The Mystery of James Gray

One thing I learned during my stay in France is that there is an American film director of some renown named James Gray. He came out with a film a couple of years ago starring Joaquin Phoenix and Mark Wahlberg called "We Own the Night." It looked like a generic New York gangster movie, with the generic grit and violence so I didn't pay much attention. But "Two Lovers", starring Gwyenth Paltrow and Joaquin again, opened here a couple of weeks ago -- in fact its only opening is in France, it is not scheduled to open in the US.
Apparently the French are gaga for James Gray. One theater was having a James Gray film festival (he's only directed four movies).
I talked to the film prof I'm TA-ing for and he was simply gushing over this guy. The stories he tells (mostly about the Russian Mafia in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn), the mise en scène, which is apparently more French (long takes) than American (fancy editing). I asked the prof why I'd never heard of him, why America is not interested in James Gray, and he said -- "Typical American. They don't care about the auteur. Only the actor."
That may be true -- but it's also kind of weird. Dave and I saw "Two Lovers" a couple of nights ago. It's a solid movie, based on a Dostoyevsky story ("White Nights"). Phoenix plays an odd-ball -- depressive, weird -- but who has a Brooklyn-boy, neighborhood charm that catches the ladies. Gwenyth Paltrow is bad-news, in love with a married man (Elias Koteas who I LOOOOVE), and the perfect blond shiksa for the shy Jewish boy's fantasies. Anyway, I'm not going to go over the entire movie -- but it's good, I was taken. There was nothing odd or artsy about it.
So I don't understand why this movie, with fairly big Hollywood names, is not opening in the US. Will it open only after the Oscar season so it won't get in the way of the films that are really "in contention"? In any case, I'm now suspicious about this "American way" that only appreciates actors and never auteurs. I think perhaps this does not indicate an inherent American trait, but rather we are being led -- by industry scheduling priorities? -- to ignore the "auteur" to the benefit of the genre (complete with generic actors) that fits the season.

Last 10 Days

Goodness, the sky is actually clear right now. A rare moment.
I must say, I am half looking forward to going back to California. The warmer weather and sunnier skies will be a nice change of scenery. Of course, going back to the States also means going back to the real world -- a real world of health insurance, pay checks, joblessness, and newborn babies. Not so uplifting.
But, while I'm here . . . I haven't really bought anything Frenchy French since I've been here, souvenir-style. Most of my clothes have been purchased at H&M (I figured, why spend real money on maternity clothes that I'd only wear for a couple of months . . . although there was a really cute maternity-ish dress at APC, but for 180euro? eech). True, I've bought some books, and some good ones too. But I want something decadent and "Parisian."
What should I waste my money on?
* Boots (I need them, but shoe shopping is an arduous task for me)
* Perfume (I might get some at the airport duty-free)
* Sunglasses (They are way over-priced, you know for the marc jacobs label or whatever, but they look really, really cool -- and I've never had designer sunglasses before)

6h du matin

I can't go back to sleep.
We've been going to as many museums as we can stand since Dave got here. This November is apparently the month of photography, so we saw a Walker Evans exhibit and a couple of days ago went to a really, really great show of 70s American Photography at the BNF. Yesterday afternoon we hit the Pompidou Center. I had forgotten how huge that place is. We saw a special exhibit on Futurism, but after that we were too exhausted to really take in anything else. I dragged Dave through the rest of the rooms anyway to make our 12euros last.
Tonight we're going to try to see if Wes Anderson and Peter Bogdonovich are actually having a public conversation after the showing of "Royal Tennenbaums."

People often ask me if I have weird food cravings. And my answer is no. I love eating, so I crave food -- but not in any unheard of combinations, or at strange moments of the day. In fact, my eating habits are so normal (perhaps with slightly larger portions) that I was getting worried that my pregnancy was not "as pregnant" as it's supposed to be. Until I realized that maybe I do have cravings. Yesterday I sat thinking about donuts for a while. And just now I had a yearning for pumpkin pie -- or maybe just for Thanksgiving dishes in general. Of course, this could have nothing to do with being pregnant and everything to do with missing American food. But what's strange is -- I mean, like Twilight Zone weird -- is that I, as you may know, love nachos (esp. from La Cabana in Santa Cruz). And I miss them, theoretically, but I haven't craved them like I craved that donut yesterday. So maybe everything really is okay.

Oops, I think I just induced a nachos craving.

Reunited

We're back together again. I picked Dave up from the airport on Wednesday. I exited the elevator the exact moment he exited the gate. And from that strangely synchronous moment, everything's been back to normal. I thought it might be a little weird, being a couple again, having someone around all the time. But it's not. I'm a little more giddy than I was before -- Dave got himself trapped between the sofa bed and the wall yesterday which had me laughing to the point where I thought I may be doing harm to myself and the unborn.
Speaking of, I finally went back to the OB who didn't seem to mind at all that it had been over two months since my last visit. Dave came with, smiling politely while sitting across from the briskly efficient -- and still tan -- docteur who was muttering to himself in French about glucose tests and echograms. But after weeks of anxiety and embarrassing phone calls to receptionists, over bad reception, in broken French, as soon as I entered the waiting room I already felt better. I knew nothing was wrong. I felt healthy. I just needed the surroundings there to verify it.
And also, it doesn't hurt to have Dave back again. To reassure me that I don't have gestational diabetes, or high blood pressure, or a fat ass, or a dumb dissertation. Phew.

Macarons

Today I had lunch at a friend's place. She makes the best Japanese chicken curry. I ate way too, way too much, but still had enough room for some macarons from Pierre Hermé. I've had other Parisian macarons. More than really relishing their taste, I enjoy them as a curiosity -- a French treat that can't be found elsewhere. Even though I love the different flavors you can choose (pistachio, green tea, orange blossom), I usually find them sweeter than I like my sweets to be. Like little colorful sugar bombs. But these Pierre Hermé macarons . . . they have some substance behind them. They're sugary, but meaty too (yes, a meaty macaron). We waited in line for at least 20 minutes for our ten macarons (costing 15 euros), but I'd say it was worth it.

While I wait . . .

