous hall in Versailles, were a newfangled luxury. But I never realized just how much of one.... The largest mirror that had been documented before L14's reign was 28 inches by 28 inches, and it was considered to be a wonder, with people who would come from all over to see it. (Notably, it belonged to Fouquet, a guy who L14 had tamped down since his splendor was too great. Also, Fouquet's chef committed suicide the night of the king's visit because he thought the shellfish weren't going to arrive.) The mirrors in Versailles are 9 feet tall. Crazy. And in the mid 1660s, the king was spending upwards of $1 million per year on mirrors.

• The king's favorite cocktail, the rossoly: fennel, anise, coriander, dill, and caraway, mascerated in the sun, plus brandy. I want to try the popular ladies' drink, "Venus's oil," which consists of cinnamon water, carnation water, vanilla, sugar, and distilled brandy or wine spirits.

It's simply insane to contemplate not only the luxury, but the newness of all this stuff. It must have seemed like magic every time the king did anything. (A suit of diamonds? I mean, come on! All I can think about is Tobias and his diamond cream.) On top of the stuff I've mentioned, DeJean covers the invention of champagne, haute couture, hot shoes, the emergence of boutiques and cafés, the umbrella, haute cuisine, celebrity hairdressers, cosmetics, and more. So what if it's slim on the argument? It's great for the trivia alone!

This is why I grumble about graduate school

In the history department, there is a student newslist. People can post upcoming events, articles of interest, job postings, fellowships, etc. Often, people manifest their most pedantic side on this list, I have found over the last few years. There was the great T-shirt crisis of 2008 (who knew that the proposal of a department T-shirt could spark so much controversy?), the issue of the Olympics, and now, the issue of banks. Unsurprisingly, all of these things come back to capitalism and Marx. And while I like Marx a lot (a whole lot, actually), I'm sick of people using him to dichotomize theory and practice. As Tyson has said to me, "Have they ever read the Theses on Feuerbach?" And even when I ideologically agree with the writers of these posts, why can people not keep their mouths shut in improper forums? So, with no further ado, I invite you to the petty debates that plague what is meant to be a list for social organization. NOTE: Don't read on if you get bored with or pissed off at arguments that should remain unargued.

First email:

Protest the American Bankers Association
October 27 Tuesday

Even though bank deregulation and financial speculation
plunged the economy into its worst crisis since the
Depression, attempts to impose real regulation are being
gutted by the banking lobby as we speak. Even though we threw
trillions of dollars at the banks to save them, they’re still
foreclosing on people, they’re still gouging consumers in a
thousand different ways, and now they’re handing out billions
of dollars in bonuses for new speculative trading even as
unemployment rises.

The economic crisis is a huge opportunity for progressive
change, but instead debate has been dominated by “tea parties”
and unproductive blanket condemnations of the government. This
protest is our best chance – maybe our last chance – to focus
attention on the real problems. Join thousands from Chicago
and around the nation in what should be the biggest protest in
Chicago in years.

Buses will return to campus by 1pm, but if you need to leave
earlier CTA will by happy to oblige.

Endorsed by: Action Now, AFL-CIO, Albany Park Neighborhood
Council, Americans for Financial Reform, ARISE Chicago,
Brighton Park Neighborhood Council, Change To Win, Chicago
Coalition of the Homeless, Citizen Action, Grassroots
Collaborative, Housing Action Illinois, Illinois Alliance for
Retired Americans, Illinois Hunger Coalition, Jane Addams
Senior Caucus, Jobs with Justice, Northside Action and
Justice, Northside POWER, National People's Action, SEIU
Illinois State Council, Southsiders Organized for Unity and
Liberation, UE, Workers United

Second Email: 

"This protest is our best chance – maybe our last chance – to focus
attention on the real problems."

Are banks actually the real problem? Is speculation?

Marx argued that the first place that a crisis appears-- in this case the banks involved in real estate-- in actuality was the *last* place it existed and that speculation is a symptom of an *already existing crisis.* In other words, a banking crisis is a fetish form, it misrecognizes that the fundamental problem lies in production and in the relationship between the new value added into the system aka "living labor" and the organic composition of capital. This may well be the best chance for the left to bring to consciousness the "real problems" but the real problems are not problems of finance.

Third Email:

"Did Marx know what a "derivative" was?"

