kifkifkif

hi everyone

2009-08-11T02:21:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone (or rather, practically no one) who reads this blog -

I've decided to leave you, kifkifkif, in favor of:

http://yrfacehere.tumblr.com/

Which I'm already sort of addicted to. This blog was never consistent, nor pretty, and kind of boring - although it had its moments - its like a girlfriend you should let go in lieu of something better.

Expect my tumblr (which started mainly as a photoblog) to be filled with stuff I like.

It could include you.

Follow me there!

cleaning out my bookshelf

2009-06-01T20:23:00.000-07:00

The squashed spider on my fax machine looks similar to a dead flower.

As I was cleaning my room, which caused uncontrollable sneezing, I stumbled upon my Senior year High School Yearbook. Highlights from the "Autographs" pages (because most of us only reach high school fame and/or notoriety) to follow. Aside from the standard "you are so amazings" to variations on "have a good life", there were the more awkward "I'm glad I finally got to know yous" and other reoccuring themes.

Jokes about Barnard:

"Good luck in Barnard (Bernard)..."

"I wish you the best of luck at Barnard (I hope I spelled that right)"

"I hope we get to hang out more this summer, and maybe some day we'll both get to real Ivy League schools"
-(He went to Cornell)

Food/Veganism mentions:

"...You are one of the only people that can understand my food issues!"
Girl has Celiac disease. Apparently, veganism is just as bad.

"It was fun sitting next to you in French with your salad and my Doritos every day"
I'm not even sure what this means; did she have fun simply sitting next to me? Did she find it amusing I would eat a salad and she would eat Doritos?

"I enjoy watching you eat your vegan meals in lunch"
Creepy, but I guess I sort of did make a scene.

My Character Flaws:

"Cyrena, right now you are behind me copying my calc homework...I'll see you around in the city. Peace!"
True. I did copy some calc homework, occasionally.

"It turns out you are not the shy little girl you make yourself out to be haha. Oh well you rock anyway! Keep listening to good music and being a nice girl, just please try to not become hipster scum."
I don't remember what the first sentence refers to, or at least I'm going to pretend not to. GOOD GIRL GONE BAD!

"My best words of wisdom will be to enjoy your heavy spending while you can! Kidding...(just marry rich)"
At least I'm not frugal?

Misc./Funny

"Hmm, The first thing I remember about you is cutting yourself with a bagel knife, and I suppose that was an accurate assumption. I wish you all the luck with your leaving - all girls...good luck. You're asian and so am I. I admire your wardrobe and hope to keep in touch. This doesn't make much sense, but I'm under outside influences. Peace, love and Handbags."

"Yo Cyrena
Dude good try the other day trying to set me up for the Jew Crew. I wanted to just run outside and squirt you."

And last, but not least

"Yo! GoD your pretty. prom was sick. lets go on mad dates after this is written. word up. see you in the after life I Was your prom date!"

WILL SOMEONE EDIT THIS (IT'S NOT DONE)

2009-05-05T05:03:00.000-07:00

Écriture de Soi : Les Confessions par J.J. Rousseau et Les Confessions Moderne

L’écriture de soi, aussi connu sous le nom de l’autobiographie, le mémoire, ou bien le récit personnel, parmi des autres. On peut dire que l’écriture de soi a commencé avec l’ancienne « apologia » le mot latin qui veut dire « les excuses » ou bien la raison ou la défense de soi-même. Alors, la première raison pour parler de soi était pour la défense, et la justification ; effectivement- pour se sauver. Par exemple, Les Confessions par St. Augustine est vraiment « une confession » vers Dieu, et la fonction ici est pour se sauver - réflexion. On peut conclure en disant que Les Confessions par J.J. Rousseau a eu une fonction : encore, la défense de soi-même. Les écrits de Rousseau étaient contestés, comme son ouvrage L’Emile, qui était écrit par Rousseau dans 1762, et puis la Profession de foi du Vicaire Savoyard. Après ses écrits ont été publiées, Rousseau doit s’exiler en Suisse. La honte qu’il s’est senti devient plus quand Voltaire l’a reproché dans un pamphlet, le Sentiment de citoyens, qui a dit Rousseau a abandonné ses cinq enfants. Grâce a ça, Rousseau a eu impulsion écrire sa autobiographique : pour se defender, et comme il a écrit dans les premier lignes de Livre Premier ; « Je veux montrer à mes semblables un homme dans toute la vérité de la nature ; et cet homme ce sera moi ».

