Sunday, November 27, 2005
The Killer TV
It really does not pay to be cheap. But when you're in Paris you have to cut corners every once in a while so that you can survive and not end up like the guy pissing into the gutter of the metro or the other guy who was having a nightmare while sleeping on the benches and flailing his crutches about.
Because everything in Paris is expensive, except for their baguettes, I have been quite economical when it comes to doing my laundry because I only wash my clothes once in three weeks and when I have to do them, I go to Jeremy's apartment and use his washing machine and detergent. In return, he only asks that I sew some of his clothes, which I don't mind because it helps kill the time.
I had planned this weekend to be my laundry day and since Jeremy told me he would be out of town celebrating Thanksgiving Day in London (which is fairly odd since when did French people celebrate thanksgiving with English people?) he gave me the keys to his apartment.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten to give me the keys to the front door of his building so I had to wait with my backpack and bag full of clothes for someone to open the door. I looked like a bag-lady and was seriously contemplating just going to a laundromat, which would have cost me 5euros to wash my stuff and more for drying, when a gentleman came in and we both got buzzed in by his friend or something.
Anyway, I went up and did my laundry and while waiting I happened to notice that Jeremy has a DVD of The Virgin Suicides. I made myself at home and proceeded to watch the movie which, I must say, was really quite bad and too much of a 'trying-to-be-something-inexplicable-but-a-work-of-art-but-really-it-is-just-a-lot-of-sex'
movie.
Unfortunately, I was making myself way too at home and decided to smoke a cigarette by the window while watching the 'making of' in the bonus section of the DVD. I cannot stress how I feel like hitting myself on my forehead at times when my cigarette addiction proves to be my downfall. I say this because I had decided to turn the HUGE TV towards the window when it slipped off the tiny TV stand and fell on me. Flashbacks of the TV falling on me when I was 4 and which caused my tiny leg to fracture crossed my mind and I was suddenly caught in a weird squat position of holding the TV with my legs. Luckily, I could hold onto the TV long enough for me to place it on the ground but for all the mana in heaven I could not put the big-ass TV back on the stand. All the wires had snapped out of place and whipped around my face like the snakish hairs of Minerva. At this point, I really, REALLY needed a cigarette. I was making quick calculations as to how much I would owe Jeremy for his TV when I realized that I am incapable of making any mathematical calculations, quick or slow and decided that I should just inhale as much nicotine into my system and pray that I would die of an asthma attack.
But, as usual, my prayers are never answered and I ended up taking a nap.
When I woke up I decided that waiting for my laundry to dry in Jeremy's apartment was way too boring to not try to fix his TV and watch another DvD so I figured out what wires went where and broke one of his 'input-output' jacks. "Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!!!" i kept thinking but that didn't make the thing stick back together. So I decided to just smash it all into the jack and finally got the TV to work albeit with a fuzzy image. Luckily, the DVD machine still worked.
By this time I was way too tired to go home and since my laundry was still wet I decided to stay the night at Jeremy's apartment. This morning, I went home with the half of my clothes which were dry. I sewed up the clothes Jeremy had left out for me. Folded his laundry because I figure that is the least I could do for transferring his heavey TV from the stand to the floor. I took a last look at the monster of a TV and vowed that when I have enough money I will buy a TV that is small enough for me to carry and to hell with a big screen.
I wanted to leave a note for Jeremy to explain his TV's current position but could not find pen and paper since Jeremy seems to have wiped out everything before his departure. So, I will just settle for the humourous reaction and scolding that I will receive Monday morning and pray that he lets me do my laundry at his house again.
It really does not pay to be cheap. But when you're in Paris you have to cut corners every once in a while so that you can survive and not end up like the guy pissing into the gutter of the metro or the other guy who was having a nightmare while sleeping on the benches and flailing his crutches about.