Fourth Email:

"Did Marx know what a "derivative" was?"

I assume that this was meant to be snide, but I also assume
that all people posting to this site are historians, so I may
be wrong on one account, or both. Insofar as we are mostly
historians, we should probably realize that while names change
and "derivatives" become more complex, the idea of futures,
options, and speculative investment did not originate in 2008.

In fact, as anyone familiar with the history of "modern" trade
knows, stock futures began trading in the early 1600s with the
rise of the East India Company. And while the process has
undeniably gotten far more complex in the recent past, the
basic tendency to invest (when the bubble is growing) or
"speculate" (after the bubble has popped) in these options has
been around for centuries.

As has the critique of "speculative practices," "speculation,"
and "speculators." Go read Daniel Defoe, Adam Smith, Charles
Fourier, or a host of other writers who considered the
recurrent crises that have accompanied the modern capitalist
era. They all have interesting things to say about
"speculation." And they all have interesting things to say
about stock-jobbers, cheats, profligates, swindlers, and the
like. Much of it (with the exception of Smith), carries a
distinct anti-Semitic bent.

I think xxx's point is that we can continue the line of
simply protesting the phenomena of the crisis at its most
apparent level (with signs, if necessary), and take up and
continue the critique of contemporary swindlers,
stock-jobbers, and the like. Or we can begin to ask ourselves
why these crises replicate themselves with ever greater
intensity in the modern era.

And to get to that question, you probably should crack open
that Marx and see for yourself what he has to say on the subject.

Just my 4.5 cents o the subject matter. Inflationary pressure
makes words more expensive.


Fifth email: 

"Insofar as we are historians," we actually ought to
historicize "futures" instead of assuming an underlying
transhistorical constant. The changing complexity and form of
finance is very relevant to understanding the historical
particularity of types of domination in capitalism.

Also, a more nuanced understanding of Capital is that it
doesn't make sense to dichotomize between a "real" economy and
a "speculative" economy. The forms of domination under
capitalism are characterized by an intricate connection
between finance and production/labor. Of course, you might
also take a look at Moishe Postone's work for a discussion of
how domination in capitalism is abstract, i.e. the fetish is
the real.

The logic behind protesting banks' role in the economic crisis
is precisely to draw attention to the heart of capitalism, the
enablers, the institutions that allow for the increasing size
and sophistication of domination in all spheres of capitalism.


And I guarantee you that the debate is not yet finished.

I love Saturdays.

Today was successful:

1) Ate an excellent gruyere and anchovy gratin, made by one M. Leuchter.

2) Watched a couple of episodes of anime based on eighteenth-century French history and the crossdressers therein. Woo hoo.

3) Took a walk to a nearby bubble tea shop, where the proprietress gave Tyson and me French gossip mags to peruse. Who knew that Sarkozy wasn't an upstanding guy?!?

4) Ate delicious Mexican food. A rarity in Paris. Heavier on the chipotle than on the habañero, but hey, that's Paris for you. At least there were tortilla chips.

5) Went to an excellent shisha lounge with mint tea and bumpin' tunes.

6) Watched episodes of The Office.

7) Ended the night with this conversation:

Me: In order to get a French bank account, you need all your fingernail and toenail clippings ever...IN TRIPLICATE.

Tyson: How would you even do that?

Me: Tape them down and copy them?

Tyson: Would you like have to do it three times for each? You'd need like a 3-D printer.

Me: No, it's all of them ever. So you'd have to go back to babyhood and get them from when your mom clipped your nails.

Tyson: So you'd have to go back in time.
They need them to establish personal continuity.

Me: Yeah, I'm a new person every seven years.

Tyson: Right.
And they also need a sample from the pineal gland. They're Cartesians here.
Wow. That was powerfully nerdy.

All in all, a good day.

I got a job

Because that's exactly what I need right now :)

I have accepted a freelance writing position with a relatively new company called Via Her, which is designed to encourage women business travelers to explore the cities that they need to visit for work. It seems like a very good company, and I love the idea of trying to find safe, comfortable places for women with busy lives to visit while they are away from home. Having done a fair bit of traveling alone (although not specifically for business, I must say--and as my salary reflects), I completely understand the hesitation of a woman to go out on the town by herself after 7 p.m.