Les Confessions de J.J. Rousseau est un important point de référence de l’autobiographie, dans l’écriture de soi : c’est évident que le livre est un résulte des fonctions originales de l’écriture de soi : la défense, la justification. Il y a des «racines dans la religion catholique, mais aussi Rousseau a créé les formes différent de cette écriture : les façons dont comment l’on parler de soi. En plus, on peut voir comment est le rapport de soi a soi, et aussi comment l’inscription du temps joue un rôle dans l’autobiographie. L’inscription du temps est étroitement liée comment la mémoire fonction, un élément intéressant, qui est parmi les écueils de l’écriture de soi. Même si le genre d’autobiographique a changé assez, les mêmes questions existent : la question du destinataire, le but, et aussi si on écrit pour se connaître. On verra que toutes les formes d’écriture de soi qui existent maintenant : le journal intime, les blogs, les romans autobiographiques, l’autofiction, le témoignage, la poésie, la bande dessinée autobiographiques, etc. Avec tous ces genres, on peut voir comment les questions et les problématiques refaisant constamment et comment ils sont tous reflete dans Les Confessions. L’autobiographie est vraiment une réflexion de soi – ever-changing, mais dans les mots, le soi est immortalisé.

Le mot « autobiographie » n’existe pas avant le XIXieme siècle, donc, Rousseau ne pouvait pas écrire simplement « je vais écrire mon autobiographie ». L’autobiographie peut être définie par Philipe LeJeune, qui a ecrit dans La Pacte Autobiographique l’autobiographie est « «récit rétrospectif en prose que quelqu'un fait sur sa propre existence quand il met l'accent principal sur une vie individuelle, en particulier sur l'histoire de sa personnalité.» Les Confessions bien a toutes ces caractéristiques, parce qu’il est un récit dans lequel le personnage central est l’auteur bien que le narrateur. Alors il y a bien l’affirmation dans le texte de l’identité qui existe entre narrateur, auteur, et personnage. Mais il y a un écueil ici, car il y a aussi le genre mémoire, qui n’a pas un pacte. On peut le définir avec les mots de Gore Vidal, un écrivain qui a dit « le mémoire est comment on se souvient leur vie soi-même, quand l’autobiographie est l’histoire, avec le recherche, les dates, l’information vérifié. » Dans le livre premier, Rousseau a écrit « Je n’ai rien tu de mauvais, rien ajouté de bon, et s’il m’est arrivé d’employer quelque ornement indiffèrent, ce n’a jamais été que pour remplir un vide occasionné par mon défaut de mémoire ». Alors, avec ça, on peut dire que Les Confessions est plus comme un mémoire qu’une autobiographie, car il n’y pas la vérification que tous que Rousseau a dit est vrai. En plus, quelquefois les dates que Rousseau a mises dedans ne sont pas correctes, et les éventements ne sont pas en ordre. La mémoire, au moins, est compliquée :

« Nous sommes aujourd'hui victimes d'un trop-plein de mémoires. De mémoires au masculin et au féminin, au singulier et au pluriel. Mémoire artificielle, qui fournit à nos sociétés des capacités de stockage jusqu'alors inégalées, mais pose des problèmes d'exploitation. Mémoire institutionnalisée par des pratiques sociales de commémoration et d'éducation au souvenir. Ou encore mémoires collectives, servant de prothèse identitaire à des associations, des communautés, des collectivités. »

-Jean-Louis Jeannelle, Vies Memorables

Car, même si les mémoires sont moins légitimes, ils sont plus un vraie réflexion de soi-même, parce que les mémoires représentent ce qu’on se sentait.