Because everything in Paris is expensive, except for their baguettes, I have been quite economical when it comes to doing my laundry because I only wash my clothes once in three weeks and when I have to do them, I go to Jeremy's apartment and use his washing machine and detergent. In return, he only asks that I sew some of his clothes, which I don't mind because it helps kill the time.
I had planned this weekend to be my laundry day and since Jeremy told me he would be out of town celebrating Thanksgiving Day in London (which is fairly odd since when did French people celebrate thanksgiving with English people?) he gave me the keys to his apartment.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten to give me the keys to the front door of his building so I had to wait with my backpack and bag full of clothes for someone to open the door. I looked like a bag-lady and was seriously contemplating just going to a laundromat, which would have cost me 5euros to wash my stuff and more for drying, when a gentleman came in and we both got buzzed in by his friend or something.
Anyway, I went up and did my laundry and while waiting I happened to notice that Jeremy has a DVD of The Virgin Suicides. I made myself at home and proceeded to watch the movie which, I must say, was really quite bad and too much of a 'trying-to-be-something-inexplicable-but-a-work-of-art-but-really-it-is-just-a-lot-of-sex'
movie.
Unfortunately, I was making myself way too at home and decided to smoke a cigarette by the window while watching the 'making of' in the bonus section of the DVD. I cannot stress how I feel like hitting myself on my forehead at times when my cigarette addiction proves to be my downfall. I say this because I had decided to turn the HUGE TV towards the window when it slipped off the tiny TV stand and fell on me. Flashbacks of the TV falling on me when I was 4 and which caused my tiny leg to fracture crossed my mind and I was suddenly caught in a weird squat position of holding the TV with my legs. Luckily, I could hold onto the TV long enough for me to place it on the ground but for all the mana in heaven I could not put the big-ass TV back on the stand. All the wires had snapped out of place and whipped around my face like the snakish hairs of Minerva. At this point, I really, REALLY needed a cigarette. I was making quick calculations as to how much I would owe Jeremy for his TV when I realized that I am incapable of making any mathematical calculations, quick or slow and decided that I should just inhale as much nicotine into my system and pray that I would die of an asthma attack.
But, as usual, my prayers are never answered and I ended up taking a nap.
When I woke up I decided that waiting for my laundry to dry in Jeremy's apartment was way too boring to not try to fix his TV and watch another DvD so I figured out what wires went where and broke one of his 'input-output' jacks. "Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!!!" i kept thinking but that didn't make the thing stick back together. So I decided to just smash it all into the jack and finally got the TV to work albeit with a fuzzy image. Luckily, the DVD machine still worked.
By this time I was way too tired to go home and since my laundry was still wet I decided to stay the night at Jeremy's apartment. This morning, I went home with the half of my clothes which were dry. I sewed up the clothes Jeremy had left out for me. Folded his laundry because I figure that is the least I could do for transferring his heavey TV from the stand to the floor. I took a last look at the monster of a TV and vowed that when I have enough money I will buy a TV that is small enough for me to carry and to hell with a big screen.
I wanted to leave a note for Jeremy to explain his TV's current position but could not find pen and paper since Jeremy seems to have wiped out everything before his departure. So, I will just settle for the humourous reaction and scolding that I will receive Monday morning and pray that he lets me do my laundry at his house again.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Canard Laque
Today is the best day I have had in Paris. Unfortunately, it wasn't because I was at the Louvre, prayed at the Notre Dame or had gone up to the top of the Tour Eiffel. It was because I went to Paris's Chinatown!
Located at the metro Porte d'Italie, Chinatown is spread over a few metro stops s,ituated in the 13eme arrondisement. It is, by far, the largest in Europe. No kidding. I truly believed I was in Hong Kong until the harsh cold Parisien wind snapped me back to reality. It is amusing to watch Chinese people speak impeccable french while I can hardly pronouce "moderne".
My friend, An, and I had planned to go to Chinatown since last week while watching 'Elizabethtown' (not worth it) when we watched the trailer for "Seven Swords" (will be worth it-opens 30th November. Sorry Harry Potter, you'll have to wait). We both screamed with delight as the swords clanged and the cute chinese actors looked at us with a serious delicious eyes. We swore to go to Chinatown that night and today the dream was fulfilled.