. . .for D. to get his ass over here, I've using my time to make some progress on the dissertation. I am both impatient wanting D. to be here NOW and worried that I won't have enough time to actually get anything substantial done.
So, I've been going to libraries. Not to read their books, because I've decided to forget the goal of working on my French chapter. But to get out of the house and work somewhere "studious." I go to the Bibliotheque Ste. Genvieve, which is gorgeous inside but doesn't have free wi-fi (or at least not that I can tell). I also visit the Bibliotheque Forney, which seriously looks like a castle (and very well may be) and has free wi-fi (that doesn't work that well).
Yeah, it's been good jumping from library to library. I get there early and stay for three to four hours -- which I think is a good chunk of time for my brain to be thinking and my hands to be typing. Then I make my way home. Today I left the Bib. Forney and strolled along the Seine toward the Metro at Hôtel de Ville. There's some Jacques Prévert exhibition going on there that is apparently very popular. Which reminds me of all the things I want to do when D. gets here. I think the first thing we'll do is go to the Walker Evans Expo at the Henri Cartier Bresson museum. It's free on Wednesday nights starting at 6:30pm.

Obama Oh-Eight!

Woke up, turned on the computer. I already knew, there was no way that there could have been any other result. But when I saw the headline on the New York Times, of course I had to cry. It makes me so happy and excited.
And I'm a cynical academic! But, as Zizek says of American capitalism, "I know it's not real, but all the same I live as if it is."
But I always have room for worry and today it goes to Missouri which is locked at 49.4% for each candidate! The color-map of the state mirrors the color-map of the country: blue on the sides, red in the middle. If Indiana can go blue with only a .9% difference, I'm hoping the same can be true for MO.

Family Visit

Ok, my parents are gone for the States but, while here, managed to provoke my first non-rational, hormonally-rich mood swings. Seriously. I was going from screaming pissed off to silently crying in seconds. And the whole time I was thinking, "damn - my family really screws me up." Until I realized at least half of this dysfunction just can't be helped. Which is a relief, cause I was starting to feel real guilty for being such a nutso of a tourguide/daughter/sister. I still feel a little guilty.



But I think their trip was a success overall -- given all the photos that were taken. The weather was pretty much cold and rainy the whole time -- but I took them to the Musée de l'Orangerie. Which they loved! We also saw the new James Bond movie, and had dinner at a great little Vietnamese restaurant near Belleville.

Four-Day Week

My family flew in this past weekend and had me swirling around Paris until I was nearly in tears. They left for a train tour of the Alps on Monday and I was left to nurse my itchy throat that became a full-blown cold the morning of their departure.
Before they get back to Paris on Friday, I have four days to myself to get things organized. I'm here, in case we've all forgotten, to get some progress made on my dissertation. I should get going on that before D. gets here in early Nov. (btw - he received a rejection call yesterday and is, of course, totally bummed. f**k. something will turn up, right?)
So, here's what i need to do:
-- finish grading student midterms (finished it yesterday. i just wanted to check one thing off)
-- apply for some diss fellowships
-- apply for a family leave of absence
-- apply for california state "disability" funding (since being pregnant and a nursing mother disables me from working)
-- um, finish my stupid chapter on freud.
I'm going to get myself to the Pompidou library today to get started on some of this.

Hancock

I just watched the Will Smith movie Hancock. It's really bad. But what had me laughing at the end is that the black man has to stay away from the white woman for the good of the world.

Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature

On Sunday, after twisting my ankle, falling on the cobblestone, and getting a run in my new tights, I walked to the Museum of Hunting and Nature. This is the single-weirdest Paris museum I've visited. Here's a fuzzy photo of the ceiling of staring owls as proof:

It's really a museum that presents the history of man's fascination with animals. Its rooms are organized by animal: there's a room of wild boar, fox and stag, unicorns, birds, and of course dogs. Some rooms include a little cabinet that provide both biographical information on the animal, and poems dedicated to the animal. And of course each room is covered in paintings and tapestries:


It's not a big museum -- I think it took me less than an hour to see everything. But it's really great, how the museum intentionally mixes its messages. The ceiling of owls is crazy/silly but then it will give you scientific data to remind you that these animals are not for entertainment, they have a life outside human perception.
It's highlight is the big game room --

Which is followed, if one goes to the unfinished upstairs portion, with a general question of the actual scientific difference between human/animal. So, here we're made to feel bad, but of course not too bad (it's not like in the States where every natural science exhibit must be accompanied by a moralizing guilt trip, where you are made to confront the evils of your car-driving, plastic-consuming, tuna-eating ways. Not that I disagree with these evils, I'm just impressed by the America's ability to turn everything into a personal moral issue -- smoking, recycling, gas guzzling -- rather than a wider political-ethical concern.) In fact, the finale of the museum doesn't even make you feel bad. The punchline -- animals are like us (I almost wrote humans are animals, but I don't think the museum went there) -- maybe was the running theme throughout the museum as you look at all the different ways humans have occupied themselves with thinking and writing about, killing and painting animals.
Go visit.

Born and Raised

I didn't realize how much of a St. Louisan I was until this morning:
Nachos Story.
(I disagree with rule #1 and #4, as well as the general tone of the whole thing.)

Prenatal Yoga in Paris and Toni&Guy

First off, if you happen to be English-speaking, pregnant, living in Paris and interested in yoga -- then you should check out Centre de Yoga du Marais. Michelle, the instructor, is really great -- she's easy on us, but not too much. We do adaptations of standard yoga poses, focusing on stretching out the hips and the back, but also working on balance. I'm not sure what balancing is supposed to help, but I find I'm better at it as a pregnant person than I ever was "unencumbered."

Secondly -- I got a free haircut today at the Toni&Guy Academy (whose new number is 01 43 14 02 28). It was a totally strange experience that lasted over three hours. And in the end, I got a strange "fashion" do that was "asymmetrical" and pretty short. They are meticulous technicians, it would seem, that work on thinning out your hair via a number of different razoring movements. A fast-talking Swiss dude cute my hair. I barely understood a word he said, but he didn't seem to mind. The students are actual stylists who come to the academy for three days to get updated on the latest trends (I'm piecing this together from what I understood Fabrice, my stylist, to have been saying). I would provide a picture of my head, but I'm a bit vain. I came home and de-asymmetrized my head (it was just too weird, and my mom will be here on Saturday and I already know what she'd say: nothing at first, just stare at me with a slight smirk and then ask, "You like your hair? It looks weird to me."). But I think I like the shortness. I mean, I think I'll like it more in a couple of weeks when it does a bit of growing out. But the thinning out thing, it's cute.