Le premier intertexte, on peut voir est Confessions de St. Augustin, qui a inspiré Rousseau ; il a volé le titre, qui a déjà les influences de la religion catholique. Bien sûr, par les confessions de ses pêches, il peut s’achever par l’absolution. Quand Rousseau a dit « je forme », c’est un peu comme il joue la rôle de Dieu – la verbe étrange implique la création. Mais au même temps, il a écrit « Quand la trompette du Jugement dernier sonne », qui implique qu’il écrit pour Dieu aussi. Avec « ce livre a la main », on peut voir comment le livre existe cela pour lui. Il veut montre son innocence, et il peut faire ça par raconter son enfance, ses réalisations, sa regrette et ses contritions. Avec la vérité, il y a des justifications plus que des aveux, pour les fautes graves comme l’abandon de M. Le Maître à Lyon, qu’il a excusé. Mais ici, il y a une vertu cathartique de l’écriture- Rousseau se sauve ne pas seulement pour la religion, mais aussi pour lui-même dans la vie. On trouve une autre raison pour parler de soi ; et ça c’est pour avoir une thérapie cathartique. Alors, pour montre l’innocence de l’enfant de l’homme, Rousseau a commencé avec sa naissance, un état original, « l’homme de la nature ». La nature est ou l’homme se suffit lui-même, il n’a pas besoin de désir ; l’homme vit dans l’actualité de son existence. L’avenir est juste à la fin de la journée.

Mais la réalité est que les confessions n’existent pas sans l’auteur, Rousseau, comme la réalité n’existe pas sans Dieu, et ni sans les lecteurs. Effectivement, le livre n’existerait pas sans les lecteurs aussi. Puis, quand il a dit « Je forme une entreprise », le mot représente son travail, l’écriture va le donner l’aventure d’un livre qui est rétrospectif, tourné vers l’avenir. Son autobiographie va essayer montre la vérité avec sa vie, l’expérience personnelle mais aussi l’histoire d’humanité. En plus que ça, l’autobiographie montre son idéologie, et l’idéologie est intégrale à la nature des hommes. Philippe LeJeune a fait un commentaire sur Les Confessions dans son livre La Pacte Autobiographie, « ils parlent leur idéologie en même temps qu’ils en racontent l’histoire ». Et les idéologies sont bonnes seulement s’il y a des autres pour faire la comparaison ; c’est-à-dire que Rousseau a dit « je veux montrer à mes semblables un homme dans toute la vérité de la nature ». La question du destinataire maintenant a une bonne réponse : il ne parle pas seulement à Dieu, il parle à ses semblables, et aussi il parle pour lui-même.

Comment Rousseau parler de soi ? Il est fortement question aussi, le rapport de soi à soi. Le chapitre dont il se trouve avec Mme de Warrens, il commence avec une déclaration : « Cette époque de ma vie a décidé de mon caractère ». Ici, on peut voir l’emploi de l’inscription du temps, Rousseau a organisé sa vie dans quelques époques. Non seulement il y a des époques séparées, mais aussi les époques sont caractérisées : celui ici semble d’être le plus important. Rousseau dit ici « J’étais au milieu de ma seizième année », il va de soi que l’age ici représente le temps. » Il écrit sur ce qui s’est passé quand il avait seize ans, mais c’est avec la voix de quelqu’un qui est plus age. C’est-à-dire, quand il se décrit comme « j’avais un joli pied, la jambe fine, l’air dégagé, la physionomie animée, la bouche mignonne, les sourcils et les cheveux noirs, les yeux petits et même enfoncés, mais qui lançaient avec force le feu dont mon sang était embrasé. » Alors, il l’a écrit avec un peu d’érotisme, mais quand même, après ça il a écrit « je ne savais rien de tout cela, et de ma vie il ne m’est arriver de songer a ma figure » qui démontre une élément de la rétrospectif. On peut voir sa confusion, comment il était perdu comme un enfant, mais aussi on peut voir ce que se passera dans l’avenir « in ne m’est arriver…lorsqu’il n’était plus temps d’en tirer parti ». À plus forte raison, on s’y trouve un rapport entre Rousseau quand il avait seize ans et l’age il a eu quand il l’écrit. La fonction de la mémoire est ici aussi, « C’était le jour des Rameaux de l’année 1728. Je cours pour la suivre : je la vois, je l’atteins, je lui parle...Je dois me souvenir du lieu ; je l’ai souvent depuis mouillé de mes larmes et couvert de mes baiseurs ». En ce qui concerne est comment la mémoire est assez proche avec le cœur, avec les sentiments. Également, la mémoire soit clarifie ses souvenirs, soit embrouille les souvenirs, cependant sur l’état des sentiments. Mais, comme Lejeune a écrit, « Le livre I n’est pas un récit écrit d’un seul jet, d’une seule coulée, mais a été construit par montage ou collage d’éléments déjà écrits…Rousseau a été amené à choisir parmi ses souvenirs » (Lejeune, 89). Alors, il écrit sur soi-même déjà avec une très claire idée de la façon dont il le fait. Ses écrits sont très calculés, et aussi tous de ce qu’il a mis ne sont pas sans raison.