I'll be writing reviews of shops, museums, and (for the most part) restaurants, which will definitely encourage me to explore Paris a bit more, all while making a bit of money and getting to hone some writing skills.

In other news, on Saturday, I visited the Basilique St. Denis, where all of the kings of France are buried (with two exceptions), and I got to see the embalmed heart of Louis XVII (who died as a child, imprisoned during the French Revolution):

Cute little guy, huh?

I also got to see the tomb of all of my favorite Louis (plural): XIII, XIV, XV, and XVI. Plus, Marie Antoinette, and a bunch of awesome old medieval kings. Good stuff for a crypto-royalist like me.

Then on Sunday, I attended an event hosted by a person on OnVaSortir, a website designed to encourage meeting people in the big city. I was invited by François, a Frenchman who has enlightened me to the fact that Little House on the Prairie is quite the phenomenon among people of a certain generation in France, to have coffee with a group of other people at a café in the Marais. It started a bit coldly, when they realized that my French is, well, atmospheric rather than stellar or celestial, but after 4 hours of conversation, I ended up making a couple of friends and meeting some very interesting people. And now I have plans for another soirée later in the week.

Trés agreable et génial!

And yes, I have been doing some school work along the way. I interviewed last week for some more fellowships, and in the wake of that endeavor, I've been taking a few-day hiatus to practice my French (a.k.a. drink coffee while chatting) and keep my writing skills up to date (a.k.a. writing reviews of ice cream shops and working on my fiction). Now, if only I had spent some time going grocery shopping. The only things in the fridge right now are cheese, quail eggs, milk, butter, and some cornichons. It will be an interesting lunch.

Something other than food.

I've been sick for the last few days, and it's not showing much sign of relenting, despite the copious amounts of hot beverages and sleep that I've been indulging in. Amongst all that time spent at home, unsurprisingly, a fair bit has been spent at the computer, and as a result, I've come to share some of the recent finds.

First up, Revel in New York, which is a site dedicated to the many interesting characters filling the streets of the Big Apple. I started with Pigeon Lady, continued to the Tea Blender, moved on to the Foot Model, and I've been working my way through all these intriguing people since.

It really is quite amazing how many interesting people one encounters in big cities. Living in Hyde Park often made me forget just how many different professions and options there are out there. Even thinking about the short amount of time I've spent in Paris, I can count having met travel writers, radio DJs, wine sellers, Brazilian musicians, students, anarchists, novelists, and Little House on the Prairie fans (apparently a childhood classic for French people who are now in their thirties). And ll this in a country where it's considered rude to ask one what one "does" for a living! The world is a cool place.

Second, I've constructed a Wordle cloud (one of my favorite online thingmahoozers) for the latest piece of fiction I've been working on. No more details about the fiction, but I thought the cloud was cool enough to share. If you know anything about the Enlightenment, you can tell from this cloud that I'm into the eighteenth-century (although please note the significant absence of bodices and ripping):



Click on it for a bigger view if you so desire.

Third, I've been enamored of Charlotte Mann's continued coolness. If you haven't gotten to see her previous Sharpie-drawn interiors, you're missing out, but I came across these new gems while browsing around the internet. I would be terrified of the permanentness of the marker, but if you're as awesome as Charlotte, this is such a cool (and cheap!) decor idea. Take some time and look around on her site if you like these images. Cool stuff.







Now, back to drinking hot concoctions (ginger, cinnamon, cayenne, clove, honey, and water) and reading semi-trashy but very amusing fiction (the second of Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next novels).

Where is it?

If by "it," we're referring to excellent food and a good evening, it's apparently tucked away in an apartment in the first arrondisement. The brainchild of two ex-Seattle chefs, Hidden Kitchen is a supper club here in Paris, which brings together sixteen people fortnightly for fresh New American-style food and excellent wine. Tyson and I first spied a write-up of the club by the ever-reliable David Lebovitz several months ago, and we immediately decided to make reservations (since they are booked that far in advance). Ten courses, made from produce and meat selected at a market that morning? Plus wine pairings for each course? All for less than the cost of a fancy dinner in Chicago?

So on October 4th, we traipsed over to the 1st, entry code to Laura and Braden's beautiful apartment in hand, uncertain of whom we would meet or what we would eat, a bit nervous, but also very excited at the prospect of an interesting, fun, delicious evening. And we certainly weren't disappointed.

