Bonjour à tous. I'm currently in Paris, living up these final two weeks before I head back to the US of A.
Today I visited the city's Marche des Puces, the largest and oldest flea market in the world (trivia fact!). All the guidebooks tout it as a bargain hunter's paradise, spend a day there if you can, etc. etc. So I figured it worth a trip.
The most visible part of the market consisted of several blocks of white tents under which mostly immigrants sold pretty standard street fare: cheap clothing, scarves, purses, household items, bric-a-brac. Hookahs and Rastafarians were well-represented. I did see one artist's tent with great coffee sack collage paintings, but other than that, nothing really tempted me about this area. There are certainly reasons to shop here-- if one desires a bargain leather jacket, say, or a wallet to replace the one that was stolen at last week's Marche des Puces, this is the place to go. But charm lies elsewhere.
Specifically, it lies in a tangle of narrow alleyways off the main boulevard. You have to duck into it between sportswear and deodorant tents, almost like you might miss it if you walked too quickly. It's the antiques section of the market.
Just a few steps from the bustling commercial hubbub, I suddenly found myself in a little village of overpriced, yet fabulous antiques. It was surprisingly quiet today-- just me, a Swedish tour group, and a British family examining a 3,000€ table. My inner hopeless romantic swooned over a decrepit gramophone with a sign that read: "Still works." (80€ on sale.) I settled for some old postcards and called it a day.
dimanche 5 juin 2011
mercredi 27 avril 2011
How Do You Say "Awesome" In Viking?
Hello all! I am currently traveling through the UK. I spent Easter weekend in Edinburgh, then on to York, then a couple of days in Bath before reveling in proximity to the royal wedding in London.
But first, let me tell you about the reenactment extravaganza that was my day.
This morning I went to the Castle Museum in York. Not much remains of the castle except the name, and anyway, that's not the focus of the museum. Rather, the collection chronicles aspects of daily life from the 1600s to today: things like clothes washing,children's toys, even toilets. . . Which I admit was kind of fascinating. My favorite exhibit was on 1960s. Listening to the Beatles while examining Mary Quant fashions somehow gave me the urgent desire to time-travel.
As for the reenactment part. The museum features a reconstructed Victorian street, complete with working shops, newspapers, and a simulated transition from night to morning. I wish there had been more faux Victorians around, but who am I to complain?
Any reenactment-related disappointment I felt at the Castle Museum was quickly erased by the Jorvik Viking Center, where even the wildest animatronic fantasies come true.
After walking through a fascinating exhibit on the Vikings and the archaeological excavations in York, you step into a roller coaster car. Then, without warning, you find yourself lurching at a snail's pace into a carefully reconstructed Viking village.
The soothing voice from your headrest speaker welcomes you to Coppergate, the village whose excavations you've just seen. Look! A man carving a deer antler! (The car slows down and turns toward the animatronic Viking, in case you weren't looking). the narrator addresses him in Viking language, a romantic cross between Swedish and Clingon. Then- wait for it- the Viking answers back. His soulless face pivots toward you, Exorcist-like, while his mouth opens and closes in Viking speak.
And so on past a craftsman, a butcher's shop, a busy commercial street, and- as the tour's final joke- a Viking on an outdoor Viking loo. The museum put so much effort into this reconstruction that it even smells like a Viking village (Scratch n Sniff postcards for sale in the gift shop). Thank you for making my day, Jorvik. And possibly my year.
But first, let me tell you about the reenactment extravaganza that was my day.
This morning I went to the Castle Museum in York. Not much remains of the castle except the name, and anyway, that's not the focus of the museum. Rather, the collection chronicles aspects of daily life from the 1600s to today: things like clothes washing,children's toys, even toilets. . . Which I admit was kind of fascinating. My favorite exhibit was on 1960s. Listening to the Beatles while examining Mary Quant fashions somehow gave me the urgent desire to time-travel.
As for the reenactment part. The museum features a reconstructed Victorian street, complete with working shops, newspapers, and a simulated transition from night to morning. I wish there had been more faux Victorians around, but who am I to complain?
Any reenactment-related disappointment I felt at the Castle Museum was quickly erased by the Jorvik Viking Center, where even the wildest animatronic fantasies come true.
After walking through a fascinating exhibit on the Vikings and the archaeological excavations in York, you step into a roller coaster car. Then, without warning, you find yourself lurching at a snail's pace into a carefully reconstructed Viking village.
The soothing voice from your headrest speaker welcomes you to Coppergate, the village whose excavations you've just seen. Look! A man carving a deer antler! (The car slows down and turns toward the animatronic Viking, in case you weren't looking). the narrator addresses him in Viking language, a romantic cross between Swedish and Clingon. Then- wait for it- the Viking answers back. His soulless face pivots toward you, Exorcist-like, while his mouth opens and closes in Viking speak.