L’inscription du temps n’est pas seulement évidente dans Les Confessions par son âge, ou bien les dates, mais aussi la vie de Rousseau est divise par les « ruptures » et les « périodes ». Lejeune a divisé le récit du livre I entre cinq ruptures : Naissance, fuite du père, dégoût à Bossey, mise en apprentissage, et fuite de J.J. Et les périodes entre les ruptures sont : l’âge d’or, avec son père, l’âge d’argent, à Bossey chez les Lambercier, l’âge d’airain, chez son oncle, et l’âge de fer, chez M. Du Commun. Avec ses périodes, ses ruptures, la vie de Rousseau est évidemment marqué, Mais est-ce qu’on peut vraiment se trouver dans l’histoire, dans un texte historique – le soi avec un passé ? Le temps qui a déjà passé est impossible capturer ; les mots, la langue et la représentation sont seulement un type d’image de l’expérience de l’individuel. Alors, c’est comme Lejeune dit, il n’est pas une forme de la narrative qui est naturelle, surtout pas une forme chronologique. Cependant, la chronologique n’est pas si simple, ce n’est pas juste le temps qui passent normalement, l’ordre, mais il représente le désordre aussi, un mouvement vers la mort. Rousseau rempli souvent aussi ses souvenirs, en dépit de l’ordre chronologique, avec ses idées, ses pensées, et ses réflexions d’un autre temps.

Updates from the Relais Odeon

2009-04-26T06:39:00.001-07:00

Over a coffee and an amazing avocado salade;

I can't believe I only have a month left in Paris. Went to Morocco. Thought that updating would be a good idea; but I have a lot of french essay writing to do.

So nevermind.

LA CRISE FAIT SON SHOPPING CHEZ COLETTE

2009-03-27T02:05:00.000-07:00

So, this past Wednesday I went to this dinner party / cocktail party with Will...It was called "La Crise SEND ME A FRIEND REQUEST". The theme? "La crise" (The economic crisis for you english speakers). It was soo absurd, first off I met these three kids when Will invited me last Sunday to coffee with them (he had met them at some Gertrude Stein-esque tea party gathering at the apartment of a wealthy elderly woman who was a friend of his grandmother). When I arrived, the two boys awkwardly shook my hand and when I naturally thought to shake the girls hand as well she acted as if that was the most absurd salutation in the world and kissed me on each cheek, comme d'habitude.

There was Antoine- an outrageously obvious homosexual who was wearing a burberry scarf around his pretty little neck. He had blue eyes and that angelic combover style hair, and certainly grew up with his ass wiped after pissing into gilted toilets. An art connoisseur, and also photographed for YSL himself at age 15 (He's 24 now). Then there was the brother sister duo Eugenie and Paul- a classic tall, dark and handsome with his sister being the female counterpart. They were all relatively cool, french and disinterested in talking to me until I mentioned I was from New York. Paul, in a velour jacket uncrossed his legs at these words, smoothly snuck a cigarette out of his front coat pocket which was also filled by a handkerchief, and said to me "Neww Yoorrrk Ciity. Gossip Girl" with the slightest intonation of a question. His eyebrow raised just as much. I replied that I do indeed indulge in the show (the last one was soo good) and then he proceeded to say "Chuck. Bass." Barf. There was definitely a tone of incest as well, in between the brother/sister duo. After an uncomfortable 5 minutes of me attempting some sort of conversation, the three left. I think part of the difficulty was that Will doesn't really speak french, despite their interest in talking to him, and where I do speak french, there was a lack of interest. Although, the main interest, I believe was coming from Antoine. Will had thought his name was "Etoile" upon meeting - french for 'star'. That he is indeed. He was too eager to invite Will to go see the 'grand noir" singer that night, and even went so far as to invite me.