Une chambre à soi

I went to see a stage production of A Room of One's Own last night. The good thing about it was that it was really nice to go out and see a play in Paris. The bad thing was that it was boring -- it was just Woolf's text read out loud and kind of acted out. The actress, Edith Scob, stood in the middle of a set designed to look like a cozy old British study with wooden desks, book shelves that reach to the ceiling and a really nice leather sofa. But, as my friend pointed out, she didn't do anything with this room of hers. She just walked around in it and made us imagine other rooms and other places (Oxbridge, British Museum, etc.). Scob's version of Woolf was also really annoying -- she made her shrill, fragile, and annoying. And finally, I wish the playwrights and the director could have imagined someway to make this text -- which is still relevant today -- actually appear relevant. They had us approach the text -- which dated itself Oct. 26, 1928 -- as an historical artifact, but the problem was that it (the text and the play) was trying to make universal claims about what men do (use women as mirrors) and how women should write (androgynously). But there is a way to make Woolf's text speak to a post-feminist audience. But it would probably require actual writing, not just transcription (ooh, damn).

Cookies and Crafts

I splurged today for lunch. After a decadent week-and-a-half of eating out at French Bistros I had promised myself to make all my meals at home. But I had such a craving for Vietnamese noodles this afternoon. What could I do? And then after my (actually Cambodian) lunch, I had a hankering for something sweet. So I bought a chocolate cookie. And I ate it. And now I feel awful. But also completely satisfied. C'mon. Cut me some slack. I'm pregnant.
I've started knitting a Super Easy Baby Blanket with some yarn I got at the Bon Marche, which was having a sale. My mother is already making a baby blanket, but I couldn't resist. Babies can have more than one blanket, I'm pretty sure. Might as well both be hand-made. However, knitting is an activity that indulges my procrastinating desires -- which may be a problem since I really, honestly should get some work done while I'm here.
I went and saw Tropic Thuder (or "Tonnerre sous les tropiques") last night. I thought it was funny, but not as hilarious as the man sitting next to me, crying into his popcorn everytime Ben Stiller played "Simple Jack." Perhaps Stiller's performance was too reminiscent of Jerry Lewis not to provoke the Frenchman's hysterical convulsions.

More Pictures

Diana thinks about rock

Christina's belly in the hall of mirrors

Mannequin Ghost

French Antiques Dealer

Debates

I'm listening to last night's debates. I'm about to turn it off cause it's just annoying. McCain's tactic, here, is so obvious and so childish. First he throws accusations Obama's way, then he quickly switches subjects so that the little comma separating two parts of a sentence also apparently allows for a complete change of logic. "He has terrorist friends, but I really think that tax cuts is the way to go"::"You have stinky feet, but I think unicorns are neat."

The Last Week and a Half

I've had visitors -- and actual things to do for the past week and a half:


My lovely visitors


Père Lachaise on a beautiful autumn morning


The picnic spread at the garden in Versailles


Shopping at the flea market

Sleeping and Eating

I got my new "banquette/clic clac" which looks like a normal (denim blue) sofa but *pouf* clics itself into a bed for my sleeping comfort. And it is comfortable. Enough. For the time being. Which is all I care about.

As for eating . . . for some reason last weekend I decided to take myself out for meals whenever the fancy struck me. I went back to Le Reveil du Xeme and again had a delightful meal -- a mashed potato/fish dish. On Saturday -- before and after the Juliet Mitchell lecture at Le Musée de l'Homme -- I breezed my way through restaurants spending money I really shouldn't have. But Kristina and I went for a really nice dinner up in Montmartre at a cute little bar/resto. I got pasta bolognese -- which I was scolded for, since I can apparently make such a thing at home -- but I order what the baby demands. And he loves pasta. (and mashed potatoes. and probably nachoes if such a thing existed here.)
So, in an effort to make up all that money I spent on meals last weekend, I've been going to the "Restaurants Universitaire" (aka RestoU) -- a series of cafeterias for college students. It costs a mere 2e85 and you get a healthy, square meal which includes a crudité, a main dish, and a cheese or yogurt course/or a dessert tart. And a free piece of bread. Not bad. The only drawback is that everyone is sooo young, and I just feel like a lame, old pregnant lady eating a cheap meal. Who cares, right? I don't really, not for that price! But I think after my penance this week, I might re-consider.

Journée du Patrimoine

This weekend France opened up many of its governmental, religious, historically important buildings and archives for the (annual?) "days of patrimony." I had a list of places I wanted to visit, including the Museum of Hunting and Nature. I only got to two. The National Library (or BNF), where I went on a one hour guided tour which ended in the audiovisual room with a demonstration of Wii (SuperMario Wii). I then had lunch on a cute corner of rue Montorgeuil -- I wanted beef, so I got a French hamburger -- which is ground beef topped off with a fried egg. But my doctor said I can only eat meat "bien cuîte," so my burger was dry and eh. Anyway, after that I went to the Musée des Arts et Métiers (the "Industrial Arts Museum") and listened to a 15-min "flash" tour in the Communications Hall on the birth of the motion picture. I need to go back though.

Update on my torn feelings

I feel both totally happy about living in Paris and walking through my increasingly familiar neighborhood and totally bummed about the condition of my studio. I sleep on mats on the floor, but the weather outside is perfect right now. I can hear every drunken word my neighbor says at 3 in the morning, but I found a quiet little library and I started writing! My toilet drips and makes grumbling noises, but my weekly yoga class is really great (why didn't I ever really get into yoga when I wasn't pregnant?)

Along the same lines -- I am both totally depressed about what's going on right now in the US (Palin + economy) but also totally loving American media (NPR + Lost episodes + Project Runway + Hollywood movies [*Tropic Thunder* opens next week]).