Chinatowns all across the world look alike. A bunch of chinese restaurants and convenient stores are mushed up together with a few patches of grass, a chinese school and always a McDonalds situated at the center of the town with chinese characters inviting the chinese people to skip the rice and go for a big Mac because we all know that McDonald's smushed slab of meat with every chemical added to kill you is better than a plate of friend noodles.
Paris's chinatown is sadder than most chinatowns to look at because it wasn't built to attract tourists. It was built for all the 'boat people' that came abroad for a new life. There are cheap apartments with lots of space and so all around there is construction. Add the on-going work for the Tramway and you have an ugly scenery of barricades.
However, An and I did not let that deter us from oohhing and ahhhing over the smell drifting into the open air from over 150 restaurants int he area. An and I succumbed to our stomachs' growlings and went to one of the restaurants which serve chinese, vietnamese (because An is vietnamese) and thailand (we didn't know any thailand people though) food. Thinking back , we were both probably a little too excited because we ordered half a barbequed duck, vietnamese noodles (they were so good! it's called bao cao ... something), chinese chicken noodles, ha kao, siu mai (dim sum food) and two iced milk-teas.
Halfway through the meal we were beginning to fall off the chairs because we were so full. We had way too much food. If we had left some room we would've gotten dessert but alas, that was not to be. Four hours later, as I write this, I am still suffering the effects of way too much good food which only cost altogether, 32 euros.
I am sure that many people will raise their eyebrows in wonder as to why two asian girls in Paris would want to go to Chinatown and eat chinese food when Paris is well known for their fine cuisine. Truth is, nothing beats chinese food. It is just so much cheaper for more value (isn't that the asian way?). French food is fine but one can only ever order one thing and halfway through eating a rabbit (which is very good by the way) you get sick of it and wish it would just disappear all by itself. Chinese food is always in small proportions and is prepared to be shared. Western cuisine just does not understand the concept of "collective eating".
And that is why An and I love east-asian cuisine; because we can share it.
Today is the best day I have had in Paris. Unfortunately, it wasn't because I was at the Louvre, prayed at the Notre Dame or had gone up to the top of the Tour Eiffel. It was because I went to Paris's Chinatown!
Located at the metro Porte d'Italie, Chinatown is spread over a few metro stops s,ituated in the 13eme arrondisement. It is, by far, the largest in Europe. No kidding. I truly believed I was in Hong Kong until the harsh cold Parisien wind snapped me back to reality. It is amusing to watch Chinese people speak impeccable french while I can hardly pronouce "moderne".
My friend, An, and I had planned to go to Chinatown since last week while watching 'Elizabethtown' (not worth it) when we watched the trailer for "Seven Swords" (will be worth it-opens 30th November. Sorry Harry Potter, you'll have to wait). We both screamed with delight as the swords clanged and the cute chinese actors looked at us with a serious delicious eyes. We swore to go to Chinatown that night and today the dream was fulfilled.
Chinatowns all across the world look alike. A bunch of chinese restaurants and convenient stores are mushed up together with a few patches of grass, a chinese school and always a McDonalds situated at the center of the town with chinese characters inviting the chinese people to skip the rice and go for a big Mac because we all know that McDonald's smushed slab of meat with every chemical added to kill you is better than a plate of friend noodles.
Paris's chinatown is sadder than most chinatowns to look at because it wasn't built to attract tourists. It was built for all the 'boat people' that came abroad for a new life. There are cheap apartments with lots of space and so all around there is construction. Add the on-going work for the Tramway and you have an ugly scenery of barricades.
