Paris

It was a good week.

I took an early morning train from Nantes to Paris. Once in Paris, I took the metro to my hostel, which was surprisingly uncomplicated and made me rather pleased with myself for being so at-ease in one of the largest cities in the world.

I'd like to go back to that question I was asked I while ago about my favorite experience in France so far. Here it is exactly as I wrote it in my journal:

“At the Chatelet stop, an old French man with an accordion got on right next to me, playing a lilting old waltz. The same thing could've conceivably happened in NYC among other places, but there was something profoundly French about it any way. The song, for one, that was just magical and old-timey and so very appropriate for the moment, like a well-chosen soundtrack in a 1950s film. And then secondly it was the man himself who was so perfect – an old, wrinkled character with all the world in laughter and joy, in suffering and strength and wisdom written on his tanned face and his calloused hands. I gave him a brilliant enraptured smile, and he smiled back. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking, knew me exactly for who I was, and smiled really at ME. It would've been creepy, how I had the impression that he could read my mind, were it not for that he was so benign. That he knew who I was and loved me anyway. Like how liberal Christians (i.e. UCC folks) view God. And his lilting waltz never faltered. I would've given him a coin or something to show my gratitude for the music, but first of all, I think he knew, and second, I didn't want to interrupt, and third, he got on at Chatelet and I got off one stop later at Les Halles. But I'll never forget him, even though I knew him for less than 5 minutes.”

After the metro I was in fine high spirits, buoyed up by the accordion player, having successfully taken the train and the metro, and simply by the magic of being in Paris. Then I proceeded to get lost, frustrated, and hungry. One of them I could fix. I bought a crepe and asked the lady who sold it to me how to find the youth hostel. It turned out she didn't speak French, so that didn't help much. Eventually I realized that there were two different parts of the street the hostel was on, and I'd been looking on the wrong one. So a confused phone call with my host dad later, I found the hostel, dropped off my baggage (not that I brought much, just a backpack with my toothbrush, a towel, and three clean shirts), and continued exploring. The main adventures of the day were 1) getting hit on by an older Indian man – slightly creepy, but I guess that's the risk you take when you talk to strangers and 2) getting accosted by all the charity people next to the Louvre and getting mad at them enough to start spouting off legal rights that exist in the US but I don't know about in France. I walked around a lot which ended up being useful later because I knew my way around (better than our tour guide, André, who is hopeless despite being Parisian).

We were supposed to meet at the hostel at 15:00, so I soon found myself settling into a small six-person room with 2 other Americans, 2 Brazilians, and a Czech. At first I was less than optimistic – they seemed like a bunch of gossipy, girly gigglers who I'd have nothing in common with. But I ended up really enjoying it. I liked almost every single one of the other foreign exchange students, not just my roommates. They're all wonderful individuals with their own great stories and a taste for adventure like my own. Our common languages were French, English, and sometimes Spanish, so everyone spoke in Frenglish with lapses into Spanish between the Mexicans, Ecuadorians, and Brazilians. I thought that was really cool.

Here's me and my roommates, having fun on the roof of the hostel (yes, we got in trouble):

 

After settling in, we went for a cruise on the Seine, which was beautiful although quite chilly. We mingled and got to know each other – as foreign exchange students, we were all pretty eager to get to know each other. A little starved for friendship, eager to hear about other peoples' experiences, and we've all learned by now that being shy doesn't get you anywhere. They were all fascinating and I loved talking with them. Although one of the most interesting people was André, our 50-ish year old guide. I have a habit of making friends with tour guides, because they're usually the most interesting people in the group and then you can ask them for special favors! So André and I discussed politics, his time in the US at UCLA, cultural differences, the history of Paris, and whatever else came to mind.

After the boat, we had dinner, went back to the hostel and fell asleep.

Just kidding. We partied all night long with the Ecuadorians and a German.

The next day, we walked. A lot. I don't even remember what we were supposed to be seeing, but it just involved a lot of walking. Normally that would be totally okay for me, but since I sprained my ankle a couple days before coming to Paris, it wasn't ideal. Oh, and we saw the Cathedrale de Notre Dame, which is impressive.