I'm two things at once! I'm a fucking walking Whitman poem.

Busy Sunday and the end of pleasure

After a cold, drizzly Saturday and an awful night where my neighbor and his friend sang U2, shouted in incomprehensible French, and drank until 4 AM, I woke up thinking that today would suck.
And it looked like it might, as I waited in line at the grocery store stuck in front of yet more French drunks who just talk incessantly about anything and break into song and, in general, make everyone around them feel uncomfortable.
But it was so beautiful out today -- just like an early Fall day. Sunny, slightly crisp, but also warm in the sun.
And it's "rentrée" at the cinema for the next three days, meaning that each showing only costs 3.5 euros. So I decided to see "Mama Mia." Wow, what a movie. It reminded me of Laura Mulvey's essay in which she calls for the end of narrative pleasure in cinema, a pleasure that for her arises out of a male (or masculine -- since both men and women occupy it) gaze of the female body. This movie was definitely unpleasurable, but only because it was sooooo ecstatically joyous and insanely celebratory of female pleasure. It was totally weird and I wanted to leave every second I was watching it, but I was also curious about how this awful movie was celebrating and reveling in different kinds of feminine "jouissance," as they say. The movie ended with a burst of water that sprang, not from a fountain, but from a gash -- a gash, I say -- in the concrete. There was singing, and melodrama, and giggling, and dancing and it was totally stupid -- but this might be what Mulvey meant, after all. I hated it.
Anyway, after that I met with my landlord's daughter, who recently gave birth to her second son. I was totally petrified about going over to her house and chatting with her in French about god knows what. But she was really nice, and my French wasn't that bad -- or it was, but I decided not to care too much. She talked about "accouchement" in France and walked me past the hospital that, in case it was necessary, I could get treated.
And then I took myself out to dinner at a Korean restaurant called Seoul 88 (in honor of the 88 Olympics). The food was pretty good -- I got duk mandoo gook -- and the pan chan was delicious. The service was kind of bad, only because they seemed overwhelmed, even though there weren't that many of us in the restaurant. And weird, again drunk, French people would randomly walk into to tease the patrons. Seriously -- there are way too many drunks in Paris (which has even become a topic on the news recently). But the other patrons were enjoying themselves and sometimes, even though I don't know exactly what they're saying, it's really nice to hear people speak Korean.

Paris might hate me

I'm getting used to my life here. Instead of wide-eyed wonder, I react to the goings-on in the neighborhood with either indignation or a sigh of resignation. One sunny morning two days ago, I was whistling my way down the boulevard only to run into a drunken old man with his trousers about his ankles, finishing up his business on the sidewalk. All I saw really was his flat ass clothed in nasty black underwear, but that was enough to stop my whistling.

It's not that bad, though. I really like my gross neighborhood, more or less. It's affordable and hides little cute treasures in random corners -- like this café/brasserie around the corner with the coziest interior and what seems like a "Cheers"-like camaraderie with the clientele.

But I think this city might not like me too much. I've never had more problems just living, getting by, as I've had here. When I lived here 11 years ago, I was young, new to the single-life in the big city, free from any real parental or adult supervision -- things were bound to go wrong somewhere. I lost my key and my old bourgeoise landlady (Mme de la Guerronière) freaked out and was convinced one of my thug friends stole it, made a copy of it and was scheming to steal everything she owned. So I moved out and into a more modest neighborhood -- above a pharmacie in the 15th, owned by the father of the woman whose children I was taking care of. Well, he was a crazy grouch too who would abide not a peep of noise after 10pm, not even the sound of the toilet flushing. And when my friend from the States stayed with me for a few weeks, he threated to kick me out.

I'm rid of old French people. I don't have to deal with them, or pay them money, or creep up and down their creaky steps. Now, however, I have a toilet that explodes and refuses to stop exploding. Well, it doesn't literally "explode," but it made my life this past week much stinkier than I prefer. And I convinced myself that the gods (or saints?) of Paris would really prefer it if I were elsewhere. I wonder why and where.

My Visit to the French Doctor ("Docteur")

First off, I went to this doctor -- who is incredibly, incredibly expensive -- because my insurance recommended him as "english speaking." Which didn't actually turn out to be true. I mean, I'm sure he speaks English as well as any average Joe in France. He knows a few words, like that we call them "sonograms" instead of "échographs." My insurance also recommended doctors in the Passy district, all really expensive places. So these rich doctors must be in cahoots somehow with American Health Insurance companies. I paid 120e just for a consultation, without an "echograph." But I called a place closer to home and they charged 110e for a consultation and echograph. After shedding tears upon learning that I'm spending money needlessly (which I didn't realize would upset me so much), I decided to buck up. If my insurance wants to reimburse me (which they will, by god) for overpriced French consultation, it's all ultimately the same to me.
That said, he was nice enough. I mean, he wasn't charming or accommodating or even English-speaking. He was just no nonsense which is somehow more reassuring to me (esp. since I think he may be the first male gyno I've ever seen). I'm healthy, the baby's growing at a healthy pace, it's heartrate is also healthy. All good.
But let me start at the beginning, if I may. He does everything. He checks my blood pressure. He weighs me. He takes my urine sample. All things a nurse would do in the States. He does have a "secretary," but what she seems to do is to take down appointments, answer the door when I ring, show me to the elaborately furnished and decorated waiting room (which lies on one side of a huge private apartment that takes up an entire floor), and when I search for the bathroom she leads me to it, and when I'm done she escorts me back to the waiting room and shuts the door behind her.
There were two other women waiting when I arrived. I chatted a bit with one of them, since the doctor was about an hour behind schedule. That extra hour, though, really calmed me down and helped me talk myself through the price gap between faubourg St. Germain (the "old" aristocratic hang out) and my own faubourg St. Martin (the "old" working class neighborhood) which was still upsetting me. I finally get called in and am asked to sit at his desk to answer some introductory questions. He's very tan (probably from a recent August vacation) and dressed in a navy blazer (which may or may not have had gold buttons). The first thing he discusses is the concern in France for toxoplasmos (sp?) -- a bacteria carried by cats and un-zapped, undercooked meat. Stay away from both. And get another blood test to make sure you don't have it. At the end of the thorough but swift exam he asked me for the 120e and gave me a receipt for my insurance. All went well, and I feel fine about the whole experience. Although I really, really wanted to finally learn the sex of the baby but I have to wait two more weeks until I can go to an echographist, who will probably charge me more money. But that's okay, no big deal, stop worrying about it, I tell myself, because my insurance is going to pay me back for everything.