Now, if you're thinking that this blog deals a lot with food, you're right. And chances are, it will continue to do so. I have found that I eat better in Paris than anywhere else, even when I'm eating the cheapest of cheap produce from our local market. (2 pounds of fresh, beautiful, delicious tomatoes for 1 euro? Count me in! You can bet that I've made my fair share of bruschetta here.) But when I have a nice night out, you can rest assured that, assuming all goes as planned, I'm going to rave about the food. So here goes:

- The evening started with a glass of champagne topped with pomegranate seeds.
- Amuse bouche: Green anise doughnut with cider granita
- Roasted chicken broth with chicken liver ravioli and fried leeks
- Fig and anchovy tart with mixed herb salad.
- Mascarpone polenta with chanterelles, turnips, and braised radicchio
- Sauteed sea bass with homemade chorizo, mussels, and a garlic and lime broth (Amazing!)
- Cleanser: bourbon jello with lime sorbet and mint garnish
- Pork belly with walnut celery root purée and pickled chilies (Amazing!)
- Brussel sprouts salad
- Plum cake with chai ice cream and gruyere crumble
- Petits fours: honey salted peanut caramel, rice krispie treat, and two others that I can't remember (which tells you how good the wine was)

Our hosts were friendly and charming, and the whole evening flowed very well. And one might think that eating in a stranger's living room with 14 other strangers, who ranged from a travel writer for the NY Times to an online wine merchant, may have been a bit awkward, but the warm atmosphere and mutual love of food put everyone at ease. Not to mention that Laura and Braden (and their Boston terrier Tatie) were exceedingly kind, charming, and friendly.

I would highly recommend the experience to anyone looking for a nice dinner and nice people in Paris. This is not something that one can afford often (at least, not on a grad student budget), but I am incredibly glad that we had the chance to partake, and I'm sure that you will be too if you ever get the chance to go.


Also, I've added a new feature to the sidebar. Since I'm as much a music addict as a food addict, I thought I'd occasionally switch out some songs that I've found on some favorite music blogs. They shouldn't play automatically, which is always irritating, so hopefully this is a good way to do this.

Nuit Blanche

Last night was Paris' 8th Nuit Blanche ("White Night," or all-nighter). It's a night where pieces of contemporary art are installed and opened to the public in locations all over Paris, from 7 p.m. until 7 a.m. You can probably tell from the time of this post (10:30 a.m. Paris time) that I didn't make it to the 7 a.m. mark, but I got to experience several sites in the Latin Quarter and the Marais, have a few drinks, and get to bed by 2. Pas mal.

The night began with a trip to the Jardin du Luxembourg to see a piece by Michel de Broin called "La Maitresse de la Tour Eiffel" (The Mistress of the Eiffel Tower). Suspended above the Jardin, from which you can see the orangely lit top of the Tour, was a disco ball that would have made Tony Manero from Saturday Night Fever drop his jaw, toss on his kicks, and hustle like there's no tomorrow (the biggest in the world, reportedly). In more serious terms, it was intended to remedy the fact that in big cities, one can't see stars.

From there, we visited the Musée du Moyen Âge to see a video installation, "I feel cold today," by Canadian artist Patrick Bernatchez. It was, appropriately enough, set up in the frigidarium, and according the the information booklet, was a film with "an ambiance of a futuristic apocalypse." I was less impressed with this piece, so I would have just said that it had the ambiance of an empty office being filled with fake snow (which it was), but hey, what do I know?

I do know that the street vendors had set up along the sidewalks by the time that we left the Cluny, and convinced by the heavenly smell of grilled meats that was floating on the air, we stopped to pick up beer and delicious merguez and grilled onion sandwiches that smelled and tasted divine.