However, An and I did not let that deter us from oohhing and ahhhing over the smell drifting into the open air from over 150 restaurants int he area. An and I succumbed to our stomachs' growlings and went to one of the restaurants which serve chinese, vietnamese (because An is vietnamese) and thailand (we didn't know any thailand people though) food. Thinking back , we were both probably a little too excited because we ordered half a barbequed duck, vietnamese noodles (they were so good! it's called bao cao ... something), chinese chicken noodles, ha kao, siu mai (dim sum food) and two iced milk-teas.
Halfway through the meal we were beginning to fall off the chairs because we were so full. We had way too much food. If we had left some room we would've gotten dessert but alas, that was not to be. Four hours later, as I write this, I am still suffering the effects of way too much good food which only cost altogether, 32 euros.
I am sure that many people will raise their eyebrows in wonder as to why two asian girls in Paris would want to go to Chinatown and eat chinese food when Paris is well known for their fine cuisine. Truth is, nothing beats chinese food. It is just so much cheaper for more value (isn't that the asian way?). French food is fine but one can only ever order one thing and halfway through eating a rabbit (which is very good by the way) you get sick of it and wish it would just disappear all by itself. Chinese food is always in small proportions and is prepared to be shared. Western cuisine just does not understand the concept of "collective eating".
And that is why An and I love east-asian cuisine; because we can share it.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Assez! Assez!
My parents are the most paranoid people on earth. Mom and Pops tell me, my sister and my brother all the time that while in the USofA we should lay low, keep our mouth shut about politics and not mention that we live in the Arab world. I like the way they make our lives so exciting by making it seem like we are in the Witness Protection Program.
By now, probably everyone knows that Paris has a big problem with the rioters and their burning habits. I keep thinking of all the pollution that this is causing and I am truly worried about our Ozone layer. However, other kids tell me that I should really be thinking about the people who may die from these crazy acts instead. I keep forgetting that there are other people in the world.
Anyway, I had no idea that riots were going on until everyone from America to Timbuktu sent me emails about the protests. At first, I was pretty shocked because in Paris nothing really ever happens. Everyone seems like they are pissed. Or are pissing. Whichever one you see first on the metro. Because I had no access to television, radio, my laptop was down so I only ever checked email and I'm just plain lazy , I wasn't aware of what was going on with my next door neighbour , let alone what was happening in the world. So, the riots were a big surprise.
Later in the week, I finally got online to check some yahoo news (I was more interested to read the Dear Abby page) and I 'ooohhed' and 'ahhed' over the, now, very late news. Soon, Mom and Pops called me to warn me not to take the metro, not to go out after dark and bascially walk everywhere, even if it meant I would die from exhaustion, so that I wouldn't get burnt to death.
I reassured everyone that in Paris nothing was happening and that no one has any idea of the riots because they were (and still are, I think) taking place in the suburbs which are really far away. However, Mom insisted on calling me at 6AM just to tell me "so how is it?" to which I usually replied, "MOM IT's 6AM! NOTHING IS HAPPENING because I"M SLEEPING!" Yes, I do feel guilty after I throw my cellphone 6 metres into the wall.
But all this history do lead to a very good thing because tonight I witnessed my very first protest. While on my laptop talking about boyfriends and drool with Nafisah, I heard people shouting. Earlier that evening I had seen a huge butt-load of cops lined on Boulevard Saint-Michel and knew something was up. So, I ran out with my friend An onto the terrace of my dorm and saw a PILE of people out on the street. So we ran to get our cameras. She on the second floor and me in the basement. However, because I am a moron I forget my key in the computer room so I run all the way up and then had to go all the way down to my room to retrieve my camera. Finally, I run out into the street where the protest has gone past. So I run some more and thanked God that protests move slowly. I found An , we snapped some photos and then got too cold to stay. We had no idea what they were shouting about because our french is so limited. Although, I did get "assez!assez!" (enough! enough!) and Sarkozy (french interrior minister) getting called a pig or so I think. Unfortunately, I run out of film and while walking up there were a bunch of cops and police cars following the protestors. They were the best looking men in uniform I had ever seen! An, with her wonderful digicam, took photos of them while we gushed together and I begged her to send them to me. She promised she would.