Fast forward a couple of days, and Will alerts me that Antoine is eagerly facebook chatting with him, and has invited him and me to the aforementioned cocktail party. I accepted because it seemed too ridiculous to pass up on, but quickly became dubious when I saw that there were 8 attending on facebook (including me), 16 declined invitations, and 5 were MIA. Unlike most American parties, there were actually 8 people who showed up to this shing-dig. Will and I were among the first to arrive; Antoine lives in a really nice 'grown-up' apartment in the 14th arrondissment. He showed us in with the french version of "I hope it wasn't too hard to find!" and proceeded to giggle. I asked him what he did all day, and he babbled enthusiastically that he had been cooking all day. Fortunately, I was hungry but as for Will I think he looked a little nauseous as Antoine then said he had been snacking all day while suggestively touching Will's little arm. We walk in and the apartment is cleared out and decorated as if there were going to be a huge bash. I thought, okay this could be fun- until I read the signs: "J'ai vendu ma mere sur ebay" (I sold my mother on ebay) "La crise ne touche pas l'upper east side" "You know you love me xoxo" "les pauvres sont degoulasse". There were shopping bags from Hermes, Lavin, etc on the wall and other frivilous shit. I could not believe that this guy actually took the time to decorate for himself, two people he literally met a week ago, his ROOMMATE, and then essentially 4 male friends. Eugenie was already there, taking photographs of her brother who showed up shortly after, and then we met Louic- his 24 year old banker roommate who just seemed like a normal kind of guy, Ellian, the broodish cousin of Paul and Eugenie, and finally Elliot, a goofy foul mouthed kid. We were served hor d'oeurves that Antoine himself made and then we drank. I did not really want to be drunk around these bizarre people, so I sipped my 1986 wine slowly. Will obviously didn't follow any of the rapid fire french conversation, and as it required a constant effort on my part, and because je m'en fous, I didn't really listen either. Around 11:30, I made an excuse and left with Will. Upon leaving, Will received a very enthusiastic bisous from Antoine (not the norm). I saw photos the next day, on Facebook of the rest of the party. It looked like a male circle jerk. I didn't miss out.

I also woke up this morning after 5 hours of sleep with some friends of Marine (my newly inaugurated French best friend). One of them had his own name tattooed on his stomach. He is a fireman. I don't even know if I want to expand on that story.

A bientot,

BISOUS

Paul

2009-03-14T03:45:00.000-07:00

While I write this commentaire; let me post really quickly about Paul- the 16 year old Parisian boy I met last night at a cafe, drinking some wine. He somehow pulled my friend and I into conversation (in English ,as he LOVES the language and AMERICA), and ended up telling us about how if we wanted some weed, he'd bring us some - for free. The catch? Him and his 15 year old girlfriend ( holding a LV bag thrice the size of her head) and their cohorts needed a place to smoke up before having to return to mummy and daddys apartment in the 6th arrondissement. Kids these days, growing up so fast. My friend and I also both received a facebook friend request that night- at 1:02am, probably.

Is it just me or am I getting old?

let honey soak in that bread

2009-03-04T05:26:00.000-08:00

Petit dejeuner:

2 oeufs avec poivron rouge, champignons, et avocat.

Gouter:

1 fromage blanc avec du miel

dejeuner/diner:

1 sandwich (pain complet); avec roquette, chevre, tomate, avocat et poivre.

mars merdic

2009-03-02T02:07:00.000-08:00

Not really, it's March here in Paris (like everywhere else, I'm assuming) but unlike New York, it is not 22 degrees Fahrenheit but rather a whopping 46. It's nice out, and after I barely made it down my spiraling 9 half-flights, I went to the fruit/vegetable market sans jacket. For those of you who don't know, I moved a couple of weeks ago from the 16th arrondissment to the 6th- St. Germain.