We ate boxed lunches next to the Louvre, sitting in a big circle and sharing a little bit about ourselves. After lunch we explored the Louvre. I probably would've enjoyed it more if I hadn't been so tired. But actually, it really made me wonder what makes art great or not. I know there's no definition of good or bad art, but all the art in the Louvre is really famous. Why? I'll take the Mona Lisa for an example, just because everyone knows what it is. It's just a woman. It doesn't awe me to look at it. To an untrained eye, it has no apparent value. I have some high school friends who can draw amazingly, either realistically or just in an intrinsically pleasing style. How come their art doesn't get a place in the Louvre? I know that there must be a reason. Just like how there is no good music or bad music, but my host brother listens to terrible electropop and wouldn't know quality classical music if it hit him in the face. And I know, because I've been trained in classical music. Even though music is a matter of opinion, I'm willing to state as a fact that Shostakovich's 8^th is just plain better than Rihanna. So I'm sure there must be some logic behind this art thing, but I am as uneducated as average as far as art goes, and therefore am incapable of appreciating the Shostakovich of art. Long story short, the Louvre was okay, but I just felt incapable of appreciating it for the masterpiece I'm sure it must be.

After the Louvre we went to the Champs Élysée to go shopping. I was hanging with the other two Americans, and we started by getting coffee and pains au chocolat (chocolate pastries) to fortify ourselves. I'm only writing this irrelevant detail because it was absolutely the best coffee I have ever tasted. The pastry wasn't too shabby either. Then we strolled through H&M, Promod, Zara, and a bunch of other nice stores. I didn't buy anything, but it was decently entertaining.

Then we ate dinner, headed back to the hostel, and went to sleep.

Just kidding. We partied all night long with the Ecuadorians, two Germans, and an extra Brazilian.

Day 3. We missed our alarm in the morning and woke up with barely enough time to get dressed and tumble downstairs for breakfast. Then we went to Montmartre and the Sacré Coeur. I spent about half an hour talking with a street musician, an old violinist who was astonishingly expressive when he played. So I asked him how he learned – he started at age 6 and studied at conservatory. That didn't surprise me, given the way he played, but it is surprising and sad that anyone who's studied at conservatory should have to be a street musician.

Montmartre was great, full of little cheap touristy shops where I got all my Christmas shopping done at once. After Montmartre, we went to the Eiffel Tower and ate lunch on the lawn beneath it. At the base of the tower are a couple hundred bear statues, decorated by each country. The US bear was pretty uncreative compared to a lot of the others:

While waiting for our turn to ascend the tower, I ate (half of) the best nutella crepe I have ever eaten. The coffee I had at the Champs Élysée was actually quality stuff, but I suspect the nutella crepe tasted like paradise half just because I was cold and tired. Then we went up, and the view was pretty nice, I guess, but since we couldn't go up to the third floor (the very top) it wasn't overwhelming.

Then we went shopping in another big famous area with really expensive stores. Again I didn't buy anything, and just barely didn't get lost.

For dinner I had a pancake topped with cucumber and yogurt mix topped with lox. It was delicious. It was also a hilarious dinner, because all of us were tired enough to think our own terrible inappropriate jokes were funny. But it's really that that I miss sometimes, being all alone in Bois de Céné: The ability to tell jokes and just laugh about them. I do sometimes succeed in telling or understanding jokes in French, but everyone knows that when you have to explain a joke, it isn't funny. Similarly, when you have to think really hard about it, it isn't as funny either. It's amazingly relieving to hang out with people with a common cultural background so you can just talk and laugh about things without difficulty. I'll never take that for granted again.

Then, since we were all exhausted from two nights of partying, we headed back to the hostel and went right to sleep.

Just kidding. We partied all night long with the Ecuadorians, four Germans, and an extra Brazilian. Or at least, they did. I stayed up an hour or so talking and then went to sleep.