Sitting here, I now am thinking up ways of telling my parents about this rather peaceful and uneventual protest story with as much twisted gore as possible while including the beauty of the french police force. I relish in the fact that they will probably faint but then, I feel so blessed.
My parents are the most paranoid people on earth. Mom and Pops tell me, my sister and my brother all the time that while in the USofA we should lay low, keep our mouth shut about politics and not mention that we live in the Arab world. I like the way they make our lives so exciting by making it seem like we are in the Witness Protection Program.
By now, probably everyone knows that Paris has a big problem with the rioters and their burning habits. I keep thinking of all the pollution that this is causing and I am truly worried about our Ozone layer. However, other kids tell me that I should really be thinking about the people who may die from these crazy acts instead. I keep forgetting that there are other people in the world.
Anyway, I had no idea that riots were going on until everyone from America to Timbuktu sent me emails about the protests. At first, I was pretty shocked because in Paris nothing really ever happens. Everyone seems like they are pissed. Or are pissing. Whichever one you see first on the metro. Because I had no access to television, radio, my laptop was down so I only ever checked email and I'm just plain lazy , I wasn't aware of what was going on with my next door neighbour , let alone what was happening in the world. So, the riots were a big surprise.
Later in the week, I finally got online to check some yahoo news (I was more interested to read the Dear Abby page) and I 'ooohhed' and 'ahhed' over the, now, very late news. Soon, Mom and Pops called me to warn me not to take the metro, not to go out after dark and bascially walk everywhere, even if it meant I would die from exhaustion, so that I wouldn't get burnt to death.
I reassured everyone that in Paris nothing was happening and that no one has any idea of the riots because they were (and still are, I think) taking place in the suburbs which are really far away. However, Mom insisted on calling me at 6AM just to tell me "so how is it?" to which I usually replied, "MOM IT's 6AM! NOTHING IS HAPPENING because I"M SLEEPING!" Yes, I do feel guilty after I throw my cellphone 6 metres into the wall.
But all this history do lead to a very good thing because tonight I witnessed my very first protest. While on my laptop talking about boyfriends and drool with Nafisah, I heard people shouting. Earlier that evening I had seen a huge butt-load of cops lined on Boulevard Saint-Michel and knew something was up. So, I ran out with my friend An onto the terrace of my dorm and saw a PILE of people out on the street. So we ran to get our cameras. She on the second floor and me in the basement. However, because I am a moron I forget my key in the computer room so I run all the way up and then had to go all the way down to my room to retrieve my camera. Finally, I run out into the street where the protest has gone past. So I run some more and thanked God that protests move slowly. I found An , we snapped some photos and then got too cold to stay. We had no idea what they were shouting about because our french is so limited. Although, I did get "assez!assez!" (enough! enough!) and Sarkozy (french interrior minister) getting called a pig or so I think. Unfortunately, I run out of film and while walking up there were a bunch of cops and police cars following the protestors. They were the best looking men in uniform I had ever seen! An, with her wonderful digicam, took photos of them while we gushed together and I begged her to send them to me. She promised she would.
Sitting here, I now am thinking up ways of telling my parents about this rather peaceful and uneventual protest story with as much twisted gore as possible while including the beauty of the french police force. I relish in the fact that they will probably faint but then, I feel so blessed.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Lies...
To be perfectly honest, Paris isn't as swinging as I had hoped. It isn't really Paris's fault. Mostly, it's mine. If I hadn't been so hell bent on having a 'rocking good' time then maybe I wouldn't be so let down.
I read an article this morning on www.parisconnections.net on why people gripe about Paris. The article was in English so I could understand it perfectly. The writer wrote that it was because we, foreigners, have idealistic views on Paris and in the end, Paris is just like any other cosmopolitan city with its dirt, cranky people and pollution. Ultimately, we are let down because we don't see anything all that different from the New Yorks, Chicagoes and HongKongs of the world.