From there, we visited the Grande Mosquée de Paris, which I was very excited to see in the inside of. The mosque always looks beautiful from the outside, but naturally, it's not opened up to the public that often. This, far and away, was my favorite installation of the night. The artist, Sarkis, had created some amazing pieces in the garden of the mosque, which is filled with beautiful vegetation and stone walkways. On two walls of the garden, mirror images of x-ray dogs were projected in soft, bright blues, while a piece from John Cage's Litany for the Whale played in the background. Under the open sky, it was peaceful, reverential, and simply stunning. In the next courtyard was an equally amazing piece, consisting of a beam of light, projected from the mosque's highest tower, hitting a mirror in the center of the courtyard, sending another beam of light back up into the sky. The mirror exhaled a scent of rosewater, which was supposed to represent the symbolic union of earth and sky, and which made the whole garden area smell soft, sweet, and lovely.
I couldn't get a good picture of the second courtyard installation (the one with rosewater and light) because of the darkness and my unsteady hand, but this gives you a bit of an idea:


Walking back home through the Marais, we encountered more videos, art vending booths, television screens with art films in shop windows, a waterfall being projected on the side of a building, and a bridge lined with color-changing blocks and videos of rainbows. We finished the night with a beer at the local café, which at last call was filled with Frenchmen trying (very eloquently, I must add) to convince the barman to give them one last round. I love living in a city where public art can bring 1.5 million people out of their homes at 2 a.m., and where drunk people can string together a very fluid, conversational, and congenial case for why they need more to drink. This really is a cultured city, in the most fun sense of the word.

And now, I must get dressed because this is the first Sunday of the month, when all the museums are free. More art! Hooray!

L'incendie

Also, just to overload you with posts for today, this song has been stuck in my head the whole time I've been reading Condillac's Traité des sensations:




No, just in case you're wondering, there's no connection to Condillac. But yes, just in case you were wondering, this is Johnny Depp's baby mama.

Ain't we cute?

A week ago, Tyson and I took engagement photos.

Now, before you get all up in arms, no, we are not getting married. Nothing of the sort.

Really what this comes down to is that Tyson trolls Craigslist for free things to do in Paris, and one day he discovered an ad looking for models for a photography workshop. Jay Reilly and Victor Sizemore, both California photographers, were organizing a Parisian photography workshop, and they were looking for a couple to take mock engagement photos, a woman in a wedding dress, and a couple in schmancy clothes (meaning wedding gear). Tyson and I served as the first in this list, and so a week ago, donning our "funky" clothes, we met up with Jay, Victor, and six other photographers (2 of whom shared my name, weirdly enough) to walk through Paris being posed, directed, and photographed incessantly. All of the participants were incredibly nice, and it was really fun to feel like a celebrity for a day, followed around by the flash bulbs of a horde of paparazzi.

Tyson and I, in return for our supreme modeling skills, will get copies of all of Jay and Victor's photos, but so far, we've just seen a few. They are included here for you guys to admire. I'm still not used to my über-short hair, so they were a bit of a shock to me, but as you can see Jay (who took these) really knows what he's doing. So if anyone's in the market for fancy pictures back in CA, I can say that Jay and Victor were both great to work with. And if, for some reason, you're in the market for photos in Lyon, here's the beautiful site of one of the other photographers on the shoot (the only one whose site I know).

The Joy of Baking

I'm in a period of waiting. I'm waiting for my U of C stipend stub (so I can finish the ever-enlengthening process of opening a French bank account), I'm waiting for the Bibliothèque nationale to reopen from their vacation period (so I can finally get to work on the dissertation), and I'm waiting on a bunch of materials from professors for funding applications (so I can get money to continue living here next year). So amidst all this waiting, I decided to resume a passion of mine that has not been exercised for several weeks: baking.

As I envisioned myself baking up a storm in Paris, I'll admit that I had lofty images of rolling out lovely little gazelle horn pastries, trying my hand at brioche, and lovingly glazing a ginger fig cake. I imagined using the decadent French milk and butter to create little walnut-size balls of chouquette dough, watching them rise slowly in the oven, and then eating them while they're still warm and flaky. And I had images of doing this with sun streaming through my windows while I listened to French radio shows and drank a glass of wine. Perfect, n'est pas?

But I have realized that, while I am an excellent baker back in the United States, I haven't the foggiest what I am doing now that I'm transplanted in la belle France. For starters, the flour is different from ours. They are graded by number (45, 55, 65, etc.). Some include yeast or baking soda already. And some grocery stores don't even carry it. Couple this with the lack of baking powder, baking soda, brown sugar, and what I consider to be other key ingredients, and I have been a bit stuck. And for a city so filled with pastries, bread, and all kinds of delicious baked treats, there's not even a word in French for "to bake." Astounding.Oh, the meretriciousness of dreams.