The next morning, we missed our alarm. Again. Stumbled down to breakfast and spent our last morning walking in a daze around some famous parts of Paris. My favorite thing about that last day was a conversation I had with André. I talked with André a lot, actually: like I said, I make a habit of befriending tour guides because it's a great way to get extra information and benefits. André and I had discussed a lot of things, from politics to how much booze French people drink to his youth. On that last day, as everyone was lagging behind disinterestedly, not listening to André explain historical things about Paris, he asked me casually if we partied last night and if it was good. I hesitated, knowing that he wouldn't care, but also knowing that I tend to be way too trusting and might be innocently falling into a trap. He said “I don't care, you know. You're young, you may as well make the most of it.” So I laughed and told him yes, we partied every night. And yes, it was fun. Apparently the hostel staff had told him that everyone was coming to our room at night, so he knew perfectly well what was going on. He's just a really chill guy. That really made my day because he's a pudgy, aging man who, at heart, is still 17, high on love and life, eager to conquer the world and meet all the girls and party in every corner of Paris. And so he gave us his blessing to live it up, and even pretended for us that he was ignorant of it – except to me, because I was smart enough to make friends with the tour guide. :)

By ten we were back at the hostel, bags packed, saying our goodbyes. My train didn't leave until two, so I headed off to the metro, grateful I'd packed light and would only have to lug my backpack around Montparnasse with me instead of the giant suitcases all the other girls brought. Once at Montparnasse, I decided not to go up the tower because it costs money and I'd already seen the view from the Eiffel tower and found it underwhelming. Instead, I took a walk. I found some lovely stores and bought a pair of ballet flats for 15€. And, of course, another nutella crepe. I practically lived on those things while I was in Paris, and I regret nothing. At one point I walked through a farmers' market, which was a bubble of very real Parisian-ness in the middle of tourism-land. I love farmers' markets, especially when there's fruits and vegetables and hunks of meat that I don't even recognize. I didn't buy anything, I just enjoyed walking through it and pretending I was a real Parisienne. (If I'm careful not to have a lost, touristy expression on my face, and no one talks to me, it tends to work. I have enough confidence in big cities to look like I live there. I even got asked for directions by three different people!)

My other favorite moment of my last day in Paris was the “A vous de jouer” piano in the Gare de Montparnasse.

There's a piano, just there for people to play on. I got back to the station with about an hour to spare just to make sure I had time to find the right train, and ended up spending at least half of that time sitting and listening to the pianists come and go. They were all much better than I am, or I might have tried to play something myself. But I just enjoyed listening. And normally I find French people much less appreciative of performance: they clap less and are a more reserved audience. But everyone clapped for the amateur pianists at Montparnasse, and as a circle of mutual music lovers, we just looked around at each other and shared contented smiles whenever there was a particularly well-done piece. I love spontaneous feelings of camaraderie – well, who doesn't?

The train home was uneventful, except for one thing: my phone stopped working. This was quite worrying, because I didn't even know if I had to take another train from Nantes to home or if my host brother was going to be around to pick me up. I didn't run out of battery, no. I made sure to charge my phone before I left. It just wouldn't receive or send calls or texts. So once I got to Nantes, I tried calling some more until I gave up on my phone, and then I went outside and walked around a little in the vain hope that I'd see my brother's car (yeah, right – Nantes is the size of San Francisco, remember). Came back inside. Tried a payphone – it ripped me off 6€ to call my host dad and then host mom, and neither of them picked up. I didn't even leave a message. Frigging pay phone. So then I leaned against the wall, trying to calm my breathing. Don't have a panic attack, Ikwe. That is not useful. Think, dammit. What WOULD be a useful thing to do? But I couldn't think of anything I could do.

Just then, I heard my name, looked up, saw my host brother and his girlfriend standing in front of me looking concerned. “Oh thank God!” I said. Not even “Oh merci Dieu,” even though I always speak French with my family. It just came out of my mouth in English, I was so surprised and relieved. My savior! So that was my little adventure with cellphone problems (can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em), and I'm slightly ashamed that my problem-solving skills had a bug and I had absolutely no idea what to do if my brother hadn't shown up right then. It turned out all I had to do to get my elderly phone to work again was turn it off and back on again, just like one often does with buggy computers. Believe me, I feel stupid for not thinking of that.