Although I agree with what the writer says there is one thing that I must mention for it irks me so. The people in Paris are really as unfriendly as most people say. It is really hard to make friends with Parisien people. It isn't that they're mean. Rude, maybe, but then again, most people are. The problem is that they just aren't open to foreigners. Out of 15 people at a party, you might find one who is patient and willing enough to talk to you in broken french/english. In here, I would like to state that I am talking about normal people and not pedophiles and nymphos who will talk to you for a lifetime if it meant they could touch your boobs.
Sometimes I think it is because I am shy and am not adventurous enough to meet new people. But then I think again and it isn't true. I do try it's just that most Parisiens my age are unresponsive.
However, I must say that one of the reasons why I have been so unsuccessful is due to the fact that this month I have been hanging out a lot with the UIUC girls from the study abroad program. I did have some french guy friends who the aforementioned girls scared away, when I tried to integrate the two parties, due to their ditziness and other 'american' attributes.
So now I sigh and wait for home. I am experiencing the 'dip' in culture shock as they say. I miss home but most of all I miss real friends. I wanted to have a multi-cultural experience here but I've just been shuttling between americans and more americans. Perhaps it would work better if I was alone and not surrounded by so many american girls. All my french teachers advised that but I did not heed them. I think it is better to be by myself for the rest of the time while I am in Paris. I can meet more people this way or at least keep them from getting freaked out by foreigners. Perhaps I will hit up on the comic-book store boy who I randomly started talking with, perhaps I will write to the deaf french guy who hit on me last week. Perhaps.
To be perfectly honest, Paris isn't as swinging as I had hoped. It isn't really Paris's fault. Mostly, it's mine. If I hadn't been so hell bent on having a 'rocking good' time then maybe I wouldn't be so let down.
I read an article this morning on www.parisconnections.net on why people gripe about Paris. The article was in English so I could understand it perfectly. The writer wrote that it was because we, foreigners, have idealistic views on Paris and in the end, Paris is just like any other cosmopolitan city with its dirt, cranky people and pollution. Ultimately, we are let down because we don't see anything all that different from the New Yorks, Chicagoes and HongKongs of the world.
Although I agree with what the writer says there is one thing that I must mention for it irks me so. The people in Paris are really as unfriendly as most people say. It is really hard to make friends with Parisien people. It isn't that they're mean. Rude, maybe, but then again, most people are. The problem is that they just aren't open to foreigners. Out of 15 people at a party, you might find one who is patient and willing enough to talk to you in broken french/english. In here, I would like to state that I am talking about normal people and not pedophiles and nymphos who will talk to you for a lifetime if it meant they could touch your boobs.
Sometimes I think it is because I am shy and am not adventurous enough to meet new people. But then I think again and it isn't true. I do try it's just that most Parisiens my age are unresponsive.
However, I must say that one of the reasons why I have been so unsuccessful is due to the fact that this month I have been hanging out a lot with the UIUC girls from the study abroad program. I did have some french guy friends who the aforementioned girls scared away, when I tried to integrate the two parties, due to their ditziness and other 'american' attributes.
So now I sigh and wait for home. I am experiencing the 'dip' in culture shock as they say. I miss home but most of all I miss real friends. I wanted to have a multi-cultural experience here but I've just been shuttling between americans and more americans. Perhaps it would work better if I was alone and not surrounded by so many american girls. All my french teachers advised that but I did not heed them. I think it is better to be by myself for the rest of the time while I am in Paris. I can meet more people this way or at least keep them from getting freaked out by foreigners. Perhaps I will hit up on the comic-book store boy who I randomly started talking with, perhaps I will write to the deaf french guy who hit on me last week. Perhaps.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Van Gogh's Sky
With all the complaining eversince I got to Paris, even I would think that I hated being in Paris. It isn't true. I do love Paris and wouldn't trade it for anything in the world, except maybe some good chinese food because Paris sure as hell hasn't got any real Chinese restaurant (they microwave pre-cooked food and charge you 6euros for flaccid egg rolls!).