À Dejeuner

I've been trying to take part in the French thing of big lunches, small dinners. A habit that makes sense, really -- even though I love a nice big dinner. But so far this ladies-who-lunch thing has been successful.
On Tuesday I met a friend at Le Loir Dans La Théière in the Marais, which is a cozy place with wooden tables and a kind of coffeehouse feel to it. I ordered a creamy/zesty linguini dish that was yummy and my friend got a zucchini tart that was FULL of zucchini. The best though was dessert -- a lemon meringue which consisted of 10% really tart lemon and 90% huge, really dense and sweet and yummy meringue. I never liked meringue pies, the kind offered at my church cafeteria -- the meringue was airy and tasteless, I thought. But this stuff was so good and I am thus converted.
Today we went to a local place called Le Reveil du Xème which is a modest little bistro around the corner. The people there are super nice and the food is no nonsense. Most of the dishes were incomprehensible to me and I was too scared to order something called "Tête persilée" (parsleyed head?), which made me believe that this must be "real" french cuisine. I ordered the saucisse dish which came on a mound of dense mashed potatoes with not a green veggie in sight. It was really good. My one friend ordered the duck confit with sauteéd potatoes -- really moist and yummy. And the other ordered the salad with chevre chaud that came with two huge mounds of chevre. We also ordered escargot to start and what I suppose was a modestly priced pôt of beaujolais (since our "addition" wasn't that overwhelming, about 20e/person). And we got an eggy (kinda quich-ey) peach dessert (i forgot what the kind of tart is called). I liked it.

Foundation Cartier

This museum is free on Wednesday afternoons. They were exhibiting pieces by César, a sculptor who seemed to have enjoyed some popular and populist fame in the late sixties.

Toby

I wonder what is sold under this name . . .

Musée Nissim de Camondo

Today I visited a "hotel particulier" in the 8th arrondissement, a bourgeois neighborhood in which blond children walk around literally looking like Ralph Lauren ads. Very weird. This is the former home of Moises de Camondo, dedicated to his son Nissim (a friend of Proust's I think) who died in WWI. The place was built in the early 20th century, but decorated completely in 18th c. fashion. The de Camondo family, originally from Istanbul, earned its money in banking and spent it on art collecting. The last of the family died in Auschwitz.

Louis XVI style sitting room (I wish I knew what an early 20th c. Parisian sitting room looked like, to have some sort of basis for comparison. Next museum visit.)

Where the head chef decided his menus for the week.

Defense de Boire

As I already began to suspect during my last few months in Santa Cruz, not being able to drink really cramps my social life. It kept me mostly at home evenings, which I didn't mind so much then because SC night-life was beginning to grate. But now, it would be so much easier if I could, during one of my aimless walks, duck into a bar/restaurant/cafe and order a beer, read my book, be out and about, with the people, the people I tell you.

Order something else? I can't drink coke either. Sometimes I do stop in for a coffee. But really, alcohol is key. It's one of those things you can order more than one of, and it just means sociability. Perhaps what I'll do is go out a mere once a week for a mere "demi pression," a teeny, tiny draft beer. We'll see what the doc has to say about that.

Rues of Paris

The Single Life

As you would imagine, it's an odd feeling moving from married life in the States to single life in a foreign country. As a "GSI" (Graduate Student Instructor), we aren't provided with the kind social security blanket that the undergrads get. We're supposed to be adults with a purely academic purpose here. So far, it hasn't been bad. I've been mostly preoccupied with checking out the neighborhood and peeking my nose shyly into this brasserie or that bookstore.
But yesterday was a miserable rainy day and, even though I went out for a very nice social lunch, I was faced with the rest of the unplanned day. Not only do I feel pathetic simply because I am friendless in a big city, I also get a glug of anxiety whenever the thought crosses my mind to venture out to populated areas where someone might try to talk to me. You know, in French.
So my goal for the time being is to have one substantial activity per day that I successfully accomplish. Today I had to do another excursion to Sacre Coeur with a different group of students. Check. And then I wanted to check out a museum up there on Montmartre, The Halle St. Pierre, which was having a show of contemporary artists under the theme of "Interiority." I'm not sure how these pieces were an expression of interiority -- some of them were paintings of american subways, some were self-portraits, some were fabulously detailed patterns -- but they were mostly all creepy, in a good way.

The View + Sacre Coeur

My Studio

pictures! -- the neighborhood

There was a "manifestation" yesterday on Blvd. Magenta, apparently in defense of those "without papers," or illegal immigrants.


The Canal St. Martin

Visit to Montmartre

One of my duties is to accompany a professor on an "excursion" with the students so they can check out different parts of Paris, ride the métro, etc. Unfortunately it was raining, the professor did not make any sort of plans and had not been to Montmartre in years, I haven't been up there since 1997, and it was raining!! Up we went, though -- and I had to lead, telling them about the name "Montmartre" (mount of martyrs), the story of St. Denis, the story behind the Cathedral, and thanks for trooping through the rain. I guess it was fine. What you'd expect: the Sacre Coeur, artists wanting to paint your portrait, tourists. The students are sweet: either so-cal brats who aren't used to walking and definitely not used to public transportation, but you can tell they're trying to make it work and might even feel proud to realize their feet can take them so far; or nor-cal nose-pierced nerds -- with whom I feel more in common, although they might look at me like a stranger.