The other day, I tried to make the aforementioned chouquettes, and instead of coming out like this:


they (or I should say it, since, after creating a rather runny dough, I decided to try to turn it into one giant Dutch-Baby-like piece of pastry) came out something like this (minus the rabbit, larger, and with more butter):



It tasted delicious, but let's just say that it wouldn't have won a beauty competition.

But I'm not easily thwarted, and I was still determined to pursue the art of baking. After searching high and low for baking soda (which I read somewhere was available in grocery stores here, but I am still uncertain as to which grocery stores this writer was referring, seeing as how I've visited no less than seven looking for it), I decided to visit a store highly recommended by a few pro bakers/ food bloggers whose blogs I read. The place is called G. Detou (a pun on the phrase, "j'ai de tout," or "I have everything"), and it's a place of marvels for all pro bakers. However, for this non-pro baker, who still doesn't quite know how to say all baking-related terms in French, the store proved to be a challenge. The prickly woman behind the counter stared me up and down unrelentingly as I eyed her wares (lovely Sicilian pistachios, 5-pound bars of chocolate, lovely jars of candied violets), and finally, I boosted my nerve to ask if they had any baking soda. Knowing this this was a store for pros, I assumed that they would sell it mostly in bulk, but by my reckoning, I would be more than happy to take a pound of the stuff since I was having such a hard time finding it elsewhere.

She eyed me, as always, warily. "Yes, by the kilo," she intoned, and before I can reply, she swooshes away to a back room, not very happily. I'll spare you (and myself) any continued tales of the awkwardness that ensued, but let's just say that thanks to nerves, the lack of baking goods in grocery stores, and this woman's prickly initiative, I have enough baking soda to bake a horse-sized cake or keep the fridge smelling fresh for the next 6 years.

I am now the proud owner of 2.2 pounds of sodium bicarbonate.

I didn't even attempt to ask about baking powder. I can make my own if I mix cream of tartar with my baking soda, but surprise, surprise, that's also not readily available here. I've read that one can ask for it at a pharmacy, which strikes me as odd, but I have not yet mustered my moxie to go asking for it. French pharmacies, thanks to a few strange experiences last summer, are another French locale that I find heart-stoppingly bristly, and I can't quite imagine what will happen when I go in asking for TartarCream (crème de tartre).

In better food-related news, I've made friends (to use the term loosely) with a few produce vendors at our market, a local Halal butcher, and an Indian grocer who sold me an armful of cheap spices, so all is not lost. I just haven't yet fulfilled my dream of sunshiney, wine-happy, apron-prancy baking. At least there's no shortage of butter here.

Now, THIS is how to celebrate!

Today Tyson passed his dissertation proposal hearing, so I'm officially living with a man well on his way to being a bonafide Ph.D.!

In light of this fact, we decided to take a night out and go to the cute little restaurant on a corner near our house that we've been eying. It's called Les Artistes, and there are literally 4 tables there, one of which, if you are lucky enough to get it, you have to share with an overweening fern. It's one of those classic French places where there isn't a printed menu (everything is scrawled on a chalkboard that the proprietor proudly carries from table to table when the occasion arises), and good, classic homecooked food that, when it runs out, is out for the night.

It was a splurge for us, but for 30 euros apiece, we had wine and the most delicious three-course meal that I've had in a very long time. Without the appetizers and/or dessert (and yes Tyson, I know that "or" is technically inclusive), it would have been highly reasonable. Excellent French food in great quantity, with wine, mind you, for around 16 euros per person. But anyhow, we went whole hog, and here's the deal:

Carolyn -
Round 1) Zucchini gazpacho with fennel, cantaloupe, green apples, and hot sauce (sounds disgusting, I know, but I even hate cantaloupe, and I was all over this business; the sweet and savory were perfectly blended, and it had just enough punch to be interesting)
Round 2) Columbo de cabri (Indian-creole goat), coconut milk rice, veggies, and a potato in an unknown but highly awesome sauce
Round 3) Fig cake (with cinnamon, ginger, and lime) and 2 sauces (cream and raspberry)

Tyson -
Round 1) Zucchini gazpacho
Round 2) Chicken with garlic, olives, lime, and almonds, coconut milk rice, veggies, potato with aforementioned awesomesauce
Round 3) Chocolate marquise (a frozen, cold, chopped, delicious chocolate concoction involving wine somehow) and cream

And the night ended with complementary doses of homemade liquor, which came out of a huge glass jug filled with clear liquid and obviously alcohol-saturated fruit. Damn fine stuff.