What I do love about Paris is the smell of bread on every corner every morning, afternoon and evening except Sundays because parisiens hate working. I seriously doubt there are any 24 hour stores here. But, I have to admit, smelling freshly baked bread sure beats the smelly tofu on the streets of Hong Kong, the scent of chewed beetle-juice in Dubai's dirty corners or the soy and corn factories of Champaign.
Besides bread, Parisiens are really enjoyable too. They are not mean or rude unless they happen to be old men. Old parisien men are the rudest people I have ever met. But, women and young people are often sweet even if they like to tease you a lot for being a foreigner. Bakers tend to be the friendliest, especially when they are cute like the guys at "Le Pain qui Parle" on the corner of Rue Caulaincourt. I think every girl who comes to paris should check them babies out - and their bread too!
But what really takes my breath away is the sky. The Parisien sky is like none other. It isn't plain blue like Champaign's or white hot like Dubai's or just weird like Hong Kong's sky. It is always full of colour as if someone knocked over a pot of paints and all the colours spilt onto a canvas leaving white spots in random spaces. It isnt flat but swirly and indescribable. It can be dreary in the mornings but by the time the sun is ready to set everything in existence seems to have lent its' colours to this vast space of nothingless and made it into something.
The Parisien sky is indescrible at most times and I believe the only person who ever represented it was Van Gogh in his paintings. He paints the best skies ever. Having fallen in love with his skies, is it such a wonder that I'm in love with Paris?
With all the complaining eversince I got to Paris, even I would think that I hated being in Paris. It isn't true. I do love Paris and wouldn't trade it for anything in the world, except maybe some good chinese food because Paris sure as hell hasn't got any real Chinese restaurant (they microwave pre-cooked food and charge you 6euros for flaccid egg rolls!).
What I do love about Paris is the smell of bread on every corner every morning, afternoon and evening except Sundays because parisiens hate working. I seriously doubt there are any 24 hour stores here. But, I have to admit, smelling freshly baked bread sure beats the smelly tofu on the streets of Hong Kong, the scent of chewed beetle-juice in Dubai's dirty corners or the soy and corn factories of Champaign.
Besides bread, Parisiens are really enjoyable too. They are not mean or rude unless they happen to be old men. Old parisien men are the rudest people I have ever met. But, women and young people are often sweet even if they like to tease you a lot for being a foreigner. Bakers tend to be the friendliest, especially when they are cute like the guys at "Le Pain qui Parle" on the corner of Rue Caulaincourt. I think every girl who comes to paris should check them babies out - and their bread too!
But what really takes my breath away is the sky. The Parisien sky is like none other. It isn't plain blue like Champaign's or white hot like Dubai's or just weird like Hong Kong's sky. It is always full of colour as if someone knocked over a pot of paints and all the colours spilt onto a canvas leaving white spots in random spaces. It isnt flat but swirly and indescribable. It can be dreary in the mornings but by the time the sun is ready to set everything in existence seems to have lent its' colours to this vast space of nothingless and made it into something.
The Parisien sky is indescrible at most times and I believe the only person who ever represented it was Van Gogh in his paintings. He paints the best skies ever. Having fallen in love with his skies, is it such a wonder that I'm in love with Paris?
Friday, November 04, 2005
Parfume de Paris
When I wake up in the morning I usually enjoy stepping outside and taking a nice big deep breath of the cool fresh air, but that habit has certainly changed while I am in Paris. The reason being that the first thing that greets me in this beautiful city of impressive monuments filled with history, wine and culture, is the stench of urine; salty, stale, alcohol and drug filled urine.
It is not very hard to understand why Paris reeks. Toilets are hardly ever free here. One has to pay 30 cents, 50 cents and sometimes even 1 euro to use public restrooms. Even McDonald's charge for the use of their services and that is just plain cheap of the co-operation! Now, when I am not homeless (anymore), I prefer using that euro to buy myself a sandwich and hold my pee till I get home rather than pay for a public toilet. Imagine what all the homeless people that line up every corner of Paris, who will never hold their pee because they have no home to pee in, have to do to relieve themselves. No wonder Paris smells of pee; poor people cannot afford to use the toilets!