And so on past a craftsman, a butcher's shop, a busy commercial street, and- as the tour's final joke- a Viking on an outdoor Viking loo. The museum put so much effort into this reconstruction that it even smells like a Viking village (Scratch n Sniff postcards for sale in the gift shop). Thank you for making my day, Jorvik. And possibly my year.
mardi 29 mars 2011
Italy, Monaco, France, Oh My!
The day after Carnival, my friend took me on what she calls the "Three-Country Tour": a day-long sweep through Ventimiglia, Italy (right on the border with France), Menton, France (first town you come to from Italy), and Monaco. The goal was to see the change in the towns from one country to another-- the three were palpably distinct, despite their proximity. And, it just feels cool to say you were in three countries in one day.
Ventimiglia is the Tiajuana of France. French people make regular day trips across the border to take advantage of lower prices on alcohol and 10-lb buckets of Nutella. (Literally. There were entire stores that sold nothing but alcohol and giant Nutella jars.) Despite the comparison with Tiajuana, I found Ventimiglia quaint and loveable. It needed some repairs and a fresh coat of paint, but that just added to the charm. The residents seemed more relaxed and quicker to smile than the Rivierans across the border.
The catchy synthesized jingle played in all French train stations welcomed us to Menton. The first word in my head as we arrived here from Ventimiglia was: polished. Menton seemed tidier and more put-together, but less charming, than the previous town. The streets were clean and broad. The buildings were freshly painted, in beige.
But we had chosen to come to Menton for a specific reason: the Festival des Citrons ("Lemon Festival")! Once a year, Menton creates a monumental sculpture garden, where all the sculptures are made of lemons and oranges. Imagine really artistic Citrus Bowl parade floats on steroids. That's the Festival des Citrons.
But alas, like it's contemporary, the Nice Carnival, the festival kept its citrusy masterpieces behind high walls and charged exorbitant prices to see them. So we peeked through the gate, snapped a couple of pictures, and said goodbye to Menton.
Monaco might as well have been a different planet. We stepped off the train, walked through tunnels of marble and dark wood, and emerged in a tear-shaped fairyland of banks and designer labels. Monaco is beautiful, historic, and surprisingly green with all its parks and trees. My friend and I wandered through the steep cliffside town until our legs gave out, then headed back to the real world.
Ventimiglia is the Tiajuana of France. French people make regular day trips across the border to take advantage of lower prices on alcohol and 10-lb buckets of Nutella. (Literally. There were entire stores that sold nothing but alcohol and giant Nutella jars.) Despite the comparison with Tiajuana, I found Ventimiglia quaint and loveable. It needed some repairs and a fresh coat of paint, but that just added to the charm. The residents seemed more relaxed and quicker to smile than the Rivierans across the border.
The catchy synthesized jingle played in all French train stations welcomed us to Menton. The first word in my head as we arrived here from Ventimiglia was: polished. Menton seemed tidier and more put-together, but less charming, than the previous town. The streets were clean and broad. The buildings were freshly painted, in beige.
But we had chosen to come to Menton for a specific reason: the Festival des Citrons ("Lemon Festival")! Once a year, Menton creates a monumental sculpture garden, where all the sculptures are made of lemons and oranges. Imagine really artistic Citrus Bowl parade floats on steroids. That's the Festival des Citrons.
But alas, like it's contemporary, the Nice Carnival, the festival kept its citrusy masterpieces behind high walls and charged exorbitant prices to see them. So we peeked through the gate, snapped a couple of pictures, and said goodbye to Menton.
Monaco might as well have been a different planet. We stepped off the train, walked through tunnels of marble and dark wood, and emerged in a tear-shaped fairyland of banks and designer labels. Monaco is beautiful, historic, and surprisingly green with all its parks and trees. My friend and I wandered through the steep cliffside town until our legs gave out, then headed back to the real world.
samedi 26 mars 2011
Carnival!
Bonjour! I have finally re-entered the blogosphere. I have also finally started posting pictures of my recent trip to the south of France.
My trip was split into two parts, with two missions: 1. Five days visiting an old friend on the Cote d'Azur, and 2. Ten days in Provence to see what all the Peter Mayle-type fuss is about.
As for part one. This old friend was a study abroad roommate two years ago. She now lives with her French husband in Antibes, a town on the Riviera between Nice and Cannes (I know, sounds terrible). They were kind enough to put me up in their apartment while my friend played tour guide to their stretch of coast.
Luckily, my school break lined up with Carnival in Nice-- you will find pictures of this event below.
Of course I had to see the spectacle. I envisioned a raucous brouhaha clogging the streets, artistic masterpiece floats, music, noise, crowds going wild. . . But we were not in New Orleans, or Rio, or even Venice. Actually, it felt more like Disneyland.