The Quartier

After about a full five days in town (and a respectable 8 hours of sleep), I can say with conviction that I really like my neighborhood. At first, my first impression left me feeling a little out of sorts. "Queens," I thought, which means "multicultural" and "working-class" -- both good things (esp. for a gentrifier like me, if we want to be sadly self-critical about what I am, moving from the Mission to Williamsburg as i did) but also a little alienating for an (apparently) white and (barely) academically-employed jeune femme.
Chateau-D'eau, the closest metro stop, is a meeting place for a local African community (which stretches along ligne 4 up to Clignacourt). Dudes literally hover around the station entrance and ask things that I don't yet understand (According to these awesome photos, and against my initial belief which was based on "The Wire," it seems the dudes are waiting to see which of their friends emerge from the station -- rather than acting as corner boys. But, I don't know -- there is a lot of parasitical loitering around that station . . .)
This community stops dead in the middle of the block. It's very strange. It goes immediately from black to brown/yellow as I approach my house -- where all the kid's clothing stores are, owned mostly by Chinese or Middle Easterners.
If you continue West, you walk toward the Canal St. Martin, the hipster neighborhood. Aha! My people -- who have turned a previously drug-ridden scary place that lined an ignored and polluted channel, into a playground of organic grocery stores and over-priced bistros.
Needless to say, I know where I am going to hang out and study in the afternoons . . .

Getting it together

I finally got 7 hours of sleep. Even though those hours were from 9pm - 4am, it promises more normal hours in the future.
And I finally found a lamp. I have a deep aversion to overhead light. I felt ridiculous searching the streets of Paris for a silly lamp that I'll only need for four months (I eventually found one at Habitat on rue du faubourg St. Antoine, by Bastille). But now that I have it all set up, yep -- I love it. I also bought a silly little succulent plant that I will have to abandon in four months. Why am I wasting my precious money on things I can live without for less than half a year? I don't know! Please don't say it's my "nesting instinct" kicking in. I hate that notion. I think it's because Dave and I had been living in the same apt. for over four years and I'm finding it fun (reluctantly - because, really, everything is so expensive here) to decorate a new place. And this studio is so drab, it needs something.
So, sleep: check. Lamp: check. The boxes of clothes and books I mailed to myself have arrived. Things are coming along nicely.

Faubourg St. Martin

In Paris, one finds that certain trades are located in particular neighborhoods. You may be walking down the street and notice that every storefront you're passing is selling the exact same product. Today I walked down Rue du Temple, after an exhausting search for who knows what at BHV, and noticed that all the stores sold bijoux. Mostly, these stores are wholesale dealers (but why the storefronts?), but it looked like individual consumers would drop in to maybe get a deal. (I'm just guessing, I really have no idea how all this works.)
The neighborhood I live in claims a particular trade. Children's clothing. Yesterday I told D there seemed to be like 15 stores in a row that sold kid's clothes. Today I realized there must be at least double that number. So many! It is as if I the gods needed to firmly and constantly remind me of my current "condition" and provide me with a sartorial vision of my future.
Unfortunately, the clothes aren't that cute.

Jetlag

It's the middle of the sleepless night of my first night in the new studio. It's as small as I expected. As I haven't quite gotten a good look at the neighborhood yet, let me spend this morning writing about my living space.
Bad points:
--- The sleeping situation is uncomfortable and/or awkward. The pull out sofa bed consists of a thin mattress pad atop wooden slats, one of which is broken. I also have fold out twin size mattresses that I tried to sleep on tonight. It was more comfortable -- but I might try to get the bed to work somehow.
--- I'm going to have to scrub the place down with bleach. The shower is icky and the windows are lined with mold.
--- There was mice poop in the "kitchen" -- another reason I don't want to sleep on mattresses on the floor.

Good points:
--- The little desk is beneath a tall window that overlooks the rooftops in my neighborhood, and if I face left and strain my neck slightly I have a perfect view of Sacre Coeur. (I left my camera in Sacramento, else I'd show you).
--- The apartment building itself seems really pleasant so far, and my landlord -- who I've not yet met -- has a really nice family. His daughter is eight months pregnant with her second boy and will send me the no. of her OB.
--- It's not much, but I think I can make it homey. Or at least livable for four months.

In the Meantime . . .

Here I am in Sacramento, after having packed up all our stuff and trucked our way out of Santa Cruz, and before flying across the country and over the ocean to land in Paris. Mostly, I'm sitting on my ass, listening to public radio or watching cable. I've bought some non-academic related novels to indulge in. Basically, I'm enjoying a summer vacation in the hotspot vacay destination. Well, at least the weather's hot. And there's a back deck with a lounge chair -- perfect for novel reading.

TechnoPop and Hot Pix

I'm in my borrowed office on campus that I have to give up at the end of the week. Only two more class sessions left. Tomorrow the students are going to do some work on the essays they have due on Thursday. And Thursday -- the last day -- we're going to watch Pan's Labyrinth.
But instead of preparing for class tomorrow -- which I need to start doing pronto -- I'm listening to dance music on Pandora and taking pictures of myself on Photobooth. Computers are fun.
And educational. I just learned I look really nice as a comic book Christina -- much better than "normal" Christina. Overexpose the blemishes, please.

Notice the empty bookcases behind me. Vertical lines to draw the gaze inward .. . No, just a testament to the impermanence of my position.

"Bookmark" Incongruity

I'm looking for a wedding present . . . actually I already know what I want to get through rare device, but they're currently not available. It's a set of custom personalized mugs, with initials and year of your choosing:

So, I wanted to look at "related" websites I thought I saved in my bookmark group categorized as "interesting stuff temp." "Temp" because I obviously think of myself as a much more active organizer of links than I actually am -- these sites were only to have a brief lifespan in bookmark history. But at least two years later, there they are, telling a strange story that I leave to you to reconstruct. Here are the links:
Vivavi
Elsewares
Robot Bags
Fun Totes (apparently I was looking for tote bags)
Overheard NYC
Ideologies of War
NYTimes Zombies
Synonyms for "Percipiens" that won't open
Jaques on Maurice
Lacan Seminars
Something on NYTimes called "Jurismania" that won't open
Intute? (I think what interested me here no longer exists)
Law's Madness (I bought the book. It's alright.)
More Law's Madness
Something by Renata Selecl called, "Why is a woman a symptom of rights." Won't open.
Elk, California

New Haircut Shyness

I got a dramatically new do yesterday. And tomorrow I will have to stand in front of my class and survive the "Ooh, I like your new haircut!"s and my stupid habit of looking at myself through their eyes and trying to figure out what I see -- some older lady looking weird with a new haircut.
I was talking to my hair dresser yesterday about how it sucks to live in a college town because of the totally unnecessary old-age feeling that plagues one. It's almost like being Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused but without the perv's glee. I keep getting older and they stay the same. Humph.
So, there's another reason it'll be nice to get out of town and be in a city for a few months. Especially with my big old pregnant self. I feel totally out of sorts and boringly domestic here, like a sad old lady who can't drink and have fun with the rest of the kids. And, at the risk of actually sounding like a bitter, sad old lady, I really can't wait to hang out with some adults. Who have adult concerns. Whatever that might be. Mortgage? Investments? Diapers? Ok, so I really don't want to hang out with adults. But whatever.

