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.