Madame Musquin, who was probably the most horrible looking woman, inside and out, that I've ever met, was passive aggressive and hosted me purely for monetary reasons. She used my room as a coatroom on one of the days of her fur-coat fetes, and had a cackling laugh. I decided to move out about after 2 days of being there, however I wasn't able to until mid-February. There were two other boarders (she slept in the living room- with the TV on all night), a japanese girl named Iyaka who spoke little french and minimal english, and Louis-Andre, whose nickname is "LAG". Funnily enough, I've been called the same nickname before, at least labeled LAG in the cell phone of one of my ex-amours. LAG is french, nineteen, and a proclaimed Atheist, despite a strong Catholic upbringing and ridiculous convictions only possible with a strong religious affinity.

When I first met Louis-Andre, after finding out that I was American, he immediately switched from French to English, which was quite irritating. He showed me the ropes around the madhouse (where I was warned that the kitchen is always full of 'surprises' since M. Musquin hates cleaning) and then proceeded to talk about philosophy with me and my standpoint on gay marriage. Inter-dispersed throughout our conversations, following a standard phrase such as "I wish I were"- LAG would break out into a pop song with the coinciding string of words, ie., "If I were a boyyyy..." - and then he'd add on "Beyonce- you know it?" LAG was funny enough to pass the time with, and I insisted that he speak French with me, which helped my language. It's probably bad that I'm writing all of this in retrospect, since the more I think about his ridiculous personality, the more I kind of resent him.

To cut a long story short, during the month of my stay, LAG had managed to fool himself into thinking that he was in love with me (which he told me about 8 times one night, and proceeded to send me text messages with the same message while next door to me). The day I moved out was around the same day as the French vacation days in February, and LAG had supposedly left. I awoke and started packing, and then suddenly heard him come back into the apartment. Shit. I hadn't even told M. Musquin I was leaving yet (the program told me they would notify her) and above all I didn't want to deal with Louis, who I had been avoiding since the "I Love You" incident. Of course, he knocked on my door and entered without waiting, and told me we had to have a discussion later, if my 'program today wasn't full'. I reluctantly told him maybe, but my cell phone wasn't working (he was returning to the suburbs, where he grew up). I had to leave the apartment to get some cash out for the taxi ride to the 6th, but M. Musquin intercepted, demanding her keys all the while storming around the house screaming to no one in particular, that she too had a life. Well, if she did, I wasn't going to fund her opera goings anymore. I handed over the keys without much of a choice, and then LAG gave me his, and then told me I'd give them back to him later. I unwillingly accepted this.

Fast forward a couple of hours, and I was in my new apartment on Rue Mazarine, which I've come to really like. I live in the heart of Paris and have a beautiful blue desk. Two friends were over, and they convinced me LAG was out of his mind and I shouldn't humor him with a 'discussion'. I agreed, and then told Louis I'd meet him at the subway stop Odeon at 7:30pm. Upon seeing him, I handed him his keys and told him I couldn't have a conversation with him. Understandably, he got agitated and then eventually stormed off- not before in the midst of his "Seriouslys?" I nearly started laughing because my friends had followed us out onto the Parisien streets to stalk the conversation, and I caught one of their eyes. He asked me incredulously if I were laughing, and I responded that I laugh when I get upset.

The next day, I received about 13 text messages in a row, containing an angry tirade against me from Louis, calling me terrible things. I might have deserved it, or he just might be crazy. Ce n'etait pas ma faute enfin, il est ouf, quoi.

No socks, no jacket

2009-02-28T10:50:00.000-08:00

Today was the first day in Paris where it was probably warmer than 50, 55 degrees Fahrenheit. I woke up (abruptly, from a really bizarre dream that I'd be too embarrassed to write about here) and milled around while my friend Jake made me some crepes. I now have white flour and nutella in my apartment, of which the two one of them while be consumed quite quickly and the other probably never.