So now that I've finished all the boring talking about events stuff, I'm gonna comment on the nature of the universe just like I always do. Introspection from Paris number one:

Americans and Germans are a lot more alike than either of them are like the French. I enjoyed conversing with the Germans I met a lot, and we usually spoke in Frenglish because Germans usually have an easier time with English than with French, but after living here for several months their vocabulary has grown quite a bit more in French. Whatever works. We had a lot of the same complaints. We both think that the French are really unproductive and spend too much time at school, but with a large percentage of that time not being used. We both hate the fact that the French don't have hobbies, and their only form of entertainment is socializing. We think school is too easy, and that French people are bad at math, science, and foreign languages. We agree that the French are reserved, cliquey, and hard to make friends with. Talking with the Germans was almost like talking to Americans, except for the language. I felt like we were from the same culture. Even the things that are different we discussed with interest and were not shocked at each others' customs. For example, when talking about our futures and what we want to do with our lives, I explained how important college is to the Americans; in my French high school all they talk about is what profession you eventually want, which doesn't happen in the US. At Homestead, we primarily talk about applying to and choosing colleges. In Germany it isn't like that either – they have other choices that are important – but our system is quite understandable to them. Long story short, talking with Germans doesn't feel like talking through a wall like talking with French people does.

Question of the day: Why can you talk about Germans or a German, but not Frenchs or a French? It has to be the French or French people. It's most inconvenient.

On a somewhat related note, I really enjoyed being in a group with 26 other exchange students of all different nationalities. It was everything that I naively wished moving to a French high school would be: meeting interesting people with all different great life stories, everyone from completely different backgrounds but with recent common experiences as exchange students. We know that language doesn't have to be a barrier – we're living the language barrier. One of the students I spent the most time with was a Czech girl who didn't have very good English or French, but we got along just fine in slow, careful Frenglish. Unfortunately, not everyone you meet on the street will be that patient. And even if they are, you feel guilty or ashamed for making them wait for you, for the extra effort it takes to have a conversation with you. When everyone in the group is an exchange student, there's no guilt – we all know what it feels like to live in our second (or third) language. And then there's all the things in common we have: conversation starters could be anything from “What do you miss the most about home?” to “How do you like your host family?” to “Let's complain about French people!”

The other thing that was great about Paris was the independence. We had André to take care of us, but he wasn't exactly the strictest of chaperones. I wandered around the city by myself (and never even got lost, except if you count not being able to find my youth hostel as lost), found my own food, took the metro by myself, decided who to hang out with and what to do and had no one to tell me to put on a second jacket or I'd catch a cold. The combination of the independence and being in a big city and being with a few other anglophones meant it felt almost like home. And at the same time, it was felt good to come home afterward for a shower with actual hot water, more than a few hours of sleep per night, and seeing my host family, of whom I am quite fond. Being away teaches you to appreciate home. (Even if it's not home home, in Sunnyvale.)

There you have it. My Parisian adventure. If you want more pictures, they are here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.4991943683214.195896.1438307065&type=1&l=b7e0731321

 The first week of vacation I wanted to be back at school because I had nothing to do, but after Paris, the last thing I wanted was to go back. Oh well. Just five and a half more weeks until my next vacation, for Christmas. The good thing is that I switched English classes (and will continue to switch every two months, to share the American with each group). My new teacher's English is not better than the old one's, but she is a better teacher and I have a lot more friends in my new class.

A quick note of clarification on my last post about capitalism and socialism, since a lot of people have talked to me about it:

I didn't really mean to say that capitalism is “better” than socialism. I think it's a really good thing that we have both kinds of societies in the world. Capitalism is better for some people, namely those who are intelligent, ambitious, and lucky. The successful are more successful in a capitalist country, and this creates an attitude of competitivity and innovation that is very good for the US economy and for technology. But those who aren't at the top would probably be happier in a socialist society. And for me personally, the competition and ambition of the Silicon Valley motivated me and helped me flourish, so I'd prefer to live in a capitalist state. But I don't really think one is intrinsically better than the other, just that capitalism fosters extremes (the very successful and innovative AND the very poor who can't pay their medical bills) whereas socialism creates more of an equilibrium, where everyone gets about the same benefits and thus innovation is less pronounced.

Your complimentary French songs of the day I owe to Tanguy (merci Tanguy!).

Brigitte: Battez-Vous

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUgwRLVzOZQ&feature=youtu.be

Emilie Simon: Fleur de Saison

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bs00rfVJFKI&feature=youtu.be

Vanessa Paradis: L'Incendie

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C72piaGmahs&feature=youtu.be