Compared to other countries Paris does not strongly advocate cleanliness. Unlike Hong Kong's underground network, one can eat, drink, smoke and pee in the Parisien metro stations. Of course, there are rules against the smoking and peeing part but no one really cares and the law is not enforced. One can step of the train and watch a person peeing into the gutter. Most of the American students in my program find that shocking but I am sure, over time, we will desensitize to this and become like the parisiens who ignore the poor, smelly pissing guy while jostling and pushing for space on the escalator, in the train and on the quai.
While being on the subject of the metro, another surprising thing is how much the Parisiens like to make out on the train. I started noticing this abnormal amount of public tongue bashing ever since a couple ran into the train , sat opposite me and started swallowing each other. I had been in a sort of dazed mood but that jolted me right awake. I sat there uncomfortably, trying not to appear to them that I was staring (although, reflecting on it now, I am sure they were not aware of anything, let alone me). I would look up and down and never at them but I would observe them from the corner of my eye, on the reflection of the window and in passing glances. At one point I feared the man ate the woman's head but, with a sigh of relief, a few metro stops later I saw her head emerge from his mouth.
It really is not the public display of devouring your loved one that really surprises me, rather, it is the public display of devouring your loved one in a piss filled environment that gets me everytime I am on the train and I see some guy's hand up a girl's vagina and come out through her mouth.
They say Paris is a city of love but it seems more like it is a city of horny people.
When I wake up in the morning I usually enjoy stepping outside and taking a nice big deep breath of the cool fresh air, but that habit has certainly changed while I am in Paris. The reason being that the first thing that greets me in this beautiful city of impressive monuments filled with history, wine and culture, is the stench of urine; salty, stale, alcohol and drug filled urine.
It is not very hard to understand why Paris reeks. Toilets are hardly ever free here. One has to pay 30 cents, 50 cents and sometimes even 1 euro to use public restrooms. Even McDonald's charge for the use of their services and that is just plain cheap of the co-operation! Now, when I am not homeless (anymore), I prefer using that euro to buy myself a sandwich and hold my pee till I get home rather than pay for a public toilet. Imagine what all the homeless people that line up every corner of Paris, who will never hold their pee because they have no home to pee in, have to do to relieve themselves. No wonder Paris smells of pee; poor people cannot afford to use the toilets!
Compared to other countries Paris does not strongly advocate cleanliness. Unlike Hong Kong's underground network, one can eat, drink, smoke and pee in the Parisien metro stations. Of course, there are rules against the smoking and peeing part but no one really cares and the law is not enforced. One can step of the train and watch a person peeing into the gutter. Most of the American students in my program find that shocking but I am sure, over time, we will desensitize to this and become like the parisiens who ignore the poor, smelly pissing guy while jostling and pushing for space on the escalator, in the train and on the quai.
While being on the subject of the metro, another surprising thing is how much the Parisiens like to make out on the train. I started noticing this abnormal amount of public tongue bashing ever since a couple ran into the train , sat opposite me and started swallowing each other. I had been in a sort of dazed mood but that jolted me right awake. I sat there uncomfortably, trying not to appear to them that I was staring (although, reflecting on it now, I am sure they were not aware of anything, let alone me). I would look up and down and never at them but I would observe them from the corner of my eye, on the reflection of the window and in passing glances. At one point I feared the man ate the woman's head but, with a sigh of relief, a few metro stops later I saw her head emerge from his mouth.
It really is not the public display of devouring your loved one that really surprises me, rather, it is the public display of devouring your loved one in a piss filled environment that gets me everytime I am on the train and I see some guy's hand up a girl's vagina and come out through her mouth.
They say Paris is a city of love but it seems more like it is a city of horny people.