39 days ago;

On the way home from campus today, I had to transfer from the twelve line to the ten to the nine. While waiting for the 10, I see this blonde guy with a cherb-esque face, ruddy cheeks and blue eyes, waiting on the very same platform as I. The overhead sign started to flash double zeros, accompaigned by the noise of the oncoming train. I walked a little bit forward, and boarded as did blondie who was dressed in a suit and an overcoat. His red scarf followed him onto the train, where he stood mirroring me, right arm hooked around the pole directly avcross the pole my left arm rested upon. After a couple of stops, I sat down only to have Mr. Red Scarf sit next to me.

At Bonnes-Nouvelles, a homeless man boarded the train- rehearsing the same exact speech you hear on the C train in New York, except in French. Blue eyed began to rumage through his man purse halfway through the sentence where the homeless man begged for restaurant tickets as well as coins. My subway neighbor gave him one of the latter. Hungry man thanked him, blessed him, and proceeded to inform him his shoelace was untied. Cherub boy looked at his loosely tied shoelace, but tied nonetheless, and looked at me and laughed. He said something along the lines of "useless advice, huh?" and then something else I couldn't understand. I just laughed as his carefully selected words were being wasted. He then asked me if I were a studiant at Sciences Po and I just replied that I was American. We spoke in French mainly as he didn't really speak English. He made the transfer with me to the nine line, and got off at Ranelagh (my stop) despite the fact that he had told me he lived off of Trocadero (4 stops further). The most banal conversation in the mean time took place from stop to stop. Except i found out his name; Arthur. As we ascended the stairs out onto the Paris streets, he finally suggested I take his number, in case if I were ever completely lost- and I text him with my name.

Before we parted our separate ways, he kissed me on both cheeks goodbye. You'll have to be getting used to that in France, he told me as he strutted off.

Anyway, Arthur never called. In between then and now was Louis-Andre, who also (amusingly) went by "LAG" - his last name started with a G, a nickname an ex quasi lover called me once!

I'll save him for my next entry.

Wah.

2009-01-28T01:50:00.001-08:00

Not having internet isn't really conducive to blogging. Nor is not having a digital camera. But, I have lots of film photos and instant fuji's that I will be posting once I get back.

London was really, really enjoyable. Apparently the thing to do is to go to a pub at 10am for a drink, and the touristy thing to do it to go to Harrods. I had some Turkish Delights.

As for Paris, it's really bizarre, living in a city you were once a tourist in. The subway stations are not dirty underground transitional passageways but become strangley familiar. Paris in particular has Its own unique charm. This morning I boarded the line 9, embarking upon my usual route to Reid Hall. After the first couple of stops, a man in a black motorcycle jacket ascended the train with a speech about life and the people of France- indirectly begging, with a guise of being a starving intellectual. Everyone ignored him, some rolled their eyes and others made a point of looking away as he stuck his short neck into their faces and said "Bonjour Madame, et vous, vous croyez dans l'espirit de la France?"

He marched up and down the train without so much a euro cent, and by the next stop was out of the spotlight. Another man stepped onto the train, a marble accordian in hand, and with a simple "Bonjour mes madames et messieurs" he began to play the song Padam. There was a grumbling heard throughout, and some snickering in response to the sucession of panhandelers. Yet he didn't mind, and All through three stops he played with a serene smile, exposing his missing teeth and he swayed along with the motion of the train. At the end of his performance, several frenchies gave him a coin or two, including myself. After his collection, the first man reappeared, indignant and gave this speech (which is an extremely loose translation):

Madames et messiuers! You just gave your pieces to the man playing the accordian who has done nothing for you! I am now against the good mood of life! All I wanted was a smile! I've been to the United States and even they smile when they think of French people! And do you know what they think? Sarkozy! Sarkozy!

As he kept on rambling he once again he stuck his sallow face into a woman wearing a fur coat and demanded a smile. He finally left, but nearly missed his exit - but forcefully stuck his elbow into the automatic doors and succeeded in leaving with some dignity. I would have been really embarrassed for him if he didn't manage to get off the train.

Quick Update

2009-01-07T17:51:00.000-08:00

Iris (my sister) just came home, entering with the words "Guess what I found?"

MY OLD "LOST" PASSPORT

AND

,and

my iPhone.

FML 2009.