Home Stretch

I've been waking up super early and going to bed super late. Ah, the luxuries of having absolutely no social life. At least, no night life.

Our days are filled with 1) watching six straight hours of wimbledon; or 2) posting unwanted furniture on craigslist and selling it within hours; or 3) writing 12-page lectures for my class in less than two days -- which is surprising to me since it took me a month to write 20 pages of my dissertation. And i haven't touched it since; or 4) getting forms and such ready to get my visa; or 5) watching random bad movies and finishing off the final season of Prime Suspect; or 6) sneaking into East Field House to swim some laps.

An image from Reunion '08.

In Between Here and There

The transition begins . . .

Dave has a second interview on Monday for a job he is not super excited about and doesn't pay well. But it's a job.

I have to find a place to live in Paris, get all the paperwork together for a visa, and teach a summer course.

These things are great, just a little confusing.

In the meantime, we've been keeping ourselves warm during a chilly late spring by fulfilling our Santa Cruz routine of making dinners, watching dvds, reading books, playing tennis.

I was told by my adviser recently that I'm a "slow writer." Which I don't think is at all true. So, right now, I'm gearing myself up to write an email about the inaccuracy of that characterization. In the least accusatory or defensive manner possible. Do I possess magical powers potent enough to compose such a letter?

Wednesdays in Santa Cruz

I must admit that since we've decided on a "date of departure," I'm starting to feel a little warm and fuzzy about Santa Cruz, a town I had declared my mortal enemy a little over a year ago. It's early spring, the flowers are so pretty, we had a helluva a hot weekend, and I really can't imagine living without Shopper's Corner -- which is kinda reminiscent of Met Foods in Greenpoint, except with an awesome butcher department and not-kidding fresh produce.
So, I'm fine with Santa Cruz and my forced exile. What I cannot quite swallow, though, is the distant sound of drummers circled together under a tree celebrating the weekly Farmer's Market that takes place a block from my apt. Not that it hasn't been educational. I never really spent much time around drum circles, so I don't know a lot about them. Now I realize that the point of drum circles is not so much to make music with your buddies, having fun with the different sounds you can create with percussion instruments. It seems to be purely about zoning out (or zen-ing out?) to a beat that does not alter, at all, for four hours straight. The same, ritualistic beat, over and over.

Vraiment?!

Why is French radio playing Barbara Streisand? There better be more than one radio station over there!

Map This

In preparation for my little stay in Paris, I'm listening to French news on-line. I only understand the words I understand, which doesn't seem to help with the acquisition of new words. I'll keep at it though.

So this weekend, I went to a dissertation writing workshop. Here's what I learned:
1) Don't psychologize the writing process. I'm not not-writing (or writing slowly) cause "I suck," but because of external factors: like time-managment issues. I guess my poor time-management skills aren't supposed to reflect poorly on me personally. It's probably time's fault. He's an asshole. Don't question it.
2) Work in 45-minutes "sessions" for better productivity. I worked a total of 6 sessions today (not on writing, but on stuff like grading papers and reading for lecture), which may sound impressive until I admit it was a 4.5 hour work day. But it's mentally stressful, so suck it.
3) Try a cognitive map, which I wish were a graphic representation of my brain, but it's not.
4) Actually, the best thing she said was that when a person bitches constantly and complains about how slowly her writing is going, this most likely means she is getting really productive work done. Since I've been bitching non-stop for the past month and getting depressed about the 1-paragraph a day writing feat, that made me feel like a genius! Of course, now I'm going to moan and whine continuously, whether I'm writing or not. Better to feel like a genius than actually be one. Geniuses are boring, admit it.

What the near future looks like

Drinking champagne under a tent amid a crowd of white-haired women in pantsuits and sweater sets then stumbling over the green, through the humidity, toward more drinks -- it's a Vassar reunion.
Lecturing through a shaking voice and an upset tummy at a group of drowsy-eyed summer students -- it's Lit80.
Packing up books and dishes, trying to dump unwanted furniture on the nearest passerby -- we're out of here by Aug. 1.
Headed for Sacramento, then off to Paris.
The picture gets fuzzy after that.

Spring Break '08

From the beach to the suburbs, we did our vacation in reverse.
Our trip was spent watching the final season of "The Wire" on cable. It was a lot of work, it's not easy watching 10 episodes of an anxiety-producing show during a four-day weekend, but definitely worth it.
We also played Scrabble, washed the car, and played with the baby.

Back at home, I wake up with the mantra *please get a job soon, please get a job soon*

Update on the Frauenzimmer Dilemma

I had the smarts enough to ask my Austrian friend for help. And help he did. Here is the answer we've been waiting for:

"as for the term frauenzimmer, it's an antiquated word whose history/etymology
i'm not quite familiar with. i know it as a derogatory term for a troublesome,
troubled woman, usually lower-class, maybe of loose morals, maybe tending
toward the "hysterical," but definitely socially malicious in some way. it may
be the closest german approximation of "bitch" that i'm aware of."

There is also a German TV-movie called "Das Frauenzimmer" whose description he translated for me.:

Frauen bei der Arbeit in der Küche als Ausgangsbasis für einen Film, der nicht
in herkömmlicher Weise beschreiben will, sondern die Szenen assoziativ
montiert und Zusammenhänge sichtbar zu machen versucht, indem er die
alltäglichen Gesten, die fast schon Ritualen gleichen, so verdreht und
verrückt, daß sich die Grenze zwischen Wirklichkeit und Traum verschiebt.