At the beginning of the parade, the floats were lead into a gated-off parking lot. You could pay thirty euros a person (!!!) to enter the gates and admire the floats from the bleachers, or do as most people did and simply watch through the entrances and gaps in the gate. We chose the latter. At any rate, the spectacle seemed to be more for kids. The makeshift stadium was decorated with a kind of Under the Sea/Finding Nemo theme. The crowd was tame and family-oriented. My friend told me about some people she knew who, a couple of years ago, had tried to "liven up" the Carnival festivities with silly string-- and were almost forcibly removed by security. (Silly string did make an appearance this year, however. I will cherish the memory of a five-year-old girl assaulting some Japanese tourists with pink spray.)
While Carnival may not have been the Mardi Gras of my dreams, everyone seemed to be having a good time-- young, old, and especially, us.
My trip was split into two parts, with two missions: 1. Five days visiting an old friend on the Cote d'Azur, and 2. Ten days in Provence to see what all the Peter Mayle-type fuss is about.
As for part one. This old friend was a study abroad roommate two years ago. She now lives with her French husband in Antibes, a town on the Riviera between Nice and Cannes (I know, sounds terrible). They were kind enough to put me up in their apartment while my friend played tour guide to their stretch of coast.
Luckily, my school break lined up with Carnival in Nice-- you will find pictures of this event below.
Of course I had to see the spectacle. I envisioned a raucous brouhaha clogging the streets, artistic masterpiece floats, music, noise, crowds going wild. . . But we were not in New Orleans, or Rio, or even Venice. Actually, it felt more like Disneyland.
At the beginning of the parade, the floats were lead into a gated-off parking lot. You could pay thirty euros a person (!!!) to enter the gates and admire the floats from the bleachers, or do as most people did and simply watch through the entrances and gaps in the gate. We chose the latter. At any rate, the spectacle seemed to be more for kids. The makeshift stadium was decorated with a kind of Under the Sea/Finding Nemo theme. The crowd was tame and family-oriented. My friend told me about some people she knew who, a couple of years ago, had tried to "liven up" the Carnival festivities with silly string-- and were almost forcibly removed by security. (Silly string did make an appearance this year, however. I will cherish the memory of a five-year-old girl assaulting some Japanese tourists with pink spray.)
While Carnival may not have been the Mardi Gras of my dreams, everyone seemed to be having a good time-- young, old, and especially, us.
samedi 12 février 2011
More Strikes
The teachers at the high school went on strike again Thursday. This time, they protested the Education Ministry's decision to get rid of 16,000 teaching positions across the country, including ten at our school. This is in addition to the 50,000 positions suppressed in the last three years. Now, landing a teaching job in France is already difficult-- it requires a written and oral exam, and only the top scorers get offered positions. The suppression of posts will no doubt contribute to an already mind-boggling unemployment rate in France. As for existing teachers, the prospect of getting fired would normally be pretty remote. Teachers, like other public functionaries, would normally be "relocated" or given some menial job in the school system rather than just being kicked to the street. (One of the teachers here joked about how she could be the photocopy lady if her post gets suppressed.) However, with no more teaching jobs to be had, people are uncertain about what will happen.
In addition to the suppression of posts, teachers also protested the fact that teachers are generally becoming overworked, underfunded, and vastly under-appreciated-- to most Americans, the job description of a public school teacher. In the U.S., we tend to take the deplorable status of teachers for granted. I applaud these Frenchmen for doing something about it. Will it work? Who knows. But at least they're not standing by, watching their jobs deteriorate into the American norm.
In addition to the suppression of posts, teachers also protested the fact that teachers are generally becoming overworked, underfunded, and vastly under-appreciated-- to most Americans, the job description of a public school teacher. In the U.S., we tend to take the deplorable status of teachers for granted. I applaud these Frenchmen for doing something about it. Will it work? Who knows. But at least they're not standing by, watching their jobs deteriorate into the American norm.
lundi 31 janvier 2011
Les Soldes
Last weekend I shopped the Soldes in Paris. The Soldes are a six-week, biannual event where stores throughout the country are legally allowed to hold huge sales. (Yes, they need legal permission.) Paris is, of course, the epicenter of the Soldes-- not just for the French, but for people around Europe, and even some Americans.
On Saturday, I wandered through the Marais neighborhood-- a trendy area with lots of used book stores, antiques, that kind of thing-- to the big chain stores on the Rue de Rivoli. The lines were long, but the deals were good enough to wait. In the morning, at least. By mid-afternoon, some stores were so chaotic that I walked in and walked right back out. Think Black Friday.
Find of the day: In a second-hand shop haunted by young Parisian hipsters, I bought a little purse for my sister. A Google search revealed it to be an authentic designer purse that's probably worth a lot more than I paid for it. Words for the wise in Paris: thrift store!