The French Consulate

2009-01-07T15:49:00.001-08:00

Never go there. Or, at least, never go to the French Consulate looking to obtain a Visa the day before departure.

My appointment was scheduled for 11am, and I arrived a bit earlier, around 10:30 to find a crowd of people huddling outside the entrance at 10 E 74th Street. At 10:45, a surly (which is probably an understatement) security guard asks if anyone has a 10:30 appointment. One Moroccan boy did, and he slipped inside. Once I finally was let in, past security, with about 5 other college students, my mom was waiting in her car outside. The line snaked around the entirety of the upstairs room of which the Consulate consisted of, and when I had finally made it to the main line before the interviewing windows I was told by a hurried french woman that I had the wrong application. So, I filled out it out and while doing so remembered that while going through the checklist of items needed for a Visa I forgot to get the financial security bit.

Oops. I waited anyway, and even though I was without a cell phone there were papers posted throughout which read "NO CELL PHONES" and underneath was a picture of a cell phone with an X mark over it- there was also a watermark of "SAMPLE ONLY" on top, which just shows how cheap those French people are.

I went through the first interview, and then was called into a room to have my photo taken and fingerprints scanned. So far, so good. At the 3rd window, I met again the french woman who had referred to me as "cette chinoise" later, and told me strictly that when asked a question, I was to say 'yes' or 'no'. No explanations. I didn't have the financial guarantee, which entails my mother signing a notarized form that she would give me at least 600US dollars per month and a bank statement of hers which proved she had that amount; $3,600 for 6 months. I just looked at her blankly when she told me, unaffectedly, that I would have to return tomorrow at 9am and said that I was leaving tomorrow at 8am. She kind of rolled her eyes while mine began to fill with tears, and looked back at the Frenchman and said "Quelqu'un va pleurer parce qu'il.." and I missed the second part. I'm sure it wasn't nice either way.

Fortunately, they let me run to the bank and get those forms filled out, and at 3pm (she made me repeat which forms I needed 3 times, to ensure I wouldn't 'misunderstand' her) I was allowed to return. By 3:30, at the empty consulate upstairs, I was granted my Visa- 7 months!

If this is any indication of the character of french people, I'm a little bit wary of going there for such a long time. At least I'll be in London first. I already bought my train ticket from London to Paris Nord, and hopefully I'll be able to make it to my host mother's apartment smoothly.

As for my carry items, I'll have my journal, a book, a taxidermed alligators head, a box of Froot Loops for Dom, and my tickets/passport. My new New Year's Resolution: Don't lose things.

Now just laundry, a shower, final packing to do, a final goodbye to Z, and by this time tomorrow I'll be experiencing London for the first time!

Oh, and if anyone wants to mail me:

c/o Columbia-Penn Program in Paris at Reid Hall
Reid Hall
4, rue de Chevreuse
75006 Paris
FRANCE

3 days until departure-

2009-01-05T00:37:00.000-08:00

A list of things I've lost in the past 2 weeks, in chronological order:

My passport (issued this summer before traveling to Japan/Taiwan)- the day before my visa appointment at the French Consulate.
A pair of gloves, which also were a Christmas present.
My cell phone I'd been using for the past 6 months or so, at the Short Hills Mall in all likelihood
My father's cell phone I had been using temporarily, in the Poconos
My iPhone (?) TBD, but I'd bet on it.

If one were to look at these incidences in a Freudian lens, I could say that I purposefully lost my passport so I somehow wouldn't ever make it to France, I liked having cold hands, and didn't want anyone to call me. Ever. Unfortunately, none of these apply and I'm forced to conclude that I am as irresponsible and forgetful as my parents have always told me. Hopefully, this trend of losing important things does not continue with me to Europe, as it'll probably be far more inconvenient there.

I'm not terribly excited about France. I'm stopping in London before Paris, which should be fun and interesting to say the least. I'm staying with a friend, Dom, who I met briefly in his Aunt's apartment on Park Ave a month ago or so. I can't really sleep, so maybe I am in actuality really excited, and I just don't know it.

New Jersey is fairly boring and I haven't done a thing all day. Tomorrow I need to get things done.