[this is one long-ass stupid german sentence!!!]

[Surrealist] [F]ilm consisting of scenes of women laboring in the kitchen.
Everyday gestures that almost resemble rituals are twisted and defamiliarized
until the line between reality and dream is blurred. The film doesn't take a
conventional descriptive approach. Rather, it seeks to make visible social
contexts using an associative montage technique.


Doesn't this sound good??

Frauenzimmer. Help!

In The Interpretation of Dreams Freud says a room (zimmer) in a dream means woman (Frauenzimmer). The translator says "Frauenzimmer," literally "woman's apartment," is also a "slightly derogatory term for woman." But does it mean "slut"? The two german-speaking professors I've talked to said no. In the 18th c. it was simply a term for "jeune fille." In 19th c. Vienna it was apparently a term for the woman-servant employed in the bourgeois household. But there is a book of photos out right now called Frauenzimmer: Brothels in Germany:

What does this word mean? And where can I read more about it?

Multiple Out-of-Town Weekend Activities Make Me Tired

We left on Friday afternoon and headed for Davis, CA where I was dropped off to attend a grad conference on "the long 19th century" hosted by The Dickens Project. We were given a free hotel and relatively delicious meals to reward us for our hours of attentive presentation listening.

The attendants, most of whom I remember from last summer's affair, are really sweet, smart people who, judging from their papers, are also eloquent writers. But, I gotta say, this is going to have to be my last Victorian-related lit conference. Although, in the past, I have enjoyed reading Middlemarch, Pride and Prejudice, Bleak House, Vanity Fair, etal -- I haven't spent much time thinking about them, or even remembering their finer plot points. Becky Sharpe was inticingly bad, Elizabeth Bennett fell in love with Darcy, Esther jangled keys. Beyond this, the books live a fuzzy existence in my head.

Aside from the fact that I don't remember the Vic. lit. of which they speak, they also speak about books differently than I do. Whereas I am looking at how an idea or figure, in this case a room, interrupts a certain discourse (psychoanalysis) or text (ie Mrs. Dalloway) as a kind of symptom, bringing with it a particular rhetorical history, "they" (as a reductive, general category) were speaking to and within a very particular field of criticism that was concerned exclusively with George Eliot, or Jane Austen, or Charles Dickens. Although I am interested in reading "Woolfian" criticism, I wouldn't call myself a Woolf scholar, or even say I'm interested in disrupting or re-evaluating conventional Woolfian discourse. Then again, I am only on page four of my dissertation, so maybe my comparative non-specificity has something to do with that.

I left the conference a day early to hang out in Sacramento with the in-laws, get some baby-time in with little Scotty, and watch the Oscars with the Mahoneys and company. Here is my review of the affair:
I thought Catherine Heigl was cute, all shaky-voiced as a presenter.
Why did Bourne Ultimatum win all those awards, thus depriving me of my Oscar-pool triumph?
Daniel Day-Lewis won, which everyone thought he would, which would make sense since he was the only memorable actor in the movie. I liked the movie (in fact the more I think about it, the more I do), I liked him in it, but as stated below, the whole thing seemed heavy on the DDL-worship.
Whereas "No Country" was really beautiful in its collaboration.
Tilda Swinton is a readhead.
Javier Bardem speaks Spanish real good.
That song from "Once" really got stuck in my head for a while there.

Hunkered Down in the Bunker

I've holed myself up in the Grad Lit computer room, affectionately called "The Bunker," or "The Bomb Shelter." Windowless with cement walls and absurdly enclosing cubicles, it's much nicer than my cramped apartment. Or, at least it's a nice change of scenery. I'm trying to edit my conference paper -- and, by god, I will get it done! Eventually.

Some lunch would be nice though . . .

Lincoln's Birthday

Some friends came down from S.F. to help celebrate D's Birthday. We went to Soif and ordered much wine and many "small plates," but we never managed to feel well-fed. Which is a pity, since the food was good. But it seemed kind of ridiculous to keep ordering plates, our table would have looked like some crazy medieval banquet for small children. And I can't have that.

So we had wine and then we went to another place for a few more cocktails, which were unnecessary but delightful. We had cheerful, laugh-filled conversations and everything was just swell. And then we went home, our friends were to stay the night. I got it in my head that more drinks must be had, a 100% false belief. Not a single person needed another drop of anything, save water, and Dave promptly took the misguided drink from my hand. A wise move that led to a peaceful night's sleep.

More blog writing

I'm on a blogging frenzy . . . I can't stop! I don't even have anything to say, but I just want to write about it.
We watched a documentary about the SLA and Patty Hearst last night. Which recounted events just as fucked up as those recounted in the Jonestown and the Weathermen documentaries. I know this probably won't be a popular comment, but I wish people were just a wee bit more radicalized these days; that there was an ounce or two of the insane fury of the 60s/70s weirdos. Except for the whole Jonestown thing, that was just straight-up scary as shit.

Go to Bed Happy and the Baby with a Camera Face

Don't worry about things before you fall asleep.
Two nights ago I was worried about getting fat and then I dreamed my clothes didn't fit and my face was pudgy. Last night I worried about how few opinions I feel I have to express (which is a kind of weird thing to worry about, actually) and then I dreamed . . . something related to that concern, though I don't remember the details.

Have you seen the one where the dog turns into a lady?

Rainy Days of January

During these rainy days, Dave and I have both successfully fought our cute little colds and have emerged this Sunday afternoon in relatively fine form. I have a knot of energy in the pit of my tummy that is urging physical activity, movement of any sort, but the picture outside my window convinces me otherwise -- as does the glass of wine beside me. Perhaps tomorrow I should get up off my ass and move somehow. I can't say in which direction or in what manner I'll be moving, but move I must.

We saw "There Will be Blood" on Friday evening. It was a captivating character study, but really heavy on the Day Lewis-is-a-genius front. His genius, which along with his "looks" I can't deny, pretty much slaps you in the face without submission. It was hard to figure out what else the movie wanted to say or do besides display genius. Although, I suppose one could argue the movie was "about" the search for blood (oil, family, religion -- but not female blood, I don't think.) Anyway, it was a good movie.