I could probably do some better food writing, but I'm too blissfully happy and full to even think about selecting better adjectives than "awesome" or "yummerific." Let's just suffice it to say that I love France, and so does my stomach.

*Note: What I don't love about France is how freaking hard it is to get a bank account around here. You need a gas bill to a bank account and a bank account to get a gas bill. You need a rental slip to get a bank account, but to pay your rent you need a bank account. I think you get the idea. Recursivity to the max.

But on a happy note, FOOD! And pajama pants. Definitely time for the PJs.

SPQR SPQP[aris]!

Today I am victorious.

I successfully procured a French cell phone. Because their pay-as-you-go plans require frequent use, and I am as-of-yet unaware of anyone else with a French phone, I think that this will consist of sporadically texting myself little notes of encouragement (Aujourd'hui, vous sentez comme un fraîchement lavés rose. "Today, you smell like a freshly-washed rose." Votre voix chantée est plus beau que d'un troupeau de chèvres dans les Alpes suisses. "Your singing voice is more lovely than a herd of goats high in the Swiss Alps.")

I sent my Visa papers off via registered mail (not as easy as it sounds, considering the French postal system, which is quite efficient but thoroughly perplexing to a foreigner).

Tyson and I purchased a coffee pot for jus de chausette ("sock juice" - otherwise known as drip coffee, American-style).

AND least trying, but much more exciting, we discovered a Kashmiri restaurant near our house. It's cute looking, relatively inexpensive, and offers free delivery. They have pichets (oh, one day I will have to write a post dedicated to the miraculousness of the pichet - a jug of the house wine that is much cheaper than bottled wine and often just as good), and I'm eying all kinds of goodness, from dal bhaji to rogan josh to oh-so-delicious halwa. Now all I need is a place that serves Saturday morning poori.

The plan tonight: sit along the Seine with some bottles of wine, chat, and people watch with a group of people from the H-France list (a listserve for people who study France). It's a beautiful sunny day with a gentle breeze. Perfect for a dress, some drinks, and some evening-time water-watching. And allow me to tell you how much I love the lack of open container laws here. At most, the police may ask you to but the bottles in a bag, but in general, no one minds drinking in public. It comes as no surprise that a country that has been imbibing the nectar of the gods for thousands of years would recognize that sometimes people just want to sit outside and enjoy the last few cool days of summer with a few plastic cups of vino.

Small, but important, pleasures

Let me just tell you what a joy it is, after stealing skimpy single-ply toilet paper from the Regenstein Library for a week prior to my departure, to encounter the lushness of bright pink three-ply here in Paris. Yes. You heard me. THREE-ply.

The USS-Enterprising Gourmand

It's officially my third day here in Paris, and thanks to jet-lag and the rigors of moving out of Chicago, I have only left my apartment for a grand total of an hour and a half. Today I made the rounds to the supermarket on the corner for milk, eggs, and a metric ton of powdered ginger (who doesn't need powdered ginger?!) and then, in the rain, to the Picard a couple of blocks away to stock up on all the frozen comestibles that I can muster. For those of you unfamiliar with the joys of Picard, it is a frozen food chain here in France. Now, one might be tempted to immediately write off all frozen foods as inherently soppy, disgusting, or bland, but somehow the French have channeled their scientific prowess into concocting the most delicious frozen foods known to man. You walk in, and the place is all white and chock- full of deep-freezes. Moseying down the aisle, one can select everything from frozen peas and frozen lasagna to frozen whole salmon with tarragon sauce baked in a crust with morel mushrooms and black truffle flecks or an entire leg of lamb encrusted with African spices, designed to go well with their frozen couscous vegetables. Seriously.

So in short, my small freezer is very full, I've already set into the delicious, belly-ache inducing, hurts so good French milk, and I'm going to have spinach and potato gratin with powdered ginger for dinner.

No, not actually. If the rain continues, I will probably go to the Las Vegas-esque pizzeria down the street that sparkles like a neon pink beacon at all hours. And if it ceases, well then...who can say?