After a not-so-restful night (party on the sidewalk outside + Travelocity reviews complaining of mice in the hotel), I spent the next day on the Champs-Elysees. Nowadays, the avenue features many chain stores that we plebeians can afford, though one can still find the houses of Louis Vuitton and Lacoste there. Louis Vuitton had a line at the door and a bouncer letting people in to shop in groups.
You know, I'm not a big fan of the Champs-Elysees. To me, it resembles a high-end strip mall more than romantic ideal of a high-fashion, old-money promenade. And, unless you really want an overpriced omelette served to you by a man in a sailor costume, don't eat there.
The Avenue de Montaigne, however, spurring off at an angle from the Champs-Elysees, is where that romantic ideal is alive and well. This is the shady boulevard where Chanel, Dior, Yves St. Laurent, etc. all have their "houses." You can walk by the window displays and see what fashion you might be wearing some version of in two or three years. It's amazing how few people you see on this street compared to the Champs-Elysees, when this, in my opinion, is the real attraction.
At the end of one's stroll down Avenue de Montaigne is a cozy, reasonably-priced cafe with a heated terrace and a clear shot of the Eiffel Tower. I discovered this cafe with my mom in October. I got a coffee and lazed as French-ly as I could, watched a massive roller-blading tour go by, and took in the view. To this day, nothing fills me with childlike glee as much as seeing the Eiffel Tower, not even finding a sale item in my size.
On Saturday, I wandered through the Marais neighborhood-- a trendy area with lots of used book stores, antiques, that kind of thing-- to the big chain stores on the Rue de Rivoli. The lines were long, but the deals were good enough to wait. In the morning, at least. By mid-afternoon, some stores were so chaotic that I walked in and walked right back out. Think Black Friday.
Find of the day: In a second-hand shop haunted by young Parisian hipsters, I bought a little purse for my sister. A Google search revealed it to be an authentic designer purse that's probably worth a lot more than I paid for it. Words for the wise in Paris: thrift store!
After a not-so-restful night (party on the sidewalk outside + Travelocity reviews complaining of mice in the hotel), I spent the next day on the Champs-Elysees. Nowadays, the avenue features many chain stores that we plebeians can afford, though one can still find the houses of Louis Vuitton and Lacoste there. Louis Vuitton had a line at the door and a bouncer letting people in to shop in groups.
You know, I'm not a big fan of the Champs-Elysees. To me, it resembles a high-end strip mall more than romantic ideal of a high-fashion, old-money promenade. And, unless you really want an overpriced omelette served to you by a man in a sailor costume, don't eat there.
The Avenue de Montaigne, however, spurring off at an angle from the Champs-Elysees, is where that romantic ideal is alive and well. This is the shady boulevard where Chanel, Dior, Yves St. Laurent, etc. all have their "houses." You can walk by the window displays and see what fashion you might be wearing some version of in two or three years. It's amazing how few people you see on this street compared to the Champs-Elysees, when this, in my opinion, is the real attraction.
At the end of one's stroll down Avenue de Montaigne is a cozy, reasonably-priced cafe with a heated terrace and a clear shot of the Eiffel Tower. I discovered this cafe with my mom in October. I got a coffee and lazed as French-ly as I could, watched a massive roller-blading tour go by, and took in the view. To this day, nothing fills me with childlike glee as much as seeing the Eiffel Tower, not even finding a sale item in my size.
mardi 18 janvier 2011
Tree Cats
It's been a pretty calm couple of weeks.
I'm working on this email exchange that a class of seconde students (15-16 years old) are doing with a French class at my old high school. Their assignment was to write an email in French telling a little about themselves, which I would then forward to the French teacher in the U.S. It's amazing how such relatively simple directions can produce chaos: several assignments haven't been turned in (due last Friday), some are in English, some are page-long letters from the kids who got into it, others are-- er-- slapdash (I like the boxe I have tree cats). Ah, working in a high school. . .
What else have I been up to? I joined a gym. Rather, I joined the gym. It's a small, but diehard operation. There are body-building trophies behind the desk, the words "Get Big Fast!" are painted in mural, and the walls are lined with photographs of the repulsively ripped. You know, I think the owner might be into body-building.
He's very nice, though. Not scary at all. When I signed up he asked me, "So what are you joining for? Do you want to get in shape? Do you want to get MUSCLEE?!" ("Just get in shape." "Oh, that's good, too.") As he was showing me the layout of the gym and the different machines, I suddenly realized: Wow, he really thinks I've never seen the inside of a gym before! Gyms are certainly more popular than they used to be, but still occupy a sort of frontier in daily French life.
Well, that's my latest update from Podunk, France. I'm going to Paris this weekend to raid the Soldes!-- I'll report on the plunder when I get back.
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